After his conversation with Black’erchief Dick, Blueneck found leisure
to attend to his own amours. He first retired to the brig where, with
the help of Habakkuk Coot, he arrayed himself in his best clothes, tied
the knee-latchets of his breeches with bright-coloured tapes, and
borrowed a brilliant red-and-green kerchief from out poor Mat Turnby’s
bundle, and then, after carefully tying the length of cherry ribbon,
which had cost him much time and trouble to procure, in a piece of
muslin, he stowed the packet in one of his big side pockets and started
out for Joe Pullen’s house.
He had some little way to go, as the Pullens’ cottage was situated
slightly to the north of the church, and that was about a mile and a
half from the point where the brig was moored. He walked along
cheerfully, whistling a chanty, and mentally rehearsing the speech which
he intended to make to Mistress Amy when presenting the ribbon.
In spite of the time of year, the late afternoon sun shone brightly on
the wet grass and there was a touch of spring in the air.
On nearing the cottage he stopped to see if he still had the little
muslin packet, and, feeling it still there, strolled nonchalantly up to
the door and knocked loudly.
Mistress Pullen opened it herself, and seeing him, put her finger to her
lips.
Blueneck stood still looking at her, very disappointed and a little
foolish. Inside the cottage he could hear deep rafter-shaking snores and
soon understood that the lady’s husband was within. He opened his mouth
to speak but Amy shook her head violently and he shut it again with a
snap; however, he did not move, and Mistress Pullen had to push him off
the door-step and whisper, “This evening,” before he fully realized that
he was not wanted. Fumbling in his pocket, he hastily found the ribbon,
and snatching it out crammed it into her hand, then tiptoed off down the
path feeling that he had been cheated.
Amy took the parcel without looking up and quickly slipped back,
shutting the door carefully behind her.
Blueneck returned along the way he had come, in a much less cheerful
frame of mind than when he started out. He no longer whistled but
lurched along, his head bent and his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
On passing the Ship sounds of cheerfulness came out to him through the
open door and, yielding to the impulse of the moment, he went in.
As usual the scene in the Ship kitchen was cheering even to look at. The
roaring fire in the open grate, the glinting lights on the pewter, and
the shadowy, dusky corners in which faint outlines of casks and strings
of drying onions could just be distinguished, all gave it a cosy,
comforting appearance. At least Blueneck thought so as he joined the
circle round the fire and called for hot rum to be served to him.
Old Gilbot was in a lively mood; he sat in his corner, his blue eyes
twinkling from out huge creases of fat, singing, laughing, and drinking
with the best will in the world, and keeping the company in a continual
roar of laughter.
Big French sat on the other side of the fireplace, playing with little
Red Farran and his kitten. The little boy was a favourite of the big man
and they chatted together with an equal share of enjoyment.
Sue leaned over the back of the seat, and from time to time joined in
their conversation. At these times French smiled contentedly and almost
as easily as he did on the days before the little dark-eyed white-handed
Spaniard landed east instead of west of Mersea Marsh Island.
Anny and Hal were talking together in the background as they polished up
the tankards. She was telling him about the Spaniard’s desire to rename
the brig, and clearing away with her gentle cajolery all his little
jealous fears and doubts.
Several other men were sitting round the fire. They were Habakkuk Coot,
sniffing as usual and drinking spiced ale; Old Master Granger,
guffawing at Gilbot, and sipping his neat rum with obvious relish; Cip
de Musset, chewing a chunk of coarse black tobacco, a habit much
disapproved of by the Islanders who thought the weed a dangerous,
new-fangled drug, and of no use save to sell to other people; and one or
two others. All very merry and cheerful and good company to each other.
Blueneck drank his rum and, beginning to feel more cheerful, he leaned
forward a little to join in the talk.
“Ah! a wonderful funny thing that be,” Granger was saying, as he shook
his head sagely. “You’re right, a wonderful funny thing.”
“Ah! and what’s more, it ain’t the first time it’s happened,” put in
another man casually.
“What?”
In an instant the company’s attention was fixed on the new speaker and
he looked round as though he were going to say something very secret.
