country. The two mates, who had their cabins in the after
’tween-decks, where they messed, had made all ready for getting under
way. The hands walked to and fro about the fo’c’s’le, waiting for the
order. The last bum-boat had shoved off for the shore, having sold her
last onion and last box of red herrings. Snatches of song came aft to
the poop. It was slack water; the sea seemed to be marking time.
Already, further up the harbour, a schooner had swung athwart the
stream. One or two boats were hoisting their foresails, ready to catch
the first ebb. The sun was still strong in the heavens; there was more
than an hour of day to come.
“We may as well up hook,” said Cammock, “if you’ll say the word, sir.”
“All ready, captain,” said Margaret. “We’ll go as soon as you like.”
“Right,” said Cammock, bustling forward to the poop-rail. “Hands up
anchor, bosun.”
The boatswain’s pipe made the call. The fo’c’s’le was thronged with
hurrying sailors. The trumpeter at the gangway blew a flourish, and
sounded his “Loath to depart.” The men cheered as the bars were
shipped. The waisters tended on the messenger with their nippers.
Slowly the pawls began to click as the men strained round, heaving on
tiptoe. The two capstans hove in, moving the cable. All down the
’tween-decks rang the snapping creak of a cable at a shaking strain.
Some one at one of the bars, down in the half-darkness, began to sing.
The crowd made chorus together, lifting the tune. Voice after voice
joined in. Bar after bar sounded and shouted. The ship rang with song.
The music of the tune floated out over the harbour. In the sixth-rate,
the men joined in, till the whole crew were singing. Ashore they heard
it. In the schooners at anchor, in the inns ashore, in the dance-house
up the town, the music made echo, stirring the heart. As the light
wind moved or failed, so died the tune or lifted. With a great sweep
it rose up, towering on many voices, then drooped to the solo, to soar
again when the men sang. They were singing that they would go no more
a-roving. To Margaret and Perrin, standing there at the poop-rail,
hearkening to them, much moved by the splendour of the song, the
coarse old words seemed touching, infinitely sad, the whole of
sea-life set to music.
Now they were moving slowly, making the water talk. Their spritsail
was set. Hands were aloft loosing the topsails. On the fo’c’s’le head
the mate bustled, looking over the rail. Very slowly the ship moved;
but now, as she left her berth, heading for the narrows, past the
breakers, where Ram Rock gleamed in his smother, the song at the
capstan ceased. On deck, a watch gathered at the halliards. The
foretopsail jolted up to the song of “Lowlands.” Sail was being made.
Voices from aloft gave notice to hoist away. In the bustle and
confusion, with coils of rope rattling down, men running here and
there, getting pulls of this and that, and the noise of the sails
slatting, the two friends walked the poop, looking back at the
sixth-rate, dipping their ensign to her. Cammock had come aft, and was
standing by them, looking aloft at the boy on the maintopgallant yard.
He spun round suddenly, hearing a hail from the man-of-war.
“Hullo!” he shouted; adding, under his breath, “Lord, she’s going to
press us.”
He darted to the bulwark, and shouted “Hullo!” again. He saw the mate
of the watch, in a dirty old tarred coat, walking her weather gangway,
where a soldier stood at attention in old red regimentals.
The mate of the watch did not speak to them. He merely lifted his hand
to Cammock, and pointed towards the jetty.
“A boat for us,” said Perrin.
“Very much obliged to you, sir,” cried Cammock to the mate of the
watch.
“Lend me your glass, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret uneasily.
He seized the glass hastily, and looked at the advancing boat. She was
rowing rapidly towards them.
“Who the devil can it be?” said Perrin, as he watched Cammock bring
the ship to the wind. “Lord, captain,” he said, with real anger. “It’s
that woman with her husband.”
“It’s a lady, that’s plain,” said Cammock. “And they’re in a hurry.
The man’s double-banking the stroke oar.”
“They’ve got a lot of gear in the boat,” said Perrin.
“Presents, I guess,” said Cammock. “A present of fowls and that. Or a
case or two of bottles.”
Captain Margaret flushed, walked up and down uneasily, and called to
the steward to open wine.
“There’s something queer,” said Cammock to Perrin. “Hark at all them
shouts. Gad, sir, I believe they’re being chased. There’s two shore
boats after them. Ain’t they smoking, hey?”
Indeed, the pursuing boats were being pulled furiously; their oars
were bending.
“What in James is the rally?” said Cammock. “Is Captain Margaret made
King of England or anything?”
Perrin looked at Cammock with a flush upon his face.
“Captain Cammock,” he said, “they’re coming aboard us. They’re being
chased. I bet they’re flying from their creditors.”
“Lord,” said Cammock.
He watched the chase with deeper interest. Captain Margaret joined
them.
“Charles,” said Perrin, “they’ve come to beg a passage. Stukeley’s
being chased by creditors. Man, for heaven’s sake don’t take them in.
Don’t, man.”
“What nonsense,” said Margaret. “Have you never seen these boatman
race before?”
Cammock spoke. “I suppose you want me to pick them up, sir?”
“Certainly,” said Margaret.
“Very good, sir,” he answered.
He looked at the hurrying boats. Cries came from the pursuers. Men and
women were running down the steps to the pier, now black with people,
excited, shouting people. Olivia and Stukeley were now almost within
fifty yards. Stukeley was standing in the sternsheets, double-banking
the stroke with all his strength.
“There, sir,” said Cammock. “Did you hear that, sir? Those fellows in
the cutter are singing out to them to stop. There. They’re going to
fire.”
Captain Margaret muttered something; his face flushed suddenly, and
then became pale. A gun was fired from the cutter.
“Firing overhead,” said Cammock absently.
“Captain Cammock,” cried Margaret, “lively now; get her off to her
course.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” he cried.
He sprang to the helm, shouting his orders. He was back in a moment.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, as the ship paid off. “Are you not going
to pick them up?”
“Yes, of course I am,” said Margaret.
“And the other boats, too, sir?”
“No,” he answered. “Not yet anyhow.”
A hail came from the pursuing boats. “Ship ahoy! Stop those persons on
your peril.”
“King’s officers, sir,” said Cammock. “They’re fugitives from the law.
It’s transportation to receive fugitives, sir.”
Two more guns were fired in quick succession; a bullet from one of
them struck the bends of the _Broken Heart_.
“Arrest those fugitives. In the name of the King,” came the shout of a
man in the cutter.
The words were clear enough. All that Margaret saw was Olivia’s face,
laughing and happy, her great eyes bright, as the boat swept
alongside.
“It’s a hanging matter, Charles,” said Perrin, biting his thumbs till
the blood came.
“I don’t care if they hang me fifty times,” said Margaret. “They fired
at her.”
“Oh, all right. All right,” said Perrin resignedly. “Now we’re in for
trouble,” he added angrily. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. I knew how it would
be.”
“Hands clear boat,” said Cammock to the boatswain.
Olivia and Stukeley tripped up the gangway to the quarter-deck.
Margaret greeted them; but Stukeley pushed past him to Cammock and
Perrin.
“Here,” he said, drawing them aside. “We’re coming with you. I’m
wanted. And I’m coming with you. She thinks I’m coming to help--to
help the Indians.” He seemed to choke with laughter. He was out of
breath from rowing.
Cammock did not answer, but walked to the rail, and called to the
boatmen in the boat. “Hook on these boxes lively now,” he said. “You’d
best come aboard, all four of you, unless you want a taste of gaol.”
Two of the men hooked on the trunks in one sling; the other two cast
off the boat and dropped astern, as the tackle swept the trunks over
the side. It was all done in a moment.
