A BAD MAN'S PLEA
The expression of nervous anxiety I had noticed several times since he
came was on Allen's face again as he started to speak. "It's a queer
enough proposition," he began. "You see, it's like ..." He hesitated,
stopped, got up and walked to the window, where he stood for a few
moments, frowning and biting the end of his cheroot. Suddenly he turned
to me with: "Whitney, what do you say to a bit of a turn in the fresh
air? I've been talking more than I'm used to, and this stuffy room of
yours is getting on my nerves. We might walk out through the gardens to
the Domain. I can tell you all that I have to tell out there."
I did not need to look at my watch to know that it was getting on toward
five o'clock. Only the absorbing interest of Allen's narrative had
prevented my becoming conscious of that fact before. My own nerves were
less under control now, and the inevitable end-of-the-afternoon
restlessness was surging strong upon me. But I was anxious to hear Allen
out, and no reason occurred to me why it should not be in the open air.
If there was any decision to be arrived at, that could be made on the
morrow, or whenever I felt up to it.
"Right-o, Allen," I cried; "I'll be glad to get out myself. I shall want
to be back in about half an hour though."
I was grateful for his restraint in not greeting that last with an
indulgent smile, for I knew that he fully understood what it was that
focussed my interest upon five o'clock. It was very evident that the man
had retained all the finer instincts of a gentleman, little opportunity
that he had had to exercise them in the last five years.
I got my hat and stick, and, feeling sure I would have no use for them,
put both the revolver and the automatic pistol into the drawer of the
table upon which they had been lying. I was rather glad of the chance to
show Allen that I had confidence in him to that extent anyhow.
Anxious to avoid recognition, Allen pulled on a pair of dark spectacles
and drew the brim of his Panama low down over his forehead. Turning out
of crowded Pitt Street, he removed the spectacles, and as we passed the
entrance of the Botanical Gardens took off his hat and fanned his brow
with it as he walked. He had not spoken so far, but with the deep breath
he inhaled as he felt the springy turf underfoot his restraint passed
from him.
"It's a great relief to get clear of those damn walls and pavements," he
said fervently, opening his coat to let the cool breath from the Bay
strike his chest. "I can't get used to them again. I've been free of
them too long now. But I'm finished with them for good, I hope." Then,
as we came out upon a broad path: "Bear away to the left, if you don't
mind. I want to take a squint at that bunch of palms as we pass."
As we came abreast of a big bed packed with a riot of dense tropical
growths, he pulled up and appeared to be searching for something. "Ah,
there she is!" he ejaculated presently, and pushed in close to a queer
little dwarf palm, which straggled drunkenly on a half-dozen spindling
legs set something like those of a camera tripod. Pulling up the stamped
metal marker, he gave it a quick glance and then handed it to me with a
grin. "The fruits of my first and only dip into botanical research," he
remarked. "What do you think of it?"
"_Pandanus Bensoni Allensis_," I read in large letters, and below:
"Habitat: Portuguese Timor. Very rare. The only other catalogued
specimen is in the Royal Dutch Gardens at Buitenzorg, Java."
"So that _Allensis_ stands for you, does it?" I said, not a little
impressed, as I handed him back the metal disc. Then added: "And racing
and polo cups weren't the only objects you collected."
"The merest accident," he replied. "I had always liked plants and
flowers, ever since my nurse used to wheel me down this very walk in my
pram. I suppose that gave me an interest in the tropical growths of the
Islands, after they packed me off there. I thought this little fellow
looked a bit on the unusual when I chanced upon it one morning in a low
valley back of Deli; so I dug it up and shipped it to Sydney direct on
the China Line steamer, which touches in there. It turned out to be a
real find. Benson of Kew Gardens, the great authority on tropical palms,
described it, and tacked my name on as the discoverer. The old cove's
letter contained the only kind words addressed to me from the outside
world in the last five years. And now look at them ..."
I had come to expect that note of bitterness in Allen's voice every time
he spoke of the past, and especially of his "transportation" to the
Islands. He evidently thought that he had been badly treated; too badly
for even the present wave of frantic adulation to make atonement. He was
through with it for good. Several little things he had let drop
indicated that.
The incident of the palm was interesting in throwing an illuminative
crosslight on the gentler human side of a man who had generally been
rated as without either gentleness or humanity. So, also, was the very
evident appeal to Allen's sense of natural beauty made by the matchless
panorama of the Bay as it unfolded to us from the far end of the point.
