第 十三 章 · The Shipwreck On The Tin Islands

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THE SHIPWRECK ON THE TIN ISLANDS

“Blue and red,” said Jane softly, “make purple.”

“Not always they don’t,” said Cyril, “it has to be crimson lake and

Prussian blue. If you mix Vermilion and Indigo you get the most

loathsome slate colour.”

“Sepia’s the nastiest colour in the box, I think,” said Jane, sucking

her brush.

They were all painting. Nurse in the flush of grateful emotion, excited

by Robert’s border of poppies, had presented each of the four with a

shilling paint-box, and had supplemented the gift with a pile of old

copies of the _Illustrated London News_.

“Sepia,” said Cyril instructively, “is made out of beastly cuttlefish.”

“Purple’s made out of a fish, as well as out of red and blue,” said

Robert. “Tyrian purple was, I know.”

“Out of lobsters?” said Jane dreamily. “They’re red when they’re

boiled, and blue when they aren’t. If you mixed live and dead lobsters

you’d get Tyrian purple.”

“_I_ shouldn’t like to mix anything with a live lobster,” said Anthea,

shuddering.

“Well, there aren’t any other red and blue fish,” said Jane; “you’d

have to.”

“I’d rather not have the purple,” said Anthea.

“The Tyrian purple wasn’t that colour when it came out of the fish, nor

yet afterwards, it wasn’t,” said Robert; “it was scarlet really, and

Roman Emperors wore it. And it wasn’t any nice colour while the fish

had it. It was a yellowish-white liquid of a creamy consistency.”

“How do you know?” asked Cyril.

“I read it,” said Robert, with the meek pride of superior knowledge.

“Where?” asked Cyril.

“In print,” said Robert, still more proudly meek.

“You think everything’s true if it’s printed,” said Cyril, naturally

annoyed, “but it isn’t. Father said so. Quite a lot of lies get

printed, especially in newspapers.”

“You see, as it happens,” said Robert, in what was really a rather

annoying tone, “it wasn’t a newspaper, it was in a book.”

“How sweet Chinese white is!” said Jane, dreamily sucking her brush

again.

“I don’t believe it,” said Cyril to Robert.

“Have a suck yourself,” suggested Robert.

“I don’t mean about the Chinese white. I mean about the cream fish

turning purple and—”

“Oh!” cried Anthea, jumping up very quickly, “I’m tired of painting.

Let’s go somewhere by Amulet. I say let’s let _it_ choose.”

Cyril and Robert agreed that this was an idea. Jane consented to stop

painting because, as she said, Chinese white, though certainly sweet,

gives you a queer feeling in the back of the throat if you paint with

it too long.

The Amulet was held up.

“Take us somewhere,” said Jane, “anywhere you like in the Past—but

somewhere where you are.” Then she said the word.

Next moment everyone felt a queer rocking and swaying—something like

what you feel when you go out in a fishing boat. And that was not

wonderful, when you come to think of it, for it was in a boat that they

found themselves. A queer boat, with high bulwarks pierced with holes

for oars to go through. There was a high seat for the steersman, and

the prow was shaped like the head of some great animal with big,

staring eyes. The boat rode at anchor in a bay, and the bay was very

smooth. The crew were dark, wiry fellows with black beards and hair.

They had no clothes except a tunic from waist to knee, and round caps

with knobs on the top. They were very busy, and what they were doing

was so interesting to the children that at first they did not even

wonder where the Amulet had brought them.

And the crew seemed too busy to notice the children. They were

fastening rush baskets to a long rope with a great piece of cork at the

end, and in each basket they put mussels or little frogs. Then they

cast out the rope, the baskets sank, but the cork floated. And all

about on the blue water were other boats and all the crews of all the

boats were busy with ropes and baskets and frogs and mussels.

“Whatever are you doing?” Jane suddenly asked a man who had rather more

clothes than the others, and seemed to be a sort of captain or

overseer. He started and stared at her, but he had seen too many

strange lands to be very much surprised at these queerly-dressed

stowaways.

“Setting lines for the dye shell-fish,” he said shortly. “How did you

get here?”

“A sort of magic,” said Robert carelessly. The Captain fingered an

Amulet that hung round his neck.

