The mate had Anthony on deck directly, and the young man eagerly searched the mists to make out what manner of a place it was that bulked up so out of the sea. In a few moments mademoiselle also appeared; and as she stood with them in the schooner's bow her face was white, but she said nothing.
The sails were motionless; the rotting sea piled against their prow; the air was hot and dull; the mist, veiling the whole region, was like steam.
"The pull of this current promises a deal of discomfort to us if we can't make way against it," said Anthony to the mate.
"I could wish we were well quit of it," said Corkery. "A little farther into the midst of this sea, and it might take more than a wind to help us away again."
"What depth of water does your chart give?" said Anthony, to Tom Horn.
The clerk turned his head but still kept his tight clutch on the rail.
"I so feared what was beneath these waters," he said, "that I never sounded them. But there is a great depth; there must be, because of the dreadful life that swarms there."
"Too much water for an anchor," said the mate. But he called for the lead, nevertheless, and watched fathom after fathom of line run over the side. "As deep a hole as there is in all the sea," he grumbled.
"If every cable in the ship were fastened end to end," said Tom Horn, "they'd do no good. There would be nothing for your anchor to grapple with. It would be like hanging over the rim of the moon, fishing for the world."
Slowly the sun seeped through the mist; then it rent holes in it; the vapor curled forlornly before the light, and lifted away from the surface of the sea. The vague loom ahead now became solid; it took both body and color; it was a huddle of broken ships, crowding together like cattle in a green field. The rotting sea held them; their planks were warped; their seams gaped thirstily. And, as the schooner's company watched, the drift rode theRoebuckon; the mass of weed and sea-rubbish turned, and shifted drearily, and seemed to deepen.
As there was no sign of a breeze, Anthony ordered out a boat; three men were put into it, and he took an oar himself; a line was made fast to the schooner, and they lay to the work of pulling her head around. But the mass of weed was too stiff; the stout, ashen oars bent in the thole-pins; but the vessel did not swerve; the boat could make no way; the drift went on, and they went with it. And while the boat was being hoisted in Tom Horn spoke to mademoiselle.
"The circle has tightened; no power can slacken it—no wind—no wash of the sea. It is the grip of the great law, the world's roll, and the force of the planet that guides the tides. It gives nothing up."
"You were once lost in this place," said the girl, her face still pale, but with steady voice. "And you made away from it."
"I was here until my heart died in me," said Tom Horn. "I was here so long that it seemed the very heavens were splashed with slime; and my hope rotted as everything must rot that stays here. Each morning," he said, in his odd way, "the sun lifted out of the east like a threat and hung burning over a ghastly sea. All day I saw dead things or dead men; I saw shapes rear themselves out of the scum that withered my sight. By night winged horrors drifted across the moon; in the dark there were millions of pale candles, lighted round the coffin of a world that had passed."
The schooner's company was gathered in the waist as Anthony went below; he noted them whispering and nodding, sullen looks upon their faces; and his own was grim as he sat down to his breakfast. Mademoiselle was already at the table. And they ate for some time in silence. The hideous, turgid sea lay flat through the schooner's stern window, and the girl's eyes were fixed upon it. Anthony studied her; the sparkle which had filled her eyes from the time they had put to sea was gone; her face was intent; fear worked beneath her look.
"Tom Horn does not seem to have a mind for his breakfast," said Anthony.
"No," she replied.
She kept her eyes fixed upon the motionless sea; there was another silence.
"And," said the young man, "you do not appear to be greatly inclined to it yourself."
"No," she said again.
"For some days," said Anthony, "I have noted you engaged in talk with Tom. And a little space ago I saw you again, after we'd sighted the wrecks ahead. And I would suggest," continued the young man, "that you not give too much attention to his sayings at this time."
"It is your own word," said the girl, "that of all those with whom you have spoken this man has been nearest the truth."
Anthony poured some wine into a high glass; its amber body picked up a ray of light, bathed joyously in it, and then shot it out, stained and gleaming. And while the young man studied its cheerful message he replied to the girl:
"What you say is fact; I'd be the last to question it. Queer as his way has been, odd and circuitous as his warnings and suggestions, he has often grasped the truth and drawn the darkness from about it. But witness: All these matters dealt with the goings-on at Rufus Stevens' Sons; they had to do with things of record, with the accounts of the house, with the book of arithmetic. He was, no doubt, soundly trained in those things and so stands straight in them. But this," and Anthony nodded out the window, "is a region where he once was cast away, where his spirit sank in the stillness, and his blunting mind gave the darkness shapes no man had known. Many say Tom Horn is mad. I don't know. But if it is so then his distemper took form in this sea; so, when he talks of it, I balance his words with doubt. And if you did the like it would be a careful thing."
"When he spoke of the chance of finding the shipRufus Stevens, did he not speak of this sea?" asked the girl. "And yet you showed no doubt then; you thought it a thing to follow out with speed and hopefulness."
"And I still think so," said Anthony. "For the chance of the ship being somewhere within the great ocean current, and of finally drifting into this slack sea, is a thing which comes of his arithmetic and not of his madness."
She regarded him quietly for a moment.
"When you wear that look," she said, "I cannot help but see things as you see them."
Her hand rested upon the table quite near to him, and his own went out and rested upon it.
"Keep your courage," he said. "You must not lose it because of the fears of a man whose wits are amiss. Hold to your first thoughts of good fortune, for a look like you wore brings luck to a ship."
She was smiling now; and there was that brightness in her eyes that tears make.
"I will be brave," she said. "Indeed, I will be more than that," her chin going out much as Anthony's own did on occasions. "I will be helpful."
He looked at her with his heart quickening.
"There is no one who could be more so than you, if you willed it so. Let your soul warm to what's ahead, for only strength of soul can conquer this stark place and bring our journey to a fortunate end."
The sun burned its way across the sky, and the day began to wane; the mists rose once more from the great fields of decaying matter and sent their fanciful plumes into the air.
"We do not seem any nearer to the hulks than we were this morning," said Corkery.
"We approach them slowly," said Tom Horn. "But we are nearer, nevertheless. I was weeks in coming abreast of them. The current is slow here, but it is strong and does not give up. We must not struggle against it. Be warned by me. Flow with it peacefully. Let us give our minds to finding the ship we are in search of; let the current take us deep into the core of the circle; it will take us out again, as it took me after I had learned its secret."
Corkery pointed to the mass of broken ships ahead.
"It has not taken those out," he said.
"They are dead," said Tom Horn. "And they are over-borne by other dead; they have no minds to call on God; they have no sails to hold aloft to the winds; and so they remain here, and will remain until they sink, as many have sunk before them, into the thick depths and to horrors that no one has seen."
