An apology is submitted for here retailing some commonplaces of a
very evil duet of rascals.
That began with certain dropping shots of irony, and it ended at
pretty close range.
The kitchen of the tumbled lodge served for guardhouse; and the two
officers were quartered in the little parlour opposite Mr. Tuke’s room
of bondage. Between walked a sentry, and another (on this occasion Mr.
Joseph Corby) was stationed to the front of the house in the freezing
moonlight. Burnt fallow-deer meat had been plentifully bolted after
the exertions of the day, and kegs of rum--supplied, it must be
confessed, by Mr. Breeds, who was not otherwise represented in this
climax of affairs--topped very agreeably the simplicity of the repast.
Mr. Fern and his lieutenant exchanged speech for the first time after
the second glass. Then said the former suddenly:
“Brander, who’s the cock of this run?”
“Oh, don’t you know, Jack Fern,” was the answer; “the bantam, by the
token, that crows himself red in the face?”
There seemed some personality here.
“Then I’ll have you know, by God, that I’m not to be supplanted by any
white-shackled rooster that can out-screech me. You assume too much
authority, sir, on the strength of an acquaintance with primers.”
Mr. Brander very urbanely recited the fable of the cock and the jewel.
“’Twas the Lake of Wine,” said he; “and there it was under your nose
while you kicked up the dunghill. Primers have their uses.”
“Maybe; maybe not.”
“Why, man--give me Cutwater’s letter.”
“What for?”
“Give me Cutwater’s letter, I say.”
The other hesitated, then from a pocket-book that he drew from his
coat, selected a yellowed fragment of paper and flung it sulkily
across the table to his companion.
“Now, Mr. Fern,” said Brander, taking up the letter deliberately and
referring to it--“vouchsafe me your kind attention, if you please.
This was dated, I think, some months before the lamented gentleman’s
death, and was addressed to you?”
“Oh! curse you out of your pedantry, Ebenezer Brander!”
“In it occur the following words, once expressive of mere violence to
you--of enigma to me. Let me re-read them. ‘I’ve got the stone, bloody
Jack Fern, and the stone I mean to keep. You’ll find it, despite the
devil and Mister C., will you? Find it, you----’ (Tut, tut, Mr.
Cutwater! what a shocking unpoliteness!) ‘Pray to the blessed St.
Anthony, you’d better; for it’s hid well, I’ll tell you. It’s in my
head but you’ll make a lame matter of the search.’”
He finished, threw the paper back to the other and pulled at his pipe.
“‘In my head,’” he repeated, softly knuckling the table. “Who, when
you showed him the letter, half-read the riddle in those words, and
egged you on to renew the search? Whose prognostications were verified
in that which was overheard by our friend the innkeeper?”
“I grant you can see further into a haystack than the most of us.”
“You do, do you? Then what’s your complaint?”
“That you undermine me in the favour of my fellows, by God!--that you
assume the leadership and work first and foremost to your own
advancement.”
“Have I misrepresented you in giving that gentleman-scamp his last
warning?”
“No.”
“In concealing from him the truth of the girl’s throwing herself into
our hands?”
“No.”
“You would have blundered in all this. You have the hoofs and horns of
a bullock, and they are your one appeal and resource. Take the
fighting to yourself and leave the diplomacy to your betters.”
“You don’t rest content with your share. I grant you one devil, and
you spawn out a dozen. As there’s hell smouldering for us all, I
believe there was truth in the fellow’s story of your double-dealing
with him.”
Brander rose to his feet.
“Mr. Bloody Jack Fern,” he said, “I’ll wish you good-bye and a happy
release from your difficulties. I waive all claim to a share in the
profits of this undertaking as conducted by you.”
“Sit down, man, sit down--by God, sit down! I believe you’ve the right
honour, and I apologize. ’Twas a test, and the devil fly away with it!
I don’t understand your methods. To me we’re as little advanced as two
days back, and I begin to scent failure.”
“Of course. You’ve a crimson standard of measurement in such affairs.
A murder or two would set you clucking like a hen.”
“The thaw, man, the thaw. Should it come, as that fribble hinted,
before----”
“And where should we be the better then, for staining our hands? I
play for our necks, Jack Fern. From the first I’ve founded our claim
on the unlawful detention of the stone. But you want the
leadership--you want the leadership and that means the credit for all.
And you shall have it, by thunder, and set that fat head of yours,
with the brains drawn out o’t, against a miry problem you shall sink
in for all your frog’s croaking.”
Mr. Fern came slowly to his feet.
