The men shuffled and shifted. One of them, a leader in the fo’c’s’le, shoved the bosun forward. “What the hell, boys,” said the bosun under his breath. “We’d rather you chose, sir,” said old Sails, coming from among the crowd after a moment of busy whispering.
“I choose you, boatswain,” said Cammock. “Ay or no, you?”
“Ay, sir.”
“Mr. Ramage, you’re our second mate. Come to my cabin at eight bells and sign the articles. You, Griffin Harris, take Mr. Ramage’s call; I make you boatswain. Mr. Ramage, tell one of the hands to shift your gear into the second mate’s cabin. Harris, bring your chest aft to the round-house. Men, remember that Mr. Ramage is Mister Ramage. Take the call, Harris.”
Griffin Harris, a short, thick-set seaman, hanging his head but showing no trace of emotion, pulled his forelock and stepped up to Mr. Ramage.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Ramage,” he said, “might I have the call, sir.” Mr. Ramage slipped the chain from his neck and handed it to him.
“Pipe down, bosun.”
Harris took the pipe and blew the tremolo of the belay. The men turned to walk forward, just as Iles and Wise reappeared with the chest and bag. Captain Cammock’s sternness vanished the moment the pipe down had sounded.
“You’ll have to pipe better than that, bosun,” he said. “You pipe like Wally with the stiff neck.” The new bosun laughed. “I’ll pipe fine against we get there, sir.”
Stukeley walked up to Captain Cammock. “What the hell d’you mean by insulting my friend?” he said.
Cammock paid no attention to him, but walked up to Margaret to ask if he would stand the first watch with the new second mate.
“Certainly,” said Margaret.
“I asked you a question,” said Stukeley bitterly, in a loud voice, so that the men loitering in the waist could hear. “D’ye hear me, Captain Cammock? What the hell d’you mean by insulting my friend?”
“Stukeley,” said Margaret, “go below.”
“I’m not talking to you,” said Stukeley.
“No,” said Margaret; “but I’m giving you some sound advice. Go below.”
“You’re a funny devil, aren’t you? Now then, Brandyface, you’ll give me an answer.”
At this moment Iles came up, from his old haunts, in the ’tween-decks, carrying his demijohn of carefully saved spirits.
“What have you got there, Iles?” said the captain quickly.
“My whack of rum.”
“Take your cap off, or I’ll knock it off. What did you say?”
“My whack of rum, Captain Cammock, sir.”
“Yes. You’d better remember that. Put down that demijohn.”
“Please, sir. It’s mine, sir.”
He laid down the demijohn, fingering his cap.
“Steward, whack that rum out to all hands at eight bells. Allow it to the man Iles in the savings book.”
“I will, seh.”
“There,” said Cammock, turning to Margaret. “He’s not going to curry favour forward with a couple of gallons of rum. He’d have had half the watch blind if I’d not seen him that time.”
Stukeley put his hand on Cammock’s shoulder. “You damned old pirate,” he said. “Now you’ll settle with me. Your little go’s over. Now it’s mine.”
Cammock turned to Margaret. “Take his other arm, sir,” he said.
He caught Stukeley by the wrist with his left hand. Margaret tackled him swiftly on the other side. Together they marched him below to Cammock’s cabin, which they entered locking the door behind them.
“Now, Mr. Stukeley,” said Cammock, placing his prisoner on the settee. “I command this ship. Be quiet now. Not a word, sir, till I’m done. You give me any more trouble. You so much as try to come between me and my hands, and you’ll go in irons till I can put you ashore.”
“That’s entirely right, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret. “You’d do well to remember it, Stukeley.”
“I’ll remember it,” said Stukeley. “And I’ll make you two remember it.”
“Another thing,” said Cammock. “While you live aft, you’ll act aft. You’ll hold no conversation with any member of my crew, except through one of my officers. And I shall expect you to keep from the main deck and the ’tween-decks. I say nothing about your insults. Them’s only the bubbling in your mind, I guess. I’m sorry for you. But give me no more, sir. If you do, or if you break the rules I make, you’ll go in irons till we land.”
“Anything more?” said Stukeley.
“There’ll be more when I see you need it.”
“All right, Maggy. I’ll remember this. Is that all now?”
“Yes. That’s all,” said Margaret.
“Then I advise you to let me go.”
“There’s the door,” said Margaret, turning back the key. “Allow me to come with you.”
“Thank you. I choose my own company.”
“No, sir,” said Cammock. “We shall do that for you. You ain’t fit to choose your own company. I’m sorry to have to say it.”
“You wait, Mr. Cammock. You wait.”
“Will you come on deck, Stukeley?” said Margaret. “Or will you join your wife?”
“You may go to hell,” said Stukeley. With this repartee he walked aft to vent his spleen upon Olivia. Guessing his intention, Margaret stayed with him till the bell called the starboard watch on deck.
“This is all our world;We shall know nothing here but one another.”The Two Noble Kinsmen.
“This is all our world;
We shall know nothing here but one another.”
The Two Noble Kinsmen.
Sixdays after striking soundings, theBroken Heartsailed up the James River with the flood, to let go her anchor off Jamestown as the last gun of her salute was fired. Her colours were dipped to the colours on the Governor’s flagstaff. Her sails were all clued up together; the bunts of the furls were tight and shapely, crossed by the broad black bands of the bunt-gaskets.
Captain Cammock walked the poop with Margaret, pretending to watch the squaring of the yards. Both were puzzled and ill at ease. They were in that troublous state of waiting to be assured; their anxiety was such that a decisive blow, either for or against them, would have seemed better than the uncertainty which made them hope for one thing while fearing the other. On entering Chesapeake Bay, they had squared their yards, intending to run up past Stingray, to Hog Creek on the Accomac side, where some of Cammock’s friends were planting. But a man-of-war sloop, flying the ensign, and full of men, had crossed their bows, bidding them heave-to and send a boat. Cammock had gone aboard her to find out what she wanted; and had received orders to proceed direct to Jamestown, to discharge his cargo there. No explanation was given except that “Those were the orders.” The officer of the watch would tell him nothing more. He had returned on board after this, feeling sure that danger threatened them. He was inclined to think that word had come from England ordering their arrest on arrival. But he was not sure. The lieutenant had been surly after a drunken night. His remark of “You’ll find out about that when you get there” might have come from a momentary irritation at being questioned. Margaret had called up Stukeley, to tell him his fears, and Stukeley had counselled putting to sea. This was impossible; for the sloop was almost within hail; while without Point Comfort, under her whole topsails, her open port-lids flashing, was one of the two frigates on the station coming in from her cruise to take fresh water. They were in the trap; they could only hope for the best. Stukeley took the news badly. He stood by the mizen rigging, with a white face, licking his lips and making wild suggestions.
“Couldn’t you put me ashore?” he asked. “Send me in a boat. Until you leave?”
“How about Olivia? Have you told her yet, what you expect?”
“No, of course I’ve not told her. Can’t you talk sense?”
“Hadn’t you better tell her? I mean, as—in kindness to her.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Shall I tell her?”
“My God, no. Look here, Margaret. I tell you why I can’t tell her. I’m a blackguard, and all that. Look here. She’s going to have a child.”
“My God. Are you sure, Stukeley?”
