“Blunt’s men? Or do ye think ’em ghosts? Why do ye look so white, lad?
Why should Blunt’s men come here this night? Look again!”
Returning to the window, opening the casement, and peering down, I saw
only the leaping shadows of the trees, much as those dark, hurrying
figures. I called back to him, “Shadows—only shadows!” and secured the
casement.
We sat in silence then by the fire. The storm was nearing its height;
wave of sound following upon wave of sound as breaker upon breaker; the
house appeared to reel under the succession of shocks, always the voices
sounded on the wind. If there were sound below, if drunken voices,
menacing voices, were uplifted, as seemed to me, I could not be assured;
the wind usurped all sounds, in or without the house. My grandfather lay
back in his chair with his hands clutching its arms; I saw him lift his
right hand from time to time, and eye it shaking with the palsy, the red
gems leaping into flame upon it; for all his will and his professed
hardihood, I believed that the terror of the night grew on him, even as
on me. He leaned forward at last, and quavered, “What’s death, d’ye
think, lad? What comes after?”
“How can I answer? Who should tell?” I said, being in no mood now to
preach faith or penitence to him.
“You’re honest!” he said, nodding. “Charles would have turned priest.
Charles would have talked of Judgment Day. Ay, you’re honest! Eighty
years I’ve lived, and till these weeks past never thought of what came
after; or of to-morrow but as to-day or yesterday. I never thought of
myself as dead. John”—with sudden starting terror—“doesn’t that show
it?”
“What, sir—what?”
“When we die and rot and the worms have us, it’s not the end of us.
We’re never able to think of ourselves as dead! Whether we’re strong and
lusting with life, or whether we’re old and breaking, we never think of
ourselves as dead. Because we never die!”
He mumbled on, “Ay, there’s voices in the wind to-night! Voices I’ve
heard! I do remember a merchantman—from the East it was—and full to the
decks with rich stuffs. Many folks aboard. We boarded it at noon, and
we sunk it at eve. None could live; there were men aboard as had known
me. I remember the sunset—blood-red it was—and the seas were like blood
about us. And the great cry when the ship went down; and the crying of
the wind that night, as we sailed away. How the wind cries!”
I saw the sweat again upon him. I saw his brows wet, and his wet hands
stained with the red gems. He gasped, “I’ve never thought to die! . . .
Ah, Christ, that I rot in the ground and end so! . . . But to blow with
the winds about the world, forever about the world—knowing no rest—no
rest!”
I rose and held his glass to his lips. He drank, and for the time his
courage and strength were restored to him; he gibed and mocked the crying
wind, the voices that were about the house, in the house; surely now I
heard sounds from below, laughter, and roaring chorus of drunken voices.
No one yet sought admission to the room.
Now leaning forward, plucking at my sleeve, he whispered, “You’ve been
wondering why I kept you here this night?”
“Surely because you loved my father, and would have me by you! Will you
not lie down on your bed and rest?”
“No! No! But to show you—give you—what’s mine, what’s to be yours.
Help me up! I’m weak! I fear the pain. Bring a light, boy!”
Wondering, I gave him my arm, and propped by me he made his way from the
hearth to the wall beyond his chair. I saw him clutch at the tapestry
and tear it aside; the cloud of dust nigh blinded me. Drawing from my
support, he tapped and clawed at the old oaken panels; they parted
suddenly, revealing a deep recess in the stones of the wall. Leaning
against me, he fumbled at his breast, and took forth two slim keys on a
silken ribbon strung about his neck, and groped in the recess, muttering,
“The light, boy! Show the light!”
And while I held the candle, I saw in the recess a little iron door built
into the stone; he set a key at last in the lock, and opening the door
drew out a black box. This box was deep, but of no great length; it was
heavy, for he nigh dropped it when he pulled it out; he clutched it to
his breast and bore it to his chair with him. He cried to me, “Pull the
curtain back. Hide the panels! Come and see!”
He sat with the black box resting on his knees; it seemed of ebony, and
was bound plainly with silver. He set the key in the lock, and lifted
the lid. Leaning over him, I saw that the contents of the box were
packed in black silk. At his word, I aided him to lift this package out,
and set the box down at his feet. The silk reeked with spices; with
clawing fingers he unfolded the wrapper of silk, till it draped about his
knees to the hearth—a flag of black silk it seemed, wrought with a design
in silver thread and ringed with silver. And suddenly the grim thing
shrouded in this black silken flag, broidered with the death’s head and
cross bones, lay bare to me; for he gripped between his palms a white
skull. Now this skull was fashioned into the form of a casket
overwrought with silver, having a silver lid upon the crown, and in the
sockets of the eyes two blue jewels burning to the reflection of the
candles and the fire with an unholy light. The jaws were banded with
silver, so that the skull resting on his palms, grinned at me, as
shuddering I drew back, and dared not look upon the old man’s face and
feared his laughter. Lowering the skull upon his knees, he touched the
silver crown of it with his fingers; the lid flew up; and instantly, at
the wonder of it, I cried out, for it seemed that fire burned from the
casket—a miracle of light and colour, as the flame upon the hearth and
from the candles gave life to the gems within. My grandfather’s fingers
seemed to dip in fire. He laughed to himself; he drew out wonderful
gems; held them gorgeous and glowing on his palms; he let them fall back
into the skull.
He muttered, “Only a little store, only a little store,—and yet half the
years of my sinning, child, are told in this odd little box. I had it
fashioned to my fancy; they’re rare gems for its eyes. D’ye understand
what’s hid in it? D’ye understand there’s not a man but would sell his
soul for what’s in this little box? D’ye see this white stone—this big
white stone? Did ever the moon or the sun shine like it? Was ever blood
so red as this red stone, or leaf so green as this, or ever the Main so
blue? Ay, there’s diamonds, there’s rubies, emeralds and sapphires; and
there’s wonderful pearls. And thirty years and odd went to fill this
box. Gold and plate, and many a precious thing that was scarce safe to
sell—ivory and silks and spices—ay, they’re all told in the stones of
this little box. There’s been blood on these stones—many of ’em.
They’ve been plucked from white necks and dead fingers—ay, many of them!
Charles has lost his soul for the bare tell of ’em. All my rogues are
lost for the lust of ’em—Barwise and Thrale and the rest. Knowing I held
my hoard—though where ’twas hid no one knew, and feared to seek, and
feared to murder me, lest where ’twas hid should never be known.
Ay—What’s that?”
“Knocking upon the door!” I whispered, shuddering.
He closed and hid his terrible casket in the black flag, and thrust the
bundle back into the box. He muttered to me, “For you! D’ye hear me?
For my son’s son! Set the box back; keep ye the keys”—and thrust box and
keys into my hands, and whispered, “Haste! Haste! Quiet as you go.
They’re out there—mayhap all of ’em!”
Loud and insistent the knocking sounded, as I sped across the room to set
the box back; close the panel, and draw the hangings into place once
more.
_Chapter XXXII_. _Will of a Man_
My grandfather asking, “What hour is it?” stretched out his hand to a
press beside him and drew forth a pistol, and set this by him on the arm
of his chair.
“Midnight!” I answered, glancing at the clock.
“Bradbury should have returned,” he said. “Go to the door, lad, and ask
who knocks.”
I hurried to the door, and to my question “Who’s there?” my Uncle Charles
replied, “I, to be sure, nephew. Pray open the door!”
“Let him come in,” my grandfather said. “I bade him keep away. Yet let
him in.”
I drew the bar and opened the door, and instantly was thrust aside.
There entered, indeed, my uncle; there entered with him Blunt, Thrale,
Mistress Barwise and her man and sons; and at their heels there came a
surging crew, striving so one to precede the other that they blocked the
doorway momentarily; cursing, struggling, contending, they came on,—all
the old rogues of Rogues’ Haven, and with them seamen of Blunt’s crew.
Fired with drink, disorderly they came, with clatter of shoes, roar of
voices, sounding above the very wind; all so intent upon their
purpose—all so covetous for plunder, that though they flung me back
against the wall, they passed me by. I realised that Oliver was by me;
that his hands gripped my arms, and pulled me back, when I would have
struggled to reach my grandfather; he was growling thickly, “Get away!
Now’s your chance! Get away! They’re mad with drink. God knows what
they’ll do.”
“I’ll stay here,” cried I. “Don’t hold me, Oliver! What of Miss Milne?”
“Locked in her room or fled the house. I’ve not heard or seen her.
They’ve been looting. Get away!”
I shook my head; his strong hands held me back against the wall; I must
stand and watch, nor bear a hand to aid my grandfather. He needed none,
for though they burst in with a rush after my uncle, they paused, and
fell to silence, seeing the old man sitting grimly in his chair.
Charles, slipping from them, held himself behind his father’s chair; the
rogues crowding about the hearth approached no nearer.
My grandfather roared out in so full and strong a tone that for the shock
of it they fell back from him, “What in the devil’s name is this? Have
ye gone mad? Why d’ye come bursting into my room in the dead of night?
Speak, some of ye! Charles, what is this?”
