There was the smell of cookery; also there was the wash of water; sounds came from overhead—creaking, bustling, familiar sounds; footsteps pattered to and fro; now and then some one spoke, and the words they said had to do with the working of a ship.
Then Anthony realized he was lying in a bunk; he sat up, and as he did so he turned sick, and the little boxed-in place with its dim hanging lamp began to swirl. He put his hand to his head; there was a crust of blood upon his forehead, his hair was matted, and trickles, stiff and thick, ran down his face. He got upon his feet and stood for a moment, hoping his head would clear. The vessel careened slightly, showing she was under a good spread of sail. But she had tacked twice since Anthony opened his eyes, and this attracted his attention. He listened; the sounds that came from a distance were not of open water. They were still in the river.
The door stood open; a gush of cool air struck him, rushing in at an open hatch, and he stood in it, drawing it into his lungs, to fan the low-burning embers of his life. The smell of cookery was stronger now; at a little distance from him he saw the broad back of a negro bent over a caldron in which a mess of meat stewed in the bobbing midst of leeks and carrots and other things, Anthony held to the doorway, and as he stood there the black cook turned. The sweating face held only astonishment for a moment; then it broadened into a wide smile.
"Much blood!" said he in English, and pointed at the young man's head.
Anthony regarded him unsteadily; everything swam and whirled; and he still felt cold and sick.
"What ship is this?" he asked.
"Le Mousquet," said the cook. Anthony held tighter to the door-frame and leaned his wounded head against his arms. The cook's smile grew wider; his white teeth gleamed; and he said, now in French: "The last time you were aboard, you came unwanted. This time you were sent for. It makes a difference, citizen, does it not?"
Anthony Stevens, as he stood with his head in his arms, drew in a great breath; sick as he was, though everything sank and rose before him as he turned toward the man, his chin was thrust out; grotesque as his face was, with its hardened trickles of blood, there was that in his eyes that wiped the smile from the negro's face. The man tried to step past him to the companion-ladder, but Anthony warned him back and lurched toward it himself. Slowly he climbed it; he felt as though his heart would burst in his breast. But now he was upon the deck.
To the starboard he saw lights burning in rows and so knew they had not yet dropped below the city. A jib was drawing, as was the mainsail and a topsail; they bellied full in the fresh wind, and the river leaped and gurgled under the vessel's foot. There was a scattering of men along the deck; they looked and whispered as Anthony went aft, holding to the rail, to the housing, to anything that came to his hand. A pilot, muffled in a heavy coat, stood at the wheel; leaning against the bulwark, examining a chart in the light of a ship's lantern, was the man with one eye. The heavy, uncertain step of Anthony caught the officer's attention; he looked up, and as he saw the swaying figure and blood-daubed face he showed his teeth in his customary smirking way, and his eyes shot malice at his victim.
"Well, my young friend," said he, "I see you once more, do I? And aboard my ship, too! I hardly hoped for that."
"Have I been brought here at your orders?" asked Anthony, holding himself as stiffly upright as his sagging knees would let him.
The master ofLe Mousquetsneered at him; his side-drawn lips were as mean as a surly dog's.
"Let it be enough for you that you are here," he said; "here, among friends. After your visit to me down the river—you remember that visit, I think?—I felt that I might see you again. But I had no thought it would come about like this."
"Just now," said Anthony, "I have not the strength to answer, or do, as I'd like. And so I ask you put over a boat and have me set ashore before we drop below the city."
The one-eyed man put the heel of his hand against Anthony's chest and threw him against the low top of the cabin.
"You still have that demanding tongue, have you?" he said. "You still think you have but to lift your hand and every one will give way to you." He struck Anthony viciously in the face. "I have something to pay you for, and I'll pay it to the last copper before you are out of my hands."
He was drawing back for another blow when a woman's voice, hurried, breathless, full of anger, said:
"Citizen Captain! Are you a coward, to strike a man so helpless as this?"
It was Mademoiselle Lafargue; she thrust herself between the two, her strong young arm held out to support Anthony, her eyes, full of scorn, upon the master of the privateer.
"Ah, do not be afraid,citoyenne," said he. "He is as strong as a wild boar; and this time it is but my hands I use."
But the girl ignored him; she called to some of the people of the watch.
"He is hurt," she said. "Take him somewhere where he can be quiet."
The seamen looked at the captain; and he smirked at the girl and said:
"Take him below; and," to an officer, "see that he stays there."
Anthony was taken below and placed in the bunk he had occupied before. The girl got some warm water from the cook; and she cleaned the gouts of blood from his head and face.
"This is the second time," said Anthony, "that you've stepped between that man and me. And yet he is your friend, and I am your enemy."
She said nothing but went on cleansing the wounds in his head with soft, light touches; her lips were compressed; he could not see her eyes.
"And yet," he said, "why am I your enemy? How have I become so?"
When he was free of the disfiguring blood, she began to bandage his head; and she told the black cook to bring some brandy. She poured some of this into a glass and gave it to Anthony; he drank it readily. Little by little the feeling of helplessness passed. The potent agents in the brandy advanced warmly through his system, and the weakness fell back before them; his wounded head throbbed painfully under the increased activity of his heart; but it also grew steady; things no longer whirled before his eyes, and there were some spots of color warming in his face. He said to her:
"You hold me your enemy, do you not?"
"Your name is Stevens," she answered.
He lay, looking up at her; and then he began to speak. She had once accepted his help; he had been a stranger, yet she had accepted it gratefully. Had she not? Even more than that: she had waited for him that day in Water Street, and she had appealed to him. It had seemed a time of growing trouble, and she had asked his aid. Was it not so? She must have felt, then, that he was one who would be a friend. And yet only a few hours later she had begun to count him as an enemy. Had it been during those hours that she'd found his name was Stevens?
But she would not talk of this. He must be still. He was ill; he had been badly hurt. Excitement was bad.
There was nothing in the world so soft as the touch of her hands. They were white and wonderful; and so quick! They were dazzling! And each motion was full of meaning; each little turn they made brought him ease.
But in a moment he had frowned these thoughts away; he kept to his questions. In a few hours—it was no more than that—she had come to look upon him as an enemy, and, God knew, it must have been as an enemy bitterly held; as for himself he'd not stab a dog with that same insolence and disregard. And she had turned against him so because she'd found his name was Stevens. Who had told her? Some one had. Was it Tarrant? Was it?
Yes, it was! She said it briefly, coldly! And now he must talk no more. It was bad for him. His hurts were worse than he thought. Quiet would help heal them.
But quiet was the last thing in his mind at that moment; and he put her words aside with an abrupt finality. So it was Tarrant who told her who he was. Tarrant, of all people! What more had he said? What bitter twist had he given his words; into what dirty by-path had he led her mind? The learning of his name alone could not have had the effect he'd seen.
There was a swift anger in her voice as she answered. Was it possible that she, her father's daughter, could think of him as different from his house?
He hung to this doggedly, his eyes upon her face. What did she hold against the house of Stevens? What thing had been told her, that its very name should turn her so instantly. The concern had long years of fair dealing behind it; it was well established in the public regard. What guilt could she point to? What offense did she carry in her mind?
