Anthony went back to the fire, and sat for an hour or more considering what he'd better do next day; then he called the landlord, and a porter was given a candle and told to show him to his room. This was at the side of the house facing the river; and when the porter had gone Anthony blew out the candle, pulled back the window-curtains, and stood looking out. The wind was blowing in gusts, and had a thin, bitter sound; clouds were driving along the sky; the stars were small and cold and far away. Across the dismal wrack of the winter marsh he saw the ice-choked river, running like a gray streak across the darkness. He watched this for some time; then he drew the curtains once more, relighted the candle, opened his roll of belongings, and prepared for bed.
It was a solid, honest-looking room: the bed had tall posts and a tick swollen with feathers; the sheets were white and smelled sweet as he stretched himself between them. There was not a sound but the wind and the shaking of the window-frames. All the people of the countryside must be indoors, he thought, to avoid the cold. And they showed good sense in that. There was nothing so disagreeable as a bleak night, afloat or ashore; and there was nothing quite so comfortable as a snug bed. He had nothing to say against good company, mind you, or a cheery fire and some hot drink, and tales of adventuring here and there. Many a bad night might be turned to pleasant account that way. It was a fine, good-humored, and companionable way. But, after all, a good bed—long enough, so that one might stretch out in it—was best; you could lie and think if you had the mind, or you could doze off luxuriously with nothing to prevent you.
Anthony dozed off; and then he slept. And finally he awoke. He did not know how much time had passed; but he did know that his room door was partly open, and that some one stood there looking in. The part-light glinted coldly upon the long barrel of a pistol; a man held the weapon in both hands, and it was pointed toward the bed; one eye of the man glanced sharply along its length, and the other was covered by a patch.
Then there were quick feet in the passage; there was a voice,—a woman's voice,—angry, but whispering, a scuffling, a curse! Then the door closed and a key shot-to the bolt. Anthony leaped out of bed; he opened the door with his own key, and looked out. The passage was lighted grayly by a window at one end; it was empty and silent. For an instant it was in his mind to believe he had been dreaming; but there upon the floor, the morning light cold upon its barrel, lay a holster pistol, its hammer drawn back at full cock.
As he stood looking at the pistol lying on the floor of the passage, a rage grew in Anthony's breast; he returned to his room and drew on his clothes; into the passage he went once more, took up the pistol, and looked to its loading and priming at the window. Then, lowering the hammer and holding to the barrel, he thumped upon the door nearest him with the butt.
"Landlord! Everybody! Turn out! My life has been put in danger in this damned house! Landlord!"
From door to door, down the passage, he went; the pistol butt fell noisily upon each, and at each he swore bitter oaths.
"Landlord! Out with you! By God, there's not a man in all this place but must answer to me!"
There were hurried sounds behind the closed doors; a servant of the inn came toiling up the stairs.
"Sir," said he. "You'll have the house aroused. What is the matter?"
"Get me the landlord," directed Anthony. "Tell him not to delay. I have a sharp word or two for that good man."
"The landlord is still abed," said the servant.
Anthony took him by the scruff of the neck and held his face against the glass of the window.
"Who do you see in the yard?" demanded he.
It was the landlord himself, and hastily leading out a team of swift-looking horses, attached to a sleigh. At the same time a man was seen to cross the yard from the direction of the tavern door; it was the man with the patch over one eye, and he took the reins and stepped into the sleigh. Anthony tore at the window to open it, but it was fast; with the pistol butt he smashed the glass, and while it was still crashing and jingling he shouted.
"Stop! I'd like a moment with you, sir!"
The man in the sleigh gave one upward look, then wheeled his horses to face the road. Anthony leveled the pistol and fired; the heavy ball smashed through the back of the sleigh; there were cries from all parts of the inn; then, seizing the remainder of his belongings, Anthony ran down the stairs.
At the outer door he met the landlord, thick-set, swift, with bright dangerous eyes; and the man held out a hand to stop him.
"Monsieur takes many liberties," said the landlord. "He smashes my windows, and fires at my guests."
Anthony saw the hostler with whom he had spoken the night before standing at the door of the barn.
"My horses," said he, "and let me have them quickly."
"First," said the landlord, and the hand was still held out, "we shall speak a few words."
"So we shall," said Anthony, as he looked at him from under frowning brows. "And they shall be very few." He struck aside the man's hand and gripped him by the shoulder. "What manner of place do you keep here, where your crony tries to murder a traveler in his bed, and you lend your ready help to have him escape?"
The Frenchman, with a heave of his powerful body, pulled himself free; there was a savage glint in his eye and a purposeful set to his jaws. He leaped at Anthony like an ape, and at once had him cleverly about the body.
"Now, my loud-crowing young gentleman, I'll show you something," said he.
There were some of the tavern's people who had gathered by this; heads were seen at windows, and each face wore a grin of derision for Anthony. Softly, creepingly, the cunning grip shifted and improved itself. From the ease of the things doing, the young man knew he was in the hands of a master of wrestling; he saw the bulging of the big thews under the Frenchman's clothes, and the swelling of his thick neck.
"In another two minutes," said a voice, "he'll not have enough breath in his body to whisper with. And a little space ago he was talking loud enough."
Anthony thought he knew this voice; he cocked an eye over the shoulder of the straining Frenchman in its direction and saw the big young man of the New York packet.
"Hah!" said Anthony, "it was half in my mind that you'd be here, my friend." The hostler, whom he had ordered to make ready his sleigh, stood in the barn-door, the harness in his hands, his mouth open. "Don't waste my time, good friend," Anthony called to him. "Get the horses to the sleigh; for after I've finished here I'll want to take to the road in the wake of the person who just left."
The Frenchman was proceeding in a methodical, workman-like manner; his thick arms were contracting steadily about Anthony's body; under their pressure the young man felt his ribs bending, his vitals crushed, and his breath grow short. And all the time the Frenchman growled like a surly dog.
"We shall see in a moment," he wheezed. "We shall see how you'll talk when I've done with you, my high-stepper!"
But Anthony had a plan in his mind, and his thoughts were now on it alone. He threw his weight forward, and the Frenchman gave back; the tavern yard was thick with snow, frozen over in a rough crust; at one place where much water had been thrown there was a smooth ice, and it was upon this that the young man forced the wrestler. To put forward the effort needed in his bone-crushing the man needed good footing; and here he had none. Once upon the glassy spot he began to slip, and his grip grew slack. Anthony's right knee instantly came up, short, sharp, vicious; once, twice, thrice it struck the Frenchman in the stomach, and he went a deathly green. Anthony tore himself from the weakened grip, and lashed out with his fist; it struck the wrestler on the side of the head, and he fell and lay without motion.
