“Pretty Poll she loved a sailorAnd well she loved he,But he sailed to the mouthOf a stream in the South,And was lost in the rolling sea,Lost in the rolling sea!”
“Pretty Poll she loved a sailorAnd well she loved he,But he sailed to the mouthOf a stream in the South,And was lost in the rolling sea,Lost in the rolling sea!”
“Pretty Poll she loved a sailorAnd well she loved he,But he sailed to the mouthOf a stream in the South,And was lost in the rolling sea,Lost in the rolling sea!”
“Ah, ha,” said Joe between his teeth as he shook his unfortunate captive by the collar. “And that’s what you’re goin’ to be, my lad, ‘lost in the rolling sea’.”
Blueneck opened his mouth to expostulate, but Joe swung him round like a meal sack and tightenedhis neckerchief, so that it was all he could do to breathe, and they hurried on.
Joe strode over the ground at a tremendous pace, dragging the Spaniard after him. And not one other word did he speak till they came to the waterside, where Joe’s little rowboat, theAmy, flopped and see-sawed on the rising tide.
Still keeping one hand on Blueneck’s collar, Joe stopped, caught at the riding-line, and pulled it in.
“Get in,” he commanded.
Blueneck obeyed as meekly as a lamb, and Joe stepped in after him, and pushed off. He rowed steadily for some seconds and, as the water was very calm, made good progress. About twenty-five yards from the shore he pulled in the oars and sat looking at the other man a full minute. Then he spoke sharply.
“Change places and row a bit,” he said.
Blueneck shrugged his shoulders and did not move.
Joe’s eyes began to sparkle and a dull flash suffused his neck and face.
“Do as I say,” he said quietly.
The fresh air and the rum had revived Blueneck and he began to feel angry again. Still he did not move. Joe seized an oar, holding it in both hands; he wielded it above his head; it was a clumsy weapon, however, and the boat rocked dangerously. Instinctively Blueneck drew back, and before he knew what he was doing raised himself to a sitting position on the gunwale; this was Joe’s opportunity, and hegrasped it. Lowering the oar as swiftly as possible he hove it sharply into the Spaniard’s stomach, who immediately doubled up and fell backward into the water.
Joe crawled along the boat and looked over the side. Blueneck came up a little to the left and seized hold of the side; Joe pushed him off, and he sank again and tried to strike out for the shore, but his wind was gone and he floundered, gasping.
Joe looked at him critically.
“You won’t come near my wife no more,” he observed, as he threw the helpless man a line. “Oh, no, you can’t come in my boat dripping as ye are,” he said cheerily as the other, wild-eyed and half-drowned, clawed at the boat. “You hang on that there line and I’ll tow ye in,” Joe continued, and suiting the action to the word picked up both oars and struck out.
When at last the keel grated on the soft shingle, Joe got out and after first dropping his anchor looked round for Blueneck. The man lay still in the water, both hands tightly grasping the line, the ripple of the waves tossing him to and fro.
Joe dragged him in, threw him down on a bank of dry seaweed, and stood looking at him for a minute or two.
“Ah, I wonder if he be dead now,” he said to himself, and he bent down to lift the sailor’s eyelids. He tore open the wet remains of Blueneck’s best surcoat and put his hand in the left side.
Then he stood up and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well!” he said, addressing the unconscious body, “seeing that you ain’t dead, you may as well live, but you don’t come round my house in a hurry again, or there won’t be any not quite dead about it—see?”
Blueneck opened his eyes for a second and then fell back again into unconsciousness.
Joe looked round him, heaved a sigh of relief and, as he strolled off up to the Ship, his face assumed once more its wonted good humour, his heavy sandy lashes fell half over his eyes as usual, and, thrusting his thumbs in his belt, he whistled as clearly, happily, and tunefully as a linnet in May.
EVERYTHING on the shore was very dark and very silent when Blueneck regained consciousness and sat up. His head ached and his body was stiff and cold while his clothes, still wet and sticky with brine, clung to him uncomfortably.
He peered round in the darkness, striving to remember where he was and what had happened to him. There was no moon, or at least if there was it was so hidden behind the clouds as to be of no use to any one, and he could only faintly distinguish a kind of haze some quarter of a mile in front of him which he supposed was the sea. Behind him he could see nothing at all, only blackness. He put out a cold, trembling hand and felt cautiously about; the first thing he touched was the dry, crumbly seaweed. Not sure what it was he grasped a handful of it and pulled it up. Immediately the sickening stench of stale salt water arose and he spat and swore aloud. Then he reached out his other hand and touched still more seaweed. He groaned with stiffness and pain and threw himself back on the heap. As he did so his shoulders encountered something hard and he almost screamed aloud, so much did it jar him.Changing to a sitting posture again, he felt for the obstacle and found that whatever it was it lay beneath the seaweed. Wearily he pushed the stuff aside and thrust his hand into the clammy depths beneath. The hard thing was lower down still and he burrowed feverishly in a tired, thoughtless way, hardly knowing what he did or why he did it.
Suddenly he paused, and felt more gingerly, yes—surely he could not be mistaken, he was running his hand over the hard round belly of a rum keg. He twisted round quickly and winced as his stiffened muscles twinged at the movement. Beside the first keg he felt another; and yet another at the side of that. He lay back exhausted by the effort and wondered at his find. He had no doubt it was some smuggler’s private store, but was surprised that on such a lawless coast such secrecy should be resorted to. He knew that in Mersea everyone was more or less his own master and thought that it was therefore a rather unnecessary precaution.
When he had arrived thus far in his thoughts, however, he felt a return of the giddiness which he had before experienced and lay back, his eyes open, staring in front of him.
He had not lain so many minutes before he caught the glimmer of a light in the distance and he stared at it in surprise. It was not coming from the sea and was therefore not the riding light of a boat, neither was it coming from the direction of the brig or theShip Inn, but from the west, from the lonely strip of coast between the little villages of East Mersea and West Mersea.
Nearer and nearer it came, till he could see how it jogged and danced along the beach, swaying from side to side, pausing a minute here, and then darting off again, sometimes vanishing completely only to reappear considerably nearer.