We had skirted the Naval anchorage of Farm Cove, picked our way along
the path below the ledges where benighted "sundowners" were wont to boil
their "billys" and spread their "blueys" in the shallow wave-worn caves,
and climbed up through the gums to the rocky lookout on the outermost
tip of the sharply-jutting point. The clocks in the town behind us began
chiming the quarters heralding the hour of five, and presently, on the
first of the heavier strokes, the flotilla of trans-bay ferry-boats slid
from their slips at the inner curve of the horseshoe of the Circular
Quay and "fanned" out on their divergent courses to points on the
opposite side of Port Jackson.
"That sight has never failed to quicken my pulses from the time I used
to wait and watch for it as a kid down to today," Allen said with almost
a thrill in his voice. "It is the one picture that has remained clearest
in my mind all these years I've been--shut out from it. Did you ever
read Henry Lawson's lines to 'Sydney-Side,' written from somewhere in
the West, I believe? Something like this they go:
"'Oh, there never dawned a morning in the long and lonely days,
But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays--
And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again
As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain:
"'And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red,
And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley's Head;
And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide
All the light and life and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.'"
"A sentimentalist, too," I muttered to myself, the surprise of that
revelation checking for a few moments the rising tide of my
absinthe-hunger.
Allen led the way back to where a flat ledge of rock made a rough
natural seat. "'Lady Macquarie's Chair,'" he explained, motioning me to
sit down. "Named from the wife of a former Governor who was supposed to
slip away out here and enjoy the view. The Domain runs right back behind
the Government House, you know. I always used to mooch along out here
for a look-see every time I got a chance, partly for the fine prospect
of the Bay and partly for the comprehensive visualization it permitted
of what I might call 'The Rise and Fall of the House of Allen.'
"Haven't you an expression in the States to the effect that it's 'three
generations from shirt-sleeves to shirt-sleeves'? Well, here in
Australia we put the same natural law of evolution in the form of a
conundrum and answer. It goes: 'How long does it take for an arrow to
become a boomerang?' The answer varies, but for the 'House of Allen' it
is: 'Four generations.'
"The arrow, you understand, is the 'Broad Arrow' that marked the
transported convicts, while the boomerang merely suggests something that
rises, circles and returns to the point of departure. Well, from this
place where we sit I can trace the full circle of the 'arrow-cum
boomerang-cum arrow' of the Allen quiver. Look! I'll show you. Follow me
closely.
"Over there," he said, pointing seaward and easterly, "are the Heads, in
through which sailed the brig bearing Jim (alias 'Crab') Allen, convict,
with a few hundred more of the scum of London, to the shores of
Australia. That is, I've always liked to fancy my distinguished
progenitor sailed in through the Heads, though it's quite possible that
the brig beat around into Botany Bay direct. Now" (he pointed westerly
to where the Paramatta wound out of sight between green hills) "at the
end of that deep cove over there is the slaughter house where the
convict's son, James Allen, dealt in hides and hoofs and horns and laid
the foundation of the family fortune, the fortune that wasn't seriously
dented when the convict's grandson gave a hundred thousand pounds to a
drought-relief fund and drew down a Baronetcy. That big red-brick pile
among the trees on Darling Point" (Allen was pointing east again) "is
the mansion of the late Sir James Allen, Bart., and now owned by his
eldest son, the New South Wales Agent in London. Old Sir James' second
son, Hartley, was born in the south wing of that unsightly heap of red
bricks.
"And here" (this time he turned and pointed south where a sharp
dagger-blade of inlet plunged deep into the heart of Sydney's lowest
slums) "is Wooloomooloo, where young Hartley Allen, descending from the
soft refinements of Darling Point, found his level, organized his own
'push' of rock-throwing, head-smashing larrikins and completed the
social circle. The cycle of metamorphosis had begun its round. I was the
throwback, Whitney. Old 'Crab' Allen, the transported convict of
Houndsditch, lived again in young Hartley Allen, whom most people
thought of as a racing man and polo player, but who had all the natural
qualifications of an out-and-out crook.
"I can trace all of my little moral obliquities, Whitney, back to old
'Crab,' and, everything considered, I think he would rate me as rather a
credit to his name, whatever contempt he might have had for my
comparatively law-abiding father and grandfather, to say nothing of my
pillar-of-the-state elder brother. 'Crab' was transported as a
consequence of his persistent disregard of his fellow townsmen's rights
to their lives, wives and silver plate. I--well, I never did care much
for silver plate."