"My sleigh in two minutes," said Anthony as he glanced toward the barn; then he stepped to where the onlookers were grouped, and his lowering eyes marked each one. They were mostly young, or in the prime of life, sailormen, or having the look of mercantile pursuits, hardy of body, keen of eye, and of ready manner.
"My life," said Anthony, "has been put in danger in this place, and until I have good and sufficient proof to the contrary I shall believe that each man of you had a knowledge of it." He lifted his gaze to the windows, some of which had been thrown up despite the bitter weather. "I don't know why this is," said he to them, "but," and with his chin out he defied them, "it would give me a great deal of pleasure to go into the matter with you."
"It's an honest inn," said the big young man, as he smiled good-humoredly at Anthony. "And filled with honest people. Your romantic disposition and instinct for situations, if you'll let me say so, sir, are leading you astray."
"I waken in the early morning," said Anthony, "and see a man with whom I talked the night before holding a pistol pointed at me. A few minutes later I see him about to drive off, assisted by the landlord. I attempt to follow; the landlord tries to prevent me, and you all stand about and agree that he's in the right." Out of the tail of his eye he saw his horses being put into the sleigh; and he went on: "I think I could remain here to good advantage for an hour or two," said he, "but the gentleman who just now took to the road has the first claim to my attention." He moved with a long stride toward the sleigh, and helped the hostler with the traces and reins; also he looked sharply to the buckles; and while doing so he continued, "However, I shall keep this place in mind, and the questions I have to ask I will ask some of you when we meet again."
"You think, then, there will be another meeting," laughed the big young man.
"At any rate," said Anthony, "you and I shall meet." He got into the sleigh, wrapped the robes about him, and took up the reins. "So give thought to it; I've had you in mind for some time, and want no advantage over you."
And then he spoke to the horses; in a moment they were out of the inn yard, and Anthony was facing toward New Castle in the track of the man with the patch over his eye.
Anthony had a feeling that the one-eyed man had taken the road toward Wilmington; so he put the sorrels to their best, and the miles spun behind them. The man ahead had no such horses, and Anthony felt he'd bring up with him before the next few hours went by. His first halt was at a decent-looking tavern on the verge of Wilmington. While giving his horses time to blow, he ate a little food and talked with the landlord.
"It's early for travel at this time of year," said he, as he munched the boiled beef and the good white bread. "I suppose I'm the first of the morning."
"Oh, no," said the host, an honest, stout man, who looked as though his judgment of ale was of the best; "there have been several passed before you."
"None you knew, however," said Anthony.
"I knew them all," said the stout tavern-keeper. "There was old Ned Dance with his bags of meal from the miller's, and Simon, the cabinet-maker's man, from Chadd's Ford; and then there was the master of the French ship—"
"What French ship?" asked Anthony.
"She that lies a few miles below; an armed ship she is, too, perhaps a letter-of-marque, but with only a few men aboard of her."
"What appearing man is her master," asked Anthony with interest.
"Not a Frenchman, though you'd expect him to be. He's American, right enough, and one that I'm not fond of because of a kind of slithering laugh he's got. And he wears a patch over one of his eyes."
Anthony smiled and seemed to enjoy the bread and beef much more than before.
"So that's who my gentleman is!" he said to himself. "And with an ice-locked ship." Then he said aloud, "I suppose he was on his way to his vessel when he went by?"
"Where else?" asked the host. "He never goes further south than that; and no further north than the Brig Tavern, which is off the road, some miles from here."
"I have heard that is an excellent place of entertainment," said Anthony.
"It was for many years," said the host, with a nod of the head, "and, as far as food and drink and such-like go, is so still. But," and here the nod turned to a shake, "in other ways it seems different now. I've heard ill reports of it."
"It's a place for shipmen to stop, I've been told," said Anthony. "If that is so, there cannot be a great deal wrong with it."
"There are shipmen and shipmen," said the stout tavern-keeper. "Some are honest and give their minds to bringing their ships home, all snug and trim, and carrying profitable merchandise; others again have never sailed an honest voyage and never stowed an item of cargo that was properly come by."
"Pirates," smiled Anthony. "But there are none such in these waters."
"Where there is gain to be had there will your villains gather," said the host. "There is a rich city up the river, and in that city there are many crafty rascals."
"I'll not deny that," said Anthony. "But cunning roguery and open plunder are different things; many a man would venture one who would fear the other."
"Things have altered since my grandfather's day," said the host. "Then there was Kyd and Teach and Avery, sailing into the bay when ever it pleased them, trafficking with the merchants, being friends of governors, having in their ships' companies those who were members of state assemblies, walking the streets of towns, with their heads up brazenly, and known to every man and woman who met them. To-day, of course, things are different," added the man. "They are quite different."
"And better?" said Anthony, and there was an expectant look in his eye.
"As to that I'll not say," answered the tavern-keeper. "For I'm not sure. We have our own officials now, if that's any gain for us. But men are the same as they've always been; they crave money still and will use dark practices and outlawed ways to get it. There's many a fine ship that passes out beyond these capes that's never heard of again."
"Storms blow at sea as they've always done," said Anthony.
"True; and the knowledge of that is what keeps people's minds from other things; they place all to the discredit of wind and wave. But, sir, there are ships still at sea that can't show papers; even now there are lonely headlands and reefs and sandspits that could harbor bands of ruffians. And more than that: there are merchants and traders and agents—the rascals of whom I just now spoke—who can market loot and communicate intelligence."
"Is it your thought," asked Anthony, "that the Brig Tavern is being used as a means of furthering some such traffic as this?"
The man shook his head.
"I could not go before the authorities and so swear," said he. "But odd things are said of the place; it seems much used just now by those who are forwardest with their talk of arming American ships and sending them out under the French flag against the British."
"I've heard whispers of that purpose, but nothing to give attention to," said Anthony.
"This war in Europe will give excuse to many a rascally thing in our waters before we are done with it," warned the landlord. "Mark you that."
