B
arely were Claggett Chew and Osterbridge Hawsey out of sight, when Chris simultaneously became aware of two things. One was the deep throbbing ache of the whip cut, so painful it made him feel sick and faint, and the second was the black figure of Mr. Wicker. Mr. Wicker was threading his way in and out of the crowds and litter of the wharves, and although to most he might have seemed leisurely, Chris was able to detect in the step of his master a certain haste. He came up to the little group of men, glanced at the back of Zachary Heigh, who was moving away as if to some interrupted duty, and at Chris's white face and the reddening handkerchief which he held to his chin. Mr. Wicker looked slowly at all the faces and then raised his eyebrows as if in surprise.
"Well, lads," he said, "what has happened here? You all look angry and somewhat a-frighted. What occurred, Ned?" he asked, addressing Ned Cilley, whose kind face was puckered with sympathy for Chris and who stood pulling at the stockingcap he held in his hands. But Chris spoke up before Ned could reply.
"It was my fault, sir. I expect I got what I deserved, but it seemed to happen in spite of myself. I laughed at Osterbridge Hawsey's beauty patch—and at him—all of him, really. We all did. Claggett Chew got mad, and I guess I wouldn't blame him. It was a dreadful thing to do—to laugh at someone to their face—and he lashed out with his whip and gavemea beauty patch!"
In spite of the pain Chris managed a grin as he took the handkerchief from his chin to bare the deep, cruel cut.
"But truly sir," he ended, "I never saw anything like Osterbridge Hawsey before. He's a dilly!"
And before they knew it they had all, including even the habitually grave Mr. Wicker, burst into another shout of laughter. Mr. Wicker soon stopped, however, and reached back into the pocket in the flap of his coattails. When he drew out his hand it held a small glass box. With unhurried gestures Mr. Wicker's fine fingers took off the lid.
"What a fortunate coincidence that I happened by just at this time," he said casually, "and that I have with me such an excellent ointment." Master and pupil looked at one another for a moment, and there was the hint of a wink in Mr. Wicker's right eye, and the vestige of an answer from Chris's left.
"This will help to stop the bleeding, my boy," said Mr. Wicker, "and take away the pain. It hastens the cure," he went on, lightly applying the ointment to the wound. "In an hour you will scarcely know it happened," he concluded.
Seeing the color seep back into Chris's cheeks, the men touched their caps to Mr. Wicker and went back to their interrupted tasks. Ned Cilley, with his hand on Amos's shoulder, moved off to point out some detail of theMirabelle, and Chris and Mr. Wicker were left alone. Mr. Wicker looked down kindly at the boy, but there was a sadness also in his face.
"Perhaps," he said as if to himself, "I have set you too great a task, my poor Christopher, for you are but a boy." He laid his hand on Chris's arm. "You are a boy, but what lies before you is a man's task, and no mistake. You cannot in the future allow yourself the luxury of such childish enjoyments as a laugh at Claggett Chew, or his friend!"
"I know that now sir," Chris replied solemnly. "I asked for trouble that time."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Wicker in a tired voice, "You did. Too bad," he added, and Chris saw fatigue for the first time in his master's face. "The laughter you could not resist has meantthat you came forcibly to Claggett Chew's notice in such a way that you will never be forgotten." Mr. Wicker looked from some distant horizon back to Chris. "I saw it happening while I was in my study, but could not warn you in time," he said. "So I came down with the ointment for your poisoned wound."
"Poisoned wound, sir?" Chris whispered, suddenly feeling much worse than he had before.
Mr. Wicker sighed. "Yes. Sometimes Mr. Chew has a way of wiping poison onto the metal tip of his whip. It is a slow poison—it does not take effect for days or weeks. In fact, so long after his lash that no one attributes the whip cut to the death that finally follows. Never fear," he said smiling his reassurance, "the ointment I have put on will take care of that too, and your cut will be closed and healed before the day is over. What is unfortunately more lasting," said Mr. Wicker, "is Mr. Chew's memory. Well"—and Mr. Wicker shruggedhis shoulders—"there's no help for what is done. Use caution in the future, Christopher. That is all I ask."
"I shall, sir!" Chris assured him. They turned to join Amos.
"Enjoy yourself the rest of the day, my boy," Mr. Wicker urged. "But be constantly on the alert and look in all directions. Here," he said putting his hand in his pocket, "take these few coins in case you should need them. Now find Amos, and be off with you!"
