But he had loved her, he had seen her, he had been filled with her beauty as a cup with wine. He would carry her memory into the waste places of the world. Perhaps in the new Athens, over yonder, among the magnolia bloom, and the smell of logwood blossom, he would make her memory immortal in some poem, some tragedy, something to be chanted by many voices, amid the burning of precious gums, and the hush of the theatre. On the way, he stopped, thinking of her personal tastes. He, too, would have those tastes. Little things for which she cared should come with him to the Main. He gave the merchant the impression that he was dealing with one melancholy mad.
Drums sounded in the street, for troops were marching west, to a rousing quick-step. They marched well, with their heads held firm in their stocks. The sergeants strutted by them, handling their halberds. Captain Margaret paused to watch them, just as a sailor will stop to watch a ship. “They are like the world,” he thought. “The men drop out, but the regiment remains. It still follows the rags on the broomstick, and a fool commands it, and a halberd drills it, and women and children think it a marvellous fine thing. Well, so be it. I’ve bought my discharge.” The fifes and drums passed out of hearing. “They’ll never come back,” he said to himself. “Perhaps twenty years hence I shall meet one of those men, and be friends with him. Why not now? And why should I see that regiment now? What does it mean? It is a symbol. All events are symbols. What does it mean? What is it a symbol of? Why should that regiment pass to-day, now, after I’ve bidden my love good-bye? And what ought I to learn from it? What message has it for me?” He was convinced that it had a message. He stood still, looking down the road, vacant as a British statue.
He woke up with a start, remembering that he had to buy some materials for the practice of one of his amusing handicrafts. A little gold, some silver, and a few stones of small value, together with glass beads, were all that he needed. He was planning to make jewels for the Indian princesses. “Beads is what they goes for,” so Cammock had said. He bought large stores of beads. He also bought materials for a jewel for Olivia, thinking, as he examined the gems, of the letter he would send with the gift. “It will be written under palm-thatch,” he thought, “in the rains.” He was able to plan the jewel in all its detail. People stared at him with curiosity. He was speaking aloud as he walked. “Nothing matters very much to me,” he said. “I know the meaning of life. Life and death are the same to me.” So saying he arrived upon the jetty, and hailed his boat, which lay at a little distance, her oarsmen playing dice in the stern-sheets. His purchases were stowed between the thwarts, a few grocer’s boxes made an obelisk in the bows. As they shoved off, there came a flash of fire from the side of theBroken Heart. White smoke-rings floated up and away, over her topgallant-masts. Grey smoke clung and drifted along the sea. The roar of the cannon made the Salcombe windows rattle. The boat’s crew grinned. Being boatmen, they had escaped the gun-drill. They knew what all hands were getting from the stalwart Cammock.
He stepped quickly up the side, acknowledging Cammock’s salute and the pipe of the boatswain. Perrin met him at the break of the poop. He noticed that Perrin stared rather hard at him. He grinned at Perrin cheerfully.
“Yes, I saw her,” he said gaily.
It seemed to Perrin that his gaiety was natural, and that, perhaps, the sight of Mrs. Stukeley, with her husband, had proved an effective cure. A gun’s crew swayed the gear out of the boat. The other guns’ crews, heaving the heavy trucks, training the guns forward, wished that they might help. Captain Cammock resumed his drill.
“Starboard battery, on the bow!” he exclaimed. “Port battery, upon the beam. Imagine them hulks. Them’s the enemy. Bring aft your train tackles. No. No. Oh, what are you playing at? Drop them blocks. What in hell are you thinking of there, number three? I’m not talking to you, port battery. Now. Wait for the word of command. Take heed. Silence. Silence there. Now. Cast off the tackles and breechings. Carry on.”
The figures by the guns became active. Though they carried on “in silence,” there was a good deal of noise, many muttered oaths, much angry dropping of rammers. Captain Margaret stood by Cammock, waiting till the guns were fired. He had learned the practical part of naval gunnery from a book in Cammock’s cabin,The Mariner’s Friend, or Compleat Sea Gunner’s Vade Mecum. He watched the drill wearily, knowing how hard and dull a thing it was to the men who swayed the tackles, and hove the trucks along with crows. In the moment of peace after the broadsides, he felt a pity for his men, a pity for humanity. He had hired these men at four shillings a week apiece. He gave them their food, worth, perhaps, tenpence a day, with their rum worth twopence more, bought wholesale, out of bond. “For eleven shillings a week,” he thought, “a man will clog his heavenly soul with gun-drill, which his soul loathes; and refrain from drabs and drams, which his soul hungers and thirsts for.” He felt ashamed that he had not thought more of his men’s comfort.
“You’ve got them into shape already, captain,” he said.
“I’ll get them into trim in time,” answered Cammock. “It takes time.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “it takes time.” He paused a moment, remembered his kindly feeling, and continued. “I want to ask you about fresh meat, captain. Shall I get some fresh meat here, to see us well into the Western Ocean? Or flour, now? I want the hands kept in good trim. I don’t want to lose any by sickness.”
“Fresh meat is always good at sea,” said Cammock. “But there’s better things than meat. For keeping a crew in good shape, you can’t beat sugar and flour. It takes the salt out of their bones.”
Perrin had joined them. “I’ve ordered fresh meat and sugar,” he said. “And three dozen fowls. They’ll be off in about an hour’s time.”
“You oughtn’t to have done that,” said Margaret.
“I paid for them myself,” he answered. “There they come.”
Captain Cammock secured his guns, returned his powder, and piped the boat to be cleared. The hen-coop was lashed down for a full due below the break of the poop. After the meat had been hung in the harness-room, the hands went forward to loaf and stand-by. The two friends walked the poop with Cammock, ten paces and a turn, talking of old times, and of the fortune of the sea.
They were waiting for the ebb-tide to take them out. The wind was fair, but light; they needed the ebb. Waiting like that is always a weariness. Captain Margaret wished that he had never put in to Salcombe. He was a fool, he thought. The thing was over, the wound was closed. He had begun it anew; reopened it. Now he had to apply the cautery. If he had held his course, his ship would have been out of sight of land, going on, under all sail, forty miles south-west from Scilly, bringing him nearer to content at each wave, each bubble. He felt also the discontent of the tide-bound sailor. He felt that he was at liberty wrongfully; that it was wrong for him to be there, doing nothing, merely because the tide still flowed. Perrin, though he was eager to talk to his friend about the results of the farewell call, was bored to death by the inaction, by the sudden stoppage of the routine. As for Cammock, he smoked his pipe, and looked out to windward, wondering inwardly at the strangeness of gentlemen. Thinking that they were hipped, he told them his favourite tale of how the cow came at him one time, when he was hunting for beef near One Bush Key. It was an exciting story; but nothing, he said, to what “happened him” one time when he was loading live steers at Negril, after the cattle pest at Antigua.