“I do assure you,” said my uncle clearly, “I have no part in this.”
“No part,” the woman Barwise jeered. “Ay, then, no share in what we’ve
come for, and what we’ll surely have.” She thrust herself forward, her
face enflamed; she pointed her skinny hand at my grandfather and cried:
“D’ye hear me? What we’re going to have! What we’ve waited for too
long. What you took when you was pirate, and sunk English ships, and
murdered—what you stole!”
He broke out with a bellow of anger, “Mutiny, hey? Mutiny! Thinking me
dead or dying. Thinking now you’ll take what you never had the courage
to take—ay, and you’ve all grown old waiting for. Mutiny! Hey, you
dogs? Mark me, you dogs—am I broken? Am I broken yet?”
And then it seemed that the will of the man triumphed over the wreck of
his body. Watching him from the wall, I saw him rise up from his chair,
his hand gripping his pistol; I saw his eyes blaze and his face take
colour; I saw the old rogues cower and break before him,—only the Barwise
sons and the men who had never sailed with him yet held their ground; and
Blunt watched unfaltering. He laughed upon them trembling before him; he
pointed his pistol at Thrale, and the fellow quivered like a leaf, and
seemed the palsied dotard, while the master was yet strong.
“Hey, Thrale,” my grandfather mocked him, “you were bold with drink when
you came in; but you never had the heart of a man. You’d slit a throat
in the dark; you’d no stomach for a red deck, and you’d vomit at the
smoke of powder—rogue! Hey, Barwise,—hey, your woman took you, for you’d
not the heart to refuse her. Ay, you’re drunk now, and you thought you
were brave, but you sweat for terror. Mistress, you were a bold wench
once, and you did many things in your thieves’ kitchen at Shadwell a man
would shudder for the very thought of. Hey, you rogues, mutiny is it?
Mutiny? You’d rob me—murder me—thinking me sick and weak? D’ye mind a
night off Malabar? Roger Quirk it was—he’d a mind to be master of my
ship. And he came sneaking into my cabin in the night, thinking to find
me sleeping, and some of you were shuddering in the dark at his back, and
ready to call him captain, and sail under him, if so be he murdered me.
But Roger Quirk died; at midnight he died, and it’s midnight now. Hey,
Roger Quirk led you then; who leads you now?”
They answered nothing; Charles leaned indolently against his father’s
chair. My grandfather grinned at the cowering rogues; he pointed at
Mistress Barwise, “Is it old Bess Barwise? D’ye shelter behind her
skirts? Blunt—you, why the devil do you break into my house in the
night? Answer me!”
But Mr. Blunt met him boldly, “I’m no servant of yours, Craike,” he said.
“I’ve no cause to fear you. Nor have I ever feared.”
“Ay, you were cabin-boy on my last cruise, and profited by it.”
“And kept my eyes and ears open. And know what you put away. More, I’ve
a right to come into the house when I will, and I’ve come. You’ve
profited by me. Your son’s profited. Your cellars are stocked with my
cargoes. I’ll not go out of this house to-night till I have what I’ve
come for. Where’s the loot? That’s what you’ll hand over to us before
we go to-night”—and suddenly swung round, and called to his seamen,
“Where’s the boy?”
The seamen were upon me instantly; Oliver was thrust aside, cursing most
foully. Two fellows gripped me and dragged me forward, ranging me a
prisoner before my grandfather and Blunt. Said Blunt coolly, “Here’s one
who’ll make you speak. Hark’ee, Craike, you tell us where the loot is,
or the lad’ll suffer for it. Have you told him, Craike, where it’s hid?
Have you? Then, by the Lord, he’ll tell us!”
“Loose the boy!” my grandfather said, quietly, “Hands off the boy!”
“Not till you say where the stuff’s hid. He’ll go down to my ship
to-night, except you speak. D’ye hear me, Craike?”
My grandfather’s right hand shot up suddenly from the fold of his gown.
His pistol blazed; I heard Blunt scream; I saw him fall and writhe, and
struggle on the floor. My grandfather was roaring, “Loose the boy!
Loose him!”—and as the seamen recoiled before him, his hand had dragged
me from them, and pulled me in beside him. And a great cry arose among
them all; and silence fell as suddenly—silence save for the crying of the
winds about the house. I snatched my pistol from my tail-pocket and
thrust it into his hand; he advanced slowly, and they fell back from him;
he towered above them—a man above wolves. I could picture him so upon
the deck of his own ship in battle or in storm, or mutineers so cowering
before him; peril could be of no account to such a man—no, though he knew
himself upon the shores of the eternal sea; though all the night seemed
burthened with his sins; though his enemies were all about him, menacing
in the house, or risen from the sea, he blenched in no way. The huge
figure, the face suffused, the eyes aflame, the head thrown proudly back,
the mocking laughter on his lips.
He cried to them, “Would you threaten me, rogues? Would you come like
carrion crows about a dying beast? Think you that I am dying—think you?
Hey, but I’ve whipped you many’s the time, when you’ve thought to put me
from command of my ship, and set another in my place! Hey, and men have
died, and backs have run red—hey, and I’ve won; always I’ve won! Blunt
would have robbed me! Take your man! You! You!”—pointing to two
fellows of Blunt’s crew. “Pick him up and take him out of here. D’ye
hear me?”—the pistol quivering in his grasp.
The seamen cowered; bent low, took up Blunt’s body, and so bore him
forth—their shipmates slouching after. I heard the muttering of their
voices and the clatter of their shoes sound away down the corridor.
Mistress Barwise and the old rogues would have scuttled after, but my
grandfather roared out, “Stay! I’ve words for your ears—for you who have
robbed me. Stay!”
Shuddering, pale-faced, the rogues stood eyeing him,—the old brown men
peering like so many ghosts from the dark by the door, the dying candles
casting only a dim light, the leaping flame reflected in the puddle of
blood where Blunt had lain. My grandfather faced them still, laughing
upon them. The wind came rolling up, and struck the house; the crying of
the wind was as the crying of many voices; the rushing of the wind as the
onrush of the sea. He ceased to laugh; staring at him, while my uncle,
white to the lips and wide-eyed, watched him from the hearth, I saw him
stagger. The pistols dropped from his hands. He fell with a crash
across the hearth.
_Chapter XXXIII_. _Carrion Crows_
My uncle, rushing forward, dropped on his knees beside him, and lifted up
his head.
I took the glass from the press, and poured a little of the spirit into
it, and handed this to my uncle, who moistened my grandfather’s lips with
it, and sought to dribble a few drops down his throat. And nearer,
nearer yet, crept the rogues; recoiling from the living, they feared him
still, lest even now he should arise, and his voice send them scurrying
as so little a while before. But he lay still,—his eyes open and glassy;
his lips parted. My uncle lowered his head to the floor, and rising,
said, “I think him dead”—but with no tremor in his voice or hint of
sorrow or compassion.
And instantly the woman Barwise laughed horribly, and screamed, “Dead,
and we’ve naught to fear!”—and pointing her hand at me, “What now, Mr.
John—what now?”
My uncle, in a harsh voice cried out, “Be silent, woman! Respect the
dead! Out of the room, all of you!”
She answered with defiance, “Not now! While he was livin’, we couldn’t
have what we’re here for. And I for one stays here, and don’t stir for
you; that’s what I say, and that’s what ye all say, if ye’re men.”
Whereat her sons thrust their way forward, and the old men piped shrilly,
“Ay, ay, that’s what we all say. Ay, ay!”
My uncle said disdainfully, “I can tell you only that, if you think to
find treasure in the house, you deceive yourselves grievously. Do you
think that my father was such a fool as to hoard money or jewels in this
house with such a company as you about him? I promise you that all he
had was long since converted into East India stock and the like; he kept
nothing by him.”
“But that’s a lie!” Thrale piped. “He had treasure by him. Many’s the
time he’s been laughing to himself for thinking that we who’d fought and
bled, and risked the sea and the shot and the rope, sought our share of
it, and never took a dollar of it. I’ve been minded to stick this knife
into him many a time!”—and his skeleton-hand showed a lean, glittering
blade, “Oh, and I come in one day and he don’t hear me, and he has a box
and a death’s head, and ’tis all on fire with baubles. All aflame!
What’s come of ’em, Mr. Charles, what’s come of ’em?”
“I tell you—” my uncle began; but their yell of derision silenced him; a
wicked ring of faces was about us: old faces stained with all the sins,
old eyes bright for the lust of treasure, old hands clutching and
covetous; their voices sounding as the cawing of crows; like carrion
crows they flapped about us, and the dead man lying stretched across the
hearth. The tall Barwise sons watched them, grinning and muttering
between themselves. Four of Blunt’s men had sneaked back into the room.
My uncle, smiling contemptuously upon the rogues, asked quietly, “Do you
know anything of this, nephew?”
I answered steadily, “Nothing! Nothing!”—but must have flushed for my
lie; the woman Barwise cried out instantly, “He’s lying! He’s lying!
look at him,—all red-faced now, when he was sick and white afore”—and
rushing on me, clawing at my jacket, “Where’s it hid? You know! Where’s
it hid?”
