The moment immediately following Karl’s fall was marked by various
incidents mostly lost on Jeff, standing as if in a dream with the last
filaments of smoke streaming up from his silent pistol. He saw the
surgeon rush to Karl’s side and begin to administer first aid; he saw
Templeton kneel beside his man, then, evidently realizing he could not
aid the physician, pick up Karl’s revolver from beside the fallen
duelist and, oblivious to Staritsa’s shouts, begin to examine it. He saw
Staritsa attempting to take it from the Englishman’s hands, an effort
that met with small success; and finally, the most moving sight of all,
he saw Molly coming toward him, ready to stand at his side during all
the stress that this fierce moment might bring to pass.
He glanced at her, saw that she was stark white with terror but
evidently able to hold up, then turned his eyes toward Karl’s two
friends. Torn though he was by the dread crisis of the second before,
his eyes now held a notable intentness, a vigilance never wavering. He
was perfectly aware that the business of this October morning might not
yet be complete; and that the time had not yet come to rest.
He saw Templeton cock the pistol, point it in the air, and attempt to
fire it; and again the hammer clanged impotently down. His next act was
to examine the small percussion cap; and his face showed considerable
enlightenment when finally he turned his ear to Staritsa’s clamor.
The latter had first talked in excited Russian, but now remembering
Templeton could not understand this tongue, he once more attempted
English. “It is a cheat!” he was crying. “It is a plot—he and his
second have killed Karl by a trap! Give me that gun, Templeton! He shall
pay for that wickedness with his life!”
“It wouldn’t be quite the thing, Staritsa,” Templeton answered. “Your
free ways aren’t quite the thing, out here. There has been cheating
somewhere, certainly, but it will have to be taken up through the
Governor—”
“We shall make him squirm for this! His second must have replaced the
good cap with a defective one while the guns were in their case.”
“On the contrary, I should say you merely got the pistols mixed up,
through your own stupidity,” Jeff observed. “Certainly there was
cheating—and our friend was simply hoisted by his own petard!”
“We will have to go into it further,” Templeton told him. “The cap I
have in my pocket contains no powder, and it looks to me as if it had
been deliberately taken out. However, Staritsa, I believe we must
declare Karl’s honor satisfied, providing that conspiracy can not be
proved against the opposite party. Even if the cap had been good, the
outcome would have been the same, as far as my man is concerned. Mr.
Sharp, you remember, was able to send in his shot before Baron Karl
found his aim.”
The full meaning of these words was not lost on either Molly or Jeff.
They showed a certain amazing trait of English character. This
Templeton’s very profession was that of unscrupulous intrigue. He was
more or less of a free lance—not an uncommon type in the older
diplomacy—and he was open to any kind of engagement short of actual
murder which would offer sufficient renumeration. Yet he retained, far
down in an enfeebled conscience, a distinct sporting sense. Perfectly
aware that this duel had been forced on Jeff, and doubtless a
participant in the spoils that were to accrue therefrom, yet he had kept
the letter if not the spirit of the old code of dueling.
Interest now fastened on the injured man. The ball had passed into his
left side, but it had missed the vital organs, and Doctor Stevock
announced there was at least an even chance for the man’s recovery. He
would not, however, care to resume the duel at once. Templeton went to
procure a stretcher and men; and nothing remained now for Jeff and Molly
but to return to the ship.
Captain Skinner was an eager listener to the tale that was told on the
deck that morning.
“Why didn’t you let me come along!” he cried in a tone of sincere
reproach. “Why do you leave me out on all these fine mix-ups you and
Molly get into? I wasn’t with you when you fit the Roosian triplets, and
I wasn’t with you this morning.”
“This was sort of an affair of honor,” Jeff explained. “We couldn’t
invite our friends, as if it were a marriage or a funeral.”
“It came near being a funeral—if you hadn’t got hold of the loaded gun.
I hope it turns out one for Karl; I’ll go with pleasure and cheer when
they bring him down the aisle, the son of a whelp! I can’t see how you
figure out it’s a sporting affair. It looks like just plain murder to
me.”
“Of course Staritsa got the pistols mixed up.”
“Maybe he did, but it don’t seem reasonable, somehow. Anyway, you got
the pistol that was meant for Karl. Well, there’s one thing you can be
sure of. This isn’t the end of the mess.”
“I wish I could believe it was.”
“You needn’t try. They’ll spring something else soon. I only wish I
didn’t have those sour-faced Muscovites on board; we’d get our plant
together somehow and tear out.” He smacked a big fist into his palm. “By
Judas, I believe I’ll get a chance to use this old meat-ax yet, in a
week or so!”
It turned out that Captain Skinner was all too generous as to time.
According to the best traditions of the imperial system, delays of a
week or two are strictly out of order and indecorous when profitable
business is afoot, though months and years are soon enough to tend to
some peasant’s welfare. It was not to be, however, that Skinner should
have an immediate chance to work the stiffness out of his huge,
rope-pulling hands. He was not a fool, this Yankee skipper, and in his
highly colored lifetime he had learned a certain discrimination between
bravery and rashness. He could usually recognize an occasion to fight,
and during such an occasion he was more like a whirling dervish than a
staid New Englander, howling over his deck and leaving summary
destruction in his wake. He also knew when to look prim and innocent,
quieting his foes’ suspicions until such a time as he felt free to act.