“So I got into one of the shore-boats,” he concluded. “I’d had enough of them great horns a yard long.”
“Every man to his trade,” said Perrin curtly.
Captain Margaret asked if the long-horns were bred from imported stock. Cammock had expected them to laugh. The situation was saved by the entrance of a sixth-rate, under all plain sail, on the last of the flood. Her blue sides were gay with gold leaf; her colours streamed out astern; she broke the water to a sparkle. In her main-chains stood a leadsman crying his melancholy cry of “And a half, three,” which another voice repeated harshly. Though she came quietly she came swiftly; for the flood had strength. She was a lovely thing, swaying in there softly. TheBroken Heartsaluted her. The friends watched her as she passed. Cammock saw his opportunity. He turned to his companions.
“What d’ye make of her?” he asked them.
Perrin called her “a man-of-war”; Margaret “a beautiful thing.”
“I’ll tell you whatImake of her,” said Cammock. “She was built in France, that’s easy seen, and she was bought or taken at least three years back. She was re-masted at Deptford, and her captain thinks the masting’s spoiled her. She’s been in the West Indies within a year, and there she’d a pile of hard times. Lost her topmasts for one of them. Then she came home, and took a big nob of some sort up the Mediterranean, for political reasons, and in a hurry, with a scratch crew. She’s made a quick passage, and the captain’s cabin is taken up with ladies, probably one big sort of a duchess or that. The Government is short of funds, and the wind’s going to draw more westerly. Her lieutenant is a Devonshire man. And I bet I know her captain’s name and what her hands think of him. That’s what I make of her.”
“How d’you know all that?” said Perrin.
“Every man to his trade,” said Cammock. He felt that he had retrieved the honour lost over the cows.
At this moment four bells were made; the cabin steward rang them to the cabin supper.
They found the table heaped with dainties; for Perrin and Cammock had foraged ashore together, so that the last night in port might be merry. Punch, strawberries, and a pigeon-pie. Captain Margaret proposed the conundrum, why strawberries would be considered flippant among the bakemeats at a funeral dinner. Captain Cammock gorged the conundrum, hook and all.
“And we are bound to New BarbaryWith all our whole ship’s company.”Captain Glen.“I have a vessel riding forth, gentlemen,And I can tell you she carries a letter of mart.What say you now to make you all adventurers?You shall have fair dealing, that I’ll promise you.”A Cure for a Cuckold.
“And we are bound to New Barbary
With all our whole ship’s company.”
Captain Glen.
“I have a vessel riding forth, gentlemen,
And I can tell you she carries a letter of mart.
What say you now to make you all adventurers?
You shall have fair dealing, that I’ll promise you.”
A Cure for a Cuckold.
Aftersupper, the party went on deck again, to see the last of their country. The two mates, who had their cabins in the after ’tween-decks, where they messed, had made all ready for getting under way. The hands walked to and fro about the fo’c’s’le, waiting for the order. The last bum-boat had shoved off for the shore, having sold her last onion and last box of red herrings. Snatches of song came aft to the poop. It was slack water; the sea seemed to be marking time. Already, further up the harbour, a schooner had swung athwart the stream. One or two boats were hoisting their foresails, ready to catch the first ebb. The sun was still strong in the heavens; there was more than an hour of day to come.
“We may as well up hook,” said Cammock, “if you’ll say the word, sir.”
“All ready, captain,” said Margaret. “We’ll go as soon as you like.”
“Right,” said Cammock, bustling forward to the poop-rail. “Hands up anchor, bosun.”
The boatswain’s pipe made the call. The fo’c’s’le was thronged with hurrying sailors. The trumpeter at the gangway blew a flourish, and sounded his “Loath to depart.” The men cheered as the bars were shipped. The waisters tended on the messenger with their nippers. Slowly the pawls began to click as the men strained round, heaving on tiptoe. The two capstans hove in, moving the cable. All down the ’tween-decks rang the snapping creak of a cable at a shaking strain. Some one at one of the bars, down in the half-darkness, began to sing. The crowd made chorus together, lifting the tune. Voice after voice joined in. Bar after bar sounded and shouted. The ship rang with song. The music of the tune floated out over the harbour. In the sixth-rate, the men joined in, till the whole crew were singing. Ashore they heard it. In the schooners at anchor, in the inns ashore, in the dance-house up the town, the music made echo, stirring the heart. As the light wind moved or failed, so died the tune or lifted. With a great sweep it rose up, towering on many voices, then drooped to the solo, to soar again when the men sang. They were singing that they would go no more a-roving. To Margaret and Perrin, standing there at the poop-rail, hearkening to them, much moved by the splendour of the song, the coarse old words seemed touching, infinitely sad, the whole of sea-life set to music.
Now they were moving slowly, making the water talk. Their spritsail was set. Hands were aloft loosing the topsails. On the fo’c’s’le head the mate bustled, looking over the rail. Very slowly the ship moved; but now, as she left her berth, heading for the narrows, past the breakers, where Ram Rock gleamed in his smother, the song at the capstan ceased. On deck, a watch gathered at the halliards. The foretopsail jolted up to the song of “Lowlands.” Sail was being made. Voices from aloft gave notice to hoist away. In the bustle and confusion, with coils of rope rattling down, men running here and there, getting pulls of this and that, and the noise of the sails slatting, the two friends walked the poop, looking back at the sixth-rate, dipping their ensign to her. Cammock had come aft, and was standing by them, looking aloft at the boy on the maintopgallant yard. He spun round suddenly, hearing a hail from the man-of-war.
“Hullo!” he shouted; adding, under his breath, “Lord, she’s going to press us.”
He darted to the bulwark, and shouted “Hullo!” again. He saw the mate of the watch, in a dirty old tarred coat, walking her weather gangway, where a soldier stood at attention in old red regimentals.
The mate of the watch did not speak to them. He merely lifted his hand to Cammock, and pointed towards the jetty.
“A boat for us,” said Perrin.
“Very much obliged to you, sir,” cried Cammock to the mate of the watch.
“Lend me your glass, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret uneasily.
He seized the glass hastily, and looked at the advancing boat. She was rowing rapidly towards them.
“Who the devil can it be?” said Perrin, as he watched Cammock bring the ship to the wind. “Lord, captain,” he said, with real anger. “It’s that woman with her husband.”
“It’s a lady, that’s plain,” said Cammock. “And they’re in a hurry. The man’s double-banking the stroke oar.”
“They’ve got a lot of gear in the boat,” said Perrin.
“Presents, I guess,” said Cammock. “A present of fowls and that. Or a case or two of bottles.”
Captain Margaret flushed, walked up and down uneasily, and called to the steward to open wine.