Perrin found himself with Stukeley, who was talking. “She must never
know it,” he was saying, between gasps. “Oh, Lord, what a joke, eh?”
Perrin heard him absently, for his ears were straining to hear what
his friend said to Olivia. There she was, flushed with the race,
swaying a little as the ship swayed. He heard the words, “We beat
them,” and saw her go to the rail to watch the pursuing boats. Perrin
took off his hat, advanced to her, and bade her welcome. He could have
hurled her overboard willingly. His reason for advancing was to see
what the pursuing boats were doing.
“It was such a race,” said Olivia. “But we beat them. They chased us
all the way from Halwell. It was such fun.” She talked on excitedly;
Perrin had never seen her so radiant. She was delighted to be on
board, going to the New World, in a real ship. And then the suddenness
of it, and the rush of the boat-race.
As for the boats, one of them, the cutter, was a hundred yards or more
astern, pulling hard upon their quarter. The other was rowing up
alongside the sixth-rate. Perrin saw a man in a red coat waving a
paper from her sternsheets. The man-of-war’s deck was full of men, who
had crowded to the side to watch. Cammock was hurrying his hands. His
maintopsail and topgallantsail were mastheaded together, to songs
which made Olivia hasten to the poop-rail to hearken. Loud was the
jolly chorus. The ship felt the sail. Bubbles burst brightly over the
trailing anchor-flakes. Old Harry beacon drove by, rolling in the wash
they made. Cammock walked aft hurriedly to take a bearing. He noticed
then for the first time that the cutter which had fired on them was
the red cutter of the man-of-war. He could now see her broadside. Her
men fired no more. They were stepping the mast, while two of them kept
way upon her. “We’re in for it now,” he thought. He let his helmsman
feel that it would not do to glance astern.
“You mind your eye,” he said fiercely. He took an anxious glance at
the Wolf Rock, and at the toppling seas on the Blackstone. “I never
saw a beastlier place,” he said. “Haul in there, leadsman,” he
shouted. “Another cast, now.”
The ship seemed to pause a moment, like a bird suddenly stricken with
the palsy. A kind of death seemed to lay hold of her, checking all on
board. She dragged a moment, and then drove on, muddying the sea. She
had touched Ripple Sands.
“My God, we’re done if you stick,” said Cammock. “And here’s Splat
Point and the Bass.”
He bent over the binnacle; Stukeley came to him.
“Hello, captain,” he began. “My old sea-dog. Eh? Where can I get a
spot of brandy? Eh?”
Cammock took his cross-bearing without answering. Then he looked
steadily at the harbour-mouth, and at the curved white line of the
bar. He bade his helmsman “come to” a point. He conned the ship,
ordered a small pull of a sheet, and glanced astern at the man-of-war.
Stukeley repeated his question. “Where can I get a spot of brandy?
Eh?”
Cammock glanced at him for a second. “Lots of dirty pubs ashore
there,” he said coldly. He turned to look again at the man-of-war.
He was not too far from her to see that she was casting loose her
forecastle gun. He looked bitterly at Stukeley. “I wonder what you’ve
done, my duck,” he said under his breath. He walked up to the little
group by the mizen shrouds; he wished not to annoy the lady.
“Captain Margaret, sir,” he said. “May I just speak to you a moment?”
His owner stepped aside with him.
“Look here, sir,” he said hurriedly, “the man-of-war’s going to fire
on us. I don’t know what reasons you may have for taking these people
aboard. But the man’s escaping from justice, and the lady’s been
bamboozled. In another ten ticks you’ll have a round-shot into you.
Now, sir, is it fair? A round-shot may kill and maim you a dozen
hands, with the decks so busy as they are. Let me heave her to, sir.
The man’s a damned scum. And it’s hanging if you’re caught.”
Perrin joined them, leaving Olivia alone. Her husband was talking to
the helmsman, getting no answer.
“Charles, for the Lord’s sake, send them in,” said Perrin. “Do, for
the Lord’s sake, think what you’re doing. You’ll ruin yourself. You’ll
wreck the cruise. You simply can’t have them aboard. Look at that
great hulking beast abaft there.”
“Hi, you,” called Cammock angrily. “Clear away from the helm there.”
Stukeley stared at him, much surprised.
“Yes, I mean you,” said Cammock.
“No man must talk to the helmsman,” said Margaret gently.
“Your old sea-dog hasn’t learned manners, eh?” said Stukeley
insolently. “You must teach him.”
He stared at Cammock, who returned the stare, and then spun upon his
heel to con the ship through the channel.
Perrin drew Margaret aside.
“Oh, Charles. For the last time. Think what you’re doing. I must heave
her to. You aren’t fit to decide. Heave to, Captain Cammock.”
“As she goes,” cried Margaret angrily. “No, Edward,” he added quietly;
“I’ll take them. I’ll save her one shock, anyway. And if I must hang
for it, I must. That’s settled.”
“You don’t even know what he’s done,” said Perrin.
“He’s her husband,” said Margaret. “And they fired on her. They fired
on her. Now go and talk to her. No more talk, Ned. They’re coming with
us. Go and talk to her.”
Perrin turned from his friend with a gesture of childish passion. He
took off his hat, ripped the brim from the crown with a single violent
tug, and flung both portions into the sea. Then he walked swiftly down
the ladder (and to his cabin) muttering curses so vehemently that they
seemed to shake him. As he passed under the cabin door a flash came
from the bows of the sixth-rate. A ball from a long nine-pounder hit
up a jet from the sea close alongside, then bounded on, raising
successive jets, till it was spent. Another shot flew over them. A
third, fired after an interval, brought the maintopgallant braceblock
down. A part of the sheave just missed Olivia’s head.
“They ought not to salute with shot,” explained Captain Margaret.
“They always do. And that bit of lignum vitæ--feel it; isn’t it
beautifully smooth and hard--would have given you a nasty bruise. Hold
on,” he called, catching her arm, “she’s rolling. We’re going over the
bar. It’s all very well wishing a ship a pleasant voyage,” he
continued. “But I wonder they don’t kill people.” His thought was,
“Can she be such a fool? Surely she must know.” But at that time he
knew very little of Stukeley.
Olivia answered him. The shot and the rattle of the falling gear had
filled her mood. “Yes,” she said. “But I must be prepared for that. I
must be with Tom, by his side, when we fight the Spaniards. I do think
it’s fine of him to want to help the Indians.”
“Yes,” said Captain Margaret. “But won’t you go below? A braceblock on
the head is a very bad preparation for helping any one.” He glanced
anxiously astern at the man-of-war; he was surprised to see that she
was not in sight. The _Broken Heart_ was clear of the harbour, feeling
the heave outside, hidden from Salcombe by Lambury Point. The pursuing
cutter was sailing back to the sixth-rate. It was a shock to him, for
a moment of time, to think that now he had burned his boats, and that
he was pledged to a very doubtful venture. “There’ll be no more
firing,” he added. “Doesn’t Bolt Head look fine from here? Look at the
breakers on the rocks there. Olivia, you must put on a warm coat or
wrap. The sea-wind is cold.”
“I’d rather be as I am,” she answered. “Tell me, Charles,” she added,
“are you sure that you would like us to come with you? Quite sure? We
could easily go ashore at Plymouth. But my husband is so bent on
coming, and he’ll be so useful to you. You will let us come, won’t
you? You know, all my life has been so empty. And now. Now I’m so
happy, I want every one else to be happy. Oh, I’d love to help the
Indians.”