All this would have been intensely interesting to me an hour earlier,
but now the fervour of my longing for my "_solitude à trois_" (as I was
wont to call my séance with the long green bottle and the glass of
cracked ice) was getting beyond control. The flowing lines of the
reaches of cove and inlet glowing in the slanting light of the declining
sun were becoming jerky and jagged and intershot with dazzling little
spurts of light like one thinks he sees after receiving a crack on the
head. The evening breeze lapped clammily about my chest and I fumbled
clumsily with the buttons of my coat, trying to shut out the chill.
"I ought to have been back at the hotel before this," I mumbled, getting
to my feet. "You had something more to tell me, hadn't you? You can do
it as we walk back. I've got to be going now."
By this time I wasn't in a state to observe things very carefully.
Undoubtedly (as I've thought it over since) Allen had been stalling to
gain time and screw his nerve up to advancing the plan he had in mind.
This being so, it must have jarred him a bit to have me call the turn so
suddenly. I don't remember whether his face showed consternation or not.
The one thing I recall was the quick movement of his hand to that hump
on his right hip.
I did not recoil an inch. I am sure of that, for I felt no apprehension.
I was beyond apprehension--save over delay. But Allen's hand came back
empty. "I'll tell you at once," he said brokenly. "But please sit down.
Don't go just yet. We'll have to come to a decision straightaway." Then,
seeing I was turning to go: "It's just this: Rona wants you to paint her
picture--on the schooner--the _Cora_. Wants a picture done of the whole
layout--ship, Bell, her, me, Ranga, niggers, everything. Says she'll
pose for it on the schooner. Says I must pose too. Seems to be bitten
with the idea of perpetuating the event for posterity, or something of
the kind. Crazy scheme, but she's set her heart on it. Says when it's
done, if she likes it, she may go back to the Islands with me. Nothing
certain for me, but it's a chance and I've got to make the most of it.
Will you do it, Whitney? She says you've always wanted to paint her
picture, and now she's all for it. You won't turn it down, Whitney?"
The incongruity of "Slant" Allen in the rôle of a plaintive pleader
struck me with scarcely less astonishment than his strange and
unexpected request. I was, however, totally unfit to cogitate upon
either just then.
"I'll think it over and let you know tomorrow," I said dully. "Got to go
now."
"It has to be decided here and now, once and for all," Allen answered
firmly. "Here!--" This time there was no hesitation in the movement of
his hand to the hip-pocket hump. When it came back it was holding a fat
stubby flask--one of the thermos type, just coming into general use at
that time.
"I know what's calling you away, Whitney," he said steadily, unscrewing
the top of the flask and pouring into it a bright green liquid with a
familiar smell and sparkle. "On the off chance that we might be detained
beyond the hour when you're used to depending upon it, I had this cooled
at the Marble Bar--old hangout of mine--and brought it along with me.
Don't use the stuff myself, but I know the hooks it throws into a man
who does use it. Drink hearty!"
He handed me both the brimming screw-top and the flask itself. The
contents of the former might have been drugged heavily enough to kill a
horse for all I cared. It was absinthe beyond a doubt, and cold enough
to frost the outside of the little nickled cup that held it. I gulped it
down hungrily; replenished and repeated. The third cup I drank less
greedily, letting my eyes rove slowly where the jerkily jagged zigzags
of hill and headland and foreshore were smoothing into a softer fluency
of contour. Sipping the fourth cup, I unbuttoned my coat to give more
intimacy to the caress of the milk-warm evening breeze.
"Not bad stuff, Allen," I breathed at last. "Very good of you to think
of it. What was it you wanted me to do just now?" Five minutes later I
had promised to meet "Slant" Allen at the railway station in time to
catch the nine-thirty train for Brisbane, en route Townsville.
It appeared that Rona's ultimatum had stipulated that Allen was to be
back in Townsville with me, ready to begin arranging for the picture,
inside of ten days. The only northbound boat, the _Waga Tiri_, which
would arrive within the limit, had already left Sydney but could be
overtaken at Brisbane by entraining at once. Allen had booked sleepers
for the express and wired for cabins on the steamer before he called on
me at the _Australia_. There was nothing left to do but throw together
what things I wanted and get to the station.
It was rather a wrench, checking myself after getting all poised for
flight with the "Green Lady," but not so hard as it would have been had
I really "got off the ground." The contents of Allen's flask were hardly
more than a strong bracer. Once I got back to the hotel and into my
packing, it was easy going, especially as my enthusiasm was mounting for
the work ahead. To have Rona for a model at last! And for such a
picture!
The dramatic appeal of the thing grew on me with every passing minute.