Although Chris would have liked to investigate all the wharves and see as many of the vessels as he could, he understood the warning given him by Mr. Wicker. So with Amos he moved away from the scenes he preferred, taking the first road he saw leading off Water Street.
M Street was, for Chris, completely unrecognizable. It was merely a broad unpaved road in what seemed, at best, a country town. Groves of old trees, pasture lands and orchards of large size surrounded the few houses. It was hard for Chris to realize that this was the core of the capital of the vast and teeming country into which he had been born.
With difficulty, for the streets all had different names if they existed at all, Chris looked for his own street. Going back along what he had known as M Street, not even the Pep Boys' or Iron Horse Grill was to be seen. Instead of two wide stone bridges, now there was only a rickety one crossing Rock Creek Park.
The boys walked to the bank above the park and looked down. The broad asphalt traffic lanes were gone, and so was the tidiness of the park lawns. Below him, Chris saw the tangled thick forests that had always stood there. The creekitself, in the quiet of this earlier time, could be plainly heard running over its stones.
Chris turned and led Amos to where he half expected to see his mother's house. But where his house would stand in some future year, nothing was to be seen but a dense grove of trees growing along the top of a little rise of ground. Someone had once built a fire at the corner, where his front door would one day be. Chris kicked idly at the ashes and picked up a metal button blackened by the fire.
"What you-all looking for?" patient Amos asked.
"Just something I hoped I'd find," Chris answered, filled with a sense of desolation.
Then he made himself remember that his house had yet to be built, and aware of the hollowness of his stomach, he said to Amos: "Must be lunch time. Let's go down to the creek to eat."
They scrambled down the bank near where, in his time, there was a children's playground, and weaving in and out of the thick wood, found the creek, clear and fresh. Here they ate their lunch, and then, running and leaping, followed the turns of the stream until they neared the marshes and the river.
T
he two boys came out toward the mouth of Rock Creek and as the woods thinned, they saw ahead of them a sandy sloping bank on which a small boat was drawn up. Around the coals of a fire nearby, three men were crouching. Remembering Mr. Wicker's warning to be cautious, Chris put out a hand to touch Amos and the two stood still.
"Let's climb up a little above them," Chris suggested. "We're beyond the bridge—they might be—well, we'd better be careful. I want to see what they're doing before they see us."
Amos agreeing, the two boys, with extra care for rattling twigs, moved stealthily up the banks of the Potomac that rose with increasing steepness. The men, who were huddled near their fire now, came directly into their view below, and Chris and Amos could see that they were playing cards. One seemed to be losing to the other two. He had piled a heap of his small possessions in front of him on the sand, in lieu of money.
They were certainly a villainous-looking trio. The boys could hear some of their exclamations, and it was with a mingled feeling of curiosity and uneasiness that Chris recognized the losing gambler to be Simon Gosler, the humpbacked cripple.
"Come now, Gosler!" they heard one of the men cry out in annoyance, "Pay up—you've lost!"
"I've no money to pay you," complained the sly voice of the cripple. "I'm a poor man—well you know it. A cripple—just a poor old cripple!"
"Ah—none o' that!" cut in the second winner. "We know how well you do at your begging—more in a day than we get in a month's pay. Pay up now, or it won't go well with you," he rasped out, laying his hand on a dagger stuck into his belt.
"What about your glass, your spyglass, Gosler?" urged the first man. "Put that up and it will cover your losses well enough!" he sneered, but Simon Gosler hugged his coat to him and looked from side to side searching for a way of escape.
"No, no, good fellows," he moaned, "not my glass. I won that from the Captain himself three years ago, and that I never shall part from willingly."
"You'd part from it for silver quick enough!" snarled the first gambler, "and of that you must have plenty, for 'tis rare you ever lose. Come now, we'll give you a few minutes more to make up your mind, but make it up you must. Either the glass or silver, you may choose."
The two gamblers rose menacingly and moved away to put their boat into the stream. Simon Gosler was left mumbling and sniveling and fingering his coat pocket, in which he kept his glass. Chris, watching him, had a sudden inspiration and whispered to Amos. "Hide here behind those bushes and don'tfollow me. Don't move or show yourself. I'm going to have that glass."