“Six months ago on Ray Island,” he said.
“Oh, everyone knows that, Tom Fish. Go home with your old stories!”
There was a note of disappointment in their voices and they all laughed.
The man muttered something about there being old and old, and subsided.
Blueneck came a little nearer.
“Might I ask what you are talking about?” he said.
Cip de Musset rolled his quid into his cheek and spat before he replied.
“A rowboat load o’ rum and two men lost going from here to Bradwell,” he
said laconically.
“Ah,” said Granger, “wonderful strange.”
“What, ain’t the boat been washed up?” said Blueneck, glad to enter into
the conversation.
“No, nothing found at all,” said Granger eagerly, as he shifted his
position slightly. “Nothing at all. But, ah, well,” he added, “I don’t
know what’s come to them.”
“Would the Preventative men have catched them, think you?” remarked Cip,
chewing.
“Now that are likely,” said Granger sarcastically. “Ain’t ’it? There not
being a sign of a Preventative man these nine months! Oh, yes, Master de
Musset, it are likely they’d be spry enough to catch two chaps in a
rowboat in the middle of the Blackwater without a soul on the Island or
the mainland knowing aught. Lord, you ought to ha’ been an excise man
yourself, you ought.”
“Maybe, Granger, maybe,” said Cip de Musset placidly and without ceasing
to chew.
“Maybe they drank the liquor and then pulled out the bung and sunk her
theirselves,” suggested Habakkuk, sniffing violently.
Granger turned slowly in his seat and let his gaze fall upon the nervous
little man for a second or two before he spoke.
“Ah! Master Rheum-in-the-head, maybe they did,” he said, “and maybe the
devil come along and carried them off in a thunder-cloud, or maybe a
sea-serpent swallowed them. Eh?”
Habakkuk looked into the others’ unsmiling faces and sniffed, while a
weak, ineffectual little smile spread over his bilious, pimply face, and
then, as Granger betrayed no amusement, it struck him that he must have
said something sensible, so he answered, “Ay, most likely,” wagging his
head sagely.
The company burst into a roar of laughter, and Habakkuk, feeling that
this time he had been witty, joined with them happily.
“Ah, no, but it is unnatural,” continued Granger thoughtfully after the
laughter had subsided. “And ye know it ain’t the first time a rowboat o’
rum and two chaps have been lost,” he went on. “Just in the same way,
too, started off after dawn and never seen no more. Ah, unnatural,
that’s what it is.”
“The currents be plaguey strong out i’ the channel,” said French,
looking up for a moment.
Granger was up in arms at once.
“Currents!” he ejaculated. “Now tell me, just tell me, Master French, do
you think either Clarry Kidley or Gustave Norton would be likely to run
into anything like that, an’ if they did, to stay in it? Just tell me!”
French shrugged his shoulders and continued to explain to Red the
kitten’s natural objection to being stroked from tail to the ears.
Granger looked round triumphantly. “Ah, I don’t know, I don’t know,” he
said at last.
“More do we,” said Habakkuk with a sniff, and the talk drifted to other
channels.
Blueneck was feeling that perhaps the world was not so dreary a place
as he had imagined, when the door burst open, and young Tant Pullen
rushed in without a hat and very breathless. He looked round the room
for a moment as though searching for someone. At last his quick bright
eyes fell upon Blueneck and he darted over to him.
“Look out you, get out of here and hide quick,” he gasped as well as he
could for lack of breath.
The Spanish sailor looked at him in surprise, and the rest of the
company, seeing that something was afoot, turned to listen.
Tant took the sailor by the collar when he saw that the man did not
move.
“Quick, hurry, or he’ll get you,” he said.
Blueneck opened his mouth in astonishment.
“Why--what?” he ejaculated.
Tant took a deep breath.
“My mother’s bin beatin’ my father, because he said that she’d took
presents from strangers,” he volunteered. The company began to laugh and
Blueneck still looked bewildered.
Tant gave one anxious look at the door.
“Mother says I was to come and tell you,” he said.
