Weeks went by; the plague drew its horrible length along the river,
through the town's byways, through the unsunned huddled places,
through creeks and docks and open gutters, through wells and cisterns
and cesspools; and all its attendant horrors followed in ghastly
procession. Death no longer stooped, hawk-like; it settled heavily down
beside its victim as a vulture settles, filthy, evil, cold.
From the night of their meeting at Bush Hill, Anthony and Mademoiselle
Lafargue saw a deal of each other; there were no words said, no compact
made; but the fights which both were pressing were paired, and the good
they had been able to accomplish was greatly multiplied. Seeing this,
others added their help; Bush Hill was cleansed of its villainies;
aid was carried into neglected quarters. The group became compact and
strong; others, like it, sprang up; a wall of resolution began to rear
itself in the path of the pestilence--a wall behind which fear and
superstition died.
Those who had fled weeks before watched and waited from the heights
beyond the city. Over the point of land between the two rivers, upon
which the city had been built, they saw a bank of vapor hanging; and
gradually the belief spread that in this was contained the essence of
the plague. Frightened eyes watched it. If a wind stirred the trees
on the hillsides, the refugees were up, thrilling with dread. In what
direction did it blow? Was it from the city? What if it got under the
poisonous mist and lifted it toward them? After all, were they quite
safe? Would it not be better if they traveled north toward the higher
hills?
At Rufus Stevens' Sons, as at other mercantile houses, things were at
a stop. Charles was seldom there; at times he might be found in a deep
sleep on a sofa at his house on Ninth Street; but his waking hours were
spent among the sick. What little business stirred was taken care of
by Captain Weir, who came punctually to the counting-house each day;
Whitaker was gone, having been one of the first to leave the city;
Griggs and Twitchell, men of family both, kept themselves close to
their homes and ventured nowhere. But Tom Horn came. As regularly as
day dawned, he was up and cooked himself a meager breakfast at his
lodgings in Pump Court, and then off to Rufus Stevens' Sons in Water
Street, and the ledgers, and the day's doings. The river was full of
craft which had been forbidden to sail; hand-barrows and horse-drawn
vehicles had disappeared from the streets during the day; the people
met with were few; they passed furtively, and at as great a distance as
possible for fear of contagion. Tom would take down the shutters, for
the porters, too, were gone; then he'd take the books from the chest in
which they were kept and put them upon the tall desk, and look at the
clock.
"Five in the morning," he'd say, "and it might as well be the dead of
night for all the movement there is. Indeed, the night has more stir,
what with the death-carts and the calling of the ghouls that manage
them."
At seven o'clock Captain Weir would come in, and nod to Tom.
"All's still well with you?" he'd ask.
"Still well," Tom would reply. "And you?"
"So far--brisk enough."
"Pump Court is a healthy place," said Tom. "There have been but twelve
carried from it so far. But it may be that I'm too spare of body for
the pestilence to bother with."
"It may be," said Captain Weir. "But take care."
"Just over the way from me," said Tom, "there was a fat man lodging, a
great, strong fellow with thews like a bull, and a red face as broad as
a bucket. He was a most excellent feeder; I've seen him cutting into
joints of beef in eating-places in a most astonishing way."
"One can't keep away the yellow-boy by gorging," said Captain Weir.
"Of a morning," said Tom Horn, "he'd shave himself at an open window,
and bellow songs out into the court. And he'd thump himself on the
chest and defy the plague to harm him. 'The cart is not made,' said
he, 'that'll carry me away in the night. When the scourge gets me, the
city might well sit back on its haunches and take fear. For when I go
what chance have the others? Here's solidness for you,' he says, and
he thumps away at himself; 'here's guts and brawn! I'd like to see
the plague that'll set itself to choking up _my_ vitals. I'll have a
surprise waiting for it."
"Ah," said Captain Weir. "A surprise."
"The surprise came," said Tom Horn. "But it was for the fat man. The
plague worked very quietly; but it made an end of him in two days. And
when the cart came for him, it was quite an old one; it had been made
many years. And I marked, as it rolled with him out of the court in
the light of the torches, that the city was very quiet. For all his
fatness, his brawn, and his blood, there was nothing unusual. He was
but a man, the same as others; if the grave-makers were forced to make
the pit a little wider to let him in, that was the only difference."
It was the day they talked about the fat man in Pump Court that
visitors came to the counting-room, the first in many a day; and the
visitors were Rehoboam and Nathaniel Bulfinch. They entered together,
and stepped toward Tom together; their gaunt, gangling frames were
alike, as were their outstanding ears and the large spaces between
their teeth, and the same eager, covetous look was in both their faces.