“Sure? Damn it, man. It’s serious. For God’s sake talk sense.”
“Well. My God. She must be told, man. It’ll only be worse for her later.”
“No, it won’t be.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Do? I tell you it’ll be death for her if she learns.”
“But you must think of her, Stukeley. Man. How. Supposing. She can’t come to Darien. It’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible. It’d be all right.”
“Well, Stukeley, I give you up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Things must take their course. I can’t think what I can do.”
“Are you going to give me up?”
“You must see that you’ll be taken. If there’s a letter.”
“If. If. Oh. Good luck, you.”
“Yes. But think of Olivia. Man. She must go home. You must see that.”
“Yes. But she doesn’t. You know how queer women get at these times. She insists on coming with me.”
“I don’t know. Go and tell her. Go on and tell her, cost what it may.”
“I’ve got to consider her child.”
“Captain Cammock, you’ve got a clear head. What do you say?”
“You could head me up in a cask,” said Stukeley.
“Well,” said Cammock. “I say, go and eat a good big dinner. We shan’t be in till afternoon; till two or three, perhaps, if the wind drops. If there’s to be an arrest, you’ll know of it soon enough. It’ll settle itself. Don’t cross no river till you come to the water. Why? Cos you may get drowned anyway.”
“But about my wife?”
“Oh, she’ll be well looked after. We’ll look after her.”
“Damn you.”
“Captain Margaret,” said Cammock, “just come aft with me, while I take some bearings.”
When they had walked out of earshot of Stukeley, Cammock added that it would be a good thing to let the man suffer for a spell.
“But how about Mrs. Stukeley, captain? And her little one?”
“I wasn’t thinking of them, sir. I’m thinking of you and Mr. Perrin. And the ship, too. We may be a political matter, sir. The Lords who fitted us out; they’ve got enemies—political enemies. They may say, ‘Oh, you’ve sent out a gang of pirates, who rescue escaping felons.’ There may be the devil’s own row at home about us. Law is all right and fair. But there’s no law nor right in politics.”
“We shall know soon.”
“Yes. Very soon now.”
“It’s anxious work, waiting.”
“Why, yes. Worse than the event.”
“It’ll come hard on that poor girl.”
“She’s better quit of him, sir. Much better.”
“She won’t think that.”
“Not at first. But she will.”
“I wonder what it’s going to be. Pretty, that little cove there, with the little green boat coming out.”
“Very pretty sights at sea, sir. Nice bit of timber yonder. Good spars in them red pine. Don’t borrow trouble, sir. We’ll know soon enough.”
Thus they talked together as the ship came slowly to her anchorage. Perrin joined them, seemingly indifferent to the present trouble. “Whatever happens,” he said, “we shall be ourselves. It’s no use worrying.” He smoked more than usual after dinner, and then made outline draughts of the coast. He was not being brave; but having little imagination he was indifferent. It was hot, too; and hot weather always made him dull. The sight of the new land pleased him. There was forest; miles of forest; forest rising over hills, lapsing to hollows of marsh, coming down to the sea, fading in a blur of branches. Here and there were clearings. Here and there, in sandy bays, the cows came, lowing at the sea. Smoke, in blue spires, rose up at a planter’s slip where a sloop was building. At times, as they neared the land, before going about on another reach, they heard the voices of men, the chop of axes upon timber. A country sloop lay at a jetty. Her men were hoisting casks aboard, singing at the tackles. A saw was at work at hand. Men were carrying planks to the jetty end. One of the men, laying down his load, waved to the ship as Captain Cammock flung his colours out. Very proudly, with all the dignity of beauty, theBroken Heartmarched to her rest. Her sailors cheered. They fired their guns, took up their berth and anchored. Jamestown lay before them; with some twenty of her citizens watching them from the battery. Already one or two men were putting out in boats towards them.
“That’s not the whole city,” said Perrin. “There’s only twenty or thirty houses, beside the fort and the church.”
“That’s Jamestown,” said Cammock. “Now, Captain Margaret. Now for it.”
“Not much longer to wait. We’ll go ashore together.”
“No, sir. I’ll go alone. If anything’s going to happen, I’ll send off word. Then you can look to the lady.”
“Ah, thank you, Captain.”
“Well. We’ll know soon. I’ll wave my hat from the pier if it’s all well, sir. Cheer up, sir. Mr. Cottrill, there.”
“Ay, ay, Captain Cammock.”
“My gig’s crew, mister. Are they in their whites?”
“Gig’s crew all dressed, sir.”
“Tell the bosun to pipe them away. No one to come aboard, Mr. Cottrill.”
“No one to come aboard, sir.”
“You better keep an eye on Mr. Stukeley, Captain Margaret. He may cut up rash.”
“I will. Good-bye, captain. Good luck.”
“We’ll know soon.”
“Got your papers?”
“All correct, sir. Now.” He passed over the side, and shoved off.
Margaret watched the boat pull past, glad of that small diversion. She was a six-oar gig, whale-built, painted dark-blue and white, steering, on state occasions, with a brass-yoked rudder, at other times with an oar. A boy in a white jacket steered her with the yoke-lines, sitting behind Cammock’s back-board.
“Look, Edward,” said Margaret. “How character shows in little things. Look at the style of the rowers. Look at the stroke, bowing his head as he comes aft, and the two midship oars watching their blades. What makes men watch their blades?”
“Weak will. Or vanity. I always do it. A sense of beauty, too. Desire of pleasure. The swirl and the bubbles are beautiful. What do you make of the bow?”
“He’s not got room to pull. The stern-sheets are too roomy.”
“He’s a coward,” said Perrin. “I should be like that. He shirks each stroke because he’s afraid of knocking the second bow’s back.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“The weakest man is always put in the bow. He has to jump out with the painter.”
“The most intelligent man, probably.”
“No. I shouldn’t say the most intelligent. The most sensitive.”
“What do you make of Cammock’s back?”
“Cammock’s a fine fellow.”
“Isn’t it strange that he should be what he is?”
“After mixing—— Good Lord, what ruffians he’s mixed with.”
“I should like to know how he comes by it. I’m a great believer in heredity. I wonder what his people were. He’s got refinement, too, in a curious sort of way.”
“The poor are often very refined,” said Perrin. “The very poor. Especially in the country.”
“I suppose because they’ve nothing to make them false.”
“Yes.”
“You know, Edward, that Olivia’s going to have a child?”
“No. Good Lord. What in the world? Supposing there’s a letter?”
“That’s the question. There it is. And there goes Cammock up the stage.”
“But it knocks her coming to Darien?”
“Stukeley says not.”
“Good God, though. It must.”
“We probably shan’t leave here, Edward. And anyway he’s her husband.”
“You must refuse to take her.”
“Yes. But even if we get to Darien—I don’t think it likely—she’s as well with us as here, Edward.”
“That’s true, too. Well. I told you how it would be, Charles. Didn’t I?”