The sun grew red as it went behind the climbing mist; it grew huge and fiery and shot long, threatening darts across the silent sea; the hideous birds came croaking out of the air and settled heavily upon the broken spars and green, fungus-grown bits of wreckage. Thicker and thicker grew the mist, and things magnified marvelously; it shook and waved like banners; it arose and floated like clouds.
"It is a wall," said Tom Horn. "It is a vast thing come between heaven and men who are lost. What does it seek to hide?" he asked of Anthony, as the sun's rim dipped below the sea and the shadows suddenly thickened. "What is there in the air above that the malevolence of this dying sea tries to keep from its victims? I once thought," and his voice was now a whisper, "that it might be hope, a something which told of release. I'd hold that in my mind through whole long nights; and comfort came from it for then I'd not seem so completely forsaken and alone."
After this it grew dark; the ship's lights glowed feebly; heavy flights of birds stirred the air; from distant places came queer, deep movements of the water, then long silences. Anthony wrapped mademoiselle in a great cloak to protect her from the damp, and side by side they walked the deck. The binnacle-light threw a glow over the man at the wheel; outside the lamp's radius the mist banked steep and white. Then a wind crept up; in the lantern-light the mist became agitated; it rolled and mounted and sunk; and then it began to drift away. A dim glow showed itself out over the drift. Suddenly mademoiselle said, in a voice of fear:
"Look! The wrecked ships! Some one is aboard them!"
Through the seams and ports of the distant hulks, pale lights were glimmering, illuminating the sea with a ghastly radiance.
"They are 'witch' lights such as one sees in a marsh; a place like the Sargasso would have many of them," said Anthony.
For some time they stood together, watching the silent hulks, and the corpse lights on their decks and rails; then the moon came up, clear, cold, and almost at its full; its rays, glancing upon the shreds of mist, sparkled wanly. The wind grew more active; it rustled in the sails, as though calling attention to its presence, and Anthony, with the help of the watch, trimmed the canvas to get what good there was in it.
"By morning," said one of the men, "we'll be in that press of wreckage ahead there."
"What wind there is," said Anthony, "will not give us head against this grass and litter; if we move at all it must be forward."
"I've heard tales of this sea," said the other man, putting his weight on the line willingly enough. "It's no place for a human with a heart in his body."
"We'll come safe out of it," said Anthony. "We have sound planks under us, upstanding masts, and a dress of sails. There's wind here, as in other places, and where there's wind and water there a ship can go without a deal a hazard."
The moon's white light bleached the thick top of the sea to a silver; the brittle stars flickered raggedly in their settings of violet; from the topmasts of theRoebuckand from her bowsprit leaped little glowing spots of light.
"Mark that!" said one of the hands. "Did you see it?"
"It's a visitation," said the other. "A hand of fire touches our spars; it may be bidding us to go back!"
Anthony laughed.
"If it is a fiery hand," said he, "it is the hand of St. Elmo. And no honest person has anything to fear from him, for, from the sound of him, he was a fine old hero and well intentioned. As for the fire that carries his name it is nothing at all; for it has shown itself on more than one ship I've sailed in, and no harm came to any of them."
It was some time later that mademoiselle went below; Anthony walked the deck through his watch, with the moon sailing high and free in the sky; the strange sea held his eye; bleached white by the light, it lay flat, motionless; the corpse candles glowed in the hulks; the strange, deep movements of water came now and then from a long way off. About the third hour of his watch, Anthony heard a step at his side. It was Tom Horn.
"I thought you were abed this long time," said the young man.
"No," said the clerk, "I cannot sleep. I must watch."
"Watch?" said Anthony. As he looked at the man, the pale, luminous something which he'd always noticed in him seemed magnified. The white, still moonlight seemed kin to him; he was as strange, as quiet, and as cold.
"There are memories," said Tom Horn, "memories of nights like this; they were nights in which my soul was troubled. In the quiet I heard stirrings that had no place in the world; in the light I saw things God had not sanctioned. It is ill for a man to be alone; and I was alone for a long, long time. At first odd things pass before him—things he has not known; then they become strange; then monstrous. For there is death within life; there is evil within good. Surrounded by other souls, a man is safe; but when he is abandoned, as I was abandoned, when there is no spirit to touch his own in kindness, he is naked to evil things, and God's world is far away."
"God's world is here," said Anthony. "Where sea and sky meet, there He is; no matter how remote the place, or how desolate, God stands there, armed against evil."
The wan moon lighted the clerk's face, and Anthony saw him smile.
"That saying is good; it is the touch of a friendly spirit," he said. "Let two souls be together, and they make each other strong. But let one be alone, as I was alone, let there be no warmth, no kindliness, and hope dies. Horrors creep in; the nether world comes close, and the corporal eye, grown keen by the soul's suffering, is witness to things it should not see."
Just then there came one of the deep movements which Anthony had noted more than once; the ocean's scum seemed to heave under the moon. Tom Horn's hand touched Anthony's arm and held there; his voice fell to a whisper.
"It is very deep," he said. "Oh, quite deep! I never sounded it. The life below is monstrous. Ask God that the sight of His work be kept from your eyes."
Then the man went quietly back to his post in the bow; and Anthony continued to pace and watch until Corkery came on deck to relieve him. The wind held all through the night, languid, hot, and of not a deal of weight; but it bellied the sails and added its urge to the drift of the current, and the schooner slowly approached the group of broken ships.
It was past daylight when Anthony appeared once more; despite the mist that enveloped the vessel, he became aware of a vast loom to his larboard; it was huge, dark, rearing; he hastily stepped across the deck, and there found mademoiselle.
"It is a ship," she said; "we must have come alongside it in the night. Mr. Corkery thinks it's one of the wrecks we were watching yesterday."
Corkery, hearing Anthony's voice, approached.
"I have made fast to her," he said. "It's a large vessel of a kind I do not know, and she seems to lie quite still."
"We have reached one of the outer vessels of the group we saw yesterday," said mademoiselle. "I do not think we have gone among them, for we have collided with none."
"True enough, mademoiselle," said Corkery; "with sun-up I think we'll see your word made good."
But it was still early; the mist clung to the ship, to the surface of the sea, poisonous, thick; through it the lanterns burned a feeble yellow. The vast timbers of the vessel at whose side they lay were rotted and dripped with slime; they could feel open seams, gaping like mouths; when they spoke their voices came back from its hollows as though from a cavern. They felt chilled, and their spirits ran low.