“There’s something queer,” said Cammock to Perrin. “Hark at all them shouts. Gad, sir, I believe they’re being chased. There’s two shore boats after them. Ain’t they smoking, hey?”
Indeed, the pursuing boats were being pulled furiously; their oars were bending.
“What in James is the rally?” said Cammock. “Is Captain Margaret made King of England or anything?”
Perrin looked at Cammock with a flush upon his face.
“Captain Cammock,” he said, “they’re coming aboard us. They’re being chased. I bet they’re flying from their creditors.”
“Lord,” said Cammock.
He watched the chase with deeper interest. Captain Margaret joined them.
“Charles,” said Perrin, “they’ve come to beg a passage. Stukeley’s being chased by creditors. Man, for heaven’s sake don’t take them in. Don’t, man.”
“What nonsense,” said Margaret. “Have you never seen these boatman race before?”
Cammock spoke. “I suppose you want me to pick them up, sir?”
“Certainly,” said Margaret.
“Very good, sir,” he answered.
He looked at the hurrying boats. Cries came from the pursuers. Men and women were running down the steps to the pier, now black with people, excited, shouting people. Olivia and Stukeley were now almost within fifty yards. Stukeley was standing in the sternsheets, double-banking the stroke with all his strength.
“There, sir,” said Cammock. “Did you hear that, sir? Those fellows in the cutter are singing out to them to stop. There. They’re going to fire.”
Captain Margaret muttered something; his face flushed suddenly, and then became pale. A gun was fired from the cutter.
“Firing overhead,” said Cammock absently.
“Captain Cammock,” cried Margaret, “lively now; get her off to her course.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” he cried.
He sprang to the helm, shouting his orders. He was back in a moment.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, as the ship paid off. “Are you not going to pick them up?”
“Yes, of course I am,” said Margaret.
“And the other boats, too, sir?”
“No,” he answered. “Not yet anyhow.”
A hail came from the pursuing boats. “Ship ahoy! Stop those persons on your peril.”
“King’s officers, sir,” said Cammock. “They’re fugitives from the law. It’s transportation to receive fugitives, sir.”
Two more guns were fired in quick succession; a bullet from one of them struck the bends of theBroken Heart.
“Arrest those fugitives. In the name of the King,” came the shout of a man in the cutter.
The words were clear enough. All that Margaret saw was Olivia’s face, laughing and happy, her great eyes bright, as the boat swept alongside.
“It’s a hanging matter, Charles,” said Perrin, biting his thumbs till the blood came.
“I don’t care if they hang me fifty times,” said Margaret. “They fired at her.”
“Oh, all right. All right,” said Perrin resignedly. “Now we’re in for trouble,” he added angrily. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. I knew how it would be.”
“Hands clear boat,” said Cammock to the boatswain.
Olivia and Stukeley tripped up the gangway to the quarter-deck.
Margaret greeted them; but Stukeley pushed past him to Cammock and Perrin.
“Here,” he said, drawing them aside. “We’re coming with you. I’m wanted. And I’m coming with you. She thinks I’m coming to help—to help the Indians.” He seemed to choke with laughter. He was out of breath from rowing.
Cammock did not answer, but walked to the rail, and called to the boatmen in the boat. “Hook on these boxes lively now,” he said. “You’d best come aboard, all four of you, unless you want a taste of gaol.”
Two of the men hooked on the trunks in one sling; the other two cast off the boat and dropped astern, as the tackle swept the trunks over the side. It was all done in a moment.
Perrin found himself with Stukeley, who was talking. “She must never know it,” he was saying, between gasps. “Oh, Lord, what a joke, eh?” Perrin heard him absently, for his ears were straining to hear what his friend said to Olivia. There she was, flushed with the race, swaying a little as the ship swayed. He heard the words, “We beat them,” and saw her go to the rail to watch the pursuing boats. Perrin took off his hat, advanced to her, and bade her welcome. He could have hurled her overboard willingly. His reason for advancing was to see what the pursuing boats were doing.
“It was such a race,” said Olivia. “But we beat them. They chased us all the way from Halwell. It was such fun.” She talked on excitedly; Perrin had never seen her so radiant. She was delighted to be on board, going to the New World, in a real ship. And then the suddenness of it, and the rush of the boat-race.
As for the boats, one of them, the cutter, was a hundred yards or more astern, pulling hard upon their quarter. The other was rowing up alongside the sixth-rate. Perrin saw a man in a red coat waving a paper from her sternsheets. The man-of-war’s deck was full of men, who had crowded to the side to watch. Cammock was hurrying his hands. His maintopsail and topgallantsail were mastheaded together, to songs which made Olivia hasten to the poop-rail to hearken. Loud was the jolly chorus. The ship felt the sail. Bubbles burst brightly over the trailing anchor-flakes. Old Harry beacon drove by, rolling in the wash they made. Cammock walked aft hurriedly to take a bearing. He noticed then for the first time that the cutter which had fired on them was the red cutter of the man-of-war. He could now see her broadside. Her men fired no more. They were stepping the mast, while two of them kept way upon her. “We’re in for it now,” he thought. He let his helmsman feel that it would not do to glance astern.
“You mind your eye,” he said fiercely. He took an anxious glance at the Wolf Rock, and at the toppling seas on the Blackstone. “I never saw a beastlier place,” he said. “Haul in there, leadsman,” he shouted. “Another cast, now.”
The ship seemed to pause a moment, like a bird suddenly stricken with the palsy. A kind of death seemed to lay hold of her, checking all on board. She dragged a moment, and then drove on, muddying the sea. She had touched Ripple Sands.
“My God, we’re done if you stick,” said Cammock. “And here’s Splat Point and the Bass.”
He bent over the binnacle; Stukeley came to him.
“Hello, captain,” he began. “My old sea-dog. Eh? Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”
Cammock took his cross-bearing without answering. Then he looked steadily at the harbour-mouth, and at the curved white line of the bar. He bade his helmsman “come to” a point. He conned the ship, ordered a small pull of a sheet, and glanced astern at the man-of-war.
Stukeley repeated his question. “Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”
Cammock glanced at him for a second. “Lots of dirty pubs ashore there,” he said coldly. He turned to look again at the man-of-war.
He was not too far from her to see that she was casting loose her forecastle gun. He looked bitterly at Stukeley. “I wonder what you’ve done, my duck,” he said under his breath. He walked up to the little group by the mizen shrouds; he wished not to annoy the lady.
“Captain Margaret, sir,” he said. “May I just speak to you a moment?”
His owner stepped aside with him.
“Look here, sir,” he said hurriedly, “the man-of-war’s going to fire on us. I don’t know what reasons you may have for taking these people aboard. But the man’s escaping from justice, and the lady’s been bamboozled. In another ten ticks you’ll have a round-shot into you. Now, sir, is it fair? A round-shot may kill and maim you a dozen hands, with the decks so busy as they are. Let me heave her to, sir. The man’s a damned scum. And it’s hanging if you’re caught.”