Cammock was a long time gone; but not such a long time as it seemed. Margaret, deserted by Perrin, who was called away by Cottrill, paced the poop moodily, losing, in dejection, the clumsy trick of carriage which marred his gait. His ordinary walk had a kind of jaunty spring, which seemed unnatural to the man, improper to his essential character. There was no jauntiness in him at this moment; for his trouble was heavy. For possible arrest he cared nothing; for possible hanging he cared nothing. “I shall still be myself,” he said, repeating what Perrin had repeated from another. “What does it matter if I am hanged?” Bells seemed to be ringing in his brain, heavy bells and dull, with merry impish bells. “Olivia’s going to have a child,” they said. “Olivia’s going to have a child. Going to have a child. A child. A child.” Like many lonely men, he desired children. They had played about him in his dreams of her. Girls mostly, with Olivia’s eyes, her throat, her voice. Now was come the end of everything. Her child would be a monster, a goat-footed boy, a Stukeley. He shuddered to think of the child’s hair, curling and black like the father’s hair, negro hair; his nerves were shaken. As for his love for Olivia, that would never be the same; it was changed now, wholly changed. No man’s love could bear that, could forgive that; though it glorified her, in a way, and made her very sacred.
He leaned over the taffrail, to watch for Cammock, who had vanished among the strangers, like a stone cast into water. Something stirred beside him, and there was Olivia, dressed in clothes which she had worn long ago at home, looking as she had looked then; but that her face was paler. He started to see her, thinking for a moment that she had come to tell him, hoping it with all his heart. It would make their friendship perfect, he thought, if this might be done together. She smiled to see him start; but her face instantly grew grave again.
“Charles,” she said, “is anything the matter with Tom?”
“Matter with him?” he repeated. “Is he ill? Has he hurt himself?” For just one wild second, he wondered, in an agony that was half hope, if the man had taken poison.
“I can’t get him to speak to me. And he’s so white, Charles, I can’t help thinking that he is sunstruck.”
“Shall I go down?”
“He won’t see anybody. He won’t—— Oh, Charles, I wish I’d been on deck with him. Was he in the sun? Are you sure he wasn’t?”
“He wasn’t in the sun, Olivia. He wasn’t on deck for more than a few minutes.”
“But where was he, then? He must have been forward, where you couldn’t see him.”
“I do hope he wasn’t,” said Margaret, hating himself for his deception. The words “Mrs. Inigo” rose to his lips; but he kept from uttering them. “I ought to have prevented all this. I might have. I ought to have kept them apart till—— She ought not to be fretting.” He bit his lips at the thought of his negligence.
“I’ll come down at once, Olivia,” he said. “Oh, Olivia,” he added, his voice growing tender and moving, “you look so white and worried. I’ll look after Stukeley. Won’t you lie down and rest? It’s much too hot for you in the sun here. And then the excitement.”
“Oh, never mind me,” she said hurriedly, almost gaily. “I’m not in the least ill. It’s Tom.” As women sometimes will, in moments of emotion, she acted impulsively, laying her hand on his arm, sending the blood to his temples.
“Come on down, then,” he said thickly. “We’ll see. We’ll see your husband.” He glanced over the side again, biting his lips, his face turned away, as she took his arm. In that glance he saw the slip below the battery, with its green piles, barnacled, clucked about by the tides, mounted with tarpaulined cannon. Cammock stood upon the slip end, his gig’s crew, their oars tossed, just below him. Townsmen were talking to him; but he stood unheeding, looking at theBroken Heart, waving his hat. Margaret waved his hat in answer, to show that he saw; then, breathing a deep sigh, he led Olivia below.
“Why. What makes you sigh like that?” she asked.
“Why do I sigh? Captain Cammock was signalling to me. I was afraid we might be quarantined. But it’s all right now. He’s signalled that it’s all right. I’m relieved.”
“Charles,” she said, pausing in the alleyway, “I sometimes feel that I’ve given you pain by coming with you like this. Have I?”
“No, Olivia,” he answered. “How could you?”
“But are you sure? I couldn’t bear to think that I had.”
“I am very sure of that, Olivia.”
“You aren’t angry with me for asking?”
“We’re old friends, you and I, Olivia. Old friends like you and I don’t get angry with each other.”
“Some day I hope you’ll marry, Charles. You’d make the right woman very happy.”
“Ah no, no. We mustn’t talk of that.”
“You will, Charles. You will. And yet it would be sad to see all one’s boy and girl friends married. A woman doesn’t like to feel old.”
“Olivia.”
“Now come in and see Tom. Do you think there are good doctors here?” The question was earnestly asked. It seemed to Margaret that it took for granted that he knew, that it was the woman’s way of taking him into her confidence, into the dark, locked cupboard, meagrely catalogued without, which is a woman’s confidence. It made a strange jangling of all his strings to hear her. In the dark passage there, with her great eyes looking into his, and the earrings gleaming palely against the hair, she moved him, she shook him out of tune.
“Olivia,” he said, stammering. “Olivia. If. When. When your. If you ever have a child, Olivia. Will you let me—let me—— Let me see it often. Be its godfather. Be something to it?”
“Yes,” she said softly, pressing the back of his hand quickly. “Yes, Charles. I promise you that.”
“You aren’t hurt, Olivia?”
“No, Charles. Not hurt.”
“God bless you, Olivia.”
“Come in to Tom, now,” she said in a low voice. She was moved and touched. They went in.
Stukeley sat at the cabin table, drinking brandy without water. He was white and sick. Their entrance made him start up with an oath.
“What’s the matter, Stukeley?” said Margaret. “We aren’t going into—into quarantine. Cammock’s signalled that it’s all right. What’s the matter with you? Let me feel your pulse.”
“Ah,” he said, gasping. “Ah. This heat’s upset me.”
“How are you, Tom?” Olivia tenderly asked. “How’s your head?”
“Oh, my head’s all right. Don’t bother. Don’t bother.” He rose from his seat, laughing wildly. “What a turn it gave me,” he said. “I’m going to see old Brandyco. I’m all right again, Olivia.” He took her by the shoulders and bent back her head so that he might kiss her. “Poor little Olive,” he said caressingly, pinching her arms. “She’s been worrying, ever so. Hasn’t she? Hasn’t she? Eh?” He kissed her eyes. Margaret turned away, wondering whether the kiss smelt worse of brandy or tobacco.
“Don’t go on deck,” said Olivia. “Don’t go on deck, Tom dear. The sun’s so strong.”
“But you’ll want to hear about Jamestown from Cammock.”
“No, Tom dear. I don’t. I want you. I want you to rest and get well.”
“I’d like. I must just see Cammock.”
“But what makes you so eager to see Captain Cammock, Tom?”
“Stukeley looks on the captain as a sort of a show,” said Margaret quickly. “The captain has just been talking with strangers. Wouldn’t you like to see a man who’d really seen a new face, Olivia; and heard a new voice?”
Olivia smiled.
“I don’t think Tom’s strong enough for excitements,” she said.