Anthony finished his bread and beef, and drank the mug of ale which had been brought to him; and, after some further talk with the landlord, he paid his score, took to his sleigh once more, and in the course of some few hours was in New Castle. He gave no more thought to the man with the patch over his eye; he now knew where to find him and would attend to him later on. TheGeneral Starkwas pointed out to him as she lay ice-locked about a hundred or more yards from the shore; and he lost no time in getting aboard of her. He talked with the second mate and spent that night in the ship. Next day he went briskly to work collecting sledges for the work in hand; messengers ran roads, notices were posted at stores and taverns, and by the third morning upward of a hundred stout teams were drawn up on the river-bank, ready to carry through the project. The hatches were off theGeneral Stark, and the merchandise was hoisted cheerily out of her; spans of horses did the hauling at the tackle; the sledges were brought to the ship-side and received the cargo as it was swung out of the hold. By night all the valuable parts of the vessel's cargo were transferred; and by dawn next day the caravan, one sledge behind the other, started up the river road. Corkery had rejoined the ship by this; and he stood on deck, his elbows on the rails, watching the long file of laden vehicles as they plodded onward.
"That is the kind of enterprise this river knows little of," said he. "You'll make a stir when that merchandise gets to the market, Mr. Stevens; they'll open their eyes."
The gray of early morning was upon the leaden river, with its ridges of dirty snow and its dispirited, helpless ships. Anthony's eyes were fixed upon a schooner about a mile away, from the galley of which smoke was arising.
"That, I think, is a French armed vessel of which I have heard," said he.
"She is French, and she is armed," answered Corkery.
"I have a trifle of business aboard of her," said Anthony.
The deck was littered with broken bits of timber, thrown down in the hurried work of hoisting the cargo; and from this Anthony selected a stout cudgel. He threw it over the ship's side; then, without another word to Corkery, he slid down a rope, put the cudgel under his arm, and, with hands thrust deeply into his pockets, set off across the ice to the other ship.
As he reached its side a voice called in French.
"Well, my early morning friend, what is your wish?"
Anthony looked up. A small man, dark of skin, and in a red mob-cap, leaned over the rail amidships and eyed him with disapproval.
"A SMALL MAN ... LEANED OVER THE RAIL AMIDSHIPS, AND EYED HIM WITH DISAPPROVAL."
"A SMALL MAN ... LEANED OVER THE RAIL AMIDSHIPS, AND EYED HIM WITH DISAPPROVAL."
"A SMALL MAN ... LEANED OVER THE RAIL AMIDSHIPS, AND EYED HIM WITH DISAPPROVAL."
"To come aboard," said Anthony.
There were some steps let down from the schooner's side, and he quietly climbed them. The small man met him at the rail and put out a protesting hand.
"It is forbidden!" said he. "This is the French republican shipLe Mousquet, and not a merchantman."
Anthony put the hand aside.
"I desire to see the captain," he said.
"The citizen captain is at breakfast in his cabin," said the small man. "He will see no one."
But Anthony was knocking at the cabin-door in another moment.
"Enter," said a voice. Anthony went in, and there he found the man with the patch over his eye engaged in pouring chocolate from a pot into a silver cup. Surprised, the man put down the pot; then he smirked at Anthony, collected enough, and said:
"Ah! so it is you! I have heard news of you and your ship. You are a man of purpose, sir. Allow me to congratulate you."
"Citizen," said the small man, putting his head in at the cabin, "it was against my directions that you are intruded upon."
"It is no matter," said the captain. "The gentleman will be going in another moment." He took up the silver cup and sipped the chocolate. "To what, sir, do I owe this visit?"
Anthony kicked aside the little table which sat before the one-eyed man, and the things it held crashed to the floor. Alertly the small man seized him.
"My friend," said Anthony tolerantly. "I have no business with you, and less desire to do you harm. So go outside like a decent fellow."
He threw the little man from the cabin, and shut and locked the door; and as he turned about he saw the schooner's master taking a pistol from the cupboard. The pistol exploded as the cudgel struck it; and the bullet tore through the housing. Then Anthony gathered the man's neck-cloth in his grip and beat him until his knees grew limp and the blood ran from him; then he dropped him upon the floor and went upon the deck. The small man was there; and with him were the black ship's cook and a boy who had round, surprised eyes and held a cutlass as probably one had never been held before. Anthony smiled as he looked at them.
"Citizens of the republican shipLe Mousquet," said he, "I have every sympathy with your cause and great respect for your vessel. But your captain had earned a beating at my hands, and has received it. You'll find him inside there, looking a deal worse than he actually is. A little water thrown upon him will be all he'll need; but you'd do well to get that at once. And so: good day to you!"
Then he went down the steps at the schooner's side and trudged away toward the spot on the river-bank where he could see his sleigh awaiting him.
The journey up to the city was much slower than the one down. The heavily laden sledges, some of them drawn by oxen, kept constantly moving, but their day's accomplishment was not great. And, then, the men of the caravan must be provided for, the cattle must be fed, watered, and rested, and a guard must be kept all night through. In these things Anthony's experience with pack-trains in the deserts and mountains served him well; and the morning of the fifth day saw the sledges drawn up at the door of the warehouses and a score of porters busy carrying and trundling the merchandise within.
"Well," said Charles when Anthony finally came into the counting-room, "here you are, and there is your work very well done, my boy: I'm proud of you."
Anthony slept soundly that night and until noon next day. When he reached the counting-room once more, he found it bustling actively.
"There's been more real buying and selling in an hour to-day than there has been in the last month," said Whitaker, rubbing his hands, much pleased. "Captain Weir has been at the City Tavern since morning, and you never saw such a stirring as he has around him. The news of the cargo has spread about like a breeze; every one knows of it and seems to want hides and drugs and coffee."
That evening, as Anthony was examining some tally-sheets which Twitchell had given him, word came that Charles desired to see him before he left. A few minutes later Anthony went into his uncle's room; Charles sat in the corner of his small sofa which was drawn up to the fire, nursing his lame foot and watching the flames as they licked at the hickory logs. He bade Anthony sit down, which the young man did.
"What you've just done," said Charles, "shows me you are of the outdoor breed, and one who can bring off victory in the face of stern conditions. As I said to Weir a while ago, a man like you would be wasted in a counting-room; and I'd not like to see that. In a month," and he looked at Anthony speculatively, "the ice will be out of the bay and theGeneral Starkcan put to sea. A cargo will be awaiting her at New York for Havana; at Havana there'll be tobacco and rum and sugar for Liverpool; and at Liverpool there'll be ironmongery, woolens, and piece-goods for the East."
"Well?" said Anthony.
"Word has come that theStark'scaptain is dead," said Charles.
"I saw him twice while at New Castle," said Anthony, shocked; "and they thought him improved."
"He was a steady, good seaman," said Charles, "and we shall miss him much;" and then, the speculative look still in his eye, "Would you care to take the ship and sail in his place?"
"No," said Anthony.
"Don't be hasty," said Charles. "Let your mind work with the thought a little. Think."
"I have no need to think," said Anthony. "I stay in this counting-room until I've mastered its history."