And with that her reticence broke down; and, with a whip to her words that cut, she spoke freely. Her father had striven all his life to do what a man should do and had held himself well in the eyes of his neighbors. In a business way none had a fairer name than he; among merchants, bankers, ship-owners, agents, there was no one entitled to more consideration. For years he had been the French representative of the house of Stevens, a post, so it was thought, of profit and honor; and it had been envied him. But it was a connection that finally earned him suspicion rather than honor; it brought him the distrust of associates; through it, he stood upon the verge of disaster. Why should not the name of Stevens turn her bitter? Wouldn't it be strange if it did not? Shadowy tricks, ruses, subterfuges, veiled rascalities, and double-dealing! What sort of people make a practice of using an honest man's name where it had not been given, and who but rascals would lay claim to insurances on vessels that had never been lost?
Anthony was up at this—up so quickly and sharply that the white of the bandage began to show spots of red. Ships that had never been lost! What ships? But, no; she would not answer; she would not say a word more; he must lie down; see, he was bleeding! He did as he was bidden; but his questions did not stop. She fought him for a space; but again her anger arose, and she talked. Her father was a kindly man; of those who had earned his trust he could believe no wrong, and he had not heeded those people in Brest who had spoken against the house of Stevens. At last, however, there came a time when he had to heed; and then, almost as a part of it, came the letter of Magruder.
Anthony looked up at her with a narrowed, shiny eye. So there had been a letter from Magruder? Her answer was spoken quietly; but he felt he had never known what scorn was until that moment.
Yes, there had been a letter. It was this that had caused her father to venture from France that he might clear his name and recover what was his own. But Magruder was a coward! He dared not have it known that he talked to them, and that is why they had visited his place so late at night. Anthony wrested that from her. And she had gone in and found him dead. Magruder had warned them: and he had paid the penalty.
"Yes," said Anthony. "And it was the thing he feared." He looked at her with steady eyes, "And so you went into Magruder's counting-room—you went alone—and found him dead. And afterwards some one told you you'd been seen leaving the place; and also that suspicion had begun to whisper concerning you. Who told you this? Was it Tarrant?"
Yes! Her eyes flashed as she said it. It was Tarrant. He had told her that; he had told her more than that.
What? Anthony was upon the suggestion like a terrier, eager, worrying. What was it? And the scorn in her eyes was deeper, as she answered.
"Another was seen to leave Magruder's place," she said. "It was a man. He left it secretly, quickly. And, as he thought, unnoticed. As no word has been spoken of this he has felt safe; he has been content to allow the blight of his guilt to fall upon a woman."
Anthony lay very still; but his eyes held to her. And he told himself it was worth a great price—even the cold scorn laid upon him—to see so much spirit in a human face. Then he spoke.
"And Tarrant has told you all this?" She said nothing; but her look was enough. "Very well. And it was Tarrant, also, who advised, I think, that you leave the city in this ship to escape some action of the officers of justice." He searched her face keenly and then said: "Why is your father not with you?"
"My father must remain where he is, to force his claims against those who have wronged him."
She turned to go, and this time he did not stop her. She would leave the brandy, she told him; and she would see that some one was within call if he needed help. Then she left him. And he lay still for a long time and thought of the things she had said.
She and her father had come to America for the same reason that had brought him north. Well, well! Magruder had sent to France for them. And they had gone to the trader's counting-house, as he had gone the second time; and they had found him dead.
What a scurrying and scampering there must have been in the burrows under Rufus Stevens' Sons when the rats scented their danger, thought Anthony. They had feared the girl's speaking with him, and so had poisoned her mind against him. They had seen even greater peril in Lafargue's going straightforwardly to Charles, as he must have done; and, to prevent this, they had cleverly diverted against the firm the very tide of suspicion which Magruder had thought to set against themselves.
"Oh, the rats," said Anthony; "oh, the damned, scampering, crafty rats!"
But why were they sending the girl from the city? He frowned over this perplexedly. The matter had a meaning he could not see. Then, as he pondered, there came from the back of his mind several things which arranged themselves oddly, and yet confidently, before him.
"What now?" said Anthony, looking at them, and frowning more than ever. "What now?"
The first of the things dealt with was his pause overnight at the Brig Tavern, off the New Castle road. The girl and her father had been there; and they had been associated with persons concerned in fostering piracy, to be carried on under French letters of marque.
"No doubt of that," acknowledged Anthony, and eyed the fact grudgingly; "they stood very intimately with them, indeed."
The second of the things was equally positive, and had been fathered by Christopher Dent on that very night. Many people had visited the Lafargues at their lodgings, French and American; Citizen Genêt, whose words and acts in behalf of legalized piracy had lately filled the public ear and eye, had been one of them.
"Yes," said Anthony, endeavoring to stare the fact out of countenance, "all that is true. But what has it to do with mademoiselle being on board this ship without her father?"
And just as the two things seemed to be wavering, and not at all certain of their purpose, a third fact advanced smartly to their help, and at once set itself to lighting lamps in Anthony's mind. And so, where he had groped before, he now saw clearly.
"The daughter is young," he said. "The father is old. The girl is strong of will; the old man is shaken and infirm. She is his right hand, his prop, the active half of his mind. If she were taken away, he'd be helpless; if she were not constantly at his side to guide his judgments he might be imposed upon. The father is a friend of the French agent, Genêt; and it is Genêt who commissions American-built and American-manned ships to sail against the English."
The three facts merged victoriously into one shining result, and Anthony studied it. The girl's fears had been played upon; she was being sent away, and the old man was being held in the city that he might be turned to the crafty uses of Tarrant and his friends.
Anthony smiled and ceased to plague his throbbing head. This was the kernel of the thing! And so he put all thought from him, composed himself to sleep, and slept soundly.
When Anthony awoke he lay still for a space and listened. The river-water washed under the schooner's foot; he could hear the creak of the blocks and that flapping of sail that tells of little wind. A dim gray picked its way through the darkness, for the dawn had entered at the companionway.
Anthony stood up; the sleep had done him a deal of good; his head was steady, and the pain had all but gone. He took a draft of the brandy and stretched himself with wide-flung arms; then he stood frowning and considering.Le Mousquetwas a schooner. He knew schooners; he had both stowed and sailed them; and he knew what was possible and likely aboard one.Le Mousquetwas private-armed, and manned more than likely by a reckless, insubordinate company, not to be trusted with arms, save in the presence of an enemy. The officers would possibly carry pistols when on duty. At this hour there was hardly more than one on deck; the others would be snoring in their beds.
Anthony stepped across a man who lay asleep outside the door, and went quietly on deck. The river looked cold and quiet: the sails were drawing but little; the watch were muffled in heavy coats to keep out the chill touch of the mist. Anthony moved the length of the deck unnoticed, and down at the after hatch. Here on this side was the captain's room. This, on this hand, would be the room shared by the lieutenants; and here would be the room where the small arms would likely be stored. He examined the lock on this door; it was stout, but the woodwork was worn, and the door loose, and he shoved back the bolt with the blade of his knife. Muskets were racked against the wall at one side; the other bristled with pistols and cutlasses, and a low door opened into the magazine. Methodically, Anthony put three brace of pistols aside; then, one by one, he slipped the remainder noiselessly through the low port-hole into the river; and the muskets, to the number of three dozen, followed them. With powder and ball taken from the magazine, he loaded the pistols he had kept; then he stowed them about his person and went out of the room.