So saying he moved carefully back until he was out of sight of Amos, and then, for the first time on his own, he tried a change of shape. Choosing a broad flat stone at the edge of the shrubbery and safely removed from the sight of the two winners, he changed himself into a silver coin and allowed himself to drop with a sweet metallic ring on the stone, waiting winking in the sun for Simon Gosler. The old cripple saw the coin before it had bounced twice on the stone, and with a quick sly look over his shoulder at the backs of his companions as they pushed at the boat, hoisted himself up on his crutch and began hobbling over toward his find.
But instead of a coin, he found only a resolute boy awaiting him, tossing and catching a silver piece. It was one of those Mr. Wicker had given Chris but an hour before. He looked Simon Gosler in the eye.
"I've heard what went on, Simon Gosler," said Chris, his eyes on a level with the rheumy watering eyes of the cripple, "and if you will sell your spyglass to me, I'll buy it off you with this silver piece. Otherwise you shall not have it."
Simon Gosler's eyes dripped tears of greed at the sight of the coin, and then another expression washed over them. Fast as he was and fast as was his movement, Chris was faster. As the old beggar braced himself and brought the head of his crutch down where Chris's head should have been, someone from behind dealt him a staggering blow with a sizable club, and yet when he turned around no one was there. When he faced about again, rubbing his head and whimpering with rage and frustration, he found himself once more facing the boy whowas tossing and catching, tossing and catching, the round silver coin.
Chris stood with his legs apart, his head back, his eyes full of scorn. His hand did not cease to toss and catch the silver piece. "Well, you old villain," he challenged, "will you take the coin in fair exchange, or shall I hit you again with that club you just felt?" he asked. "It doesn't feel the same when you get it back as when you give it out, does it, you old faker? Hurry up—your friends will soon be coming back, and I don't think they intend to argue," he added.
Gosler, still rubbing his head and muttering, finally spoke. "Very well, you nasty young man, I'll sell my glass. Give me the coin!" and he stretched out a dirty claw.
"Oh no!" Chris shook his head decisively. "No indeed! You put the glass down between us—carefully, mind you—andback away. I'll throw you the coin when I've seen if the glass is worth the silver!"
Mumbling to himself, Simon Gosler did as he was told. He reached back in his coat pocket to draw out a small spyglass, which he laid down on the ground. He then backed away. Chris picked up and examined the glass, tested it, and then just as the two gamblers came back up the riverbank, tossed the silver piece to the beggar. Gosler caught it in mid-air with the dexterity of years of practice. In an instant Chris had vanished into the thick shade of the wood, and going as fast but as quietly as he could, regained the place where Amos waited for him.
"Gee, Chris!" Amos exclaimed, for he had caught all Chris's expression of speech, "We got us a spyglass!"
"We sure have!" Chris agreed, "And it's a fine one—best Iever saw," he said. "Here, try it out over the river there, where that ship is anchored."
Amos pointed the glass through the shrubs toward a distant ship that swung at anchor close to the shore, and while he tried out their prize, Chris watched the departure of the three gamblers. Gosler had evidently paid up while Chris was returning to their hidden perch, for he was now hustled into the boat by the other two. Soon the three were far down the stream and their boat was moving into the main flow of the river.
"Here," Amos said passing back the glass, "you look. That's a mighty fine ship out there, black as theMirabelleis white, but she looks fast and strong just the same."
But Chris, taking the glass, was idly following the progress of the three men. Gosler, lost in gloom, sat in the stern hugging his rags about him. The other two bent their backs to the oars and headed straight for the anchored ship.
Turning the glass to the brig Chris hunted for the name as the prow swung about. Through the glass the letters, gold on the black-painted side, leapt at his eye across the distance.Venture, Chris read, and with a beating heart he saw his adversary's ship for the first time.
C
ome along, Amos! We must get a closer look at that ship!" Chris cried, putting his glass away. Scrambling down, the two boys ran along the stream until it was shallow enough to cross. The water was icy, telling, as well as the turning leaves and cooler air, that fall had come and winter was on the way.
Hurrying forward, Chris and Amos reached the mouth of the stream where it joined the river. There on the left bank of Rock Creek, high rushes grew in rank profusion on the marshy land. They rose higher than the heads of the two boys and were too closely packed to allow for easy passage.
"We'll have to skirt the very edge," Chris said glancing about. "Barefoot would be the best. This soft ground would soon go over our shoes and maybe suck them down."
