Very early the next morning, at about half-past four, a little before
sunrise, I woke up with a start, wondering where I was. Looking through
my little scuttle port, I could see the flashing of bright waves,
which sometimes dowsed my window with a shower of drops. The ship
was apparently making about three knots an hour, under all her sails.
Directly I woke, I turned out of my bunk to do what I had to do. After
dressing, I took my sail-making tools from my housewife. I had resolved
to cut the letters from their hiding-place so that I might make them
up into tiny rolls, small enough to hide in my pistol cartridges. Very
carefully I cut the threads which bound the leather flaps of the satchel
together. I worked standing up, with the satchel in my bunk. I could
hardly have been seen from any point. In a few moments the letters were
in my hands. They were small sheets of paper, each about four inches
square. They were nine in number, all different. They were covered with
a neat cipher very different from the not very neat, not quite formed
hand of the Duke himself. What the cipher was, I did not know. It was
one of the many figure ciphers then in use. I learned long afterwards
that the figures which frequently occurred in them stood for King
James II. Such as they were, those cipher letters made a good deal of
difference to many thousands of people then living contentedly at home.
As soon as I had removed them, I rolled them up very carefully into
pistol cartridges from which I drew the charges. I was just going to
throw away the powder, when I thought, “No, I'll put the powder back.
It'll make the fraud more difficult to detect.” So I put the powder back
with great care. Then I searched my mind for something with which to
seal up the cartridge wads over the powder. I could think of nothing at
all, till I remembered the tar-seams at my feet. I dug up a fragment of
tar-seam from the dark corners of the cabin under my bunk. Then I lit my
lamp with my little pocket tinder-box, so that I could heat the tar as I
needed it. It took me a long time to finish the cartridges properly; but
I flatter myself that I made neat jobs of them. I was trained to neat
habits by my father. The Oulton seamen had given me a taste for doing
clever neat work, such as plaits or pointing, so that I was not such a
bungler at delicate handicraft as most boys of my age. I even took the
trouble to hide the tar marks on my wads by smearing wetted gunpowder
all over them. When I had hidden all the letters, I wrote out a few
pencilled notes upon leaves neatly cut from my pocket-book. I wrote a
varying arrangement of ciphers on each leaf, in the neatest hand I could
command. I always made neat figures; but as I had not touched a pen for
nearly a month, I was out of practice. Still, I did very creditably. I
am quite sure that my neat ciphers gave the usurper James a very trying
week of continual study. I daresay the whole privy council puzzled over
those notes of mine. I felt very pleased with them when they were done.
I had not much more than a half-hour left to me when I finished writing
them out. The ship's bells told me that it was seven o'clock. Cabin
breakfast, as I knew very well, would be at eight. I could expect to
be called at half past seven. I put the two flaps of the satchel evenly
together, removing all traces of the thread used in the earlier sewing.
Then I very trimly sewed the two flaps with my sail-needle, using all
my strength to make secure stitches. I used some brown soap in the
wash-stand as thread wax, to make the sewing more easy. “There,” I
thought, “no one will suspect that this was sewn by a boy.” When I had
finished, I thought of dirtying the twine to make the work look old; but
I decided to let well alone. I might so easily betray my hand by trying
to do too much. The slight trace of the soap made the work look old
enough. But I took very great care to remove all traces of my work
in the cabin. The little scraps of thread which I had cut out of the
satchel I ate, as I could see no safer means of getting rid of them. I
cannot say that they disagreed with me, though they were not very easy
to get down. My palm, being a common sea-implement, not likely to
seem strange in a ship's cabin, I hid in a locker below my bunk. My
sail-needles I thrust at first into the linings of the pockets of my
tarred sea-coat. On second thoughts, I drove them into the mattress of
my bunk. My hank of twine I dropped on deck later, when I went out to
breakfast. Having covered all traces of my morning's work, I washed with
a light heart. When some one came to my cabin-door to call me, I cried
out that I would be out in a minute.