Perrin joined them, leaving Olivia alone. Her husband was talking to the helmsman, getting no answer.
“Charles, for the Lord’s sake, send them in,” said Perrin. “Do, for the Lord’s sake, think what you’re doing. You’ll ruin yourself. You’ll wreck the cruise. You simply can’t have them aboard. Look at that great hulking beast abaft there.”
“Hi, you,” called Cammock angrily. “Clear away from the helm there.”
Stukeley stared at him, much surprised.
“Yes, I mean you,” said Cammock.
“No man must talk to the helmsman,” said Margaret gently.
“Your old sea-dog hasn’t learned manners, eh?” said Stukeley insolently. “You must teach him.”
He stared at Cammock, who returned the stare, and then spun upon his heel to con the ship through the channel.
Perrin drew Margaret aside.
“Oh, Charles. For the last time. Think what you’re doing. I must heave her to. You aren’t fit to decide. Heave to, Captain Cammock.”
“As she goes,” cried Margaret angrily. “No, Edward,” he added quietly; “I’ll take them. I’ll save her one shock, anyway. And if I must hang for it, I must. That’s settled.”
“You don’t even know what he’s done,” said Perrin.
“He’s her husband,” said Margaret. “And they fired on her. They fired on her. Now go and talk to her. No more talk, Ned. They’re coming with us. Go and talk to her.”
Perrin turned from his friend with a gesture of childish passion. He took off his hat, ripped the brim from the crown with a single violent tug, and flung both portions into the sea. Then he walked swiftly down the ladder (and to his cabin) muttering curses so vehemently that they seemed to shake him. As he passed under the cabin door a flash came from the bows of the sixth-rate. A ball from a long nine-pounder hit up a jet from the sea close alongside, then bounded on, raising successive jets, till it was spent. Another shot flew over them. A third, fired after an interval, brought the maintopgallant braceblock down. A part of the sheave just missed Olivia’s head.
“They ought not to salute with shot,” explained Captain Margaret. “They always do. And that bit of lignum vitæ—feel it; isn’t it beautifully smooth and hard—would have given you a nasty bruise. Hold on,” he called, catching her arm, “she’s rolling. We’re going over the bar. It’s all very well wishing a ship a pleasant voyage,” he continued. “But I wonder they don’t kill people.” His thought was, “Can she be such a fool? Surely she must know.” But at that time he knew very little of Stukeley.
Olivia answered him. The shot and the rattle of the falling gear had filled her mood. “Yes,” she said. “But I must be prepared for that. I must be with Tom, by his side, when we fight the Spaniards. I do think it’s fine of him to want to help the Indians.”
“Yes,” said Captain Margaret. “But won’t you go below? A braceblock on the head is a very bad preparation for helping any one.” He glanced anxiously astern at the man-of-war; he was surprised to see that she was not in sight. TheBroken Heartwas clear of the harbour, feeling the heave outside, hidden from Salcombe by Lambury Point. The pursuing cutter was sailing back to the sixth-rate. It was a shock to him, for a moment of time, to think that now he had burned his boats, and that he was pledged to a very doubtful venture. “There’ll be no more firing,” he added. “Doesn’t Bolt Head look fine from here? Look at the breakers on the rocks there. Olivia, you must put on a warm coat or wrap. The sea-wind is cold.”
“I’d rather be as I am,” she answered. “Tell me, Charles,” she added, “are you sure that you would like us to come with you? Quite sure? We could easily go ashore at Plymouth. But my husband is so bent on coming, and he’ll be so useful to you. You will let us come, won’t you? You know, all my life has been so empty. And now. Now I’m so happy, I want every one else to be happy. Oh, I’d love to help the Indians.”
“You shall come, certainly,” said the captain. “But are you sure you’re fitted for the voyage? Our venture is not exactly. Ladies are out of place. You may have to suffer a great deal of very great hardship. And then you might—— I want you to think, Olivia. You might—we all might—be captured by the Spaniards.”
“Oh,” she answered, “I went into that with Tom, after you’d gone, about half an hour after, when I told him of your visit. Directly I told him of it, he was eager to come with you. The first thing he said was, ‘Olivia, do you think your friends would take us?’ ”
“It must have been rather a shock to you. To decide in such a hurry.”
“Oh; but it is so nice to do that. Besides, if we hadn’t decided, we should have gone to Venice, or somewhere not half so nice.”
“Well. How will you like being atleastsix months from home? Have you reckoned on that?”
“Oh, but the only home one has is just one’s self. The only real home.”
“Now, Olivia. I love to have you with me. You know that of course. But you don’t realize how disagreeable the life may be.” A thought struck him. “Yes,” he muttered excitedly. “Nor how dangerous,” he added, “how frightfully dangerous.”
“One can always be one’s self,” she replied. “And I shan’t be afraid of danger, with Tom by me.”
“And the danger will threaten him, remember.”
“I shall take care of him.”
Something in her voice, in her manner, made Captain Margaret think that Olivia’s willingness to come with them was merely a willingness to please her husband. It seemed to him that her first sight of England from the sea had come upon her with a shock. He felt that she only kept from tears by an effort, now that the excitement of the race had passed. He saw her look at the men who hauled the braces; following her train of thought, that these were to be her companions for months to come. He felt instinctively that her mind began to dwell upon the possible disagreeable closeness of companionship, shut up in a small ship’s cabin, with three or four men. He wondered whether Stukeley had bullied her into the venture. He thought not. He had ever believed a rogue to be plausible, rather than masterful. He promised himself some little amusement in cross-examining Stukeley, to learn the history of that day’s work. He remembered then that he was their host. He called Stukeley. “Won’t you both come below,” he said, “to see what sort of house you’ve chosen?” He led them down the poop-ladder to the alley-way door. As he passed the door of Perrin’s cabin he heard a shaking voice uttering fierce curses. Perrin was stamping up and down, wholly given over to rage.