Blueneck watched it, fascinated, a strange, uncanny fear creeping over him; everywhere was so dark and lonely, and he strained his eyes peering at the light, fancying that he saw sometimes a man behind it, sometimes a beast, or a fiend. This fear grew upon him every moment, and he tried to struggle to his feet, but his legs were too benumbed to bear him and he sank back again.
The light came nearer and nearer, dancing and swaying more than ever. In a flash the story of the lost rowboat ran through his mind and his flesh began to creep.
Like most sailors, and Spaniards especially, Blueneck was very superstitious; he shuddered and his teeth chattered as he imagined the thing that was holding the lantern to be first a blue swollen corpse with dead sightless eyes, then a rampaging devil with swinging tail and ram’s horns, and then a mermaid whose white teeth were adder’s fangs and whose lips were the nightshade’s berries.
His hand crept up to his neck where a little silver crucifix usually hung, but it was gone; he must havelost it in the fight with Joe. He trembled and mouthed a prayer.
The light seemed to be making straight for him, and as it came nearer, wild, unearthly crooning noises came from it.
Blueneck gulped, and his eyes started from his head and the blood tingled and danced in his veins.
The noise—it was certainly not a song nor yet the cry of an animal, but a sort of long-drawn-out sighing on a high quavering note—came nearer and grew louder. Now the light was within fifteen paces of him and he held his breath. Nearer it came.
“Doña Maria, let it pass,” he prayed. Now it was within five yards of him, and came nearer still. Straining his eyes, he could make out a fearful bundle-like figure behind the lantern. The noise grew louder; nearer it came till the light stopped three feet away from him, and fell on the most evil and half-human face the terrified sailor had ever seen.
This was the last straw, and Blueneck screamed. The sound rang out high and short as he dropped back on the weed, half insensible. However much the thing with the lantern had frightened him, he certainly frightened it with his yell, for it sprang back and emitted a howl which started the echoes and woke the sea-birds who screamed also as they flapped sleepily away.
Blueneck shut his eyes and waited during three seconds of horrible suspense. Then he felt the lightbeating on his eyelids, and heard a cracked human voice very near him say:
“Oh! ye would be spying on me, would ye, ye hell-traitor?”
The words reassured Blueneck more than perhaps anything else would have done and he opened his eyes. The terrible old face was very near his own, and hot spirit-tainted breath blew into his nostrils, but what fixed his attention was the glitter of steel above the figure’s head.
Blueneck rose to the situation now that he was assured of the old woman’s mortality (he decided that it must be an old woman). He was not the man to be frightened of a knife other than his captain’s.
“Pity a poor sailor; so stiff with the cold that his legs will not bear him,” he moaned, in a pitiful pleading whine.
The old woman laughed horribly.
“You don’t catch birds like Pet Salt with chaff, hell-rat,” she said.
“Pet Salt!” Blueneck began to understand. “Mistress,” he said, “what are you about?”
“Killing a spying knave,” was the reply, and the blade descended until its point pricked his throat.
Things were turning out more seriously than Blueneck had expected, and he spoke quickly.
“Is it rum you want, lady?” he said as steadily as he could, the blade pricking deeper as the words moved the muscle of his throat.
“It is, hell-rat, it is.” Pet Salt bent nearer.“And no spying dog shall stop me from getting it. Ye waited out here till you were too stiff to move, did you? Ah, you blue-livered pike, the devil looks after his own.”
“Then I’m the man to get it for thee. I’m the mate of theColdlight.”
Blueneck had just time to get out the words or she would have killed him.
“How do I know you be not?” she said shrewdly, though visibly shaken at his words, as she withdrew the knife.
“I swear,” began the sailor.
Pet Salt stopped him.
“Swear!” she screamed. “What’s a seaman’s oath to me?”
“Look at my garments,” said the anxious Blueneck. “Are they those of a common man or one befitting my station?”
Pet, like many other women before and since, was moved at the sight of the bright colours and good stuffs.
“They be ruined with salt water,” she remarked. “What happened to you, hell-rat?”
Blueneck paused before he spoke. His pride forbade him to tell the truth, and his prudence warned him against a lie. Finally he made a compromise between the two and told a fairly plausible story of two men setting upon him, of a fearful fight, and finished up with a faithful account of the ducking which he had received.
Pet seemed satisfied. How much she believed is another matter but, as she often told Ben Farran, she understood sea-folk and all their tricks.
She put up the knife somewhere in her rags and set down the lantern.
“Try and stand,” she commanded.
Blueneck obeyed as one in a dream; slowly and painfully he staggered to his feet, only to drop again almost immediately.
Pet waddled after him.
“Rub your legs,” she said, “and hurry. You’ve got to work for me before the cocks crow.”
Wearily Blueneck did as he was bid, and the old woman hobbled to the bank of seaweed where she set to work unearthing the kegs. With a grunt of satisfaction she set the last one beside the others and turned to the sailor.
“Come on,” she said.
Blueneck staggered to his feet; he was still very unsteady, but the rubbing had partially restored his circulation and he was just able to stumble along.
Pet pointed to the three kegs.
“Carry two,” she said shortly.
Blueneck looked around him hopelessly. It was still dark and lonely and some of the horror he had felt when he first saw Pet Salt returned to him. He shuddered; the bent old figure in front of him clad in dirty, evil-smelling rags seemed again to take on some of the fear-inspiring qualities of a fiend or marsh-goblin. He struggled on to where the kegs werelying and with great difficulty hoisted one onto his shoulder.
Pet lifted up another.
“Put this under your other arm,” she said, “and mind your stepping; it’s heavy.”
Blueneck took it without a word.
Pet picked up the last keg and turned to him, her ugly bulbous face showing red with exertion in the lantern’s flickering light.
“Now follow after me,” she said, and hobbled off.
Long afterward Blueneck described this journey from the bank of seaweed to Ben Farran’s boat as a walk through hell itself.
Time after time the keg under his arm slipped and fell in the soft powdery shingle, and he had to bend his stiffened and aching body to pick it up again, while the terrible cracked voice of Pet Salt, railing in the most fearful language, rang in his ears.
But he went on. Once he fell and cut his head on a breakwater stone, and the old woman kicked him with her wood-shod foot and bade him rise in a tone that had fear in it as well as command.
