THREE GENTLEMEN CONVERSE
Daylight, dazzling to Martin’s gloom-accustomed eyes, filled the
_Cohasset’s_ cabin. Martin’s upward ranging gaze, as he clambered out
of the lazaret, saw, through the open cabin skylights, the blue sky
and the sunshine sparkling upon brass fixtures. So he knew the fog had
lifted and the day was clear.
He took a step aside from the lazaret hatch, and then sent his eager
gaze about the cabin. But Ruth was not present. He was intensely
disappointed.
He stared hard at the closed door to Captain Dabney’s room, as if the
very intensity of his troubled gaze might penetrate those blank oak
panels. The boatswain had said Ruth was nursing the captain in that
room. But was the boatswain’s opinion correct? Hours had passed. Was
she still safe in the captain’s room?
The slamming shut of the trap-door over the black hole by his side
abruptly brought his thoughts back to himself, and his eyes to his
surroundings. A man was leaning over, spreading out the rug that
ordinarily covered the lazaret opening. Martin recognized the fellow as
the same wooden-faced Jap who had choked him unconscious a few hours
before. Ichi, he discovered standing by his side, regarding him with an
ingratiating smile. But it was neither the ju-jitsu man nor Ichi who
fastened Martin’s attention.
A large man sprawled in Captain Dabney’s easy chair at the farther end
of the cabin table. The table was littered with the debris of a meal,
which Charley Bo Yip was phlegmatically and deftly clearing away,
and Martin stared across the board’s disarray at Wild Bob Carew’s
disdainful face. The erstwhile commander of the schooner _Dawn_, his
comrades’ unscrupulous enemy, his own rival, was the same aloof,
superior rogue he remembered from the night in Spulvedo’s dive.
As Martin looked, Carew engaged himself with filling and lighting his
pipe, and seemed to be totally unconscious of the disheveled young man
standing before him, with wrists manacled behind his back.
Martin was again surprised, as he had been that night in San Francisco,
with the incongruity of Wild Bob’s appearance contrasted with his
activities. Was this splendid figure of a man the vicious outlaw of
wide and evil repute? The renegade thief? The persecutor of women?
The pitiless butcher of defenseless men? Were those fine, clean-cut
features but a mask that covered an abyss of black evil? Did that broad
forehead actually conceal the crafty, degenerate brain that planned and
executed the bloody and treacherous piracy upon their ship?
The haggardness of recent hardship was upon Carew’s features, and a
week’s, or more, stubble of yellow beard covered his cheeks, yet the
growth in nowise brutalized the handsome face. There was a long scar on
Carew’s forehead, which glowed a vivid red as he sucked upon his pipe;
there was also a wide cross of court-plaster on a clipped spot on top
of the head. Martin suddenly realized that both disfigurements were his
handiwork; one was a memento of the fight on the Frisco waterfront, the
other the result of his blow the night before.
Carew suddenly lifted his eyes and met Martin’s stare, and a cold
thrill tingled along Martin’s spine. For there was a hot ferocity
lighting the man’s eyes; there was a hot, yet calculated, hatred in the
level look.
Ichi’s suave voice broke the uneasy silence.
“Mr. Blake, we have brought you up here for a little chat,” said Ichi.
“And before we commence, I beg please to inform you I am your very dear
friend, and I think of you no ill. So—will you not be seated?”
Martin seated himself gingerly upon the edge of a chair. It was
an uncomfortable position, and his arms ached keenly from being
constrained in the unnatural position the handcuffs demanded, but he
dare not slip out a hand and relieve himself.
“Ah, let us trust none of the violence of epithet which marked my
discourse with the worthy boatswain Henry will mar our conversation,
Mr. Blake,” went on Ichi. Martin perceived his conceit still smarted
under the boatswain’s curses. “You are an American gentleman, the
honorable Carew is an English gentleman, I am a Japanese gentleman.
So, our discussion need not be intruded upon by those exclamations of
great explosiveness with which your wonderful English language is so
enriched. We gentlemen have civility.”
“Never mind talking manners, doctor!” broke in Carew impatiently. “It
would please me if you would permit me to forget your gentility for an
hour. Come to the point! State our proposition to this fellow, and let
him make his choice.”