“No,” said Margaret, leaving the cabin. “But I don’t think there’s much wrong. I think he’ll soon be all right, Olivia. Make him lie down and rest. I must just see the captain.” He went on deck hurriedly, holding his breath till he was in the fresh air. “Poison,” he said to himself. “Poison. What a life. What squalor. That woman going to have a child. And Stukeley, pah. Drinking and smoking there, waiting to be dragged to gaol. She doesn’t see it. One would think he must shock every fibre of her nature. And he doesn’t. He gives her love, I suppose. That was the only thing she wanted. And now that beast is her standard.” In the pure air he blamed himself for thinking ill of her. “After all,” he thought, “Stukeley isn’t a beast to her. She, with her much finer sense, sees something in him. Something that is all the world to her. Something beautiful. She may even be happy with him. She may be.” He thought pitifully of women and angrily of men. It was all wrong, he thought. Men and women could never understand each other, except in rare moments, in love, when the light in each heart burned clearly. Women were hidden; they were driven to covert, poor trembling fawns. They were like the nymphs hidden in the reeds by the river. They took care that men should see only the reeds. He had never really seen Olivia; he was not sure if he knew her yet; he couldn’t say what it was that he loved. He did not care; he was not going to ask. She was beautiful; her beauty moved him to the bone; beauty was in all of her, in the whole woman, the whole nature, body and spirit, in the ways of body and spirit. She was going to have a child; Stukeley’s child; red-cheeked, curly; a little boy-beast, the bully of his school. Ah, but the child would be hers, too. She would bring it up to be like her. He would have that refinement of voice, that lovely, merry, almost timid manner, her eyes, her grace, her shyness. Captain Cammock, who had been watching him for a full thirty seconds, half amused, half sad, that his passion had so strong a hold still, even in a moment of anxiety, now tapped him on the shoulder.
“Ah, captain.”
“It’s all right, sir. Nothing come yet. You can land your goods as soon as you like. The Governor said he remembered you, and hopes that you will wait upon him.”
“Good. I will.”
“It is good, sir. Oh, I’ve ordered some fresh meat, sir, and some fowls.”
“Yes. We must feast to-night. And send the boat in for a cask of fresh water. Two-month water is poor tipple.”
“Yes. What would you say to six-month water? We must give a free pump in port. And a cask of rum or beer, sir, on the quarter-deck, would help our trade. For visitors you know, sir.”
“See to it then, captain. A letter may come while we’re here, though.”
“Then make the Governor and the others your friends. Send ’em a few cases of wine. Square the man-of-war captains. There’ll be no trouble if you make them all your friends.”
“It doesn’t sound pretty.”
“Nor a wrung neck don’t look it.”
During the next few days there was bustle in theBroken Heart. Visitors came aboard to look at samples of goods; to talk with the seamen; and to taste the rum and beer, which was served out, a cup to each comer, for the first forty-eight hours of her stay in the port. All sorts came aboard her; traders and planters, oyster and fisher men, soldiers from the fort, officers of the Governor’s house, Indians, men from the backwoods, trappers, a sun-burned, good-humoured, silent company, very sharp at a bargain.
After the first two days, the trade began. The seamen rigged up trading-booths ashore, with some old sails, stretched upon poles. Planks were laid upon casks to serve as trade tables. The goods were arranged at the back of each booth, in the care of trusty hands. Clothing was more in demand than any other kind of goods; but the only clothes bought were those of fine quality and beautiful colour. It puzzled Captain Margaret to see a small planter, owning perhaps only one white apprenticed servant, or redemptioner, buying clothes of great price, putting them on in the booth, and riding off, like an earl, on his little Virginian horse, to his little clearing in the wilderness. A few planters, especially those who were newly come to the colony from the islands, where they had been privateering, paid for their purchases in ounces of silver. It was easy to recognize these planters. They had not lost their sea-walk, nor that steadfast anxiety of gaze which marks the sailor. They all carried arms; though the richer sort of them wore only pistols and a knife, leaving the carriage of the musket, the bag containing lead, a mould, and some bullets, and the heavy leather-covered powder-bottle, to a redemptioner, a Moskito Indian, or, more rarely, to a negro slave. Cammock had known some of these men in the past. Often, as he sat in the shade, watching the beauty of the scene, now so glorious with coming autumn, Captain Margaret would see one of these strangers approaching, followed by his man. He was always impressed by them, sometimes by their physical splendour, sometimes by the sense that they were full of a rather terrible exuberance. As he watched such a man approaching the booths, puffing at his pipe, dressed in elaborate clothes, hung about with silver at all points, with silver buttons, silver brooches, silver discs, buckles of heavy silver, links and stars of silver, silver chains and necklets, so that the man’s whole wealth was on his body at one time, Captain Margaret was conscious of a feeling of envy. His own training, his own beautifully ordered life in an English college, had shut him off from such a life as this man’s. This clashing, tinkling pirate—he was nothing more, although he often looked so fine—was master of his world. Captain Margaret was the slave of his; the unhappy slave. The pirate could leave his plantation when he wished, letting the wild bines choke his tobacco. He could ship himself in any ship in the harbour, and go to any part of the world which pleased his fancy. If chance flung him down in a tropical forest, on an island in the sea, in a battle, in a shipwreck, at a wedding, he would know what to do, what to say, what to propose. The world had no terrors for such a man. Captain Margaret forgot, when he thought thus enviously, that he himself was one of the few who had escaped from the world, escaped from that necessity for tooth and claw which is nature; and that by being no longer “natural,” instinctive, common, he had risen to something higher, to a point from which he could regard the pirate as an interesting work of art. He never pursued his fancy far enough to ask himself if he would willingly imitate or possess that work; because the pirate, passing him by with a hard, shrewd glance, would stride into the booth, taking off his hat to thrust back his long hair. He would listen then to the conversation. If the man was known to Cammock, the talk began promptly.
“Any Don Peraltoes, this trip?”
“What? Peraltoes? You weren’t there?”
“Ain’t you Ned?”
“And you’re Lion. I’d never have known you. Any of ’em with you?”
“No, I quit the trade. Come and have something.”
Then they would mix some rum and sugar, and sprinkle the mixture with a squeeze of a scrap of lemon-peel. They would drink together, calling their curious toasts of “Salue,” “Here’s How,” “Happy Days,” and “Plenty Dollars.” Then, over the trade as the men haggled—
“Got any powder, Lion?”
“I can only sell powder if you’ve a license from the Governor.”
“Any small arms?”
“The same there.”
“Them’s a nice lot of macheats. How do they come?”
“An ounce apiece. Or fifty pound of leaf.”
“Steep. Let’s see one. A good trade knife.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I got about fifty acres burned off. That’s the grant here, Lion, fifty acres. Tobacco, you know. I do a bit of fishing, whiles. A nice handy sloop, I got. Small, of course.”
“Crops good?”
“A sight too good, if you ask me. This black soil’ll sprout a coffin. But tobacco’s away down. We burn half our crops, trying to keep up prices. It’s only worth about ninepence.”
“Are you going to stick at it?”
“It’s a bit quiet. I lie out in the woods whiles.”
“Anything else doing?”
“You were here yourself?”
“I come here with Crawfot’s party. I was here. Yes. Sure.”
“Crawfot’s dead, if you mean Tom. Did you ever try any running?”
“Running rum from Jamaica?”
“Yes. I do a bit that way. Other things, too. I’m in with some of Ned’s lot.”
“Ned Davis?”
“Yes. We run blacks sometimes, too. Run ’em into Carolina. New York sometimes.”
“Ah. How did Tom die?”
“Indians. I done a bit that way, too, Lion. You catch two or three squaws. They fetch as much as a white woman down to Campeachy. Two or three of them; it runs into money.”
