LIFE OR DEATH
"Hold her, Philpotts! Dead or alive, I must find _him_."
With these words, as Philpotts laid his controlling hand on Peggy's
wrist, Huntoon threw off his coat, kicked away his boots, and springing
to the taff-rail, plunged into the icy water. As he plunged, the body
rose again, this time further away from the boat, and Huntoon struck
out towards it.
Peggy shut her eyes and prayed.
One minute--two--three--went by. Then with fear and trembling, white
as the sea-gull that wheeled above her head, the girl opened her eyes
once more, and strained them toward the spot where Huntoon had plunged.
Not there; so he too had gone. No, that dark object to the right must
be his head; now she could see one strong arm cleaving the water, and
surely, surely he was holding some person, some _thing_ with the other.
Yes, and now he is calling for a rope. Oh, fool, fool! not to have
thought of that!
She turned to the cabin; but Philpotts was before her. He dashed down
the companionway, and reappeared with a coil of rope in his hand.
Bracing himself against the mast, he flung the coil with all his might.
It flew straight as an arrow and fell within reach of Huntoon's free
hand.
"Bravo! Well done!" came from the crew of the packet, which had come
about and stood by to render what help might be needed.
Philpotts, having made sure that his rope had carried, made the
other end fast to a cleat, and then as Huntoon passed his end around
Neville's body, Philpotts and Peggy drew it in hand over hand, till the
two in the water, the swimmer and his burden, were brought close to the
boat.
Philpotts leaped into the shallop, brought it round, and together he
and Huntoon succeeded in lifting Neville's body into it. Huntoon's
teeth were chattering, and his limbs shaking with cold; but he gave no
heed to himself.
"An ugly blow!" he muttered, looking at the great round swelling
above the temple where the blood was already settling black. "Brandy,
Philpotts, quick--from my flask in the cabin!" and falling on his knees
in the shallop, he began to chafe Neville's icy hands. At the same time
he called aloud to the sailors on the packet to send their small boat
to make examination of _The Lady Betty_, to take off the young lady if
the danger were imminent, and to lend a hand at saving the cargo.
He and Philpotts rowed the shallop to the packet, and lifted Neville
with the sailors' help to the deck of the larger vessel. Then, and not
till then, he looked about for the captain who stood facing him, and
behold it was--_Richard Ingle_!
The best gift of the gods is prudence; the next best audacity. Romney
Huntoon was handsomely dowered with the latter commodity, and he
invoked it now in his awkward predicament. Walking up to Ingle with a
smile, he stretched out his hand.
"You and I are quits," he said; "I did you a bad turn yonder at St.
Mary's. You have done me a bad turn now by sinking my boat. Shall we
wipe the slate and begin again?"
Huntoon's opening was happily chosen. Had he apologized, all would have
been lost; but the freebooter was pleased with the boy's boldness. Yet
that alone would scarcely have won the day. It was the bright eyes of
Peggy Neville that lent a certain civility to his surly voice.
"If I'd known whose boat we were running down, I'd never ha' given
myself the trouble to come about, for I could ha' seen you go down with
her in great comfort; but since ye chanced to have this young lady
aboard, I'm not sorry things fell out as they did. But that's as far
as I'll go. And as for your cargo yonder, I warn you that all we save
of that goes to Ingle and Company, to make good the damage to _The
Reformation_."
"A bit of paint--" began Huntoon, and then turned his back and stood
looking over the rail, watching the death-struggle of _The Lady Betty_.
The little vessel rolled first this way and then that, shipping water
in her hold at every turn.
There is a solemnity in watching a sinking ship akin to that of
standing by a death-bed. As Huntoon looked, a wave of memories swept
over him. He recalled the first journey he had taken aboard her, the
pride of setting out with his father, the smell of tar on the ropes,
as the sailors cast them loose, and the anxious face of his mother as
she stood on the pier to wave a farewell. With this thought of his
father and mother came the wonder how this disaster would strike them.
He dreaded their consternation at the loss, but he felt sure of their
sympathy. Blessed is the son who holds to that, let come what may.
