For a while she stood looking down on me, and I, meeting that look, glanced otherwhere yet, conscious of her regard, stirred uneasily so that my irons rattled dismally.
"Sir," says she at last, but there I stayed her.
"Madam, once and for all, I am no 'sir!'"
"Martin Conisby," she amended in the same gentle voice, "Master Penfeather telleth you refused the honourable service I offered—I pray you wherefore?"
"Because I've no mind to serve a Brandon."
"Yet you steal aboard my ship, Master Conisby, you eat the food my money hath paid for! Doth this suffice your foolish, stubborn pride?" Here, finding nought to say, I scowled at my fetters and held my peace, whereat she sighed a little, as I had been some fretful, peevish child: "Why are you here in my ship?" she questioned patiently. "Was it for vengeance? Tell me," she demanded, "is it that you came yet seeking your wicked vengeance?"
"Mine is a just vengeance!"
"Vengeance, howsoever just, is God's—leave it unto God!" At this I was silent again, whereupon she continued, her voice more soft and pleading: "Even though my father had ... indeed ... wronged you and yours ... how shall his death profit you—?"
"Ha!" I cried, staring up at her troubled face, "Can it be you know this for very truth at last? Are you satisfied of my wrongs and know my vengeance just? Have ye proof of Sir Richard's black treachery—confess!" Now at this her eyes quailed before my look and she shrank away.
"God forgive him!" she whispered, bowing stately head.
"Speak!" says I, fiercely. "Have ye the truth of it at last?"
"'Tis that bringeth me here to you, Martin Conisby, to confess this wrong on his behalf and on his behalf to offer such reparation as I may. Alas! for the bodily sufferings you did endure we can never atone, but ... in all other ways—"
"Never!" says I, scowling. "What is done—is done, and I am—what I am. But for yourself his sin toucheth you no whit."
"How?" cried she passionately. "Am I not his flesh—his blood? 'Twas but lately I learned the truth from his secret papers ... and ... O 'twas all there ... even the price he paid to have you carried to the plantations! So am I come pleading your forgiveness for him and for me ... to humble myself before you ... see thus ... thus, upon my knees!"
Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me, the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abasement.
"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive—I—that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe ... Rise, I pray."
"And for—my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father—"
"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief.
"Your face is cut, Martin!" said she at last, very softly, "Suffer that I bathe it." Now turning in amaze I saw her yet upon her knees, looking up at me despite her falling tears: "Wilt suffer me to bathe it, Martin?" says she, her voice unshaken by any sob. I shook my head; but rising she crossed to the door and came back bearing a small pannikin of water. "I brought this for the purpose," says she.
"Nay, indeed, I—I am well enough—"
"Then I will make you better!"
"No!" says I, angrily.
"Yes!" says she patiently, but setting dimpled chin at me.
"And wherefore, madam?"
"Because I'm so minded, sir!" So saying she knelt close beside me and fell a-bathing my bruised face as she would (and I helpless to stay her) yet marvelling within me at the gentle touch of her soft hands and the tender pity in her tear-wet eyes. "Martin," says she, "as I do thus cherish your hurts, you shall one day, mayhap, cherish your enemy's—"
"Never!" says I. "You can know me not at all to think so."
"I know you better than you guess, Martin. You think it strange belike and unmaidenly in me that I should seek you thus, that your name should come so readily to my lip? But I have remembered the name 'Martin' for the sake of a boy, long years since, who found a little maid (she was just ten year old) found her lost and wandering in a wood, very woeful and frightened and forlorn. And this boy seemed very big and strong (he was just eleven, he said) and was armed with a bow and arrows 'to shoot outlaws.' And yet he was very gentle and kindly, laying by his weapons the better to comfort her sorrows and dry her tears. So he brought her to a cave he called his 'castle' and showed her a real sword he kept hidden there (albeit a very rusty one) and said he would be her knight, to do great things for her some day. Then he brought her safely home; and he told her his name was Martin and she said hers was Damaris—"
"Damaris!" said I, starting.
"Often after this they used to meet by a corner of the old park wall where he had made a place to go up and down by—for six months, I think, they played together daily, and once he fought a great, rough boy on her behalf, and when the boy had run away she bathed her champion's hurts in a little brook—bathed them with her scarf as thus I do yours. At last she was sent away to a school and the years passed, but she never forgot the name of Martin, though he forgot her quite ... but ... you ... you remember now, Martin—O, you remember now?" says she with a great sob.
"Aye, I remember now!" quoth I, hoarsely.
"It is for the sake of this boy, Martin, so brave, so strong, yet so very gentle and kindly—for him and all he might have been that I pray you forego your vengeance—I beseech you to here renounce it—"
"Never!" I cried, clenching my shackled hands. "But for my enemy this boy might now be as other men—'stead of outcast rogue and scarred galley-slave, he might have come to love and win love—to have known the joy of life and its fulness! Howbeit he must go his way, rogue and outcast to the end."
"No!" she cried, "No! The wrong may be undone—must—shall be—wounds will heal and even scars will fade with time."
"Scars of the body, aye—belike!" said I, "But there be scars of the mind, wounds of the soul shall never heal—so shall my just vengeance sleep not nor die whiles I have life!"
Here for awhile she was silent again and I saw a tear fall sparkling.