From the other side of the lieutenants' door came the grumbling of a man half asleep, and Anthony went in. The officer was sitting up in his bed yawning and scratching his unshaven jaws; he stared at Anthony, surprised; then out of the bed he came with a leap and reached for a pistol that hung from a hook by the trigger-guard. Anthony also grasped at it, and as they struggled the weapon roared thunderously in the narrow space. Desperate at the sound, Anthony tore the pistol from the man's hand and struck him with it shrewdly, and he fell; then the young man whirled about to meet the master of the schooner entering at the door. In trying to avoid the blow that curved toward him, the one-eyed man fell; and as he did so he set up a roaring.
"On deck! Help! Drive a knife through this devil!"
But Anthony wasted no time; in the captain's cabin he threw open the cupboard doors and saw a brace of silver-mounted pistols upon a shelf. One of these, together with the lieutenant's empty one, he threw from a stern window; then with the other he turned to face the officer of the watch whose boots were clumping down the short ladder. At sight of Anthony this man fired; but the young man flattened himself against the wall and his return shot sent the privateersman writhing to the deck with a broken shoulder. Snatching up the man's weapon, Anthony ran up the ladder to the main-deck. The watch was hurrying aft; he could see the black face of the cook above the edge of the forward hatch. Pitching the two empty pistols over the rail, he drew out one of those he had loaded himself.
"Keep your places!" he growled. The blood had started to ooze from his wounds once more and stained the bandages about his head; and as he stood with hunched shoulders menacing them with the pistol the sailors halted. "Close the forward hatch," directed Anthony, "and fasten it down!" They hesitated; he sent a shot rattling among them, and then they leaped to obey. Again an empty pistol went over the side, and a fresh one appeared in his hand. To the man at the wheel he said, "Stand away!"
The man did as he was bidden; and under Anthony's hand the bow of the schooner began to creep around toward the shore. While it was still turning, Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared on deck; her quick glances took in the sullen group of seamen amidships and the grim figure at the wheel.
"In five minutes," she said quietly, "the ship will be aground."
"I had reasoned it at a trifle more than that," said Anthony, giving eye by turns to the schooner's course and the muttering watch. "But a few minutes more or less makes no odds."
She regarded him coldly.
"The two men below are desperately hurt," she said.
"I note that the captain is in no hurry to make a third," said Anthony, cocking his eye toward the after hatch. Almost as the words left him the master of the schooner popped his head above its edge; instantly the long pistol lifted and exploded; the ball tore away the combing, within a foot of the head, and it disappeared like magic. There was silence after this, and with a fresh pistol Anthony casually menaced the watch. The warm, thick smell of a marshy shore came from the nearing bank; birds were whistling; beyond the trees a plowman was heard calling to his horses. The bottom of the schooner scraped, and a shudder ran through her to the tips of her masts. Then she struck; the sails flapped uselessly, and the stern swung about to the tide.
"Lower away a boat," directed Anthony, his frowning eyes on the watch. "And make haste. There are some among you whom I have to thank for the hurts I got last night; which struck the blows, I don't know, but a few leaden slugs may pick them out." He handled the pistol with a readiness that carried fright into their hearts. "Lower a boat."
A small boat was swung over the side and rested upon the water.
"I shall need two men," said Anthony. "You will answer, and you," nodding to two of the seamen. "Get in." The men did so readily enough; and then he turned his eyes upon Mademoiselle Lafargue. "If you please," said he, and waved his hand toward the boat. She reared her head, her eyes darting scorn and resentment; but she did not move from where she stood. "I am going ashore," he said, "and as this ship is no place for you it is a good chance to leave her."
"I shall not leave her in your company, at all events," she said coldly.
"I expected you to say something like that," said Anthony. "And I would like to reason the matter out with you. But it is best that there be no delay. I beg of you to step into the boat."
But she would not; and she defied him with her eyes. He motioned to the watching seamen.
"Put her into the boat."
"You would not dare!" she said, her coldness flaming into anger.
"Put her into the boat," said Anthony.
In a few minutes she was handed into the waiting boat; she made no protest, no resistance, but sat in the bow and covered her face with her hands.
"Now, my bullies," said Anthony, as he stepped to the rail, "stand well back. If I see a head of one of you until I get ashore, I'll speak to you with this," and he motioned with the pistol.
The two seamen pushed off and fell to the oars; Anthony sat athwart the stern, the pistol between his knees, the rudder handle in his left hand; he watched the schooner, the men pulling the boat, and also the landing-place which he had selected. Within ten minutes they had reached a platform built upon spiles, and used by river sloops in taking in the produce of the farms. Anthony was the first out; he helped Mademoiselle Lafargue ashore, and then they both stood silent upon the little wharf and watched the boat pull back toLe Mousquet.
"... WATCHED THE BOAT PULL BACK TO LE MOUSQUET."
"... WATCHED THE BOAT PULL BACK TO LE MOUSQUET."
"... WATCHED THE BOAT PULL BACK TO LE MOUSQUET."
Anthony examined the schooner's position, while the boat pulled toward her; her nose was wedged into a mud flat, but as her stern had moved around toward the north he knew the tide was working up the river.
"In an hour," he said, "there will be water enough to float her off." He turned toward the girl; she had her cloak drawn about her, and her eyes were still onLe Mousquet. She seemed to have no regret at leaving the vessel; but the manner of her leaving had left her furious.
"The next thing," said Anthony, "is to procure a conveyance and get you back to your father."
"You need not trouble yourself," she said.
"As I am the cause of your being here," said Anthony, "I owe it to you to see you safe."
"I cancel all obligations," she said. "You owe me nothing."
Anthony looked at her stubbornly.
"Very well," said he. "Then I owe it to myself. And in debts owing to myself I always demand payment in full." He looked inshore, over the fields, green with the freshness of April; on a knoll, about a mile away, were the white walls of a house amid a screen of trees. "There's a farmstead," said Anthony; "we can find some means there of getting back to the city."
"I shall not stir," said Mademoiselle Lafargue.
"It's plain enough," said Anthony, "that you do not greatly favor my company. There are certain things which you believe of me; you've been told of plottings, of guilt, of treachery; and the shadow that I stand in is, no doubt, a dark one to your eyes. But why distrust me while you have confidences in certain others? For I, at least, have never tried to shoot a man as he slept, and I have never struck one who was helpless."
"I shall not stir from where I am," said the girl.
"It's a full mile across the fields to the house," said Anthony, "but I have no doubt I can carry you."
"You would not dare!" said she, startled.
"I think you used those very words on board the schooner," said he. There was a pause; and then he added quietly. "Will you go willingly, or must I do as I've said?"
She looked at him with level gaze; the fire in her eye was quieted, though her head was as high as ever.