Once they saw a lantern in the far distance and Pet made him crouch and wait silent till it passed on. Again and again he felt that he must break away and regain his lost courage, but always the fear of the dark desolateness and the awful old woman prevented him, and he went on meekly.
How at last he managed to climb up the ropeladder and scramble on to the deck of thePetand then down the hatchway to the stifling cabin and bunk-room below he did not know. However, he did it and fell through the doorway into Ben Farran’s presence in a fainting condition.
When he recovered himself the air was full of a strange sickening odour mixed with the fumes of steaming rum.
He looked round him curiously. The room was very small even for a boat and marvellously dirty and untidy.
A few rags were bundled together in a corner, forming a rude sort of bed, and an old iron stove smoked and spat in another. On the top of this stood an iron bowl, and it was from this Blueneck decided that the strange smell came.
In a corner by the stove lay Ben Farran, snoring loudly with his mouth open.
Blueneck looked at him curiously. He had been a fine big man, he judged, and had had some strength and comeliness, but much rum had changed him and he sprawled there a most ungainly, loathsome figure. His shoulders were bent till he lost any pretension to height, his jaw was weak and drooping, and great blue pouches of flesh hung under his eyes. This, combined with an enormous stomach and bent podgy legs, gave him a great resemblance to a fat toad.
Blueneck looked away and turned his attentions to himself. He found that his outer garments had been removed and that his arms and legs were covered with a black-greenish paste. He looked at them in surprise and disgust and began to rub off the caked mixture as fast as he could. But he noticed that his stiffness had left him and that he felt as well and strong as he had done the night before he had his fight with Joe Pullen.
Pet came in presently and he saw that she was growing fast like Ben, rum-sodden and old. She smiled when she saw him and he thought how horribly pale her toothless gums showed across the flaming purple redness of her face.
“Now, master, mate of theColdlight, I bargain with thee,” she began as she handed him his clothes newly dried and motioned him to dress.
Blueneck said nothing but took his garments and began to put them on.
“Methinks your captain, the Spanish Dick, has set eyes on a pretty wench,” she said slowly.
The sailor did not look up; he was mournfully regarding his best doublet coat stained and faded with salt water.
“Oh, there be many pretty wenches who have had his eyes upon them,” he said carelessly.
Pet swore roundly and with such vehemence that he glanced at her.
“But one particular wench?” she went on, relapsing again into quietness. “I have long ears.”
Blueneck, who was slow of comprehension, looked at her in surprise; her remark struck him as being strangely irrelevant.
“I hear what is said on the Island,” the old woman continued. “I know your captain hath a great liking for Ann Farran, Ben’s gran’daughter.”
Blueneck looked even more puzzled.
“Ay, and if it be so, what then?” he said.
Pet smiled again.
“Your captain carries much rum,” she observed.
Blueneck nodded and pulled on his boots.
“This Ann Farran hath but one kinsman in the world save her bastard half-brother,” Pet went on crooningly.
Blueneck stood up and began to see what she was leading up to.
“There would be none to look for the wench, or hark to the wench if one were quieted,” she went on suggestively.
“And that one loves rum!” observed Blueneck.
Pet smiled again.
“And that one loves rum!” she repeated.
Blueneck stood thinking for a moment or two, his hands in his pockets.
“For this news, mistress, I will say naught of what has passed this evening, nor of the three rum kegs,” he said.
Pet nodded; the man seemed intelligent.
“Nor will I say aught of a lost boat,” continued the sailor, darting his bright black eyes upon her.
Pet blinked. This man was too intelligent, she told herself.
“I will tell the Captain of your bargain,” Blueneckwent on. “It may be he will hear. Meanwhile”—he looked at the array of little kegs on the floor—“you will not die of thirst, mistress.”
Pet shrugged her shoulders and looked across at the slovenly figure by the stove.
“We both drink well,” she said.
Blueneck looked from one to the other.
“Of that I have no doubt,” he sneered, and walked out up the hatchway. “I will tell the Captain,” he called back, as he climbed down the rope ladder and on to the now sunlit wall.
He walked along, talking to himself in a whisper. Now and again he paused and made as though to go back. Then he recovered himself and went on, still muttering. Finally he shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, it won’t be the first time rum has bought a fair lass, anyway,” he said aloud, “and it ain’t a right thing in a man to go against old habits.”
And lifting his head he began to whistle blithely.
IT WAS seven o’clock on the following Wednesday evening and there was an air of expectation in the Ship’s kitchen.
TheColdlightwas due to sail under a new name at the late tide.
Anny was upstairs preparing herself for Dick’s coming, while in the room below the talk ran high and many conjectures as to the Captain’s intentions were put forward and withdrawn as the company drank round the fire.
“Osh, where’s the man as can withstand a pretty lass?” said Gilbot, smiling and hiccoughing over his sack.
“Ah, maybe, maybe, but ’tis a wonderful risky thing, this changing names o’ crafts,” put in Granger, wagging his head. “I don’t hold with it myself.”
“Ah, I reckon the Captain knows what he’s about; there ain’t many like him to a mile,” remarked another man.
“You’re right there,” said old Cip de Musset, who had been sitting silently in a corner for some time. “He ain’t no crab, but I’d not let a lass o’ mine have much to do with him.”
“What do you mean?” said Hal, firing up andcoming over from the doorway where he had been standing.
Old Gilbot began to laugh.
“Hark to th’ lad,” he gurgled. “One would think he loved her hisself.”
Hal turned away from the light before he spoke, and no one saw the deep flush which crept up over his features even to the roots of his hair, making his scalp tingle uncomfortably.
“We look after our wenches at the Ship, Master Gilbot,” he said hastily.
Gilbot nodded happily.
“Ay,” he said, “wesh do, wesh do!” And the talk continued.
Just as the clock by the chimney-piece struck the quarter steps were heard coming across the yard, and Black’erchief Dick, flanked by Blueneck and Habakkuk Coot, and backed by some nine or ten hardy ruffians, marched in at the door.
In an instant the little Spaniard was the centre of an enthusiastic group, for, since his first coming to the Ship, Dick had done much to make himself popular, and now his deep musical voice was raised good-naturedly above the din calling for rum all round and sack for those who wished for it.