Again the circle rocked and the mystified Blueneck looked up.
“Well?” he said.
Tant sighed.
“You best come,” he said, “my father’s wonderfully riled after he’s been
beat by my mother, an’ he’s coming up here to beat you now.”
“Oh!” The company went off into another paroxysm of laughter, and
Blueneck began to see a little more light in the matter. “Let him come,”
he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Hal stepped forward from the dresser where he had been arranging
tankards.
“You better go, Master Blueneck,” he said. “Joe’s wonderfully strong,
and after he’s bin beat by his wife there’s no holding him.”
Blueneck hesitated. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Whatever he was,
Dick Delfazio’s mate was no coward and he stood his ground.
“I’m not feared,” he said; “let him come.”
Hal looked at Gilbot who had been watching the scene attentively.
“Ohsh he’sh all right,” said the old man. “Let him come, Hal.”
Hal shrugged his shoulders, and sent Anny upstairs to look to the
guest’s room. Then he quietly and unobtrusively moved everything movable
to the sides of the room, so leaving a clear space in the centre.
The company also shrugged their shoulders and edged a little away from
Blueneck so that the sailor found himself sitting alone on a bench. He
looked round him uneasily, but did not move.
Suddenly Tant, who had been looking out of the window, remarked in a
stage whisper, “Here he come,” and then dived under a pile of sacking in
a far corner.
Nobody spoke and the silence was almost uncomfortable. Little Red
noticed it, and after looking about put his arms round French’s neck and
climbed on to his knee.
“Put Win into your pocket,” he whispered, “she got hurt last time Nan
and Pet fought.”
French obeyed and, moving a little farther into the chimney corner, he
looked up shyly at Sue, who smiled and came round the high seat to sit
beside him.
French made room for her on the inside of the bench, and she took Red
from him and held the child herself.
By this time heavy footsteps could be heard coming across the yard, and
the Ship waited in a silence only broken by Habakkuk’s sniffs and the
plaintive mews of Red’s little kitten who was shut in the darkness of
French’s big pocket.
Then the door was kicked open with such a clatter that Habakkuk nearly
fell off his seat with nervousness, and Joe stalked into the room. All
his usual good humour was gone and he seemed to Blueneck, at least, to
have got quite six inches taller. He stood for a moment looking round,
his face flushed and his eyes dark with fury; a long, livid weal ran
from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, and he trembled with anger
as he stood there breathing heavily. Then, as he caught sight of
Blueneck, he gave one whoop of exultation and leapt across the room,
landing on the top of the unfortunate man, whom he proceeded to punch
with all his might.
Blueneck was no indifferent fighter himself, and as Joe’s first blow
landed in his ribs a dull light of anger kindled in his eyes and he
forced his way to his feet, and then the greatest fight that the old
Ship Tavern had ever witnessed began. They closed in, and Blueneck tried
to take advantage of his superior strength by grasping his opponent
round the body and swinging him over his head, but Joe was too wiry for
that. Seizing his opportunity he dropped low, and throwing his arms
round the sailor’s knees he suddenly crouched so that the man fell over
and stretched his body full length on the floor. Before he could again
regain his feet Joe was upon him and they rolled over and over together
kicking, the Spaniard swearing softly. Joe said nothing but grit his
teeth and fought steadily and swiftly, always making for the man’s
throat. At last he got there; the Spaniard lay on his back and Joe,
making a desperate dive between his clawing hands, grasped at the hairy
throat and held on tightly.
Blueneck’s mouth opened and his eyes bulged; slowly his movements grew
less effectual and more convulsive. Joe held on grimly and without a
word; finally he stood up.
“Give him a rum,” he said. “I’ve not done with him yet by a long way.”
Nobody spoke, but Hal stepped forward with the rum. He had drawn it in
readiness, and between them he and Joe raised the half-strangled man to
his feet and forced the spirit down his throat. Then, as he grew
stronger, Joe took him firmly by the collar and dragged him out of the
Inn, without a word or a glance behind him.
Sue was on her feet in an instant.
“Will he kill him?” she cried.
Hal shrugged his shoulders.