"Keep right against the rushes," Chris warned Amos, "and if a boat shows up coming from the wharves, we can't take any chances. We'll have to dive into the rushes and hide, just in case it's Claggett Chew."
"That's right," Amos nodded his head vigorously. "I don't want to meethimagain, and you do less'n me!" he chuckled.
The two went on, making slow progress, for the river was deep at that point, with little foothold between the end of the jungle of reeds and deep water.
"Keep an eye out, Amos!" Chris called back over his shoulder as he went ahead. It was no time before Amos's voice came huskily up to his friend.
"Chris! Chris—hold on! There's a boat with four men init just left the last wharf, and they're headin' this way! Get in those rushes quick—my clothes is mighty bright!"
Rushing and panting, they shoved their way into the dusty rushes, groping back until they could barely see the river through the stalks. And it was just in time, for barely were they hidden when they heard, carried over the water, the dip and splash of two pairs of oars and the creak of oarlocks. Then, in another moment, came the high-pitched voice of Osterbridge Hawsey. Chris gave a shiver as it reached him.
"Claggett," came the voice of the fop, who with Claggett Chew was sitting in the stern of the boat, "Claggett—I find myself quite, quite fatigued. A little wine, I fancy, might revive me when we reach the ship. Heated, I think, and spiced, to ward off the night chill. And Claggett," went on the voice, almost upon them now it was so clear, "what do you think of this muslin for my new shirts? Is it not delicate? Irish,cela va sans dire, as the dear French say. I feel sure it will be satisfactory."
From Claggett Chew the two boys heard not a word, and peering out, they saw the boat shoot by. Osterbridge Hawsey, wrapped in a great cloak, was admiring a bolt of muslin that he held, but Claggett Chew, his face shadowed by a hat, was holding his whip upon his knees and glowering at the water.
The boat passed, and some time after, the two boys heard from across the water the echo of wood against wood as the dinghy reached theVenture'shull. After a while, as the boys were about to move along, a heavy dropping sound, and the shuddering of the marshy ground, made the two in hiding look at one another in concern.
"What in the world?" Chris murmured.
The sound, accompanied by steps, oaths, and a rhythmical drop and shudder, continued farther along the shore. Stealthily, trying not to shake the rushes and so show where they might be, Chris and Amos pushed through the marsh.
The sun was setting as they came near the steps and voices. Pushing through the reeds towards the river, Chris found that they were nearly opposite where theVenturefloated, below Mr. Mason's island, and at a desolate part of the river.
Chris gestured Amos forward, and they went on step by step until, in a pause of the thundering dropping sound, theyknew themselves to be near its origin and parted the reeds enough to see.
There, within a few yards of them and at the edge of a hard-beaten track from the main shore, lay a mass of cannon balls and shot for guns of various sizes, such as are used on men-of-war. The crew of theVenture, able to carry but one at a time, kept a line going from shore to pile, and this, as they dropped the cannon balls from their shoulders, was the sound and shaking of the ground the boys had heard and felt. Seeing the red caps and kerchiefed heads of men above the rushes, the boys let the reeds fall back.
"I'm going to have a look at the ship through the glass," Chris whispered, and moved forward closer to the shore.
Parting the stalks, he trained the glass on Claggett Chew's ship. It was a fine, rich vessel, that was evident, and swarming with activity. At this hour of dusk, other boats along the river had stopped their commerce for the day and there were none to observe what Claggett Chew might be about. Chris and Amos were the only watchers.
The cannon balls and ammunition were taken out in boats and hoisted up in nets. Chris observed everything closely, and saw still other crewmen disappearing with their burdens down the hold. Then something caught his eye and he examined the name along the side through the spyglass.
Curious, thought Chris, that all the letters of the ship's name seemed exact except the second and third. Among the other letters of carved and gilded wood, theEandNwere not quite as straight in line as the rest.
Oh well, Chris thought, it's doubtless a custom of the time for all I know.
Putting the glass in his pocket, he rejoined Amos, but as hedid so the last two sailors put down their cannon balls and wiped the sweat off their foreheads with their arms. In the ensuing silence the rustle of the rushes as Chris and Amos moved away was plainly to be heard.
"What's that?" one man cried out. "Is a spy there? Here—take this club and beat about—we'll catch 'em!"
The two men charged into the marsh so fast that Chris barely had time to whisper to Amos: "Hurry Amos—run! I'll be all right. I'll draw them off! I'll meet you where we ford the stream!"