Tom Horn, much to the surprise of mademoiselle and Anthony, appeared at breakfast: it was the first time he had sat down with them since theRoebuckentered the Sargasso; he had kept the deck night and day, and what little food he'd eaten had been taken to him by the cook. He had one of his charts with him and unrolled it upon the table.
"In an hour the mist will lift, and we shall be able to see," said he. "And this," his finger pointing to a spot among the figures and signs upon the sheet, "iswhatwe shall see."
The girl and the young man leaned forward and studied the chart; but the figures told them nothing.
"The vessel alongside can be none other than theSan Josef," said Tom Horn, "and next her should be the Dutch ship of the line; then comes the Salem merchantman whose goods served me so well while I was captive here, and then the ancient galley whose deck was so rotted that I never ventured to stand on it. Then there follow others, ship on ship," the pointing finger moving slowly across the chart; "I know them all, and could number them as one numbers the shops and houses in a street."
"Except the new ones," said Anthony.
"Hah!" said Tom Horn. "The new ones to be sure. Here and there you find a new ship—and wedged in where you would never expect her. It's as though the fear of the place came upon them; they dread being outside, alone, and force their way among the others for companionship and protection. The Salem ship was a new one while I was here; and yet she had gotten herself between the Dutchman and the galley—two very old vessels, indeed."
"But where," asked mademoiselle, "is theRufus Stevens? In what part of this sea are we to look for her?"
"We do not know what winds hastened or hindered her," said the clerk. "Hulks pitch slowly along through the sea and may be many months going a short way, or their movements may be quickened by steady winds. I have considered all that is possible, and I have put the possibilities into figures; theRufus Stevensis surely here, but she has been here no great while," and the man's eyes kindled with their strange glow. "No, she has but lately arrived; we shall find her somewhere on the edge of this concourse, and at no great distance from where we are now lying. My calculations are close, and I have held in mind, not only the winds, but the power of the great circle; she must have drifted much as we have sailed, and this day should show us many things."
They ate their breakfasts and studied the chart, while Tom Horn expounded it; and while they were so engaged the sun worked its uncertain way through the mist; with banners fluttering and deep banks whirling, the fog broke before the lances of light; and strange things appeared upon the face of the sea. The broken ships were seen huddled in the still waters, some on level keel, others stern down and bowsprit pointed at the sky, others with stern high and down by the head. Green slime streaked their rotting planks; pale, horrible-looking fungus grew thickly upon rails and housing; flocks of vulture-like birds rested upon them; the sea all about was massed with decaying weed and timbers.
"It is as I thought; it is theSan Josef," said Tom Horn, when they reached the deck. He pointed to the vast wooden wall which arose, sheer, alongside them; up and up it went, and Anthony counted three great decks; the stern towered like a castle, and had been pierced by a dozen windows; the huge sides grinned with ports where brass cannon had once threatened the stout English sea-thieves. Traces of fire were about her timbers; the fungus growth seemed all that held her together.
"Taken, looted, and burned," said Anthony. "A treasure-galleon, like as not, and the prey of a Cumberland, a Drake, or a Morgan, years ago."
Next theSan Josefwas a great Dutch ship; she was almost as tall in the stern as the Spaniard; her timbers had been splintered by the shot of some ancient battle, but the strength of her great dowels and cunningly wrought frame had kept her corpse whole. Beside the Dutchman floated the Salem merchantman, a sturdy ship and a swift one before fate overtook her, but small compared to the lumbering fighting craft of an older day. The galley spoken of by Tom Horn lay almost submerged; the green slippery planks of her bow stuck tragically out of the scum.
"If I could convince myself that it were possible," said Anthony, his eyes upon this craft, "I'd say she was of the Mediterranean, for there's been no galleys in the Atlantic these many years."
"She once wore a great beak on her stem," said Corkery. "See where it's been sawn away."
"Don John of Austria fought the battle of Lepanto with just such craft," said Anthony, "and before the fight he ordered the ram to be cut from every ship in his fleet, so that they might run close alongside the enemy. But that was two hundred years ago."
"I would not take one day of it from this vessel's age," said Corkery, shaking his head. "Like as not she's one of the stove-in hulks that drifted out of that old fight. But how did she make her way through all the seas and get lodgment here at last?"
"God knows," said Anthony. "And that's an answer that must be made to many a question asked of this strange place."
"Look!" cried Tom Horn.
"Look, oh, look!" cried mademoiselle.
Their voices arose almost together; Anthony and the mate turned, and there, freely riding the scum in an open space, the stumps of her masts showing above the bulwarks, they saw the fine, sound hull of theRufus Stevens!
Yes, there she rode, as calmly as though at anchor in the river; the very paint looked new upon her; she was clean and whole and undismayed.
At once Anthony ordered out a boat and put three of the seamen in it; then, with mademoiselle, he also got in and headed through the mass of litter toward the ship. It was laborious pulling, but stout sweeps and strong bodies accomplished it, and within an hour they stood upon the vessel's deck.
"... HEADED THROUGH THE MASS OF LITTER TOWARD THE SHIP."
"... HEADED THROUGH THE MASS OF LITTER TOWARD THE SHIP."
"... HEADED THROUGH THE MASS OF LITTER TOWARD THE SHIP."
Some six feet remained of her mainmast; the others had broken shorter; her hatches were fast, with tarpaulins and battens on each; here and there the bulwarks were broken, but the deck was as tight as on the day she was launched.
"Get the hatches open," said Anthony. And, while the three seamen employed themselves in ripping off the battens, he got a lantern and kindled a light. And while mademoiselle lowered it, at the end of a line, into the throat of the mainhatch, Anthony went down another line, after it.
Dry! He took the lamp in his hands and looked about. By God, it was so dry there was dust on things! Here were some bales of silk, now. Oh, yes, dry! They couldn't be more so. And, God save us, how perfect the scantlings were! they were like bones they were that free of wet. And how tightly the cargo was wedged; there was not the least sign of shifting anywhere that he could see. He called the news up the hatch, and mademoiselle cried out her joy. The other hatches were now off, and the light poured in. It was wonderful the way things were! Amazing! He went climbing over the cargo and down into its timbered crevices. As tight as a drum! Quite the tightest shipful of stuff he'd ever seen. The man who stowed this had his wits about him. He was an excellent workman, and knew how to prepare for the long pitch of the Indian Ocean; he had taken time in hand, and set himself to guard against the Atlantic's storms. Oh, yes, a tight cargo; wedged like a cork in the neck of a bottle. Not a cask, not a bale had budged since they had been swung into the hold at Calcutta.