"You surprise me," said Charles; "for I felt sure the blood of your grandfather would speak there."
"Perhaps it has," said Anthony quietly.
"Weir said you wouldn't take the ship; indeed, he said you shouldn't." Charles laughed and nodded his head. "I never saw the captain agree with any one as he does with you. He seems to be always of your mind exactly. Whatever you think best, he consents to at once."
And Anthony, as he listened to this, felt a stirring of unrest in his mind; it was a vague thing, yet it left him questioning, and, somehow, insecure.
February passed, and, midway in March, the ice broke in the river and bay, and ships began to move up and down. But while waiting for this Anthony had gone on with his study of the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons; and the deeper he got into them the more thoughtful and puzzled he seemed, the more elaborate were the notes he took, the more he frowned as he went about his business during the day, and the more he felt a desire for some one with whom to talk and compare judgments.
But, also, there was another interest looming during the late winter and early spring. This was the first of the new ships which Charles had ordered; all winter the work had gone forward at the Siddons yard in Shackamaxon; shipwrights, joiners, blacksmiths, worked under the sheds and in the open; the huge ways were the wonder of the waterfront, and as the oaken hull grew and began to rear people formed parties of a Sunday or a holiday and drove up the river road to see it. The work had reached this stage about the time the ice broke up; and then, with the sight of the moving shipping to stir his blood, Charles began to urge haste.
"TheRufus Stevensmust be launched, have her masts placed, the rigging bent, and be in the dock receiving cargo by the last week in June," said he.
"That will be six months' building time," said Siddons. "I know vessels have been put into the water in that space, but they were not of this one's quality and substance, seasoned timbers and excellent joining. Six months! Why, sir, the like has never been done on this river. Here we've gone through a severe winter; come wet or dry, cold or snow, we've not missed a day; if we couldn't work on the structure, we've worked under the sheds at making ready the timbers or forging the ironmongery. My calculations were the middle of September at the earliest, and that was promising much, Mr. Stevens."
But Charles insisted; and so the hum of the Siddons yard increased as the spring warmed. Such a hammering and sawing as there was; such a chipping and shaving and boring and fitting the clever old place had never seen before. It had been Anthony's practice, at least twice a week, all winter through, to make a visit to the yard, for the growing might of theRufus Stevensfascinated him. He had been there the day the keel was laid—a keel of solid, seasoned, toughened oak, as surely fitted, as strongly braced as old Rufus' spine had been. And to this grew the ribs, powerful, graceful, bent cunningly to waste the impact of the sea and to give space to the ship's cargo. Then the beams went in to brace the frame—mighty, weighty, strong beams, of live-oak that was like iron; beams that had been nursed and molded and cut to fit by shrewd joiners. Live-oak had been Charles's highest demand—live-oak that had been felled in proper time, and seasoned in the sun and rain and wind. The stem was made of it—a great, cutting stem that would throw the seas lightly apart; the stern-post was of it, and also the transoms, aprons, knight-heads, hawse-timbers, and keelson; and it was all clean and without defects.
And now, in April, the hull towered like a monster against the background of low sheds; workmen swarmed eagerly over it; their hammersrat-tat-tattedlike the beaks of woodpeckers; the clean smell of wood was everywhere. In a dock at one side floated huge round timbers; the dark mouth of a shed opened down to the water's edge, and here other timbers of a like kind had been drawn out, and workmen, each with a deftly used adze, were shaping the new ship's masts.
Anthony would walk among the chips and shavings, breathing in the fragrance of them: the level drumming from the hollow body of the making craft filled his ears; the smiths in their dusky forges fashioned red bars into bolts and clamps and hooks as he stood in their doorways; and from the depths of the yard he caught the glint of the full river in the sun; he saw spread sails creeping down to the sea; the smoke of the city floated across the blue sky; the trees were green along the shore; and the spring filled his body as it had when he was a boy. And there was the island, the green, long, narrow island, midway in the river, with the spur of sand shooting out toward the south, which the rising tide would cover.
And then as his mind went back he would see the bobbing head of a youthful adventurer above the water, a naked, white, boyish body breasting the crosses of the current, drifting to leeward of a market-seeking sloop, climbing the bow-chains of an anchored schooner; and then he would see him, slim, exultant, alone, on the rim of the island, waiting for the tide to turn, that he might slip back with it to the dock which had been his starting-place.
But, also, the spring brought other things than the new ship and thoughts and feelings of boyhood. The shackles of winter having fallen from the port, matters sharpened remarkably. Glum faces gave place to eager ones; markets were exceedingly active; merchandise flowed in with gratifying steadiness; cargoes were rich, rare, of unexpected quantity. There seemed scarcely a day but a ship, home-bound from the East, from the West Indies, from the Spanish countries, rounded the bend in the river, her sails full and her decks alive with her company. Each time one appeared a watching merchant thrilled with opportunity; and this thrill found its way into the crush and scuffle at the City Tavern, in Walnut Street, where traders and dealers and merchants met and arranged their affairs, and bought and sold and drank and smoked. It was a low-ceilinged place, with wide windows, sanded floors, square-setting chairs, and oaken tables. It rattled with tableware and glasses; and it clacked with tongues, offering and accepting, protesting and praising, promising and rejecting. Captain Weir transacted most of the business for Rufus Stevens' Sons that was done here, but Anthony frequently visited the place to get the touch of the market and watch the temper of the moment.
And so, one day, he went in and sat down on a settle by an open window with a glass of French brandy and a pipe, and composed himself for half an hour's comfort. It was a sunny, blowy day with great palisades of white clouds sweeping over the city toward the sea; a tree growing near the edge of the pavement was white with buds; old horses tramping over the stones tossed their heads, and their rekindled eyes seemed to see the green pastures and bright streams of their youth. The brandy had a fine, full scent, and was thick and smooth upon the palate; the tobacco, too, was aromatic and soothing, and Anthony smiled at the day, at his own feelings, at the world; and he sat back, contentedly, to listen and see.
A thick-set little man with bandy legs, and a bullet head set aggressively upon his shoulders, stood near him.
"I understand your brigAnna and Sarahis in," said he to a Quaker-looking man. "Is she stowing anything that might take my interest?"
"I have sundry items to offer," said the Quaker-like man. "Rum of approved quality. And West Indian tobacco. On Clifford's Wharf, just taken out of the brig, I have Muscovado sugar in hogsheads, excellent for any common use."
"There's a-plenty of sugar to be had," said the thick-set man, slapping one of his bandy legs with a whip which he carried. "I could stock a warehouse with brown or white, in an hour. But of your rum, now; what's that?"