“The point. Ah, yes,” said Ichi. “You know, my captain, you people of
the West are brutal with your directness. But I shall to the point.
Ah, Mr. Blake, I am not mistaken in assuming you would with relishness
accept refreshment? You would talk with more easiness?”
“Water—coffee,” said Martin briefly.
He was agreeably surprised by the question. He was again very, very
dry, and his sore throat pained him and made speaking difficult. He was
hungry, too, his supper the night before having been his last meal.
He had been looking longingly at the food and drink the Chinaman was
rapidly and silently removing from the table, which perhaps inspired
Ichi’s question.
“I will offer you drink,” said Ichi.
Carew snorted disgustedly but did not offer an objection.
“You will pardon us for not offering food,” went on Ichi, “but you
would be unable to eat in your present condition of bondagement, and we
regret muchly our disinclination to free your hands at this juncture.
With arms free, you have impressed us most unfortunately.”
He glanced toward Carew’s plastered head. Carew disclosed some white,
even teeth, with a half snarl, and Martin saw beneath the concealing
mustache, as he had seen that night in San Francisco, the cruel mouth
that gave the lie to Wild Bob’s face.
“But your national beverage of coffee contains much food value,” added
the Japanese, and he barked an order to the Chinaman.
Yip seized a large cup, filled it with black coffee from the big
percolator standing in the center of the table, and carried it to
Martin. He held it to Martin’s lips.
Martin drank eagerly, tilting back his head and staring upward into
Yip’s face. He half expected to see some sign of friendship there,
a fleeting smile, or the flutter of an eyelid. He recalled that Yip
had winked at the boatswain, down in the lazaret, and the boatswain
had attached importance to the action. But he was disappointed.
There was not the hint of an emotion in Charley Bo Yip’s moon-like
face; not the ghost of an encouraging recognition. Not even Ichi’s
passionless countenance could match Yip’s serene, blank face for lack
of expression. The Chinaman might have been pouring the coffee down a
hopper, rather than down a man’s throat, from his impersonal demeanor.
But if Yip disappointed, the coffee did not. The strong, hot stuff
flooded strength through Martin’s veins, eased his smarting throat,
lubricated his parched tongue. When Yip turned away with the empty cup,
Martin heaved a satisfied sigh.
“That is better,” he said to Ichi. “Fire away. I can talk now.”
Ichi started off on a rambling and flowery appreciation of Martin’s
implied thanks. Martin gave attention with his ears, but his eyes
roved. He had been puzzled since his entry into the room by a certain
oddity, familiar oddity, about the other men’s appearance.
Carew was wearing a guernsey much too large for him, and Carew was a
very big man. Martin suddenly recognized the guernsey as the property
of the boatswain. Ichi was clad in shirt and trousers belonging to
Little Billy—not a bad fit. The ju-jitsu man sported a complete outfit
of his, Martin’s. Obviously, the belongings of the _Cohasset’s_ crew
had been looted to cover the scarecrow nakedness of the captors.
Something else Martin noticed, while Dr. Ichi talked on with Oriental
indirectness. There was a large cupboard affixed to the cabin’s forward
bulkhead. It stood open and empty. Martin knew what its contents had
been. It had been the ship’s armory; it had contained four high-powered
rifles, two shotguns, and four heavy navy revolvers, with a plentiful
supply of ammunition for all arms. They were gone. He reflected they
must be in the hands of Carew’s men. Not a pleasant reflection in view
of the boatswain’s scheme.
Carew, breaking roughly into Ichi’s speech, commanded his attention.
“Never mind all that, Ichi! By Jove! We can not afford to waste time
listening to pretty courtesies!” He swung upon Martin with menacing eye
and voice. “Here you! No —— hedging now! What has become of the code
writing that directed to the ambergris hidden ashore? Come—spit it out.
Where is it?”
Martin blinked with surprise at the sudden attack, and at the question
itself. He and the boatswain had taken it for granted that Carew,
having been ashore on Fire Mountain, had obtained possession of the
treasure. The question implied that Carew and his followers had failed
to locate the cache; that he had been hauled out of the lazaret for the
purpose of giving them information.