"And yet," said she at last and never stirring from her humble posture, "and yet I have faith in you still for, despite all your cruel wrongs and grievous suffering, you are so—young, headstrong and wilful and very desolate and forlorn. Thus whiles I have life my faith in you shall sleep not nor die, yet greatly do I pity—"
"Pity?" says I fiercely, "You were wiser to hate and see me hanged out of hand."
"Poor soul!" she sighed, and rising, laid one white hand upon my shackled fist. "And yet mayhap you shall one day find again your sweet and long-lost youth—meanwhile strive to be worthy a sorrowing maid's honest pity."
"Pity?" says I again, "'Tis akin to love—so give me hate, 'tis thing most natural 'twixt your blood and mine."
"Poor soul!" she repeated, viewing me with her great, calm eyes albeit their lashes were wet with tears, "How may I hate one so wretched?" Here, seeing mayhap how the words stung me she must needs repeat them: "Poor wretched soul, thou'rt far—far beneath my hate."
"Belike you'll come to learn in time!" says I, beside myself. At this I saw the white hand clench itself, but her voice was tender as ever when she answered:
"Sorrow and suffering may lift a man to greatness if he be strong of soul or debase him to the brute if he be weak."
"Why then," says I, "begone to your gallants and leave me to the brutes."
"Nay, first will I do that which brought me!" and she showed the key of my gyves.
"Let be!" I cried, "I seek no freedom at your hands—let be, I say!"
"As you will!" says she, gently. "So endeth my hope of righting a great wrong. I have humbled myself to you to-night, Martin Conisby. I have begged and prayed you to forego your vengeance, to forgive the evil done, not so much for my father's sake as for your own, and this because of the boy I dreamed a man ennobled by his sufferings and one great enough to forgive past wrongs, since by forgiveness cometh regeneration. Here ends my dream—alas, you are but rogue and galley-slave after all. So shall I ever pity you greatly and greatly despise you!"
Then she turned slowly away and went from me, closing and locking the door, and left me once more in the black dark, but now full of yet blacker thoughts.
To be scorned by her! And she—a Brandon!
And now I (miserable wretch that I was) giving no thought to the possibility of my so speedy dissolution, raged in my bonds, wasting myself in futile imprecations against this woman who (as it seemed to me in my blind and brutish anger) had but come to triumph over me in my abasement. Thus of my wounded self-love did I make me a whip of scorpions whereby I knew an agony beyond expression.
The Devil, ever zealous for the undoing of poor Humanity, surely findeth no readier ally than the blind and merciless Spirit of Mortified Pride. Thus I, minding the Lady Joan's scornful look and the sting of her soft-spoke words, fell to black and raging fury, and vowed that since rogue and galley-slave she had named me, rogue she should find me in very truth henceforward if I might but escape my perilous situation.
And now it was that Chance or Fate or the Devil sent me a means whereby I might put this desperate and most unworthy resolution into practice; for scarce had I uttered this vow when a key turned softly in the lock, the door opened and closed stealthily, and though I could not see (it being pitch-dark) I knew that someone stood within a yard of me, and all with scarce a sound and never a word. And when this silence had endured a while, I spoke sudden and harsh:
"What now? Is it the noose so soon, or a knife sooner?"
I heard a quick-drawn breath, a soft footfall, and a small hand, groping in the dark, touched my cheek and crept thence to my helpless, manacled fist. "Who is it?" I demanded, blenching from the touch, "Who is it? Speak!"
"Hush!" whispered a voice in my ear, "It be only me, master. Jimmy—little Jim as you was good to. Red Andy don't beat me no more, he be afeared o' you. Good to me you was, master, an' so's she—took me to be her page, she 'ave—"
"Whom d'you mean, boy?"
"I mean Her! Her wi' the beautiful, kind eyes an' little feet! Her as sings! Her they calls 'my lady.' Her! Good t' me she is—an' so's you, so I be come to ye, master."
"Ha—did she send you?"
"No, I just come to save you from being hung to-morrow like they says you must."
"And how shall you do this, boy?"
"First wi' this key, master—"
"Stay! Did she give you this key?"
"No, master—I took it!" So, albeit 'twas very dark, the boy very soon had freed me of my shackles; which done (and all a-quiver with haste) he seizes my hand and tugs at it:
"Come, master!" he whispered, "This way—this way!" So with his little, rough hand in mine I suffered him to bring me whither he would in the dimness, for not a lanthorn burned anywhere, until at last he halted me at a ladder propped against a bulkhead and mounting before, bade me follow. Up I climbed forthwith, and so to a narrow trap or scuttle through which I clambered with no little to-do, and found myself in a strange place, the roof so low I could barely sit upright and so strait that I might barely lie out-stretched.
"Lie you here, master!" he whispers, "And for the love o' God don't speak nor make a sound!" Saying which, he got him back through the scuttle, closing the trap after him, and I heard the clatter of the ladder as he removed it.
Hereupon, lying snug in my hiding-place, I presently became aware of a sweetness that breathed upon the air, a fragrance very faint but vastly pleasing, and fell a-wondering what this should be. My speculations were banished by the opening of a door near by and a light appeared, by which I saw myself lying in a narrow space shut off by a valance or curtain that yet showed a strip of carpet beyond, and all at once upon this carpet came a little, buckled shoe. I was yet staring on this in dumb amaze when a voice spoke softly:
"Are you there, Martin Conisby? Hush, speak low I do command you!"