It was not, to be sure, quite the kind of a work I was best prepared to
do. With my ambition to become a marine painter, I had gone in more for
colour than for anatomy and drawing; but I was still confident that I
could make good with anything that gripped my imagination strongly. And
"The Saving of the Black-birder" (I had already given it a tentative
name) fairly took me by the throat. I would not fail with it. Nay, more,
I would triumph. Perhaps--why not?--Paris! Yes, "The Black-birder"
should open a short-cut to my goal. The rails beneath the wheels of the
speeding Brisbane Express were clicking _black-bir-der_--_black-bir-der_
when I dropped off to sleep that night somewhere along toward the
Queensland boundary.
That the morrow should bring some reaction from this fine frenzy was
inevitable, but it was a comparatively slight one. That Allen had
deliberately planned to draw me away and take advantage of my weakness
for absinthe to gain my intervention in his favour was evident enough.
Indeed, the consummate manner in which he turned the trick argued an
almost pathological intimacy with the reaction of the insidiously subtle
essence of wormwood upon the human brain. But I did not hold this
heavily against him. It was plain that he had only done it to play safe
in a matter respecting which he did not dare to take any unnecessary
chances of failure. I could not but admit to myself that I would
probably have fallen in with the plan ultimately in any event. There was
no disloyalty to my friend in making him (as I intended to do) the
central figure in a picture that I hoped would become famous in two
hemispheres. On the contrary, what greater tribute was there I could pay
to his memory? If Rona cared to flaunt that memory by going off to the
Islands with Allen, it was her own kettle of fish. Besides, she had not
gone yet; didn't even appear to have committed herself definitely in the
matter.
To minimize explanations and the possibility of complications, Allen and
I had agreed to defer wiring our Sydney friends of our departure until
after we were aboard the _Waga Tiri_ in Moreton Bay. His message to the
Chairman of the Reception Committee, and mine to Benchley at my
Exposition, went ashore on the tender that brought us off, and the
steamer was under way before they could have been put upon the wires. It
was not until the next northbound boat brought the Sydney papers to
Townsville that we learned what a wave of surprise and speculation had
been started by our joint hegira.
In the course of the voyage Allen told me some few further details of
developments in Townsville. Before his departure he had managed to
induce Rona, for her own comfort, to move her headquarters from Ratu
Lal's joint to the Medical Mission of the London Bible Society. The head
surgeon of the Mission he characterized as "a good old sport" he had
knocked up against in the Straits and the Dutch Indies. He was just like
an ordinary missionary to look at, but redeemed in "Slant's" eyes by a
real love of horses, and even--very much on the quiet--a shrewd interest
in racing. "It's in his blood. He can't help it," Allen explained
laconically but comprehensively.
Explicit instructions had been left at the Mission that Rona was not to
be worried about her spiritual future. She was to be just a "straight
boarder" until Allen's return. She was well provided with money, as he
had seen to having everything Bell had with him at the time of his death
deposited to her account at a local bank. This had included eighty gold
sovereigns, found in a money-belt around Bell's waist, and some hundreds
of Chilean silver _pesos_ he had brought off to the _Cora_ in a canvas
sack.
Ranga had been put up at the Sailors' Home. There had been a flat
refusal to receive him at first, on account of his colour, but this was
promptly withdrawn when it was found the request came from Allen, whom
the town was going pretty strong on delighting to honour just at that
juncture. Allen, who seemed very fond of the big fellow, also saw that
the latter was comfortably provided with money.
Allen did not speak again of the proposed picture until the steamer was
nosing up to her buoy in Cleveland Bay. Then, after inquiring if I had
everything I needed to go ahead with, he intimated that he would
probably find Rona fretting to get things under way. "She seemed to have
some wild sort of an idea," he said, "that the whole thing would be done
on the schooner--that we all might move out there, bag and baggage, and
make it our head-quarters until the picture was completed. She even
wanted me to go out to that plague-rotten wreck with her and look the
ground over before I left. I had no time for it, of course, and am jolly
glad I didn't. Can't see what the good of it would have been anyhow. I
was hoping I had seen the last of the damned hulk, though I suppose I
can stick it for an hour or two in a pinch. I fail to see what she's
driving at, but whatever it is you may as well make up your mind that
she will have her way about it."
I assured him that the picture would probably be mostly studio work as
far as he was concerned, though I myself might want to sketch a few
details on the schooner. It might save time, however, I suggested, if
the whole lot of us went aboard before I began work so I could figure
out a tentative grouping and get a general idea of the composition. Then
I could make notes and sketches of whatever parts of the schooner would
be included, and be ready to work on the individual figures as soon as I
rigged up a studio.