“What is this place?” asked Cyril.

“Tyre, of course,” said the man. Then he drew back and spoke in a low

voice to one of the sailors.

“Now we shall know about your precious cream-jug fish,” said Cyril.

“But we never _said_ come to Tyre,” said Jane.

“The Amulet heard us talking, I expect. I think it’s _most_ obliging of

it,” said Anthea.

“And the Amulet’s here too,” said Robert. “We ought to be able to find

it in a little ship like this. I wonder which of them’s got it.”

“Oh—look, look!” cried Anthea suddenly. On the bare breast of one of

the sailors gleamed something red. It was the exact counterpart of

their precious half-Amulet.

A silence, full of emotion, was broken by Jane.

“Then we’ve found it!” she said. “Oh do let’s take it and go home!”

“Easy to say ‘take it’,” said Cyril; “he looks very strong.”

He did—yet not so strong as the other sailors.

“It’s odd,” said Anthea musingly, “I do believe I’ve seen that man

somewhere before.”

“He’s rather like our learned gentleman,” said Robert, “but I’ll tell

you who he’s much more like—”

At this moment that sailor looked up. His eyes met Robert’s—and Robert

and the others had no longer any doubt as to where they had seen him

before. It was Rekh-marā, the priest who had led them to the palace of

Pharaoh—and whom Jane had looked back at through the arch, when he was

counselling Pharaoh’s guard to take the jewels and fly for his life.

Nobody was quite pleased, and nobody quite knew why.

Jane voiced the feelings of all when she said, fingering _their_ Amulet

through the folds of her frock, “We can go back in a minute if anything

nasty happens.”

For the moment nothing worse happened than an offer of food—figs and

cucumbers it was, and very pleasant.

“I see,” said the Captain, “that you are from a far country. Since you

have honoured my boat by appearing on it, you must stay here till

morning. Then I will lead you to one of our great ones. He loves

strangers from far lands.”

“Let’s go home,” Jane whispered, “all the frogs are drowning _now_. I

think the people here are cruel.”

But the boys wanted to stay and see the lines taken up in the morning.

“It’s just like eel-pots and lobster-pots,” said Cyril, “the baskets

only open from outside—I vote we stay.”

So they stayed.

“That’s Tyre over there,” said the Captain, who was evidently trying to

be civil. He pointed to a great island rock, that rose steeply from the

sea, crowned with huge walls and towers. There was another city on the

mainland.

“That’s part of Tyre, too,” said the Captain; “it’s where the great

merchants have their pleasure-houses and gardens and farms.”

“Look, look!” Cyril cried suddenly; “what a lovely little ship!”

A ship in full sail was passing swiftly through the fishing fleet. The

Captain’s face changed. He frowned, and his eyes blazed with fury.

“Insolent young barbarian!” he cried. “Do you call the ships of Tyre

_little?_ None greater sail the seas. That ship has been on a three

years’ voyage. She is known in all the great trading ports from here to

the Tin Islands. She comes back rich and glorious. Her very anchor is

of silver.”

“I’m sure we beg your pardon,” said Anthea hastily. “In our country we

say ‘little’ for a pet name. Your wife might call you her dear little

husband, you know.”

“I should like to catch her at it,” growled the Captain, but he stopped

scowling.

“It’s a rich trade,” he went on. “For cloth _once_ dipped, second-best

glass, and the rough images our young artists carve for practice, the

barbarian King in Tessos lets us work the silver mines. We get so much

silver there that we leave them our iron anchors and come back with

silver ones.”

“How splendid!” said Robert. “Do go on. What’s cloth once dipped?”

“You _must_ be barbarians from the outer darkness,” said the Captain

scornfully. “All wealthy nations know that our finest stuffs are twice

dyed—dibaptha. They’re only for the robes of kings and priests and

princes.”

“What do the rich merchants wear,” asked Jane, with interest, “in the

pleasure-houses?”

“They wear the dibaptha. _Our_ merchants _are_ princes,” scowled the

skipper.

“Oh, don’t be cross, we do so like hearing about things. We want to

know _all_ about the dyeing,” said Anthea cordially.