But instantly my uncle intervened—concerned now for my knowledge, and by
the dread that all these rogues should share the secret. He ordered her,
“Stand back, woman! Do you hear me? Stand back!” in so threatening a
tone that she recoiled and loosed me.
My uncle, gripping me by the shoulder, drew me beside him; I had taken up
the pistols fallen from his father’s hands; now we stood with our backs
against the chimney-piece, and my grandfather’s body lay between us and
the rogues. Oliver came shouldering his way among them to our side, a
hunting crop clutched in his hand. Mistress Barwise, as beside herself,
screamed out a curse at us, and shook her fist, so inciting them that in
a sullen surge they were sweeping forward, when my uncle, livid with
rage, cried out, “Back, you fools,—back! Do you know this, that while
you waste your time here, Bradbury returns, with Gavin Masters and his
folk, who’ve sworn to smoke us out of this hold? Do you know this and
palter?”
“Ay, then stand aside,” retorted Mistress Barwise, “and let us have the
handling of the lad there. He knows for sure, and we have the means to
make him talk”—and pointed to the fire. “He’ll speak for the burning of
his bare flesh. He’ll speak, if he knows to keep his mouth shut now,
means to keep it shut come Judgment Day!”
“You’ll not lay hands upon him!” said my uncle, as I made play with the
loaded pistol. “Give me a word with him alone! All of you out of the
room now! Let me but reason with him!”
“And plot to rob us!” Thrale squeaked.
“Nay, nay!” my uncle protested, smiling.
The Barwise woman, swinging round, muttered and whispered with old
Thrale; turning back to us presently to say, “We’ll go—but only outside
the door. But we’ll keep the key, lest you think to lock us out.”
Oliver had drawn away from the hearth to the wall.
“Surely take the key, Barwise,” said my uncle. “But a few words with my
nephew, and you’ll know whether he will confide in me or no. And if he
prove intractable, I promise you that I’ll hand him over to you for
discipline”—I believed that the gentleman found himself at a loss to
prevent their participation in my secret.
“Out of the room, then, all of you,” she ordered them, and drove them
before her like so many hens; they protested with many oaths; she
screaming at them in kind so berated them that they were out at last.
She paused by the door to take the key from the lock. Of a sudden Oliver
leaped forward and thrust her after them; banged the door with a crash,
and turned the key. Her cry of rage was shrill as the wind itself; she
plunged against the door and beat upon it like a madwoman, screaming out,
“Break it down! Break it down! They’re tricking us!”
Oliver set the bar in its place, and turned back to us grinning.
My uncle smiled his approval, “I never gave you credit for any wit,” he
said; “I offer you apology. I confess I was at a loss,—I thank you for
having given me the opportunity of a little talk with my nephew. Be sure
of the bar, Oliver; the door will hold them out, I trust, till Bradbury
returns.”
Oliver, coming back to the hearth, growled, “Help me first to lift the
old man. Is he to lie here longer in this blood?”
“Nay, nay,” said my uncle hastily; and among us, we lifted my
grandfather’s body and laid it upon the bed, and drew the curtains; all
the while the clamour at the door continued; the winds yet beat upon the
house. My uncle, returning to the fireside, sat down in his father’s
chair—for all the raging of the rogues without seeming as indolent and
unruffled as in the arbour.
“Nephew,” he said, “I would our conversation could have been conducted
with proper privacy. Oliver, oblige me by withdrawing to the door.”
Oliver answered boldly, “I stay here!”
“You heard me, Oliver!”
“I heard you, sir! And you have never heard me ere this night. By God,
sir, you should have taught me by now to be ashamed at nothing;
yet—yet—to know the part that you have played this night,—you to have
raised these rogues against my cousin and the old man there!”
My uncle smiling, though his brow grew black, cried out, “If I’d my cane,
sir, I’d discipline you now. Are you drunk yet from dinner? Or do you
think to win your cousin’s patronage at my expense? You think him heir
to Craike and all my father had. I having nothing, you range yourself
beside him!”
“I am ashamed,” said Oliver, regarding him with dark and lowering look.
“By God, sir, I’ve been silent long enough. I’ll endure no more. Now
this I’ll say to my cousin—if he’ll believe me; if he’ll think I have no
motive but to be his friend, and save my father from fresh roguery and
shame—I stand beside him.”
“When the door goes down, my good fellow, as presently it will,” my uncle
sneered, “they’ll have your life and his.”
Oliver stretched out his hand to me; I gripped it; side by side we faced
my uncle.
He said, “I have no time to bandy words with you, my son. I say this to
you, John, that the Barwise sons are pledged to me, and will obey me, and
Blunt’s men also will obey me! It is my condition only that you tell me
where my father’s hoard is hid; for clearly he revealed it to you while
you were with him; and that the agreement between us be, that we shall
share this treasure. It’s hid in the house,—I assume in this very room.”
“And you assume,” I said, “my grandfather revealed it to me. You assume
too much, sir.”
“Dear lad, your very face reveals your knowledge to me. Come, write,
sign—there are pens and paper in the press there!”
“I answer this,” I said; “whatever come or have come to me from my
grandfather, you shall not share. You would have had me kidnapped and
shipped out of England. You have ever been an enemy to mine and me.
What of my father?”
“Nephew,” he said, “hark to the pack outside the door!”
He rose; his look surveyed the room—the hangings were waving in the
draught. He pointed suddenly to the tapestry drawn yet a little aside
from the sliding panel; and at my start and confusion he laughed
triumphantly, and strode forward. I lost my head; I sought to interpose;
he thrust me from him, and rushing to the wall drew back the hangings.
All this while the rogues without battered upon the door; I heard it
groan and split, and knew that it was going down before their blows.
My uncle’s fingers strayed over the panels; touched the spring; the
panels parted. He cried out gaily, “Oh, ’tis here, nephew—’tis here!
And I asked but a half, nephew,—what now? What now?”
“Would you steal?” Oliver growled. “Are you thief?”
He answered, snarling, “Ah, God, what I’ve endured these years, and now
this boy would rob me. I’ll have what’s mine. I care not how you fare,
nephew—whether they do you to death, or drag you aboard the _Black
Wasp_—I care not. I’ll have what’s mine, and be away ere Bradbury
comes!”—and thrust the panels back, and fumbled with the lock, but could
make nothing of it.
I laughed at him. “My uncle,” cried I, “it’s for me to dictate terms.
Your interest with these rogues for me, and I’ll make you rich; but the
secret of the lock I’ll keep!”
He whirled round upon me, his mask off, his face malignant, his lips
snarling. He let the tapestry fall before the hollow in the wall. He
pointed to the door. It had parted asunder, the wreckage fell against
the bar.
_Chapter XXXIV_. _Flight of Crows_
Mrs. Barwise headed them still—Lord, what a strength must have been hers
in youth; even now her withered hands tore at the wreckage of the door.
Her sons and she had cleared a way presently; the bar was drawn, and all
the rogues were in the room once more. But, setting my back against the
chimney-piece, with Oliver beside me, I levelled my pistol as they came
on, menacing, and I cried out, “Keep back! You’ll not lay hands on me.
Back, I say!”
At this Mrs. Barwise checked her onrush; and whirled round towards my
uncle stepping back from the wall. The rogues at her back halted and
peered at us, muttering among themselves; Nick and Isaac Barwise and
Blunt’s men yet held apart. The woman demanded furiously of my uncle,
“Well? Well? What’s the answer? You’ve not tricked us after all, d’ye
see? D’ye see? What’s his answer?”
He said coolly, “I’ve no answer for you. Ask him!”
As she swung round and faced me, I said, as bravely as I might, though
shaking still for terror of them, “My answer is that there’s no treasure.
Ay, and were there treasure, every gold piece or jewel of it would belong
to me, even as, now my grandfather is dead, this house belongs to me.
And I say to you you’d best be packing while you may. You there from the
_Black Wasp_, d’ye know that while you’re paltering here your ship’s cut
out? D’ye know the King’s men are aboard her?”
“Bold words, but lies!” cried Mistress Barwise.
“No! For but yesterday I was with old Sir Gavin, who’s sworn to put an
end to smuggling on the coast here. Your ship was never to put to sea.
Not Blunt himself would have got her from the teeth of the King’s ship.
Would you be taken here?”
The four seamen muttered among themselves; I saw them drawing to the
doorway—scuttling out; only the old rogues and the Barwise sons yet held
their ground, and Mrs. Barwise sought still to enflame them to her
purpose.
“Words—ay, but we’ve not come for words from you, master,” she burst out.
“Where’s the baubles, master? Where’s the gold? Our baubles and our
gold!”
“Ay, ay, ours! That’s what we’re here to know! Where’s the stuff
hid?”—came the chorus.
