SIMON STOCK
He made for the beach and stood there waiting. The rocks to westward
cut off his view of the oncoming boat and he had time for a moment’s
thought.
He felt like an actor who had to appear on the stage with a
half-learned part. Thinking entirely of how to hide his treasure, he
had forgotten to invent a story to account for his presence on the
island.
It was too late now, for here came the boat’s nose round the western
rocks, a large, white-painted boat, flashing eight oars in the sun.
Now she was coming dead on for the beach and Gaspard was wading out
knee-deep to meet her. Within ten strokes of the beach, the men ceased
rowing and she came bravely on, the bow oar standing up and shouting
something in English which Gaspard did not understand; he waved and
shouted a reply in French and the next moment he was clutching the
thwart, being hauled aboard and shoved aft.
The mate of the vessel, who was steering, a hatchet-faced American,
hauled Gaspard down beside him and without waiting for word or
question, which would have been useless, considering that he could
scarcely speak a syllable of French, shouted orders to the crew and the
boat poled off from the shore and began its return journey to the ship.
“French?” said the mate, when they were under way.
Gaspard nodded, “_Oui_, _oui_,” then pointing behind him, “wreck;” it
was one of the few English words that he knew. The hands in the boat,
all Americans, lean-faced, bronze, chewing as they rowed, looked with
interest at the marooned one and made remarks about him one to the
other, but the mate, after the first interrogation, seemed to have
no interest in anything but getting back to the ship as quickly as
possible. There was a life belt in the stern of the boat with the words
“Anne Martin” on it.
Gaspard pointed to the name and then at the ship they were approaching.
“Anne Martine?” asked he.
The mate nodded and spat into the sea.
“_Quelle porte?_” asked Gaspard, pointing southward.
“St. Pierre.”
“_St. Pierre!_” cried Gaspard. “_O mon Dieu, St. Pierre—St. Pierre
Martinique?_”
The mate nodded.
For a moment Gaspard could not believe that such luck was his. Out of
thirty or forty possible ports she was bound for St. Pierre, for Marie.
Then he laughed and clapped his knees with his hands; the oarsmen
laughed half mockingly, poking fun at him in American slang, but the
mate did not laugh, he was a man who, to use his own expression, had no
use for laughter, besides, his eyes and his mind were otherwise engaged.
Gaspard, in his excitement over lighting the signal fire and the
approach of the boat, had forgotten one thing. He was wearing the
diamond ring he had taken from Sagesse, a terrible blunder, almost
unbelievable, did not one know the capacity of the human mind for error.
The mate, he was first officer of the _Anne Martin_ and his name was
Skinner—though he could scarcely keep his eyes from the flashing
jewel, said nothing, and now the boat was under the port quarter of the
_Anne Martin_, oars were in and Gaspard climbing the ladder which had
been flung down, whilst a hard-faced man in a panama, Captain Stock,
no less, the master of the vessel, was leaning over the side shouting
directions to the mate.
In a moment the crew were on board, the boat swung up at the davits,
the braces manned and the _Anne Martin_ on her course again.
Then, and not till then, did Captain Stock turn to the new-comer.
“He’s French,” said Skinner, “wrecked over there, but he’s got a
diamond on his finger worth ten thousand dollars that wants explaining.”
The Captain glanced at Gaspard, fixed his eyes on the ring and then
said, “Call Diego, he can chatter to him, it’s all the d——d Dago is
good for.”
It was at this moment that Gaspard, seeing Captain Stock’s gaze fixed
on his hand, recognised that he was wearing the ring.
In a moment Diego, a fat Portugee, with black curls and earrings, came
running aft. Then, through the mediumship of this interpreter, Captain
Stock began to question the marooned one.
“How long have you been wrecked?”
“Some days.”
“Storm or what?”
“Storm.”
“Where did you get that ring you are wearing?”
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“On the island.”
“Picked it up?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“On the beach.”
Here Gaspard broke across the questions with a statement.
“Tell M. le Capitaine the ring is mine. I found it, and I shall sell
it at St. Pierre and pay him handsomely for my passage. I have friends
at St. Pierre who can speak for me. I want to go on this ship as a
passenger; not to work my passage.”
“Who can you name at St. Pierre as a friend?”
“Monsieur Seguin—Paul Seguin.”
The name appeared to have an effect upon Captain Stock.
“What was the name of your ship?”
“_La Belle Arlésienne._”
No sooner had the words left Gaspard’s mouth than an extraordinary
change took place in the face of the Captain; long enough by nature, it
lengthened still more. He came forward and grasped Gaspard’s arm.
“_La Belle Arlésienne!!!_”
“_Oui._”
“Belonging to Pierre Sagesse?”
“Pierre Sagesse—_oui_.”
“Was he on board—Hi, you d——d Dago, ask him was Pierre Sagesse
aboard.”
Diego put the question.
“Yes.”
“Was he lost?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead—sure?”
“Yes—_O ma foi_, yes. I left him with the crabs eating him.”
Stock had been one of Pierre Sagesse’s many victims. Stock was not
owner of the _Anne Martin_, only master, but he had once owned a ship
in the West India trade, had become involved in Sagesse’s net and
ruined. The hatred of hell would scarcely express in words the hatred
of Simon Stock for Pierre Sagesse. No wonder, then, that he did what
he did on the news of Pierre Sagesse’s death and the statement about
the crabs, and what he did was this. Flung up his chin till his scrawny
and vulturous neck was sunlit from hyoid bone to sternum, clicked his
fingers like castanets, laughed horribly, called the hands aft, ordered
Skinner to serve them out a tot of rum all round and, then, taking
Gaspard by the arm, led him down the companion-way to the dismal place
that went by the name of the saloon.
He opened the door of a dog hole that had served once for a third
officer’s cabin and Diego, who had followed, translating, he said:
“You can berth here and for nothing, the news that Peer Sagesse is in
hell is all the payment I want. Make yourself at home, sonny, call for
what you want, drinks _or_ smokes and dinner’s at eight bells.”
Then he turned on his heel and went on deck, followed by Diego, leaving
Gaspard to settle into his new quarters. A palace would not have
pleased him better at the moment, than this dingy place. He had dreaded
being berthed in the fo’cs’le, to have carried a fortune of many
thousands of pounds in gems into such a place, to live in that mixed
community for several weeks and to keep the fortune hidden would have
been a difficult task indeed.
Here it was perfectly simple, there was an upper and a lower bunk, each
with a mattress, there was no steward, so Diego had told him, so there
would be no one fussing about making beds. He took the bundle from his
pocket and placed it in a corner of the upper bunk under the mattress,
as he did so he felt the absolute physical pleasure that comes when the
body is relieved of a heavy load. He could move now freely and having
closed the door of the cabin, he came on deck.