Hell's Hatches

by Lewis R. Freeman

  CHAPTER XII

  A BAD MAN'S PLEA

  The expression of nervous anxiety I had noticed several times since hecame was on Allen's face again as he started to speak. "It's a queerenough proposition," he began. "You see, it's like ..." He hesitated,stopped, got up and walked to the window, where he stood for a fewmoments, frowning and biting the end of his cheroot. Suddenly he turnedto me with: "Whitney, what do you say to a bit of a turn in the freshair? I've been talking more than I'm used to, and this stuffy room ofyours is getting on my nerves. We might walk out through the gardens tothe Domain. I can tell you all that I have to tell out there."

  I did not need to look at my watch to know that it was getting on towardfive o'clock. Only the absorbing interest of Allen's narrative hadprevented my becoming conscious of that fact before. My own nerves wereless under control now, and the inevitable end-of-the-afternoonrestlessness was surging strong upon me. But I was anxious to hear Allenout, and no reason occurred to me why it should not be in the open air.If there was any decision to be arrived at, that could be made on themorrow, or whenever I felt up to it.

  "Right-o, Allen," I cried; "I'll be glad to get out myself. I shall wantto be back in about half an hour though."

  I was grateful for his restraint in not greeting that last with anindulgent smile, for I knew that he fully understood what it was thatfocussed my interest upon five o'clock. It was very evident that the manhad retained all the finer instincts of a gentleman, little opportunitythat he had had to exercise them in the last five years.

  I got my hat and stick, and, feeling sure I would have no use for them,put both the revolver and the automatic pistol into the drawer of thetable upon which they had been lying. I was rather glad of the chance toshow Allen that I had confidence in him to that extent anyhow.

  Anxious to avoid recognition, Allen pulled on a pair of dark spectaclesand drew the brim of his Panama low down over his forehead. Turning outof crowded Pitt Street, he removed the spectacles, and as we passed theentrance of the Botanical Gardens took off his hat and fanned his browwith it as he walked. He had not spoken so far, but with the deep breathhe inhaled as he felt the springy turf underfoot his restraint passedfrom him.

  "It's a great relief to get clear of those damn walls and pavements," hesaid fervently, opening his coat to let the cool breath from the Baystrike his chest. "I can't get used to them again. I've been free ofthem too long now. But I'm finished with them for good, I hope." Then,as we came out upon a broad path: "Bear away to the left, if you don'tmind. I want to take a squint at that bunch of palms as we pass."

  As we came abreast of a big bed packed with a riot of dense tropicalgrowths, he pulled up and appeared to be searching for something. "Ah,there she is!" he ejaculated presently, and pushed in close to a queerlittle dwarf palm, which straggled drunkenly on a half-dozen spindlinglegs set something like those of a camera tripod. Pulling up the stampedmetal marker, he gave it a quick glance and then handed it to me with agrin. "The fruits of my first and only dip into botanical research," heremarked. "What do you think of it?"

  "_Pandanus Bensoni Allensis_," I read in large letters, and below:"Habitat: Portuguese Timor. Very rare. The only other cataloguedspecimen is in the Royal Dutch Gardens at Buitenzorg, Java."

  "So that _Allensis_ stands for you, does it?" I said, not a littleimpressed, as I handed him back the metal disc. Then added: "And racingand polo cups weren't the only objects you collected."

  "The merest accident," he replied. "I had always liked plants andflowers, ever since my nurse used to wheel me down this very walk in mypram. I suppose that gave me an interest in the tropical growths of theIslands, after they packed me off there. I thought this little fellowlooked a bit on the unusual when I chanced upon it one morning in a lowvalley back of Deli; so I dug it up and shipped it to Sydney direct onthe China Line steamer, which touches in there. It turned out to be areal find. Benson of Kew Gardens, the great authority on tropical palms,described it, and tacked my name on as the discoverer. The old cove'sletter contained the only kind words addressed to me from the outsideworld in the last five years. And now look at them ..."