I faced them still,—Oliver with his swinging whip beside me. I said,
“Keep back! I’ve a word for you, as a word for Blunt’s men. I tell you
Mr. Bradbury comes this night, with his men, and Sir Gavin’s folk, and
all the gentry round. He comes to make an end here—to sweep this house
clean—for me! You’ve threatened murder; you’ve robbed and broken; you’ve
set every man of you his neck in reach of a rope to-night; I warn you
all, for you served my grandfather, that soon, perhaps now, the house
must be surrounded. You’ve escaped hanging so long, how d’ye like the
prospect of swinging at the end of a rope at the end of your days? Take
what you’ve looted—plate and what not?—and go! You’ll take no more.
There is no treasure!”
“Lies!” screamed the woman, as they quailed and wavered. “Where’s the
blunt first? Don’t go till you’ve laid hands on what’s your own.”
“Go now!” I shouted, to be heard above the instant uproar. “Go now
before it is too late!”
As they wavered, she shrieked out, “Pull him down! Take him and hold him
but the moment, and I’ll have the truth out of him—with the irons and the
fire!”
They surged forward, but before my levelled pistol and Oliver’s uplifted
hunting crop, they wavered still; having each and every man of them so
little left of life, and valuing it at a price above visionary treasure.
My uncle, leaning unconcerned against his father’s chair, neither incited
them nor assisted us; Nick and Isaac Barwise seemed to await their orders
from him, yet holding themselves apart from the old rogues.
And suddenly I saw Mr. Bradbury standing within the doorway, his hair all
blown with the wind—else, as cool and unperturbed as ever I had known
him; seeing him come in, with Galt and the two runners at his back, I
cried out triumphantly, “Too late! Too late!”
Mistress Barwise uttered a shrill scream, and rushed back among the
rogues; they broke, fell back; scuttled like rats about the room; seeking
the door, and finding Roger and the runners standing grimly before it,
they huddled together against the wall. Mr. Bradbury, stepping forward,
demanded swiftly, “What is this? Where is Mr. Craike?”
I pointed to the bed, “My grandfather lies there,” I said. “He died an
hour since, sir—died while he faced these rogues. What now?”
Mr. Bradbury whispered, “Sir Gavin waits below! We hold the hall-door
and the stair. We come well-armed,—we’re none too many.”
“And these rogues!”
“Bid them go! If they go quietly, so much the better for us, so much the
less scandal. We’re not so many that they may not pass,—unless you’d
hold them here! Yet bid them go! We’re not too many!”
I faced them then; I cried out, to be heard above a gust of the falling
wind, “You’ve yet a chance to get away. Go now—all of you—out of this
house! You served my grandfather, and for that I’ve no mind to punish
you for what you’ve done this night. Take what’s your own—no more, and
be away from this house within an hour. D’ye hear me? Go!”
Galt and the runners stood aside at a wave of Mr. Bradbury’s hand. Like
a flight of carrion crows the rogues sped from the room; save only
Mistress Barwise, and she, her eyes blazing, her mouth spitting curses,
her hands clawing the air, as she backed from the room, wore rather the
aspect of an aged cat than of a carrion crow. Pell-mell they fled, as
swiftly as their withered shanks would bear them; clattered along the
corridor, and were gone.
So there were left in the room with the dead only Mr. Bradbury and his
men, my kinsfolk and myself. My uncle, lounging in his father’s chair,
with a poor assumption of his old effrontery, asked of Mr. Bradbury, “By
what authority, pray tell me, does this lad ape the master of the house?
As heir to Craike?”
“I shall leave the question unanswered, Charles,” said Mr. Bradbury
gravely, motioning towards the bed. “This is neither the time nor the
place.”
“By what authority?” my uncle repeated, his eyes suddenly alight.
“Surely as your elder brother’s son,” said Mr. Bradbury. “My honoured
and lamented client’s will—signed by his hand this night—and taken by me
from this house and lodged in safety, will be produced and read by me in
due course.”
“By what authority?” cried my uncle, with bitter anger. “Answer my
question, Bradbury!”
“Till I read this will, and divulge its provisions to you,” said Mr.
Bradbury steadily, “may I say that Mr. John Craike must enjoy in this
house an authority not inferior to your own? By no means inferior, my
dear sir!”
But ere my uncle might retort, there came a sound of scuffling from the
door—a shrill scream—one of the runners growling, “You’ll not go in,
mistress—I tell you you’ll not go in!”
And the shrill voice piping, “I’ll see Mr. Charles, I will see Mr.
Charles!”—with a string of oaths ending in choking, coughing; surely
’twas Mother Mag.
My uncle rose from his chair, and demanded angrily, “What’s this to-do?
What does the woman want? Let her come in!”
“Let her come in!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, while I stared, Mother
Mag, escaping from the runner, was in the room. She stood there, bent
nigh double, her skinny hands clawing at her shawl; she said no word, but
spying Charles, crept forward to him.
“What is it, woman?” Mr. Bradbury asked, sharply; she blinked still at
Charles, muttering, “I’ve a word for Mr. Craike—no more!”
“Speak!” said my uncle, indifferently.
“Martin would have me come!” croaked she. “Martin would have me come
every step o’ the way, though it’s a weary, weary way, and the devil’s
loose to-night. With a word for Mr. Charles.”
“Speak!” cried my uncle again.
“No more than this—no more: ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’ Adam
Baynes—!”
But I recalled the words of Roger Galt as he bore me away from the Stone
House, that Adam Baynes, this woman’s son, had been transported overseas
and had died; and I wondered that, if the man lived and Roger had lied,
the woman showed no joy in her son’s return—surely he had escaped—but
only terror; that, shuddering and shaking, she stood blinking at my
uncle, and muttering to herself, clutching her blue shawl about her
throat, and sweeping her wind-blown hair from her face.
Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “What is the meaning of all this,
Charles? Who is this Adam Baynes? What concern is it of yours?”
“He is this woman’s son,” my uncle answered, seeming to strive for
mastery of himself. “He was a servant of this house—once; that is all!
Well, mistress, well? You’ve brought your grandson’s message. Tell
Martin Baynes he’ll hear from me! That is all! Go now! I’ve other
concerns.”
She peered at him; muttered to herself; and tottered towards the door.
Mr. Bradbury started forward as though to stay her; instantly my uncle
intervened, protesting, “Let the woman go, Bradbury. She’s of no concern
to you or me.”
While Mr. Bradbury hesitated, the woman slipped past the runners, and was
gone; my uncle turned back to the fire, and again sat down in his
father’s chair. I watched him, wondering at the terror on his face, his
twisting lips, his flickering eyes—at what new dread was borne upon him
by the woman’s words, “Adam Baynes’ come home again!”
Roger Galt was growling from the doorway. “Who’s Adam Baynes? Mother
Mag’s son never went overseas, after all. Mother Mag’s son stayed here
and died from a pistol-ball in the breast!”
Mr. Bradbury, turning back to my uncle, cried out sharply, “Who’s this
fellow, Charles? Why should this woman bring word to you? Who should
come from overseas, that you should fear, and shudder so?”
My uncle answering nothing, Mr. Bradbury called out sharply to the
runners, “Hold that woman! Don’t let her leave the house. Hold her!
There’s more in this.”
But though we started to the door, and Roger and the runners went
scurrying down the corridor, Mother Mag had vanished like a ghost in the
darkness of the house.
_Chapter XXXV_. _Departure of Mr. Charles Craike_
We went out presently to descend the stairs in search of Sir Gavin
Masters and his men. My uncle strode out ahead of us, Oliver slipped
away; I held Mr. Bradbury’s arm as he would have hurried off, to direct
search for Mother Mag, and to insure that if Mistress Barwise and the
rogues left the house, they did not bear their plunder of plate away with
them. I whispered to him, “There’s in the room—in the wall there—a
box—stuffed with gems. My grandfather revealed them to me, ere he died.
My uncle knows of them; he sought to rob me of them. I’ll not trust them
here!”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Bradbury, “I had some notion of them,—by the old man’s
talk this night. Where are they hid?”
I dragged the hangings back. I took the key, unlocked the iron door, and
drew the box out of its hiding place. “Pray take my pistol, sir,” said
I. “The box is heavy—bursting with the jewels in it. I’ve never looked
upon such jewels—like fire! My uncle will not rest till he’s laid hands
on them.”
Mr. Bradbury took my pistol; he paused an instant to pull back the
curtains from the bed, and reverently draw the coverlet over the old
man’s body. Blowing out all the candles then, save one to light us down
the stair, he went before me from the room, pausing to lock the door upon
the dead; and cried out to Roger and the runners, still searching for old
Mag along the corridors, to go with us down the stairs. As we descended,
I heard voices muttering in the hall; and saw the gleam of lanterns, and
made out it might be half-a-dozen stout fellows. I saw, as we passed by
them, that every man was armed with cutlass, pistol or bludgeon. Sir
Gavin Masters, emerging from the doorway, cried out jovially, “Ah, John
Craike! So your throat’s not cut yet, and ye’re not kidnapped. Where’s
the old man, Bradbury? The devil of a time you’ve been!”
“Pray step with us into the dining-room, Sir Gavin,” said Mr. Bradbury.
“Old Mr. Craike is dead—an hour or more since!”