"It is of Jamaica for the most part; but there's some of Cuba. It's all of a good age, a rich brown color, excellent strong body, and has been well kept. It is mostly in barrels—barrels once used for sherry, which gives that flavor so much desired; but there is a quantity in puncheons of full ninety gallons, still in the brig, but ready for delivery in a reasonable time."
To Anthony's right was a hook-nosed man who smoked a pipe in nervous puffs; money and exchange seemed to trouble him enormously, and he talked with a stolid, comfortable-looking man across the table from him, in high exasperation.
"I wouldn't give that for all the beggarly pistareens you could cram into a sack," stated the hook-nosed man, as he snapped his fingers. "Such stuff is not money, and should not be recognized as such. And then your Netherlands guilders, your mark bancos, your florins, francs, livres, and shillings! What has such rattling metal to do with the exchanges of civilized peoples? What right, even, have their names to assume places in the conversations of men of commercial substance?"
"Their place," said the comfortable man, "is small but respectable. And when gathered together they make great weight in the world. Your florin, now, is a realer thing to many a man than your pistole, because it is nearer to his reach. Livres, pistareens, francs, and shillings turn the balance of the world in a time of stress, sir; and they make its prosperity in time of peace."
But the hook-nosed man had an eager and indignant soul.
"I contend," said he, "that the very weight of small coin, of which you seem so proud, is one of the things that hang to the rim of the world and keep it in check. Human-kind is laboring to-day under a burden of fractional silver that is as overpowering as the copper currency of the past. I contend that heavy money, like heavy bread, is killing to the imagination; and without imagination there is no progress. What inspiration is there in a cold, white coin stamped with the smug features of some fat-natured prince? Is it a thing to lift a man out of the ruck? It is not. Never has the possession of a piece of coined silver caused a man to raise his head and think a thought above his fellows; the sight of such a coin has never made a slave to rebel against his master; a till full of them has yet to make a merchant feel in a fair way of business."
"Enough of them can always be exchanged for others of a higher value," argued the comfortable man.
This fact seemed to inspire the other to increased resentment.
"It should not be," he declared. "There is never a time that I lay out a gold piece and get a pallid collection of silver bits in exchange that I don't feel I've been robbed. I have no grudge against silver as a metal, mark you; for as such it has its uses. It is only when you put a stamp upon disks of it and tell me it's money that I rise up against you. For then it's a cheat; it's a cold unencouraging thing; and for all its pretense it's not quick; the only life it has is that given it by the efforts of men like you."
"Might not the same be said of gold?" asked the other man.
"Never," said he of the hook-nose, positively. "Impossible. For gold, sir, possesses something more than the natural chemistry of its composition. And, in spite of the general belief, learned men of other years did not give their minds to transmuting the duller metals only because of the profit it might bring them."
"What, then, was it?" asked the comfortable man.
"If the truth were known," said the other, "we'd find that they sought for a life principle which nature had hidden from us, and which gold possesses. It is a thing which the eye can see and the hand touch, but for which we have not a proper understanding."
"Ah!" said the comfortable man tolerantly. "You give a kind of magic to it."
"I do not," denied the man with the hook-nose. "To prove to yourself that there's rare virtue in gold, you have only to note its effect upon dulled, whipped, and joyless things. Put a piece of it into the pocket of a poor man, and it at once begins to warm him; his eyes see things not visible before; his mind dreams dreams. Many a man has crept, shabby and ashamed, before the face of day; and the touch of gold has brought his eyes to a level, and put some of that curl into his lip that makes life possible."
A number of persons were speaking through the smoke of their pipes at a round table at Anthony's elbow.
"By God!" said one, "she came racing home, two weeks before her time, and looking as fit as a queen! And until she let go her anchor in the stream, opposite my wharf, she'd never taken in a sail."
"What does your master report?" asked another. "Are there many English or French war-ships in the trade paths?"
"He sighted some sail of them," said the first man, "but they were too far away to give him any worry."
"Two days out from Antwerp the shipHuntresshad her foremast splintered by a six-pound shot."
"The British are brisk with their shots," grumbled the second man.
"Too brisk," said the third. "And the French are as bad. If they must cut each other's throats, why can't they do it quietly? Here we are at peace with the world and making shift to get our fair share of its trade, and they must set to popping away at each other, and churning the sea all into a muddle."
"It may be," said a thin voice from the middle of the room, "that I can get your interest for a moment, sir. I am disposing of the cargo of the India shipBountiful. There is ginger and indigo; silk, piece-goods, plain and in patterns; saltpeter, hides, and shellac. All excellent merchandise and ready for sale, inspection, and delivery."
Anthony felt some one slip into the settle beside him; and, turning his head he saw Mr. Sparhawk, trim, perky, and pink of face.
"Good morning," said the little man, smiling and nodding. "The fine spring days are doing you no harm, I see."
"I'm glad enough to see them come. The winter seemed a long one," said Anthony.
"It was," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "And severe. Exceptionally severe. I do not recall a winter like it in many years." He smiled about the room, with its eddies of tobacco smoke, its reek of spirits and ale, its lifting voices and earnest merchants. "You like this hurly-burly, I think?" said he.
"Yes," answered Anthony.
"Young men always crave conflict," said Mr. Sparhawk. "If it's not of one sort it's of another. Some like to take themselves away to strange places and collect merchandise in perilous ways; others covet the uncertainties of the sea in bringing the goods home; but you, it seems, are the kind who like to measure wits with the sharpers in the exchanges, after the ship is in and the cargo on the wharf."
"While I like the attacks and defenses, the doublings and turnings of merchandizing," said Anthony, "I will not say it is an object with me. I'd much rather be your collector of good in foreign ports, or your shipman who carries them home."
Mr. Sparhawk laughed pleasantly.
"And yet Dr. King tells me you've lately refused theGeneral Stark, when your uncle would have made you master of her."
Anthony nodded; but his eyes were fixed upon the earnest traffickers about him. Mr. Sparhawk put his finger-tips together with precision.
"I would have thought," said he, "that to a youth of your active habit of mind that would have been an unusual offer. TheStarkis an able vessel, I'm told, and a lucky vessel, which means even more."
"I have no wish to go to sea just now," said Anthony.
Mr. Sparhawk was exceedingly good-humored; he nodded and smiled and agreed with the young man's frame of mind.
"I think I can quite understand what you mean," said he. "There are none of us desire to do a thing which we feel is not important. And it was your putting the ship aside and showing an interest in the counting-room and the exchange that made me holdthemas the things important to you."