Amos safely out of sight, the men came only on a stray dog foraging for rats, wagging its tail and letting out a yip or two as it followed a scent along the ground.
"Give it a kick—there—it's only a stray dog," one said.
"Oh—devil take it—what do I care?" answered the other, turning back.
The dog lay panting at the river's edge. Looking past the ship as it rested, it saw what it thought was snow upon the water and the banks. But it was just thousands of ducks migrating south, and when they rose to move farther away, the sky was overcast and thunderous with their wings.
Long after dark, cold, dirty, and quite wet, the two boys reached the house on Water Street.
"Where did you go?" Becky inquired, frowning with solicitude at the bedraggled pair.
"Oh, no place much," Chris answered, yawning.
T
he following morning while Chris was telling Mr. Wicker of the ammunition being loaded on theVenture, Becky Boozer announced a visit from Captain Blizzard and Elisha Finney.
"Show them in, Becky," Mr. Wicker told her. To Chris he said, "I wonder what brings them here so early? It must be a matter of some importance. Stay with me, Christopher. I shall present you to the Captain."
The extraordinary pair came in and Chris was introduced to Captain Blizzard and Mr. Finney. The Captain was all smiles except for his eyes; Chris noted that his eyes did not smile at all. Mr. Finney, true to form, cast down his eyes, sighed, and let the corners of his wide thin lips droop almost to his chin.
When a chair large enough and solid enough had been found for Captain Blizzard, and Becky had brought in a decanter of sherry and glasses to set before the visitors, Chris shut the study door and sat down on the floor where he could observe the three faces before him.
Mr. Wicker spoke first.
"Well, Captain, what brings you here so betimes? No trouble of any kind, I trust?"
Captain Blizzard set down his glass of sherry and cleared his throat. "Now, sir, needs must I come with unpleasant news, and sorry I am to bring it. I have heard that theVentureplans to sail at any time, and you well know she is a fast-sailing ship." He folded his plump hands over his paunch and twiddled his thumbs with agitation. "Sir, it has been noised about that theVentureis headed for the West Indies."
He paused and glanced at Mr. Finney who nodded forlornly, his mouth drooping.
"But 'tis not so." The Captain looked with anxious eyes at Mr. Wicker. "Early this morning Ned Cilley brought me the information that theVentureis to sail to the China seas."
Mr. Wicker's face was grave but showed no surprise. "I knew some trouble was ahead," he said slowly, "but did not know what form it was to take." He paused. "News of sailings and destinations get about so rapidly, it is more than likely that someone overheard the destination of theMirabelle, and sold his knowledge to Captain Chew. Although," he added thoughtfully, "I think Claggett Chew guessed it. Well," and Mr. Wicker looked alertly at the two men, "what advice do you give me?"
Captain Blizzard wagged his head. "Nay sir, 'tis for orders that I came to you. It is for you to say."
"How soon can theMirabelleput to sea?" Mr. Wicker asked, and Chris's heart skipped a beat.
"At any time, sir," the Captain at once replied. "We have nearly water enough, and quite sufficient stores. The men are all assembled."
The Captain fell silent and no one spoke for several minutes. Mr. Wicker leaning his chin on his folded hands was lost in thought.
"How move the tides?" he finally asked, raising his head.
The Captain, with surprising briskness for so large a man, pulled some folded charts from his pocket. Without a word the three men rose and went over to the table, pushing aside the china bowl filled with flowers to spread the charts flat on the table top. Captain Blizzard leaned his knuckles on the boards.
"The tide will be high at midnight, sir," he informed them. "See"—he pointed a short forefinger at a spot on one chart—"here is the sandbar that the tide covers for but a short time, and should there be other ships crowding the river near this point, we must slip through there then or not at all."
Mr. Wicker examined the charts and nodded. "Very well," he said, "so must it be," and Chris felt that his heartbeat would stifle him, it pounded so fast and thickly in his throat. All at once, looking up at the thoughtful face of his master, Chris longed to be able to stay safe at home. The imminent journey, so far and perhaps so perilous, seemed suddenly too much for him. Mr. Wicker had taken the river charts and rolled them up, and now turned to the Captain and first mate.