“I’ve known that done,” said Cammock. “The man done it was Robert Jolly. He come to a jolly end, what’s more. The braves got him.”
“There’s always a risk of that,” said Ned. “And it’s 10,000 lbs. of leaf fine, if the Governor gets you.”
“Well, Ned. If you want fun, why don’t you come in with us. And bring in some of your mates.”
“Is this trade only a blind, then?”
“Not on your life. But we’re in for a big thing. A very big thing. I wouldn’t mention it. But you see, I know you, Ned; and so, you see, it’s like this.”
Between them, Margaret and Cammock persuaded some half a dozen recruits to join during the first few days in port. The new recruits promised to come aboard when the ship sailed, but not before, lest the Governor should grow suspicious. They agreed, also, seeing that Margaret had a commission, to submit to a sharper discipline than was usual among privateers. Margaret had no intention of admitting these men into his fo’c’s’le. They were not waged men like the seamen shipped in London; but volunteers agreeing to serve for shares. To admit them into the fo’c’s’le, where they would enjoy certain privileges not shared by the sailors, would cause bad blood, and bickering for precedence. To avoid this, he planned with Cammock to create a military company, to be called “the men of war.” The privateers who joined him were to be enlisted in this company, under the command (as he suggested) of an old buccaneer (one of the first to join) who kept an alehouse some miles out of Jamestown. This old man was named Raphael Gamage. He had served with Cammock many years before in Morgan’s raid on Porto Bello. As far as Cammock could remember, he was a trusty old man, well liked. The troop of men of war (when fully recruited) was to mess in the ’tween-decks; just forward of the officers’ cabins and the wardroom. At sea, they were to work the mizen-mast, standing three watches. In battle, half of them were to man the quarter-deck guns, while the other half walked the poop as sharp-shooters. But all of them, at all times, were to obey the officers of the ship like the other members of her crew. It was a pleasure to Perrin to help in the arrangement of the ’tween-decks for the reception of these men. He screwed in hammock-hooks and battens, and designed removable mess-tables which the carpenter, being one of the politest of men, thought equal to the Navy.
Trade throve beyond their dreams; for theBroken Heartwas the first ship in since the tobacco crop. Her general cargo of hemp and flax seed, tools, wines, ploughs, linens and woollens, boxes, cart-wheels, rope, weapons, books, and musical instruments, sold at good rates, for silver and leaf tobacco.
Captain Margaret had planned to arrive at Jamestown early in the season, so that he might secure the cream of the tobacco crop before the summer fleet came in. Now that he was safe for a little while, he set about his business. At the end of the fifth day he chartered a couple of swift sloops from a Jamaica merchant, and loaded them, in one day, under official supervision, with fifty tons of assorted goods. He kept some twenty seamen at the work, from turn-to time till sunset, driving them himself. His zeal startled all of them. But Margaret was working with his whole nature to save the merchants who had fitted him out. He felt that he had risked their money, by gratifying a foolish whim; now he was to save them, having seen his chance. The bales and casks swung up out of the hold into the sloops. The winches clanked, the ropes creaked, the bosun swore at the slingmen. The slingmen, dripping in the hot darkness, damned and spat, and worked their hands full of splinters. A fine dust rose up out of the hatch to quiver in the sunlight. The slings fell with a rattling thud on to the boxes below; the block creaked as the fall was overhauled; a thirsty throat called “Hoist.” The bosun, too hurried to pipe, bent over the coamings to spit, telling the men on deck to hoist or sway away. Up came the boxes and casks, swinging to the yard-arm tackle. The boatswain, bearing them over, swearing, followed them to the rail, as the yard-arm was rounded in. Then there came the “High enough. Walk back”; and the sling strained slowly downwards to the stevedores, whose black skins gleamed in the sun. By sunset the sloops were cast off from theBroken Heart. Cammock and Margaret swung themselves into the stern of one of them as she sheered out. The slingmen, relieved from their hell below, stared at them silently over the rail with grime-ringed eyes. The sweat had streaked the dirt on their faces, making them look haggard. Like a row of corpses, dug up after the first day of burial, those silent men stood. Margaret, looking at them, thought with horror that the lives of some men might be expressed, defined, summed, in a sort of purser’s tally: so many boxes hoisted out, so many creatures killed, so many pots drunk, so many books read: with the sum added, the life extinct, nothing remaining, nothing for God or the Devil; merely a sum in addition for the harping quirers.
Sail was packed upon the sloops. All that night they drove, a red lamp burning astern. At dawn, when the sea below the woods was like steel, though tremulous in pale light, they were standing in to a jetty on the Accomac side. It was dusk in the clearing where the house stood; but the stumps of felled trees stood up black, a troop of dwarfs; and the cattle moved dimly among them, cropping grass with a wrench. Casks stood at the edge of the jetty; there was a gleam upon their hoops. There was a gleam of dew upon the forest, as a little dawn-wind, stirring the birds, made a patter of dropping. A fire with a waving flame burned under a pent-house, making a thick, sweet smoke, which floated everywhere, smelling of burning gum, driving away the mosquitoes. When the flame leaped up, brightly shaking, it showed a tilted cart, with a man under a red robe asleep against the wheel. Quietly, before the light was come, they made the sloops fast and stepped ashore. They stamped to kill the numbness in their feet; then, rousing the sleeper, they helped him to prepare a breakfast, of apples, fish, and new cider, before trading for his tobacco.
All that day they plied along the Accomac coast, Cammock in thePeach, Margaret in theDaisy, buying tobacco at every clearing, paying the planters in goods. When thePeachsloop was full, Cammock drove her back, with her boom-end under, to sling the tobacco into theBroken Heartat dawn, and to fill up again with trade. Margaret’s keenness puzzled him; the man was on fire. “I thought he was one of these dreamy fellows,” he said to himself. “But he drives a tight bargain, and he goes at it like a tiger.”
He went aboard the ship, putting all hands to the work of clearing and reloading the sloop. Mr. Cottrill met him at the gangway with word that two of their best men had deserted from the trading-booth, taking with them about fifty pounds’ worth of goods; that they had gone off at sunset, just as the sloops cast off; and that one of the men aboard had heard that they were going for a run with a gang of Indian-snatchers. Worse still. The foretopmast was sprung at the heel, and the new spar couldn’t be ready for a week. Cammock had been at a driving strain for a couple of days; but, like most hard cases, he found the second day a day of exaltation, of nervous excitement. The news pleased him; it occupied his mind. He bade his men get out trade from all three hatches as fast as the winches could sway it out, while he with a dozen men went ashore in the sloop, still half full of tobacco.
As soon as he got ashore he struck the booth, crammed all the goods into the sloop, lock, stock, and barrel, and carried them back aboard. As they were thrust into the sloop he made a rough inventory.