“Murdered!” the justice roared.
“Nay, nay—though there’s been wild doings here this night,” said Mr.
Bradbury. “The rats are scuttling all about the house.”
“Ay, I’ve heard them scurrying, squeaking. Have we men enough with us to
trap ’em, Bradbury?”
“I think not—no!” said Mr. Bradbury hastily. “Pray, sir, come with us.
Bid your men keep on guard still, and let no one enter! Come, sir,
come!”
But I hung back and called out, “Sir Gavin—Mr. Bradbury, there’s the
girl—my uncle’s ward, Miss Milne! What’s chanced to her I fear to
think.”
“Oh, the maid,” Sir Gavin answered, laughing. “She’s safe enough. ’Twas
she opened the door for us, when we were thinking to break it down.
She’s safe. She’s in the room here!”
Thus reassured, I passed with them into the dining-room. Lord, the reek
of drink, and the disorder of it!—the presses open and broken, for the
plate they held; the shattered glass and crystal on floor and table;
bottles from the broached cellars. The silver candlesticks were gone
from the chimney-piece; the mirrors starred or shivered wholly; the
tapestries rent from the wall; the pictures torn down, as if the rogues
had searched even behind them for any sign of treasure. By the hearth,
where a few coals blackened, Evelyn Milne was sitting; the candle borne
by Mr. Bradbury showed me how deathly pale she was, her hair blown all
about her shoulders, her eyes feverish yet from terror and lack of sleep.
She started up, as we came in; I set the box down on the table, and took
her hands, and cried out, “Miss Milne! Thank God, you’re safe!”
“Ay, ay, and have served us well this night,” Mr. Bradbury declared; and
Sir Gavin added gallantly, “Upon my soul she has!”
She smiled, and drew her hands from mine; looking at Mr. Bradbury, she
asked, “Would you have me go, sir? Would you be alone?”
“Nay, nay,” said he, hastily. “Stay here, my dear! The house is not yet
safe for you. Stay here!”
She bowed and returned to her seat. Mr. Bradbury, setting down the
candle by the box, drew up a chair to the table, and dropping wearily
into it, said, “Sir Gavin, with the few fellows you’ve been able to bring
here, it’s well that we remain here till the dawn; it cannot be far off.”
“Ay, but all these rogues?” the justice grumbled. “Not a rat among them
have we trapped. I thought to take the nest full of them. What’s
chanced to the old man? What passed to-night ere we came, young John?
Where’s the villain, Charles?”
“We’ll have the tale from Mr. John Craike later,” said Mr. Bradbury
impatiently. “Old Mr. Craike was near to death when I left him, and he
died to-night. I know not whether Charles Craike is yet in the house, or
whether he’s gone sneaking away, as I take it all the old rogues have by
now. Nay, Sir Gavin, I am troubled more by the coming of the woman
Baynes but now, and the word she brought Charles Craike from the Stone
House, and the effect of her tidings on him!”
“What of the hag?” Sir Gavin muttered. “What’s all this, Bradbury?”
“She brought this message from Martin Baynes: ‘Adam Baynes’ come home
again!’—and Charles went grey with terror.”
“Adam Baynes! Old Mag’s son,” said the justice. “Shipped overseas ten
years or so since, with Captain Phillip from Portsmouth for Botany Bay.
How should the rogue have ever come back from New South Wales? He went
overseas for life.”
Mr. Bradbury rose swiftly, and, hurrying to the door, called, “Roger
Galt! Come here! And bring a lantern! We need more light.”
Roger Galt came slowly and unwillingly into the room, and stood blinking
before us, watching Sir Gavin apprehensively.
“You dog!” growled the justice. “I’ve sworn to clap you in gaol till
you’re hanged. But for this night’s work—”
“For this night’s work, Sir Gavin would tell you, Galt,” Mr. Bradbury
interrupted with impatience, “that all will be forgotten. Don’t
interrupt me, pray, Sir Gavin—that is your meaning. Galt, a while since
you said that Adam Baynes was never shipped overseas; that actually he
remained in England; and that he died from a bullet in some highway
robbery.”
“That’s so, master,” Roger muttered, glancing round at the door, as if
prepared to break away from the justice and possible custody at any
moment.
“What more do you know of this, Galt?” Mr. Bradbury persisted. “How
should this rogue, sentenced to transportation, have been free in
England? Did he escape and return, or did he never sail?”
“He never sailed,” vowed Roger. “Guineas went to get him out of the
hands of them as was taking him to Portsmouth to put him aboard.”
“He escaped, and no search was ever made for him?” cried Mr. Bradbury.
“Do you expect us to believe that, Roger Galt? Why, man, it’s
unbelievable!”
Galt muttered, “I’ve heard tell—Mother Mag’s cackled over it when in
drink—another was put aboard in his place; another went overseas as Adam
Baynes—someone they wanted to get out of England.”
“How long,” asked Mr. Bradbury, “since Captain Phillip sailed?”
“Ten years since, to my thinking,” the justice answered reflectively.
“Ten years since!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, as understanding of his
theory came upon me, I gasped, and stared wildly at him,—he cried out
sharply, “Sir Gavin! Bid a couple of fellows go with my men from Bow
Street, and seek Charles Craike. His rooms are immediately above us!
Bid them seek him there, and, if he have not fled yet, bring him here!
That will do, Galt. Go!”
I caught at Mr. Bradbury’s arm, and would have sought an answer of him to
my thoughts and terrors; he did not heed me, but, speaking swiftly and
with agitation growing upon him, he burst out, “Sir Gavin, at whatever
risk of falling in with Blunt’s men, and being worsted by them and the
rogues of this place and the Stone House—for surely they’ve all gone
scurrying for the Stone House this night—we must ride for the Stone
House. I’ve sent for Charles Craike here, to question him; for surely
he’ll lie to us—and to delay him, if he think to go thither this night.
For, ten years since, Mr. Richard Craike disappeared from home and wife
and son in London; and for ten years has not been heard of. If, Sir
Gavin, it should be—it is the wildest fancy—that Richard Craike went
overseas in place of Adam Baynes? If this should be?”
“Bradbury—surely!” gasped Sir Gavin. “It could not be!”
“Ay, ay; but if it should be, and if Richard Craike’s escaped—come home
to England; if Richard Craike was on his road to Craike House yesterday;
and Martin Baynes, Blunt’s men—came upon him? For, surely, Richard
Craike coming home, and seeking wife and son in London, and finding no
trace of them, would hurry hither. And if Richard Craike’s again in the
hands of his enemies at the Stone House?”
“If! If!” cried the justice. “The maddest of fancies, Bradbury!”
“No! For the woman comes in the night to Charles Craike. And the woman
says ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’ And Charles Craike—looks like
death—at the very words!”
“I would,” growled Sir Gavin, “that I’d more men with me. It’s damnably
unfortunate, Bradbury, that the coastguard should be held to the shore
to-night, while that young whipper-snapper of a lieutenant—Abbott—seeks
to cut out Blunt’s brig in the dark.”
“Whatever be the peril,” Mr. Bradbury declared, “we needs must ride for
the Stone House this night. For I tell you that, if this be Richard
Craike, and he be in the hands of Martin Baynes and the rogues whom we’ve
beaten at their game to-night, he is in peril—peril of death.”
“Ay, but you’ll hear Charles—if he’s not gone,” Sir Gavin muttered,
rising. “I hear them coming down the stair.”
My uncle had not fled the house, but he was dressed for riding—booted and
spurred. He came in with his hat pressed down upon his brows, a hunting
crop in his right hand, his left thrust deeply into his greatcoat pocket.
He was livid yet; his face wore the cruel and implacable aspect he had
shown when first I looked upon him from the window of the Stone House,
and I had known that none whom he feared or hated might look for mercy
from him. He strode in boldly, the fellows who had brought him down to
us hung doubtfully in the doorway—standing back at a wave of Sir Gavin’s
hand. He looked upon me, and the hate he showed struck me with terror;
his gaze passed from me to Mr. Bradbury and Sir Gavin—to the black box
lying on the table by them, with the light of candle and lamp playing
upon its silver mountings. He said angrily, “What’s this, Bradbury? Why
have you sent your rogues breaking into my room, Masters? Would you lay
me by the heels for a thief?”
“I would—ay, surely I would!” roared Sir Gavin, starting to his feet, and
pushing forward; at Mr. Bradbury’s plucking at his sleeve, he growled,
purple with choler, “Ay, ay, by the Lord, if I had my way. As I will!”
“We sent for you, Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury swiftly, “to ask
these questions of you: This man Adam Baynes—who is he? Has he risen
from the dead? Or has one come back in place of Adam Baynes? Charles
Craike, should not this man—of whose arrival you were warned this
night—whom we think held a prisoner at the Stone House, as the lad was
held by you, prove to be Richard Craike—your brother?”
My uncle answered instantly, “Bradbury, you had my answer in my father’s
hearing—that I’ve no knowledge of my brother—of his death, his
disappearance, or his flight from England. The message of that hag
conveyed to me no more than that her son is back again from
transportation.”