Up on deck, Captain Cammock walked the weather-poop, glad at heart that the wind was freshening. TheBroken Heartwas lying over a little, with the wind on her starboard beam. She was under all sail, going through it at about five knots. “I shall drive you, my duck,” he said. “You shall groan to-night.” He longed for a whole gale, a roaring Western Ocean gale, that the passengers might learn their folly. He eyed the sails, stiff and trembling, with shaking shadows at their clues. The carpenter was screwing battens behind the gun-trocks; the boatswain and half the watch were forward, singing out on a rope. Captain Cammock watched them whenever he turned forward. When he walked aft, he turned, glanced at the compass, looked aloft at the maintopgallant sail, and noted the feathers on the wind-vane. He was reviewing the situation. “It was a good thing for us,” he thought, “that that duchess lady was aboard that frigate. Otherwise we’d a-been chased and took. Now how was it her boat gave chase? The duchess lady arrives from the south; after six days at sea, say. She sends in for letters and stores, and the boat waits at the pier. Now this Stukeley fellow came alongside us in a shore boat, from Salcombe. I saw the word Salcombe on her backboard. Now if I was that Stukeley duck—— How could it have been, I wonder. He couldn’t have come from the pier, because the man-of-war boat lay there. If he wanted to get away, what would he have done? He’d have left word for his gear to be brought down to the water; and then gone off for a walk or drive. Then he’d have sent a boat for his gear, and got her to pick him up and row him about, up towards Kingsbridge, say, as soon as ever he decided to come aboard of us. He knew he was wanted, that duck did. Yes. That was it. For sure. And them who was laying for him hears of that, and sends up a boat to look for him; but he gives her the slip. As soon as the ebb begins, he runs down. And away he comes full tilt for us. Now some one who was laying for him must have been on the jetty, waiting for him to land. Soon as ever he come past, they nip into the cutter in the name of the King and pull after him. A little too far after. One boat pulls to the frigate, and so we get three nine-pounder shots sent at us, before the duchess lady tells ’em to stop that horrid firing. I wonder what that Stukeley duck has done, now.”
He turned over this outline of the Stukeley escape, just as, years before, he had pieced out evidence, and scouts’ reports, when he was cruising on the Spanish Main. He had always wished to have a command on the Main; for he had more than courage to recommend him. He had a keen intuitive shrewdness and a power of deduction. “They never give me a chance on the Main,” he thought. “But I was right about them roasting spuds.” He sighed. That error of his captain had lost them a pound of gold apiece. “Now,” he thought, “if them two birds is coming the cruise we shan’t have a very happy ship.”
Bell after bell passed by; the day wore; the sun set. As he had foretold, the wind drew more to the west; freshening as it shifted. TheBroken Heartwas beginning to feel the strain. She was lying down a little, and whitening a path in the sea. She was full of odd noises. The breechings on her guns were new, they cracked and creaked at each roll; her decks groaned as the trocks ground. At two bells, when the hands came aft to muster, in the summer twilight, having catted the anchor, she was seven miles from land, driving on in the dusk, making the seas gleam. Her poop-light, like a burning rose abaft all, reddened her wake with bloody splashes. She stooped to it and staggered. Over her bows came the sprays, making the look-outs cower down in their tarred coats. The water whitened aft in a washing rush, gleaming and creaming. By the break of the poop the watch lay. A score of men huddled together in the shade, marshalled by the boatswain in his old blue cloak, scurfed with salt at the seams. Voices murmured among them; one lit a pipe, one hummed. The wind in the shrouds hummed; already the blocks were clacking. Now and then, as they rushed on, in the gathering darkness, the boy above struck the bell; and from forward came the answering bell, with the call of the look-outs, “Weather cathead,” “Lee cathead,” showing that they were alert. The steward came from the alleyway, snuffing up the strong salt air; he climbed the lee ladder to the poop. Battling up to windward against the gale, he halted and uncovered before the captain.
“Well, steward,” said Cammock.
“Captain Margaret sends his compliments to you, seh,” said the old negro, with the soft “boneless” speech of his kind, “and will you step below, seh, to speak with him in the cabin.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” said Cammock. He glanced at the compass-card again, and spoke a word with old Mr. Cottrill, the mate, whose watch it was, according to old sea custom. “Call me if it freshens,” he said; “but don’t take any sail off.”
Mr. Cottrill murmured that he understood, and bent under his coat to get a light for his pipe. His thought was, “I’ve shipped with pirates. With pirates.” The memory of that afternoon gave him bitter thoughts till midnight, as the ship rushed on, under the stars, carrying her freight of passion, her freight of souls.
Down below in the cabin the lamp had been lighted. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and now swayed a little with the roll, making a faint click of rings. They were dark green curtains; but on each of them was worked a blood-red tulip, which glowed out finely in the lamplight. The windows were open behind the curtains. At times, when the ship pitched, the cloth sucked in or out, sending the lamp-flame dancing. At the table were the two Stukeleys and Captain Margaret. Perrin sat upon the locker by the window, biting his poor raw thumbs. When Captain Cammock entered, he noticed that Olivia had been drinking a bowl of soup, and that Stukeley was staring hard in front of him, clutching his glass of spirits.
“You’re turning sick,” said Cammock to himself. “Wait till we haul our wind, my duck. Oh, mommer.” A single hard glance at Olivia convinced him that she felt wretched. “More than you bargained for, ain’t it?” he thought cheerfully. “You wait till we haul our wind.”
He had the common man’s hatred of strangeness and of strangers. He loved not to have more folk aboard to interrupt his chats with his owners, and to sit in the sacred cabin, ordering his steward.
“Captain Cammock,” said Margaret, “let me introduce you to Mrs. Stukeley. Mr. Stukeley.”
The captain bowed.
“Captain Cammock is our commander, Olivia.”
Olivia smiled at the captain, much as a Christian martyr may have smiled.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said the captain, bowing.
He felt a queer gush of pity for her, remembering how he had felt, years before, on his first night at sea.
“I hope you won’t make my little ship giddy, ma’am,” he said kindly. “You must wear veils. All ladies has to, when they come on deck. You know, ma’am——” He sat down at the foot of the table. “I seen a ship quite lose her head one time. And the girl who done it wasn’t to be compared, not to you.”
“You see, Olivia,” said Margaret, “a sailor loses no time.”
“You must come on deck and see the moon by and by, ma’am,” said Cammock kindly. “And bring your husband. It’s nice and fresh up on the deck. It’ll do you good before turning in, I dare say,” he went on. “I dare say you’ve never seen the sea at night. Not all round you. No? Well, you come up.”
Olivia thanked him for his invitation.
“I’ve lived by the sea all my life,” she said; “but I was never on it in a ship before, except when I went to France.”
