Sebastian could get leave from the ration party--and it was there he
now proceeded with Captain Stout. The matter of his passage was
settled--Captain Stout had offered it, before he had had time to
speak. He mentioned Sebastian. "Body servant, too, I'm sure," said
Captain Stout, amicably, and Andrew thought it best not to explain
further at present. He looked at Captain Stout as they walked along,
trying to read his political opinions in his face, but he could make
nothing out of those weathered features.
Fooling the Governor or letting him fool himself was one thing; he
did not like the idea of fooling Captain Stout. But then, even
yet--was he quite sure of his own intent? He had been quite sure;
but in the Governor's room, with its air of power and order long
established, the old colors of things had crept back to them
insensibly, making a world where rebels were rebels and no gentleman
in his wits thought of fighting for anything but a king. He sighed,
cursing himself for a vacillation he could not help--habit and custom
are strong chains. But he was a shopkeeper's son, not a gentleman in
his wits ... oh, well, look at the people in the streets and put off
thinking for a while. The narrow streets were crowded with people
going to the Plaza; when they came to the Plaza, it was crowded too.
"Is this a fiesta day?' he asked of his companion.
"Not exactly," said the captain, slowly. "They ware talking about
burning some Guy Fawkses or something--I'm as glad my boys are on
board except for the boat's crew--"
Then Andrew remembered. The demonstration of loyalty. He saw a pile
of wood in the center of the square and was horribly reminded of
another such pile of wood he had helped to build. His heart began to
pound. He wanted to get away. But Sebastian must be found
first--ah, there he was, standing in the mouth of an alleyway.
Andrew threw up his hand and called out over the sea of heads.
Sebastian heard him, turned, waved back, and started to worm his way
toward them, as a ragged shout went up from the other side of the
square.
A drum was beating, a voice was calling, "Make way! Make way!" The
crowd chattered and jostled. From the cramped mouth of the street on
the other side of the square a procession debouched, the crowd fell
away before it. Andrew felt Captain Stout's grip tighten on his arm.
Now the head of the procession was out in the square itself--a rout
of men dressed in sorry rags of carnival. Some had faces blacked
with soot, like boys on Guy Fawkes' Day, others wore painted
ludicrous masks. They were singing and shouting--the crowd roared
its approval--the front ranks pressed back on the toes of those
behind to leave a clear path to the woodpile in the center.
Then Andrew heard himself saying, "Damn you! Damn you all!" in a
hurried whisper, as the effigies came into sight. There were two of
them, great lolling dummies of straw, absurdly garbed, borne high on
the shoulders of the crowd. They had halters around their necks,
before them marched a man with a butcherlike face, dressed in
hangman's black. A rope was slung over his arm and he carried a
placard on a pole--"Death to all traitors!" in Spanish and English.
There were other placards in the crowd, and two signs flapped at the
bellies of the dummies. Andrew could make them out now, "Jackie
Hancock"--"Sammy Adams"--
A gratified whoop went up from the crowd at the sight of the dummies.
A big, sweating woman with a large pink chamberpot in her hand
skipped nimbly out of the crowd and flung the contents of the vessel
in the face of the dummy marked "Adams," with a shrill, joyous
scream, splattering its bearers.
Andrew wrenched himself loose from Captain Stout's hand. "Stop
it--stop it--you Spanish bastards--" he was crying, with tears of
rage in his eyes. He saw a thousand grinning faces turned toward
him, and struck at the nearest wildly, fighting and going down.
10.
A young man with a newly-broken head lay in a tossing bunk in the
cabin of a ship at sea, and began to feel the first qualms of
seasickness taint his relative content. He stirred, and said as much.
"Means you've come out of it nicely," said Captain Stout, bending
over him. "You'll be pleased to know, Mr. Beard--the man that hit
you with the stick'll carry a thick ear some time yet," he added.
"I acted like a fool," said Andrew. "I don't see how you got away.
But I couldn't stand the woman."
"There," said the Captain, soothingly. "It's natteral. Young
blood's hot. I wasn't too pleased," he went on. "No, we wasn't any
of us too pleased with the goings on. Told 'em you were one of my
crew with a touch of sun. They swallowed it. I wanted to tell them
something else. But you'll thank your Spanish friend--I couldn't
have got you off alone--let alone talk their jabber fast enough--"
"What happened to him?" said Andrew feebly.