“Galt says the fellow died in England years since!” Sir Gavin growled.
“Galt is a liar and rogue, whom you, Sir Gavin, were you an active
justice, would have clapped in gaol long since.”
“Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, seeking to restrain Sir Gavin, “you
wear a brave face and use a bold tone to us for all your villainy.
Whither would you ride this night?”
“Whither should I ride,” my uncle cried, “than away from this house—for
London? Knowing that the boy has all—damn him!—has all that should be
mine”—and still he stared at the black box lying on the table.
“You do not think to ride to London,” said Mr. Bradbury. “You think to
ride to the Stone House to-night. You shall not leave the house! Sir
Gavin, give orders to your men! Bid them hold the door!”
I saw my uncle leap forward; the pistol gleam in his hand; his hunting
crop swing high—Sir Gavin roaring out as the two old gentlemen recoiled
from, him, “Galt! Any of you! Seize him!”
But the hunting crop smote down upon the lantern and the candle;
instantly the room was dark; all was a confusion of rushing, struggling
figures. I leaped towards the box, but was thrown back by a plunging
body, and went headlong to the floor. Sir Gavin was roaring, “Hold the
door! Don’t let him go! Light! You dolts! Light!”—And I, rolling on
the floor, squealed out, “The box! Look to the box! Sir Gavin, Mr.
Bradbury!”
A roar of voices; a smash of glass from the window; lanterns flashing in
at the door. As dazed I rose to my feet, I saw that my uncle and the box
of gems were gone.
_Chapter XXXVI_. _Dawn_
A half-hour thence we were in saddle—Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury, and I—and
riding with the two runners, and four of Sir Gavin’s servants, as swiftly
as we might through the dark for the Stone House. Roger Galt had not
waited for us; but, taking horse, had ridden off immediately in pursuit
of my uncle escaping with the jewels. We conjectured that Mr. Charles
would not proceed now to the Stone House, but would ride for London,
hoping to out-distance us, and lie hid there, till he might find a ship
and escape for the Continent.
Ere we dared leave Craike House, we assured ourselves that the Haven was
emptied of its rogues. My cousin Oliver remained with two of Sir Gavin’s
folk, to guard Miss Milne, lest any of the carrion crows fly back
thither. Now fully assured from my uncle’s speech and action that the
Stone House held the secret of my father’s disappearance from
England—that, indeed, he had returned and was held a prisoner by Martin
Baynes and his fellow-rogues, Mr. Bradbury, with an activity beyond his
years, was bent himself on riding thither; I—for all my bitter chagrin
that the gems should have fallen into my uncle’s hands—was shaking with
excitement for the thought that my father was at last come home, yet lay
at the Stone House in peril of his life. The horses were gone from the
stables; my uncle had ridden away on Sir Gavin’s own horse—to the
justice’s choler; he must needs mount his servant’s horse, and I the
other fellow’s.
We rode out then in the dark; swept down the avenue, and out the open
gates—the woods yet roaring about us in the straining wind, though the
strength of the gale had abated.
So long as we held to the open road and to the byeways by which Roger
Galt had brought me off the moors on the morn of my escape from the Stone
House, we went at high speed—not pausing or drawing rein. And the wind
blowing from the sea smote roundly on us; the beating of the breakers on
the cliff rolled up like thunder; once, as we passed in view of the sea,
I saw a red flash out of the blackness, and thought that, belike, the
King’s ship fired upon Blunt’s brig; but I could be sure of nothing for
the pitch blackness or distinguish sound of cannon over the thunderous
beat of the seas and crying of the wind.
Coming out on the wastes, we were compelled for the dark to go more
cautiously for the broken ground; Sir Gavin pressed on steadily a little
ahead, guiding us for the Stone House. We went in silence—intent upon
our purpose; I wondering over the grim events of the long night, and
dreading yet the event—that we should come too late, and that the rogues
fleeing from Craike House, and black with rage at their defeat, should
wreak their vengeance on my father—if indeed they held him at the Stone
House—ere we might arrive.
I thought of Charles Craike flying through the night: he who had wrought
this evil; victorious yet, the plundered jewels in his possession,—the
jewels for which, as surely as my grandfather, he had sold his very soul.
I thought of his triumphant laughter, as he fled through the night; I
thought of all the cunning and the tricks by which he surely would escape
us yet, and fly to France, and spend the treasure as he would, and where
upon the Continent he would. But I thought, too, of black Roger racing
grimly after through the night; I trusted yet that he, with all his
knowledge of the roads, mounted on his great horse which many a time had
carried him to safety, would come up with my uncle, and take him and the
treasure.
On in the dark we rode. The way over the moorlands seemed unending;
black coppice and rock, black upland appeared to join the blackness of
the moonless, starless night; the bleak winds blowing at our backs, the
lash of rain now falling on our shoulders. On and on, the blackness
giving place to the one greyness of clouded skies and moorlands; the pale
dawn coming.
And with the dawn we came out on the height above the Stone House, and
saw it lie grey in the hollow below us; no gleam of firelight showed from
its windows; no smoke curled up. No one was stirring; the house seemed
deserted. The baying of the hound sounded up to us. But, as we paused
and drew together, Sir Gavin Masters, pointing with his whip, growled
out, “They’re here—some of the rogues. See the horses feeding down by
the wall there”—and suddenly bellowing with triumph, “Ay, and by God,
Charles Craike himself is here; that’s my nag with the saddle on its
back—inside the wall!”
Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “Come down, Sir Gavin! Come down! We
dare not wait! What may be done within?”—and rode off apace.
Sir Gavin, following with the rest of us, gasped, “But what of Roger
Galt? What’s come to the fellow?”
Roger Galt was nigh the gateway. He stood, hatless, mired, and bleeding
from a gash upon his brow, regarding his horse, lying dead on the stones
before him. He was dazed yet from his fall, for, as we rode all about
him, and Sir Gavin cried out, “What’s chanced to you, Galt?” he stood
blinking at us stupidly a moment without answering. He swept his hand
across his brow then, and wiped back the blood; and muttered, “That’s his
work—damn him! The horse there! I come up with him at the gate. He
pulled his barker on me, and I whipped out mine, and blazed at him. He’s
away—and his bullet’s in my horse! He tried to take the London road; he
couldn’t get away from me in the dark. I know the dark.”
“You’re not hurt, Galt,” cried Sir Gavin. “The fellow’s like to be in
the house still. Ah, the gate’s open. See to your barkers, all of ye!
Two of you ride to the back of the house. Come now!”
At our head then Sir Gavin rode through the gateway; we clattered after
him over the cobbles and up to the house. The front door was shut fast
and the windows closed; no sound and no light came from within. Sir
Gavin scrambling down, we all dismounted; he, pistol in right, hunting
crop in left, strode boldly up to the door, and hammered upon it, roaring
out, “Open this door! In the King’s name—d’ye hear me? Open the door!”
No sound coming in answer, he turned back, and beckoning to his two
fellows, ordered, “Look about ye for a log! We’ll have the door down!”
and while they searched about the house, again he approached the door,
and beat upon it, roaring out, “Open! Open! In the King’s name! Damn
ye all—why don’t ye open the door?”
Roger Galt came staggering up from the gates, a bludgeon in his hand.
Mr. Bradbury looked carefully to his pistols. I, staring up at the
barred window of the room where I had been held a prisoner, cried out
suddenly and pointed upwards. For a hand had drawn aside the sacking,
and my uncle stood looking down upon us. My uncle—nay, though in the
greyness of the morn the face had seemed my uncle’s for the instant; this
face was lean and sunburnt, the eyes sunken, the grey hair was blown back
by the wind. The face was gone immediately; crying out, I rushed forward
to the door, as Sir Gavin’s men came plunging forward with a great log
between them; still crying out I know not what, I gripped it with them,
and aided them propel it with a crash against the door. Mr. Bradbury
beside me was calling out, “What is it, lad? What did ye see? Who stood
at the window?”
And I cried back, as again we staggered under the weight of the log, and
again propelled it against the door, “My father! I think my father—held
a prisoner here!”
With a crash, the rotten timbers and rusted ironwork broke before us.
And we were rushing forward into the house.
_Chapter XXXVII_. _My Uncle Comes to his Own_
In the half dark of the house, as we leaped forward—Sir Gavin and I, the
runners and his fellows coming scurrying after—I saw Martin Baynes and
Bart spring back before us, and gain the stairway. Martin faced us
there—his pistol quivering in his hand, and Bart at his back with cutlass
lifted. Sir Gavin cried out, “In the King’s name! Down with your arms!
Or, by God, you’ll hang for it.”
Martin spat out a curse in answer and drew trigger; at the blaze and roar
of the pistol, Sir Gavin hopped smartly back; flung up his arm and fired.