“Oh, you do, do you?” growled the man. “So that’s what you’re here for?

Well, you won’t get the secrets of the dye trade out of _me_.”

He went away, and everyone felt snubbed and uncomfortable. And all the

time the long, narrow eyes of the Egyptian were watching, watching.

They felt as though he was watching them through the darkness, when

they lay down to sleep on a pile of cloaks.

Next morning the baskets were drawn up full of what looked like whelk

shells.

The children were rather in the way, but they made themselves as small

as they could. While the skipper was at the other end of the boat they

did ask one question of a sailor, whose face was a little less unkind

than the others.

“Yes,” he answered, “this is the dye-fish. It’s a sort of murex—and

there’s another kind that they catch at Sidon and then, of course,

there’s the kind that’s used for the dibaptha. But that’s quite

different. It’s—”

“Hold your tongue!” shouted the skipper. And the man held it.

The laden boat was rowed slowly round the end of the island, and was

made fast in one of the two great harbours that lay inside a long

breakwater. The harbour was full of all sorts of ships, so that Cyril

and Robert enjoyed themselves much more than their sisters. The

breakwater and the quays were heaped with bales and baskets, and

crowded with slaves and sailors. Farther along some men were practising

diving.

“That’s jolly good,” said Robert, as a naked brown body cleft the

water.

“I should think so,” said the skipper. “The pearl-divers of Persia are

not more skilful. Why, we’ve got a fresh-water spring that comes out at

the bottom of the sea. Our divers dive down and bring up the fresh

water in skin bottles! Can your barbarian divers do as much?”

“I suppose not,” said Robert, and put away a wild desire to explain to

the Captain the English system of waterworks, pipes, taps, and the

intricacies of the plumbers’ trade.

As they neared the quay the skipper made a hasty toilet. He did his

hair, combed his beard, put on a garment like a jersey with short

sleeves, an embroidered belt, a necklace of beads, and a big signet

ring.

“Now,” said he, “I’m fit to be seen. Come along?”

“Where to?” said Jane cautiously.

“To Pheles, the great sea-captain, said the skipper, “the man I told

you of, who loves barbarians.”

Then Rekh-marā came forward, and, for the first time, spoke.

“I have known these children in another land,” he said. “You know my

powers of magic. It was my magic that brought these barbarians to your

boat. And you know how they will profit you. I read your thoughts. Let

me come with you and see the end of them, and then I will work the

spell I promised you in return for the little experience you have so

kindly given me on your boat.”

The skipper looked at the Egyptian with some disfavour.

“So it was _your_ doing,” he said. “I might have guessed it. Well, come

on.”

So he came, and the girls wished he hadn’t. But Robert whispered—

“Nonsense—as long as he’s with us we’ve got _some_ chance of the

Amulet. We can always fly if anything goes wrong.”

The morning was so fresh and bright; their breakfast had been so good

and so unusual; they had actually seen the Amulet round the Egyptian’s

neck. One or two, or all these things, suddenly raised the children’s

spirits. They went off quite cheerfully through the city gate—it was

not arched, but roofed over with a great flat stone—and so through the

street, which smelt horribly of fish and garlic and a thousand other

things even less agreeable. But far worse than the street scents was

the scent of the factory, where the skipper called in to sell his

night’s catch. I wish I could tell you all about that factory, but I

haven’t time, and perhaps after all you aren’t interested in dyeing

works. I will only mention that Robert was triumphantly proved to be

right. The dye _was_ a yellowish-white liquid of a creamy consistency,

and it smelt more strongly of garlic than garlic itself does.

While the skipper was bargaining with the master of the dye works the

Egyptian came close to the children, and said, suddenly and softly—

“Trust me.”

“I wish we could,” said Anthea.

“You feel,” said the Egyptian, “that I want your Amulet. That makes you

distrust me.”

“Yes,” said Cyril bluntly.

“But you also, you want my Amulet, and I am trusting you.”

“There’s something in that,” said Robert.

“We have the two halves of the Amulet,” said the Priest, “but not yet

the pin that joined them. Our only chance of getting that is to remain

together. Once part these two halves and they may never be found in the

same time and place. Be wise. Our interests are the same.”