The words were very hard to speak; for as she spoke, with a rush, with a flash, burningly, as tears come, came the memory of her sheltered life at home, with her old servants, and her garden full of flowers, over which now, at this moment, the moon was rising, lighting the moths to their honey. She was homesick; she longed for that old life. Life had gone very smoothly there; and now she was at sea in a ship, among rough men, amid noise and bawling and the roaring of wind. She kept a brave face upon it, but her heart was wretched; she wondered why her husband did not understand. She longed for the peace of her quiet room at home, full of the scent of flowers, and of that vague scent, pleasant, and yet morbid, which hangs about all houses where there has been a fine tradition of life. Old things, old beautiful things, seem to give out this scent, the scent of the dead sweet pea-blossom. Wherever that vague perfume lingers, something of the old world lives, something beautiful, stately, full of sweet care. Olivia was made for that life of lovely order. Her life had been passed in the gathering of flowers, in the playing of music, in dances, in the reading of poems. All sweet and lovely and gracious things had wrought her; but they had not fitted her for this. Something was wrong with the justice of the world; for surely such as she should have been spared. She was not for the world; not at least for the world of men. She was the idea of woman; she should have been spared the lot of women. Her beautiful grace, her beautiful refinement, surely they were beautiful enough for her to be spared. Now this violence had happened; this brutal rearrangement of her life, needing further violence to remedy. At the time she understood nothing of what had happened. She was stunned and surprised, as a flower dug up and transplanted must be surprised and stunned. She drooped and pined; this alien soil made her shrink. As she sat there, ignorant of the world, highly ignorant, even, of the nature of sea-sickness, she wondered why her husband made no effort to cheer her, to comfort her, to be about her, like a strong wall, shutting out the world. In her home by the sea, by lamplight, over her music, she had often dreamed of the lover who would fill her life. She had thought of him as of one who would live her life by imaginative sympathy, thinking her thoughts, feeling with her own fineness of tact, following each shy, unspoken thought in the passing of shadow or smile, in the change of the voice, in the gesture, or even without such help, by an extreme unselfish sensitiveness. She found comfort in the thought that her husband must be debating the wisdom of this cruise, which, only a few hours ago, had seemed so wise, so noble, so right in every way.
Captain Margaret broke the silence which had followed her last words.
“Captain Cammock,” he said, “we’re making a new arrangement in the cabins. Mr. and Mrs. Stukeley will have my double cabin to starboard here. I shall have the spare bunk in Mr. Perrin’s cabin. I shall want you to beat up to Falmouth, captain.”
“You’ll run some risk of gaol, Charles,” said the petulant friend on the locker-tops. “You’ll probably be wanted by this time to-morrow all over the west of England.”
“You were always a pessimist,” said Margaret.
“Is the lady to go ashore, then?” said Cammock, looking towards Olivia.
“I hope not,” said Margaret. “But if she stays she must have a maid. We shall put her—let me see.”
“Where will you put her?” asked Perrin. “There’s no room. You surely won’t put her in the ’tween-decks?”
“No,” replied his friend. “We must make up a room in the sail-room. Captain Cammock must shift his sails into the ’tween-decks.”
“She’ll have the biggest room in the ship,” said Cammock. “She’ll be able to give a ball to the hands.”
“Charles,” said Olivia, “I don’t think I can possibly come with you. I’m giving you too much trouble.”
She was hurt, now, that it was Charles, not her husband, who had thought of her comfort, and shown that he considered her position.
“Nonsense,” said Margaret. “You’re being very nice. You just make all the difference. Now, you’re both tired out. Your cabin’s quite ready for you. Suppose we all go on deck to take the air for a while before we say good-night.”
As they filed on deck, Cammock drew Stukeley aside.
“See here,” he said. “You’re giving way to it. You’ll be as sick as a dog if you give way to it. What you want to do is to get some nice fat pork, or a bit of greasy bacon, now. Or lard. The steward ’d lend you a ball of lard. Or get one of the hands to puff tobacker at yer. Or take a suck at a little melted butter, or some of that salad oil as they call it. It’ll fetch you up all standing.”
He turned to his owner as Olivia left the poop.
“And you wish me to beat for Falmouth, sir?”
“If you please,” answered Captain Margaret.
“Very good, sir. I’ll go about at once. I can tack with the watch. Mr. Cottrill,” he shouted, “Ready oh.”
His advice to Stukeley had the usual results. Olivia’s first night at sea was passed in the marriage-bed of the state-room by the side of a sea-sick boor, who groaned and damned and was violently sick all through the night. He complained of cold before the dawn broke, so she gave him her share of blankets, tenderly tucking him in. Up on deck the men passed quietly to relieve the wheel. The main race-block grunted and rattled; the mizen topsail sheets flogged on the woolding of the mast, making a noise like drums. Up and down, above her head, in a soft, never-ending shuffle, went the ship’s boy, keeping the lee poop. At each bell she heard the hails of the lookouts: “Weather cathead,” “Lee cathead,” “Gangway,” “Lee poop,” coming in the gusts of the storm. Often, too, she heard a noise which she had never heard before, a terrifying noise, the noise of water breaking aboard, the lash of spray against her scuttle. The wind freshened through the night, till it blew a fresh gale. TheBroken Hearttook on strange antics, which seemed very dreadful to Olivia. Far aft, as she was, the pitching was violent and broken. Each little sea seemed deep as the valley of the shadow. The roaring in the shrouds increased. At 4 a.m., all hands reefed topsails. Creeping out of bed to the great cabin, she managed to peep to leeward through the skylight, in a heavy lee-roll, which made her clutch the table. She saw a wild sky, notched by the sea; great billows foaming, spray flying down wind, angry gleams in blown cloud. From just above her head came the bull-roar of Captain Cammock, who was damning the mizen-top men. “Lay in to the top, you,” he was shouting. “Lay down a few of you and clue it up.” Then from just above her head came the thunder of the slatting sail as the topsail yard came down. “Away. Away. Lee-ay,” came the startling shouts of the men on the clue-lines. The sail thundered and jangled. The men roared at the ropes. Captain Cammock, with his head tilted back, yelled to them to lay out, and hand the leech in. One phrase struck upon her sharply. He bade them make it fast, letting the bunt go to a place she had never heard of. “Pass your gaskets. Pass them yard-arm gaskets. Get on the yard, you. Stamp that damned bunt down.” The excited angry tone, the noise, the wild sky, all helped her fears. She crept back to Stukeley’s side sure that the end was coming, that the gale was increasing to a hurricane, and that, in a little while, they would all sink together in some wild whirlpool screamed over by the seagulls.
On the third day of storm, they managed to beat into Falmouth, where they anchored off Trefusis Point. It was a wild, wet morning when they anchored. The wooded combe of Trefusis was hidden in cloud, which continually whirled off in streamers, as new cloud drove along, to catch in the tree tops. TheBroken Heartwas the only ship in the anchorage; though over against Flushing there were a few fishing-boats, rocking in the tideway. Captain Margaret went into Falmouth, with Perrin and Olivia, to engage a maid. Stukeley was too weak from his sickness to leave the ship. To Margaret it was a sign that his crime was exceedingly foul.
“You have been badly scared, my friend,” he said to himself, as he sat down beside Olivia in the boat. “If you persist in leaving England, after being sick like that.”