For answer I dragged myself into the light and stared up at the Lady Joan Brandon.
"Where am I?" I demanded.
"In my cabin," says she, meeting my scowl with eyes serene and all untroubled. "I had you brought hither to save you—"
"To save me! Ha, you—you to save me—"
"Because you are not man enough to die yet," she went on in her calm, grave voice, "so I will save you alive that haply you may grow more worthy."
"So 'twas by your orders? The boy lied then!" says I choking with my anger. "'Twas you gave him the key! 'Twas you bade him bring me hither—"
"Where none shall dare seek you!" says she, all unmoved by my bitter rage, "So do I give you life, Martin Conisby, praying God you may find your manhood one day—"
"Life!" quoth I, getting to my feet, "My life at your hands? Now look ye, madam, rather will I hang unjustly, rather will I endure again the shame of the lash—aye by God's light, rather will I rot in chains or perish of plague than take my life at your hands. So now, madam, I'll out of this perfumed nest and hang if I must!" saying which I turned to the door, but she checked me with a gesture.
"Stay!" she commanded, "Would you shame me?" And now though she fronted me with proud head erect, I saw her cheek flush painfully.
"Aye, verily!" quoth I, "A lady's honour is delicate ware and not to be cheapened by such poor rogue as I! Fear nothing, lady, I will go as—" I stopped all at once, as came footsteps without and a light tapping on the door.
"Who is it?" she called, lightly enough, and shot the bolt with nimble fingers.
"Only I, sweet coz," answered a gay voice, "And I come but to warn you not to venture on deck to-morrow till justice hath been done upon our prisoner."
"Shall you—hang him, Rupert?"
"Assuredly! 'Tis a black rogue and merits a worse fate."
"Is he then tried and condemned already, Rupert?"
"Nay, though 'twill be soon done. We have come on such evidence of his guilt as doth condemn him out of hand."
"What evidence, cousin?"
"His doublet all besmirched with his victim's blood. The man is a very devil and must hang at dawn. So, Joan, stir not abroad in the morning until I come to fetch you. A fair, good night, sweet coz, and sweet dreams attend thee!" And away trips Sir Rupert and leaves us staring on one another, she proud and gracious in all her dainty finery and I a very hang-dog fellow, my worn garments smirched by the grime of my many hiding-places.
"Was this indeed your doublet?" she questioned at last.
"It was."
"How came it stained with blood?" For answer I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. "Have you nothing to say?"
"Nothing, madam."
"You would have me think you this murderer?"
"I would have you think of me none at all," I answered, and smiled to see how I had stirred her anger at last.
"Nay," sighs she, "needs must I think of you as the poor, mean thing you are and pity you accordingly!"
"Howbeit," says I, scowling blacker than ever, "I will get me out of your sight—"
"Aye, but the ladder is gone!"
"No matter," says I, "better a broken neck to-night than a noose to-morrow. To-morrow, aye, the dawn is like to see an end of the feud and the Conisbys both together—"
"And so shameful an end!" says she. At this, I turned my back on her, for anger was very strong in me. So, nothing speaking, I got to my knees that I might come at the trap beneath her berth; but next moment I was on my feet glaring round for some weapon to my defence, for on the air was sudden wild tumult and hubbub, a running of feet and confused shouting that waxed ever louder. Then, as I listened, I knew it was not me they hunted, for now was the shrill braying of a trumpet and the loud throbbing of a drum:
"Martin—O Martin Conisby!" She stood with hands clasped and eyes wide in a dreadful expectancy, "What is it?" she panted, "O what is it? Hark—what do they cry!"
Rigid and motionless we stood to listen; then every other emotion was 'whelmed and lost in sudden, paralysing fear as, above the trampling rush of feet, above the shrill blast of tucket and rolling of drum we caught the awful word "Fire!"
"Now God help us all!" cries she, wringing her hands; then sinking to her knees, she leaned, half-swooning, against the door, yet I saw her pallid lips moving in passionate supplication.
As for me (my first panic over) I sat me on her bed revolving how I might turn the general confusion to the preservation of my life. In this I was suddenly aroused by my lady's hand on my bowed shoulder.
"Hark!" cries she, "Hark where they cry for aid!"
"Why so they do," says I. "And so they may!"
"Then come, let us out. You are a strong man, you will help to save the ship."
"And hang thereafter? Not I, madam!"
"Will you do nothing?" cried she, clenching her hands.
"Verily, madam. I shall do my earnest endeavour to preserve this poor rogue's body o' mine from noose and flame. But as for the ship—let it burn, say I."
"Spoke like a very coward!" says she in bitter scorn. "And a coward is selfish always." So saying she crossed to the door and reached her hand to the bolt; but in a leap I was beside her and caught this hand, 'prisoning it there:
"Hark'ee, madam!" quoth I, "You tell me that to hang is a shameful death, and the noose as good as round my neck. But, before God, madam, I'll see this ship go up in flame and perish with it ere that noose shall strangle the life out of me and my wrongs unavenged. So the ship may burn an it will. Meantime do you seek your salvation and leave me to seek mine!" Then opening the door I stood aside to give her way; instead she stood a moment looking on me great-eyed:
"O blind!" says she at last, "To treasure life for your wicked vengeance! O blind, blind!" Then, and very suddenly she sped out and away.