"Captain Blizzard, and you, Mr. Finney," he said, "should water casks be seen going on board, the whole of Georgetown will know you mean to sail. I therefore ask you to so contrive it that the casks be hidden in bales or boxes so that they seem to be anything but what they are." He tapped the rolled charts thoughtfully on the palm of one hand. "Our only chance to steal a march on theVenturewill be to sail at least a day before her." The two men listening nodded in agreement. "There isone other thing. Your orders for where you are to anchor, once near China, will be secret, and carried on the person of this boy." He laid one hand on Chris's shoulder. "He has a task of utmost secrecy to carry out and will require your help, encouragement, and silence."
Captain Blizzard and Mr. Finney looked solemnly at Chris who looked as solemnly back.
"Not only that," Mr. Wicker went on, "but his presence on the ship must not be known until theMirabelleis well to sea." He glanced down meditatively at Chris. "I shall arrange to bring him aboard somehow, and give you your sailing orders later."
He strode over to the window looking out to his gardens and the trees where the apples showed their russet cheeks.
"Leave me these charts for yet a little while, and I shall ponder on our plans," said Mr. Wicker. He turned. "See thatthe water casks are taken on at once, Captain, and hidden, and make a place for Christopher, here," and at a beseeching look from Chris he added with a smile, "and Amos."
No sooner were the Captain and Mr. Finney gone than Chris spoke up in great excitement. "Mr. Wicker, sir, I have a plan! May we look at the river charts again?"
Master and pupil spread out the charts once more, and Chris pointed eagerly.
"Look, sir! Here is the sandbar, and here"—he put his finger down—"theVenture. Or she was, yesterday. Now sir, the sandbar being just below and ahead of theVenture, once theMirabellehas slipped by, wouldn't it be too bad if something happened to make theVenturedrift with the tide and run aground?"
He looked eagerly up into Mr. Wicker's face and saw in it the reflection of his own excitement.
"There are times, Christopher," said Mr. Wicker with his eyes snapping, "when you surprise even me. But how is it to be done?"
"Well, sir," began Chris, "it's a little tricky but I think, what with the things we know, it can be worked."
He began outlining to his master the details of his plan.
I
t was perhaps as well that Chris had more than enough to think of. Otherwise the wrench at leaving home might have been even more distressing than it was. His last day passed like a flash, though from his attitude no one, certainly not Becky, would have guessed that the next morning he would not be there to eat his breakfast in the sunny kitchen window. Amos, quick to sense all Chris's moods, knew something was afoot, and when Chris and Mr. Wicker finally told him of the sailing plan, Amos's eyes grew rounder than ever and sparkled more brightly, but he said never a word.
At ten o'clock that night, when Becky had gone heavily to her room, wondering perhaps why Chris had given her so hard a hug, Ned Cilley knocked at the back door. He had brought a light cart on which there stood a large wicker hamper. Ned and Chris lifted it into the kitchen while Mr. Wicker drew the curtains and then held a candle high. The candlelight flickered and flapped like a trapped bird at the corners of the room, and sharp bird-wing shadows cut across Mr. Wicker's tall darkfigure. Yet to Chris, who was to hold the scene ever after in his memory, the kitchen by the light of that one candle, and the figure of his master standing in its center, moved Chris as he had never been touched before. Amos stood near the basket, looking first into its square depth filled with shadow, and then up enquiringly at Mr. Wicker, but he did not speak.
"Be of good heart, Amos," Mr. Wicker said to him kindly, "and look after young Christopher as best you can."
Then, at a gesture from Mr. Wicker, Amos, agog, stepped into the hamper where he stood uncertainly, his expression half terrified and half delighted.
"Yessir, I will!" he piped up, shrill with excitement. "I'll keep my eye on him!" he promised, and then curled up in the hamper. Ned Cilley shut down the top and he and Chris lifted it to the cart. Mr. Wicker spoke low into Ned's ear.
"All is well understood?" he queried. "This is no time for misunderstandings!"
"Aye aye, sir! All is clear!" the good Ned replied.
"Then Godspeed to you all and bring you safely home," said Mr. Wicker. "Be on the lookout for this lad, Ned, when you get past the bar."
"We shall," Ned whispered back, "and good luck to the two of ye!"
Clucking to his horse, on wheels covered with rags, and with cloths about the horse's hoofs to deaden their sound, Ned Cilley and his hamper went quietly away in the direction of the wharfs. In a moment, cart, horse, and driver were swallowed up in the denseness of the night.