"It is refreshing to see a place of business open in times like these,"
said Nathaniel. "But I knew Rufus Stevens' Sons would be. Your pushing
merchant does not permit an unfortunate state of public mind to step
into his path."
"As we were coming down the street," said Rehoboam, "I said to
Nathaniel, 'Brother, I am sure Rufus Stevens' Sons will be open and
thriving as usual.' It is not for nothing," and Rehoboam showed all
the spaces between his teeth in a wide smile, "that this business has
earned such approval in the community."
Tom Horn did not speak; he sat on his long-legged stool, and looked
at them, as a man might look at a pair of corbies that had thrust
themselves upon his attention.
"You are Mr. Horn," said Nathaniel, grinning engagingly; "Mr. Horn,
who has been with the house so long. Faithful service, sir, will be
rewarded. Oh, yes, sooner or later, it will be rewarded. That is a
rule that has never failed." He looked about and asked, "Where is Mr.
Charles?"
"I don't know," said Tom Horn.
"He has not gone away!" said Nathaniel hastily. "Oh, no. _He_ would not
be afraid of the plague."
"He is still in the city," affirmed Rehoboam. "He has been seen more
than once of late, in the street, and working with the grave-makers in
the potter's-field."
"I have not said he had gone away," answered Tom Horn. "I have said, I
do not know where he is; and no more do I."
"Very well," said Nathaniel. "It does not matter. We may see Captain
Weir, I suppose?"
"You may," said Tom Horn, "if he is willing."
It proved that the captain was, and the twins, gangling, grinning,
vulture-like, went into the room where he sat.
"We were quite sure we'd find you at your post," said Rehoboam. "No
matter what the day, or who be absent, we knew you'd be at hand."
"Sit down," said Weir, and he said it coldly. And when they had done
so, he added, "What is your errand?"
"A trifle," said Nathaniel. "Only a trifle." He coughed behind his hand
and looked at Rehoboam. It was Rehoboam who spoke.
"It may, or may not, have come to your attention," said he, "but in
the past half-year Mr. Charles Stevens has had some dealings with our
house. A number of times--how often was it, brother?" appealing to
Nathaniel.
"Four times," said Nathaniel. "Exactly four."
"Just four," Rehoboam told Captain Weir. "I like to be quite correct.
Four times in the past half-year, Mr. Charles Stevens requested us to
come here; we did so, and each time a transaction was entered in our
books."
"He borrowed money of your father," said Captain Weir; "I know that."
"The bills," said Rehoboam, "were dated some few months or so apart.
Of course," and he grinned at Captain Weir most calculatingly, "our
calling here to-day is the merest form--"
"It means nothing at all," said Nathaniel.
"But, now that we are here," said Rehoboam, "it will do no harm, I
think, to say that the first of the bills will be due in three days'
time."
"No difficulty is expected," said Nathaniel. "Such a thing has not
entered our minds. But clerks will sometimes make mistakes; they will
sometimes forget--"
Captain Weir stopped them.
"All the firm's transactions have been had with your father," said he.
"When you return to your counting-house, have the goodness to mention
that I'd like a word with him, in confidence."
The twins grinned, first at Weir and then at each other. Then Rehoboam
said:
"These are times, Captain Weir, when we can speak with little assurance
of any one. Those who are here to-day are gone to-morrow. And those
who--"
Weir frowned at him.
"Speak plainly," he said.
"The pestilence spares none," said Rehoboam. "When once it marks them
out, it does its work quickly. Our father is dead."
"Dead," said Nathaniel, "and his property--" then, hastily, "what
little he left--has come to us."
"Also," said Rehoboam, "his business, and his bills. Rufus Stevens'
Sons, Captain, now deals with his heirs and assignees. And in three
days, as I've said, the first bill comes due. Of course there will be
no delay here," he grinned. "We have expected none."
"Of course," said Nathaniel, his jaws agape, mirthfully. "To be sure."
"We are at Harmony Court until six each day," said Rehoboam. "And we
shall await a communication. In the meantime," and he got up, "good
day to you. And be careful of your health," as he and his brother were
about to go. "Do not venture where there is no necessity."
"Upon no account do so," said Nathaniel earnestly. "One never knows
what may come of a rashness. Spend nothing needlessly, neither health
nor money. That is the course of wisdom, sir."