“Come—speak up!” commanded Carew, again.
Martin attempted to dissemble.
“I don’t know anything about it,” he lied. “I have been a common sailor
on the ship, and have not been in the confidence——”
“Enough! Spin that yarn to the marines. I want the truth!” cried Carew.
“Common sailor—not in their confidence—hey? And since when has Old Man
Dabney permitted his foremast hands to live aft? How long since Ruth Le
Moyne takes a heart interest in common sailors? Hey?”
He leaned forward in his chair, and shot the questions at Martin. His
face was suddenly debased with evil passion, and bitter hatred was
clearly revealed in his blazing eyes.
“Listen to me, my fine fellow!” he went on. “You fooled me once and
spoiled my plans with your double dealing. But this time you’ll throw
no dust in my eyes! You’ll not get by with any cock-and-bull yarn this
time. I know just how warmly you feathered your nest—humoring that
old blind fool and making love to his granddaughter. A pretty reward
opened to you by your treachery that night in Frisco—a fortune and a
sweetheart to boot! Hey, my winsome fancy man! A fine chance you’ve had
for your billing and cooing; but now by Heaven, you’ll pay the piper!”
Martin gasped before the wordy onslaught. But Carew’s hot words, and
his appearance, conveyed to Martin’s alert mind a startling truth—it
was not lust for treasure that inspired Wild Bob’s verbal flogging, or
venomous glances; it was jealousy, a wild, hate-filled jealousy of him,
Martin Blake. Ruth was the core of Carew’s rage.
“Come—where is that code?” went on Carew. “Speak up lively, now! By
Heaven, if you sulk, I’ll jolly well draw the truth out of you! Here,
Ichi, call up that finger devil of yours and we’ll see if a little
gullet-twisting will loosen this cub’s tongue! Here—Moto!”
The wooden-faced ju-jitsu man, who had been seated on the divan, got
on his feet and moved toward Martin’s chair. His face was absolutely
expressionless, his attitude impersonal, but he was rubbing his hands
together and stroking his fingers as if to make them supple for the
work that lay before them.
Martin observed the maneuver with a suddenly contracted heart. He had
a vivid recollection of the terrific pain that accompanied the former
application of those writhing fingers to his person. He cautiously
worked the handcuffs down upon his hands so that a quick movement would
fling them off.
If he was to be put to torture, he would first fight! He eye-marked a
carving-knife lying on the table within leaping reach.
But Ichi intervened and relieved the tension of the moment. He halted
the businesslike bravo with a word.
“Let us not use Moto just yet,” he said to Carew. “Our dear Mr. Blake
does not understand, perhaps. We will explain the matter. I am sure
he will not then be of stubbornness. You know what we decided upon,
captain? We do not want to use Moto just yet.”
“One would think you were advocate for the fellow,” sneered Wild Bob.
“Oh, all right—have your way. We’ll save Moto till we call in the chit.”
Moto resumed his seat at a nod from Ichi. Martin breathed heavily with
relief and relaxed, readjusting his bonds. Ichi turned to him.
“My dear Mr. Blake,” commenced the Jap, “let me repeat that I am your
very good friend. It makes me very, very sorrowful to view you in your
present condition of uncomfortableness, and I trust you will reflect
that resentment of Fate is idle. We understand Fate, we gentlemen, and
accept what the gods decree.
“So, I will be of complete frankness in explaining our need, Mr. Blake.
We thought it was ill fate when, seven days ago, our schooner was
wrecked upon the rocks that guard this mountain. Even though we had
searched with diligence for this very spot, we regarded it as fortune
of much badness to be compelled to land on the Fire Mountain from an
open boat, with but half our company, and without provisions. During
days of hunger we cursed Fate. And all the while Fate was preparing our
succor. So—if we are wise we accept Fate, Mr. Blake.
“Yet Fate has not been of too great kindness to us, for we could not
uncover the so precious lodestone which drew us all to this desolate
corner of the world. Fate intended we should wait until the honorable
_Cohasset_ should arrive.
