The Robbery of the Mails.
The night was pitch dark; the wind had gone to rest, and not a ripple
stirred the face of the black waters.
"Ahoy! there."
"Comin', comin'. I've only bin waitin', this 'arf hour."
The man standing at the horse's head ran round to the back of his
"express"--a vehicle not unlike a square tray on four wheels--and,
letting down the tail-board, pulled out a number of mail-bags.
With two of these under each arm, he made his way to the wooden steps
which led down to the water's edge, and the men in the boat heard the
shuffling and scraping of his feet, as he felt with his boot for the
topmost step; his hands being fully occupied in holding the bags.
Slowly, step by step, he stumped down to the water, where willing hands
took his burden and stowed it in the bottom of the boat.
"Four," said the carrier. "One more lot, and that lets me out."
As he reached the top of the wharf, on his return journey, the bright
lamps of his express dazzled his eyes, and somebody cannoned against him
at the back of the trap.
"Now, then! Who're yer shovin' up agin?"
"All right, my man. I'm not stealing any of the bags."
The express-man recognised the voice.
"Is that you, Mr. Crookenden? Beg pardon, sir."
"Come, come, get the mail aboard. My men don't want to be out in the
boat all night."
The man carried down his last load of bags, and returned, panting.
"There's only the paper to be signed," he said, "and then they can
clear."
"Give _me_ the form."
The man handed a piece of paper to the mail-contractor.
"How many bags?"
"Eight."
By the light of the lamps Crookenden signed the paper, and handed it
back to the carrier, who mounted to his seat, and drove away.
The merchant went to the edge of the wharf.
"All right, down there?"
"Aye, aye, sir," replied a gruff voice.
"Then cast off."
There was the noise of oars, and a dark object upon the waters vanished
into the night.
"Good-night!"
"Good-night," answered the gruff voice faintly, and Crookenden turned
his steps towards home.
"That's all serene," said the owner of the gruff voice, whose
modulations had suddenly assumed their accustomed timbre--the rather
rasping articulation of the goldsmith.
"Couldn't have fallen out better if I'd arranged it myself. Lay to!
belay! you lazy lubbers, forrard--or whatever is the correct nautical
expression to make her jump. Put your backs into it, and there'll be
five pounds apiece for you in the morning."
"Alla right, boss; we ze boys to pulla. Rocka Codda, you asleep
zere?--you maka Macaroni do alla ze work."
"Pull yerself, you lazy Dago. Anyone w'd think you was rowing the
bloomin' boat by yourself. Why, man, I'm pulling you round every dozen
strokes. The skipper, aft there, is steerin' all he knows agin me."
The truth was that Benjamin's manipulation of the tiller was
extraordinary and erratic, and it was not until the boat was well past
the wharves that he mastered its mysteries.
The tide was ebbing, and when the boat was in the stream her speed
doubled, and there was no need for using the oars. Swiftly and silently
she drifted past the lights on the quay and the ghostly houses which
stood beside the water.
The Pilot's system of beacons was so perfect that with their aid a tyro
such as Tresco found no difficulty in steering his course out of the
harbour.
Outside in the bay, the lights of two vessels could be seen: those of
the plague-ship and of the steamer which, unable to get into the port in
the teeth of the tide, was waiting for the mails.
But Tresco pointed his boat's nose straight for the long beach which
fringed the end of the bay.
The rowers had seen the mail-bags put aboard the boat, and they now
wondered why they did not go straight to the steamer.
"Hi! boss. The mail-steamer lies to starboard: that's her lights behind
the barque's."
"Right, my man," replied Tresco; "but I have a little business ashore
here, before we pull out to her."
The boat was now nearing the beach. As soon as her keel touched the
sand, Tresco jumped into the water and, ordering the fishermen to do the
same, the boat was quickly pulled high and dry.
"Take out the bags," commanded the pseudo-skipper.
The men demurred.
"Why you do this? Santa Maria! is alla these mail go back to town?"
"_There's_ the steamer--_out there_!" exclaimed Rock Cod. "A man'd
think----"
But he was cut short.
"You saw Mr. Crookenden put the bags aboard. He's the contractor--I'm
only acting under his instructions. Do you wish to remain fishermen all
your lives, or would you rather die rich?"
"We know the value of dollars, you may bet that," answered Rock Cod.
"Then lend a hand and get these bags ashore. And you, Macaroni, collect
driftwood for a fire."
When the mail-bags were all landed, Benjamin took a lantern from the
boat, lit it, and walked up the beach to where the fishermen stood,
nonplussed and wondering.
"Your feet must be wet, Macaroni."
"_Si, signor._"
"Wet feet are bad, not to say dangerous. Go down to the boat, and you'll
find a bottle of rum and a pannikin. Bring them here, and we'll have a
dram all round."
Tresco placed the lantern on the sand, and waited.
"You see, Rock Cod, there are some things in this world that cut both
ways. To do a great good we must do a little wrong--that's not quite my
own phrase, though it expresses my sentiments--but in anything you do,
never do it by halves."