Left alone I stood hearkening to the distant uproar and casting about in my mind how best I might contrive my preservation. And now in my desperate need it seemed there was but one hope for me and this but slender, viz., to steal myself up to Adam's lodgment under the poop and that as soon as might be. To this end I stepped forth of the cabin and so into a narrow passage-way with divers doors to right and left that opened upon other cabins, in one of which I espied a cloak and feathered hat lying where their owner had dropped them; whipping the cloak about me I clapped on the hat and, staying for no more, hasted on breathing an air acrid with drifting smoke. Reaching a broad stairway I climbed at speed and found myself out upon the lofty poop, whence I might look down on the decks through a haze of smoke that poured up through the after hatchway, mounting in billowy wreaths against the splendour of the moon. Here it seemed was gathered the whole ship's company with mighty stir and to-do, and none with eyes to spare for me. Howbeit, I stayed for no second glance, but running to Adam's cabin, found the door unlocked, the which I closed and bolted after me, in the doing of which I noticed (to my comfort) that this door was mighty thick and strong and in it moreover a loophole newly cut, with others in the bulkheads to right and left and all very neatly plugged from within; and what with this and the musquetoons that stood in racks very orderly, the place, small though it was, had all the virtues of a fort or citadel. Here then, so far as might be, I was safe whatever chanced, since I had but to lift the trap in the floor and descend into the roundhouse below, whence I might gain the stern-gallery and so the sea itself. And now, laying by the hat and cloak I cast myself on Adam's bed and there outstretched in great content, hearkened to the distant voices and tramp of feet where they laboured to put out the fire.
Little by little these sounds became merged with the droning of the wind and the never-ceasing surge and hiss of the seas; lulled by this and the sense of my comparative safety, I presently fell a-slumbering. And sleeping thus, dreamed myself young again and playing with the child Damaris, thrilling to the clasp of her little, childish hands, joying in the tones of her clear, sweet child voice—she that grown up I knew for none other than Joan Brandon.
"Lord love me, shipmate, here's you to hang at peep o' day and a-smiling in your dreams!"
"What—Adam!" says I, sitting up.
"In few short hours, Martin, here will be ninety odd souls earnestly seeking to swing you up to the main-yard and you a-slumbering sweet as any innocent babe, and burn me, shipmate, I love you the better for't!"
"What of the fire, Adam?"
"Why, 'twas an excellent fire, Martin, and smoked bravely! What's more it served its divers purposes whiles it lasted."
"Is it out then, Adam?"
"This two hours."
"And what might you mean by its purposes?"
"Well, mayhap you were one o' them, Martin. Here's the second time fire hath served ye well, you'll mind."
"How!" I cried, starting to my feet, "Will you be telling me 'twas you set this fire going?"
"As to the other purpose, shipmate, 'tis yonder—hark to it!" And smiling grimly, Adam held up a sinewy finger, as, from somewhere forward, rose a confused and dismal wailing.
"In heaven's name what's toward now, Adam?"
"The crew are singing, Martin, likewise they dance, presently they shall fall a-quarrelling, then grow pot-valiant, all in regular and accepted order. Already one poor rogue hath been aft to demand the women of us d'ye see, and—"
"To demand the women!" says I in gasping astonishment.
"Aye, the women, Martin—my Lady Joan and her maid, d'ye see."
"God's love, Adam!" I cried, gripping his arm, "And you—what said you to the vile dog?"
"Nought! I shot him!"
"Is the mutiny broke out then?"
"Not yet, shipmate, but 'tis coming, aye 'tis coming, which is very well—"
"And what hath brought things to this pass?"
"Rum, Martin! The fire was in the store-room where there is rum a-plenty, d'ye see, and what was to prevent the rogues making off with a keg or so that chanced to lie handy—not I, shipmate, not I!"
"And why not, in the Devil's name?"
"Because, Martin," says Adam, sitting at the table and beginning to set his papers in order, "because there's nought like liquor for putting the devil into a man, and of all liquor commend me to rum with a dash o' tobacco or gunpowder, d'ye see. We shall be heaving dead men overboard ere dawn, I judge, and all along of this same rum, Martin. Black mutiny, murder and sudden death, shipmate, and more's the pity say I. But if Providence seeth fit why so be it."
"Providence!" quoth I, scowling down into his impassive face, "Dare ye talk of Providence? 'Twas you set this bloody business a-foot."
"Aye, Martin, it was!" says he nodding. "As to Providence—look'ee now, if you can ape Providence to your own ends, which is vengeance and bloody murder, I can do as much for mine, which is to save the lives of such as stand true to me and the ship—not to mention the women. There's Tressady skulking below, and I have but contrived that the mutiny should come in my time rather than his and theirs. As it is, we are prepared, fifteen stout lads lie in the round-house below with musquetoon and fusee, and every gun and swivel that will bear (falconet and paterero) aimed to sweep the waist when they rush, as rush they will, Martin, when the drink hath maddened 'em properly—"
"And having maddened them with your hellish decoctions you'll shoot the poor rogues down?"
"Aye, Martin, I will so, lest peradventure they shoot me. Then besides, shipmate, what o' the women? I have the Lady Joan and her maid to think on, 'twould be an ill fate theirs in the hands of yon filthy rabblement. Hark to 'em yonder, hark what they sing!"