Martin cried out, and fell down before us. Bart, leaning forward,
cutlass in hand, leaped down suddenly upon us. I, slipping aside to the
wall, heard the clash of his blade upon a tough bludgeon, and the fall of
one of Sir Gavin’s fellows; instantly it seemed that the runners were on
Bart, and the cutlass was dragged from his hand, and clanking against the
stones. I had no thought save only to mount the stair. I saw faces
peering down through the dark above me; I knew the folk for Barwise and
big Nick; but as Sir Gavin, pushing me aside and snatching my pistol from
me, plunged up the stair, they did not stay, and vanished in the dark
before the door, scurrying away, I took it, to shelter in one of the
rooms. I reached the stair-head; groping in the dark, I found the key
yet in the lock, and presently had the door open, and with Sir Gavin was
staring into the room where I had been held those days a prisoner. There
faced us a tall man, poorly-clad and travel-stained, staring at us with
sombre eyes; looking upon my father’s face, I understood the tragedy of
weary years of suffering and exile written upon it; feature for feature
he seemed like my uncle—yet so unlike.
He said no word as we advanced, but looked upon us dully, as without
comprehension; Sir Gavin, gasping for very breathlessness as from
excitement, demanded of him, “Who are ye? Aren’t ye Richard Craike?”
“Richard Craike—yes—come from overseas, brought to this place, and gaoled
here.”
I sprang forward, stretching out my hands. I cried out, “I am John
Craike—your son! Don’t you know me, father? Don’t you know me?”
His hands clasped mine,—rough, toil-worn hands—all trembling; he bent his
head and stared down at me, and whispered, “John Craike! Ay, ay—John
Craike,” in lifeless tone.
As I drew back, and stared at him in terror, Sir Gavin put his hand upon
my shoulder and whispered, “He is mazed yet, lad; he doesn’t know you—he
doesn’t understand! Ah—they’re quiet below”—and rushing out, roared down
the stairs, “Is all safe there? Have you taken that rogue?”
“Ay, ay, sir—we have him safe!” they shouted up in answer; and Sir Gavin
growling, “Ay, but where the devil’s that villain, Charles?” took my
father’s arm and brought him with me down the stair. Bart struggled in
the grip of one runner, whilst the second bound his hands; Roger Galt and
Sir Gavin’s men were standing guard over Martin lying against the wall,
and seeking to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder; Mr. Bradbury,
pistol in hand, stood in the doorway. But Mr. Bradbury, at the sight of
my father, stepped forward, crying out, “My dear Richard! My dear sir!
Alive and well,—that’s brave!”
“Ay, ay—alive, but not too well,” growled Sir Gavin. “He’s dazed
yet—sick. Bradbury, get him out in the air! Stay here, boy! Leave him
with Bradbury awhile. Now, you hangdog”—to Martin—“where the devil’s
Charles Craike?”
Martin cursed him bitterly in answer; Sir Gavin, approaching the door of
the living-room, sought to open it; and finding it locked, cried out,
“Open the door! Or by the Lord, we’ll have it down! In the King’s
name—d’ye understand! Open it! Here, you Charles Craike—if you’re in
there, the game is played—d’ye hear? It’s gone against you!”
I believed that I heard my uncle’s voice faintly within. I heard a chair
drawn back, and presently the key turn in the lock. And the door was
drawn slowly open; and old Thrale, shuddering and ghastly, was looking at
us.
“Out of the way!” cried Sir Gavin, and flung the door wide. “See to the
stairs and doors. Let no one pass!”—and, pistol raised, he strode into
the room with me at his heels.
The green curtain was drawn across the window; the room was dim in green
light, as the sunrise struck against the house. I saw three figures in
the room: old Thrale slinking back to the wall; Mistress Barwise,
cowering in her chair by the fire; my uncle seated at the table—the black
box broken open before him. I saw the blue jewels in the skull gleam
dully. My uncle said no word, and did not stir in his chair.
“Pull back the curtain!” cried Sir Gavin to Thrale.
Thrale’s shaking hands plucked the green curtain from before the window.
The room was illumined instantly by the sun. The yellow light woke the
blue jewels in the eye sockets of the skull to life, and the gems spilt
from the casket on to the black flag into a many-coloured flame.
My uncle sat staring at us; his eyes flickering, his lips smiling,
blood-smeared; his face ghastly as death. His white hands fluttered over
the black silk; touched the skull; clawed among the jewels. He stood up
from his chair; pressed his hands against his red-stained breast, and
fell forward suddenly among the gems.
“Galt’s bullet—by God!” Sir Gavin cried, rushing towards him, whilst I
stood trembling and aghast, and Mistress Barwise cowered by the fire, and
Thrale shuddered by the wall.
_Chapter XXXVIII_. _Last Will and Testament_
My uncle’s lips had smiled before he died, lying upon the black flag, by
the death’s head, among the scattered gems. It was a bitter piece of
irony—well might his lips have smiled for it—that he laid hands upon the
treasure only the morning of his death. For the lust of the treasure all
his gifts of mind and body had been spent in vain; surely this
treasure—this ill-gotten treasure—had corrupted his whole life, worked as
a disorder in his blood; turned his mind to infamy and black plots
against his kin, and steeled his heart to desperate purpose. He had wit
as he had courage; he might have served well his King and country, and
won fame and riches honourably. He had but attained his forty-fifth
year; he lay there dead—his lifeblood spilt among the gems, staining the
fell design in silver upon his father’s flag.
We rode from the Stone House—my father, Mr. Bradbury, and I—leaving Sir
Gavin and his folk to bring away my uncle’s body, and to march the
rogues—Martin and Bart and big Nick Barwise—off to the county gaol. But
though Sir Gavin stormed and blustered, Mr. Bradbury had his way with
him, that Thrale and Mistress Barwise and her man should be left free to
go whither they would—so long as never again they came nigh Craike House.
Mr. Bradbury would have none of these old rogues laid by the heels, and
the scandal of Rogues’ Haven, its master and its old servitors, noised
through the kingdom. So these three were left to go their way with
Mother Mag, when she should come tottering home; what chanced to them I
know not to this day; for I was never to set eyes upon them more. Long
ere I pen these words all those old rogues, who served my grandfather
afloat and ashore, must surely have followed him underground.
As we rode from the Stone House, I had the black box securely in the
saddle before me; Roger Galt rode ahead of us, lest we should yet fall in
with any of Blunt’s men on our way back to Craike. Let me say here and
now that Blunt’s brig, the _Black Wasp_, slipped from the coast under
cover of the storm and the darkness, eluding the revenue cutter
despatched against her at the instance of Sir Gavin Masters; no trace was
found of Blunt’s body and Blunt’s men; we assumed that the seamen who had
come ashore with him must have gone safely aboard. What was the truth of
this, or what the end of the _Black Wasp_, I may not tell, for Blunt’s
brig and Blunt’s men never again sailed back to the coast nigh Craike
House, to my knowledge.
We rode in silence, Mr. Bradbury jaded and weary; I, for all the perils
of my sleepless night, and all the rigours of our ride to the Stone
House, borne up for the joy of my father’s safe return, and for the
thoughts of happiness awaiting mine and me. He rode beside me—bent and
broken, seeming an old man though he was not yet in his forty-eighth
year, sorrowful lines about his mouth, his eyes haunted surely by the
memories of his sufferings overseas. From time to time I saw him
watching me intently; his lips smiled at me when my eyes met his; he said
no word through all our ride across the sunlit moors and by the woodlands
back to Craike House. Ay, the sun burned on the house that morn,
lighting the sombre ivy, and flowing in through the shattered window of
the dining-hall, where Evelyn Milne had spread a meal in readiness for
our return.
It fell to Mr. Bradbury to draw Oliver apart, and tell him of his
father’s death; my cousin said no word, but, brushing past us, left the
house, and was not seen by me again that day. My father sat down with us
to our meal, remaining silent and dejected still. I watched him with
increasing apprehension, dreading the result upon him of his long
sufferings; though Mr. Bradbury—now almost dropping from his chair for
very weariness—sought to assure me all would yet be well.
I must have fallen asleep in my chair, and so been carried off by Sir
Gavin’s fellows left to guard the house; certainly I woke to find the
candles burning in my room, and the fire blazing, and to observe a figure
seated in my chair—him for a moment I thought my uncle, and cried out in
terror. My father rose up from his chair, and came toward me swiftly,
his hands outstretched, his eyes alight now with intelligence and joy;
and his voice cried to the very heart strings of me, “John! My lad! My
son!”
And ere we parted that night, I had from him the story: how by my uncle’s
plotting he was taken out of England—seized in London, borne away to
Portsmouth, and shipped aboard the _Sirius_ of Captain Phillip’s Fleet on
the very eve of its departure for the distant clime of New South Wales.
Now this Adam Baynes, in whose place he was shipped out of England, had
been laid by the heels for highway-robbery and sentenced at Assizes to be
transported overseas for life. Taken out of the county gaol for
conveyance to Portsmouth, he had been rescued on the road by his
associates of Rogues’ Haven from his bribed guards; another man had been
given, bound and stunned from blows, into their keeping; this man had
been borne to Portsmouth, and put aboard the prison-ship. Rogues of
Rogues’ Haven had carried out my uncle’s plot; my uncle’s guineas had
surely paid; bribes and the dread of punishment had kept the mouths of
the Bow Street runners shut. For many days my father had lain nigh to
death aboard the _Sirius_; when his senses were restored to him, and he
declared himself not Adam Baynes but Richard Craike, the master and his
officers pronounced him rogue or madman, and, indeed, for his agony of
thought and from the blow upon his head, he believed now that he was
indeed bereft of reason for many months of the voyage out to Botany Bay.