When the breakfast bell rang, I walked aft to the great cabin, with my
satchel over my shoulder. The captain asked me how I had slept; so
I said that I had slept like a top, until a few minutes before I was
called.
“That's the way with you young fellows,” he said. “When you come to be
my age you won't be able to do that.” Presently, as we were sitting down
to breakfast, he began his attack upon the satchel. “You still got your
satchel, I see,” he said. “Do you carry it about with you always? Or are
you pretending to be a military man with a knapsack?”
I looked a little uncomfortable at this; but not from the reason which
flashed through his mind. I said that I liked carrying it about, as it
served instead of a side coat-pocket, which was perfectly true.
“By the way,” he said; “you must let me take that beloved satchel after
breakfast, so that I can get the strap sewn up for you.”
It came into my mind to look blank at this. I stammered as I said that I
didn't mind the straps being cut, because there was a wire heart to the
leather which would hold till we got to England, when I could put on a
new strap for myself.
“Oh, nonsense,” he said, serving out some of the cold bacon from the
dish in front of him. “Nonsense. What would your uncle say if you landed
slovenly like that? Besides, now you're at sea you're a sailor. Sailors
don't wear things like that at meals any more than they wear their
hats.”
After this, I saw that there was no further chance of retaining the
satchel, so I took it from my neck, but grudgingly, as though I hated
doing so. I heard no more about it till after breakfast, when he made a
sudden playful pounce upon it, as it lay upon the chair beside me, at an
instant when I was quite unprepared to save it.
“Aha,” he cried, waving his booty. “Now then. Now.”
I knew that he would expect a passionate outcry from me, nor did I
spare it; because I meant him to think that I knew the satchel contained
precious matters.
“No, no,” I cried. “Let me have it. I don't want it mended.”
“What?” he said. “Not want it mended? It must be mended.”
At this I made a sort of playful rush to get it. He dodged away from me,
laughing. I attacked again, playing my part admirably, as I thought,
but taking care not to overdo it. At last, as though fearing to show too
great an anxiety about the thing, I allowed him to keep it. I asked him
if he would be able to sew the leather over the wire heart.
“Why, yes,” he said. I could see that he smiled. He was thinking that I
had stopped struggling in order to show him that I set no real value on
the satchel. He was thinking that he saw through my cunning.
“Might I see you sew it up?” I said. “I should like to learn how to sew
up leather.”
He thought that this was another sign of there being letters in the
satchel, this wish of mine to be present when the sewing was done.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I'll do it here. You shall do it yourself if you
like. I will teach you.” So saying, he tossed me an orange from his
pocket. “Eat that,” he said, “while I go on deck to take the sights.”
He left the cabin, swinging the satchel carelessly in his left hand. I
thought to myself that I had better play anxiety; so, putting the orange
on the table, I followed him into the 'tweendecks, halting at the door,
as though in fear about the satchel's fate. Looking back, he saw me
there. My presence confirmed him in his belief that he had got my
treasure. He waved to me. “Back in a minute,” he said. “Stay in the
cabin till I come back. There's a story-book in the locker.”
I turned back into the cabin in a halting, irresolute way which no doubt
deceived him as my other movements had deceived him. When I had shut the
door, I went to the locker for the story-book.
Now the story-book, when I found it, was not a story-book, but a little
thick book of Christian sermons by various good bishops. I read one of
them through, to try, but I did not understand it. Then I put the book
down with the sudden thought: “This Captain Barlow cannot read. He
thinks that these sermons are stories. Now who is it in this ship to
whom the letters will be shown? Or can there be no one here? Is he going
to steal the letters to submit them to somebody ashore?”
I was pretty sure that there was somebody shut up in the ship who was
concerned in the theft with Barlow. I cannot tell what made me so sure.
I had deceived the captain so easily that I despised him. I did not give
him credit for any intelligence whatsoever. Perhaps that was the reason.