Captain Weir walked the floor when they had gone; his eyes shone as
hard as agates and his mouth set wickedly. The old man dead! Well,
that was an unexpected turn. And now here were these two harpies with
bills in their hands, about the doors, promising ruin to the fairest of
prospects for profit.
"I'll take them by the throats first," said the captain. "I'll squeeze
the breath from them."
He took up his hat and went out; there was a coach-house in Mulberry
Street, and to this he made his way straight, and was greeted by a
mournful-looking man, in boots with yellow tops.
"Duff," said Captain Weir, "I want a man to carry a message to the Brig
Tavern, below Chester."
The mournful man shook his head.
"Riders are scarce. They can't be had for love nor money; even the
mails are left uncarried. The sentries are very watchful on the roads;
and more than one person has been fired upon trying to win by."
Captain Weir chinked some gold coins in his pocket; and a sandy, foxy
youth, stretched out upon a feed-box, lifted his head.
"I never saw anything that wouldn't be ventured if the pay was heavy
enough," said the captain. "Here you, sir, what's your price?"
The sandy youth grinned wisely, and puckered his narrow forehead.
"What'll you say to twenty gold dollars?" said he.
"I'll say it's a deal of money," said Captain Weir. "But, nevertheless,
I'll pay it. Can you start at once?"
"In a half-hour," promised the sandy one, now briskly on his feet.
Captain Weir went into the coach-house and wrote his letter; when he
came out with it in his hand he found a likely-looking horse ready
saddled, and the man standing beside it.
"To be delivered to either of the two persons whose name is written
here," said Weir. "And, now, all haste; your money will be waiting you
when you return."
As the captain went back to the counting-house, the sky was becoming
overcast; a trace of chilliness was in the air. Weir was not the only
one to mark the change; for scores of lips muttered prayers that it
might be the end of the summer's heat, that the chill in the air might
lower the death-rate, that a frost might come whose touch would end the
course of the plague. Toward nightfall the wind rose; rain began to
fall. It was still falling and the wind was still blowing when Captain
Weir started for his house in Shackamaxon; when he reached there a gale
had set in; he could see the river creaming under its whip, and heard
the hissing and complaining among chimney-pots and ships' rigging;
the rain drove smartly before the wind in steadily increasing volume.
Captain Weir threw off his cloak and boots; a servant had lighted a
small fire in his sitting-room, and here a glass of brandy, hot and
spiced, was given him; and he sat down and sipped it slowly.
His house was one of the period of George I, and excellently conceived;
it stood on a knoll overlooking the river while behind it and to the
south and north were green, level fields and clumps of spreading trees.
Captain Weir's sitting-room was a comfortable place, high-ceilinged,
with polished floor and broad, deep chairs; upon the walls were some
prints that told of a taste in such things; a few pieces of Eastern
bronze stood on a shelf between two windows.
In the sudden turn of the weather the fire was most desirable, and
Captain Weir sat beside it and sipped at the glass of spiced brandy
with appreciation. But all the time there was a frown upon his brow,
the same that had come upon it at the visit of the two Bulfinches, and
it was plain to see that his mind still remained fixed to the things
the two had said and the things these sayings promised.
After a long time spent thinking, and sipping at his drink, the
captain's supper was served in another room; this he ate in silence and
slowly. Afterward a bottle of port was placed upon a small table at his
elbow as he resumed his seat at the fire; he smoked a Spanish cheroot,
and between-times let the fine, thick flavor of the wine rest upon his
tongue. He smoked and drank and thought; then he arose, took a key from
his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a chest, small, bound
with copper, and riveted strongly; this was also unlocked, and from it
he took a quantity of papers and a parchment-bound book. Drawing up a
table to the fire he sat down to the papers and the book, an ink-pot
and pen at hand; and after a long study of the papers, and a vast
scribbling of figures upon the backs of old letters, he made a single
entry in the book, which he at once closed and sat tapping while he
looked, smiling quietly, into the fire. He remained this way for a long
time; the clock, which had been ticking sturdily in one corner, now
struck ten; he arose, put away the papers and the book, locked both the
chest and the cupboard, and then fell to pacing the floor. The storm
had increased in violence; the wind whistled keenly about the ends
of the house; now and then it came plunging down the chimney, making
the fire leap and roar; the rain, driven in sheets, streamed down the
window-panes and fell from the eaves like a cascade. Suddenly through
the sounds of the storm came a rhythmic beat; Captain Weir halted in
his pacing and listened. The beat grew nearer; there was a sudden rush
of iron-shod hoofs upon the stone pavement at his door, the voices
of men, and then a loud and incessant _rat-tat-ing_ at the knocker.