Of all good things, so Anthony thought, as he sat on a mound of goods and looked about, the touch of a skilful hand is best. The cunning turns, the clever artifices! Here was work that had been done to admiration. The man who could stow a ship like this could write a great song; for he had music in him, bold music, of a kind you could sit and listen to, and that would put you to wondering about fine things.
The hold was a great, wide belly filled with rich food; and it was deep as a mine. Woven silks and raw! swathed in strong wrappings and bound by cords. Opium in chests, with delights and curses written on their lids; dyes, gums, spices, rare fabrics. Shawls! fine cashmere shawls, soft and warm and beautiful, woven in that far-off valley, of the fine under-hair of goats. A pair of them would bring five hundred Farakhabad rupees at Amritsar, and four times as much in any Western port. And carpets: soft, thick, rich! with the markings on the bundles telling tales of far-off peoples and places; skins; made leather; indigo; shell-lac. Wondrous stores of these. Then more silks; piece silks in patterns, a commodity swift to sell, and holding profits that had made many a trader rich.
Anthony climbed out of the hold, his head heavy with wonder. He saw now why Charles Stevens had dreamed and talked of this shipful; for it was a cargo that would be counted rich by a mercantile house made up of princes.
The captain's cabin was fast; they forced it. Here were certain weighty chests, locked and sealed; there were empty brandy-bottles on the floor and full ones in a cupboard; the place was foul of drunkenness; and rage arose in Anthony as he looked about.
"What serves it to build sound ships if beasts are to master them?" he said. "No storm that ever blew would have disabled this vessel in the waters she was in if a sober, clever man had managed her."
He tried to imagine what had happened. But he was sure of one thing only: the great storm had come between the pirates and their loot.
"The ship was abandoned," Anthony told himself, "but not at the time set down in their plans. They quit her at some lull in the storm, thinking they'd be safer in the boats. The brig I saw poking among the bars and shoals off the Jerseys was the vessel which they had elected to salvage theRufus Stevens, if all had gone as they wished; her business along the coast was in the hope that the ship's wreckage had been driven ashore at some lonely point and that they might at least profit by that."
He took the vessel's papers and the log-book from a metal box; then he and mademoiselle sat at an open window in the main cabin and searched them carefully. The sealed chests were declared to contain vessels of wrought gold, jewels set, unset, and matched, and inlaid wares of crafty make. And while they sat there a breeze began stirring and gave a gentle motion to the ship. About two hours had passed and they were deep in talk, when they heard Corkery's voice, and, going on deck, they saw the schooner, lowering mainsail and jibs, and close alongside. Corkery and Tom Horn came aboard, and Anthony went over the ship with them.
"As sound as a nut," said the mate, late in the afternoon, when they had done. "If her masts were in her I'd not hesitate to ship as her mate for a voyage round the world."
"A mast is needful," said Tom Horn. "A tall mast that will reach the high drifts of air. She'll be quick then, and this sea will slacken in power over her. She'll have life of her own, and, well guided, she'll escape."
Next day they came back to the matter. In all that sea they'd come through, said Anthony, he had not seen a sound spar, and he feared one would be hard to come by. To this Corkery agreed; vessels that found their way into the Sargasso were not likely to carry such matters as masts. But, if it must be done, there was theRoebuck'smainmast, a stout stick of timber, over-small for a ship of the tonnage of theRufus Stevens, but one that would give service. Anthony shook his head over this; he had no fancy for two crippled ships. Said Tom Horn:
"The great drift of water is to the east and then to the south. Sound spars are apt to be found only on ships newly come into this sea; and all those come as theRufus Stevenscame, from the northeast."
So, when the mist lifted its barriers and the gloomy stretch of sea was visible, Anthony began searching the east and northeast; rank on dismal rank stretched the green, fungus-grown hulks; the water in places seemed to lift itself in solid waves of rotting grass. But no sign of a standing mast was anywhere. As there was a possibility of one, unstepped or broken off, lying upon one of the decks, the mate took a boat's crew and set off; they were gone until nightfall and returned unsuccessful. Next day Anthony took up the venture; for hours the men strove with the thick sea and drifting wreckage; Anthony clambered from hulk to hulk; but he returned as Corkery had done, defeated. A week went by; in a few days there was a light wind, and the schooner, with all sail set and theRufus Stevenstowing astern, made some small way around the crowding wrecks. But the last of the week saw Corkery chance upon a stout mast adrift amid the weed; by deal of effort it was brought alongside the ship and hoisted on board. With an adze and an ax Anthony trimmed the heel of the timber into the required shape; and Corkery served the stump of theRufus Stevensin a way that would be like to meet it. With a pair of spars erected as sheers, and blocks and lines, the mast was swung into place and lashed firmly to the stump, the braces were hauled taut, and the cleats made fast about the heel. By the afternoon of the next day the spars and sail were in place; also a bowsprit had been rigged and a pair of jibs added to the spread of canvas. By the following noon a sluggish wind had both vessels moving. The short spars and ill-fitting sails of theRufus Stevensgave her a slovenly look; but Anthony felt like a prince as he stood at her wheel and guided the great hull through the scum and desolation of that gloomy place.
"Keep outside the hulks," said Tom Horn, "well outside, and you'll have no great odds to contend with. You are now in the current; it moves slowly here, but will grow swifter later on. Days and weeks will pass, and all the time you'll seem to be burrowing deeper into this region's rotting heart; you will sicken as I did, but keep hope with you, for the end will be good."
Days did pass; and weeks passed, also. Each morning came the same: the banks of mist rearing from a sea to sky, a thin light seeping through, and then the first sparklings of the sun, and a wind that set the tendrils and banners of the fog a-tossing. Sometimes the direction of the breeze was favorable; the sails flapped as the grudging measures were poured into them, and foot by foot the great ship took her way. The sun traveled hot and red across the sky; the files of dead ships hung steadily upon their quarter. The filthy, vulture-like birds hovered about with hideous expectancy. And night settled, dark, silent, filled with a choking miasma, or burning with brittle stars, and with a quiet moon, spreading a corpse-cloth over the sea.
TheRoebuck, with Corkery aboard, kept in the van; her sails took more of the wind, and her narrower bulk slipped along with greater ease. Then, well into one quiet night, they rode into clear water; Tom Horn heard the sucking pull under the ship's foot and raised a cry; the wind had a snapping vigor and smelled clean; there was a feeling of fine, leaping life in the world. And then morning came dancing toward them across the white, tufted seas; the vast, shining expanse lifted and lowered; and the spotted sky raced over them like charging horses.