"He's here." The Captain chuckled. "Ain't you, Spanish?"
"_Si señor_," came a voice from the upper bunk. "But sick as a
soldier. How are you, my friend?"
"Much as you are," said Andrew, and laughed. "I'm glad you're here,
Sebastian."
"_Gracias_," said the voice from above. "We changed knives--I follow
my knife. Besides," he added, after a moment, "I, too, have a
certain desire to help the donkey we spoke of kick off his rider.
The rider wears too red a coat to suit me."
"What about you, Captain?" said Andrew, after a pause.
"Oh, we're all liberty-boys, now," said the Captain, with a casual
chuckle. "Didn't say so before, you being your father's son; but
we're all liberty-boys on the Pride now--if I didn't tell the
Governor. Lord, I thought he'd have me a dozen times, but I never
saw a soldier that wasn't a turniphead."
"Does my father know you're a liberty-boy, sir?" said Andrew, smiling.
"Not yet," said the Captain. "That'll go hard, it will. Well, I
thought I'd do my duty by him, this last time. And then, if it's
going to be as long a war as I reckon it, what's the harm in doing a
bit of trading first?" He spat out the porthole. "Seem queer at the
start, going counter to old King George," he added thoughtfully.
"Not that I've ever seen the man, but I've always had a sort of
picture of him. Well, life's unexpected and that's a fact." He
seemed to take comfort in the truism.
"They've got a flag with a rattlesnake on it," he continued.
"Liberty or Death. It'll be queer to raise it. The Pride's had
British colors up ever since she was launched. She's used to them.
Well, she'll have to learn new ways. I hope she'll like them, but
I'm doubtful." He shook his head.
"We'll all have to get used to new ways," said Andrew. He stared
into the future, trying to pierce it, but he could see nothing. It
did not matter, his own course was plain.
"How long will it take us, Captain?" he said.
"Couldn't say, Mr. Beard, but the rumpus'll still be going when we
get back. The lobsters think it won't, but it will. You see, King
George Third's gone too far--and we mean to break loose now. That
makes the difference."
"I suppose so," said Andrew, lying back and thinking of all that had
passed since he last lay in a ship's bunk. What had he got from all
of it--what had he done? The Minorcans had rescued themselves--he
had not even killed Mr. Cave. Caterina--he had not thought much of
that mound in the little cove since they had left it, he had not had
time or strength. He thought of it now. She had saved him, her he
had been unable to save. He had only been able to leave a part of
his youth where she lay, for the wind to blow off like ash. Even now
he was not sure that he had loved her, as he understood love--nor
could he see her his, in life, by any fantasy of mind. There had
been a spell between them--an incantation--it had worked itself out
and passed--gone back beyond the moon. For the last time, as the
ship tossed and the sea grew rougher, the shape of the Spanish
bayonet arose in his mind, with its thorns and its white flower,
incongruous, enchanted, pure.
Out of all the confused and brilliant turmoil of the past year that
visionary semblance alone remained steadfast--that semblance and his
friend Sebastian--perhaps they were enough.
Yet he trembled, hurt and aching, uncomforted by the knowledge that
hurt and ache would pass, as in time they would, and become only a
colored memory, a ghost of perfume. Now he only knew that he wanted
to hear Caterina's voice, and that she was dead. But even at the
worst of this bitterness, other thoughts came--New York--Lucius--a
musket--a rebel army--a lion and a unicorn hunted through green
Massachusetts woods. In a short while, unconsciously, he found
himself seeing Sebastian and a boy with his own face cooking hominy
on a griddle over a soldier's campfire. His inexperience of war lent
the picture a plausibility, a charm almost. The risen sun cast a
broad path of illusion at the feet of the two figures, the blue smoke
of the fire fluttered, there was a smell of burning leaves in the
air. Soon enough the drum would assert its sharp, monotonous scorn.
"Well, sir," said the Captain, "you'll be feeling better tomorrow."
He was going now. "No objection to your Spanish friend bunking in
with you?"
"No. He's my friend," said Andrew, as if in explanation of more than
the question had asked. "Good night, Captain."
"Good night, Mr. Beard. You'll find dirty weather when you get up
tomorrow--it's coming on to blow."
THE END