Meanwhile, Neville lay on the packet's deck, pale as death, with
eyelids closed, and only the faint beating of his heart giving evidence
that he still lived. Peggy sat beside him, holding sal volatile to
his nostrils. The sailors stood around in a sympathetic circle, their
Monmouth caps doffed, though the winter air was searching. None
doubted that they were in the face of death, and the roughest sailor
grows reverent in that august presence.
At length, however, the lowered lids quivered and lifted themselves
first a crack, then wider and wider till the eyes--those long
steel-gray eyes--rested with full recognition on Huntoon and Philpotts.
His lips moved, and formed one half-audible word, "St. Mary's!"
Huntoon looked questioningly at Ingle who answered as if he had
spoken,--
"No, by the Lord! and any one who suggests turning about for so much as
a mile, will be spitted like a pigeon on my sword here and flung into
the sea."
"As you will," said Huntoon, coolly. "So far as I know, none has
suggested it save this man who is raving in delirium from the cut in
his head. For my part, I had far rather he did not get his wish, for we
have but just saved him from Brent's clutches."
"How's that? I thought they were as thick as thieves."
"So they were; but time brings strange revenges. It was after you did
set sail that the priest was murdered at St. Gabriel's."
"I'm right glad to hear of it whenever one of those black crows is put
out of the way. No word of it reached me, though I have been hanging
about the river here waiting for cargo."
"That means spying on the land," Huntoon thought to himself, but aloud
he said,--
"Well, so it has fallen out, and because he had Neville's knife in his
breast, the Governor will have it that it was Neville did the murder.
He was hot for punishment, and will be sore angered when he finds his
prey has slipped through his fingers."
This was shrewdly spoken. To spite Giles Brent, Ingle would have taken
much trouble; but his suspicions were not yet set at rest.
"Then what for should Neville want to go to St. Mary's?"
"'Tis a strange affection he hath. You would call it folly; some folks
call it honor."
Richard Ingle colored, and Huntoon hastened to change the subject:
"Now, Captain Ingle, I have a proposition to make: In regard to
the salvage of my cargo belonging to your crew, there might be two
opinions; and if you took it without my leave, there might be awkward
questions for you to settle when next you come to Virginia; but I'll
agree that you may have it as ferryage if you'll take us four and our
crew to Romney on the York River, which doubtless lies off your course."
"S' let it be!" growled Ingle, adding under his breath, "Damn the
fool! I was going that way anyhow to have talk with Claiborne.
"Turn to, men! Have out the boats, and save what we can from yonder
ketch, for by all the signs she will not last half an hour."
Romney had no heart to watch the men at work nor the oars flashing over
the water. He turned instead to where Neville lay.
"He'll catch his death lying here in the cold," he said; "let us carry
him below, Philpotts!"
"Ay," said Ingle, carelessly, "ye may lay him in the cabin next mine,
and the third and last cabin I'll have made ready for Mistress Neville.
You're to be queen o' the ship while you're aboard," he added, turning
to Peggy; "and when you land you shall have the salute of five guns I
promised you at St. Mary's."
Peggy thanked the Captain with gracious courtesy, but Romney glowered
and made as if to speak, then thought better of it, and lifting Neville
with the help of Philpotts bore him down into the cabin, where they
chafed feet and hands with brandy and wrapped the cold form in hot
blankets.
To Huntoon's strained sense it seemed hours, though it was only
minutes, before the rapid tread of feet on the deck, the creaking of
ropes, and the flapping of sails gave notice that _The Reformation_ was
once more under way. Hurrying on deck, he was just in time to see _The
Lady Betty_ rise for the last time on the crest of the wave, and then,
with a final shiver, plunge downward in five fathoms of water. Tears
rose to his eyes and a ball that seemed as big as an apple stuck in his
throat; but he gulped it down and began to pace the deck with a manner
as indifferent as he could make it.
"There's ship's biscuit and hot stuff in the cabin," said Ingle. "You'd
best come below and have some. You look as though you'd fasted near
long enough."