For a while I could hear nought but a clamour of fierce shouts and hallooing, then, little by little, this wild, hoarse tumult rose and swelled to a fierce chaunt:
"Some swam in rum to kingdom come,Full many a lusty fellow.And since they're sped, all stark and dead,They're flaming now in hell O.So cheerly O,Hey cheerly O,They're burning down in hell O!"
"D'ye hear it, Martin, did ye hear it? Shoot the poor rogues d'ye say? Sink me, but I will so if Fortune be so kind. Yonder's short shrift and quick dispatch for me, shipmate, and then—the women! Think of my Lady Joan writhing in their clutches. Hark'ee to the lewd rogues—'tis women now—hark to 'em!" And here again their vile song burst forth with much the same obscenity as I had once heard sung by Abnegation Mings in a wood, and the which I will not here transcribe.
"Well, shipmate," says Adam, glancing up from his papers, "last of all, there's yourself! Here's you with the rope in prospect unless you quit this ship, and yonder, Martin, yonder is the long-boat towing astern, all stored ready, a calm sea and a fair wind—"
"No more of that!" says I angrily.
"But will ye dangle in a noose, Martin, when you might be away in the long-boat as tows astern of us, and with a fair wind as I say and—"
"Have done!" says I clenching my fists.
"'Twill be the simplest thing in the world, Martin," he went on, leaning back in his chair and nodding up at me mighty pleasant, "aye, a very simple matter for you to drop down from the stern-gallery yonder d'ye see, and setting a course south-westerly you should make our island in four-and-twenty hours or less what with this wind and the sea so calm—"
"Never!" cried I in growing fury, "Come what will I stay aboard this ship until we reach our destination!"
"Hum!" says he, pinching his chin and eyeing me 'twixt narrowed lids, "Are ye still bent on nought but vengeance then? Why look'ee, Martin, 'tis none so far to seek, for seeing you may not reach the father why not smite him through the daughter? She'd make fine sport for our beastly crew—hark to 'em roaring! Sport for them and a mighty full vengeance for you—"
The table betwixt us hampered my blow and then, as I strove to come at him, I brought up with the muzzle of his pistol within a foot of my brow.
"Easy, shipmate, easy!" says he, leaning back in his chair but keeping me covered.
"Damned rogue!" I panted.
"True!" he nodded, "True, Martin, vengeance is kin to roguery, d'ye see. If you're for murdering the father what's to hinder you from giving the proud daughter up to—steady, Martin, steady it is! Your sudden ways be apt to startle a timid man and my finger's on the trigger. Look'ee now, shipmate, if your scheme of fine-gentlemanly vengeance doth not permit of such methods towards a woman, what's to prevent you going on another track and carrying her with you, safe from all chance of brutality? There's stowage for her in the long-boat, which is a stout, roomy craft now towing astern, stored and victualled, a smooth sea, a fair wind—"
"Hark'ee, Adam Penfeather," says I, choking with passion, "once and for all I bide on this ship until she brings up off Hispaniola."
"But then, Martin, she never will bring up off Hispaniola, not whiles I navigate her!"
"Ha!" I cried, "Doth my lady know of this? Doth Sir Rupert?"
"Not yet, Martin."
"Then, by Heaven, they shall learn this very hour!"
"I think not, Martin."
"And I swear they shall. Let them hang me an they will, but first they shall hear you intend to seize the ship to your own purposes—aye, by God, they shall know you for the pirate you are!"
Now as I turned and strode for the door, I heard the sudden scrape of Adam's chair behind me, and whirling about, saw his pistol a-swing above my head, felt the vicious, staggering blow, and reeling to the door, sank weakly to my knees, and thence seemed to plunge into a black immensity and knew no more.
I awoke to a wind on my brow, very pleasant and sweet, and in my ears the soft and drowsy ripple of water right soothing to hear, and thus would have slumbered on but for another sound that broke out at intervals, a thunderous roar that seemed to shake me where I lay. Therefore I opened my eyes to see above me a great multitude of stars, and lay staring up at them in vague and dreamy wonderment until, roused again by another thunderclap, I raised myself and saw I lay in the stern-sheets of a large, open boat that rocked to a gentle swell, and all about me a misty sea grey with the dawn. Now as I gazed around me, greatly troubled and amazed, I beheld, far away across these dim waters, a flash of red flame, and after some while heard again the thunder of a gun.
Little by little, as the light waxed, I made out the loom of two ships and, despite the distance, I knew the foremost for the "Faithful Friend." Ever and anon would come the faint crack of caliver or petronel from her high poop, and the thunder of her stern-chase guns. And with my mind's eyes I seemed to espy Adam firing from his loopholes to sweep the decks forward, the while Godby and his few gunners served the great basilisks aft, aiming them at a tall, black ship that stood hard in their wake, yawing now and then to bring her fore-chase to bear on them in answer.
Suddenly up flamed the sun turning sea and sky to glory; but I crouched miserable in my helplessness, for now I saw the "Faithful Friend" steered a course that was taking her rapidly away from me upon the freshening wind. Perceiving which bitter truth, beholding myself thus befooled, bubbled and tricked (and my head throbbing from the blow of Penfeather's pistol-butt) a mighty anger against him surged within me, and shaking my fists I fell to fierce curses and revilings, like any madman, until what with my aching head and lack of breath, I cast myself face down and lay there spent with my futile ravings. Yet even so, bethinking me of all my fine schemes and purposes thus brought to nothingness and myself drifting impotent at the mercy of wind and wave, I sought to spit my puny anger against the God that made me, in blasphemies and bitter imprecations.