"I will go," she said, "for there is nothing else for me to do. But I do not go willingly. You are compelling me, and I hate you for it."
He said nothing in reply; and so they set off toward the distant farmstead. Here they encountered a human enough man and a woman who stared and listened but who never ventured a word.
"I have need of my horses and men at this season," said the farmer; "but as you are hurt and the lady must needs have some way of reaching the city you may have a pair and a wagon."
An oldish sort of man, who diligently chewed a straw, was called; in a short space he had a span of farm horses harnessed to a two-seated wagon, with a body swinging on heavy leather bands. Anthony handed Mademoiselle Lafargue to the rear seat; then he took his place beside the driver, and they started. Chester was passed in the first half hour. The girl spoke never a word; now and then Anthony looked back at her to assure himself that she was as comfortable as the pitching wagon permitted, and he was also silent. It was afternoon when the heavy-footed horses crossed the lower ford and began to draw toward the city; the clock in the tower of the state-house, seen across a huddle of painted roofs, told four as they crossed Chestnut Street; and in a little while they drew up before Christopher Dent's door.
Anthony helped the girl out, mounted the white marble steps with her, and knocked. And while they waited he said:
"In a night or two I shall call upon your father; there are things that press for discussion between us. And, if you are so disposed, I should be glad if you were present to listen." She made no reply, standing with her head averted. And he went on: "If any one, no matter who, tells you of danger to yourself in remaining in the city, give no heed to him. Remain with your father; do not be separated from him; for, I warn you, that any possible danger is not with you but with him."
Here the quadroon maid opened the door, and the girl went in; and Anthony made his way to Dr. King's in Front Street. The physician opened the door himself, for he was in the hall, bidding good-bye to Mr. Sparhawk. In the room where the doctor saw to such things, the bandages were taken from Anthony's head.
"A care-free blackguard had you in hand here," said Dr. King, as he looked at the wounds.
Mr. Sparhawk, who had volunteered his services at the sight of Anthony's condition, held a basin of hot water ready, while he also inspected the hurts.
"He did not hold his hand at any rate," said he. "A thief, no doubt," he added. "There are a deal of them lurking about of a night."
While Dr. King dressed his head, Anthony related the circumstances of the attack. At mention of theLe Mousquet, Mr. Sparhawk exclaimed, sharply.
"What?" said he. "Will they stop at nothing? Do they dare such things as this? Is a citizen not safe in the streets of his own city? Must we be constantly on guard against a parcel of ruffians?"
"Yesterday I heard you speaking with Mr. Stroude concerning the shipEclipse," said Anthony. "When does she sail?"
"She sailed with the tide, some hours ago," said Mr. Sparhawk. "And soLe Mousquetdropped down last night!" The little man shook his head. "There will be devilment enough off the capes to-morrow," he said; "and more than one honest person's money will be put in jeopardy."
After the young man's wounds had been attended to, Dr. King said:
"You should have a rest for a day or two; I would advise your going home and to bed."
"I shall do so," said Anthony, "for my legs are not over-strong under me; and they are telling me of it, more and more plainly every step I take."
Mr. Sparhawk walked with him up Front Street.
"The cunning of these villains," said the little man; "the cunning of them is past all belief. They have managed it so that pillage is becoming a recognized thing; rapine has public approval; loot is so common we think nothing of it."
Anthony smiled.
"I would not go so far as that," he said; "but I agree that there is a deal of guile round about us."
"We boast of our open trade and commercial candor," said Mr. Sparhawk. "We set ourselves up as superior to the Spaniards who hold every port and river they control under private tribute. But, if the truth were known, we have our share of mercantile malpractice here. There are places," said he warmly, "that are regarded as above reproach, but which are charnel-houses of business honor; there are men who sit in the full light of public confidence, weaving plots as shameless as any in the art of the spider."
"Where is the law?" asked Anthony.
"The law is inadequate, and I sometimes think, shrewdly kept so."
Mr. Sparhawk held to this strain until they reached Anthony's lodgings in Sassafras Street. The walk had done the young man no good, and his face was white as he said good-by to the little man at the door. Mr. Sparhawk noted this.
"No," said he, "I will help you to your room. These hurts of yours have taken a deal more of your vitality than you think."
Anthony was glad enough to put some of his weight upon Mr. Sparhawk in going up the steep stairs; and the little gentleman also aided him in getting off his clothes and into bed. And then he brewed him an excellent drink.
"And now sleep," said he. "It will help you more than anything else." He lifted the window so that the air might blow in and do its share of the healing; he nodded in a most friendly and obliging fashion as he was about to go, and then his eyes chanced upon one of the bulky old ledgers lying upon a table. "What?" said he, "a ledger? Do you still use your spare time of an evening, so?"
Said Anthony:
"Open the door there." Mr. Sparhawk did so; he saw in the inner room piles of books of a similar kind, and his face changed expression; his eyes met those of Anthony quickly. "They are those which have gone before, and come after, the one on the table," said the young man.
Mr. Sparhawk stroked his chin.
"It is odd how the history of Rufus Stevens' Sons attracts you," said he.
"Not all of it," said Anthony. "But those things which I find of sharp importance I set down in a little book of my own."
The greedy look in Mr. Sparhawk's face increased.
"That, too, is here, I suppose," said he, and he looked about.
Anthony's coat lay upon a chair beside his bed; he reached out and thrust a hand into the breast pocket; but it came out empty. Mr. Sparhawk saw his expression change.
"You carried it there?" said he.
"Yes," said Anthony, "and it's gone!"
Mr. Sparhawk smiled, and nodded.
"Are you surprised?" he asked. "What else was there to expect? Have you not been on boardLe Mousquet?"
Anthony lay looking at the ceiling; Mr. Sparhawk stood with his hand on the door-latch.
"However," said the little man consolingly, "your loss is not, as the insurers of ships say, complete. You still have the ledgers; and what they've yielded once they'll yield again."
And so, with a nod and a smile and a good-by he was gone. Anthony lay with the coverlet drawn up under his chin, and propped high with pillows; his head throbbed and swam; he drowsed between wakefulness and sleep, and strange pictures lit up his mind. There was a vessel that crossed his sleep—a slim, swift vessel, her sails filled with mist, and driving away over a darkened sea. She was fleeing from him, and he was following, making slow head against winds and storms. Though the ship was a great way off, he could see into her cabin; there was a light there, a yellow light with a spot of red at its heart—and beside this sat a man who wore a patch over one eye, and he smirked over Anthony's note-book, which he held in his hand.
There were strange things in that book; there were matters that opposed each other fancifully, and told of ships and men and cargoes, and places; and there were other things, like shouted lies. Anthony had studied them and knew them well. And now, as he drowsed, the cabin was gone, the ship had disappeared, the sea had changed to land; but his thought still had to do with books. He sat before a great many of them; they were heavy, sober, and clean; they were the ledgers of Rufus Stevens' Sons, the solid books of a solid house; surely in them no wrong could thrive. But there were flaming lightnings in the sky; the world was full of pain and weariness, and the books held knowledge which he must have; so he began to open them. They seemed countless; each was like the other in its dull leather, and their rows stretched across plains and streams, and through cities, away among vague spaces, and disappeared in the rising of mists, the booming of waters, and the dashing of spray.