Olivia had found comfort in what she took to be her husband’s nobleness. She was proud that her husband had not abandoned his ideas because of his bodily distress. By this time, too, she had seen the potency of sea-sickness. She had seen its effect upon a strong man. She had got over her first homesick terror of the sea. The storm had exhilarated her. Up on deck, hanging to the mizen rigging, behind the weather-cloth, she had felt the rapture of the sea. She had gone below with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, cheered and delighted. She had been touched, too, by the kindness of the three men of the afterguard. Cammock had given up his cabin to the sick man, so that she might have the great cabin to herself, in peace and quiet. She had been very busy in getting her cabin into order, even in the tumble of the storm. Now that she had made the state-room a home she had less terror of the sea.
It was not an easy matter to engage a maid for such a voyage. They tried at many mean houses, using tempting promises; but without success. At last they called at the poor-house, where they had their choice of several. An idiot girl, aged twenty, four old women who remembered King James, and the widow Inigo, a black but comely woman, in the prime of life, who had gone under after a succession of disasters beginning with the death of her husband. They struck a hard bargain with the widow Inigo, and then bore her down the hill to buy her an outfit for the voyage. At the mercer’s shop, where Olivia and the widow made their purchases, Captain Margaret, following his invariable custom, began a conversation with one of the shopmen, a youth just out of his apprenticeship.
“How long do you have to stay here every day?”
“About twelve hours, sir. From six till six.”
“That’s a very long day’s work, isn’t it? Do you have those hours all the year round, or only in the summer?”
“All the year round, sir.”
“And what holidays do you have?”
“Holidays, sir? Easter, and Christmas, and Whitsuntide. Of course I’ve my Sundays.”
“And how do you pass your spare time?”
“I go out with fellows, sir.”
“And what do you do?”
“Sometimes we dub at something.”
“And what is dub?”
“We put up a bottle somewhere, and then we dub at it.”
“Is that all you do?”
“On Thursdays our club meets. Then we have singing.”
“And do you read at all?”
“No, sir, I can’t say as I ever do, sir. I don’t want much reading after the shutters are up.”
“I should have thought that you’d have been a great reader. Don’t you find your work very interesting?”
“Oh. It’s all right, sir. Like any other work.”
“Yes. But. Take these woollen things, for instance. Don’t you think of all the hands it has passed through? Don’t you think of the sheep up on the hills, and the shepherds piping to them, and the great lonely downs, eh, with nothing but sheep-bells and the wind?”
“No, sir. Not in that light exactly.”
“And then, don’t you think of the brooks where they wash and shear? And then the great combs and looms, with so many people combing and weaving and spinning, all helping to make this?” He picked up the warm woollen shirt, and handled it. “And don’t you think of the people who will wear these things?”
“No, sir. You see, I’m only a shopman. Mr. Treloar, the owner, he thinks of all these things.”
“And will not you be a shop-owner, sometime, if you save and work hard?”
“No, sir. Oh no, sir. I’m only a shopman.”
“Yes; but could you not become a shop-owner? Would you not like to be one?”
“No, sir. I can’t say as I should, sir.”
“What would you like to be?”
“Of all things, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s rather a big order, sir.”
“Think.”
“I think, sir, I’d like to be. Don’t let Mr. Burls hear, sir. He’s listening. I’d like to be one of these buccaneers, sir. Fellows what goes about fighting the Spaniards. They live an open-air life. Not like here, sir. Oh, I’d like to lie by a camp-fire, sir, with a lot of big bronzed men. And to have a gun, sir. And then to attack a city full of treasure.”
“But I should think that was very dangerous. Isn’t it?”
“No, sir. Not by all accounts, sir. A poor lot, sir, the Spaniards. They’re not like us, you know, sir. Our fellows are a bull-dog lot, sir. The bull-dog breed, sir.”
“Really!”
“Oh yes, sir. Why, sir, only a day or two ago there come the news-letter from Plymouth. I dare say you saw it, sir. And there was a Virginia ship at Salcombe, it says. Did you see that bit, sir? And a forger was escaping from the constables, and he got on board this ship and bribes the captain, and he carries the man off safe, with the men-of-war all firing broadsides on him. Oh, it must be fine to hear the cannon-balls coming whizz.”
“Indeed! A forger, you say?”
“A forger, sir; but he’d done other things as well, sir, of course. And he’d a lady with him, too, sir.”
“But you wouldn’t like to be that sort of man?”
“No, sir.”
“What would you do to the forger, if you caught him?”
“I should give him up to the constables, sir.”
“And the ship-captain?”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t thought about it much, sir.”
“You would support the laws, I hope?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Even if he were a buccaneer.”
“Oh, now you’re too hard on me, sir.”
“But he was defying the law. And saving a ruffian from it.”
“Yes, sir. Of course I suppose I should support the laws, as you say.”
“It would be rather nice to be a buccaneer, and to obey only those laws which one is strong enough to make for oneself.”
“Yes, sir?”
“To defend the weak and to make money by it. Isn’t that our maxim?”
The shopman giggled nervously. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m a buccaneer,” said Margaret. “Come with me. Won’t you? You shall be what you really long to be.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t leave the shop, sir. Mr. Treloar would never——”
“Well, think it over,” said Margaret, rising. “I hope you’ll send all these things down to the landing-stage within an hour. And send this woman’s box down with them.”
“Oh, I will, sir. You shall find them there, sir.”
Captain Margaret paid the cost, nodded to the shopman, walked out with Olivia. Mrs. Inigo resigned her box and followed them. They went to several other shops, made more purchases, trifled away half an hour at a pastrycook’s, and then set slowly shorewards, talking little; but looking at the shops with interest. They would see no more shops for many days. At the mercer’s shop they paused a moment, for Captain Margaret had just decided to take several rolls of holland linen, in order that his hands might make summer shirts for themselves. He left Olivia at the door for a moment, with Mrs. Inigo, while he hurried within. His friend the shopman hurried up to him.
“Well, what is it?” said Margaret.
“The goods are gone on board, sir,” said the shopman.
“Yes? Well? What is it?”
“I beg pardon, sir. Don’t wish to offend, sir. But are you the gentleman, the gentleman, the, er, sea-captain. From Salcombe, sir?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Please, sir, I took the liberty. There was Mr. Russell, the magistrate, and a gentleman from the fort, sir. They came in about you just after you’d gone. They were going to inquire about, about the Salcombe matter, sir.”
“Yes. What did you tell them?”
“I said you’d gone to Penryn, sir, about some beer, sir, for your sailors.”
“That wasn’t strictly truthful, was it?”
“No, sir. I suppose not, sir. So they went off to Penryn, sir. And I told your boatmen to take the things aboard, and then wait for you at the docks.”
“Where are the docks?”
“Nearly a mile down the harbour, sir. Further on along the road here. I beg your pardon, sir, but the landing-stage has soldiers on it.”