"O shame, shame on you, Martin Conisby! The God you rail upon is my God also. Have done, I say! Be silent, nor tempt His mercy with your childish clamours!"
Up-starting I turned and beheld the Lady Brandon upon her knees within a yard of me, saw her shrink before my gaze and the griping passion of my hands; for now, reading in her look all her scorn and loathing for the thing I was, I must needs turn my fury upon her and did that the which shames me to this day, for even as she fronted me, all defenceless but with head erect and eyes unflinching despite the sick pallor of her cheeks, I seized her in cruel hold and, dragging her to me, bent her backward across a thwart.
"Ha!" I gasped, "Will ye dare cry shame on me? Will ye mock—will ye flout—will ye scorn me still—and you but a lying, thieving Brandon! Would you trample me 'neath your proud feet—."
"All this!" says she, staring up into my eyes, "But I do pity you most for—what you are become. O—kill me if you will, 'twould be very easy for you and, mayhap, best for me, and I do not fear to die. So do as you will, Martin Conisby, I do not fear you since Death is my kind friend and shall free me of the shame of you if need be!"
Hereupon I loosed her and, crouched again in the stern-sheets, bowed my head upon my fists, whiles she, kneeling patiently beside the midship thwart, ordered her wrenched garments with shaking hands.
And, after some while, her voice with its sweet, vital ring, pierced to those black deeps where lay the soul of me:
"'Tis growing very rough. What must we do?"
Lifting my head, I saw that the sea was risen considerably, and the boat drifting broadside to the wind, so that the waves, taking us abeam, spilled aboard us ever and anon. So I arose and made shift to step the mast and hoist sail, nothing heeding her proffered aid; then shipping the tiller, I put our little vessel before the wind. And now, from a log pitching and rolling at mercy of the waves, this boat became, as it were, alive and purposeful, lifting to the seas with joyous motion, shaking the water from her bows in flashing brine that sparkled jewel-like in the early sun, her every timber thrilling to the buffets of the waters that rushed bubbling astern all rainbow-hued and with a sound like elfin laughter, until what with all this and the strong, sweet air, even I felt the joy of it; but though my black humour lifted somewhat, my shame was sore upon me, wherefore I kept my gaze for the peak of the sail, the cloudless heaven, the deep blue of the seas, and never so much as glanced at the patient, solitary figure amidships.
"Whither do we sail?" she questioned at last.
"What matter?" says I sullenly.
"Aye, true!" she sighed.
"Besides, I have no compass."
"There is one in the locker here, and with it a packet and a letter writ to you. Shall I bring them?"
"As you will," says I, keeping my gaze averted. So she makes her way over to me (and mighty dexterous) despite the motion of the boat, and setting the compass beside me, gives me the letter. It was sealed, and subscribed thus:
"To my well-loved, trusty friend, comrade and brother-adventurer Martin, these:"
Breaking the seal, I read as follows:
"For your sore head, Martin, I grieve, but the blow I regret no whit seeing it was struck to our mutual advantage hereafter. Now you (reading this) being at sea betwixt the parallels 70 and 65 in an open boat and all by reason of circumstances proving too strong for you, Martin, it much behoveth you to mark and heed well these my directions, to wit: You shall lay your course south-westerly, and that for these several and sufficing reasons, viz., (1) You lie out of the track of ships. (2) These be treacherous seas, given to sudden furies of wind and raging tempest. (3) I like not the look of the weather. (4) Our Island lieth scarce twenty-four hours' sail due south-westerly. Whereof I have drawn for your guidance a chart of these waters, together with a plan of our Island (very just and exact). Also a chart of the passage or channel through the barrier-reef, for saving this passage, there is no landing upon the island that I know of. Nor shall you attempt this passage except at the flood and the seas calm. Being landed, Martin, you shall, with due regard to rest and refreshment, forthwith secure our Treasure (the secret whereof I have included with this my letter). Thereupon, and with all dispatch, you shall, troubling not for the gold or silver, take but the four caskets of jewels, and, setting them aboard your boat, sail away due West (three days) until you shall fetch up with another island, the which you shall know by its three several hills plain to be seen, and called Gibbet Island, since 'twas there I hanged one Juan Maldonada (and richly deserved it!). Here then you shall bury our Treasure (four caskets) in such place as seemeth to you proper, and there await my coming. And if I join you not within two months, then shall this mighty treasure three-quarters thereof be yours. And if I come not within six months, then shall this fortune be wholly yours since I shall be beyond all need of it. So now, Martin, good Fortune attend you. Your boat (chosen by me long since, and for this very purpose) is staunch, and an excellent sea-boat and very well stored with everything for your needs, as arms, clothes, food and the like. Moreover within the treasure-cave is all manner of stores, so that a man even though he bides on the land to his life's end need suffer no lack, but have his every comfort supplied.
And now, as to your head, Martin, 'twill be none the worse by this, I judge. And for the blow, 'twas no harder than called for, and very well intentioned, as you shall confess one day, mayhap, unless you be greater fool and blinder than I take you for. Howbeit I trust you, Martin, and in bidding you farewell for the nonce, subscribe myself,
Your faithful friend and comrade to serve,Adam Penfeather."