“Now, Mr. Cottrill,” he said, “just take this list and check it as soon as you’ve got a chance. Then check it with the trade-book, and find out what’s missing. Then check that with the clerk’s list. Rig up an awning from the break of the poop to the mast there. That’ll be your trade booth. Call the trade clerk. Call Mrs. Inigo. Mr. Harthop, you’ll keep your trade booth here in future. Mrs. Inigo, you’ll have to give up your berth in the sail-locker. See to that, Mr. Cottrill. Mrs. Inigo’ll sleep in the steward’s room. The steward’ll have to go into the round-house. Mr. Harthop, you’ll use the sail-room, where Mrs. Inigo’s been sleeping, as your sample-room. See that no one goes up the alleyway to the cabin. Keep a clear gangway from the alley to the companion there. Mr. Cottrill, give Mr. Harthop three hands and let him arrange his shop. He’d better stone out the sail-room after breakfast. Shift your things, Mrs. Inigo. You, too, steward. Mr. Cottrill, pick out three good hands to be under Mr. Harthop. Quiet, steady men. Pick one or two of the boys. Mr. Harthop, what were you doing to let those men away?”
Mr. Harthop, a little, bald jocular man with a pale face and long drooping moustaches, which gave him a sad, Chinese expression, rolled slowly forward, peering under his spectacles.
“I’d gone up to the Governor’s house, sir, with some velvets.”
“Why didn’t you send one of the men? Or wait till trade was over for the day?”
“The Governor’s lady asked me to come, Captain Cammock.”
“Women’ll be the death of this cruise,” said Cammock to himself. “Who was in charge while you were gone?”
“Smale, the boy, Captain Cammock, sir. I was only gone twenty minutes.”
“There it is,” said Cammock. “Smale, how did this happen?”
“Please, zur,” said Smale, a short young ploughboy from Gloucestershire, “I were a-’avin’ my zupper, zur. ’N I seed a owd feller come up and give ’is fist like to Andrews. And her’d a-done it avore. Zo they talked, and by’n by, Captain Cammock, zur, another feller come like. Her said as Mr. Harthop said as I wus to go to Governor’s house, to fetch a few fowls for th’ ’en-coop. Zo I went. And her’d all gone avore I’d come back. And her’d took the things.”
Cammock kept back what he thought of the Governor’s wife.
“Mr. Cottrill,” he said. “You, Mr. Ramage, and the bosun, will have to stand trade watches. No visitor is to talk to any of the hands under any pretext whatsoever.”
“Ay, ay, sir. I thought I could have trusted Andrews.”
“You may go, Mr. Harthop. It ought never to have been allowed. Directly my back was turned.” He was blaming himself for having been so easy of access, and so friendly with old acquaintance. “Naturally,” he said to himself, “the men got notions. Well, they’ll get no more.” He walked to the waist, where the work was going busily with songs. The sloop was being loaded forward as she discharged abaft. His presence made the men zealous. He had never seen cargo worked so well.
“Bosun,” he called, “who’s night watchman?”
“Pearson, Captain Cammock,” said Harris. He smeared his mouth with the back of his hand, and left a cask to dangle aloft over the hatch. He ran towards Cammock in a shambling trot.
“Tell Pearson that I want him. Mr. Cottrill, choose a good man to stand night watchman with Pearson, to walk round the ship, harbour-guard, all night long, in opposite directions. No man whatever to come aboard or to leave the ship after sunset. Pearson, when you come on duty to-night you’ll apply to Mr. Ramage for a pair of pistols. You’re to shoot at any man who attempts to desert. You’re to heave cold shot into any boat which tries to come alongside. Tell the lamp-man he’s to have lanterns lit abreast the main and fore chains. Call all hands if any boat comes off to us after two bells. You’re to shoot at any boat which does not answer to a hail. You understand.”
“Yes, sir. Shoot at any man as tries to desert, and any boat as don’t reply.”
“H’m,” said Cammock to himself, noting the faces of the crew. “There’ll be no more deserting from this hooker.”
“Carry on,” he said aloud. “Bosun, call away the gig. Let the gig’s crew dress. Doctor, there, kill me six fowls. The best we’ve got in the fattening coop. Steward there. Call the steward you, boy. Tell him to bring a dozen Burgundy. Now, Mr. Cottrill, a word with you, sir. Mr. Perrin and the rest, are they all well?”
“As far as I know, they are, sir.”
“Mr. Stukeley?”
“Mr. Stukeley’s like fat Jack of the Boneyard, I guess, sir. He’s bigger than the admiral.”
“What’s he been doing?”
“He’s been wanting the gig’s crew all day. I told him I needed the men in the hold. He’d have to use the long-boat, I said, when she goes in for water.”
“Very right. Yes?”
“So he came and called me down before the men. Said I wasn’t a gentleman. He said as Captain Margaret had said he and his lady was to have the gig whenever they wanted her.”
“Was Mrs. Stukeley there?”
“No, sir. So I up and said that I’d had no orders. Then he calls me down some more; and goes and gets Mr. Perrin to come to me, to say that Captain Margaret wished to oblige Mr. Stukeley in all things.”
“Yes?”
“So I told Mr. Perrin, pretty quick, I said, I was in command, I said. It wasn’t for him to tell me my duty. I told him to tell his society friends they could do the Barney’s Bull act. They’d get no gig out of me. That’s what I said.”
“Yes?”
“So that Mr. Stukeley, he went ashore in the long-boat, after calling me down some more before the men. He got a shore-boat to go about in. After that he said his boatman should have dinner aboard of us. I stopped that. But Mr. Stukeley was very rude, and then the man got rude. All hands working the hatch there, hearing it all. Mrs. Stukeley beside. So that was two blocks, I thought. I give the boatman a thick ear there and then. I told him if he didn’t sheer off I’d drop a cold shot into him. And I would have. Mr. Stukeley told me to keep my hands off the man. Then the man wanted his money. My hat, we had it all up and down. I thought that Stukeley would hit me, one time. I wish ’e ’ad done. I’d a laid him out.”
“And Mr. Perrin? How did it end?”
“I saw some of the hands knocked off to listen, so I give them a few. And he stood there telling them not to take no blows. Telling ’em to down me. And then the long-boat come alongside with water. Mr. Ramage was in her, of course. He hears the row, and he come over the side just as quick as cut. He just took that Stukeley by the arm, and walked him into the alleyway. ‘Don’t you incite no sailors, sir,’ he says. ‘No more of that, sir. I respects your feelings, sir,’ he says, ‘but for Gord’s and your lady’s sake,’ he says, ‘you quit. You don’t know what you’re doin’.’ That was the end for that time. I suppose we’ll ’ave another dollop of it to-day.”
“Put him in irons at once, publicly, if he gives you any more trouble. And he’s not to talk to any man. That’s another thing. Iron him directly he gives a back answer. Tell Mr. Ramage, too. Now bring those fowls along doctor. I’m off to the man-of-war sloop, about them Indian-snatchers.”
He pulled aboard the man-of-war sloop, with his present of wine and poultry. As he sat in his gig calling to the men to pull the stroke out, he wrote descriptions of the missing seamen.
When he returned to theBroken Heart, the sloop was nearly full of trade. It was just half-past seven. He went to his cabin to wash, walking quickly and quietly, like a forest Indian. There was some slight noise to his left as he entered the alleyway. He turned sharply, to look into the sail-room, to see if it were ready for the samples. The door shut in his face with a bang. He could not swear to it—the door shut in a fraction of a second—yet it seemed to him that he had seen Stukeley with Mrs. Inigo, for one bright flash of time. He would not open to make sure; for it was a woman’s cabin; he might have been mistaken; but he turned in his tracks and blew his whistle. A man ran to him.