Not Captain Phillip or any of his officers believed his tale, or would
send off a letter to his folk in England. He was held in bondage;
toiling as any slave about the Settlement at Sydney, for the torment of
his mind and body, he told me sadly now, he was no better than a madman
much of his time. But so at last he won the interest of Captain Hunter,
Governor of the Colony, that slowly and by degrees he convinced him that
there might be truth in his story, so that, though hesitating, the
Governor took upon himself to send him back to England, penning and
forwarding to the Secretary of State a letter setting forth this case and
desiring his investigation. My father had landed in London a week since;
reference to the East India office, in Mr. Bradbury’s absence from Town,
had proved to the Secretary that he was indeed Richard Craike; he had
been set instantly at liberty. And failing to find my mother at the
lodging where we had dwelt in London, or to learn aught of her or me, he
had come hurrying down to Craike, to fall in with Martin Baynes and
Blunt’s men near his home, and to be borne off a prisoner to the Stone
House. He had been nigh beside himself with rage and terror, that again
he should have fallen into the hands of his enemies, and be again at his
brother’s mercy. “Surely,” he said quietly, as he wound up his tale, “my
wits were wandering again this morn, that seeing my son I should not have
known him my son, or Bradbury for Bradbury!”
Now, though our thoughts were only for my mother—to hurry away to Chelton
and bring joy and peace to her heart, Mr. Bradbury would have us remain
at Craike House, till my grandfather and my uncle were laid in their
graves, and the old man’s last will and testament read to us. Indeed,
Mr. Bradbury took proper credit to himself at breakfast next morning,
that he had so far anticipated our wishes, that his coachboy and his
coach and pair were already travelling apace for Chelton to bring my
mother across country to Craike House. I found myself wondering whether
my mother would credit the news conveyed in Mr. Bradbury’s letter; and
whether she was not likely to suspect the hand of Charles Craike in it,
and refuse to come to Craike House, whose doors she had vowed to me never
again to enter. But four days thence she came.
That morn my grandfather and my uncle were borne out from Craike House to
be laid in the grim vault which the old man had directed to be built for
himself and his sons, nigh the village church where lay the bones of so
many of our kin. Above the church the cliffs rose high; here he had set
his rock-built tomb in the sound of the sea, and in the track of the
winds from the sea; and he had placed upon its side a broad tablet of
bronze, bearing the design of a ship amid great waters. All through the
burial service I heard the beat of the seas on the cliff; I thought of
seas and sea winds sounding through his sleep till Judgment Day.
Now if I could feel for my grandfather no love, or sorrow, I had before
me always the recollection of him as he had faced the rogues and saved me
out of their hands, and of the power of the will which had triumphed for
the time over decay of mind and body; kindled old fires in him, and
conjured up odd strength,—to break and end in death.
But on my return with my father, Oliver, and Mr. Bradbury to Craike
House, my thoughts were diverted instantly to the arrival of my good
mother in Mr. Bradbury’s coach. I sped down the steps to welcome her; I
caught her in my arms as she descended from the coach; I led her,
trembling and tearful, to the doorway where my father stood. And so I
left them, and did not again approach them, till we must assemble for the
reading of my grandfather’s will.
We assembled in the dining-hall; my mother seated hand in hand with my
father; my cousin Oliver, dark and sullen to all seeming as ever; the
girl Evelyn Milne,—into whose cheeks these past few days colour had
seemed to steal, as light into her eyes. Mr. Bradbury, taking my
grandfather’s chair, would have me sit by him. The change upon the house
was surely marked by the windows opened wide to the light of day. The
sunlight played into the room, with sweet air scented from the flowers in
the garden.
Mr. Bradbury, breaking the seals of the will, spread the parchment out
before him; cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. But ere he
read, he said quietly, looking at my father, “My dear sir, before I read,
I’d say this to you: that had you come to Craike but a few hours earlier,
this will had never borne the signature of my lamented client, Mr. Edward
Craike. I do assure you, sir, your father had for you a strong
affection; indeed, I feel that you alone—save in the past few weeks, your
son—were dear to him.”
My father bowed his head. “I do not question—I shall never question,” he
said, “my father’s affection for me. Pray, sir, proceed.”
“If you had come, sir,” Mr. Bradbury went on, “you must have inherited
not only Craike House and its lands, but your father’s fortune—by no
means represented in the contents of that strange box—the precious stones
which Mr. Edward Craike, from some eccentricity of his own, would have by
him always, and which, indeed, resulted from certain—ahem—trading
ventures conducted by him personally abroad—would surely have passed in
its entirety to you. I say this, knowing your father’s affection for
you, Richard. Such a will was framed by me before you left Craike House
for London; the will was revoked by my lamented client only when you had
disappeared from England, and by no investigation could we ascertain
whether you were alive or dead. The second will divided my client’s
fortune between you and your brother Charles; your father was at no time
assured in his own mind that you were dead; a certain
resentment—inevitable resentment, I fear—that you should have deserted
him wholly, dictated this later disposition of his estate. Under that
will, the death of either of his sons, if proved, would have left the
other sole heir to Mr. Edward Craike; and on his father’s death possessor
of a fortune representing in money, in East India stock and such, and in
these jewels, of not less, I should say, than two hundred thousand
pounds. But Mr. Craike grew to suspect the circumstances in which the
disappearance, if not the death, of his elder son had taken place.”
Mr. Bradbury paused to clear his throat, and took up the will.
“A few weeks since Mr. Edward Craike had no knowledge that his elder son
had married. I myself had the supreme satisfaction of meeting Mr. John
Craike at Chelton—recognising him immediately from his likeness to you,
Richard—and of presenting him to Mr. Edward Craike as his grandson. Ere
I left the house on his reception—favourable reception—of Mr. John, Mr.
Craike had directed me to prepare a fresh will—this will—in the terms I
am about to disclose to you. He desired that his grandson should remain
in this house for a month, so that he might acquaint himself with him and
judge his fitness to enjoy the benefits which he then contemplated
bestowing on him. Mr. John Craike was happy in commending himself to his
grandfather’s favour. For this will, signed, witnessed, and sealed on
the night of Mr. Edward Craike’s death, revokes all previous wills, and
leaves Mr. John Craike in possession of his grandfather’s entire
fortune—Craike House and lands alone passing, to be sure, in the natural
order of inheritance, to you, Mr. Richard.”
And though I gasped, and my mother cried out, and my father leaned
forward to clasp my hand, Mr. Bradbury proceeded to read deliberately and
with an obvious appreciation of legal phrases as of dry wine. “Mr. John
Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, laying down the parchment at last, “I have
the honour and the happiness to congratulate you,” and shook hands with
me, bowed, and sought his snuff-box.
I remember then blurting out that I’d take not a penny; that all should
have gone to my father; and that all was his, will or no will, save only
that my cousin Oliver and Miss Milne must share. Oliver, though shaking
hands with me, growled that he would take nothing from me; Mr. Bradbury,
chuckling, avowed that as trustees and guardians, Sir Gavin Masters and
he would see to it that I did not dissipate my fortune ere I attained my
majority. And presently I was left with only my mother and my father by
me; and we were falling to planning all that we might do with this
fortune that was ours: build up the old house and its race again, and
spend wisely and for the happiness of the folk about us out of the
treasure which my grandfather had won in the years of his sailing.
Now I might tell our story through the years since that far sunlit
afternoon, and find delight in telling. I might tell of the happiness
that was ours; I might tell how my kinsman Oliver fought with the Great
Duke, and of the honours that were his; I might tell how Roger Galt died
by his side years after, at Waterloo; I might tell how I sailed with
Nelson to his dying in his most glorious _Victory_. Long ere Oliver was
come back from the wars, I had quitted the sea to turn country squire,
and to win Evelyn Milne, who from pale maid was grown the most desirable
of brides and most adorable. I might tell—
Nay, I have set down faithfully only the story of my coming to Rogues’
Haven, and all that happened to me at my kinsman’s hands. Ay, and the
clock strikes midnight; the candles burn down into their silver sticks;
through the open window of my library I see the moonlight white upon the
terrace,—on the deep lawns, the flowers in the garden, even as my uncle
dreamed so long ago.
His words come sounding to me from that far afternoon, when last he
walked within the garden: “I have looked from my window of a summer
night, and I have seen the ghosts walk in the garden as it was, and I
have known the beauty and the colour and the laughter of this garden and
this house, as once they were. I have thought of the beauty of Craike
House restored, the greatness of our race.”
I think almost to hear my uncle’s laughter out of the moon-lit garden
where his ghost may walk, and take delight in this white, scented night
of summer.
* * * * *