Having read this wordy missive, I crumpled it in angry fist and thrust it into my pocket. But now she gives me the packet named therein, the which I forthwith tossed overboard (like the wilful fool I was). Thereby involving us in divers and many great dangers and difficulties, as you shall learn hereafter.
Howbeit (the wind serving) I altered our course and stood away south-westerly even as Adam had directed, since I perceived the weather thickening behind us and the sea heaving with uneasy motion. And presently my companion questions me again:
"Whither do we sail?"
"South-westerly."
"Aye, but whither?"
"To an island."
"Is it far?"
"Two days' journey or thereabouts."
"Do you know this island?"
"I have never seen it."
"Then why sail thither?"
"'Tis thereabouts Penfeather would meet with us again if he may."
"And being there, what then?"
"God knoweth!"
Here was silence again save for the creak of mast and timbers as we rose to the gentle swell and the ripple of water 'neath our keel, while the sun, high risen, blazed down from the blue, his fierce beams tempered by the cool, sweet wind.
"Are you hungry, Martin?"
"Is there aught to eat?"
"Plenty!" So saying she opened one of the lockers and brought thence a loaf of fine white bread, a neat's tongue, a flask of wine, and a small barrico of water, upon which I, for one, made an excellent meal. Which done, she sets all things away again, very orderly, and sits elbow on knee, staring away into the distance and with her back to me. Hereupon, I opened the stern-locker and found therein a couple of musquetoons, a brace of pistols, a sword with belt and hangers, and divers kegs of powder and ball.
"How came you lying stunned in the boat?" says my companion at last, but without turning her head.
"By roguery!" I answered. "But how and when did the mutiny start?"
"'Twas when we went to fetch the boy, my little page, Marjorie and I. He lay hurt and crying on the deck; so we ran out to him and took him up betwixt us, and then I heard shouts and rush of feet, and they were all about us—drunken men singing and dancing. And they struggled with us till came Master Penfeather, with Godby and others, and after much bitter fighting brought us away. But Marjorie, my dear, faithful Marjorie, had taken a blow aimed at me and died ... in my arms ... And the great cabin choking with powder-smoke ... and wounded men who cried and shouted. My dear, brave Marjorie! With the dark the fight began again, and twice I feared they would break in upon us. Then Master Adam brought me into the stern-gallery and lowered me into the boat where I might lie secure, and so got him back into the battle. But in a little I saw a hand in the gloom cutting at the tow-rope, and I screamed, but none heard. And so the boat drifted away, and with the dawn I found you lying under a boat-cloak."
When she had done, I sat awhile staring up at the peak of the sail:
"My Lady Brandon," says I at length, "Fate hath set you in scurvy company, for I am an ill rogue, very rough and rude-mannered, and no fit company for any woman, as you do very well know. Howbeit, I swear that henceforth, so long as we company together, I will trouble you no more than I may, either by act or speech, you to your place in the bows yonder in mine here at the tiller, you to your thoughts, I to mine. And thus methinks we shall do well enough until we can go our several ways."
"Must we not speak?" she questioned, keeping her face turned from me.
"When needful, madam!"
"Am I but to answer when you deign me notice? Will it plague you if I sing? Am I to sit with my hands folded henceforth and do nought but think? Must I stay in the bows until you summon me thence?" says she, and all in the same small, soft voice, so that I perceived my fine speech had been thrown away; wherefore I stared up at the sail and with never a word in answer.
But presently, chancing to look at her, I found her regarding me with her dimpled chin set mighty resolute; "Because," says she, meeting my look, "I shall talk when I will and sing when so minded, Martin Conisby. I shall not sit in the bows for 'tis wet there, and I shall not fold my hands, but you shall teach me how to steer and handle the boat and do my share of the labour. For look now, here are we, by no will of our own, God knoweth, companions in misfortune, let us then aid each other that our troubles be the easier. And O pray do you forget Martin Conisby his woes awhile." And away she goes, and getting to her knees before one of the lockers, begins rearranging the contents, singing away the while merry as any grig.
As the day wore on, the skies clouded over with a wind very sudden and blusterous, wherefore, misliking the look of things, I was for shortening sail, but feared to leave the helm lest the boat should broach to and swamp while this was a-doing. But the wind increasing, I was necessitated to call my companion beside me and teach her how she must counter each wind-gust with the helm, and found her very apt and quick to learn. So leaving the boat to her manage I got me forward and (with no little to-do) double-reefed our sail, leaving just sufficient to steer by; which done I glanced to my companion where she leaned to the tiller, her long hair streaming out upon the wind, her lithe body a-sway to the pitching of the boat and steering as well as I myself. From her I gazed to windward where an ominous and ever-growing blackness filled me with no small apprehensions; wherefore I made fast all our loose gear, as oars, spare sail, spars and the like. Now in the bows were stowed her belongings, a leathern trunk and divers bundles, the which I proceeded to secure in their turn. This done, I got me aft again, but when I would have relieved her of the tiller, she shook her head.