Hal and Sue darted about in obedience to his order and soon the company stood, silent, mugs in hand, waiting for the toast. At this moment the inner door opened and Anny, dressed in the purple gown that Sue had given her, stepped into the kitchen.
Dick was at her side in a moment, and respectfully taking her hand led her into the centre of the room.
“Ann of the Island, her health and beauty for ever!” he shouted, his tankard high above his head. The toast was given boisterously, and Anny blushed and smiled shyly.
Old Gilbot was enjoying himself thoroughly and took advantage of a lull in the conversation to exclaim:
“Let’sh have a shong,” and then without any more ado began to quaver “Pretty Poll” at the top of his voice.
The company took up the burden and the final “Lost in the rolling sea” was bellowed till the rafters shook.
“More rum,” called Dick, and then as though obeying an impulse of the moment he sprang upon one of the forms and resting one foot on the tresselled table, exclaimed,
“Hark ye, dogs, here is a new song, mine own song, a song of Dick Delfazio’s own composing.”
And then throwing back his head he began to sing in a remarkably true tenor voice, swaying his body in tune to his own music:
“Fair as a seagull and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is fair Anny to me,So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh! Where is another like Ann of the Isle?Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Fair as a seagull and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is fair Anny to me,So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh! Where is another like Ann of the Isle?Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Fair as a seagull and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is fair Anny to me,So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh! Where is another like Ann of the Isle?Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
By this time the rumkins were all replenished and the chorus of the song was taken up and repeated to the accompaniment of jingling pewter.
Dick still kept his position and took up the song again, his dark eyes flashing and smiling at the girl who watched him, fascinated.
“Avaunt ye fine ladies of France and of Spain,So wayward, so wanton, so proud, and so vain.No sweet pleading look, no trick, or no wile,Shall ever more tempt me from Ann of the Isle.Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Avaunt ye fine ladies of France and of Spain,So wayward, so wanton, so proud, and so vain.No sweet pleading look, no trick, or no wile,Shall ever more tempt me from Ann of the Isle.Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Avaunt ye fine ladies of France and of Spain,So wayward, so wanton, so proud, and so vain.No sweet pleading look, no trick, or no wile,Shall ever more tempt me from Ann of the Isle.Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
And then he added before any one could speak, “To the brig, dogs,” and skipping lightly off the table he offered his hand to Anny and led the way out into the yard, the whole company following, roaring as they went,
“Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
Anny looked up shyly at the Spaniard, her heart beating quickly with excitement. He was strolling jauntily along, her hand lightly held in his own; the starlight touched the jewelled hilt of his knife, and his big mournful black eyes winked and smiled happily.
He loved display, pageant, parade; she could see that by the way his men marched around him in regulated order, and by his gorgeous clothes, and she herself became a little intoxicated by the air of excitement and the singing of the laughing, jostling crowd.
Glancing at him under her lashes, she slipped her hand through his arm and laughed a little self-consciously.
A curious, self-satisfied, but half-regretful smile passed over his face and he bent toward her.
“Give me a kiss, little one,” he said softly.
A wave of cold water seemed to dash over Anny’s pleasure and she drew her arm away stiffly, saying, “Prithee, sir, I would return to the Ship.”
Again the curious smile spread over Dick’s lips but this time there was no regret.
“Pardon, mistress, methinks thy beauty and mine own singing hath made my brain whirl. Prithee, prithee, fair one, give me thy hand again.”
Anny looked at him and held out her hand without a word. He seemed so debonair, so gracious, such a fine gentleman, and his soft eyes sought hers almost beseechingly, she thought.
“Ann! oh! Ann of the IslandWhere is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann! oh! Ann of the IslandWhere is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann! oh! Ann of the IslandWhere is another like Ann of the Isle?”
sang the company as the little procession neared the waterside.
Sue, who walked between French and Cip de Musset, looked at the two small figures and sighed involuntarily. She also thought the Spaniard was a fine gentleman and she also had seen his dark eyesfixed mournfully on the other girl’s face, and she began to laugh and talk noisily to hide her vexation.
Gallantly Black’erchief Dick led the little serving-wench down over the planked way to the rowboat, helped her in, and then stepped lightly after her. Several of the company crowded in behind them and they pushed off. The rest of the band seized other boats that were anchored near the shore and followed as best they could.
Once on board the brig, Anny looked about her with delight; the shrouded sails and spiderweb-like rigging pleased her immensely; the swinging lanterns overhead showed the clean boards and newly painted sides, and she laughed with satisfaction as she noted first one thing and then another.
Dick was no less pleased; he loved his boat and derived more pleasure from showing it off than from anything else in the world. He took her from end to end, telling her tales of hairbreadth escapes and secret cargoes of papers and documents. Indeed, carried away by his own enthusiasm he even hinted that good King Charles owed more to Dick Delfazio’s courage than His Majesty was aware of.
Anny listened to him open-mouthed, as he talked on, embroidering his tales with a network of fine and polished phrases, and interrupting them here and there to shout an order or swear at an unhandy sailor as the man hurried to obey him.
When at last the greater part of the company which had followed Dick from the Ship stood on the deck oftheColdlight, he opened the proceedings after the custom of the Island by calling for rum all round.
After the toast, the whole crowd, which was by this time very boisterous, congregated in the forepart of the ship to inspect the figurehead which was at the moment covered with a piece of sail-cloth.
Dick with his inborn love of dramatic effect had seen to this, and now stepping forward he whipped it off with a flourish and stepped back, observing with delight the impression it was making.
Old Ned Hutton, the ship’s carpenter, was certainly not an artist, but he had done his best, and all that paint and a chunk of rough-hewn wood could do had been done. The figure was undoubtedly meant to represent Anny and that was enough for Mersea folk. Everybody cheered loudly, and Dick called for more rum. Then he and the girl went forward to examine the figurehead more closely.
The ugly awkward thing was profusely decorated with gold paint; so much Anny could see by the light of the lantern which Dick gallantly held for her, and her name, “ANNY,” was painted on the bright blue band that went round the figure’s black head.
“’Tis lovely,” she whispered half to herself as she ran her fingers over the great arms and breasts on which the paint was hardly dry.