“You shall come, certainly,” said the captain. “But are you sure
you’re fitted for the voyage? Our venture is not exactly. Ladies are
out of place. You may have to suffer a great deal of very great
hardship. And then you might---- I want you to think, Olivia. You
might--we all might--be captured by the Spaniards.”
“Oh,” she answered, “I went into that with Tom, after you’d gone,
about half an hour after, when I told him of your visit. Directly I
told him of it, he was eager to come with you. The first thing he said
was, ‘Olivia, do you think your friends would take us?’”
“It must have been rather a shock to you. To decide in such a hurry.”
“Oh; but it is so nice to do that. Besides, if we hadn’t decided, we
should have gone to Venice, or somewhere not half so nice.”
“Well. How will you like being at _least_ six months from home? Have
you reckoned on that?”
“Oh, but the only home one has is just one’s self. The only real
home.”
“Now, Olivia. I love to have you with me. You know that of course. But
you don’t realize how disagreeable the life may be.” A thought struck
him. “Yes,” he muttered excitedly. “Nor how dangerous,” he added, “how
frightfully dangerous.”
“One can always be one’s self,” she replied. “And I shan’t be afraid
of danger, with Tom by me.”
“And the danger will threaten him, remember.”
“I shall take care of him.”
Something in her voice, in her manner, made Captain Margaret think
that Olivia’s willingness to come with them was merely a willingness
to please her husband. It seemed to him that her first sight of
England from the sea had come upon her with a shock. He felt that she
only kept from tears by an effort, now that the excitement of the race
had passed. He saw her look at the men who hauled the braces;
following her train of thought, that these were to be her companions
for months to come. He felt instinctively that her mind began to dwell
upon the possible disagreeable closeness of companionship, shut up in
a small ship’s cabin, with three or four men. He wondered whether
Stukeley had bullied her into the venture. He thought not. He had ever
believed a rogue to be plausible, rather than masterful. He promised
himself some little amusement in cross-examining Stukeley, to learn
the history of that day’s work. He remembered then that he was their
host. He called Stukeley. “Won’t you both come below,” he said, “to
see what sort of house you’ve chosen?” He led them down the
poop-ladder to the alley-way door. As he passed the door of Perrin’s
cabin he heard a shaking voice uttering fierce curses. Perrin was
stamping up and down, wholly given over to rage.
Up on deck, Captain Cammock walked the weather-poop, glad at heart
that the wind was freshening. The _Broken Heart_ was lying over a
little, with the wind on her starboard beam. She was under all sail,
going through it at about five knots. “I shall drive you, my duck,” he
said. “You shall groan to-night.” He longed for a whole gale, a
roaring Western Ocean gale, that the passengers might learn their
folly. He eyed the sails, stiff and trembling, with shaking shadows at
their clues. The carpenter was screwing battens behind the gun-trocks;
the boatswain and half the watch were forward, singing out on a rope.
Captain Cammock watched them whenever he turned forward. When he
walked aft, he turned, glanced at the compass, looked aloft at the
maintopgallant sail, and noted the feathers on the wind-vane. He was
reviewing the situation. “It was a good thing for us,” he thought,
“that that duchess lady was aboard that frigate. Otherwise we’d a-been
chased and took. Now how was it her boat gave chase? The duchess lady
arrives from the south; after six days at sea, say. She sends in for
letters and stores, and the boat waits at the pier. Now this Stukeley
fellow came alongside us in a shore boat, from Salcombe. I saw the
word Salcombe on her backboard. Now if I was that Stukeley duck----
How could it have been, I wonder. He couldn’t have come from the pier,
because the man-of-war boat lay there. If he wanted to get away, what
would he have done? He’d have left word for his gear to be brought
down to the water; and then gone off for a walk or drive. Then he’d
have sent a boat for his gear, and got her to pick him up and row him
about, up towards Kingsbridge, say, as soon as ever he decided to come
aboard of us. He knew he was wanted, that duck did. Yes. That was it.
For sure. And them who was laying for him hears of that, and sends up
a boat to look for him; but he gives her the slip. As soon as the ebb
begins, he runs down. And away he comes full tilt for us. Now some one
who was laying for him must have been on the jetty, waiting for him to
land. Soon as ever he come past, they nip into the cutter in the name
of the King and pull after him. A little too far after. One boat pulls
to the frigate, and so we get three nine-pounder shots sent at us,
before the duchess lady tells ’em to stop that horrid firing. I wonder
what that Stukeley duck has done, now.”
He turned over this outline of the Stukeley escape, just as, years
before, he had pieced out evidence, and scouts’ reports, when he was
cruising on the Spanish Main. He had always wished to have a command
on the Main; for he had more than courage to recommend him. He had a
keen intuitive shrewdness and a power of deduction. “They never give
me a chance on the Main,” he thought. “But I was right about them
roasting spuds.” He sighed. That error of his captain had lost them a
pound of gold apiece. “Now,” he thought, “if them two birds is coming
the cruise we shan’t have a very happy ship.”
Bell after bell passed by; the day wore; the sun set. As he had
foretold, the wind drew more to the west; freshening as it shifted.
The _Broken Heart_ was beginning to feel the strain. She was lying
down a little, and whitening a path in the sea. She was full of odd
noises. The breechings on her guns were new, they cracked and creaked
at each roll; her decks groaned as the trocks ground. At two bells,
when the hands came aft to muster, in the summer twilight, having
catted the anchor, she was seven miles from land, driving on in the
dusk, making the seas gleam. Her poop-light, like a burning rose abaft
all, reddened her wake with bloody splashes. She stooped to it and
staggered. Over her bows came the sprays, making the look-outs cower
down in their tarred coats. The water whitened aft in a washing rush,
gleaming and creaming. By the break of the poop the watch lay. A score
of men huddled together in the shade, marshalled by the boatswain in
his old blue cloak, scurfed with salt at the seams. Voices murmured
among them; one lit a pipe, one hummed. The wind in the shrouds
hummed; already the blocks were clacking. Now and then, as they rushed
on, in the gathering darkness, the boy above struck the bell; and from
forward came the answering bell, with the call of the look-outs,
“Weather cathead,” “Lee cathead,” showing that they were alert. The
steward came from the alleyway, snuffing up the strong salt air; he
climbed the lee ladder to the poop. Battling up to windward against
the gale, he halted and uncovered before the captain.
“Well, steward,” said Cammock.
“Captain Margaret sends his compliments to you, seh,” said the old
negro, with the soft “boneless” speech of his kind, “and will you step
below, seh, to speak with him in the cabin.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” said Cammock. He glanced at the
compass-card again, and spoke a word with old Mr. Cottrill, the mate,
whose watch it was, according to old sea custom. “Call me if it
freshens,” he said; “but don’t take any sail off.”
Mr. Cottrill murmured that he understood, and bent under his coat to
get a light for his pipe. His thought was, “I’ve shipped with pirates.
With pirates.” The memory of that afternoon gave him bitter thoughts
till midnight, as the ship rushed on, under the stars, carrying her
freight of passion, her freight of souls.
Down below in the cabin the lamp had been lighted. The curtains had
been drawn across the windows, and now swayed a little with the roll,
making a faint click of rings. They were dark green curtains; but on
each of them was worked a blood-red tulip, which glowed out finely in
the lamplight. The windows were open behind the curtains. At times,
when the ship pitched, the cloth sucked in or out, sending the
lamp-flame dancing. At the table were the two Stukeleys and Captain
Margaret. Perrin sat upon the locker by the window, biting his poor
raw thumbs. When Captain Cammock entered, he noticed that Olivia had
been drinking a bowl of soup, and that Stukeley was staring hard in
front of him, clutching his glass of spirits.