“Thank you. Have they sent to seize the ship?”
“No, sir. Oh no indeed, sir. I think——”
“Why haven’t they? Did you hear?”
“I think I heard them say, sir, that they had only a warrant for—if I may say so, as they call it, for you, sir.”
“How far is it to Penryn? I suppose they’ll be back soon?”
“Yes, sir. They might be back at any moment.”
“Thanks. Well. Show me where the docks are. Away to the left here?”
“Yes, sir. You can’t miss them. If I might come with you, sir.”
“To the Spanish Main?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t. But to the docks, sir.”
“Can you leave this?”
“It’s my dinner-time, sir.”
“Come on, then. I shall be very much obliged to you. Isn’t this more exciting than selling woollen shirts?”
“Yes, sir. Indeed. But shirts are useful things, sir.”
“I deny that. They are pernicious things. They are always getting dirty, and then some poor wretch with an immortal soul must scrub them in hot water. They are always losing their buttons, and then other poor wretches have to make new ones and sew them on again. They are always wearing out, and then other poor wretches have to begin the silly game again by penning up a few sheep and cutting their wool away.”
By this time they were outside the door.
“Come, Olivia,” he said carelessly. “We must walk to the docks. You will be tired to death before you get there.”
“Oh no I shan’t,” she answered. “I love walking.”
“Give me that package,” he replied.
“Now,” he continued to the shopman, “walk as though we were seeing the sights. Oh. Here’s a butcher’s shop. Now my captain would never forgive me if I came aboard without a leg of mutton.”
He bought a leg of mutton, handed it to the shopman to carry, and sauntered on.
“You must have your jest, I see, sir,” said the shopman.
“Oh yes, if I swing for it,” replied the captain, quoting from a popular broadside, which had contained the biography of a pirate.
“Hadn’t we better walk a little faster, sir?” said the shopman. He had no desire to be caught; he was not used to excitements.
“Olivia,” said Captain Margaret, paying no attention to his new acquaintance, but continuing to saunter leisurely, “when we get on board I expect you’ll find your husband up and about.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I ought not to have left him for so long. I’ve hardly seen him for days.”
He had spoken so that the shopman might make no allusions to the Salcombe affair, casting out a reference to Stukeley’s crime. She had answered with some little, half-acknowledged wish to pique him.
“To-night,” said Margaret, “in the cabin, we’ll all hold a council of war to decide our doings on the Main.”
“Yes,” she answered. “And when we get there we shall remember the council. Things will look very different there.”
“Here. You’ve been talking to Cammock.”
“He’s so amusing,” she answered.
Sauntering in this way, talking nonsense and trifling, they arrived at the boat-builder’s creek which then did duty for a dock. Their boat lay off at a little distance; the hands were lying on their oars. Captain Margaret hailed her; she put in. He handed Olivia into the sternsheets. Mrs. Inigo, well used to boats from her childhood, stepped into the bows. The stroke oar arranged the parcels and placed the leg of mutton behind the backboard. Captain Margaret turned to the shopman, and walked a few steps with him out of ear-shot of the boat. He glanced up the anchorage to see if any armed boat was putting off.
“Don’t wait, sir,” said the shopman. “Lord, sir, think of the risk. Why don’t you go, sir? It’s frightfully dangerous, sir.”
“You exaggerate the risk,” he answered calmly. “Well, you’ve done me a good turn. Why did you do me a good turn?”
“Oh sir, I’m sure.”
“I shall often think of you,” said Captain Margaret. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”
“Oh no, sir. I couldn’t really be persuaded, sir.”
“Well, think of us.”
“I shall think of you always, sir. Youarea real buccaneer, sir?”
“Oh yes. Real. In my ship yonder, there’s a man who knew Morgan.”
“I’ve never had anything happen to me, sir, before.”
“Does it make any difference, do you find?”
“Oh, sir.”
“Will you wear this charm of mine to remember me by?” He detached a small gold jewel, set with symbolical stones. “It is said to bring success in love. I don’t believe it.”
The man took the symbol as though it were an eggshell.
“Thank you, sir,” he said with fervour. “Thank you very much, sir.” Then he started violently. “Oh, sir,” he cried, remembering the risk, “do go, sir. It’s frightfully dangerous, sir.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I mustn’t keep the lady waiting. I hope you run no risk yourself; for warning me?”
“Oh no, sir. I just showed a customer to the docks.”
“And I’m very much obliged. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir. Oh, sir, I’m much honoured indeed, sir. I hope we shall meet again, sir.”
“Well, if we don’t, we shall think of each other, shan’t we?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“And I shall be on the Main, and you’ll be here. Here on this spot.”
“Often, sir, I suppose I shall be.”
“Good-bye. There is your soldier friend, I think.”
He nodded carelessly towards the bend of the road; then made a half-bow to the shopman, and stepped into the boat.
“Shove off,” he said. “Back a stroke, port oars. Down starboard and shove her off.” As he placed the boat-rug over his knees, he heard the hoofs of horses trotting on the road. “Give way together,” he said coldly, as the boat swung round. He glanced over his shoulder at the shopman, half expecting to see the officers beside him. Then he turned to his boat’s crew. “Come. Shake her up. Shake her up,” he said. “Rally her out. Give way, now. Put your backs into it. Come on, now. Toss her up.”
The stroke quickened, the boat gathered way; she shot out into the harbour, spreading a ripple. She was a hundred yards out, keeping a fine steady stroke, when Captain Margaret turned again. He saw the figure of the shopman pointing towards him, while a man on horseback stood at his side looking towards the boat. Another horseman was galloping fast back to town, evidently to get a boat at the landing-stage.
“They aren’t very clever, these soldiers,” he thought; “but I’ve had a little luck to-day. Or was it luck? Who knows? It may not have been luck, after all. It may have been anything but that.”
He drew from the stern-locker a little flag nailed to a batten. He tied a knot in the flag.
“What are you doing that for?” said Olivia, as he waved the “weft” in the air.
“It’s a signal to Cammock,” he said, “to get his anchor up, and to make sail. He’ll pick us up on his way out. There goes his gun. He’s seen us.”
“Rather hurried, isn’t it?” said Olivia.
“It makes the hands smart,” he answered evasively. “I wonder if the fort will salute us as the man-of-war did.”
“I hope not,” said Olivia.
“They very likely will,” he answered. “Come. Toss her up, boys.”
“That was a funny little man from the shop,” said Olivia.
“Yes,” he said. “But he told me some interesting things. Very interesting.”
They talked no more after that till theBroken Heart, under a cloud of canvas, came reeling down to them, to back her mainyard within hail, and hoist them all aboard.
“Good-bye, old England,” said Olivia.
“Yes,” said Margaret. “And thank the Lord it is.”