Dick smiled and made her the obvious compliment, and they went down to the bows and leaned over the gunwale so as to see the four great white letters, “ANNY,” painted on the smooth brown sides.
The girl was delighted, and her infectious gurgling laugh rang out clearly several times on the cold air as she listened to Dick’s sparkling conversation.
“Tide’s full and wind fair,” sang out a voice suddenly from the watch-tower.
Instantly there was confusion: Dick shouted orders here and there but did not take his hand from Anny’s arm. Everyone made for the boats shouting farewells to the crew which responded cheerfully.
Dick bent nearer to the girl.
“I will come again,” he said softly.
Anny smiled and nodded.
“We are ever pleased to see company at the Ship,” she said demurely, slipping her arm out of his grasp and moving over to the side where French, Sue, and Hal waited for her.
Dick followed her.
“Give us your blessing, mistress,” he said loudly. There was silence at once: the sailors attached much importance to a blessing and they stood quietly.
Anny looked round desperately; she had never had a blessing in her life, much less given one, and for a moment she was entirely at a loss. No one spoke, however, so at last she crossed herself devoutly and said as clearly as her nervousness would permit, “I pray God bless this ship, Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated the crew solemnly, and then dashed off on their business and the bustle recommenced.
Sue climbed over the side of the boat, French followed her, and then Hal.
“Farewell, Ann of the Island,” said the Spaniard softly. “I will return to thee.”
Anny looked at him and he seemed to her very comely. She held out her hand and he raised it to his lips.
“Farewell, sir,” she said, and then followed her lover into the little boat.
“Farewell!” came the deep and almost beautiful voice again; there was the clink of chains and the anchor was weighed, and then the brig, her sails all set, glided out into the channel.
Hal bent his back to the oar he was plying and spoke to the other three in the little rowboat without looking up.
“There goes a damned nuisance off the Isle for a bit,” he said.
French grunted and pulled hard. Sue sighed and looked out to sea, while Anny laughed a little ruefully, and patted Hal’s broad shoulders with her little brown hand.
“ANNY, are you gone to sleep yet?” Sue sat up in her bed and peered through the darkness to where the other girl lay in a far corner. Her hair was unbound and fell over her coarse night garment like a soft black shawl as she leant forward, speaking almost in a whisper.
It was nearly a month since Dick had sailed away from the Island, and the quiet country life had flowed peacefully on at the Ship without interruption. But Sue had not forgotten the little Spaniard. It was a continual source of amazement to her that she could have entertained a liking for him or even a thought when big handsome Ezekiel French was by, but she was not sure about Anny.
Sue had an observant eye, and she noticed that Hal and the girl were not so often together as they had used to be, and she drew her own conclusions. She had a kind heart, and she felt herself Anny’s guardian in a sense.
Poor, quaint, foolish little Anny, she thought, so fond of admiration, so willing to love and be loved, so pretty and so gentle; and then she thought of the Spaniard, with his bright, devil-may-care eyes, andfull red lips, and she nodded her head into the darkness and leaned forward again.
“Anny,” she said distinctly.
“Ay.” Anny’s voice came clearly out of the dark corner.
“Have you been asleep yet?” whispered Sue.
“Nay.” Anny turned over on her side.
“Did you not hear me speak before?” the other girl persisted.
Anny sighed and turned back again.
“Nay, I have lain long a-thinking,” she said.
Sue drew her knees up to her chin and clasped them with her arms before she spoke again.
“Do you ever think of the Spaniard?” she said at last, and then added as Anny vouchsafed no answer: “Black’erchief Dick?”
Anny moved in her bed.
“Oh, him!” she said with a note of contempt in her pretty childlike voice. “Oh, nay!”
Sue sighed again, and when she spoke her tone had a certain tenderness in it.
“Why do you lie to me, Anny Farran?” she said.
Anny sighed softly.
“Oh! Mistress Sue,” she said, “what would you have me tell you? How many times he begged a kiss of me, or held my hand, or bore my onions with his fair white hands?”
Sue flushed.
“Sure he never carried onions for thee!” she said.
“Marry! did he not?” said Anny quickly. “Ay,with his thin white fingers cracking under their weight, and the muddied side o’ the skep rubbing on his silken hose, did he carry onions for me, and I stumbling along at his side for all the world like a Hythe oyster wench. Oh! Lord, the tales he did tell,” and she broke off into a little chuckle, and Sue frowned.
“I would speak seriously with you, Anny,” she began.
Anny sighed and tossed like a naughty child and then resigned herself to the lecture she felt was coming.
“I am listening,” she said.
Sue spoke earnestly and sincerely.
“Methinks you care too much for the Spaniard, lass,” she said.
Anny gasped audibly but said nothing, and Sue, mistaking the sound for a sigh of confession, went on:
“He is a dangerous man for a young wench to think on,” she said. “I would not trust a man who looked so boldly at every smirking lass who chanced to stand in his way as he walked from the yard to the brig. Ah! you may laugh, but I know; I served in this inn long before you came, and I’ve seen men and wenches, time and again. Remember what befell Maria Turnby when her husband left for the Indies. There’s a thing for him to hear when he comes back again, poor fellow—his own children left to starve that sweetbreads may be served for another man’s brats. Oh, Anny, lass,” Sue’s voice shook in itsearnestness, “have a care, have a care. Men be eels wi’ maids. And this Delfazio, as he is pleased to call himself, is a deal more eel-like than many other menfish. What with his soft laughter, and hands like white and polished bone, together with black wanton eyes! Oh! have a care, I know tales of him; they say no one ever dares to come between him and his wishes, and that never since he was a squalling brat has he been stayed from getting what he wants. Anny, perchance he wants you, and perchance you will be bewitched into letting him get his way.”
Anny sat up on her straw mattress, her bright eyes glittering in the ray of starlight which shone in through the uncurtained window, and her little white teeth clenched.
“Methinks you wrong me, mistress,” she said, restraining her voice with difficulty. “I have no love for any crawling foreigner. What if he do eat and talk like the quality; I tell thee there are thirty other men I would rather marry than a brown-skinned Spaniard.”
“Marry?” Sue laughed and Anny flushed.