Weir smiled quietly and seemed well pleased; the front door opened and
closed; and then his servant appeared.
"Two gentlemen, sir," said the man.
"Ask them to come in," said Weir.
In a moment Tarrant and Blake came into the room: their hats and cloaks
streamed with water; their boots were splashed with mud. Motioning to
the servant to take the dripping things from his visitors and draw
chairs up to the fire, Captain Weir said:
"A blustering night to be out, gentlemen."
Tarrant regarded him with hostile eyes.
"We were snug enough at the Brig," said he, "and were content enough to
stay there."
"I am sorry," said Weir quietly.
"The roads ran water enough to float a long-boat," said Blake.
"If I am unfortunate enough to call you out in a storm," said the
captain, "I can, at least, give you a fire, and some food and drink.
They may keep its rigors from fastening upon your bodies."
The two men sat down; brandy was brought, and some plates of hot bread,
and potted hare, and cold meats. They ate and drank, and this, together
with the fire, quieted them. At their third glass, Captain Weir said:
"Of course, I'd a deal rather have chosen a more comfortable time; but,
as matters have shown themselves, I had no choice and was forced to ask
your presence at once."
Tarrant, glass in hand, looked at the speaker; and there was still a
glint of his first mood in his eye.
"There have been a few occasions," said he, "when you all but had us
here without your asking."
Captain Weir raised his brows; Blake laughed and said to him:
"A half-dozen times in the past year he has been for putting a pistol
to your ribs. It was all I could do to persuade him."
Weir said nothing, but looked at Tarrant, his brows still up.
"Was there a lack of cause for the desire?" said Tarrant. "I could name
you five reasons," giving Weir's look back steadily, "for each separate
impulse. But we'll speak of the last one only."
"It will save time," said Weir composedly.
"Why," demanded Tarrant, "when the whole city was up and bleating in
the matter of the French letters of marque, must you put yourself
forward in it? We were your friends, yet you spoke to our discredit
early and late. Mortal foes couldn't have suffered worse because of
you."
"I had warned you all in that matter," said Weir coldly. "I pointed
out the state of the public mind. I showed you as plainly as any ready
men need be shown that no good could come of the venture in the long
run. If it had concerned yourselves only, you could have pressed it to
any conclusion you saw fit; but, as I knew, I, too, would be involved
in any mischance, and, as it was plain that you meant to give no
heed to my sayings, I moved in the matter myself. It was I who made
it impossible for you to carry it any further. Wait!" as Tarrant was
working into a bitter speech; "one word more, so that I may be sure you
understand what the situation was. If your plan had carried, we three,
instead of sitting here at our ease, would be at this minute swinging
from gibbets on Windmill Island."
Tarrant caught his breath and sank back in his chair. Blake crossed his
legs, lifted a new-filled glass, and said:
"All gibbets behind us, Captain! And to the devil with the hangman!"
"I did not believe in this adventure from the first, and so told you,"
said Weir. "However, there are those of another sort," with a nod of
his head, "which a man of my growing years can approve of--a surer
profit and a lesser hazard."
Tarrant, attracted by the tone and manner of Weir, valued him with a
steady look. Then he looked at Blake; the freebooter shifted to a more
comfortable position in his chair. But neither spoke.
"Have more of the brandy," said Captain Weir. "It's thought to be
excellent. One of our captains brought it with him on his last visit to
France. It was taken from the cellar of a nobleman's house, while its
unfortunate owner was being taken from his library."
The liquor shone, a fine amber, in the glasses; but Tarrant did not
touch it.
"So," said he, "there is another matter going forward?"
Captain Weir admired the color of the brandy, holding it against the
candle-light.
"Yes," said he.
"And, as seems usual of late, it has been kept from me."
Again Weir nodded.
"I have been very careful to do so," he said coldly. "For it is a
matter that needs patience; and you long ago convinced me that you have
little of that."
Tarrant arose; his look was threatening and bitter.
"By God," he said. "Am I a chuckle-head? Am I to be put aside whenever
you feel so disposed? Am I to be used as though I had no brains in my
skull?"
He stood over Weir, his face white with passion. But Weir did not move;
the cold green eyes glinted like agate, and when he spoke his voice was
level.
"Some day," he said, "when you insist on interfering with my way of
dealing with matters, I'll crack your skull with a bullet; then we
shall see if it holds the brains you boast of."
