



Produced by Lionel G. Sear





THE LAST GALLEY

IMPRESSIONS AND TALES

By Arthur Conan Doyle




PREFACE



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.

The second half of the collection consists of eight stories, which
explain themselves.

The first half is made up of a series of pictures of the past which
maybe regarded as trial flights towards a larger ideal which I have
long had in my mind. It has seemed to me that there is a region
between actual story and actual history which has never been adequately
exploited. I could imagine, for example, a work dealing with some great
historical epoch, and finding its interest not in the happenings to
particular individuals, their adventures and their loves, but in the
fascination of the actual facts of history themselves. These facts might
be  with the glamour which the writer of fiction can give, and
fictitious characters and conversations might illustrate them; but none
the less the actual drama of history and not the drama of invention
should claim the attention of the reader. I have been tempted sometimes
to try the effect upon a larger scale; but meanwhile these short
sketches, portraying various crises in the story of the human race, are
to be judged as experiments in that direction.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

WINDLESHAM, CROWBOROUGH, April, 1911.




CONTENTS


  PART I

     THE LAST GALLEY
     THE CONTEST THROUGH THE VEIL
     AN ICONOCLAST
     GIANT MAXIMIN
     THE COMING OF THE HUNS
     THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS
     THE FIRST CARGO
     THE HOME-COMING
     THE RED STAR



  PART II

     THE SILVER MIRROR
     THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY
     THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER
     THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE
     OUT OF THE RUNNING
     "DE PROFUNDIS"
     THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR
     THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP





PART I. THE LAST GALLEY


"Mutato nomine, de te, Britannia, fabula narratur."

It was a spring morning, one hundred and forty-six years before the
coming of Christ. The North African Coast, with its broad hem of golden
sand, its green belt of feathery palm trees, and its background of
barren, red-scarped hills, shimmered like a dream country in the opal
light. Save for a narrow edge of snow-white surf, the Mediterranean lay
blue and serene as far as the eye could reach. In all its vast expanse
there was no break but for a single galley, which was slowly making its
way from the direction of Sicily and heading for the distant harbour of
Carthage.

Seen from afar it was a stately and beautiful vessel, deep red in
colour, double-banked with scarlet oars, its broad, flapping sail
stained with Tyrian purple, its bulwarks gleaming with brass work. A
brazen, three-pronged ram projected in front, and a high golden figure
of Baal, the God of the Phoenicians, children of Canaan, shone upon the
after deck. From the single high mast above the huge sail streamed the
tiger-striped flag of Carthage. So, like some stately scarlet bird, with
golden beak and wings of purple, she swam upon the face of the waters--a
thing of might and of beauty as seen from the distant shore.

But approach and look at her now! What are these dark streaks which foul
her white decks and dapple her brazen shields? Why do the long red oars
move out of time, irregular, convulsive? Why are some missing from the
staring portholes, some snapped with jagged, yellow edges, some trailing
inert against the side? Why are two prongs of the brazen ram twisted and
broken? See, even the high image of Baal is battered and disfigured! By
every sign this ship has passed through some grievous trial, some day of
terror, which has left its heavy marks upon her.

And now stand upon the deck itself, and see more closely the men who man
her! There are two decks forward and aft, while in the open waist are
the double banks of seats, above and below, where the rowers, two to
an oar, tug and bend at their endless task. Down the centre is a narrow
platform, along which pace a line of warders, lash in hand, who cut
cruelly at the slave who pauses, be it only for an instant, to sweep the
sweat from his dripping brow. But these slaves--look at them! Some are
captured Romans, some Sicilians, many black Libyans, but all are in the
last exhaustion, their weary eyelids drooped over their eyes, their
lips thick with black crusts, and pink with bloody froth, their arms
and backs moving mechanically to the hoarse chant of the overseer. Their
bodies of all tints from ivory to jet, are stripped to the waist, and
every glistening back shows the angry stripes of the warders. But it is
not from these that the blood comes which reddens the seats and tints
the salt water washing beneath their manacled feet. Great gaping wounds,
the marks of sword slash and spear stab, show crimson upon their naked
chests and shoulders, while many lie huddled and senseless athwart the
benches, careless for ever of the whips which still hiss above them. Now
we can understand those empty portholes and those trailing oars.

Nor were the crew in better case than their slaves. The decks were