“Methinks,” she went on, her voice becoming colder at every word, “that not to me so much as to thee, Mistress Sue, should such talk be addressed. Is your heart so free from thoughts of this same Dick that you can hold him up to me as dangerous? What was it made thee lose thy taste for Master French’s talk so suddenly? Oh! truth! you make me sick to see you take me for so senseless a wench that youthink I do not see your cleverness. Mistress, beware of jealousy.”
Sue gasped. She had never considered the possibility of her words being taken in this way, and she could think of no adequate reply at that moment save a reproachful, “Anny!”
There was silence for a moment or two and then Anny spoke again over her shoulder.
“Rest assured,” she said, “’tis not thoughts of thy pesky little cheap-jack that keeps me awake o’ nights. There be many here better than he, and one amongst them whom I love.”
Then she buried her head under the blankets and did not speak again, in spite of Sue’s protestations of dislike for Dick, and the elder girl, getting tired of talking to seemingly deaf ears, lay down also and beguiled herself to sleep with thoughts of her own lover.
The next day broke fine and fresh after the heavy rainfall of the preceding three weeks, but Sue went about her work with a certain nervous fidgetiness which irritated Anny and sent her out over the fields with Hal.
Several times when they were out Sue went up to her room and there peered into the cracked mirror, putting a curl back here, another forward there, smoothing down her eyelashes with a moistened thumb and forefinger, and biting her lips till the red blood suffused them glowingly. More often did she go to the window, however, and stand there forminutes on end, staring out into the new begreened landscape, where the young leaves danced like lambkins in the cool, strong sea breeze, the sun on their wet surfaces lending them some of the splendour of jewels.
Sue had made up her mind. Nobody came to the Ship all the morning, and by three o’clock she was in no pleasant humour, so old Gilbot found when he asked her to sing for him, for she was up and off in a moment with the sharp remark, “that there was more to do in the world than sing and get deep in liquor.”
Gilbot was amazed; his little blue eyes stared surprisedly in front of him, and he absent-mindedly put his rumkin upside down on the stove and it was some minutes before he discovered that the kitchen was reeking with burnt rum dregs.
This made Sue angrier still, and she bustled about, throwing open the doors, muttering the while that she was ashamed to let visitors into a room that smelt like Pet Salt’s boat and looked like a sty.
Little Red Farran, however, found her in a very different mood, for when he came creeping into the scullery with his kitten (now wellnigh a cat) tucked under his cape, she caught him up in her arms and kissed him and then to his astonishment gave him a large slice of oatmeal cake high-heaped with quince jelly and sent him off on his way rejoicing.
Her charity was well rewarded, for some two minutes later the kitchen door was kicked open and Red and French came in together.
Sue began at once to bustle about with unnatural gaiety, and Gilbot regarded her with still greater astonishment, until he suddenly looked round and saw French. Then he nodded his head sagely once or twice, and, getting up with difficulty, tottered to get his coat which hung behind the door.
“Redsh an’ Ish goin’ foa walk,” he announced.
Red gave a whoop of delight and ran after him happily.
French looked after them in surprise.
“Whatever made him go off like that, now?” he said, as he sat down at the table.
Sue blushed and clanged the pots together noisily.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said almost sharply.
French turned to her, his handsome boyish face blank with astonishment.
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” he said.
Sue shrugged her shoulders and bit her lips. Why was he so different to-day, she wondered?
“Me—oh, nothing; is there aught in my face that should make you ask that?”
Sue turned a fiery cheek toward the young giant, and then moved away.
French got up.
“I don’t know what’s taken you all,” he said, puzzled. “When I first comes in, Master Gilbot flies out wi’ the young lad, and now you look at me as though I’d done some mortal wrong. What is it?”
“Oh! go to with ye.” Sue’s back was toward himand he could not see her face but her voice sounded sharp. “I’m getting your rum as fast as may be.”
“What need you be worrying about rum?”
French looked round him miserably.
“I’m sorry,” he said, changing his weight from one foot to the other and his hands becoming noticeable and awkward.
Sue only sighed impatiently and busied herself with the rum.
French turned on his heel.
“All’s well then,” he said finally. “I’ll be getting down West. I reckon I knows when I’m welcome or not, Mistress—Mistress Susan Gilbot,” and he strode to the door. “There’s other inns,” he said meaningly.
Sue turned about in a moment.
“Oh, wait for your rum, Master French,” she said.
French did not move but stood straddle-legged in the doorway looking out into the yard.
“Rum? Oh, that don’t matter; an inn’s got more uses than just to sell rum, mistress,” he said.
“Indeed, to provide wenches for any man to insult, I reckon,” said Sue, tossing her head and dashing her hand across her eyes.
French turned round quickly.
“Why, who’s been insulting you, lass?” he said sharply.
Sue laughed and turned her head away.
“What’s that to you?” she said.
French shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m going,” he remarked, and stepped down the stone stair into the yard.
Sue swallowed once and then ran after him.
“Prithee wait while I hot your rum, sir,” she said.
French turned willingly.
“I’d do aught for you when you ask me like that, Sue,” he said gently, as he followed her back into the kitchen and sat down while she bustled around with a tankard, hardly knowing what she did.
French watched her critically.
“Aught been upsetting you, mistress?” he asked.
“Nay.” Sue blushed again and stumbled over a form.
The big man sighed and looked into the fire.
“Been thinking of the Spaniard?” he asked half between his teeth.
“No,” said Sue so vehemently that he jumped. “I have not, nor am like to.”
French smiled on her.
“Well, that’s all right, then, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.
French’s smile faded.
“No, that’s right,” he said almost mournfully, “that’s right.”
And there was silence for a few moments. He drank his rum, and after opening and shutting his mouth once or twice, rose to go.
Sue watched him to the door and then in spite ofherself the tears began to trickle down the side of her nose, and she sobbed once audibly.
French was at her side in a moment.
“What is the matter, lassie?” he said kindly, all his shyness vanishing as he whipped out a large yellow handkerchief and began to wipe her eyes hastily. “Are you ill?”
Sue sobbed violently.
“No,” she said angrily, and then snatching the handkerchief out of his hand buried her face in it.
French put a big hand on each of her shoulders and shook her gently.
“If I asked you for something would you give it to me?” he said.
Sue still covered her face with her hands.