Anthony said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk took out a snuff-box; after offering it to the young man, he took a pinch and sat tapping the lid with one finger.
"It is a most interesting thing," said he, "to take note of what different men regard as important. Now, there was your grandfather, a careful, far-seeing man, and who gave a deal of attention to all the small matters of the firm. Then here is your uncle, who would not turn his head to look at one of them."
"Do not results tell when we are right?" asked Anthony.
"They should," said Mr. Sparhawk, "and probably they do. In your grandfather's day," with a nod of the head, "the house worked like a clock. It was regularity itself. One could count upon it absolutely."
"You don't find it so now?" said Anthony, and he looked at the little man keenly.
"Don't mistake my meaning," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It is still a steady house; it is still one to hold to with respect. But the steadiness is not of the same quality. Great strokes are made; fine things are done; but, between them, other things fail most singularly. There seem to be pitfalls, so to speak, where in old Rufus's day all would have been solid ground."
There was a short pause; Anthony laid his pipe upon the window-sill and studied the smiling, perky little man beside him. Then he spoke.
"Mr. Sparhawk," said he, "I wonder do you recall the night last fall when we met at the house of Dr. King."
"Very well," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite well. It was a pleasure, and a surprise."
"Whitaker was there," said Anthony, "and he spoke of several losses Rufus Stevens' Sons had had at sea."
"He did," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I think I could name the very ships."
"They were theSea MewandTwo Brothers."
"Right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Stout, able vessels; well found and competently mastered."
"They were lost, I hear, within a few months of each other," said Anthony.
"Let us say three," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It was less, I think, but, to be quite sure, we'll put it at three."
"And the loss of each was noted at the time as singular, I believe?" said Anthony.
"Unusual," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite unusual."
"During these past months," said Anthony, "I have been going into the books of the house for some years back."
"Dr. King mentioned that," said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was a pleasant interest in his face.
"I find in my searching there were other losses before the two we've mentioned," said Anthony. "And there were some after."
Mr. Sparhawk nodded.
"Your grandfather never had a complete loss," said he. "No matter how desperate the mischance, something was always saved from the wreck. And, with his ships, disaster was always written in terms a sailorman could understand: wind or wave, shoal or rock."
"I see what you mean," said Anthony. "None of his vessels foundered in the night, like theTwo Brothers, and left their companies adrift in small boats on a sea as quiet as a lake."
"That was odd," said Mr. Sparhawk. "That was very odd."
"And theSea Mew?" said Anthony.
Mr. Sparhawk crossed his worsted-clad legs and sat back at his ease.
"Of the two," said he, "theSea Mew'scase was perhaps the most singular. There were goods in her to the amount of a half-million dollars, American."
"She sailed from Calcutta, and never made her next port of call," said Anthony. "There was a good breeze, well able to further a ship on her journey, but no more; and yet she was never seen again."
"Nor her crew," said Mr. Sparhawk.
"Nor her crew," said Anthony. "Poor fellows."
"Down into the sea they went with her," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Forty of them, in all."
"That were a worse fate than theTwo Brothers," said Anthony. "For there, at least, the ship's company was saved and stood by until the vessel sank."
"They were saved," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, that's true. But," and he cocked his head to one side with the motion that so made him look like a small, old, and very wise bird, "they did not stand by until the ship sank. I call that point to mind very distinctly. She was still afloat when they bent sails to the small boats and put away for the French coast, and so dropped her out of sight."
Anthony sat regarding the other with steadfast eyes; and in his mind he saw the ship's boats slipping away over the quiet sea, and the ship herself, left alone and silent, to any fate that might overtake her. The rats! The detestable, boring rats! This then, was how they had gone about their work! Upon a pretext, they would abandon ship,—no doubt in a given place,—and no sooner were they out of sight than the vessel and her cargo would be taken possession of by some waiting accomplices who came up, ready and eager. Then, away with the rascals to some safe place; both ship and cargo would be sold, and the booty divided between them. But what he would have said upon this point to Mr. Sparhawk remained wordless in Anthony's mind, for just then a man came up to them, a portly man who had the purple tinge of inconsiderate living about his nose.
"I caught sight of you more by chance than anything else," he said to Sparhawk. "I have been poking around after you all morning."
Mr. Sparhawk arose and shook the man's hand.
"There's a deal that hurries me in and out," said he. "I can never be taken for granted at this season of the year." To Anthony he said, "You have met Mr. Stroude, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes," said Anthony, as he, too, shook hands with the merchant. "I hope I see you well, Mr. Stroude."
"You see," grumbled the merchant, "a man badgered quite beyond his patience, sir. What between getting a ship, and checking up her cargo, and arranging for the continuance of certain moneys, I've had enough to fret any reasonable person; and now there must come something else."
"Oh, tut, tut!" said Mr. Sparhawk regretfully.
"It's been my experience," said the merchant, "that no matter how much bother fills a man's day there's still some further devilment in store for him somewhere before he reaches his bed at night." He looked at Mr. Sparhawk. "I am given to understand," said he, "you have found some fault with theEclipse."
"None!" denied Mr. Sparhawk at once. "None. TheEclipseis a fine ship, and rates first class."
"Then why has her insurance gone up since I spoke to you last?"
Mr. Sparhawk was more regretful than ever.
"That was a most unexpected thing," he said. "I am very sorry for it. The explanation is this: Mr. Baily holds a large part of your risk, and unfortunately Mr. Baily is not a bold man. All this talk we hear of the French privateers is hard on the courage of persons like him."
Mr. Stroude stared.
"What have French privateers to do with me?" he asked.
"There is one at anchor in the stream just opposite the wharf where your ship is taking in her merchandise. She was fitted out in the early winter, I believe, but received her letter-of-marque from Citizen Genêt only a few days ago. She was once of Lewes, in Delaware, and was called theHoratio Gates. Now she is known asLe Mousquet."
Anthony stirred at this, but he said nothing.
"Well?" demanded Mr. Stroude.
"I'm told she is mostly manned by Americans of whom we have no reason to be proud. It came to Mr. Baily's ears to-day that the ship was taking a great interest in yours, and so he became alarmed. He could not forget, you see, that you are British-born and are still a subject of the king; and while theEclipseis an American ship her cargo is British owned."
Mr. Stroude snorted,
"Rubbish!" said he. "Utter rubbish! Mr. Baily sees an opportunity to get a higher rate from me; and I'll warrant that occupies him more than the chance of a parcel of pirates seizing my goods. But I shall see him before the day is done, and when I do, sir, let him expect some very plain speech from me." Then Mr. Stroude went grumpily toward the door. "British subject! Did I ever try to hide it? For what does the man take me? And pirates! Good God, one would think we were carrying on business on some spot of an island in the Carribbees."