“You’re turning sick,” said Cammock to himself. “Wait till we haul our
wind, my duck. Oh, mommer.” A single hard glance at Olivia convinced
him that she felt wretched. “More than you bargained for, ain’t it?”
he thought cheerfully. “You wait till we haul our wind.”
He had the common man’s hatred of strangeness and of strangers. He
loved not to have more folk aboard to interrupt his chats with his
owners, and to sit in the sacred cabin, ordering his steward.
“Captain Cammock,” said Margaret, “let me introduce you to Mrs.
Stukeley. Mr. Stukeley.”
The captain bowed.
“Captain Cammock is our commander, Olivia.”
Olivia smiled at the captain, much as a Christian martyr may have
smiled.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said the captain, bowing.
He felt a queer gush of pity for her, remembering how he had felt,
years before, on his first night at sea.
“I hope you won’t make my little ship giddy, ma’am,” he said kindly.
“You must wear veils. All ladies has to, when they come on deck. You
know, ma’am----” He sat down at the foot of the table. “I seen a ship
quite lose her head one time. And the girl who done it wasn’t to be
compared, not to you.”
“You see, Olivia,” said Margaret, “a sailor loses no time.”
“You must come on deck and see the moon by and by, ma’am,” said
Cammock kindly. “And bring your husband. It’s nice and fresh up on the
deck. It’ll do you good before turning in, I dare say,” he went on. “I
dare say you’ve never seen the sea at night. Not all round you. No?
Well, you come up.”
Olivia thanked him for his invitation.
“I’ve lived by the sea all my life,” she said; “but I was never on it
in a ship before, except when I went to France.”
The words were very hard to speak; for as she spoke, with a rush, with
a flash, burningly, as tears come, came the memory of her sheltered
life at home, with her old servants, and her garden full of flowers,
over which now, at this moment, the moon was rising, lighting the
moths to their honey. She was homesick; she longed for that old life.
Life had gone very smoothly there; and now she was at sea in a ship,
among rough men, amid noise and bawling and the roaring of wind. She
kept a brave face upon it, but her heart was wretched; she wondered
why her husband did not understand. She longed for the peace of her
quiet room at home, full of the scent of flowers, and of that vague
scent, pleasant, and yet morbid, which hangs about all houses where
there has been a fine tradition of life. Old things, old beautiful
things, seem to give out this scent, the scent of the dead sweet
pea-blossom. Wherever that vague perfume lingers, something of the old
world lives, something beautiful, stately, full of sweet care. Olivia
was made for that life of lovely order. Her life had been passed in
the gathering of flowers, in the playing of music, in dances, in the
reading of poems. All sweet and lovely and gracious things had wrought
her; but they had not fitted her for this. Something was wrong with
the justice of the world; for surely such as she should have been
spared. She was not for the world; not at least for the world of men.
She was the idea of woman; she should have been spared the lot of
women. Her beautiful grace, her beautiful refinement, surely they were
beautiful enough for her to be spared. Now this violence had happened;
this brutal rearrangement of her life, needing further violence to
remedy. At the time she understood nothing of what had happened. She
was stunned and surprised, as a flower dug up and transplanted must be
surprised and stunned. She drooped and pined; this alien soil made her
shrink. As she sat there, ignorant of the world, highly ignorant,
even, of the nature of sea-sickness, she wondered why her husband made
no effort to cheer her, to comfort her, to be about her, like a strong
wall, shutting out the world. In her home by the sea, by lamplight,
over her music, she had often dreamed of the lover who would fill her
life. She had thought of him as of one who would live her life by
imaginative sympathy, thinking her thoughts, feeling with her own
fineness of tact, following each shy, unspoken thought in the passing
of shadow or smile, in the change of the voice, in the gesture, or
even without such help, by an extreme unselfish sensitiveness. She
found comfort in the thought that her husband must be debating the
wisdom of this cruise, which, only a few hours ago, had seemed so
wise, so noble, so right in every way.
Captain Margaret broke the silence which had followed her last words.
“Captain Cammock,” he said, “we’re making a new arrangement in the
cabins. Mr. and Mrs. Stukeley will have my double cabin to starboard
here. I shall have the spare bunk in Mr. Perrin’s cabin. I shall want
you to beat up to Falmouth, captain.”
“You’ll run some risk of gaol, Charles,” said the petulant friend on
the locker-tops. “You’ll probably be wanted by this time to-morrow all
over the west of England.”
“You were always a pessimist,” said Margaret.
“Is the lady to go ashore, then?” said Cammock, looking towards
Olivia.
“I hope not,” said Margaret. “But if she stays she must have a maid.
We shall put her--let me see.”
“Where will you put her?” asked Perrin. “There’s no room. You surely
won’t put her in the ’tween-decks?”
“No,” replied his friend. “We must make up a room in the sail-room.
Captain Cammock must shift his sails into the ’tween-decks.”
“She’ll have the biggest room in the ship,” said Cammock. “She’ll be
able to give a ball to the hands.”
“Charles,” said Olivia, “I don’t think I can possibly come with you.
I’m giving you too much trouble.”
She was hurt, now, that it was Charles, not her husband, who had
thought of her comfort, and shown that he considered her position.
“Nonsense,” said Margaret. “You’re being very nice. You just make all
the difference. Now, you’re both tired out. Your cabin’s quite ready
for you. Suppose we all go on deck to take the air for a while before
we say good-night.”
As they filed on deck, Cammock drew Stukeley aside.
“See here,” he said. “You’re giving way to it. You’ll be as sick as a
dog if you give way to it. What you want to do is to get some nice fat
pork, or a bit of greasy bacon, now. Or lard. The steward ’d lend you
a ball of lard. Or get one of the hands to puff tobacker at yer. Or
take a suck at a little melted butter, or some of that salad oil as
they call it. It’ll fetch you up all standing.”
He turned to his owner as Olivia left the poop.
“And you wish me to beat for Falmouth, sir?”
“If you please,” answered Captain Margaret.
“Very good, sir. I’ll go about at once. I can tack with the watch. Mr.
Cottrill,” he shouted, “Ready oh.”
His advice to Stukeley had the usual results. Olivia’s first night at
sea was passed in the marriage-bed of the state-room by the side of a
sea-sick boor, who groaned and damned and was violently sick all
through the night. He complained of cold before the dawn broke, so she
gave him her share of blankets, tenderly tucking him in. Up on deck
the men passed quietly to relieve the wheel. The main race-block
grunted and rattled; the mizen topsail sheets flogged on the woolding
of the mast, making a noise like drums. Up and down, above her head,
in a soft, never-ending shuffle, went the ship’s boy, keeping the lee
poop. At each bell she heard the hails of the lookouts: “Weather
cathead,” “Lee cathead,” “Gangway,” “Lee poop,” coming in the gusts of
the storm. Often, too, she heard a noise which she had never heard
before, a terrifying noise, the noise of water breaking aboard, the
lash of spray against her scuttle. The wind freshened through the
night, till it blew a fresh gale. The _Broken Heart_ took on strange
antics, which seemed very dreadful to Olivia. Far aft, as she was, the
pitching was violent and broken. Each little sea seemed deep as the
valley of the shadow. The roaring in the shrouds increased. At 4 a.m.,
all hands reefed topsails. Creeping out of bed to the great cabin, she
managed to peep to leeward through the skylight, in a heavy lee-roll,
which made her clutch the table. She saw a wild sky, notched by the
sea; great billows foaming, spray flying down wind, angry gleams in
blown cloud. From just above her head came the bull-roar of Captain
Cammock, who was damning the mizen-top men. “Lay in to the top, you,”
he was shouting. “Lay down a few of you and clue it up.” Then from
just above her head came the thunder of the slatting sail as the
topsail yard came down. “Away. Away. Lee-ay,” came the startling
shouts of the men on the clue-lines. The sail thundered and jangled.