“Oh! why don’t you ask me?” she sobbed.
French lifted her up in his arms to kiss her, and she stopped crying and began to blush as he carried her over to the chimney corner where they sat, laughing and whispering, till Gilbot and Red, driven in by the rain, which had restarted with as much violence as ever, came for their tea.
“I thought you watched that damned Spaniard a deal too much, sweetheart,” said French, as he and Sue walked to the end of the lane together, although the rain came down in torrents.
“Oh! go along with you. Would I not rather have a man to love than a live knife?” said Sue, as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
MASTER FRANCIS MYDDLETON leaned back in his chair and gently stuffed a wad of coarse Virginia into the slightly blackened bowl of his stubby clay pipe, and lifted his gouty foot on to one of the bronzed firedogs which ornamented his spacious hearth, and then after pulling once or twice at the short stem, he took out a bundle of letters from one of his capacious pockets and began to read them. They were from his son who held a fairly responsible place at the Court of His Gracious Majesty King Charles II, and from time to time a low wheezing chuckle broke from the old man’s lips and he coughed and spat, the tears of laughter starting to his eyes as he read.
“The sly devil,” he muttered, laughing, “bribed her serving-wench with a kiss, did he?”
“Oh! dearie, dearie me—Good King Jamie was more particular. What a thing it is to be young and to have a king to serve,” and he laughed again, this time quite loudly.
A female voice called shrilly from the room above:
“What’s ailing you, Francis?”
Master Myddleton put the letters hastily into his pocket.
“’Tis naught, Eliza, my foot doth trouble me somewhat.”
“Marry,” came the high, strident voice from the other room, “’tis strange that a gouty foot should make you laugh like a moon-struck lunatic.”
Master Myddleton made no reply, and after a moment’s pause the voice went on again:
“’Tis a wonder you can laugh when we have a man coming to take the very bread out of our mouths. You should be praying the Lord to succour your wife and daughter, not laughing yourself daft by the fireside.”
The old man sighed and shook the ashes from his pipe and began slowly to refill it.
“What’s o’clock?” he called out after a minute or so’s silence.
“Half after eight; he should be here by now if the river ain’t high over the bridle path at Tenpenny Heath.”
“Ay,” said Master Myddleton reflectively.
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back and of heavy steps on the stairs, and Mistress Eliza Myddleton entered the dining room where her husband sat.
She was a big fair woman who still preserved a remnant of the great beauty which had once been hers, but as she often told her neighbours when she was in a confidential mood, what with having a rapscallion stepson and a pretty daughter to look after, an excise man for a husband, and also being a staunch, God-fearing woman and a puritan at that, lines andwrinkles would come and they had—as indeed any one might note for himself.
Now as she came into the room, her thin face pale with worry, Francis looked at her, and old villain that he was, he wondered why he had ever married her.
“What are you going to say to him?” began the lady, planting herself before him, her bony arms akimbo.
Master Francis shrugged his shoulders.
“Say?” he said. “Why, naught!”
Mistress Eliza threw her hands above her head in a gesture of despair.
“You would,” she said. “I don’t believe you realize the state we are in. I don’t believe you care if your wife and child are thrown into the streets. I don’t believe you could say a word to save yourself hanging. In God’s truth, I don’t believe you have your wits about you, Master Myddleton.”
Francis sat still puffing at his pipe and his wife went on:
“Had you only done your duty, and gone out after the Mersea smugglers, I might be a fine lady this day, or at least——”
“A widow!” put in Francis, without removing the pipe from his mouth.
“Oh!” Mistress Eliza gasped. “For shame, Master Myddleton, are you a coward?”
“No more ’an others, but, Lord, Eliza, you wouldn’t have me trapesing about i’ the dusk hunting rum kegs?”
Francis took the pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife, a quizzical expression in his little gray eyes.
“’Tis what you’re paid for,” said Mistress Myddleton, lifting her eyes to the low-raftered ceiling.
Master Myddleton coughed explosively, and his face grew red with anger.
“God’s body! Isn’t that just like a woman,” he shouted, dashing his hand so violently on the arm of his chair that his pipe flew into shivers, whereupon he swore an oath which made his wife shudder. “Just like a woman sweet as honey till aught goes wrong,” he continued, getting more and more angry at every word. “Did you ever talk of hunting smugglers before the Mayor of Colchester must needs appoint an assistant to me? Lord! woman, you drink smuggled tea every day of your life so as to be i’ the fashion—don’t talk to me!”
“It’s very well for you to call this Thomas Playle an assistant, Master Myddleton,” observed his wife with asperity. “’Tis you are to be his assistant, I’m thinking. That will be a nice thing for the neighbours to hear—now if only our Matilda and he could——”
Francis Myddleton fairly roared with fury.
“Peace with ye, designing woman,” he shouted. “Will I have my only daughter disposed of before my eyes? Unfeeling mother! Elizabeth, I am amazed at ye.”
Mistress Myddleton gulped with indignation.
“Francis, I am surprised at you. I disposing of your daughter! Oh, you scandalous man! Why ever was I married to such a lump of lying perfidy?”
“God knows!” said Master Myddleton bitterly.
Mistress Elizabeth’s answering outbreak was checked by the sound of horses’ hoofs in the cobbled yard outside.
“There he is—God help us,” she had time to whisper, and then composing her features into an amiable smile went out to meet their unwelcome guest.
Master Myddleton sat looking down at the fragments of his pipe: then he felt in his pocket and drew out a twist of tobacco which he smelt and rolled lovingly round his fingers.
He sighed.
“Drat women and work,” he said to the roaring fire which blazed, crackled, and spat as though it quite agreed with him.
Master Thomas Playle sprang out of his saddle and threw his bridle rein to the grinning ostler who ran out to meet him, and then marched up to the front door and pulled the bell sharply.
Mistress Myddleton was before him in an instant and so overwhelmed him with welcome and motherly concern for his wet, muddy condition that he had nothing to say for himself for a minute or so.
The candlelight in the stone-flagged hall showed the newcomer to be a tall, rather handsome man, some seven and twenty years of age.
Mistress Myddleton regarded him with approval and mentally summed up her daughter Matilda’s attractive qualities: the result seemed to please her, for she smiled and conducted him to the dining room.