Then it came over me with a cold wave of dismay that perhaps the woman
Aurelia was on board, hidden somewhere, but active for mischief. I
remembered that scrap of conversation from the inn-balcony. I wondered
if that secret mission mentioned then was to concern me in any way. What
was it, I wondered, that was put into her pocket by her father as she
stood crying there, just above me? If she were on board, then I must
indeed look to myself, for she was probably too cunning a creature to
be deceived by my forgeries. The very thought of having her in the ship
with me was uncomfortable. I felt that I must find some more subtle
hiding-place for my letters than I had found hitherto. I may have
idealized the woman, in my alarm, into a miracle of shrewdness. At
any rate I knew that she would be a much more dangerous opponent than
Captain Barlow, the jocular donkey who allowed himself to be fooled by
a schoolboy who was in his power. I knew, too, that she would probably
search me other letters, whether my ciphered blinds deceived her or not.
She was not one so easily satisfied as a merchant skipper; besides, she
had now two scores against me, as well as excellent reason to think me a
sharp young man.
Presently, after half an hour's absence, the captain came back with the
satchel, evidently very pleased with himself. He seemed to find pleasure
in the sight of my pretended distress. “Why,” he said, with a grin;
“you've not eaten your orange.”
“No, sir,” I said, “I'm not very hungry just after breakfast.”
“Why, then,” he answered, “you must keep it for your dinner. Look how
nice I've mended your strap for you.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” I said. “But thought that you were going to
do it here. You were going to teach me how to do it.”
“Well, it's done now, isn't it?” he replied. “It's done pretty good,
too. I'll teach you how to sew some other time. I suppose they don't
learn you that, where you go to school?”
“No, sir,” I said, “they don't.”
“Ah,” he said, picking up the book. “You're a great one for your book, I
see. There's very good reading in a book like that.”
“Yes,” I said, looking at the mended strap. “There is. How very neatly
you've mended the strap, sir. Thank you very much.”
He looked at me with a look which said, very plainly, “You've got a fine
nerve, my lad, to pretend in that way.”
I could see from his manner during the next few minutes that he wished
to keep me from examining the satchel flap. No doubt he thought that I
was on tenter-hooks all the time, to look to see if the precious letters
had been disturbed. At last, in a very easy way, after slinging the
strap round my shoulder, I pulled out my handkerchief, intending to put
it into the satchel as into an extra pocket.
“I'm going up on deck, sir,” I said. “May I take the book with me?”
As he said that I might, I swiftly opened the satchel, to pop the book
in. I could feel that he watched my face mighty narrowly all the time.
No doubt I looked guilty enough to convince him of his cleverness. I had
no more than a second's peep at the flap, but that was quite enough to
show me that it had been tampered with. I had finished off my work that
morning with an even neatness. The bold Captain Barlow had left two ends
of thread sticking out from the place where he had ended his stitch.
Besides, my thread had been soaped, to make it work more easily. The
thread in the flap now was plainly not soaped; it was fibrous to the
touch, not sleeked down, as mine had been.
When I went on deck, I found the ship driving fast down Channel, making
an excellent passage. I took up my place by the mizzen-rigging, near
which there were no seamen at work, so that I could puzzle out a new
hiding-place for my letters. I noticed, as I stood there, that some men
were getting a boat over the side. It seemed a queer thing to be doing
in the Channel, so far from the port to which we were bound; but I did
not pay much attention to it at the time, as I was very anxious. I was
wondering what in the world I could do with the pistol cartridges which
I had made that morning. I feared Aurelia. For all that I could tell she
was looking at me as I stood there, guessing, from my face, that I had
other letters upon me. It did not occur to me that my anxiety might be
taken for grief at having the satchel searched. At last it came into
my head that Aurelia, if she were in the ship, would follow up that
morning's work promptly, before I could devise a fresh hiding-place.