The men roared at the ropes. Captain Cammock, with his head tilted
back, yelled to them to lay out, and hand the leech in. One phrase
struck upon her sharply. He bade them make it fast, letting the bunt
go to a place she had never heard of. “Pass your gaskets. Pass them
yard-arm gaskets. Get on the yard, you. Stamp that damned bunt down.”
The excited angry tone, the noise, the wild sky, all helped her fears.
She crept back to Stukeley’s side sure that the end was coming, that
the gale was increasing to a hurricane, and that, in a little while,
they would all sink together in some wild whirlpool screamed over by
the seagulls.
On the third day of storm, they managed to beat into Falmouth, where
they anchored off Trefusis Point. It was a wild, wet morning when they
anchored. The wooded combe of Trefusis was hidden in cloud, which
continually whirled off in streamers, as new cloud drove along, to
catch in the tree tops. The _Broken Heart_ was the only ship in the
anchorage; though over against Flushing there were a few
fishing-boats, rocking in the tideway. Captain Margaret went into
Falmouth, with Perrin and Olivia, to engage a maid. Stukeley was too
weak from his sickness to leave the ship. To Margaret it was a sign
that his crime was exceedingly foul.
“You have been badly scared, my friend,” he said to himself, as he sat
down beside Olivia in the boat. “If you persist in leaving England,
after being sick like that.”
Olivia had found comfort in what she took to be her husband’s
nobleness. She was proud that her husband had not abandoned his ideas
because of his bodily distress. By this time, too, she had seen the
potency of sea-sickness. She had seen its effect upon a strong man.
She had got over her first homesick terror of the sea. The storm had
exhilarated her. Up on deck, hanging to the mizen rigging, behind the
weather-cloth, she had felt the rapture of the sea. She had gone below
with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, cheered and delighted.
She had been touched, too, by the kindness of the three men of the
afterguard. Cammock had given up his cabin to the sick man, so that
she might have the great cabin to herself, in peace and quiet. She had
been very busy in getting her cabin into order, even in the tumble of
the storm. Now that she had made the state-room a home she had less
terror of the sea.
It was not an easy matter to engage a maid for such a voyage. They
tried at many mean houses, using tempting promises; but without
success. At last they called at the poor-house, where they had their
choice of several. An idiot girl, aged twenty, four old women who
remembered King James, and the widow Inigo, a black but comely woman,
in the prime of life, who had gone under after a succession of
disasters beginning with the death of her husband. They struck a hard
bargain with the widow Inigo, and then bore her down the hill to buy
her an outfit for the voyage. At the mercer’s shop, where Olivia and
the widow made their purchases, Captain Margaret, following his
invariable custom, began a conversation with one of the shopmen, a
youth just out of his apprenticeship.
“How long do you have to stay here every day?”
“About twelve hours, sir. From six till six.”
“That’s a very long day’s work, isn’t it? Do you have those hours all
the year round, or only in the summer?”
“All the year round, sir.”
“And what holidays do you have?”
“Holidays, sir? Easter, and Christmas, and Whitsuntide. Of course I’ve
my Sundays.”
“And how do you pass your spare time?”
“I go out with fellows, sir.”
“And what do you do?”
“Sometimes we dub at something.”
“And what is dub?”
“We put up a bottle somewhere, and then we dub at it.”
“Is that all you do?”
“On Thursdays our club meets. Then we have singing.”
“And do you read at all?”
“No, sir, I can’t say as I ever do, sir. I don’t want much reading
after the shutters are up.”
“I should have thought that you’d have been a great reader. Don’t you
find your work very interesting?”
“Oh. It’s all right, sir. Like any other work.”
“Yes. But. Take these woollen things, for instance. Don’t you think of
all the hands it has passed through? Don’t you think of the sheep up
on the hills, and the shepherds piping to them, and the great lonely
downs, eh, with nothing but sheep-bells and the wind?”
“No, sir. Not in that light exactly.”
“And then, don’t you think of the brooks where they wash and shear?
And then the great combs and looms, with so many people combing and
weaving and spinning, all helping to make this?” He picked up the warm
woollen shirt, and handled it. “And don’t you think of the people who
will wear these things?”
“No, sir. You see, I’m only a shopman. Mr. Treloar, the owner, he
thinks of all these things.”
“And will not you be a shop-owner, sometime, if you save and work
hard?”
“No, sir. Oh no, sir. I’m only a shopman.”
“Yes; but could you not become a shop-owner? Would you not like to be
one?”
“No, sir. I can’t say as I should, sir.”
“What would you like to be?”
“Of all things, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s rather a big order, sir.”
“Think.”
“I think, sir, I’d like to be. Don’t let Mr. Burls hear, sir. He’s
listening. I’d like to be one of these buccaneers, sir. Fellows what
goes about fighting the Spaniards. They live an open-air life. Not
like here, sir. Oh, I’d like to lie by a camp-fire, sir, with a lot of
big bronzed men. And to have a gun, sir. And then to attack a city
full of treasure.”
“But I should think that was very dangerous. Isn’t it?”
“No, sir. Not by all accounts, sir. A poor lot, sir, the Spaniards.
They’re not like us, you know, sir. Our fellows are a bull-dog lot,
sir. The bull-dog breed, sir.”
“Really!”
“Oh yes, sir. Why, sir, only a day or two ago there come the
news-letter from Plymouth. I dare say you saw it, sir. And there was a
Virginia ship at Salcombe, it says. Did you see that bit, sir? And a
forger was escaping from the constables, and he got on board this ship
and bribes the captain, and he carries the man off safe, with the
men-of-war all firing broadsides on him. Oh, it must be fine to hear
the cannon-balls coming whizz.”
“Indeed! A forger, you say?”
“A forger, sir; but he’d done other things as well, sir, of course.
And he’d a lady with him, too, sir.”
“But you wouldn’t like to be that sort of man?”
“No, sir.”
“What would you do to the forger, if you caught him?”
“I should give him up to the constables, sir.”
“And the ship-captain?”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t thought about it much, sir.”
“You would support the laws, I hope?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Even if he were a buccaneer.”
“Oh, now you’re too hard on me, sir.”
“But he was defying the law. And saving a ruffian from it.”
“Yes, sir. Of course I suppose I should support the laws, as you say.”
“It would be rather nice to be a buccaneer, and to obey only those
laws which one is strong enough to make for oneself.”
“Yes, sir?”
“To defend the weak and to make money by it. Isn’t that our maxim?”
The shopman giggled nervously. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m a buccaneer,” said Margaret. “Come with me. Won’t you? You shall
be what you really long to be.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t leave the shop, sir. Mr. Treloar would never----”
“Well, think it over,” said Margaret, rising. “I hope you’ll send all
these things down to the landing-stage within an hour. And send this
woman’s box down with them.”
“Oh, I will, sir. You shall find them there, sir.”
Captain Margaret paid the cost, nodded to the shopman, walked out with
Olivia. Mrs. Inigo resigned her box and followed them. They went to
several other shops, made more purchases, trifled away half an hour at
a pastrycook’s, and then set slowly shorewards, talking little; but
looking at the shops with interest. They would see no more shops for
many days. At the mercer’s shop they paused a moment, for Captain
Margaret had just decided to take several rolls of holland linen, in
order that his hands might make summer shirts for themselves. He left
Olivia at the door for a moment, with Mrs. Inigo, while he hurried
within. His friend the shopman hurried up to him.