“No,” he said, “I don’t reckon so--and if he does, what’s a Spaniard,
anyway?”
“Yesh,” said Gilbot, holding out his rumkin to be refilled. “What’s a
Spaniard, anyway? Let’sh have a shong.”
And as Joe, his wrath hardly one whit abated, dragged the
half-suffocated Blueneck down the road to the sea, he heard the jovial
strains of “Pretty Poll” roared out in lively chorus from the Ship’s
kitchen:
“_Pretty Poll she loved a sailor_
_And well she loved he,_
_But he sailed to the mouth_
_Of a stream in the South,_
_And was lost in the rolling sea,_
_Lost in the rolling sea!_”
“Ah, ha,” said Joe between his teeth as he shook his unfortunate captive
by the collar. “And that’s what you’re goin’ to be, my lad, ‘lost in the
rolling sea’.”
Blueneck opened his mouth to expostulate, but Joe swung him round like a
meal sack and tightened his neckerchief, so that it was all he could do
to breathe, and they hurried on.
Joe strode over the ground at a tremendous pace, dragging the Spaniard
after him. And not one other word did he speak till they came to the
waterside, where Joe’s little rowboat, the _Amy_, flopped and see-sawed
on the rising tide.
Still keeping one hand on Blueneck’s collar, Joe stopped, caught at the
riding-line, and pulled it in.
“Get in,” he commanded.
Blueneck obeyed as meekly as a lamb, and Joe stepped in after him, and
pushed off. He rowed steadily for some seconds and, as the water was
very calm, made good progress. About twenty-five yards from the shore he
pulled in the oars and sat looking at the other man a full minute. Then
he spoke sharply.
“Change places and row a bit,” he said.
Blueneck shrugged his shoulders and did not move.
Joe’s eyes began to sparkle and a dull flash suffused his neck and face.
“Do as I say,” he said quietly.
The fresh air and the rum had revived Blueneck and he began to feel
angry again. Still he did not move. Joe seized an oar, holding it in
both hands; he wielded it above his head; it was a clumsy weapon,
however, and the boat rocked dangerously. Instinctively Blueneck drew
back, and before he knew what he was doing raised himself to a sitting
position on the gunwale; this was Joe’s opportunity, and he grasped it.
Lowering the oar as swiftly as possible he hove it sharply into the
Spaniard’s stomach, who immediately doubled up and fell backward into
the water.
Joe crawled along the boat and looked over the side. Blueneck came up a
little to the left and seized hold of the side; Joe pushed him off, and
he sank again and tried to strike out for the shore, but his wind was
gone and he floundered, gasping.
Joe looked at him critically.
“You won’t come near my wife no more,” he observed, as he threw the
helpless man a line. “Oh, no, you can’t come in my boat dripping as ye
are,” he said cheerily as the other, wild-eyed and half-drowned, clawed
at the boat. “You hang on that there line and I’ll tow ye in,” Joe
continued, and suiting the action to the word picked up both oars and
struck out.
When at last the keel grated on the soft shingle, Joe got out and after
first dropping his anchor looked round for Blueneck. The man lay still
in the water, both hands tightly grasping the line, the ripple of the
waves tossing him to and fro.
Joe dragged him in, threw him down on a bank of dry seaweed, and stood
looking at him for a minute or two.
“Ah, I wonder if he be dead now,” he said to himself, and he bent down
to lift the sailor’s eyelids. He tore open the wet remains of Blueneck’s
best surcoat and put his hand in the left side.
Then he stood up and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well!” he said, addressing the unconscious body, “seeing that you
ain’t dead, you may as well live, but you don’t come round my house in a
hurry again, or there won’t be any not quite dead about it--see?”
Blueneck opened his eyes for a second and then fell back again into
unconsciousness.
Joe looked round him, heaved a sigh of relief and, as he strolled off up
to the Ship, his face assumed once more its wonted good humour, his
heavy sandy lashes fell half over his eyes as usual, and, thrusting his
thumbs in his belt, he whistled as clearly, happily, and tunefully as a
linnet in May.