And now, under his hand, were the books of Lucas, and the books of Carberry. These he especially desired. They were thick and seemed to promise pleasant things; but they opened evilly; the mind sprang back from their pages, repelled. But, for all that, they were well and carefully written, just as he had been told they would be. Lucas had set down his statements in a useful hand, clear and with excellent spacing. Carberry's way was well ordered; he had a confident, clerkly smoothness, which all but covered astonishments that caught the breath from one's lips. But Anthony found himself held among the pages of Lucas much oftener, for Lucas's day, so it seemed, had been one of rare daring; there had been courage and devilment in his time, and no great care. The waters had been awash with costly stuffs; ships were sucked to their doom, and dead men had floated down the byways of the sea.
Now he saw a river sealed with ice, and through the ice countless bowsprits poked forlornly; many eyes looked through a thickening mist, eyes with black patches over them; then a ship loomed through it, a ship with sides as wide as the world; a man in a bo'sun's-chair was let down; he held a pen and ink-pot and along the water-line of the ship he wrote unreadable things in a practiced hand. Anthony strove to understand the words, but could not. He fought with the mists to see the man's face. Once he fancied it was a clean-cut, handsome one with cold eyes and a sneer about the lips; but as he pronounced Tarrant's name the face changed. It was now a bright one, full of inspiration and eager purpose. Anthony looked to find how the man sat in the chair and saw he was nursing a lame foot. But it could not be Charles! For the man was of splendid bulk; as he wrote he laughed, and the mist whirled at the sound, and the waters leaped and threw it back.
And then the books came again,—the weary, weary books,—greater than before and bursting with threats. The pages were hard to turn; it took all the strength he had to come to the smallest thing, and, oddly enough, between the leaves he found those muskets and pistols which he had thought at the bottom of the river. And, as he took up each, the touch of the iron told him he'd best put them carefully by for need in a future time. And this he did, for the menace in the books made his heart feel cold.
Here there was a blank: and then he found himself traveling an endless road, through a waste place, and carrying a burden, a torturing, breaking burden, the essence of which could be nothing but despair. When he felt he must sink under it, it suddenly became light and desirable; he wanted passionately to go on with it. And then he saw it was a girl, and that she hated him; so he put her down, and talked with her. All the air about her was filled with words, each with wings like a bat; they whispered in her ear as they flitted by, and it was the evil of these words that made her hate him.
He looked along the endless road, through the waste places; a bleak sky lowered over it, the air that stirred its dust was mournful, and the soul in him grew fearful that he must travel it alone! Where was her father? He would speak to him, for her father was wise with years and must know the venom of false words. And then she was no longer there; her father stood in her place, an old, old man, with a white, high-held head; and to him Anthony began eagerly to pour out his thoughts. But he stopped, for he saw a scar on the old man's face, the puckered red mark of an ancient sword-stroke; and the old man moved toward him with the soft sure steps of a great cat. Anthony, in horror, protested; and he could hear his voice lifting through all space against the cold derision in the aspect of Monsieur Lafargue. Then, with the damp of fear on him, he labored heavily through the zone of half-sleep and burst into wakefulness.
He was still in bed next day. Dr. King came to see him; he had his breakfast, which the good woman who rented the lodgings brought him, and then lay back, thinking. The spring day fluttered in at the window; a man who had early greens to sell chanted their quality and price in the street; a knife-grinder's bell tinkled steadily along; the voices of some children arose gleefully from a garden. There was a knock on the door, and Captain Weir came in. He shook Anthony's hand, and sat coldly down by the bed.
"Sparhawk visited us at the counting-room this morning," said he, "and we were astonished by what he had to tell. What does the doctor say?"
"That I shall be fit and out to-morrow," said Anthony.
"That is excellent. The rogues," said Captain Weir, "to attack you in the open street, and carry you aboard ship!" His green, stone-like eyes searched Anthony. "She was a Frenchman, I understand."
"She flew the French flag," said Anthony.
Captain Weir shook his head.
"I understand," said he. There was a moment's silence; his eyes still searched the young man, and then he spoke again. "It was quite fortunate that Sparhawk walked home with you yesterday. He says you went quite weak."
"More so than he thought," said the young man.
"You have very pleasant quarters here." Captain Weir looked about, approvingly. "Quite snug for a bachelor; your pipes and tobacco, your wine-flask and brandy-bottle near at hand, your books on a rack where they may be had in a moment." His eyes, like those of Mr. Sparhawk, rested upon the bulky ledgers; and he smiled oddly. "That is the last of them, I suppose," said he. And, as Anthony nodded, the captain went on: "All the others have gone back to your uncle."
"No," said Anthony; "those of interest are inside there."
Captain Weir laughed; but his eyes narrowed as he said:
"If Sparhawk had seen those, he'd have marveled at your industry."
"He saw them," said Anthony. "We had some conversation about them."
"Trust an old gossip like him for that," said the captain, the narrowed eyes cold and green, and more like stone than ever. "Nevertheless, he's a useful little man, and with quite a place in the community."
The two talked for some time of Anthony's misadventure; then Captain Weir arose to go.
"We shall expect you to-morrow, then?" said he.
"I think I can safely say that," answered Anthony.
"Your uncle will be interested to hear your story," said Captain Weir. "It is not a usual one." He stood looking down at Anthony; the side of his face was turned toward the window and the sword-cut along his jaw was red and puckered and angry-looking. "No," he added, and shook his head, "it is not at all a usual one."
Then he bade Anthony good day, and warned him to rest quietly; then the door closed behind him, and the young man lay listening to his footsteps as they sounded on the stairs.
However, it was not until the second day had passed that Anthony felt firm enough on his legs to go to the counting-room. It was about noon when he set out, and he noted that there seemed an unusual hubbub in the streets. Knots of people were gathered before taverns; public places frequented by merchants seemed to bristle with excitement. Anthony saw no one with whom he was acquainted, and so he had reached the London Coffee-House before he learned the cause of it all. Here a placard was pinned to a board; he stopped to read it, and so learned that the American merchantmanEclipsehad been taken on the high seas by a French letter-of-marque. His brows knitted with interest at this; and so, instead of turning into High Street as he would have done, he continued along Front to Walnut Street, and into the City Tavern.
There were many there, and they had the appearance of having sat at the tables in the public rooms many hours; pipe smoke eddied under the low ceiling, and glasses were drained and refilled with a steadiness that was eloquent of the public mind; voices were at high pitch, words were hot with resentment, and fists banged upon the tables.
Mr. Stroude sat with his friends about him. He talked solemnly. From the first,—from the very first, so he said he had known he was a marked man. Vainly the friends sought to break down this conviction; but he was resolved, and they could not budge him. A deal of his substance had gone into that ship, much more than even his intimates realized. The heel of adversity was heavy upon his neck; and God keep the day when those who heard him should know the weight of it. A voluble friend strove to cheer him up. There was no knowing what would happen. The worst had already occurred, and anything more would be for the best. And, look you! The pirate, now that he had taken Stroude's ship, must bring her into an American port, as there were no others open to him. And then we should see! Had not the Government denied the right of the French to equip or man vessels of war in American waters; and in the face of this could theEclipse, or her contents, be condemned or sold? Would the weakest of governments permit an outrage to be carried so far? To a man, the friends agreed that it would not; and one of them directed a waiter to bring more brandy.