A black night it was indeed. Although there was a moon, thick clouds scudded over it and an autumn wind bent thetrees, tearing the leaves from them. A mist rose from the river, but it was blown away from all but the most sheltered places.
Mr. Wicker and Chris stood in the silent kitchen. Looking about him, Chris remembered with a pang the first morning he had seen it, with Becky in her gaudy hat standing near the fire.
"Come, Christopher," Mr. Wicker bade him, taking up his caped black cloak and another one for Chris. "First, wind the rope about your waist, and once on board, bind it under your shirt. Let no one, not even Amos, know of it."
Chris did as he was told. Mr. Wicker then gave him a leather pouch hung on a cord.
"Here are some oddments of magic that may prove their usefulness," he remarked. "Wear them about your neck." So saying he slipped the leather cord over Chris's head.
"What happens to the rope and pouch when I change my shape, sir?" Chris asked.
"They will remain with you, have no fear of that," the magician replied. "What would be the use of magic if it proved unable to adjust itself?" A smile played over Mr. Wicker's face. "So, all is ready," he said glancing around. "Now we must be off and lose no time, for we have much ahead of us," said Mr. Wicker drily, blowing out the candle.
Before he knew it, Chris stood—until what far-off time?—outside Mr. Wicker's house. His master locked the door. The wind, swooping down like some great bird, tugged at their cloaks and chilled their faces.
Chris led the way to the creek and the marsh. This time both he and Mr. Wicker wore high boots which kept the icy water and mud from their feet.
"What I wouldn't give for a flashlight!" Chris muttered as they came to the marsh.
"Yes, the twentieth century has many conveniences," Mr. Wicker replied, and Chris could imagine, behind him, the man's sardonic smile and amused eyes.
They came out suddenly from the blackness of the woods to the wind-whipped river, and though the moon was still obscured, the river held a pallid sheen of its own that gave a little light. There was not a sound to be heard but the hurried lap of water against the shore, the suck and pull of Chris's and Mr. Wicker's boots in the mud, and sharp, hair-raising rustles, from time to time, in the reeds. Chris's heart thudded in his throat at these furtive noises, for they could only be made by rats or watersnakes, and Chris liked neither of these, especially by night.
Pushing along the marsh edge and feeling their way, the two figures at last came in sight of their goal. The high dark hull of theVenturerose above the water, an amber lantern hanging at her stern. The wind swung the ship, and the tide, still flowing up the Potomac, showed that the bow, held by the anchor, was pointed somewhat downstream.
"The anchor may have dragged," Chris whispered to Mr. Wicker. "Now for our boat!"
The rope seemed to uncoil from about his waist almost of itself, and with the gestures he had been taught, Chris formed a very adequate craft; a trifle lopsided, it must be admitted, as he had had small practice, but seaworthy nevertheless.
"I shall see that the men sleep soundly," Mr. Wicker murmured. "You do the rest."
"I shall, sir!" Chris agreed, and then the moon showed anedge for a moment in the clouds. "Look sir—theMirabelle!"
Toward sleeping Georgetown, for it was nearly midnight now, a whiteness showed itself, close against the distant wharfs. TheMirabellewas edging out, and Chris knew that Ned, Bowie, Abner Cloud, and others were pulling her by the ship's boats into the main flow of the river. Once turned, she would float noiselessly down the Potomac past theVenture, and once he was aboard, would hoist her sails and set her course to sea.
"Then quick!" bade Mr. Wicker. "We took too long! It seems we are a trifle late!"
They stepped into the boat, each taking an oar, and with only a few strong pulls came alongside the silentVenture. They moored their boat to the anchor rope. Mr. Wicker touched Chris by way of wishing him luck, and disappeared. For half a second more Chris waited. No sound came from the ship but a light showed in the Captain's cabin.
In a twinkling, a monkey with a pouch about its neck ran up the anchor rope and pausing on the gunwale, sniffed at the pungent flower smell that it now knew meant sleep for all the sailors. Then it bounded toward the light.
A window of the cabin on the lee side had been left open. Clinging to a piece of rigging before it sprang to the sill, themonkey's eyes caught what seemed to be a shadow darker than that of the mist or of the night, moving away from the sailor left at night watch. The man now lay slumped in sleep, and the same heady scent of spices and flowers that had overcome Chris when he had first entered Mr. Wicker's shop blew away on the gusty fall wind.
