A PRISONER
When Code Schofield came to himself his first sensation was one of
oppression, such as is felt after sleeping in an unventilated room. It
seemed difficult for him to breathe, but his body was quite free and
uninjured, as he found by moving himself carefully in all directions
before he even opened his eyes.
Presently the air became familiar. It was a perfect mixture of
flavors; oilskins, stale tobacco-smoke, brine, burned grease, tar,
and, as a background, fish. His ears almost immediately detected water
noises running close by, and he could feel the pull of stout oak
timber that formed the inner wall of where he lay.
"Fo'c'stle of a fishing schooner!" he announced, and then opened his
eyes to prove that he was correct.
He looked out into a three-cornered room occupied by a three-cornered
table, and that ran as far back as the foremast. Above, fastened to a
huge square beam, hung a chain-lamp so swiveled that it kept itself
level however much the schooner kicked and wriggled. On the table,
swinging his legs, sat a large, unpleasant-looking man.
"Wal, how are ye?" asked this latter, seeing his charge had recovered
consciousness. Never having seen the man before, Code did not consider
it necessary to answer. So he wriggled to find out if any bones were
broken, and, in the end, discovered a tender knob on the right side of
his head.
He soon recalled the visit to St. Pierre, the purchase of the bait,
Pete Ellinwood's fight, the general mix-up, and the blow on the head
that had finished him. He sat up suddenly.
"Look here! What ship is this?" he demanded.
"You'll find out soon enough when you go on deck. Hungry? I got orders
to feed ye."
"You bet I'm hungry; didn't have any dinner last night in St.
Pierre."
"Two nights ago," said the other, beginning to fry salt pork. "Nigh
thirty-six hours you've laid here like a log." Code doubted it, but
did not argue. He was trying to puzzle out the situation.
If this was a fishing schooner the men ought to be over the side
fishing, and she would be at anchor. Instead, feeling the long, steady
heel to leeward and half-recover to windward, he knew she was flying
on a course.
Breakfast swallowed, he made his way on deck. As he came up the
companionway a man stood leaning against the rail. With a feeling of
violent revulsion, Code recognized Nat Burns. A glance at a near-by
dory showed the lettering _Nettie B._, and Schofield at once
recognized his position.
He was Nat Burns's prisoner.
"Mornin'," said Burns curtly. "Thought you were goin' to sleep
forever."
"It's a hanging offense putting any one to sleep that long," retorted
Code cheerfully. "Luck was with you, and I woke up."
"You're hardly in a position to joke about hanging offenses," remarked
Nat venomously.
"Why not?" Code had gone a sickly pallor that looked hideous through
his tan.
"Because you're goin' home to St. Andrew's to be tried for one."
Code glanced over his left shoulder. The sun was there. The schooner
was headed almost directly southwest. Nat had spoken the truth. They
were headed homeward.
"Where's your warrant?" Code could feel his teeth getting on edge with
rage as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such
insolence.
"Don't need a warrant for murder cases, and I'm a constable at
Freekirk Head, so everything is being done according to law. The
gunboat didn't find you, so I thought, as long as you were right to
hand, I'd bring you along."
"Then you knew I was in St. Pierre?"
"Yes; saw you come in. If it hadn't been so dark you'd have recognized
the _Nettie_ not far away." Code, remembering the time of night they
arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in
September. He had barely been able to make out the lines of the
nearest schooners.
A man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and, as he put the
vessel over on the port tack, his face came brightly into the sun. It
was 'Arry Duncan. Code had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he
had seen the man's face in St. Pierre.
"Fine traitor you've got there at the wheel," said Schofield. "He'll
do you brown some day."
"I don't think so. Just because he did you, doesn't prove anything. He
was in my employ all the time, and getting real money for his work."
"So it was all a plot, eh?" said Code dejectedly. "I give you credit,
Burns, for more brains than I ever supposed you had. What's become of
Pete Ellinwood and the _Lass?_"
"Pete is back on the schooner and she's gone out to fish. You needn't
worry about them. At the proper time they'll be told you are safe and
unhurt."
Code said nothing for a while. With hands rammed into his pockets he
stood watching the white and blue sea whirl by. In those few minutes
he touched the last depth of failure and despair. For a brief space he
was minded to leap overboard.
He shivered as one with an ague and shook off the deadly influence of
the idea. Had he no more grit? he asked himself. Had he come this far
only to be beaten? Was this insolent young popinjay to win at last?
_No!_ Then he listened, for Nat was speaking.
"If you give your word of honor not to try and escape you can have the
run of the decks and go anywhere you like on the schooner. If not, you
will be locked up and go home a prisoner."
It was the last straw, the final piece of humiliation. Code stiffened
as a soldier might to rebuke. A deadly, dull anger surged within him
and took possession of his whole being--such an anger as can only come
to one who, amiable and upright by nature, is driven to inevitable
revolt.
"Look here, Burns," he said, his voice low, but intense with the
emotion that mastered him, "I'll give no word of honor regarding
anything. Between you and me there is a lot to be settled. You have
almost ruined me, and, by Heaven, before I get through with you,
you'll rue it!
"I shall make every attempt to escape from this schooner, and if I do
escape, look out! If I do not escape and you press these charges
against me, I'll hunt you down for the rest of my life; or if I go to
prison I will have others do it for me.