“Well, what is it?” said Margaret.
“The goods are gone on board, sir,” said the shopman.
“Yes? Well? What is it?”
“I beg pardon, sir. Don’t wish to offend, sir. But are you the
gentleman, the gentleman, the, er, sea-captain. From Salcombe, sir?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Please, sir, I took the liberty. There was Mr. Russell, the
magistrate, and a gentleman from the fort, sir. They came in about you
just after you’d gone. They were going to inquire about, about the
Salcombe matter, sir.”
“Yes. What did you tell them?”
“I said you’d gone to Penryn, sir, about some beer, sir, for your
sailors.”
“That wasn’t strictly truthful, was it?”
“No, sir. I suppose not, sir. So they went off to Penryn, sir. And I
told your boatmen to take the things aboard, and then wait for you at
the docks.”
“Where are the docks?”
“Nearly a mile down the harbour, sir. Further on along the road here.
I beg your pardon, sir, but the landing-stage has soldiers on it.”
“Thank you. Have they sent to seize the ship?”
“No, sir. Oh no indeed, sir. I think----”
“Why haven’t they? Did you hear?”
“I think I heard them say, sir, that they had only a warrant for--if I
may say so, as they call it, for you, sir.”
“How far is it to Penryn? I suppose they’ll be back soon?”
“Yes, sir. They might be back at any moment.”
“Thanks. Well. Show me where the docks are. Away to the left here?”
“Yes, sir. You can’t miss them. If I might come with you, sir.”
“To the Spanish Main?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t. But to the docks, sir.”
“Can you leave this?”
“It’s my dinner-time, sir.”
“Come on, then. I shall be very much obliged to you. Isn’t this more
exciting than selling woollen shirts?”
“Yes, sir. Indeed. But shirts are useful things, sir.”
“I deny that. They are pernicious things. They are always getting
dirty, and then some poor wretch with an immortal soul must scrub them
in hot water. They are always losing their buttons, and then other
poor wretches have to make new ones and sew them on again. They are
always wearing out, and then other poor wretches have to begin the
silly game again by penning up a few sheep and cutting their wool
away.”
By this time they were outside the door.
“Come, Olivia,” he said carelessly. “We must walk to the docks. You
will be tired to death before you get there.”
“Oh no I shan’t,” she answered. “I love walking.”
“Give me that package,” he replied.
“Now,” he continued to the shopman, “walk as though we were seeing the
sights. Oh. Here’s a butcher’s shop. Now my captain would never
forgive me if I came aboard without a leg of mutton.”
He bought a leg of mutton, handed it to the shopman to carry, and
sauntered on.
“You must have your jest, I see, sir,” said the shopman.
“Oh yes, if I swing for it,” replied the captain, quoting from a
popular broadside, which had contained the biography of a pirate.
“Hadn’t we better walk a little faster, sir?” said the shopman. He had
no desire to be caught; he was not used to excitements.
“Olivia,” said Captain Margaret, paying no attention to his new
acquaintance, but continuing to saunter leisurely, “when we get on
board I expect you’ll find your husband up and about.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I ought not to have left him for so long. I’ve
hardly seen him for days.”
He had spoken so that the shopman might make no allusions to the
Salcombe affair, casting out a reference to Stukeley’s crime. She had
answered with some little, half-acknowledged wish to pique him.
“To-night,” said Margaret, “in the cabin, we’ll all hold a council of
war to decide our doings on the Main.”
“Yes,” she answered. “And when we get there we shall remember the
council. Things will look very different there.”
“Here. You’ve been talking to Cammock.”
“He’s so amusing,” she answered.
Sauntering in this way, talking nonsense and trifling, they arrived at
the boat-builder’s creek which then did duty for a dock. Their boat
lay off at a little distance; the hands were lying on their oars.
Captain Margaret hailed her; she put in. He handed Olivia into the
sternsheets. Mrs. Inigo, well used to boats from her childhood,
stepped into the bows. The stroke oar arranged the parcels and placed
the leg of mutton behind the backboard. Captain Margaret turned to the
shopman, and walked a few steps with him out of ear-shot of the boat.
He glanced up the anchorage to see if any armed boat was putting off.
“Don’t wait, sir,” said the shopman. “Lord, sir, think of the risk.
Why don’t you go, sir? It’s frightfully dangerous, sir.”
“You exaggerate the risk,” he answered calmly. “Well, you’ve done me a
good turn. Why did you do me a good turn?”
“Oh sir, I’m sure.”
“I shall often think of you,” said Captain Margaret. “Are you sure you
won’t come with me?”
“Oh no, sir. I couldn’t really be persuaded, sir.”
“Well, think of us.”
“I shall think of you always, sir. You _are_ a real buccaneer, sir?”
“Oh yes. Real. In my ship yonder, there’s a man who knew Morgan.”
“I’ve never had anything happen to me, sir, before.”
“Does it make any difference, do you find?”
“Oh, sir.”
“Will you wear this charm of mine to remember me by?” He detached a
small gold jewel, set with symbolical stones. “It is said to bring
success in love. I don’t believe it.”
The man took the symbol as though it were an eggshell.
“Thank you, sir,” he said with fervour. “Thank you very much, sir.”
Then he started violently. “Oh, sir,” he cried, remembering the risk,
“do go, sir. It’s frightfully dangerous, sir.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I mustn’t keep the lady waiting. I hope you run
no risk yourself; for warning me?”
“Oh no, sir. I just showed a customer to the docks.”
“And I’m very much obliged. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir. Oh, sir, I’m much honoured indeed, sir. I hope we
shall meet again, sir.”
“Well, if we don’t, we shall think of each other, shan’t we?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“And I shall be on the Main, and you’ll be here. Here on this spot.”
“Often, sir, I suppose I shall be.”
“Good-bye. There is your soldier friend, I think.”
He nodded carelessly towards the bend of the road; then made a
half-bow to the shopman, and stepped into the boat.
“Shove off,” he said. “Back a stroke, port oars. Down starboard and
shove her off.” As he placed the boat-rug over his knees, he heard the
hoofs of horses trotting on the road. “Give way together,” he said
coldly, as the boat swung round. He glanced over his shoulder at the
shopman, half expecting to see the officers beside him. Then he turned
to his boat’s crew. “Come. Shake her up. Shake her up,” he said.
“Rally her out. Give way, now. Put your backs into it. Come on, now.
Toss her up.”
The stroke quickened, the boat gathered way; she shot out into the
harbour, spreading a ripple. She was a hundred yards out, keeping a
fine steady stroke, when Captain Margaret turned again. He saw the
figure of the shopman pointing towards him, while a man on horseback
stood at his side looking towards the boat. Another horseman was
galloping fast back to town, evidently to get a boat at the
landing-stage.
“They aren’t very clever, these soldiers,” he thought; “but I’ve had a
little luck to-day. Or was it luck? Who knows? It may not have been
luck, after all. It may have been anything but that.”
He drew from the stern-locker a little flag nailed to a batten. He
tied a knot in the flag.
“What are you doing that for?” said Olivia, as he waved the “weft” in
the air.
“It’s a signal to Cammock,” he said, “to get his anchor up, and to
make sail. He’ll pick us up on his way out. There goes his gun. He’s
seen us.”
“Rather hurried, isn’t it?” said Olivia.
“It makes the hands smart,” he answered evasively. “I wonder if the
fort will salute us as the man-of-war did.”