Before anyone could say more the skipper came back, and with him the

dye-master. His hair and beard were curled like the men’s in Babylon,

and he was dressed like the skipper, but with added grandeur of gold

and embroidery. He had necklaces of beads and silver, and a glass

amulet with a man’s face, very like his own, set between two bull’s

heads, as well as gold and silver bracelets and armlets. He looked

keenly at the children. Then he said—

“My brother Pheles has just come back from Tarshish. He’s at his garden

house—unless he’s hunting wild boar in the marshes. He gets frightfully

bored on shore.”

“Ah,” said the skipper, “he’s a true-born Phoenician. ‘Tyre, Tyre for

ever! Oh, Tyre rules the waves!’ as the old song says. I’ll go at once,

and show him my young barbarians.”

“I should,” said the dye-master. “They are very rum, aren’t they? What

frightful clothes, and what a lot of them! Observe the covering of

their feet. Hideous indeed.”

Robert could not help thinking how easy, and at the same time pleasant,

it would be to catch hold of the dye-master’s feet and tip him backward

into the great sunken vat just near him. But if he had, flight would

have had to be the next move, so he restrained his impulse.

There was something about this Tyrian adventure that was different from

all the others. It was, somehow, calmer. And there was the undoubted

fact that the charm was there on the neck of the Egyptian.

So they enjoyed everything to the full, the row from the Island City to

the shore, the ride on the donkeys that the skipper hired at the gate

of the mainland city, and the pleasant country—palms and figs and

cedars all about. It was like a garden—clematis, honeysuckle, and

jasmine clung about the olive and mulberry trees, and there were tulips

and gladiolus, and clumps of mandrake, which has bell-flowers that look

as though they were cut out of dark blue jewels. In the distance were

the mountains of Lebanon.

The house they came to at last was rather like a bungalow—long and low,

with pillars all along the front. Cedars and sycamores grew near it and

sheltered it pleasantly.

Everyone dismounted, and the donkeys were led away.

“Why is this like Rosherville?” whispered Robert, and instantly

supplied the answer.

“Because it’s the place to spend a happy day.”

“It’s jolly decent of the skipper to have brought us to such a ripping

place,” said Cyril.

“Do you know,” said Anthea, “this feels more real than anything else

we’ve seen? It’s like a holiday in the country at home.”

The children were left alone in a large hall. The floor was mosaic,

done with wonderful pictures of ships and sea-beasts and fishes.

Through an open doorway they could see a pleasant courtyard with

flowers.

“I should like to spend a week here,” said Jane, “and donkey ride every

day.”

Everyone was feeling very jolly. Even the Egyptian looked pleasanter

than usual. And then, quite suddenly, the skipper came back with a

joyous smile. With him came the master of the house. He looked steadily

at the children and nodded twice.

“Yes,” he said, “my steward will pay you the price. But I shall not pay

at that high rate for the Egyptian dog.”

The two passed on.

“This,” said the Egyptian, “is a pretty kettle of fish.”

“What is?” asked all the children at once.

“Our present position,” said Rekh-marā. “Our seafaring friend,” he

added, “has sold us all for slaves!”

A hasty council succeeded the shock of this announcement. The Priest

was allowed to take part in it. His advice was “stay”, because they

were in no danger, and the Amulet in its completeness must be somewhere

near, or, of course, they could not have come to that place at all. And

after some discussion they agreed to this.

The children were treated more as guests than as slaves, but the

Egyptian was sent to the kitchen and made to work.

Pheles, the master of the house, went off that very evening, by the

King’s orders, to start on another voyage. And when he was gone his

wife found the children amusing company, and kept them talking and

singing and dancing till quite late. “To distract my mind from my

sorrows,” she said.

“I do like being a slave,” remarked Jane cheerfully, as they curled up

on the big, soft cushions that were to be their beds.

It was black night when they were awakened, each by a hand passed

softly over its face, and a low voice that whispered—

“Be quiet, or all is lost.”

So they were quiet.

“It’s me, Rekh-marā, the Priest of Amen,” said the whisperer. “The man

who brought us has gone to sea again, and he has taken my Amulet from

me by force, and I know no magic to get it back. Is there magic for

that in the Amulet you bear?”