It was the first time the thought of food had crossed Huntoon's mind,
but he realized now that it was well on towards nightfall and he had
not broken fast since seven in the morning. Yet when he was seated at
the table despite his hunger he could scarce eat. Two things choked
him: first, the thought of _The Lady Betty_ lying on the sand five
fathoms under water and her cargo on this pirate's deck; and afterward,
when he had conquered this bitterness and looked up, the anger in his
heart at sight of the ogling attention Richard Ingle was bestowing upon
Peggy Neville.
The girl herself was more than a little frightened, but she held her
head high.
"Had I known we were to have a lady aboard, I had had the cabin
decorated."
"Bare walls go best with a sad heart, Captain Ingle."
"Fill your goblet again and down with the Madeira!"
"None for me, I thank you."
"Ho! ho! I see you are jealous. Wine and woman, the old saw says, make
fools of all men. So belike you care not to take your rival to your
heart."
"I crave your permission to withdraw."
"Ah, do those bright eyes feel the weight of sleep so early?"
Peggy bowed.
"Then must we do without them, though 'tis like turning out the
light in the ship's lantern. Your cabin, you know, lies between your
brother's and mine."
"I shall sit with my brother the night."
"And you so overcome with drowsiness," mocked Ingle.
Huntoon started up; but Peggy checked him: "Master Huntoon, will you
take me to my brother? I will detain him but a moment, Captain Ingle,
and I thank you for your courtesy."
It might have been a court lady who swept past Ingle to take Huntoon's
arm; but it was a trembling and much frightened little maid who entered
Neville's cabin.
"Will you do something for me?"
"Anything."
"I don't know how to say it."
"I know. You fear Ingle."
"I do."
"And would like to have me sleep outside the door here."
"No; that would make him angry, and we are all in his power."
"I fear you speak only the truth."
"But there is a way."
"What?"
"Keep him talking all night."
"I will try, and, Peggy, if worst comes to worst--"
"I know, and I trust you; but now hasten back."
So he left her.
When Huntoon returned to the table, Ingle poured him out a huge bumper
of Madeira and another for himself, though his flushed cheeks and
glazed eyes showed that he had little need of more. Then leaving his
seat he went to the little locker at the end of the cabin, and drawing
out two carefully preserved treasures set them down with a thump on the
table.
"Do ye know what those are?"
"Drinking cups," said Huntoon, but he shuddered.
"Ay, drinking cups of a rare make. The last voyage but one of _The
Reformation_ we fell in with a ship and would have boarded her
peaceably, as the crew were for letting us, but the captain and mate
made a fight for it and cost me two of our best men. So angered was
I by their obstinacy, I vowed if we won I'd have their skulls made
into drinking cups, and here they are with the silver rims round 'em
fashioned by a smith on board from a roll of silver on the ship. See,
I'll take the captain, and you shall drink from the mate. Now give us a
toast."
Huntoon paled and his heart thumped against his ribs, but he kept
saying to himself, "Yes, Peggy, I will do it. I promised you, and I
must not fail."
At length, grasping the ghastly cup, he raised it and in a voice of
strained gayety cried out,--
"Here's to _The Reformation_! She's a gallant vessel, as this day's
work has proved."
"Ay, that she is, and fit to gladden the heart of any sailor in
Christendom."
"Were you bred to the sea?"
"Not I."
"That's strange. You walk the deck as if you had had sea legs on since
you gave up going on all fours."
"Ay, but that comes of natural bent and brains. Give a man brains
enough and he can be anything from an admiral to a bishop. Now there
was a time when I had thoughts of being a bishop myself."
"You?"
"Oh, you may smile, and I own there's not much in the cut of my jib to
suggest its being made of the cloth, and this ring I wear being taken
from the finger of a corpse in a merchantman would scarce do duty for
the Episcopal symbol; but for all that I speak truth."
"And what changed your purpose?"
"What always changes a man's purpose? A woman. Here, pass over that
Madeira. Do you know, I have more than half a mind to tell you the
whole story."
"Should I not feel honored by the confidence?"
"Well you may, for I've never yet told it to any one; but the sight of
that girl and you in love with her--oh, never mind coloring up like
that. I knew it the moment you set foot on the ship--the sight of you
two, I say, brings it all back."