"God's sun!" said Tom Horn. "God's sky, and God's sea! There is that in a man's soul which will always be the saving of him, if he trusts to it and keeps himself from fear."
After they had their breakfast, Anthony fixed their position by the sun; a few fair days sail would lift the Cape Verdes into view; so, signaling Corkery, in the schooner, he turned the ship west by a trifle south, meaning to skirt the Sargasso and fall into the sea roads traveled by ships working north from Rio or the Far East.
The sails drew badly and were hard to manage; nevertheless, the vessel made good time. TheRoebuckkept her well in view, stepping along under shortened canvas; at night the mate would draw the schooner off; but at daylight he'd creep up once more. One morning when Anthony came on deck he noted Tom Horn forward, with the glass, holding it steadily upon a point almost due west.
"A sail," said the clerk; "a spot only, and standing just above the line."
There was that in his voice which caught Anthony's attention: the man's hands were shaking; his face was gray.
"We'll meet many vessels from now on," said Anthony. "We are coming into the track of them."
But Tom Horn said nothing, holding the glass leveled. Another fifteen minutes lifted the sail into plainer view.
"She is a brig," said the clerk, "and, by her build and manner of wearing her rigging, she's American." He was silent for a few moments more; then he held out the glass very quietly to Anthony and said: "It was a brig we saw prowling off the coast of the Jerseys when we were there, I think."
Anthony took the glass and picked up the approaching vessel. She was brig-rigged and slackly kept; her dress of sails was shabby and patched, but the morning light caught and held in a foretopsail that was white and new.
Mademoiselle Lafargue was reading at one of the windows of the main cabin when Anthony came in. He went to the arms-chest in one corner, threw up the lid, and stood glowering into it. She said nothing. He took out a musket, examined the lock, and snapped it; and he did the like with a half-dozen more. Then pistols: he carefully laid them upon a settle in a row—cold, shining, deadly; he loaded them, and the muskets, too.
Then she spoke.
"Something has happened," she said.
"There is a vessel ahead that I have reason to mistrust," said Anthony. "A slatternly-looking ship; the same that I saw going up and down the coast before you sent for me."
She put down her book and arose.
"They have found us!" she said, but she said it without a deal of fear. "What a strange thing, in all these seas, to have come to this one place!"
"It was no chance," said Anthony, scowling; "it is not in nature to hit a thing off as precisely as that."
"You have suffered," she said; "you have suffered a deal, and dared more; and now you are in a new danger when you thought to win safely home. I am sorry."
Yes, she was sorry; he saw it in her eyes. She was wistful, too, and it pleased him. To have a beautiful woman think so of one is no mean thing. But this was not all, and he continued to look at her. Sorrow did not make her hold herself so proudly; wistfulness did not keep her eyes so level; and neither of them gave her manner that serene sure quality.
It was confidence. His heart quickened as he understood: danger had come again, but nowhere in her mind was there a doubt but he'd make through it; she had no thought but that he'd keep her safe. Her silence was saying a thing to him any man would be proud of; and his mind was still listening to it when he heard voices hailing the ship, and the creak of blocks from very close at hand.
They went upon deck. It was crisp and blowing; the waves were short and tufted with white; the light gleamed on the sea; and the blue swept overhead and down into the west like a great cascade. The stranger brig was lying, with flapping sails, directly in their course; there was nothing for Anthony to do but throw his own ship out, and the two drifted and rose and fell within speaking distance, Tarrant stood at the rail amidships, a sneer upon his handsome mouth and victory in his look. Blake was near him. Both were watching the ship, and Blake's laugh came ringing over the water.
"Now hold to that," he said, "and we'll be aboard of you directly."
Anthony heard a splash at the stern of the brig; they had launched a boat. Two men pulled it around to the vessel's side, and Blake prepared to step into it. Anthony took up one of the muskets, and looked to its flint and priming; then he balanced it upon the high bulwark before him.
"If you value your peace of mind, you'll keep your distance," he said.
Blake gazed at him with a deal of good humor.
"What," said he, "are you still of the mind to carry yourself so?" Then, looking past Anthony, he roared with laughing. "So help me God!" he said, "it's mademoiselle! Well struck, sir! Mademoiselle, I congratulate you on a champion who keeps his pose, no matter how events point or carry."
Tarrant spoke, a bitter look in his face. Anthony could not hear the words, but the gesture motioned Blake into the boat, quite plainly. And the young men called across the place between the two vessels:
"Tarrant, if that man attempts to board me, I'll have his life."
With the same sneering, bitter look, Tarrant faced the ship for a moment, not stirring nor speaking; Blake, never heeding Anthony's words, leaped into the boat. Then a man appeared on the brig's after deck—a man who held his head well up and stepped with the sureness of a great cat. Anthony, the musket still on the bulwark before him, stared at sight of him.
"Captain Weir!" said mademoiselle. Her hand held tightly to Anthony's sleeve.
"How does he come aboard that vessel?" said the young man.
"He has ventured out, looking for us," said mademoiselle. "He is our friend."
There was a deep look in Anthony's eyes, as he frowned across the stretch of water between the two vessels.
"Yes, he is our friend," he said. "But still I ask, how does he come on board this ship, of all others?"
After a short word with Tarrant, Weir came to the brig's side and hailed theStevens. Anthony replied.
"I desire to come aboard you," Weir said. They saw a smile on his face, as he added: "Have I your permission?"
"To you," said Anthony, "there is no objection. You will be welcomed."
Weir waved his hand, still smiling; but when he ordered Blake out of the boat his face was stern enough. After the pirate climbed aboard, Weir was seen standing bold upright before the two; and what he said to them must have cut like a whip, for Blake shrugged and turned away, and Tarrant lowered ill-favoredly.
In a short space Captain Weir stood upon theRufus Stevens'sdeck; he bowed to mademoiselle and shook Anthony by the hand.
"A most fortunate meeting," he said. "I've searched these seas for weeks in the hope of finding you."
"Why?" asked Anthony. "And what brought this particular region to your mind? And how did you come in this brig?"
It was a story soon told. The captain had been away,—at Boston—at New York—and there were several other places,—all on the business of the house of Stevens. And when he returned he visited Anthony's lodgings in Sassafras Street; but Anthony had gone. He had been gone for some time. The captain then went to Pump Court; but Tom Horn was absent, also.
"Then," said the captain, "I thought of Christopher Dent, and went to his place, feeling he'd have some news to tell. But he would say little. He seemed to cuddle what he knew up in his mind and was as close-mouthed as a man could be. Yes, you were away from the city. He thought you were very far away. Tom Horn, too, was gone; he fancied Tom was with you, but as to that he was not sure. There was something in his manner that put an edge on my attention; and so," said Captain Weir, with his cold smile, "I questioned him in ways he was not used to, and in a little he let slip the fact that mademoiselle, too, was gone, that you had all taken ship and were venturing somewhere at sea."