“I hope not,” said Olivia.
“They very likely will,” he answered. “Come. Toss her up, boys.”
“That was a funny little man from the shop,” said Olivia.
“Yes,” he said. “But he told me some interesting things. Very
interesting.”
They talked no more after that till the _Broken Heart_, under a cloud
of canvas, came reeling down to them, to back her mainyard within
hail, and hoist them all aboard.
“Good-bye, old England,” said Olivia.
“Yes,” said Margaret. “And thank the Lord it is.”
IV.
A CABIN COUNCIL
“Captain Chilver’s gone to sea.
_Ay, boys, O, boys._
Captain Chilver’s gone to sea
_In the brave_ ‘_Benjamin._’”
_Captain Chilver._
The wind had gone down gradually all through the day. The morning’s
rain had kept down the sea. When the _Broken Heart_ “took her
departure” that evening, from the distant Lizard, Captain Cammock
crossed his main royal, out of lightness of heart. He had a fair wind
and clear weather. He was thankful to have escaped arrest at Falmouth.
“He was within smell of Virginia,” he said; so now he would crack on
and drive her, sending her lee-ports under. The three days of storm
had been of use to him. They had shaken the hands into shape, and had
bettered the ship’s trim. Now, he flattered himself, he knew what his
ship would do, and what his men could do. He was ready for the Western
Ocean. The guns were housed, their breeches down on the carriage-beds,
their tompioned muzzles lashed to the upper port sills. The light
brass quarter-deck guns were covered with tarpaulin. Life-lines were
stretched fore and aft across the waist. Windsails were set. There
were handy-billies hooked along the hammock nettings ready for use.
Forward, on the fo’c’s’le-head, the hands had gathered to dry the
clothes soaked in the storm. Some of the hands, lying to windward,
against the forward guns, began to sing one of their sea ballads, a
dreary old ballad with a chorus, about the bonny coasts of Barbary.
Old Mr. Cottrill had the dogwatch. The other mate, Mr. Iles, a little
“hard case” from the James River, was playing his fiddle on the
booby-hatch, just abaft the main-bitts. He sang a plaintive ditty to
the music; and though he did not sing well he had listeners who
thought his singing beautiful. Several of the hands, as he knew very
well, were skulking as far aft as they dared, to catch his linked
sweetness as it fell from him. Cocking one leg over the other, he
began another song with a happy ending, no particular meaning, and a
certain blitheness:--
I put it up with a country word.
Tradoodle.
“There,” he said. “There, steward. Gee. Hey? I can sing all right, all
right. What’s that song youse was singing? You know. That one about
the girl with the wig?”
“Oh, seh,” said the old negro, Mr. Iles’s chief listener. “Oh, seh. I
can’t sing with music. I haven’t had the occasionals to do that, seh.”
“By gee, steward,” said Mr. Iles, turning to go below to his cabin in
the ’tween-decks, “if you can’t sing to music, b’ gee I don’t think
you can sing much.”
Mr. Cottrill turned to Captain Cammock.
“A smart young sailor, sir,” he said. “Mr. Iles keeps ’em going, sir.”
“Yes,” said Cammock. “He knows a lot for his age. A smart young man,
Mr. Iles, as you say, mister. He fiddles pretty, too.”
“I don’t hold with fiddling in a man,” said Mr. Cottrill. “It’s not
natural. But it keeps the mind employed, they say.”
“Yes,” said Cammock, “and so does making up tunes. Did you never make
up tunes, when you was a boy, mister, walking the poop?”
“I come in like a head sea,” said Mr. Cottrill. “The only times I
walked the poop was to relieve the helm, or to take in the mizen.”
“Well. And ain’t you glad?” said Cammock. “It’s the only way to
learn.”
“It is that, sir,” said Cottrill. “I guess, sir,” he added, “if this
wind holds, we’ll be out of sight of land by dawn.”
The boy reported eight bells.
“Make it,” said Cottrill.
The boy struck the bell eight times.
“You boy,” said Cammock, “when you walk the lee poop at night, you’ll
not go clump, clump, the way you done last night. There’s a lady in
the cabin. Let me see what boots you’re wearing. I thought so. They’re
the kind of boots would wear a hole in a wall. Hold up them soles, and
give us the end of the main-brace there. There, my son. I give you the
end this time. You wear them boots after dark again, and you’ll get
the bight, higher up.”
The watch was mustered and set. Captain Cammock went below, pleased to
think that he had saved Olivia from the trouble of complaining about
the boy.
He went direct to the great cabin; for he knew that there was to be a
council of war. There was much to be discussed; there was much for him
to tell them. He hoped very much that his sea-sick friend Tom Stukeley
would be put in a watch. “And then,” he said to himself, “you shall
toe the line.” In the cabin he found Perrin and Margaret playing some
simple card-game with Olivia, for counters. Stukeley lay at
half-length upon the window-seat, sipping brandy. He was evidently
cured of his sickness; though very weak from it.
He looked up as Cammock entered, took a good pull at his drink, and
called to Margaret.
“You were going to have some sort of parish meeting here. Here’s the
beadle. Suppose you begin, and get it over.”
He took another pull at the brandy. “Take a seat, beadle,” he said
insolently.
Perrin and Margaret bit their lips, and slowly, almost fearfully,
lifted their eyes to Cammock’s face. The old pirate had turned purple
beneath his copper; but Olivia’s presence bridled him. He looked at
Stukeley for a moment, then spun round on one heel, in the way he had
learned in some ship’s forecastle, and walked out of the cabin.
“I must get my charts,” he said thickly.
“Stukeley,” said Margaret lightly, “Captain Cammock is the captain of
this ship.”
“Yes,” said Stukeley. “And I wish he knew his place as well as I know
it.”
“I must ask you to remember that he commands here.”
“Of course,” said Olivia, rather nettled.
“I hope, Stukeley,” said Perrin, “I hope you won’t quarrel with him.
We’re going a long voyage together.”
“Lord,” said Stukeley. “What a stew you two make. You might be two old
women.”
“Tom dear,” said Olivia, “is that open window too much for you?”
In the diversion caused by the shutting of the window, Captain Cammock
took his seat, laying a book of charts on the table before him. “Now,
Captain Margaret, sir. Will you begin? I don’t rightly know what it is
you want discussed.”
“Very well,” said Margaret. “I’ll begin.”
He leaned back in his chair, and looked first at Olivia, then at
Stukeley, then at Cammock, who, he thought, looked very splendid, with
his long black hair falling over his shoulders, and his grim beauty,
like a bronze, thrusting from his scarlet scarf.
“I don’t think you know,” he said, “at any rate, not perfectly, what
it is I intend doing. This ship is mine, as I think you all know. But
her cargo--it’s a general cargo, worth a good deal of money where we
are going to--is the property of several London merchants, who expect
me to make a profit for them. I want you to get it out of your heads
that I’m doing this for love, either of adventure, or of my
fellow-men. I believe I shall get adventure, and help my fellow-men.
But the venture is, primarily, a business venture. If the business
part fails, the whole thing will come to nothing. As you know, a part
of the cargo is consigned to Virginia, and we go to Virginia direct.
But we shall only stay there long enough to buy up the pick of the
tobacco crop with our goods, and take in fresh water. Our real
destination is the Isthmus of Darien.”
“What part of the Isthmus, sir?” said Cammock.
“You’ll have to tell us that. Fill Captain Cammock’s glass, Perrin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Perrin,” said Cammock. He bowed to Olivia and drank.
“Go on, sir.”