"You were in love once?"
"Ay, that I was, as deep as you or any other fool."
"Was the girl English?"
"Ay, and a tall, straight, handsome girl as ever you saw, in those
days,--far handsomer than her sister, who is and always was a weakling,
with no more expression than a basin of hasty pudding."
"She is living, then?"
For answer Ingle pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of Kent Fort.
"Here, in Maryland?"
Ingle lurched half way across the table, and putting his hand to the
side of his mouth whispered a name.
"No!" exclaimed Huntoon.
"Ay!" then jealously, "Perhaps you think she's too good for me?"
Huntoon thought it prudent to evade the question by another.
"Did you ever tell your love?"
"I tried to, and more than once, but I could never get her to listen.
Curse the pride of those Brents!"
"They _are_ proud," Huntoon assented.
"Ay, and Margaret proudest of all. Why, when I wrote her she sent back
the letter, saying she could not read it for the spelling, and that I
would be the better for a twelvemonth more of schooling. And when I
spoke to her she bade me shut my mouth. And when I held her wrist and
would make her listen, she said I was no gentleman."
"But how were you on the road to a bishop's see? Not surely by writing
of misspelled letters and holding of ladies' hands against their wills."
"No, but in spite of it, for I had influence and the Archbishop was
a friend of my father's, and I had his promise of preferment, which
was good for its face value in those days, and I might have risen
to anything; but when Margaret Brent cast scorn at me like that it
maddened me--and what was she to hold herself above me? What are the
Calverts themselves? Why, Leonard Calvert's grandfather was a grazier,
and Leonard himself was a dolt when we were at school together."
Huntoon, not seeing exactly what answer was expected, wisely attempted
none, but made a feint of helping himself from the jug at his elbow,
and then shoved it across the table. Ingle shook it and finding it
still heavy, set it down with a contented thump.
"Bide you there, my beauty!" he said jovially, "till I'm ready for you.
I'll have you yet. Yes, and Margaret Brent too, for all her fine-lady
airs. Who ever heard of the Brents till they sprang up like mushrooms
in this new world? While the Ingles--my grandfather did oft tell me how
all England took its name from them."
"Faith!" said Huntoon to himself, "your spelling is not much improved
since the days when you wrote Mistress Brent." Aloud he said, "And did
the disappointment drive you out of England, the country named after
your forefathers?"
"It did," answered Ingle, with a hiccough, and fell into drunken
weeping, "but perhaps I might have lost my head if I'd tarried, so
maybe 'tis all for the best, and the life o' the sea is a merry one;
but I've never forgotten nor forgiven, and for Margaret Brent's sake
I've sworn an oath to make a hell of Maryland to all her kith and kin."
With this Ingle came to himself a little and feared the confidences he
was making this stranger in his cups might have gone too far, so he
burst into tipsy laughter and shook the jug, which was made of leather,
and then poured its contents to the last dregs into his silver-rimmed
skull, and finally waving it above his head burst out singing,--
"'Oh, a leather bottel we know is good,
Far better than glasses or cans of wood.
And what do you say to the silver flagons fine?
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine,
But I wish in Heaven his soul may dwell
That first devised the leather bottel!'
Huzza for the leather bottel! and huzza for the wine in it! Wine and
woman they're a fine pair; I'll sing you a song about them--hic!"
Huntoon looked anxiously toward the door behind which Peggy was
sitting, and he saw with satisfaction that the carousing Captain had
promised more than he could perform, for when he started to sing his
voice failed him, his arm fell at his side, and the whole man collapsed
in a heap beneath the table.
"At last," murmured Huntoon, gratefully, "I think he can be trusted to
stay where he is till morning," and escaping from the close cabin with
its foul-smelling lantern he made his way to the deck.
The fog was gone, and the night stainlessly, brilliantly, radiantly
clear. The stars twinkled a frosty greeting to him. The deep, dark blue
of the sky calmed and soothed him. He took a dozen turns up and down
the deck, then he went below, and stretching himself out before the
door of Peggy's cabin fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.