"Poor Christopher!" said mademoiselle.
"As honest a soul as ever lived," said Captain Weir, still with the cold smile. "And, having got so far with him, I spoke of my close association with the house of Stevens, of my friendship with your uncle," to Anthony, "of my regard for yourself. I said your problems were mine; anything having to do with the business was for me to know; if an effort were being made that promised help in the firm's difficulties, I should be told. And then he told me."
"And then?" said Anthony.
"The chance that took you away," said Captain Weir, "seemed mad and slim; but, for all that, I set myself to get a ship and make after you."
He made inquiries at the exchanges, and almost at once heard of a brig, newly come into the river from a trading-venture along the coast.
"A trading-venture!" said Anthony, his eyes narrowed.
"Yes," replied Weir. "They said little about it; and, as they seemed disinclined to speak, I did not question them. The vessel was ready, provisioned, and manned; and as Tarrant is a good officer, and had voyaged with me more than once, I settled my terms, stepped aboard, and we made sail."
"In Tarrant you may have an excellent seaman, and in Blake the same, I'll not gainsay their skill," said Anthony. "But you have also in them two hectoring, damned ruffians whom I would trust with neither my throat nor my purse."
Captain Weir smiled, and seemed in no way troubled.
"I know Tarrant of old," he said. "And Blake's name and doings are common things. But they can handle a ship, and that's enough for me. If I'd kept from the sea every time a bully lifted his snout at me, I'd been a landsman all my life. Never bother yourself about this pair; for as I know them, so do they know me, and if they speak at all in any matter of importance, their voices will not be above a whisper."
Anthony took note of Weir—a careful note; and for the first time he saw in him the man old Rufus had chosen years before to master the ship he was giving up. And this note, too, had in it the suggestion of a wilderness cat, not only in the step but in the body's posture. The merchant captain who had won through hostile fleets with his goods, and beaten off attacking vessels of war, was in the steady, cold, green eyes; the red edges of the cutlass-stroke down his face spoke like lips of the deadly fighter who closed instantly with his foes; his manner was the still top of a vast depth of resolution, lashed up only on occasions. And Anthony looked at him; away at the back of his mind odd thoughts were forming.
All three vessels now dressed their idle sails to the wind; the brig followed the schooner and ship. Corkery, having had news of Weir's presence, paced the schooner's deck contentedly.
And mademoiselle was glad the captain was to remain on board the ship. For they had been so short-handed. Anthony and two men were not enough to handle that great vessel, for all her meager spread of sail; and the ship must get home safely. She must! for she carried the means of slackening the law's processes and easing many hatreds. The captain smiled when she said this. Anthony would have managed very well; there were few that would have ventured, as he had ventured, into that lonely sea, so feared and cursed by sailors, and whose place in the world's waters was so vague that no two charts gave it the same position. Oh, yes; Anthony was a man to carry a thing through when once he had begun it; and the captain's eyes were very cold and very steady, indeed, as they fastened upon the young man on the forward deck, adding his weight to a seaman's, hauling away on a line. And mademoiselle found herself looking at those eyes, so like hard, green agates; and she felt something like fear creep upon her.
They had breakfast. During its course, Tom Horn said never a word; indeed, he had not spoken since Weir had come into the ship; he ate and stared and listened, and sometimes he sat quite still, his eyes on the captain, and a queer down-drawn twitch to his lip. Weir gave them what news he had of the port; and Anthony laid out the ship's papers for him to see.
"Excellent traffic!" said the captain, over the items of cargo. He sipped his small glass of brandy. "Oh, excellent! Your uncle knew the East; he seemed to feel the levels where the rich things lay. It was a kind of genius with him. Here we have a shipful of value such as no other merchant could have collected." He finished the brandy. "And all in good condition, you say?"
Anthony had the hatches off after breakfast; and Captain Weir saw the merchandise for himself. He came out of the hold and dusted his fingers and clothes with a kerchief.
"It could not be snugger nor better," he said. He looked at mademoiselle. "Yes, we must get her safe, supercargo; no chance must take her from us now."
The wind kept brisk for days, and it blew the three vessels before it; then it shifted and came out of the northeast with a shrill cut, a whipping of the water, and a racing of clouds. The schooner and brig stripped close to keep in the crippled ship's company; and Anthony, with Weir's help, added more braces to the makeshift mast. One morning, at dawn, after a blowy night, and with the Barbados somewhere ahead, they saw the brig tossing away to the south and the schooner nowhere visible. All that day the gale lashed and raved and drove into the southwest; the sky was like lead and seemed to touch the wild waters. In the first dog-watch the ship, slow to mind her helm, was struck by a great sea; the man at the wheel was washed overboard, and Captain Weir was dashed against one of the boats and carried below with a broken leg. And so Anthony was left to work the ship with one man, for Tom Horn had little power in his body and no sea-going skill in his hands. For three days and nights the young man slept only while mademoiselle held the wheel at quiet spaces in the storm; he kept sail to the vessel, and ran her, upright, before the shock of the wind. Then the storm died down, and the sea raced itself out; and Captain Weir, stretched on his bed, gray with pain but with steadfast eyes, said:
"Is the brig still in sight?"
Anthony bowed, and, grim and tired, stood in the cabin doorway.
"She's hung to us like a limpet," he answered. "I've said a deal against Tarrant and Blake, and I feel I'll say more. But they can manage a ship, and they keep to their purpose; and I trust God Almighty will hold those things to their credit when they finally stand before Him, stripped and sorry and ashamed."
Captain Weir eased his hurt leg, held tight between bits of scantling.
"You need sleep," he said to Anthony. "You cannot work the vessel yourself, with a single man. Get a message to the brig; have them send two hands aboard of us."
Anthony frowned.
"I have no liking for that ship, as you know," he said. "And I'd rather keep her people from my deck."
"Is it not time to put our dislikes aside?" said the captain. "Should we not think of the ship, and what getting her home means? Have we any fear of two foremast men, no matter what vessel they come out of?"
Mademoiselle was at the wheel when Anthony came heavily on deck. The ocean was heaving in long, smooth swells, green and wonderful. A signal was made to the brig, and the two vessels bore toward each other. It was Blake whom Anthony spoke to; and when he asked for the men the pirate laughed cheerfully and agreed. He came with the boat, his big body laid against the tiller-handle; and it was he who caught the rope flung by Anthony and made it fast; and the two men, able-looking fellows and active, came nimbly over the side.