Everyone was instantly awake by now.

“We can go after him,” said Cyril, leaping up; “but he might take

_ours_ as well; or he might be angry with us for following him.”

“I’ll see to _that_,” said the Egyptian in the dark. “Hide your Amulet

well.”

There in the deep blackness of that room in the Tyrian country house

the Amulet was once more held up and the word spoken.

All passed through on to a ship that tossed and tumbled on a wind-blown

sea. They crouched together there till morning, and Jane and Cyril were

not at all well. When the dawn showed, dove-coloured, across the steely

waves, they stood up as well as they could for the tumbling of the

ship. Pheles, that hardy sailor and adventurer, turned quite pale when

he turned round suddenly and saw them.

“Well!” he said, “well, I never did!”

“Master,” said the Egyptian, bowing low, and that was even more

difficult than standing up, “we are here by the magic of the sacred

Amulet that hangs round your neck.”

“I never did!” repeated Pheles. “Well, well!”

“What port is the ship bound for?” asked Robert, with a nautical air.

But Pheles said, “Are you a navigator?” Robert had to own that he was

not.

“Then,” said Pheles, “I don’t mind telling you that we’re bound for the

Tin Isles. Tyre alone knows where the Tin Isles are. It is a splendid

secret we keep from all the world. It is as great a thing to us as your

magic to you.”

He spoke in quite a new voice, and seemed to respect both the children

and the Amulet a good deal more than he had done before.

“The King sent you, didn’t he?” said Jane.

“Yes,” answered Pheles, “he bade me set sail with half a score brave

gentlemen and this crew. You shall go with us, and see many wonders.”

He bowed and left them.

“What are we going to do now?” said Robert, when Pheles had caused them

to be left along with a breakfast of dried fruits and a sort of hard

biscuit.

“Wait till he lands in the Tin Isles,” said Rekh-marā, “then we can get

the barbarians to help us. We will attack him by night and tear the

sacred Amulet from his accursed heathen neck,” he added, grinding his

teeth.

“When shall we get to the Tin Isles?” asked Jane.

“Oh—six months, perhaps, or a year,” said the Egyptian cheerfully.

“A _year_ of this?” cried Jane, and Cyril, who was still feeling far

too unwell to care about breakfast, hugged himself miserably and

shuddered.

It was Robert who said—

“Look here, we can shorten that year. Jane, out with the Amulet! Wish

that we were where the Amulet will be when the ship is twenty miles

from the Tin Island. That’ll give us time to mature our plans.”

It was done—the work of a moment—and there they were on the same ship,

between grey northern sky and grey northern sea. The sun was setting in

a pale yellow line. It was the same ship, but it was changed, and so

were the crew. Weather-worn and dirty were the sailors, and their

clothes torn and ragged. And the children saw that, of course, though

they had skipped the nine months, the ship had had to live through

them. Pheles looked thinner, and his face was rugged and anxious.

“Ha!” he cried, “the charm has brought you back! I have prayed to it

daily these nine months—and now you are here? Have you no magic that

can help?”

“What is your need?” asked the Egyptian quietly.

“I need a great wave that shall whelm away the foreign ship that

follows us. A month ago it lay in wait for us, by the pillars of the

gods, and it follows, follows, to find out the secret of Tyre—the place

of the Tin Islands. If I could steer by night I could escape them yet,

but tonight there will be no stars.”

“My magic will not serve you here,” said the Egyptian.

But Robert said, “My magic will not bring up great waves, but I can

show you how to steer without stars.”

He took out the shilling compass, still, fortunately, in working order,

that he had bought off another boy at school for fivepence, a piece of

indiarubber, a strip of whalebone, and half a stick of red sealing-wax.

And he showed Pheles how it worked. And Pheles wondered at the

compass’s magic truth.

“I will give it to you,” Robert said, “in return for that charm about

your neck.”

Pheles made no answer. He first laughed, snatched the compass from

Robert’s hand, and turned away still laughing.

“Be comforted,” the Priest whispered, “our time will come.”