“You see, the translation of the scarlet writing which the eminent
and worthy Smatt furnished us, after the occasion of your unfortunate
defection, was lost in the wreck. We had, we thought, a memory of
truthfulness of the paper, for we had read it muchly. We were mistaken.
We have not discovered the ambergris, though we have searched with
industriousness.
“We have also searched the ship for the original writing. We have not
as yet obtained it. The young woman has informed us with much readiness
of a place where the paper is. But there are certain reasons—” Ichi
glanced at Carew—“why we may not test the truth of Miss Le Moyne’s
statement.
“So, we look to you, my dear Mr. Blake, to enlighten us, to dispute to
verify the young woman’s words. We ask you, where is the whaling man’s
writing? And before you give answer, I would with much earnestness beg
of you to reflect that Fate is undoubtedly with us, that you and yours
have not favor with the gods. It is wisdom to accept Fate! And reflect
also, please, that the young woman’s immunity from—let us say—physical
persuasion to speak, does not extend to your respected self. And bear
in mind, please, that the throat-hold you have already experienced is
by no means the hold of most painfulness, out of the several score my
Moto is of expertness in applying. So—where is the code?”
“Come, spit it out!” growled Carew.
Martin reflected, though not upon Fate, as the Japanese advised. He
knew he must speak. Moto was quietly massaging his deadly fingers, and
Martin did not relish the torture he knew those digits could inflict.
But should he speak truth?
He wondered if Ruth had really answered their question, and if she had
told them truly where the writing was. One thing vastly cheered him—he
gathered from Ichi’s words that Ruth was safe from molestation so far.
He decided he had best tell them the truth. It would not help them, and
it could not harm Little Billy, for poor Billy was gone.
“Billy Corcoran has the code,” he said. “I saw him place it in his
pocket last night.”
“Ah—so!” exclaimed Ichi. He exchanged a significant glance with Carew.
“What unfortunateness! Just as the young woman said!”
“Little Billy, eh!” said Wild Bob. “Well, young fellow, can you tell us
what became of that blasted hunchback?”
Martin almost leaped from his chair. What! Had Little Billy
escaped? Did they know what had become of Little Billy? Martin had
accepted without question the fact that Little Billy was dead. The
probabilities, and the boatswain’s conviction, had convinced him. But
now...
“I don’t know what has become of him,” he told Carew. “You ought to
know. He had the watch on deck when you came out of the fog, last
night.”
“—— queer!” muttered Carew. Then to Ichi: “I tell you, doctor, he must
have been settled and dumped overside with the rest. We fixed every one
who was awake, except this fellow, Blake. The hunchback must have been
knifed and thrown over without being recognized.”
“No, there were only three, and the cripple was not of them,” returned
Ichi.
Not of them! Martin’s heart was pounding joyfully. Then Little Billy
was alive.
“Well, he isn’t on the ship,” asserted Carew. “He isn’t in the hold
with that fo’c’s’le crowd, nor aft, here, nor hidden anywhere about
the vessel. We know that. Let us not waste any more time—we’ll get the
information the other way. Call in the minx. Perhaps it will tame some
of that cursed spirit of hers to witness her pretty darling, here,
being made uncomfortable!”
He accompanied his remark with a hateful glance toward Martin, a
glance that was filled with cruel anticipation. But neither look nor
words much disquieted Martin’s mounting spirits. “In the hold with the
fo’c’s’le crowd!” Carew had said. Then the boatswain would not have to
chance breaking into the forepeak. He need only get into the hold to
join the remnant of the crew, and it was a stout remnant if only three
had been slaughtered. Why, the boatswain must already have joined them;
be leading them now in an attempt to break out of the hold. And Little
Billy was alive, and at large!
Martin wriggled his wrists in the handcuffs and stiffened tensely in
his seat. Almost, he expected to hear that instant the commotions of
battle from the deck, and to see his friends burst into the cabin. He
eyed wistfully the carving-knife on the table and marked it for his
weapon. No, he could contemplate these thugs about him now without that
hopeless sinking of the heart; he could even withstand torture with
fortitude born of hope. For there was a fighting chance.
“Go knock on the door and fetch her out,” said Carew to Ichi. To the
silent Moto he added: “All right, Moto, we are ready for you. Stand by!”