"Good fortune," said Blake, as he cast loose, and made away again. "Your mast still stands, and you've seen the worst weather you're like to see. With this wind we look to convoying you to your dock in less than ten days' time."
Anthony pointed the ship to the northwest; as level as a gull's flight, the blunted bowsprit held to Henlopen. Then he gave the wheel to one of the new hands and pointed to the compass.
"Hold her so," he said.
Captain Weir asked to be brought upon deck; he lay on a mattress under the stump of the mainmast, his leg straight and stiff and dead-looking; and ready to his hand lay a pair of loaded pistols.
"Now," said he to Anthony, "you may get some rest, all of you. I keep watch on deck until you've slept the clock at least half around."
Tom Horn stood at the foot of the companion-ladder when Anthony came below; the man's face looked wan in the half-light, and the pale glow of his eyes had the cold melancholy of the moonlight.
"The deck," said he, "is held by the brig's people. And the brig is not your friend."
"Captain Weir is there," said Anthony tolerantly.
"Are the hawks to be trusted when the swan come down the wind?" asked Tom Horn mildly.
"The captain will see to us," said Anthony.
Mademoiselle, worn and faint from the long battle with the storm, stood by.
"The captain is hurt; he is held fast to his bed," she protested.
"He will hear," said Anthony, dull with sleep. "An old fox, and with the blow of a bear. The brig will not approach while he is there; never fear."
"But," said mademoiselle, a vague dread in her heart, "if she should? If the men on deck should overpower him?"
"Then," said Anthony, "I shall hear. For all I am so full of sleep, I'll be keen enough, if wanted."
He went into his cabin, and in a moment they heard the cords of his bed straining under his weight as he threw himself down.
"How tired he must be!" said the girl. "Day and night he fought for our lives. Oh, I trust there will be nothing more to try him."
"Hark!" said Tom Horn, as he held up his hand and she listened. There was a creaking of blocks, a humming among the cordage, a crowding of wind into the sails. And the seas were heard leaping monotonously at the great prow like running wolves at the throat of a buck.
"It is the wind and the sea," said Tom Horn. "There is no evil in either in this region. But evil may ride them, as one may ride an honest horse to do a wrongful deed."
Mademoiselle's eyes widened, but she said nothing.
"We are in clean seas," said Tom in his hushed voice. "God's sky is over us, and we've kept our way through many dangers. But we've taken from the Sargasso what it claimed for its own; and a curse will reach from a long way off if the spirit in it be very bitter. Everywhere in that strange sea is the stink of evil; wrong springs up like lush grass; horror takes shapes that even God had not foreseen." His voice went to a whisper. "But in the months I was there I came to know the great truth: I learned that the world, the sea, and the wind went round and round, never stopping; and the knowledge of this law helped me to make away from my captivity." He shook his head, and the mild look of a child was in his face. "But the Sargasso had claimed me, and one day it found me out; the winds carried its curse to me, and it was then that its haze came between me and the world."
In the forecastle the sailorman who stood so courageously with Anthony through the storm slept soundly. And now mademoiselle, weary beyond thought, went to her cabin and also slept. In the late afternoon light Tom Horn kept the deck like a quiet wraith; the seamen from the brig held the ship upon her course with an easy hand; gray of face, and with eyes hot with fever, Captain Weir lay without movement, the brace of pistols beside him; to the south the brig, under scant sail, bounded like a checked hound.
And Anthony slept. Fatigue had unbraced and slackened his body; he had sunk so deeply into the strange place of sleep that only the stirring of his heart kept him in the world. His mind received no impressions; his nerves were still; and he lay at a great depth for a long time. Then he arose to the lower level of dreams; he had a dull, formless sense of himself; then he realized other things and gradually came to speculate upon them. Feet raced across the vault of heaven; the corners of the world were straining; there was a thundering as of wind in many sails; great voices lifted against each other like blades.
But this passed, and he sank again; darkness held him; he did not move. But light will creep through the scum of a tarn; it will brighten dull, still water; it will plunge its shining arm deep into the muck and bring up those living things which have only heard the first faint whisperings of the world. A sound once more lifted Anthony from the pit; again he lay at the dream level, and the sound broke urgently over him. It had a dim, mournful insistance; he could not bear it; all the trouble God permitted seemed in the sound; and his heart raced in pity and desire. His spirit struggled heavily; but his body had no footing in the world; it lay like the dead. He suffered keenly. The call broke in shrill waves through the gray place of sleep. He was wanted! Somewhere—some one needed him. Bitterly he strove upward; he fought as a dark angel might have fought, under the foot of Michael; he raved and cursed and fought upward from level to level; the vagueness fell from him like rent veils. He burst through the gates of sleep. His body leaped up.
It was mademoiselle who was calling.
"Anthony! Do you hear, Anthony? Oh, do you hear me?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I hear." Like a dull-witted bear he pawed at the latch of his door. "What is it?"
"They are on deck," she said. "I am locked in my cabin. I have been calling you, but you would not waken."
"Who is on deck?" The door would not give, and he wrenched at it savagely. "Who locked you in?"
"Tarrant. And Blake. They came aboard in the night. They have taken charge of the ship."
Anthony's wits came to an edge; he stopped wrenching at the door, and stood, calling its possibilities to mind.
"What of Captain Weir?" he said. "Where is he?"
"I do not know," said mademoiselle.
Anthony fixed upon the spot where the door had been fastened, and laid his weight against it. The nails started, and the ironmongery gave way. Then he released mademoiselle, and she was trembling.
"I was afraid," she said. "You slept so, you seemed very far away. I was afraid."
He held her close to him.
"There is rare courage in you," he said. "Call it out; make it stand by you."
"I am not afraid now—for myself. But you'll be going on deck. I'm afraid for you."
The light was dim where they stood; but he looked into her eyes, and there seemed a fine brightness through the world.
"You fear for me because I am your man," he said to her. "Is it so?"
"Yes," she said, quietly.
He put her hair back from her brow and kissed her there.
"I am satisfied," he said. "You belong to me. And, because of that, there is nothing in life that shall harm you."
He went into his cabin, and he came out with a brace of pistols; one of them he gave to her.
"Stay here," he said, "and keep this by you, in case of need."
Then he went to the companion-ladder, and at the foot of it he paused. For there were voices on deck; one of them was Captain Weir's, and it was thick with anger.