“My husband hath a troubled foot,” she was at some pains to explain, “and prays you to pardon him for not being on the steps to meet you.”
Playle bowed coldly and followed his voluble hostess in silence.
Master Myddleton looked up casually as they entered, and after returning the younger man’s bow without rising he bade his wife hasten the supper, and, after waiting until she was out of the room, motioned his guest to a comfortable chair on the opposite side of the hearth.
“His worship, the Mayor and his——” began the young man sententiously as he sat down and stretched out his high mud-caked boots to the friendly fire.
Master Myddleton waved his hand.
“After we have eaten, I pray you. The morning will do,” he said. “Until then I would like to speak of this heinous crime of smuggling as carried on in this town and on the Island over the Fleet.”
Playle felt disquieted. Here he was in this old gentleman’s house, drying himself at his fire and making himself generally comfortable. How could he boldly announce that these affairs would be his care in future, and that Master Myddleton need trouble himself no further? He decided to put it offtill supper was over. After all, he considered the old man must know something of use to him in his future work.
Master Playle was a very conscientious young man and one who had ambitions. He had fought for this appointment and meant to show his ability. He had served for a time in one of His Majesty’s own regiments and still held a commission.
Master Myddleton began to speak.
“We have a very difficult task before us, Master Playle,” he began in the deep pompous voice which he used on all official occasions. “I think I can truthfully say that on no other part of the coast is King Charles’ law—God bless him—more persistently and I might almost say courageously violated.”
He paused, and his little gray eyes sought a flicker of surprise on the young man’s face, but they were disappointed. Playle’s easy smile still played round his thin lips as he listened with polite attention.
Master Myddleton began again.
“With such violent, all-daring, cut-throat gang against me, I have—er—yes, to be plain with you, Master Playle—I have—er—felt it unwise—not to say foolhardy—to take more than preliminary measures against these unruly vagabonds until I received assistance from headquarters.”
Playle’s smile deepened and Francis, looking up suddenly, saw it. Instantly his manner changed.
“Ah, I see you know something of their customs, Master Playle,” he said, laughing wheezily.
Playle looked up a little disconcerted, but he laughed with the old man and nodded his head.
“I can see I can be quite plain with you,” went on Francis, his eyes scanning the other’s face.
Playle was a simple, straightforward soldier, and he felt rather at a disadvantage with this quick-witted old villain with the gouty foot. However, he deemed it prudent to make some remark.
“Oh, yes, of a certainty, of a certainty!” he said as intelligently as possible. “I am determined to abolish this illegal trading.”
Master Myddleton sighed; he began to see a little more clearly how the land lay.
“Very right, an excellent spirit in youth,” he said heartily. “Go in and conquer—sweep all before you. That’s how I like to hear young people talk. It is for the old with our gouty feet and long experience to sit at home and think out campaigns, and for you, the young and healthful in body, to carry them out gloriously.”
He slapped his knee in applause at his own words, and then, as the young man said nothing, but sat still smiling into the fire, he continued, his voice resuming the pompous note.
“But believe me, you have a difficult task, as I said before—a difficult task indeed. Now let me advise you first to attack the smuggling here on the mainland. Had you half a troop of infantry it would be madness to attempt to quieten Mersea Island.”
Playle sat up and became interested.
“The Island,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard of the smuggling there; the block-house there was well-guarded in the war, I know.”
Master Myddleton waved him silent, and continued to talk. “There are two principal smuggling vessels,” he said casually. “The first,The Dark Blood, belongs to a man called de Witt, and then theColdlight, which belongs to a mysterious Spaniard.”
Young Playle gasped. That the old man should know all this and yet take no measures to stop it amazed him, and his youthful imagination began to play round his old ambitions until he saw himself lord of the customs and His Majesty’s right-hand man.
“Why not stop all vessels that enter the river?” he said.
“I had thought of it—I had thought of it,” said Myddleton, wagging his head sagely.
“Well, I’m going to do it,” replied Playle quickly.
Old Francis laughed deprecatingly and was about to answer him when Mistress Eliza, her daughter, a tall girl fair like her mother and buxomly beautiful, with their little maid, Betsey, entered with the supper.
During the meal, Mistress Eliza talked almost incessantly, and her husband filled up the few pauses in her streams of conversation with lurid stories of the smugglers’ cruelty. Once after a more vivid onethan usual, Mistress Matilda looked archly at the young soldier.
“If only it could be stopped!” she said, while her mother made some remark about poor little Matty’s childishness.
Thomas Playle looked up from the lump of boiled fish he was eating.
“It shall be stopped, mistress,” he said. “Such flagrant crime is a disgrace to the glorious court of His Gracious Majesty.”
While Francis felt the bundle of letters in his pocket and grinned wickedly to himself.
“You have some men in your pay and arms for them, I suppose, Master Myddleton?” observed Playle a little later on in the evening.
“About five,” said Francis, and then, noting the other’s surprise, he added: “But some twenty more trustworthy men can be called out at a moment’s notice, if you find it necessary.”
Playle could hardly repress a smile of pleasure; life seemed suddenly to have opened up to him. Twenty-five men at his orders, a gang of ferocious smugglers to attack, and a pretty girl to stand by and admire at the proper time. His smile broadened.
His ambitions flew away with him and he sat staring at his plate, his brown eyes twinkling with pleasure, until Mistress Myddleton had to touch him on the shoulder and give him a candle, before he realized that Betsey, the little maid, waited to show him his room.
Once in their room Mistress Eliza and her husband argued over the situation until both were exhausted.
“He’s a handsome man, anyway,” said the lady at last, as she brushed her little wisp of gray-yellow hair before the oval mirror. “I wonder if Matilda——?”
Francis, who was already tucked in his side of the huge four-poster bed, growled through the curtains, and Mistress Eliza bit her lip.
“He’ll make a difference to the price of tea hereabouts, I’ll warrant,” she said, after a minute’s silence, as she blew out the candles and opened the casement.
Francis grunted.
“Methinks he’ll be a deal of nuisance to the trade,” he said bitterly. “No more cheap tabac—God help us.”
Mistress Eliza echoed his sigh, and they settled themselves to sleep.