"Now you know what to expect, and you also know that when I say a
thing I mean it. Now do what you like with me."
Burns looked at Schofield's tense white face. His eyes encountered
those flaming blue ones and dropped sullenly. Whether it was the
tremendous force of the threat or whether it was a guilty conscience
working, no one but himself knew, but his face grew gradually as
pallid as that of his captive. Suddenly he turned away.
"Boys," he called to the crew who were working near, "put Schofield in
the old storeroom. And one of you watch it all the time. He says he
will escape if he can, so I hold you responsible."
Code followed the men to a little shanty seemingly erected against the
foremast. It was of stout, heavy boards about long enough to allow a
cot being set up in it. It had formerly been used for storing
provisions and had never been taken down.
When the padlock snapped behind him Code took in his surroundings.
There were two windows in the little cubby, one looking forward and
the other to starboard. Neither was large enough to provide a means of
escape, he judged. At the foot of the cot was a plain wooden armchair,
both pieces of furniture being screwed to the floor. For exercise
there was a strip of bare deck planking about six feet long beside the
bed, where he might pace back and forth.
Both the cot and chair appeared to be new. "Had the room all ready for
me," said Code to himself.
The one remaining piece of furniture was a queer kind of book-shelf
nailed against the wall. It was fully five feet long and protruded a
foot out above his bed. In its thirty-odd pigeonholes was jammed a
collection of stuff that was evidently the accumulation of years.
There were scores of cheap paper-bound novels concerning either high
society or great detectives, old tobacco-boxes, broken pipes, string,
wrapping-paper, and all the what-not of a general depository.
With hours on his hands and nothing whatever to occupy him, Code began
to sort over the lurid literature with a view to his entertainment. He
hauled a great dusty bundle out of one pigeonhole, and found among the
novels some dusty exercise books.
He inspected them curiously. On the stiff board cover of one was
scrawled, "Log Schooner _M. C. Burns_; M. C. Burns, master."
The novels were forgotten with the appearance of this old relic. _The
M. C. Burns_ was the original Burns schooner when Nat's father was
still in the fish business at Freekirk Head. It was the direct
predecessor of the _Nettie B._, which was entirely Nat's. On the death
of the elder Burns when the _May Schofield_ went down, the _M. C.
Burns_ had been sold to realize immediate cash. And here was her log!
Code looked over pages that were redolent of the events in his
boyhood, for Michael was a ready writer and made notes regularly even
when the _M. C._ was not on a voyage. He had spent an hour in this way
when he came to this entry on one of the very last pages:
"June 30: This day clear with strong E. S.-E. wind. This day Nat, in
the _M. C. Burns_, raced Code Schofield in the _May Schofield_ from
Quoddy Head to moorings in Freekirk Head harbor. My boy had the worst
of it all the way. I never saw such luck as that young Schofield devil
has. He won by half an hour. Poor Nat is heartbroken and swore
something awful. He says he'll win next time or know why!"
"Just like old man Burns!" thought Code. "Pities and spoils his rascal
of a son. But the boy loved him."
Code had not thought of that race in years. How well he remembered it
now! There had been money up on both sides, and the rules were that
no one in either schooner should be over twenty except the skippers.
What satisfaction it had been to give Nat a good trimming in the
fifty-year-old _May_. He could still feel an echo of the old proud
thrill. He turned back to the log.
"July 1: Cloudy this day. Hot. Light S.-W. breeze. Nat tells me
another race will be sailed in just a week. Swears he will win it.
Poor boy, what with losing yesterday and Caroline Fuller's leaving the
Head to work in Lubec, he is hardly himself. I'm afraid the old _M.
C._ won't show much speed till she is thoroughly overhauled.
Note--Stmr. _May Schofield's_ policy runs out July 20th. See about
this, sure."
There was very little pertaining to the next race until the entry for
June 6, two days before the event. Then he read:
"Nat is quite happy; says he can't lose day after to-morrow. I told
him he must have fitted the _M. C._ with wings, but he only grinned.
Take the stmr. to St. John to-morrow to look after policies, including
_May Schofield's_. She's so old her rates will have to go up. Won't be
back till day after the race, but Nat says he'll telegraph me. Wonder
what business that boy's got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he
will win? Oh, he's a clever one, that boy!"
Here the chronicle ended. Little did Michael Burns know he would never
write in it again. He went to St. John's, as he had said, and
completed his business in time to return home the day of the race
instead of the day after.
The second race was never sailed, for Code Schofield received a
telegram from St. John's, offering him a big price for a quick
lighterage trip to Grande Mignon, St. John being accidentally out of
schooners and the trip urgent.
Though loath to lose the race by default, the money offered was too
good to pass by, and Code had made the trip and loaded up by
nightfall. It was then that he had met Michael Burns, and Burns had
expressed his desire to go home in the _May_ so as to watch her
actions in a moderate sea and gale.
Neither he nor the _May_ ever saw dry land again. Only Code of the
whole ship's company struggled ashore on the Wolves, bruised and half
dead from exposure.
The end of the old log before him was full of poignant tragedy to
Code, the tragedy of his own life, for it was the unwritten pages from
then on that should have told the story of a fiendishly planned
revenge upon him who was totally innocent of any wrong-doing. The
easy, weak, indulgence of the father had grown a crop of vicious and
cruel deeds in the son.