"Let us have no more words," the captain was saying. "I have my own thoughts about any matter in my charge, as I've told you more than once before. I warned you not to come aboard this ship and that I would tolerate no interference. It is now daylight; get into your boat, go back to your vessel, and take Blake with you."
It was Tarrant who answered.
"You are injured," he said. "It will be many a day before you are up and active. And, as what is to be done should be done quickly, the need is too great for us to leave the vessel without—"
But he was stopped by a burst of bitter cursing. Softly Anthony went up the ladder, and he stopped again when his eyes were level with the combing. Weir had lifted himself to his elbow; his face was twisted with pain, and he held a pistol leveled at Tarrant, who stood, sneering and disbelieving, before him.
"Over the side," said the captain. "Over the side, and into your boat. I've warned you I'd one day split your skull with a bullet if you continued to cross me!"
"In your condition," said Tarrant, "it is best not to worry. Above all, do not worry about me. I am in a fairly settled state of mind here; and I think—"
Cold, deadly, with an ugly twist at one corner of his mouth, Captain Weir looked along the barrel of the pistol and fired; Tarrant, with his hands at his chest and death in his face, fell. As Anthony leaped upon deck there came a second shot; the pistol dropped from Weir's hand, and he stretched back upon his bed.
Blake blew the smoke from the muzzle of his weapon, and viewed the two bodies.
"Now," said he to Anthony, "here's a state of affairs. Here's a cutting down of a ship's company. Two gone to the devil as quick as you'd wink your eye."
But Anthony gave him no attention; he went to Captain Weir and saw he was beyond all aid: to him the words of Weir had been the words of an honest man, resolute in his defense of the right, and Anthony's heart tightened in his chest. But, seaman-like, he looked first at the trim of the sail and then at the compass, which told him the ship was headed far out of the course he had laid down.
"Northwest!" he growled to the helmsman. "Point her that way, and hold her so."
The man's look mocked him, and there was no move to obey; so Anthony drove a blow into his face that spun him away from the wheel. Grim and lowering, the young man set the ship on her course. And while he did this Blake stood leaning with his back to the rail and looking vastly amused.
"Now, by God!" said the pirate, "you are the most satisfactory fellow in the world. One need never cudgel his brains about you; you do precisely the thing expected of you."
With his chin out and a scowl on his brow, Anthony looked at him.
"I hope to be able to say something the same of you," said he. "For I expect you, with no loss of time, to lower a boat and take yourself and your two men out of this ship."
The sun stood red on the eastern edge of the ocean; the wind blew freshly, the ship held upon her altered course, and the sea ran crisply beside her. The brig was frolicking a league away.
Blake shouted with laughter.
"Good!" said he. "Splendid! If heaven had only sent you among a group of play-actors, what a man you'd have been! I'd have enjoyed seeing you, for, comedy deliciously played is a rare thing."
With a turn of the wheel Anthony brought the ship to, and, as she stood with her sails muttering, he called to the two sailors who stood together in the waist, one stanching the flowing blood of the other:
"Hoist out the yawl! You'll have a more peaceful time in your own vessel, so you're going back to her. Be lively now!"
He fingered the trigger-guard of his pistol; the seamen made haste to free the tackle of a small boat; and Blake laughed louder than ever.
"Never tell me this is to be the piece you played on boardLe Mousquet!" he said. His big chest swelled with mirth, and his fists drummed upon it. "Well, God sends us good luck now and then, for all. But I'd say one word to you; I would presume no more. Play it as you did before! For," and he shoved his head forward, "do you recall the price I once put on the pleasure of hearing and seeing you? My two thumbs!" He smiled at Anthony, and beneath the good humor there was a gleam of the tiger. "My two thumbs!"
"I remember," said Anthony. "And, also, I see the boat will be launched all the swifter if you lend a hand. And it will be better for you if you spend some of your good humor in getting safe out of my sight!"
There were about two yards between the two men; Blake leaped it with a swiftness that took Anthony by surprise. The pistol roared wrathfully, but the pirate was holding its muzzle upward; then the two closed.
"Now," said Blake, "we shall see how high you'll hold you hand and head. By God, I'll dress you! I'll make you step!"
Dour, silent, Anthony drove a short, stabbing blow at the man's face; a spurt of blood followed it; and Blake was smiling through a crimson mask.
"Well struck," said he. And as he said it he beat Anthony about the body with a power that made the young man's breath catch and his ribs bend. Gasping, Anthony gave back.
"What!" jeered Blake, "so soon? Is this the man who talked so highly? Is this, indeed, our famous fighter?"
But Anthony had the two seamen in mind; and, while he avoided Blake, he looked toward the waist. The men had let go the boat's tackle and, each armed with a belaying-pin, were hurrying aft. He must beat Blake down before they got in hand's reach; if he failed, he was lost. And the pirate was pressing forward, his face a smear of blood but his laugh persisting.
"Where are the thews I've heard so much of?" he mocked. "Your body is big enough, but it has no more guts than a drum. Stand to, and I'll—"
But Anthony was on him like a wolf. A terrible blow on the side of the head stopped Blake's jeers, and he rocked on his feet; another one down below, and the life was wheezing out of his throat. Blake closed; his great arms wound about Anthony; the young man strove with all his power, but he could not escape. He heard the hurrying feet of the seamen behind him; then came the voice of mademoiselle, high-pitched, almost a scream.
"Go back!" it said. "Go back! I'll fire if you take another step."
Anthony forced Blake around, and so saw the length of the deck forward, over his shoulder. The girl, her eyes blazing, her hair loosened, stood between him and the sailors; she had the pistol he had given her, and it was lifted menacingly.
More time! What a girl! And time was what he needed then; just a little time. He dug his elbow into Blake's throat and so shut off his breath; the frightful blow on the side of the head had weakened the man; but let him fight his way through this phase and he would recover. Viciously the elbow dug deeper; with his great chest empty, the man let go; his aimless feet took him back a step, and then the whistling blows smashed into his body, and he fell.
Panting, torn, his face black and threatening, Anthony turned upon the two men.
"Hoist out the yawl," he said.
With his own weight added to the lines, the boat was swung out and lowered. Blake, broken and unconscious, was put into it, as was the body of Tarrant; then the seamen pulled away toward the brig.
And when they had gone theRufus Stevenswas put into the wind once more; and Anthony, leaning against the wheel, said to mademoiselle:
"That is the last."
"Oh, I hope and pray it is so!" she said.
He took a shining strand of the dark, loosened hair in his hand and kissed it; and she clung to him and looked up at him. And the winds of the ocean stirred about them and filled the sails; and the great ship, for whose safety they had endured so much, bore them slowly homeward.