At any rate I felt pretty sure that I should not be much out of that
observation until the night. It came into my head that the next attack
would be upon my boots; for in those days secret agents frequently hid
their papers above a false boot-sole, or stitched them into the double
leather where the beckets, or handles, joined the leg of the boot at the
rim.
Sure enough, I had not been very long on deck when the ship's boy
appeared before me. He was an abject looking lad, like most ship's boys.
I suppose no one would become a ship's boy until he had proved himself
unfit for life anywhere else. Personally, I had rather be a desert
savage than a ship's boy. My experience on La Reina was enough to sicken
me of such a life forever. This barquentine's boy came up to me, as I
have said.
“Sir,” he said, “can I take away your boots to black, please?”
“No,” I answered, “my boots don't want blacking. I grease them myself.”
“Please, sir,” he said, “do let me take them away, sir.”
“No,” I said. “I grease them myself, thank you.” I thought that this
would end the business; but no such matter.
“Please, sir,” he said, “I wish you would let me take them away. The
captain'll wale me if I don't. He gave me orders, sir.”
“Don't call me 'sir,'” I said. “I'll see the captain myself.”
I walked quickly to the companion-way, below which (listening to us,
like the creature he was) sat the captain, carving the end of a stick.
“Please, sir,” I said, “I've already greased my boots this morning. I
always grease them.” (I had only had them about twelve hours.) “If I
blacked them they'd get so dry that they would crack.”
“All right. All right, boy,” he answered. “I forgot you wore
soft-leather boots. They're the kind they buy up to make salt beef of at
the Navy Yard.” He grinned in my face, as though he were pleased; but
a few minutes later, when I had gone forward, I heard him thrashing the
wretched boy, because he had failed to get the boots from me for him.
I soon found that I was pretty closely watched. If I went forward to the
fo'c's'le, I found myself dogged by the ship's boy, who was blubbering
from his whipping, poor lad, as though his heart would break. In between
his sobs, he tried to tell me the use of everything forward, which was
trying to me, as I knew more than he knew. If I went aft, the mate would
come rolling up, to ask me if I could hear the dog-fish bark yet. If I
went below the captain got on to my tracks at once. He was by far the
worst of the three: the other two were only obeying his orders. I went
into my cabin hoping to get rid of him there; but no, it was no use.
In he came, too, with the excuse that he wished to see if I had enough
clothes on my bunk. It was more worrying than words can tell. All the
time I wondered whether he would end by knocking me senseless so that
he might search my boots at his ease. I had the fear of that strongly on
me. I was tempted, yet feared, to drive him from me by threatening him
with my pistol. His constant dogging of me was intolerable. But had I
threatened him, he would have had an excuse for maltreating me. My
duty was to save the letters, not to worry about my own inconveniences.
Often, since then, I have suffered agonies of remorse at not giving up
the letters meekly. Had I done so, I might, who knows, have saved some
two thousand lives. Well. We are all agents of a power greater than
ourselves. Though I was, it may be, doing wrong then, I was doing wrong
unwittingly. Had things happened only a little differently, my wrong
would have turned out a glorious right. The name of Martin Hyde would
have been in the history books. He watched me narrowly as I took off
my waistcoat (pretending to be too hot), nor did he forget to eye
the waistcoat. “See here,” he said. “Do you know how a sailor folds a
waistcoat? Give it to me now. I'll show you.” He snatched it from my
hands with that rudeness which, in a boorish nature, passes for fun; he
only wished to feel it over so that if any letter were sewn within it he
might hear the paper crackle. The sailor's way of folding a waistcoat,
as shown by him then, was just the way which bent all the cloth in
folds. He seemed to be much disgusted at hearing no crackling as he
folded it. I could have laughed outright at his woeful face, had I been
less anxious. Had he been worth his salt as a spy he would have lulled
all my suspicions to sleep before beginning to search for letters.
Instead of that he went to work as crudely as a common footpad..