This conversation stirred Anthony's interest sharply; he meant to go into the matter with Mr. Sparhawk, and also into the older and even more engaging affair of theSea Mew; but before he could do so the attention of Mr. Sparhawk was claimed elsewhere, and so he was forced to await a further occasion.
Upon reaching the counting-room on Water Street, Anthony saw Tom Horn re-nibbing a pen by a window; the spring sunshine flooded him, but, for all that, the impression Anthony got of him was of a wan coldness, a luminous, spectral quality such as can be seen in the breaking sea of a summer night. The man paused in his cutting of the pen as Anthony approached; and he said:
"Have I ever told you how I was wrecked when I sailed in theWilliam and Mary?"
"I knew youwerewrecked," said Anthony. "But I've never had any of the details."
"She was an India-built ship," said Tom Horn. "The firm had her of an Englishman. She was of teak, with ribs and beams of English oak. A stout, beautiful ship, and carrying a great weight of silks and other costly things. When you walked her deck she seemed as safe and solid as a continent; her walls were like the walls of a great building. I've watched the sea churn and leap and break under the wind; but it never seemed as if it could harm theWilliam and Mary."
"But you found it could, in the end?" said Anthony. "Let the wind blow hard enough and long enough from the right direction, and anything of man's building seems fragile enough."
"The wind moves in a circle around the world," said Tom Horn. "And the sea does, too. And, as they go, they catch up other winds and other seas; and so they band together and gain force, and crush and rend. TheWilliam and Marywas within the circle; nothing under God's heaven could save her; she was tossed as a chip is tossed by the wind; she slid down the sides of the great waves as a stone goes down hill. The masts were out of her; and she was low by the head, on the third day," said Tom Horn. "And then we drifted out of the winds' circle. The sea flattened out and the sun shone; and then the officers and crew abandoned her."
"And you remained aboard?" asked Anthony.
"I was supercargo," said Tom Horn. "And all the rich goods in the hold were in my care. Captain Hollister urged me to go, but I would not."
"Captain Hollister," said Anthony. "Was he not once master of theSea Mew?"
"Yes," said Tom Horn. "Another good ship lost at sea." He looked at Anthony, silent for a moment, and Anthony looked at him. And the silence was filled with things that were not said. And then the man went on: "I saw them sail away in their little boats, and I sat on the deck and wondered what was in store for me. I was a full year in that hulk," said Tom Horn, "drinking the stinking water in the casks, and eating the wretched salt food; and in that time I drifted into still seas and saw strange sights. Once in the quiet of the night, with the sea having no motion, and a full moon hanging above, I saw a great reptile-like thing clamber up over the bow and slip along the deck; amidships it went over the side, and I heard it splash as it went into the water. It left a slimy track, as a monstrous snail might do," said Tom Horn; "and from that time I was afraid. I wanted the sight of land; I wanted the sight of people; I did not want to feel that on all the still seas, under that wide, white moon, I was the only creature with a soul given by God."
"Yes," said Anthony, "I understand."
Just then the door of Charles's room opened, and a long gangling man came out. He nodded and smiled at sight of Anthony. His teeth were large, with wide spaces between them; and from these, the outstanding ears and the pale watchful eyes, Anthony knew he had to do with Rehoboam Bulfinch.
"Good day," said Rehoboam, to Anthony, eagerly. "Good day, sir. It is excellent spring weather, is it not?" He nodded and smiled again, and moved toward the street door. "I have just been having a few words with your uncle. A splendid man. A really wonderful person. It's a pleasure to talk with him."
When the man had gone, Anthony stood for a moment, quite still; then he opened the door of his uncle's room and looked in. Charles sat in the corner of his sofa. He did not turn as the door opened; his eyes were fixed and full of fright; his face was white; his whole body seemed shrunken. Startled, Anthony halted, retreated, closed the door.
"It came unexpectedly," said Tom Horn. "It came out of the quiet sea, and left a trail of slime across the deck. And after that I was afraid."
"I don't wonder," said Anthony. "I don't wonder, indeed."
The end of April saw Anthony draw to the end of his long search among the ledgers. A heap of them lay in his lodgings; and written into the notes which he carried about in his pockets were many curious facts. And in those days the frown between his eyes was fixed, and he went about with lips tightly shut.
"Within a week," he told his uncle, "I shall have done; and then I'll want a long talk with you."
Charles smiled. It was not the quick, vital smile Anthony had come to know, and there was not the snap of the eyes, nor the flash of sound, white teeth.
"Very well," said Charles. "But I'm sure I'll not be able to follow you; for I've never permitted the books to trouble me greatly. However, Weir may be your man for that," with a nod toward that gentleman, who was present. "He has a talent for obscure things."
"If he will contrive to give me his attention when the time comes, I shall be pleased," said Anthony. Then he cocked his eye at them, for both had amused looks and neither seemed to hold the matter as very weighty. "No doubt," said he, "as you see the thing, its promise is a dull one."
"Old ledgers are not like old wine," said Captain Weir. "And while they may be, in a manner, useful, still I can't hope that age has given them any sparkle."
"I'll promise that the items I'll offer will cut into your interest like a flash." He tapped his breast-pocket. "Give me a few more facts like these," he said, "and then a talk with you will mortar them together. After that, who can say what astonishments are in store for us all?"
Charles had a puzzled look as Anthony went out of the room, and his hands, grown thin and white, picked at the tapestry that covered the sofa.
"He's like his grandfather, indeed," said he. "A purpose grows fixed with him, and nothing can turn him from it." There was a pause, and then he asked: "What has he come upon in the books, do you think, that has so taken his attention?"
"It would puzzle me to say," replied Captain Weir. "But, then, a pair of quick eyes and an insistent, inquiring mind have often turned up a vital fact in mold deader than Rufus Stevens' Sons' old ledgers."
Charles lay back in his sofa and studied Weir for a moment, his hands still picking at the tapestry.
"You've never felt much beholden to youth," said Charles to Weir, "and your expressed thoughts on its aspirations and vagaries and proneness to make much of little have always worn a cutting edge. But I've never seen, in your manner or tone, that you've thought Anthony a fool."
"The man who takes him for a fool," said Captain Weir, with a wry smile, "will quickly learn to alter his opinion." There was a pause; the captain looked through the window into the sun-lit street, his brows were thickened and heavy over his cold eyes. "As to the books," he added, "if your nephew says he's come at something in them, it's safe to say he has; and, if he says he means to astonish us, in my opinion we'd do well to prepare for something unusual."
