“I'm not so sure—queer beggar; I never look at him without thinking of a
pirate.”
The cutter lay in the cove as if she had never moved. There too was
Zachary Pearse seated on the edge of his dinghy.
“A five-knot breeze,” he said, “I'll run you down in a couple of hours.”
He made no inquiry about Pasiance, but put us into his cockleshell and
pulled for the cutter. A lantern-Jawed fellow, named Prawle, with
a spiky, prominent beard, long, clean-shaven upper lip, and tanned
complexion—a regular hard-weather bird—received us.
The cutter was beautifully clean; built for a Brixham trawler, she still
had her number—DH 113—uneffaced. We dived into a sort of cabin, airy,
but dark, fitted with two bunks and a small table, on which stood some
bottles of stout; there were lockers, too, and pegs for clothes. Prawle,
who showed us round, seemed very proud of a steam contrivance for
hoisting sails. It was some minutes before we came on deck again; and
there, in the dinghy, being pulled towards the cutter, sat Pasiance.
“If I'd known this,” stammered Dan, getting red, “I wouldn't have come.”
She had outwitted us, and there was nothing to be done.
It was a very pleasant sail. The breeze was light from the south-east,
the sun warm, the air soft. Presently Pasiance began singing:
“Columbus is dead and laid in his grave, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid in his
grave; Over his head the apple-trees wave Oh! heigh-ho! the apple-trees
wave....
“The apples are ripe and ready to fall, Oh! heigh-ho! and ready to
fall; There came an old woman and gathered them all, Oh! heigh-ho! and
gathered them all....
“The apples are gathered, and laid on the shelf, Oh! heigh-ho! and laid
on the shelf; If you want any more, you must sing for yourself, Oh!
heigh-ho! and sing for yourself.”
Her small, high voice came to us in trills and spurts, as the wind let
it, like the singing of a skylark lost in the sky. Pearse went up to her
and whispered something. I caught a glimpse of her face like a startled
wild creature's; shrinking, tossing her hair, laughing, all in the same
breath. She wouldn't sing again, but crouched in the bows with her chin
on her hands, and the sun falling on one cheek, round, velvety, red as a
peach....
We passed Dartmouth, and half an hour later put into a little wooded
bay. On a low reddish cliff was a house hedged round by pine-trees. A
bit of broken jetty ran out from the bottom of the cliff. We hooked on
to this, and landed. An ancient, fish-like man came slouching down and
took charge of the cutter. Pearse led us towards the house, Pasiance
following mortally shy all of a sudden.
The house had a dark, overhanging thatch of the rush reeds that grow
in the marshes hereabouts; I remember nothing else remarkable. It was
neither old, nor new; neither beautiful, nor exactly ugly; neither
clean, nor entirely squalid; it perched there with all its windows over
the sea, turning its back contemptuously on the land.
Seated in a kind of porch, beside an immense telescope, was a very
old man in a panama hat, with a rattan cane. His pure-white beard and
moustache, and almost black eyebrows, gave a very singular, piercing
look to his little, restless, dark-grey eyes; all over his mahogany
cheeks and neck was a network of fine wrinkles. He sat quite upright, in
the full sun, hardly blinking.
“Dad!” said Zachary, “this is Pasiance Voisey.” The old man turned his
eyes on her and muttered, “How do you do, ma'am?” then took no further
notice. And Pasiance, who seemed to resent this, soon slipped away and
went wandering about amongst the pines. An old woman brought some plates
and bottles and laid them casually on a table; and we sat round the
figure of old Captain Pearse without a word, as if we were all under a
spell.
Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan,
as to which of them should summon Pasiance. It ended in both going, and
coming back without her. She did not want any lunch, would stay where
she was amongst the pines.
For lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve,
and drank wonderful Madeira out of common wine-glasses. I asked the old
man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a little
bow:
“Stood me in tu shillin' the bottle, an' the country got nothing out of
it, sir. In the early Thirties; tu shillin' the bottle; there's no such
wine nowadays and,” he added, looking at Zachary, “no such men.”
Zachary smiled and said: “You did nothing so big, dad, as what I'm
after, now!”
The old man's eyes had a sort of disdain in them.
“You're going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?”
“I am,” said Zachary.
“And where might yu be goin' in that old trampin' smut factory?”
“Morocco.”
“Heu!” said the old man, “there's nothing there; I know that coast, as
I know the back o' my hand.” He stretched out a hand covered with veins
and hair.
Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words:
“Below Mogador—a fellow there—friend of mine—two years ago now.
Concessions—trade-gunpowder—cruisers—feuds—money— chiefs—Gatling
guns—Sultan—rifles—rebellion—gold.” He detailed a reckless, sordid, bold
scheme, which, on the pivot of a trading venture, was intended to spin a
whole wheel of political convulsions.
“They'll never let you get there,” said old Pearse.
“Won't they?” returned Zachary. “Oh yes, they will, an' when I leave,
there'll be another dynasty, and I'll be a rich man.”
“Yu'll never leave,” answered the old man.
Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He had
worked the whole thing out. So much—equipment, so much—trade, so
much—concessions, so much—emergencies. “My last mag!” he ended, “a
thousand short; the ship's ready, and if I'm not there within a month my
chance is as good as gone.”
This was the pith of his confidences—an appeal for money, and we all
looked as men will when that crops up.
“Mad!” muttered the old man, looking at the sea.
“No,” said Zachary. That one word was more eloquent than all the rest of
his words put together. This fellow is no visionary. His scheme may be
daring, and unprincipled, but—he knows very well what he's about.
“Well!” said old Pearse, “you shall have five 'undred of my money, if
it's only to learn what yu're made of. Wheel me in!” Zachary wheeled him
into the house, but soon came back.
“The old man's cheque for five hundred pounds!” he said, holding it
up. “Mr. Treffry, give me another, and you shall have a third of the
profits.”