The dusk deepened, and Pheles, crouched beside a dim lantern, steered

by the shilling compass from the Crystal Palace.

No one ever knew how the other ship sailed, but suddenly, in the deep

night, the look-out man at the stern cried out in a terrible voice—

“She is close upon us!”

“And we,” said Pheles, “are close to the harbour.” He was silent a

moment, then suddenly he altered the ship’s course, and then he stood

up and spoke.

“Good friends and gentlemen,” he said, “who are bound with me in this

brave venture by our King’s command, the false, foreign ship is close

on our heels. If we land, they land, and only the gods know whether

they might not beat us in fight, and themselves survive to carry back

the tale of Tyre’s secret island to enrich their own miserable land.

Shall this be?”

“Never!” cried the half-dozen men near him. The slaves were rowing hard

below and could not hear his words.

The Egyptian leaped upon him; suddenly, fiercely, as a wild beast

leaps. “Give me back my Amulet,” he cried, and caught at the charm. The

chain that held it snapped, and it lay in the Priest’s hand.

Pheles laughed, standing balanced to the leap of the ship that answered

the oarstroke.

“This is no time for charms and mummeries,” he said. “We’ve lived like

men, and we’ll die like gentlemen for the honour and glory of Tyre, our

splendid city. ‘Tyre, Tyre for ever! It’s Tyre that rules the waves.’ I

steer her straight for the Dragon rocks, and we go down for our city,

as brave men should. The creeping cowards who follow shall go down as

slaves—and slaves they shall be to us—when we live again. Tyre, Tyre

for ever!”

A great shout went up, and the slaves below joined in it.

“Quick, the Amulet,” cried Anthea, and held it up. Rekh-marā held up

the one he had snatched from Pheles. The word was spoken, and the two

great arches grew on the plunging ship in the shrieking wind under the

dark sky. From each Amulet a great and beautiful green light streamed

and shone far out over the waves. It illuminated, too, the black faces

and jagged teeth of the great rocks that lay not two ships’ lengths

from the boat’s peaked nose.

“Tyre, Tyre for ever! It’s Tyre that rules the waves!” the voices of

the doomed rose in a triumphant shout. The children scrambled through

the arch, and stood trembling and blinking in the Fitzroy Street

parlour, and in their ears still sounded the whistle of the wind, and

the rattle of the oars, the crash of the ships bow on the rocks, and

the last shout of the brave gentlemen-adventurers who went to their

deaths singing, for the sake of the city they loved.

“And so we’ve lost the other half of the Amulet again,” said Anthea,

when they had told the Psammead all about it.

“Nonsense, pooh!” said the Psammead. “That wasn’t the other half. It

was the same half that you’ve got—the one that wasn’t crushed and

lost.”

“But how could it be the same?” said Anthea gently.

“Well, not exactly, of course. The one you’ve got is a good many years

older, but at any rate it’s not the other one. What did you say when

you wished?”

“I forget,” said Jane.

“I don’t,” said the Psammead. “You said, ‘Take us where _you_ are’—and

it did, so you see it was the same half.”

“I see,” said Anthea.

“But you mark my words,” the Psammead went on, “you’ll have trouble

with that Priest yet.”

“Why, he was quite friendly,” said Anthea.

“All the same you’d better beware of the Reverend Rekh-marā.”

“Oh, I’m sick of the Amulet,” said Cyril, “we shall never get it.”

“Oh yes we shall,” said Robert. “Don’t you remember December 3rd?”

“Jinks!” said Cyril, “I’d forgotten that.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Jane, “and I don’t feel at all well.”

“If I were you,” said the Psammead, “I should not go out into the Past

again till that date. You’ll find it safer not to go where you’re

likely to meet that Egyptian any more just at present.”

“Of course we’ll do as you say,” said Anthea soothingly, “though

there’s something about his face that I really do like.”

“Still, you don’t want to run after him, I suppose,” snapped the

Psammead. “You wait till the 3rd, and then see what happens.”

Cyril and Jane were feeling far from well, Anthea was always obliging,

so Robert was overruled. And they promised. And none of them, not even

the Psammead, at all foresaw, as you no doubt do quite plainly, exactly

what it was that _would_ happen on that memorable date.