After Mr. Stroude had drunk of this, he said he was an Englishman, and that he had always taken pride in the fact. Yes, he sat in the midst of them, confessedly English; he felt his nationality to the marrow, and he would take not one jot of it back. These things, he knew, placed his merchandise in all the greater jeopardy; but that could not alter his feelings. The cargo of theEclipsewas his and so was not under the protection of the United States when on the high seas. The ship, being American owned, he would grant them; but the cargo—no. His personal case was weak; it was pitifully weak! But what could he do?
Anthony saw Mr. Sparhawk some little distance away; and talking with him was a lank man in baggy small-clothes and a ratty-looking wig.
"Sympathy," said the lank man, "is of no use when the loss is one of hard money. And, more than that, it is given to the wrong person when it is given to Stroude. If the cargo is condemned, does he suffer? He does not. Who does?" The lank man thumped his lean chest. "I do," said he.
Mr. Sparhawk held up a quieting hand.
"The rumor is," said he, "that theEclipsewas taken within the capes. If that be so, there is an end of it. Hostile acts have been done within jurisdiction of the United States; American property has been seized by a vessel under a foreign flag."
"I have been ill advised," complained the lank man. "When it was known that Stroude was an Englishman and a thing like this likely to happen, I should have been cautioned."
"If you will look back, Mr. Baily," stated the perky little man, "you will recall that you were not only cautioned, you were warned. But you did not choose to use the information given you except as a means of getting a higher premium on the risk."
"But who would have thought it possible that these wretches would go to such a length?" pleaded Mr. Baily. "In this day, right under the noses of the authorities; and now they are laughing at us all, and making ready to divide the spoil."
Mr. Baily refused any such cheering thing as a drink, and went away, insisting that the worst had happened. Anthony approached Mr. Sparhawk, who sat with a composed countenance in the midst of the excitement, and exchanged greetings with him.
"I am pleased to see you so firm upon your feet," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A little care, now, and you'll do well enough." He fingered the stem of his glass and smiled easily at the room. "Well," said he, "the further venturings of your friends inLe Mousquethave made a deal of stir."
Anthony nodded.
"It was an impudent thing to do," said he. "And I'm inclined to think, it also had in it some elements of stupidity."
Mr. Sparhawk smiled, crossed one leg over the other, and dandled his foot.
"A little good wine at this hour is a comforting tonic for an ailing man," said he. And thereupon he spoke to a waiter, who brought them a liquid that was like pale gold. This Mr. Sparhawk sipped approvingly and nodded over the glass's edge at Anthony. "There is a deal of concentrated life in a thing like this," said he; "and it's often found to hold many a problem ready reasoned." They sat silently for a space, allowing the flavor of the wine to take possession of them; then Mr. Sparhawk nodded through the pipe smoke and huddles of debating men. "Who do you see at yonder table—there, under the portrait of Admiral Jones?"
There was Tarrant, lolling in a chair, and plainly having drunk too much; beside him was the big young man, showing his fine teeth in ready smiles, and keeping the bottle ready to his hand. Rehoboam Bulfinch sat with them, a meager drink before him, and folded up like a scraggy vulture.
"Tarrant," said Mr. Sparhawk, "served his country for a short space, and has done his utmost to discredit it ever since. And Blake is as infamous a ruffian as ever trod a deck."
"Blake," said Anthony, his attention quickened.
"He of the great body and the engaging laugh," said Mr. Sparhawk.
Anthony valued the rare drops upon his tongue with true appreciation; he looked toward the big young man and smiled.
"There is a man," pronounced Mr. Sparhawk composedly, "who should have been gibbeted five years ago. He has done more mischief among shipping than any other sea-thief since Edward England; and England's day was a century since."
"I heard a deal of Blake in the gulf and in the Carribbees a few years back," said Anthony. "The nearest I ever came to meeting him was while I was in a Spanish brig trading in those waters; two days out of Martinique we sighted him and ran him topsails under by nightfall. But once I had a communication from him."
"Ah!" said Mr. Sparhawk.
"He was a part and parcel of the New Orleans Government, and had a fleet of luggers among the islands and reefs at the mouth of the Mississippi. He had an agent in the city—a fat old spider whom I had to speak plainly to on one occasion; and because of this I could not afterwards get a ship, the owners being afraid to have on board a man who had affronted the pirate. So I began to give my attention to matters ashore, and it was then that Blake sent me the piece of writing. My interference had cost him some choice plunder, and he expressed regret that my change of occupation put him out of the way of meeting with me. But he hoped chance would throw us together at some future time." Under the swathes of bandages, Anthony cocked his eye in the direction of the freebooter. "Now that I see him," said he, "a thought troubles me. It may be that he does not know who I am."
"It is possible," said Mr. Sparhawk.
"On that chance," said the young man, "I think I will speak with him."
He made his way through the gesticulating merchants and stood at the table where the three men sat. Tarrant looked at him with sneering insolence. Bulfinch pushed back his chair; but Blake's manner was of cheery tolerance.
"What?" said Blake. "Is it possible? Here you are, active as a cat, and I thinking you on your back through a bad mishandling."
"Your friends made a shrewd try to bring that state about," said Anthony. "But I managed to overreach them." His gaze went to Tarrant and back again to Blake. "Your one-eyed man seemed willing enough; but he has little talent for desperate work. In a crisis he fumbles like an old woman."
Blake roared at this.
"Like an old woman!" said he. "By God, I must tell him that!"
Anthony stood looking down at the man, and, what with his pale, drawn face and his swathed bandages, he made a grim figure enough.
"It was only a moment ago that I learned your name," said he. "And the sound of it recalled a letter I once had of you at New Orleans."
Blake wrinkled his brows good-humoredly.
"A letter," said he. "Well, now! As I write very seldom, you must be a person of even more consequence than I thought."
But Anthony paid no heed to this mockery.
"I am the same Anthony Stevens who once spoiled your plundering of certain ships owned by Señor Montufars. The letter expressed a pious hope that chance would one day throw me in your way. And, as you see, it has."
Blake leaned back in his chair, shaking with mirth.
"Now," gasped he, "could anything be more like you? It's just what I'd have expected you to do—full of gallantry, open and anxious to come to grips with the immediate occasion." He gestured his appreciation. "Let me assure you, sir, now that Ihavechanced upon you, I wouldn't have missed the meeting for the world."
"In the seas I've sailed," said Anthony, "and the ports I've frequented, I found your name common talk; they said you were a bully who feared no one and only studied your own desire." He frowned down at the freebooter disbelievingly. "But, to say the truth, I haven't found you so. For all your written wish, I've yet to see you lift a hand."
"Never fear," said Blake cheerily; "my day will come."