Tarrant seemed on the point of leaping upon him; but Blake leaned
forward and shook a warning finger.
"Sit down," he said unemotionally. "Are we not friends and co-laborers?
Sit down."
But Tarrant's lips curled back from his teeth like a dog's.
"Do you think," he said to Weir, "I don't know it was I who stood out
in all the dirty weather, while you rode safe in shelter? I've struck
the blows you've planned; and I've taken the hard, open word from all
who cared to give it, so that no eye would turn in your direction. And
now you all but tell me you are done with me."
Blake arose and pushed him back into his chair.
"He has told you nothing as yet," said the freebooter. "Keep still for
a bit, and maybe he will."
Weir, now that there was silence, showed no haste to speak but sat
enjoying the sips he took of the brandy and watching the blaze on the
hearth fluttering under the sudden downward gusts of wind. But finally
he spoke, and it was in a way that was cold and measured.
"A year ago, if you remember," said he, "we were called together
somewhat hurriedly to advise in a dangerous matter."
"The affair of Magruder?" said Blake.
"Yes. How much the man had ferreted out we'll never know; but his panic
for his money drew two sharp perils upon us. I placed the managing of
the matter in your hands," and he looked at Tarrant. "I recall that my
instructions were that you be cautious but final. And you blundered
from the first. It would not have been so bad had you never heard of
Anthony Stevens and so had no knowledge of his character. But Blake's
tales, sent to us from the South, had told you of the manner of a man
he was; you approached him with your eyes wide open, and yet you tried
to browbeat him, to bundle him out of your way, like snapping your
fingers."
"Well," said Tarrant with his ready sneer. "You have had a deal of time
to use your own methods upon him. And I note that he is still in the
city, waiting to do us what mischief he can."
"He is here," said the captain quietly, "but the mischief he has done
is little. My methods have wasted his efforts; and in time," with a
gesture, "I hope to do more."
"If I had been given a free hand that night at the Crooked Billet,"
said Tarrant, "this young spark would have troubled none of us
afterwards."
"I doubt if you'd have been able to do anything," said Weir. "Like as
not he would have killed you. I saw it in his eye."
"An active lad," admitted Blake, "and a clever one." But Tarrant sat
frowning into the fire, and said nothing; and Blake went on, speaking
to Weir, "Well, you've brought us from Chester in the devil's own
downpour; and, as I think it was not to talk of bygones, suppose we
come to the point of the matter at once and so settle our minds."
"It can be made plain to you in a moment," said Weir. "The usurer,
Bulfinch, is dead, and his sons hold certain bills of his against Rufus
Stevens' Sons, which are about to mature."
"Well?" said Blake.
"Their father and I had a private understanding--one completely between
ourselves. If he had lived, the time of these bills would have been
extended. He would have understood the necessity of this, but his heirs
do not. You," to Tarrant, "have had dealings of one sort or another
with this pair, and have influence with them. That is why I have called
you to-night. You must speak to them; it is most important that
nothing be done that might cloud the credit of Rufus Stevens' Sons at
this time."
"At this time?" repeated Tarrant, his eyes narrowing. "Why not just at
this time?"
"Rumors spread," said Captain Weir. "They seem to be carried by the
wind. Ship's gossips take them across the seas; letters carry them. I
would not for a great deal have even a hint of trouble for the firm
now; for in the space of a few months the ship _Rufus Stevens_ begins
taking in her cargo at Calcutta, and who knows what damage a slighting
rumor might do?"
"I see," said Tarrant, and he turned fully about in his chair.
"The vessel is to stow as rich a cargo as ever came out of the East;
and even the smallest evil report may prevent its being put aboard."
"I understand," said Tarrant. There was a silence; then he asked: "And
am I to further understand that old arrangements between us, in matters
of this kind, still stand?"
"They do. And your share of the labor is to see to it that the
Bulfinches hold both their hands and their tongues."
Tarrant now laughed gleefully. All the anger had gone out of his face;
he was vastly excited; words poured from him.
"They'll do it," he said. "To be sure, they'll do it! The richest cargo
that ever came out of the East! Well, well! That's saying a deal, for
some fine ones have come from that part of the world. Oh, yes, have no
fear of the twins. They will give what time is needed. So the old rat
is dead! Well, well! But what matter? I can manage the sons. They'll
do what I ask. They'll hold their hands until the _Rufus Stevens_ is
stowed, and weighs for home, if it takes till doomsday, or the day
after!"