“Get some dry stone, and stone this door clean,” he said, showing Mrs. Inigo’s door. “Stone the outside, and keep at it till breakfast.” That would keep Stukeley within (if he were within) until breakfast, at any rate. He flung his clothes from him and swilled himself with water; then dressed rapidly and went to Perrin’s cabin. “Mr. Perrin,” he said, bursting in after knocking once, “how are you, Mr. Perrin? I want you to keep your eye on Mrs. Inigo’s door. See who comes out of it. Is Mrs. Stukeley well?”
“Very well. How are you and the captain?”
“The captain’ll be back later in the day. I’m just off again.”
“We’d a lot of trouble yesterday. I’ll be glad when you’re back for good.”
“Cheer up, sir,” said Cammock. “Remember. Mrs. Inigo’s door till one bell. If Mrs. Inigo comes out, open it and search the cabin.” He went on deck again, where the steward met him with a tray. He sat down on a coaming and made a hurried breakfast, while the sloop’s crew hoisted sail. When he had finished his meal, he glanced into the alleyway, where the man was rubbing holystone across the door. “Anybody in there?” he said.
“I hear some one shifting around, sir,” said the man. “The woman’s getting her gear, sir.”
“Right,” said Cammock. “I wish I could stay to see the end,” he said to himself. “But I must be off.” In a few minutes he was bound again for Accomac, under a huge square cutter’s foresail, which made the sloop leap like a flying-fish.
Very late one night, having just arrived aboard after a week of labour, Captain Margaret sat in his cabin comparing tally-books with Captain Cammock; but quietly, lest they should wake Perrin. He was very tired; for the hurry from one clearing to another, and the long rides into the wilderness to planters who lived far away, had been a strain. He had endured them only in the fire of his excitement. He had enjoyed his week of bargaining; the zest of the struggle had been like wine to him. On the lonely clearings, or drinking with strangers in woodmen’s shacks, he had forgotten his love, forgotten the torment of the voyage, Olivia’s child, the settlement on Darien. All had been forgotten. Now that the struggle was over, he felt the exhaustion; but nodding as he was, over his tally-book, his whirling brain praised him with that excited inner voice which talks to the overwrought. “You’ve got the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop, the cream of the year’s leaf,” the voice kept telling him. He had bought seven hundred tons of the best tobacco in the colony; the little that remained to be sold was the poor, crude leaf from the young plants and the poorly cured, poorly flavoured leaf from the distant walks in the forest.
“We’ve got the whole trade, sir,” said Cammock. “You needn’t fear for your owners.”
“No,” said Margaret. “Now to get a bottom to carry it home. Of course, in a week we ought to have the summer fleet here.”
“They’ll not find much,” said Cammock. “We’ve got it all. But supposing a letter comes with the fleet. We shall have to sail that night probably, shan’t we? Supposing we’ve to cut and run, leaving it all in the warehouse?”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Margaret, “I thought of that, too. Heigho, captain, I’m tired. This week has been an experience. I shall leave Mr. Harthop in charge ashore, with powers to deal. He’s shrewd. He’s got a funny way of getting at the point with that queer humour as a cloak. And I’ve got Howard, Cammock. Howard’s our agent.”
“You’ve got the Governor, sir?”
“Oh yes. That was my first move. I knew old Howard wanted specie; so I went to see him and told him my plans. He was expensive, though. He knew his worth to a penny.”
“What it is to be a gentleman. If I’d gone, he’d have kicked me out. Well. Birth tells, they say.”
Perrin sat up in his bunk, and looked at them through the curtains.
“A servile, insolent, bribing, tipping race, the English,” he said. “An Englishman will never do anything for any one without expecting something.”
“Oh, you’re awake, are you? At it again, too,” said Cammock. “How about that door, sir?”
“Well, Edward, how are you? What door is this?”
“Oh. Mrs. Inigo’s door,” said Perrin. “Oh yes. Yes. Mrs. Inigo came out at eight bells, and then I tried to get in. But it was locked on the inside. So I called Mr. Harthop’s three men, and the man who was scrubbing it.”
“Good. Good,” said Cammock.
“And I told them ‘the door was jammed.’ So they’d a jemmy there, for opening cases with, and we burst the door open. We found Stukeley inside.”
“Stukeley?” said Margaret. “I half suspected that.”
“He was on his knees on the deck, sponging that blue silk dress Olivia wears.”
“Ha,” said Captain Cammock. “I should never have thought of that.”
“Shrewd these Cornish women are.”
“He was rather red in the face, but he asked us what was the matter. Then he asked me to give him a hand, as he’d got to get the dress ready for Olivia, he said. She’d spilt some chocolate down it. It was——”
“Was he flustered? Hectoring?”
“Afterwards. Not then. He kept saying that Olivia wished to wear the dress at breakfast.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Oh yes. I don’t know, Charles. There might have been nothing wrong.”
“I thought I saw something,” said Cammock.
“Well,” said Margaret. “I suppose we’ll have to discharge Mrs. Inigo, and pay her passage home. Captain Cammock, what do you think of Stukeley?”
“I’m like the parrot,” said Cammock, “I think a lot more’n I’ll say. Now turn in, all hands. A long lie, and pie for dinner. Captain Margaret, if you don’t turn in, you’ll find you won’t sleep. Oh. Has Mr. Stukeley been in irons?”
“He’s been threatened with them. He’s been very quiet though lately. That Inigo time gave him a scare, I think.”
“Well. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night.”
As Captain Margaret drew his bunk-curtains and settled himself to sleep, the voices in his brain took bodies to them, fiery bodies, which leaned and called to him. “You’ve got the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop,” they called. “Lucky devil. Lucky devil. Oh, you lucky devil.”
“Yet still he stands prefract and insolent.”Charles, Duke of Byron.
“Yet still he stands prefract and insolent.”
Charles, Duke of Byron.
