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126 pages

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. I have written Impressions and Tales upon the title-page of this volume, because I have included within the same cover two styles of work which present an essential difference.

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Short story

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819919605
Langue	English

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PREFACE
I have written "Impressions and Tales" upon thetitle-page of this volume, because I have included within the samecover two styles of work which present an essential difference.
The second half of the collection consists of eightstories, which explain themselves.
The first half is made up of a series of pictures ofthe past which maybe regarded as trial flights towards a largerideal which I have long had in my mind. It has seemed to me thatthere is a region between actual story and actual history which hasnever been adequately exploited. I could imagine, for example, awork dealing with some great historical epoch, and finding itsinterest not in the happenings to particular individuals, theiradventures and their loves, but in the fascination of the actualfacts of history themselves. These facts might be coloured with theglamour which the writer of fiction can give, and fictitiouscharacters and conversations might illustrate them; but none theless the actual drama of history and not the drama of inventionshould claim the attention of the reader. I have been temptedsometimes to try the effect upon a larger scale; but meanwhilethese short sketches, portraying various crises in the story of thehuman race, are to be judged as experiments in that direction.
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
WINDLESHAM, CROWBOROUGH, April, 1911.
PART I
THE LAST GALLEY
"Mutato nomine, de te, Britannia, fabulanarratur."
It was a spring morning, one hundred and forty-sixyears before the coming of Christ. The North African Coast, withits broad hem of golden sand, its green belt of feathery palmtrees, and its background of barren, red-scarped hills, shimmeredlike a dream country in the opal light. Save for a narrow edge ofsnow-white surf, the Mediterranean lay blue and serene as far asthe eye could reach. In all its vast expanse there was no break butfor a single galley, which was slowly making its way from thedirection of Sicily and heading for the distant harbour ofCarthage.
Seen from afar it was a stately and beautifulvessel, deep red in colour, double-banked with scarlet oars, itsbroad, flapping sail stained with Tyrian purple, its bulwarksgleaming with brass work. A brazen, three-pronged ram projected infront, and a high golden figure of Baal, the God of thePhoenicians, children of Canaan, shone upon the after deck. Fromthe single high mast above the huge sail streamed the tiger-stripedflag of Carthage. So, like some stately scarlet bird, with goldenbeak and wings of purple, she swam upon the face of the waters – athing of might and of beauty as seen from the distant shore.
But approach and look at her now! What are thesedark streaks which foul her white decks and dapple her brazenshields? Why do the long red oars move out of time, irregular,convulsive? Why are some missing from the staring portholes, somesnapped with jagged, yellow edges, some trailing inert against theside? Why are two prongs of the brazen ram twisted and broken? See,even the high image of Baal is battered and disfigured! By everysign this ship has passed through some grievous trial, some day ofterror, which has left its heavy marks upon her.
And now stand upon the deck itself, and see moreclosely the men who man her! There are two decks forward and aft,while in the open waist are the double banks of seats, above andbelow, where the rowers, two to an oar, tug and bend at theirendless task. Down the centre is a narrow platform, along whichpace a line of warders, lash in hand, who cut cruelly at the slavewho pauses, be it only for an instant, to sweep the sweat from hisdripping brow. But these slaves – look at them! Some are capturedRomans, some Sicilians, many black Libyans, but all are in the lastexhaustion, their weary eyelids drooped over their eyes, their lipsthick with black crusts, and pink with bloody froth, their arms andbacks moving mechanically to the hoarse chant of the overseer.Their bodies of all tints from ivory to jet, are stripped to thewaist, and every glistening back shows the angry stripes of thewarders. But it is not from these that the blood comes whichreddens the seats and tints the salt water washing beneath theirmanacled feet. Great gaping wounds, the marks of sword slash andspear stab, show crimson upon their naked chests and shoulders,while many lie huddled and senseless athwart the benches, carelessfor ever of the whips which still hiss above them. Now we canunderstand those empty portholes and those trailing oars.