The ship tugged and strained at her anchor, wind and turning tide making taut the line that held her close to shore. TheVenture, her rigging and masts scarcely visible, so sombre was the night, lay ominously silent, excepting for a murmur of voices from the cabin. Abruptly aware of the passing of time and the approaching white cloud on the water that was theMirabelle, the monkey sprang to the side of the open window and peered inside.
A smoking lamp hung low over a center table, dropping a dusky round glow on the larger circle beneath it. Claggett Chew was blearily studying a paper spread out before him, leaning his ugly bare skull on one hand. His eyes were blood-shot, and an empty wine bottle and glass holding only wine dregs showed he had been drinking and was now half asleep.
Osterbridge Hawsey, in a heavy silk robe and embroidered slippers, lounged sideways in a chair with his legs hanging overthe arm. His hand trailed an empty glass on the floor, and a silly drunken smile played over his face.
"Claggett," he was saying, "is the place marked?" He hiccuped delicately. "Hup! Oh dear! the hiccups!" he complained with a frown. "Let me have more wine!"
Claggett Chew did not reply nor rise to fetch another bottle. Osterbridge Hawsey gave a hiccup and spoke again, "Mark it—hic!—Claggett. You may forget. All those—hup!—walls, to get over, or—hic! under." He sighed. "Oh dear! Hic!Thinkof those jewels, Claggett! Hup! Devil take these hiccups!" he exclaimed in a flurry of annoyance, but made no motion to change his comfortable position.
"Claggett!" Osterbridge Hawsey shrilled. "Are you asleep, or angry, or—? Hic!—Put a cross where the Tree is, I say! I want those—hup!—jewels, Claggett, and so do you! Hic!"
Befuddled, his perceptions hopelessly blurred by excessive wine, Claggett Chew made a mark on the map. "There!" he growled, his upper lip drawn back over his teeth, "will that shut you up?"
A moving shadow duskier than the shadows themselves came through the door and hovered over Osterbridge Hawsey. Claggett Chew suddenly started up.
"I smell him!" he muttered thickly. "He's here! Hullo! Night watchman!" he shouted drunkenly.
As he got up, stumbling and thrashing about in the uncertainty of his movements, his chair crashed to the floor and the monkey made a leap, cuffing the lantern from its hook. The light was dashed out, and in the dark as he jumped, the monkey seized the creased, well-thumbed paper as he leaped back toward the pale square that was the window. Behind it Claggett Chew's oaths and exclamations became fainter as the spicy scent grew stronger, and at last his mutterings trailed off into snorts and, finally, snores. The monkey, clutching the paper to itself, sat on the window ledge stuffing it into the pouch about its neck, and a monkey smile flitted across its face as it heard a final dreaming sound from Osterbridge Hawsey.
"Hm-mm. Hic! Jewels! Hup!" came from Osterbridge Hawsey.
Down the anchor rope scrambled the monkey with the agility and speed for which monkeys are famous. Mr. Wicker was already in the boat.
"How shall it be, sir?" came the low voice of Chris. "Shall I become a beaver and go down and gnaw the rope off at the anchor?"
"No," said Mr. Wicker. "It can be more easily done than that and nothing to trace it. Get in the boat. Here comes theMirabelle."
Taking his own shape once more, Chris saw the white ghost-like sides of theMirabellesoundlessly passing down stream. Not a creak nor a splash of water came from her as she passed, but from the stern a tiny light, struck by a flint perhaps, blinked once, and twice, and then a third time.
"Now!" came Mr. Wicker's low voice. "Let me have my hand upon that rope!"
He only seemed to hold the anchor rope a moment and give it an easy pull. The tugging strain was suddenly gone and theVentureveered away like a frightened waterfowl.
"Will she go where she should, sir?" Chris wanted to know, leaning forward.
"That she will, Christopher!" came the familiar voice inthe dark. "And we must get out of her way, for here she comes down at us. The wind and the tide and—hm-m—other forces will drive her solidly upon the bar. If I mistake not, it will be several days before they get her off," and on the night air Chris heard a faint short chuckle.
"Pull, boy!" his master told him sharply. "Here she comes!"
Chris grasped his oar and spun the boat only in time, for the down-flowing tide and rising wind combined to drive theVentureforward at increasing speed. The tide being still high, the ship was carried well upon the sandbar before it grounded, lolling over to one side much like the sleeping sailors.