“Not empty enough,” he said, in an indrawn voice--“not empty enough,
Ebenezer Brander, to misread the little game you’re contriving. Oh, I
see through it, my friend! You’ll carry your brains to the enemy’s
camp, will you, and----”
He choked with his rage. In a moment he had snapped out his knife and
sprung round the table. The other was prepared for him in the same
instant. They set at one another bent-headed, like a couple of
game-cocks seeking to strike. Here promised an end of the pretty
conspiracy; but the devil cares for his own. On the tick of combat the
door was thrown open and one of the gang stood gaping in the entrance.
“Curse the fool!” cried Brander. “What does he want?”
The man, half-drunk, stood confused, as if he had interrupted some
sacred ceremony.
“The gal,” he mumbled, “she’s a-singin’ psalms in the attic.”
“You----!” shouted the schoolmaster; cracked in his upper register and
went into a skirl of laughter. The tension of the cord was eased, and
both men fell back.
“Get to your bowl, you horn-bug!” screeched Fern. “What, the fiend!
Shan’t she prepare herself for the sacrifice?”
“Oh!” said the man, “I thought subbody might ’ear--thas all.”
“Hear, you rat? Who’s to hear in the middle of Sahara?”
He waved his hand peremptorily. The fellow stumbled out and drew the
door to behind him with a clap. Fern slipped his knife into its
sheath. He looked at the other scoundrel stealthily, and grinned.
“Cry off, Brander,” he said. “We’re hunting counter. Fill and call a
toast, man. My heart warms to the ladies. ’Twere a pity to waste this
heat of passion on a friend’s undoing, when an enemy, and a pretty
one, offers.”
Brander strode to the table and seized the flask.
“A bottle to that,” he said grimly. “Nothing under a quart reconciles
_me_ to a petticoat.”
They sat for an hour--for two hours, swilling fire and wickedness. The
night closed upon itself, and the moon was half-across the sky. The
frost without crackled in the very heart of the fearful sentry, so
that presently he could stand it no more, and tapped on the casement.
“It’s in my roots,” he said, when Brander came to him. “I must be let
in or die.”
“I can’t have you in his room, Joe. He’s far too cunning a gentleman
to trust you with him.”
“Then give me a drink. A bucket of schnapps wouldn’t drowse me here.”
They handed him out a stiff jorum in a bottle, and closing the window
again, resumed their orgy. Another hour passed. Suddenly one beast
looked significantly at the other, and both rose. Together they
staggered to the door, opened it, and lurched out into the passage.
The sentry here came to himself with a start, and stared at them like
an owl. They bade him have ears for his only business, and went
swaying on to where, by the kitchen, a little stairway led to the
floor above. The house was dimly lighted with candles that guttered
here and there on brackets. One of these Fern seized in his evil hand,
and they ascended softly to a narrow landing. The congested snore of
many crapulous ruffians came to them from below; a third sentry nodded
at hand on the top step.
“Let him be,” whispered Brander. “He shall be breeched for neglect
to-morrow.”
In a little attic, with barred windows, the girl had been confined.
Gently they turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and
entered.
The room was empty as a rifled grave.
Stupidly staring, they saw by the hearth a heap of rubbish, an
overturned flag; and with bursting oaths they rushed for the place,
and, swinging the light down, were aware of a jagged rent, torn
through the rotted fabric, that looked into the room below.
“_His_ room!” cried Fern, putting his hand to his forehead and
staggering back.
The next moment they were out on the landing again. The sitting sentry
grunted and cocked a bleared eye at them. With a foul curse, and no
condescension of question to him, Brander drove his heavy foot at the
man with all his force. The fellow started up with a shriek like a
neigh, doubled upon himself, and, toppling, went down the whole flight
with a noise of snapping, and collapsed in a writhing and coughing
heap at the bottom.
Immediately there was a humming uproar of waking men, in the midst of
which the two bounded into the passage and scrambled for the door of
the second prison-chamber.
They burst it open. The window was flung wide--the room was empty--a
fragment of rope trailed from the fire-place.
“Dolts! dogs! bullock-heads!” cried Brander, pelting, screaming with
fury, into the passage again. “Where are they? What have you been
doing, hearing, overlooking in your damned folly? Let me pass, you
worse than curs and maniacs!”
He was wrenching and tugging frantically at the handle of the
entrance-door. In an instant he was out, had staggered, had sprawled
with his hands to save himself, and had gone with a sliding run into
the snow. He was up directly, and shrieking to those within for a
light. Some one brought it flurried, and he seized and held it over
some shapeless thing huddled against the porch.
“Drunk?” he muttered. “No, by God!” and he stooped and gave a little
pull to the inert mass. A squelch of darkness ran out into the snow,
that received and held it like a blotting-paper.
Mr. Corby had been stabbed to the heart.