Nor were the crew in better case than their slaves.The decks were littered with wounded and dying men. It was but aremnant who still remained upon their feet. The most lay exhaustedupon the fore-deck, while a few of the more zealous were mendingtheir shattered armour, restringing their bows, or cleaning thedeck from the marks of combat. Upon a raised platform at the baseof the mast stood the sailing-master who conned the ship, his eyesfixed upon the distant point of Megara which screened the easternside of the Bay of Carthage. On the after-deck were gathered anumber of officers, silent and brooding, glancing from time to timeat two of their own class who stood apart deep in conversation. Theone, tall, dark, and wiry, with pure, Semitic features, and thelimbs of a giant, was Magro, the famous Carthaginian captain, whosename was still a terror on every shore, from Gaul to the Euxine.The other, a white-bearded, swarthy man, with indomitable courageand energy stamped upon every eager line of his keen, aquilineface, was Gisco the politician, a man of the highest Punic blood, aSuffete of the purple robe, and the leader of that party in theState which had watched and striven amid the selfishness andslothfulness of his fellow-countrymen to rouse the public spiritand waken the public conscience to the ever-increasing danger fromRome. As they talked, the two men glanced continually, with earnestanxious faces, towards the northern skyline.
"It is certain," said the older man, with gloom inhis voice and bearing, "none have escaped save ourselves."
"I did not leave the press of the battle whilst Isaw one ship which I could succour," Magro answered. "As it was, wecame away, as you saw, like a wolf which has a hound hanging on toeither haunch. The Roman dogs can show the wolf-bites which proveit. Had any other galley won clear, they would surely be with us bynow, since they have no place of safety save Carthage."
The younger warrior glanced keenly ahead to thedistant point which marked his native city. Already the low, leafyhill could be seen, dotted with the white villas of the wealthyPhoenician merchants. Above them, a gleaming dot against the paleblue morning sky, shone the brazen roof of the citadel of Byrsa,which capped the sloping town.
"Already they can see us from the watch-towers," heremarked. "Even from afar they may know the galley of Black Magro.But which of all of them will guess that we alone remain of allthat goodly fleet which sailed out with blare of trumpet and rollof drum but one short month ago?"
The patrician smiled bitterly. "If it were not forour great ancestors and for our beloved country, the Queen of theWaters," said he, "I could find it in my heart to be glad at thisdestruction which has come upon this vain and feeble generation.You have spent your life upon the seas, Magro. You do not know ofknow how it has been with us on the land. But I have seen thiscanker grow upon us which now leads us to our death. I and othershave gone down into the market-place to plead with the people, andbeen pelted with mud for our pains. Many a time have I pointed toRome, and said, 'Behold these people, who bear arms themselves,each man for his own duty and pride. How can you who hide behindmercenaries hope to stand against them?' – a hundred times I havesaid it."
"And had they no answer?" asked the Rover.
"Rome was far off and they could not see it, so tothem it was nothing," the old man answered. "Some thought of trade,and some of votes, and some of profits from the State, but nonewould see that the State itself, the mother of all things, wassinking to her end. So might the bees debate who should have wax orhoney when the torch was blazing which would bring to ashes thehive and all therein. 'Are we not rulers of the sea?' 'Was notHannibal a great man?' Such were their cries, living ever in thepast and blind to the future. Before that sun sets there will betearing of hair and rending of garments; what will that now availus?"
"It is some sad comfort," said Magro, "to know thatwhat Rome holds she cannot keep."
"Why say you that? When we go down, she is supremein all the world."
"For a time, and only for a time," Magro answered,gravely. "Yet you will smile, perchance, when I tell you how it isthat I know it. There was a wise woman who lived in that part ofthe Tin Islands which juts forth into the sea, and from her lips Ihave heard many things, but not one which has not come aright. Ofthe fall of our own country, and even of this battle, from which wenow return, she told me clearly. There is much strange lore amongstthese savage peoples in the west of the land of Tin."
"What said she of Rome?"
"That she also would fall, even as we, weakened byher riches and her factions."
Gisco rubbed his hands. "That at least makes our ownfall less bitter," said he. "But since we have fallen, and Romewill fall, who in turn may hope to be Queen of the Waters?"
"That also I asked her," said Magro, "and gave hermy Tyrian belt with the golden buckle as a guerdon for her answer.But, indeed, it was too high payment for the tale she told, whichmust be false if all else she said was true. She would have it thatin coining days it was her own land, this fog-girt isle wherepainted savages can scarce row a wicker coracle from point topoint, which shall at last take the trident which Carthage and Romehave dropped."
The smile which flickered upon the old patrician'skeen features died away suddenly, and his fingers closed upon h