"I promised you, that morning at the Brig Tavern, we'd meet again," said Anthony. "And if it wasn't for the work of the rats you urged on me out of the darkness," and he touched his wounded head, "I'd see to it that you had your chance to-day."
"Time will show," said Blake smilingly. "Don't bother your mind. Time will show."
"The forehanded spirit never leaves things to time," said Anthony. "A venturesome man would have been onLe Mousquet, knowing I was to be brought aboard."
"God damn your soul!" said Blake. "I'd give my two thumbs to have been."
But Anthony curled his lip.
"Your captain had little bowels," said he. "And you've given me no proof that you have any more."
He went back to Mr. Sparhawk and sat down. The little man eyed him with attention and observed quietly that when the vitality was low the emotions drew hard upon it; and he forthwith had more of the golden wine set before them. And while Anthony renewed himself with the drink Mr. Sparhawk spoke. It was a sound commercial and legal precept, so he said, to dare nothing unnecessarily; also, a hostile intelligence should never be given a clear view of one's mind. But, although he believed these were safe things, still he knew youthful and sanguine temperaments took much satisfaction in not observing them. He shook his head in discreet reproof and sipped sparingly at his wine. That Blake was a pirate, and that this man was Blake, he was quite sure. There could be no mistake. But the villain was free to come and go as he pleased; no stay could be put upon him; for, while the Spanish, the British, the Portuguese, and French had much to charge him with, the United States had nothing. He had never fired a shot at an American vessel, or stood on an American deck with hostile intent. Not, indeed, that Mr. Sparhawk thought him any too good; for he was rogue enough for any purpose. Perhaps he had kept himself free of blame in the state ports because one day he might need a haven to run into from the gunboats of the nations he'd preyed upon.
"But that he is free to come and go is not his reason for being here now," said Anthony.
Shrewdly said! Mr. Sparhawk agreed with this. There would have been a hue and cry had Blake been hunted out of his wallows in the gulf and the Carribbees. No, there was another reason. Hark to this! It might be that the letters of marque given out by the new French envoy attracted him, he seeing prospects of a deal of loot in their protection. But Mr. Sparhawk, so it seemed, put this idea forward only to demolish it; for, as he said, Blake had arrived in the port some months before Citizen Genêt stepped from the French republican ship at Charleston.
"It may be that the pirate had word of the Frenchman's coming," said Anthony.
Again, pointedly said! Mr. Sparhawk nodded in high good humor. It was really a pleasure to talk with a young man like Anthony; after all, there was nothing in the world like an active mind. Yes, it was quite possible that the freebooter knew of Genêt's coming; also, it was quite possible that others knew of it. Indeed, and Mr. Sparhawk grew quite confidential and very low of voice, that some others knew of it first was quite likely—others who were interested in such possibilities, and gave attention to making the most of them.
"What others?" asked Anthony.
Mr. Sparhawk smiled and shook his head; then he took out his snuff-box, which was of gold and scrolled very handsomely upon the lid. He offered it to Anthony; but, no, the young man would not have a pinch, for there was his hurt head to think of. So Mr. Sparhawk took some alone and sat tapping the box reflectively.
There were some things of which we are quite sure, he told Anthony, but of which we can give no very definite account. Very frequently matters went forward which one's mind could sense but which one's eye could not see. The days in which they found themselves were trying days. Honest men were much called upon to protect their rights; and dishonest ones were quick to take advantage. And these advantages were many. Wars for the complete unsettling of human society were going forward. The public mind was seeking new levels. Much was being done in the name of liberty which was tyranny; much was branded tyranny which, did you take the husk from it, was bright with freedom. This Citizen Genêt, now: despite all that the Tories said about him, he was no brawler from the gutters, who had seized upon liberty as a means of hoisting himself upon the backs of other men. He had been brought up in the court of the French King; he was a man of letters, and a diplomat who'd learned his trade in the capitals of Europe. Was it possible, and the little man asked this question earnestly of Anthony, that such a man would have taken the steps he had taken immediately upon setting foot in the United States unless he had been strongly advised? "Would he have so flouted and disregarded all the desires and requirements of the American Government unless there had been an influence at work upon him, upon which he felt he could thoroughly rely? Some one must have assured him that the Government's protests were empty things, without body or meaning, and that, despite them, he could commission ships to sail against British commerce from our ports. Who, asked Mr. Sparhawk, could have given these assurances? In whom, in this country, could Genêt have placed such complete confidence? Was it an American? It was not likely. Was it a Frenchman? That seemed nearer the fact.
"What Frenchman have you in mind?" asked Anthony keenly.
But this was a question which Mr. Sparhawk seemed in no haste to answer. And he said so; Anthony was a young man, and young men, he held, should work out their own opinions and lay the foundations for their own beliefs. But, for all that, and he tapped the scrolled lid of the snuff-box as he said this, he was not averse to what might be called a general suggestion. The adviser of Citizen Genêt was almost sure to be one who had known the republican minister in Europe—and one who was possibly concerned in shipping. Mr. Sparhawk nodded his head, quite convinced of this. But who the man was he could not say, and the head here was shaken with equal conviction. Of course, every one was entitled to privately hazard an opinion. No one could find fault with that. And he would not deny that he had hazarded his own. But he could say no more than this; if such a person, or persons, were to be found; if he, or they, could be induced to talk, a deal would be learned, much public villainy might be prevented, and the routing out of a burrow of rats that had given grievous private trouble might be begun.
Anthony nodded his bandaged head but said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk talked with care, blunting the point of each remark after it had entered, and leaving no salient thing upon which one might hang a definite meaning. When they had finished their wine, Anthony arose and bade him good day; and when on the street he turned in the direction of Rufus Stevens' Sons.
At the counting-room Charles greeted Anthony with a tight hand-clasp and said warmly:
"The villains! The infernal rogues! To strike you down and drag you aboard their dirty craft! We shall see to them before they have gone much further."
In his own room, he sat in the corner of his sofa, nursing his lame foot, and urged Anthony to tell of his escape. As the young man carried the story forward, Charles's face, which had been white and worn, flushed, and his eyes shone with their old brightness; at the episode of the arms-room and that of Anthony's struggle with the captain and the two lieutenants, he flamed up, rocking to and fro on the sofa and chuckling rapturously. But when the picture on deck was thrown before him he got up and began to prowl the floor, his head back and his laughter filling the room; at the girl's being taken out of the schooner, his eyes were filled with tears, his arms were about Anthony's shoulders, he shook with mirth.
"By God!" he pronounced, "it was wonderful! I would have given anything to have seen it. Congreve, nor Webster, nor Kitt Marlowe himself, haven't a bit of comedy to equal it. It was perfect."
During the afternoon Anthony was much noticed in the counting-room because of his bandaged head and the rather wavering account of his experiences which was going about; and at dusk Whitaker bore him away to a tavern for supper.
"Eat what you like," was the dandy's reply to Anthony's protests; "and drink nothing at all if your stomach is not in the way of it. But I must be seen in your company; the city is all agape at your adventures, and it will do me more good socially than the services of a dozen clever tailors."