“You see,” continued Margaret. “Well I must apologize, captain. It was
part of my arrangement with Captain Cammock that he should not be told
about our destination, nor about our plans, till we had left England.
I need hardly say, captain, that that was not, well, not my desire.
The merchants who consigned the cargo insisted on it. To tell the
truth, it was only on the pledge of secrecy that the Board of Trade
and Plantations gave me my commission.”
“Then you’ve got a commission, sir?” said Cammock.
“Yes. A limited one. But still. Had our plans been bruited abroad, we
should have had a lot of opposition.”
“Who’d have taken the sweat to lift a finger to stop you?” said
Stukeley.
“The West Indian merchants,” replied Margaret. “And the Chartered
Brazil Wood Company, and the Spanish ambassador, among others, would
have given us a lot of opposition. In fact, had the Spaniards known of
it, we might have spared ourselves the trouble of sailing.”
“Hear, hear, sir,” said Cammock quietly.
“Our friend the beadle knows his job,” said Stukeley.
“Fill Captain Cammock’s glass, Edward.”
“Fill mine, too, please, waiter,” said Stukeley.
“To continue,” said Margaret. “Had the Spaniards known, we should have
found the place of our intended settlement in the hands of Spanish
troops.”
“Settlement?” said Stukeley.
“Yes. A settlement. To be short, my plan is to land on the Isthmus,
found an English colony, and open up a trade, a real trade, mind you,
with the Indians of Darien. Now that is the rough outline of the
scheme. Now, Captain Cammock. Now comes your part. I’m going to
cross-examine you. You know the Isthmus thoroughly. Have you landed on
the Main? I know you have, of course. But we must begin at the
beginning.”
“I been there a many times, right along. Mostly looking for food,”
said Cammock.
“Did you ever meet the Indians?”
“I’ve been up agin all kinds of Indians.”
“Are there many kinds?”
“There’s three kinds.”
“Three? What are the three?”
“I don’t mind telling you, sir. There’s one kind comes and says, ‘O
Sieur,’ and brings you these great bananas and spears fish for you.
There’s some sense in them ones. Give ’em a handful of beads and
they’ll fill you a pannikin of gold dust. They’re getting spoiled, of
course, like everything else. But where they ain’t been got at they’re
good still. That’s one kind.”
“And the others?”
“There’s another kind no one seen. They say they’re white, this second
kind. They live in the woods; in stone houses, too, for the matter of
that. And they wear gold masks. No one ever seen ’em, mind you. But
you lay out in the woods near ’em, and the first night you’ll hear
like singing all round you.”
“Singing?”
“Like little birds. I never like singing like what that is. You only
get it the first night.”
“Oh. That’s very curious. What happens then?”
“The second night, if you lay out in the woods, you get your ’ed cut
off. You find your corp in the morning, that’s what you find.”
“Why do they cut your head off?” said Perrin.
“Their idea of fun, I s’pose,” said Cammock, with a grin. “Come to
that, a corp is a funny thing with no ’ed. They take the ’eds and
pickle them after: I’ve seen ’em.”
“What do they do with the heads?” asked Perrin, “when they’ve pickled
them?”
“They wear ’em round their necks, for ornament,” said Cammock. “If one
of them ducks gets a reglar necklace, like a dozen ’eds, he thinks
he’s old Sir Henry.”
“Sir Henry?”
“Like a Admiral,” explained the buccaneer.
“Ah. And what’s the third kind?”
“I don’t mind telling you. I was cruising one time. I was with an
English crew, too. And four of our men went ashore there, near Cape
Codera. They didn’t come back, so we went to look for them. We found
ashes, where a fire’d been. And we found hands, lying in the ashes.”
“Hands?” said Perrin.
“With fingers on them, some of them,” said the pirate calmly. “Some of
them was ate all off. And there was a skull lying. And bits of one man
tied to a tree. I’ve never liked Indians from that day, not what you
might call love them.”
“So that’s the third kind,” said Captain Margaret. “I take it that
these two last kinds don’t suffer much from the Spaniards?”
“Not unless sometimes they get a tough one,” said the pirate, “they
don’t.”
“And the other kind, the first kind?”
“They’re melancholy ducks. No use at all,” said Cammock. “Of course
they suffer. It’s a wonder to me they don’t get it worse. They’d ought
to. If it rained soup they’d be going out with forks. They ain’t got
the sense we have, or something. ‘O Sieur,’ they say. The French
taught ’em that. ‘O Sieur.’ ‘Come and kick us,’ that’s what it really
amounts to.” He looked at Olivia, half fearing that she would be
shocked.
“Could they do anything, under a capable man, do you think?” said
Perrin.
“We’d one with us in the _Trinity_,” said Cammock. “William his name
was. Yes, William, after my poor brother. Captain Sharp was capable,
all right, in his limits; William was capable too, I guess; I don’t
remember him gettin’ it. Yes. I think they’d do. Ah, but they ain’t
got the sense. No, I don’t know as they’d ever do very much.”
“Was your brother with you in town?” asked Captain Margaret. “Why
isn’t he here with you?”
“Who? Bill? No, sir. He died. Off of La Serena. Rum did _him_. He’d no
sense to drink rum the way he drank it. I was sorry to lose Bill. I’d
my fair share of trouble that passage.”
“Have some more drink, your glass is empty,” said Perrin.
“It’s thirsty work talking, as the parson said,” answered the pirate,
holding out his glass. He looked at Perrin not unfavourably. Perrin
mixed him another punch, and brought out a clean clay pipe from a
little locker to the left of the fireplace.
“You’re a thoughtful young fellow to me,” said Captain Cammock,
regarding him with favour. His thought was, “You’d make a steward,
perhaps, boiled down a bit”; but this he kept to himself. “Was you
ever at sea before, sir?” he asked politely.
“Only across the Channel,” said Perrin.
“Well, it’s a hard life,” said the pirate. “Salue. Salue.” He jerked
his head towards his hosts, and gulped the liquor. “It’s a hard life.
Ah. You don’t know how hard it is, sitting here by the fire.” He
looked moodily into the little bogey stove, which had been lighted to
air the cabin.
“What made you take to it, Captain Cammock?” said Perrin.
“Just a girl,” said the captain. “I thought I’d make money that way,
so’s we could marry.”
“Are you married, might I ask?” said Captain Margaret.
“No,” he answered surlily. “No. A single man.”
He seemed upset by the question, for he became moody. He glared at the
fire, and drummed with one foot against the leg of his chair.
“Tell me,” said Captain Margaret. “You don’t think that I could do
much among the Indians, do you?”
“You mean, if you settled there?”
“Yes, if I landed, built a fort, and opened a trading station. And got
the Indian chiefs to bring in gold, and cocoa, or whatever else there
is.”
“You could only do that in among the Samballoes.”
“The islands along the Isthmus?”
“Yes. That’s your only place.”
“Would it be possible?”
“I dunno as it would. No, I reckon it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You couldn’t. The Dagoes are too strong. They’d send from Porto
Bello, or they’d send overland perhaps, from Panama. They’d get yer.
Then you’d have ginger, working on the forts in Portobel. Lots of ’em
end that way on the Main. Yes, sir, the Main’s a queer place.”
“Queer?”
“We lost a boat’s crew once, east there, by Tolu or that. A handsome
fellow her bow oar was. Bigger’n you he was. Handsome Jim Sanders,
that was him. _He_ worked on the forts in Portobel. We rescued him a
year later, quite by accident. There was red cuts all over him; and
all he could do was sing.”
“Sing?”
“Just sing. This was what he sung. He sung all the time. No. He didn’t
laugh. He just whined a little and sang.”