It was the Russians’ lead, in this million-ruble game, and not days or
weeks, but only hours saw them make the next play. Just before the
supper hour four soldiers from the garrison, in command of a Russian
corporal, came tramping up the gangplank. They were not merely a detail
of the guard. Walking behind them came Yanovisk, the Governor’s
secretary, and he bore in his hand an important-looking document bearing
the seal of Spaskii, the Czar’s commissioner.
The soldiers were halted, and Yanovisk made a short speech. “I am most
sorry,” he began. Although still uninformed as to where the play was
leading, Jeff paused in his wonderment long enough to give Yanovisk
credit for a certain amount of real regret; although the young Russian
would not refuse his share of the spoil, he was a decent sort and
probably deplored some of the Machiavellian methods practiced on Jeff.
“I am most sorry,” he repeated, “to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings,
but one must obey commands. Doubtless, it will be a matter of small
moment.”
“Go ahead,” Jeff said. “What’s the bad news.”
“Give us the worst,” Skinner urged. Then under his breath to Molly,
“These fellows can take longer getting to the point than a New England
peddler.”
“I have here a warrant which, by your pardon, I must serve.” Spreading
the paper in his hands, he read it first in Russian, then translated it
into English. It was addressed to the Commanding Officer of the Garrison
of his Majesty’s troops, and it was a warrant for the arrest of “one
Jefferson Sharp, on the charge of committing a bloody crime against his
majesty’s servant, Baron Karl Pavlof. It charged that said Sharp had
conspired against Karl’s life, and through fraud, treachery, and
villainy had taken advantage of his opponent in an honorable duel, said
fraud, treachery, and villainy resulting in serious injury to said Baron
Karl, for which crime or crimes he was to be incarcerated in gaol until
such time as he could be tried.”
Yanovisk’s foreign-sounding English offered no chance for a mistake. Far
from the protection of the courts of his country, Jeff was to be
arrested and confined in prison on what was very plainly a trumped-up
charge.
It was not because they failed to realize the gravity of this charge
that Skinner and Jeff attempted no resistance. In the first place they
guessed that the troops had received certain orders, not written in the
warrant, which dealt with this very thing. Even the slightest resistance
would be an excuse for a volley from four rifles at close range, a
lesson that Jeff would surely take to heart. Should a stray bullet from
one of the rifles or from the corporal’s pistol find the brave heart of
the Boston captain, it would be a regrettable accident, but accidents
can not always be avoided in the enforcement of law. Indeed, both Jeff
and Skinner knew that some resistance on their part was just what Baron
Karl’s friends were hoping for, since it would pave the way for a prompt
and efficacious settlement of a rather troublesome affair.
Beyond this, both knew that resistance was the height of folly, even
though they could conquer the half-squad who had come to arrest them and
the Russian guards who would promptly leap to their fellows’ defense.
The entire garrison could be called if needed.
“You will doubtless be free shortly—very doubtless,” Yanovisk
explained. “It is a mere matter of form and most to be deplored. But for
the present—”
He glanced toward the corporal of the guard who, standing near, slipped
iron bands about Jeff’s wrists, leaving them only a few inches’ play.
Captain Skinner stood erect, and curious bright sparks—like the
phosphorescence of which sailors speak, trailing their ships through
these Northern seas—whirled in his blue eyes; but his arms hung limp at
his side.
“I must say you fellers are taking a chance,” he observed to Yanovisk.
“You kind of forget he’s a citizen of United States.”
“His cause will be taken up with the United States authorities,
doubtless,” Yanovisk explained. “For the present he will be confined as
a—what you say?—precautionary measure; then will be turned over for
his own government to deal with.”
“Doubtless—if some accident don’t happen to him first. Accidents
happen, you know, Duke. I must say that I wish you’d recall them guards
so I can go down and tell the President all about this deal. He’ll
settle somebody’s hash for this. How long do you think you’ll keep us
here?”
“Not long, surely. The American captain still has repairs to make on his
good ship?”
“A couple of weeks’ work, yet. I hope you’ll take off the guards by that
time.”
“Perhaps. The matter will be settled to the satisfaction of every one.
Now, Miss Forest, and you other gentlemen—I must bid you farewell for
the present.” Then in Russian, “Lead off your man, Officer.”
The corporal gave command, and with their prisoner between them, the men
marched away. It did not surprise Jeff to be taken to an underground
prison dug in the hill on which stood Baronof Castle; he had heard
rumors of a dungeon where more important prisoners were confined. Here
was a corridor on the stone floor of which the soldiers’ tramping feet
rang loud; and here were certain cells so dark that the eye could
scarcely make out what they contained.
An iron door was opened and in an instant clanged shut behind him. The
sound of tramping feet dimmed and finally disappeared. Except for his
bitter thoughts that peopled these dusky cells like ghosts, Jeff was
left alone.