They ate at the Crooked Billet, and all about there was a murmuring and nodding and a glancing from the corners of eyes;Le Mousquetwas still hot on the city's tongue, and the man who had striven so with her company was a person to be seen and commented upon.
"What you did I don't know," said Whitaker. "Some have it that you boarded the vessel of your own free will and tried to capture her single-handed; others insist you were kidnapped, and swam ashore with the blackguards popping at you with small arms from the deck. And I've heard—though Heaven knows how such a tale got abroad—that a woman figured in the matter, that she'd eloped with some jolly blade or other and you'd taken it on yourself to get her back, but whether for her people's sake or your own the gossip does not state."
Anthony replied briefly to the chatter of his friend, and after a little Whitaker drifted to another subject. He split a pigeon in two and helped himself to the good hot bread as he said:
"There's your uncle now. Of late I can't get him out of my mind."
"And why not?" asked Anthony.
"He's changed," said Whitaker. "He's aged and failing in health. There's not the same stingo to him that there once was. And he hesitates. For the first time in his life, I verily believe, he hesitates."
"It's worriment that the new ship will not be launched in time," said Anthony.
"There's no need to worry about her," said Whitaker, "because she'll go into the water on the day he has fixed. No, it's something else."
Anthony was silent; Whitaker gave his attention to the food for a space, and then went on:
"These Bulfinches and their like are the devil's crew. God help the man who's beholding to them; they'll sit about him until the commercial life is out of him, like vultures do, and then be on him and pick his bones."
"Why do you speak of them?" asked Anthony.
"On two occasions, one of those damned twin brothers—I don't know if it was Rehoboam or Nathaniel—visited your uncle; once I was sent to their den in Harmony Court, with a message. I have no wish to pry into any one's affairs," said Whitaker, "much less those of a man who employs and puts confidence in me; but my flesh crawls at thought of these people, and I wish I could get rid of the thought of them."
"What message did you carry to Harmony Court?" asked Anthony.
"I don't know," said Whitaker; "but it was one that gave Charles Stevens little pleasure to send, and the Bulfinches, father and sons, a deal to receive. It came about in a peculiar way," said the dandy. "Late one afternoon Tom Horn said to me that perhaps I'd better wait, as Mr. Stevens thought he'd have need of me. And so I did. The dusk came on; the light filling up the space under the door of your uncle's room showed me he'd lighted the candles, and I could hear him limping up and down the floor as though he couldn't keep still, Tom Horn was the only other person in the place; he had a candle at his elbow and was scratching away at some figures, and every once in so often he'd give me a look and screw up his face and shake his head. So I said to him, 'What is it?'
"'He said he'd never go to them,' says Tom. 'I've heard him say it many a time.'
"'Go to whom?' says I.
"'To the money-brokers,' says Tom. 'To Harmony Court. To Bulfinch's. So he means to send you.'
"But I couldn't believe it," said Whitaker, "for what could any one want with a messenger to that rats' nest if it wasn't on a matter of business? And what business could Rufus Stevens' Sons have there?" Whitaker took up his tankard and whipped the ale about in it with a circular motion; then he drank deeply of it. "But in a half-hour, maybe, Charles called me in." Whitaker put the tankard down and held up a hand as though in affirmation. "I never saw a man so deathly-looking; the sweat stood on his face and his eyes looked like the eyes of a very old man. He gave me a sealed paper and told me to take it to Amos Bulfinch at once. I said it was late, that I thought their place of business would be closed. But he laughed,—I never thought to hear a laugh that would chill me," said Whitaker, "but that one did,—and he told me to have no fear; they'd be waiting."
"And they were?"
"All three of them. The saintly father—whom the devil take!—and the virtuous sons—may they burn together!—sat and smiled and bade me welcome. They opened the sealed paper in an inner room; and afterwards Nathaniel came out with a second paper, also sealed, which he said was for Mr. Charles Stevens, and to whom it was to be delivered without delay. I did deliver it to him in his own place on Ninth Street, and I left him sitting with it unopened, and—shall I say it?—looking like a man broken and unstrung."
It was after dark when Anthony left Whitaker and walked up Water Street to Christopher Dent's. There was a light in the rooms above the apothecary's; and there was a moving shadow thrown on the curtains, graceful, youthful, appealing, with soft gestures. Anthony sounded the knocker at the side door, and in a few moments he talked with her father in the same room in which she had talked with Mr. Sparhawk some months before.
"You know who I am, so there's no need to go into that," said Anthony. "And I am here because there are matters between us which should be spoken of without delay."
Coldly polite, the old Frenchman indicated a chair, but Anthony said:
"Some of what I have to say concerns mademoiselle; would it be asking too much if I desired her presence?"
A few moments later she came into the room; Anthony met her proud, cold look with one steady and undisturbed. And he said:
"All day the city has been pulsing with certain news that's come in; no doubt you've heard, Monsieur Lafargue, how the schoonerLe Mousquethas taken the American shipEclipse."
Monsieur nodded, but was silent.
"Seizures have been expected of late," said Anthony; "for numbers of private armed ships, sanctioned by the French minister, Genêt, and provided with papers by him, have been operating in the waters round about." Anthony looked from the old man to the girl. "There are many who think the citizen is venturing far in these things," he said. "And there are a few who think rash advice is being given him—advice, indeed, that will lead to his undoing."
A lean, shaking hand went to Monsieur Lafargue's lips, and he coughed nervously.
"You have come here to say this?" he asked.
"In part, yes; but only in part." A few hours before, said Anthony, he had talked with a man, marked for his keenness, and it was this man's thought that the advice given Citizen Genêt had not originated with the person who gave it. The things done had been intemperate and unwise. The old head of Monsieur Lafargue was high held at this; his eagle face looked cold and proud; but there was a tremor in the thin hands as they lay upon the arm of his chair. And he desired the young man to proceed.
Anthony called to mind the night at the Crooked Billet: mademoiselle remembered that? Monsieur did not forget? Mr. Tarrant had wanted to arrange a duel. A preposterous thing! And did monsieur know why he so desired this?
"A blow had been given," said monsieur.
But why? A blow is seldom given except for cause. And there was cause enough behind this one, as monsieur would learn, if he cared to listen.
"In things that concern you personally, sir—" began Monsieur Lafargue, in his cold voice, but Anthony stopped him.
Let there be no misunderstanding of the matter, the young man requested, with the sharp, biting note that sometimes came into his voice; this was a concern of monsieur's. It had more to do with monsieur than any one else in the world. And now would he hear it?
Monsieur signed, with a shaking hand, that he would.
Very well. In the telling, said Anthony, he must go back; he must start at Brest, and with the letter which monsieur had received from Magruder.
"Accursed letter!" said monsieur. "Accursed letter!"
It was Magruder's communication which brought monsieur and mademoiselle across the ocean. Mademoiselle had said so. And, in light of this, monsieur might be interested to know that at the time he had received this writing at Brest Anthony had received another, much like it, at New Orleans; and from the same person. The call that had brought them from France had brought him north on the first ship he could get.
At this mademoiselle stirred in her chair; her eyes were eager; but Anthony spoke to her father.