Afterbreakfast the next morning the two Stukeleys sat in their stateroom talking. They had had a week of comparative isolation, of comparative privacy, very sweet to Olivia, who had learned, during the voyage, to regret the days at Salcombe, when one had but to close a door, to shut the world of love from that other world, full of thorns and thistles, where ordinary mortals walked, not having the key of the burning imagination. With Margaret and Cammock away, and Perrin seldom present at meals, owing to his fear of the badgering of Stukeley, the cabin of theBroken Hearthad come to be something of a home to her. She could feel again that nothing else really existed, that no one else really lived, that all the world, all the meaning and glory and life of the world, centred in the two burning mouths, in the two hearts which divined each other, apprehending all things in themselves. During that week of privacy she had even learned to think tenderly again of the three men who had shared the cabin with her. She found that she no longer resented Cammock’s want of breeding; his want of culture; his past as explained by Tom; his social position as compared with her aunt Pile’s coachman. During the voyage she had grown to dislike Margaret and Perrin, much as one dislikes the guests who have overstayed their welcome. She had been too much in the rapture of love to see things clearly, to judge character clearly; she had taken her judgments ready-made from Tom, who disliked the two men. She had liked them both as old friends; had liked them much, in the old days, before she knew life. But, under the strain of the voyage, ever prompted by Stukeley’s bitterness, while looking on them as her friends, she had come to resent their continual presence, to be cross at their conversation, which (as she felt instinctively) was restrained by their dislike of Tom, through their want of imaginative sympathy with his point of view. Now that they were no longer ever present, like spices added to each dish till every dish disgusts, she thought of them both with pity; feeling that they were growing old in their ways, narrowed in their sympathies, never knowing the meaning of life, which is love. Thus thought she, in the confidence of exulting health, in the rapture of being possessed, with the merciless pity of a newly married woman. This that she had waited for, this love which crowned and made her, it cleared the eyes, she thought, it exalted, it ennobled, it glorified. She would that those two pathetic figures, Margaret so serious and proud, with his clumsy walk, and halting, almost affected picked precision of phrase, and Perrin, the forlorn parasite who looked as though he had been frozen, were married; she would so gladly see them happy, tasting something of the joy which made earth heaven to her. Margaret would be a beautiful lover, very thoughtful and tender, but cold; he was cold-hearted, she thought, and rather frightening. Perrin would be attracted by some little merry woman who would laugh at him and twist him round her finger. Perrin, she confessed to Tom, attracted her more than the other, because he looked so wretched. Being so happy herself, she wished others to be happy. Her education, like most women’s education, had been aimed to make her fear the world, to make her shrink from those characters who judged the world and sought to direct it. Her own world, beautiful as it was, existed only by the exclusion of such characters; her nature could not accept Margaret wholly; she could only respect and vaguely fear him, as one respects and fears all things which one is not wise enough to understand. Perrin looked wretched, and having a tenderness for wretched folk, she thought that she understood him. All the time, unknown to her, the three men summed her up with pity and reverence and tender devotion; but mostly with pity, and with a mournful, tender curiosity. It was perhaps partly that curiosity which had made their absence pleasant to her. Their absence had been a relief to her, it had also relieved her husband. And since their arrival at Virginia her husband had made her anxious; he had behaved very queerly at times, ever since the first day. She felt that he was keeping something from her, perhaps some ailment which tortured him and made him irritable. She had been very thankful to have her dear love so much to herself during an entire week.
But at breakfast that morning the presence of the three men (and the prospect of their future presence) had shown her how much she longed for the quiet retirement of a home, where life could be culled, chosen, made up as one makes a nosegay, by beautiful friends, art, music, all the essences of life, all doubly precious to her now that life had become so precious.
“Tom,” she said, “Tom, dear, I want to talk to you about our life here. I don’t think it can go on, dear.”
“Why, little Olive, what’s up? What ruffles your serenity?”
“Tom, dear, I cannot bear this ship life. And those three men. At every meal I feel that one of them is watching me. Oh, and no woman to talk to. I think of our lovely times at Salcombe, Tom. We could shut the door; and it would be just our two selves.”
“Jolly times at Salcombe, hadn’t we? But what’s the matter, eh?”
“This ship life, Tom. It’s that. The men are so rude, and so rude to you, Tom. I can’t go on with it. I want to go back to England.”
“But I’ve promised to go to Darien, Olive.”
“I know, dear. I know. Don’t think me very foolish, Tom. But I don’t think I’m strong enough. Tom, darling, could not we leave this life? Think how rude Mr. Cottrill was to you only the other day. I do so long for our old happy life together. Away from the sea.”
“Look here, Livy. I understand. You’re lonely. Suppose we go and stay ashore for a while. You would meet ladies ashore. You’ve met them already.”
“Tom, I can’t meet those ladies. They’re not nice.”
“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with Mrs. Montague?”
“I feel that she isn’t a nice woman. That she isn’t—— You know I went to see her the day before yesterday. She was hung about with silver just like a savage, and all the young officers were there, playing cards. And Captain Montague had gone to Charlestown, and she was alone there, with all those men. So I sat down for a moment to rest after the walk and then came away. That was no place for me.”
“Well, we could stop with the Governor. Maggy knows him. What’s wrong with old Mrs. Prinsep?”
“I don’t like her, Tom. She’s a bitter woman. Oh, Tom, let’s go home.”
“But I’ve promised, Livy.”
“Yes, dear. I know. But we can’t always keep our promises. We can’t go to Darien. We can’t.”
“But what else can we do? We must, my dear. I can’t pay our passage home. I came away in such a rush. I’ve not got five pounds with me.”
“Oh, Tom, Tom. But that doesn’t matter, dear. We could borrow. Charles or Edward would lend to us.”
“No, thanks, Livy. There are some things I draw the line at. I can’t take a man’s hospitality and then borrow money from him.”
“But—— I know them better than you do, Tom. I could ask them.”
“Do you suppose, Livy, that I could let you borrow money from any man?”
“Then we could ask for a passage home in the convoy to the summer fleet. They would take us.”
Stukeley smiled uneasily, knowing only too well how likely he was to get a passage home with that convoy in any case.
“Olive,” he said, “do you remember a tale Captain Cammock told us about a little ruined city full of gold?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“D’you know, Olive, I’ve been half planning with Cammock to go to look for that ruined city. You see, Livy, we shall only be here probably till the summer fleet arrives. Ten days, or so. Do you think you could stand it for another month or two? If we found that city, I could buy my little Olive that summer cottage we set our hearts on.”
“Oh, take me home, Tom. Never mind the cottage. And I couldn’t have you going into the forest. I couldn’t be alone in the ship.”
“But then, Olive. Since I married my little Olive here, I’ve been wanting to do something for others. Living as a bachelor, one gets selfish. I want very much to help those Indians, Olive. To do something in return for you, dear.”
“I know, dear. It’s so like you. It’s noble of you. But you could do something for the people at home: for the poor. You could teach them. We could teach them together. But oh, don’t let’s go to Darien, Tom. We shall be separated. Tom, I couldn’t bear to be alone in the ship. And there may be fighting.”
“Come, come, Livy,” said Stukeley. He was nettled at what he judged to be her damned female pigheadedness, yet anxious to make his indignation appear moral. That is the common custom of the wicked, to the world’s misfortune. “Come, come,” he said, “you mustn’t talk in that way. We’re going to liberate the Indians. Eh? To show them what British Freedom means. Eh? We mustn’t think of ourselves, and our little aches and pains. We must think of the world.” He himself was ever ready to think of the world, or the flesh, or the devil, or all three. “We must think of the world, Livy. And if we should succeed. I think you would be proud of me, Livy.”
“I should be, Tom, dear. Very, very proud. But oh, Tom, do let us go home. We should be so happy there again. Here, we can’t get away from strangers. I can’t live among these people. They’re dreadful. And Darien, Tom. It’s a lawless place, full of the most terrible men.”
“Oh, they’re all right,” he answered. “They’re all right. And I shall be with you, my dear child. We must go to Darien, Livy. My honour’s pledged. I can’t draw back in honour. They would call me a coward. They’d say I was afraid. Besides, I can’t very well pay our way home. And I can’t borrow. You do realize my position, Livy? We must go on.”
“Oh, Tom,” said Olivia, crying now, in spite of brave efforts. “I didn’t think—I thought you’d take me when I begged you. We might be home in three weeks. Oh, Tom, do.” She clung to him, looking up at him, smiling appeal in spite of tears. Stukeley bit his lips from annoyance, longing to box her ears, to give her, as he phrased it, something to cry for. She thought that he was on the rack between his pledged honour and his love for her.