"Nay, let me steer a while," she cried, looking up through her wind-tossed hair, "'tis joy to me! Lay you down and rest a while and trust the boat to me." And seeing how quick she was to meet each send of the seas (that were already running high) glad enough was I to humour her whim, and clambered forward again. And there (having nought better to do) I set about rigging a rough awning athwart the bows, with canvas and a stout spar, which methought should keep out the spray and any chance sea that might break forward; though indeed the boat seemed mighty staunch, and sea-worthy to a miracle.
With every hour the wind waxed in fury and therewith the sea rose, huge, rolling billows that came roaring up astern to whirl us aloft amid hissing brine and passing, left us deep-plunged in great, foaming hollows. Being got back aft at last and with no small exertion (by reason of the boat's pitching) I stared amazed to hear my companion singing right joyously.
"O Martin!" she cried, her voice a-thrill with the clear, vital ring I knew so well, "O Martin, the wonder and glory of it! See yonder on these mighty waters, Death rides crying to us. But God is there also, and if these rushing surges 'whelm us we, dying, shall find God there." And beholding her as she sat, her face uplifted to the tempest, her sea-wet hair upborne upon the wind, I marvelled within myself. "And the boat, Martin!" cries she as we rose on a hissing wave-crest, "This dear, brave boat! See how nobly she rides—indeed and indeed I do love her every timber!"
And verily to me, awed by these mighty waters, it was wonderful to see how our little craft rose to the seas, buoyant as any cork; now poised 'mid hissing foam high in air, now plunging dizzily down; and ever the wind gathered fury until the very air seemed full of whirling spindrift.
In a while I took the tiller, and wondered to see my companion droop all at once with head bowed upon her hands.
"Are you sick?" I cried.
"'Tis but weariness," she answered, "I slept no wink last night."
"Why then go forward and lie down!" says I. The which she did forthwith, and made less business of it than I. Reaching the mast she paused thereby to behold my handiwork, then going on her knees crept beneath the awning and vanished from my view.
Left alone I stared around me on the raging tumult, and beholding all its terrors my mind was full of wonder of this maid who could sing so blithely with Death all about her and behold God, as it were, riding on the wings of the storm.
Presently she comes and sits close beside me that we might talk, for the wind was very loud.
"It was kind of you to make me so fair a shelter, Martin, and a bed also, kind and very thoughtful, but I shall not sleep to-night unless it be here."
"And why here?"
"Death hath more terrors in the dark and I grow a little fearful, Martin." So saying she wrapped a boat-cloak about her and, spreading out the other, lay down thereon and so near that I might have touched her where she lay.
And in a while Night rushed down upon us and it was dark; but from the dark her voice reached me where she lay, her head pillowed at my feet, and I, crouching above her, strove to shelter her somewhat from the lashing spray and buffeting wind. Thus in despite of raging tempest we contrived to make each other hear though with difficulty, talking on this wise:
She: Are you afraid?
Myself: No.
She: Have you then no fears of death?
Myself: I have prayed for it, ere now.
She: And vainly! For God, instead, hath made you very hale and strong.
Myself: Aye, for a purpose.
She: What purpose?
Here, seeing I held my peace, she questioned me again: "Was your purpose the slaying of my father? He is an old man and feeble!"
Myself: He plotted the downfall of our house and slew my father!
She: And so you have prayed for vengeance?
Myself: I have.
She: And God hath denied you this also. Should you die to-night you go to him innocent of your enemy's blood.
Myself: Aye, but if I live—?
She: You shall grow wiser, mayhap, and forgetting the ill that lies behind you, reach out to the good that lieth before.
Myself: And what of my just vengeance?
She: Vengeance is but for the weak of soul, 'tis only the strong can forgive.
Myself: What of my sacred vow? What of my many prayers for vengeance?
She: Empty breath!
Myself: Dare you say so?
She: I dare more, for lying here with Death all about us I tell you, Martin Conisby, despite your size and strength, you are no better than a pitiful, peevish child—"
"Ha!" cried I fiercely, bending over her in the dimness until I might stare into her eyes, wide and dark in the pale oval of her face, "Will ye dare—"
"A child," says she again, nodding at me, "lost and wilful and very selfish with no thought above Martin Conisby and his wrongs. Nay, scowl not nor grind your teeth, 'tis vain! For how may I, that fear not God's dreadful tempest, stoop to fear poor Martin Conisby?"
"Stoop, madam?" I cried hoarsely.
"Aye, stoop," says she. "The wrongs you have endured have plunged you to the very deeps, have stripped you of your manhood. And yet—yours is no murderer's face even when you scowl and clench your fist! 'Twas so you looked when you fought that rough boy on my behalf so many years ago when you were Sir Martin the Knight-errant and I was Princess Damaris. And now, Martin, you that were my playmate and had forgot—you that were so ready to fight on my behalf—in this desolation there is none you may do battle with for my sake saving only—Martin Conisby!"
Now here she turned, her face hid from me 'neath a fold of the great boat-cloak, and spake no more. And I, crouched above her, staring down at her muffled form outstretched thus at my mercy, felt my quivering fist relax, felt my brutish anger cower before her trust and fearlessness. And so, leaning across the tiller, I stared away into the raging dark; and now it seemed that the soul of me had sunk to deeps more black and, groping blindly there, hungered for the light.
So all night long we drove before the tempest through a pitchy gloom full of the hiss of mighty seas that roared past us in the dark like raging giants. And all night long she lay, her head pillowed at my feet, sleeping like a wearied child, and her long, wind-tossed hair within touch of my hand.