That night, as Christopher Dent sat in his laboratory, his big spectacles on his nose, a candle beside him and the usual bulky black-letter volume in his hands, Anthony came in. The young man sat down in a chair and lighted his long-stemmed clay; and the little apothecary talked of the problems that rise up in one's daily path and make life, if not a vexation, at least an uncertainty.
"It is the time of year for dandelions and other soft, early herbs," said Christopher. "The sun has been gentle; the earth is mellow and seems full of gifts; but the plants are late. It may be the winter we've gone through has had much to do with it, for the frost was deep-setting, indeed."
"It was," agreed Anthony.
"Here is a book," said Christopher, "written by a man of sound parts, and in a day when learning was a thing to arrest the attention." His fingers traced the lines of deep black, which made their rigorous way across the yellowed page. "He tells much of the seasons, and of the mysteries and chemistries of the soil. He sees not a deal of difference between the vegetable and the animal; they are both produced from seeds, and are endowed with much the same functions; the element they take in is changed into forms which give growth and virtue, and the power to resist enemies."
Anthony drew at his pipe.
"Strength and power are not always given for protection," said he. "As often as not, they are meant for offense."
"That," said Christopher, "is never so when the regulations of nature are held to. Offense comes of brutality, and brutality is occasioned by an excess of life; nature never gives too much life, for she knows it to be dangerous. The finer aromatic plants, whose proper home is in dry, sandy soils, if transplanted to a moist, rich one, leap up, robustly; they attain to a thick bulk, a vigor not known before, and a rich oiliness of sap. But they lose their fragrance; their active principle is sacrificed to their increased vitality."
"If that's a saying of your scholar, I think he said truly," said Anthony.
"What is true of plants is also true of animals, of men, and of nations," pronounced Christopher. "Your horse, now, is an excellent servant and a steady friend. But feed him high and work him little and he's hard to control. Give a man riches, and he begins to fatten, if not in body, then in wits; and fat about the wits, as any doctor of the soul can tell you, is a dangerous thing, for it promotes the growth of self, which is the essence of that brutality of which I just now spoke."
From outside came the sharprat-tat-tatof a knocker.
"Visitors to my lodgers," said the little apothecary. There was the sound of feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of a door, and faint voices beyond the wall. "They have many, for people who mingle so little in the social life of the town."
"Men, mostly, I should say," said Anthony.
"Why, yes," said Christopher, "I think that's true, though I had not thought of it before."
"Foreign men, I think you have told me."
"French," said Christopher. "But, then, that is not strange, since they are French themselves."
"I wonder," said Anthony, "have you ever noticed a man go in and out who wore a black patch over his eye?"
"I have, more than once. But he is an American. Do you know," asked Christopher, with some pride, "that the much-spoken-of French minister, Citizen Genêt, has been here?"
"No," said Anthony, and put aside his pipe.
"It was not many days ago; almost as soon as he reached the city. My lodgers seem people of consequence."
Anthony was silent for a space; then he said:
"Have you taken note of any of their American visitors?"
"Yes, I've seen Mr. Tarrant a few times; and once, while he was there, a companion of his, who had not gone in, stepped into my place to be out of the cold. A strapping young man; and good-humored, too. I never saw any one so ready to laugh."
Then the little apothecary began talking of mademoiselle. Such a fine creature—oh, such a really wonderful young woman! There were so many kindly notes in her voice when she talked to one, and there was so much gentleness in her eyes.
"And she is beautiful," said Christopher. "I have stood and wondered at her, with not a word to say. And she is learned in the plants," with enthusiasm; "she knows the flowers of the roadsides and fields, both by name and by sight. Not our flowers, of course," regretfully, "but then in France they must have many that are rich in fine properties. She was but a child when her interest in nature began," said the little apothecary. "She'd ramble the fields and wade in the streams with her uncle, who was a botanist and who lived in very pleasant parts. Her telling me this made me think of you," said Christopher, "and of how you'd journey along with me all through the hot day, seeking coralroot in the woods, about the feet of the trees, and devil's-bit in the meadows, and spotted alder in the low, thick-grown places. She laughed a deal at some of your pranks and wished she had been with us."
"You did not tell her my name?" said Anthony.
"I did afterwards," said Christopher, and he fell to rubbing his smooth crown in a troubled way.
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing," said the little apothecary. "But, indeed, she spoke little more of anything after that; and then she went away."
Anthony sat in silence for a time, and Christopher watched his face with much concern. Then the sound of footsteps was once more heard on the stairs beyond the wall—voices, and a loud thumping that made the windows shake.
"It is a chest being brought down," said the apothecary, listening. "Can it be that they are going on a journey? No coaches start until early morning."
They heard the chest tumbled out through the door, and the crash of it, as it was thrown into a vehicle; there was much rapid talk and a woman's sobs.
"The father is going away," said Christopher; "and the daughter is in tears."
There were hurried good-byes in French, called out amid the rolling of wheels, the door shut, and footsteps went up the stairs. Anthony and the little apothecary looked at each other, for the steps were heavy and stumbling.
"That is the father," said Christopher. "I know his foot. It is the girl, then, who has gone away."
"It would seem so," said Anthony.
"And the chest and the tears at parting tell of a long journey," said the apothecary. "And it must be an urgent one, to be undertaken at this hour."
Anthony said little; it was almost eleven by the clock on the apothecary's wall, and he arose to go.
"You are in low spirits," said Christopher.
"My star is swinging downward, I fear," said Anthony, with the ghost of a smile. "But when it is at its lowest, Christopher, it will begin to curve upward."
"If you knew her better," said Christopher, his hand on Anthony's sleeve; "or if she knew you better—"
"She has shown plainly enough that she has no desire for that," said Anthony. "Good night."
"Good night," said Christopher Dent.
Anthony walked through Water to Sassafras Street, and as he turned away from the river he saw a group of men who stood silently in the shadow of a building. One of them moved toward him, as he appeared, and said in French:
"Citizen, pardon. We cannot find our ship. She isLe Mousquet; and we should be on board by now."
Anthony pointed to where three masts shot up above some low buildings and stood outlined against the copper sky.
"That," said he, "is theEclipse. I have heardLe Mousquetis anchored in the stream, opposite her."
"We thank you," said the man. "You are kind." There was a stir among the group. Anthony stepped back to let them pass; as he did so a blow fell upon his head and he staggered. Then they were upon him like cats; another blow and he was down; and after that he knew nothing.