"I ain't 'ad no schoolin' meself," answered the fisherman. "I don't take
much account of books; but when there's a drop o' rum handy, I'm with
you."
The Italian came up the beach with the liquor.
"Here's what'll put us all in good nick," said Tresco, as he drew the
cork of the bottle, and poured some of the spirit into the pannikin.
"Here's luck," and he drank his dram at a draught.
He generously replenished the cup, and handed it to Rock Cod.
"Well, cap'n," said that puzzled barnacle, "there's things I don't
understand, but here's fun." He took his liquor at a gulp, and passed
the pannikin to his mate.
It took the Italian no time to catch the drift that matters were taking.
"You expecta make me drunk, eh, signor? You steala ze mail an' carry him
away, eh? Alla right, you try."
"Now, look here," said Tresco; "it's this way. These bags want
re-sorting--and I'm going to do it. If in the sorting I come across
anything of importance, that's _my_ business. If, on the other hand, you
happen across anything that you require, but which seems thrown away on
other folks, that's _your_ business. If you don't like the bargain, you
can both go and sit in the boat."
Neither man moved. It was evident that Crookenden had chosen his tools
circumspectly.
"Very good," said Tresco, "you have the run of your fingers over this
mail when I have re-sorted it, provided you keep your heads shut when
you get back to town. Is it a bargain?"
He held out his hand.
Rock Cod was the first to take it. He said:--
"It's a bargain, boss."
Macaroni followed suit. "Alla right," he said. "I reef in alonga you an'
Rocka Codda. I no spik."
So the compact was made.
Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its
contents on the sand.
"Now, as I pass them over to you," said he, seating himself beside the
heap of letters, "you can open such as you think were meant for you, but
got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn 'em
afterwards."
He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. "Those that
don't interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag."
His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what
to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his
accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger
pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the
course of their conjoint lives.
The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt
as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen
opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding
they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.
At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. "I have heem. Whata
zat, Rocka Codda?" He held a bank-note before his mate's eyes. "Zat five
pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right."
Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It's envelope
bore on its back the printed legend, "Joseph Varnhagen, General
Merchant, Timber Town."
So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was
opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small
packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his
accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment.
Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them
was soon strewn with litter.
Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag,
which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found
what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his
delight as he happened across some document which he thrust into his
bosom.
In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the
other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the
bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had
cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar
to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of
the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the
knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted
sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.
His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting
for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave
their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.
"Very 'andy with his fingers, ain't 'e, Macaroni?--even if 'e _is_ a bit
un'andy in a boat." Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which
brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.
All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen
had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.
"This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was," remarked
Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.
"Hi! stoppa!" cried Macaroni, "Rocka Codda an' me wanta finish him."
"And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your
own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not
equip you for a career in crime."
Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, "Chuck all the odds
and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a scrap unburned:
then we will drink to our continued success."
The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters
were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined
the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their
crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he
returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt
heavenwards.
His comrades were dividing their spoil.
"I think, boss," said Rock Cod, "the best of the catch must ha' fell to
your share: me and my mate don't seem to have mor'n ten pound between
us, not countin' truck worth p'r'aps another five."
"So far as _I_ am concerned, my man,"--Tresco used the unction of tone
and the dignity of manner that he loved so well--"I am but an agent. _I_
take nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even
opened."
The Italian burst out laughing. "You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show,
eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an' Macaroni get ten
pound, fifteen pound; an' you get nuzzing."
"Information is what I get," said Tresco. "But, then, information is the
soul of business. Information is sometimes more valuable than a
gold-mine. Therefore, in getting, get information: it will help you to
untold wealth. My object, you see, is knowledge, for which I hunger
and thirst. I search for it by night as well as by day. Therefore,
gentlemen, before we quit the scene of our midnight labours, let us
drink to the acquisition of knowledge."
Rock Cod and Macaroni did not know what he meant, but they drank rum
from the pannikin with the greatest good-will. After which, Benjamin
scattered the embers of the fire, which quickly died out, and then the
three men shoved the boat off and pulled towards the lights of the
steamer.
On board the barque Captain Sartoris paced the poop-deck in solitude.
Bored to death with the monotony of life in quarantine, the smallest
event was to him a matter of interest. He had marked the fire on the
beach, and had even noticed the figures which had moved about it. How
many men there were he could not tell, but after the fire went out, and
a boat passed to starboard of the barque and made for the steamer which
lay outside her, he remarked to himself that it was very late at night
for a boat to be pulling from the shore. But at that moment a head was
put out of the companion, and a voice called him in pidgin English to go
down. He went below, and stood beside the sick captain, whose mind was
wandering, and whose spirit was restless in its lodging. He watched the
gasping form, and marked the nervous fingers as they clutched at the
counterpane as hour after hour went by, till just as the dawn was
breaking a quietness stole over the attenuated form, and with a slight
tremour the spirit broke from its imprisonment, and death lay before
Sartoris in the bunk. Then he went on deck, and breathed the pure air
of the morning.