  I had come to expect that note of bitterness in Allen's voice every timehe spoke of the past, and especially of his "transportation" to theIslands. He evidently thought that he had been badly treated; too badlyfor even the present wave of frantic adulation to make atonement. He wasthrough with it for good. Several little things he had let dropindicated that.

  The incident of the palm was interesting in throwing an illuminativecrosslight on the gentler human side of a man who had generally beenrated as without either gentleness or humanity. So, also, was the veryevident appeal to Allen's sense of natural beauty made by the matchlesspanorama of the Bay as it unfolded to us from the far end of the point.

  We had skirted the Naval anchorage of Farm Cove, picked our way alongthe path below the ledges where benighted "sundowners" were wont to boiltheir "billys" and spread their "blueys" in the shallow wave-worn caves,and climbed up through the gums to the rocky lookout on the outermosttip of the sharply-jutting point. The clocks in the town behind us beganchiming the quarters heralding the hour of five, and presently, on thefirst of the heavier strokes, the flotilla of trans-bay ferry-boats slidfrom their slips at the inner curve of the horseshoe of the CircularQuay and "fanned" out on their divergent courses to points on theopposite side of Port Jackson.

  "That sight has never failed to quicken my pulses from the time I usedto wait and watch for it as a kid down to today," Allen said with almosta thrill in his voice. "It is the one picture that has remained clearestin my mind all these years I've been--shut out from it. Did you everread Henry Lawson's lines to 'Sydney-Side,' written from somewhere inthe West, I believe? Something like this they go:

  "'Oh, there never dawned a morning in the long and lonely days, But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays-- And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain:

  "'And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red, And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley's Head; And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide All the light and life and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.'"

  "A sentimentalist, too," I muttered to myself, the surprise of thatrevelation checking for a few moments the rising tide of myabsinthe-hunger.

  Allen led the way back to where a flat ledge of rock made a roughnatural seat. "'Lady Macquarie's Chair,'" he explained, motioning me tosit down. "Named from the wife of a former Governor who was supposed toslip away out here and enjoy the view. The Domain runs right back behindthe Government House, you know. I always used to mooch along out herefor a look-see every time I got a chance, partly for the fine prospectof the Bay and partly for the comprehensive visualization it permittedof what I might call 'The Rise and Fall of the House of Allen.'

  "Haven't you an expression in the States to the effect that it's 'threegenerations from shirt-sleeves to shirt-sleeves'? Well, here inAustralia we put the same natural law of evolution in the form of aconundrum and answer. It goes: 'How long does it take for an arrow tobecome a boomerang?' The answer varies, but for the 'House of Allen' itis: 'Four generations.'

  "The arrow, you understand, is the 'Broad Arrow' that marked thetransported convicts, while the boomerang merely suggests something thatrises, circles and returns to the point of departure. Well, from thisplace where we sit I can trace the full circle of the 'arrow-cumboomerang-cum arrow' of the Allen quiver. Look! I'll show you. Follow meclosely.

  "Over there," he said, pointing seaward and easterly, "are the Heads, inthrough which sailed the brig bearing Jim (alias 'Crab') Allen, convict,with a few hundred more of the scum of London, to the shores ofAustralia. That is, I've always liked to fancy my distinguishedprogenitor sailed in through the Heads, though it's quite possible thatthe brig beat around into Bo
tany Bay direct. Now" (he pointed westerlyto where the Paramatta wound out of sight between green hills) "at theend of that deep cove over there is the slaughter house where theconvict's son, James Allen, dealt in hides and hoofs and horns and laidthe foundation of the family fortune, the fortune that wasn't seriouslydented when the convict's grandson gave a hundred thousand pounds to adrought-relief fund and drew down a Baronetcy. That big red-brick pileamong the trees on Darling Point" (Allen was pointing east again) "isthe mansion of the late Sir James Allen, Bart., and now owned by hiseldest son, the New South Wales Agent in London. Old Sir James' secondson, Hartley, was born in the south wing of that unsightly heap of redbricks.

  "And here" (this time he turned and pointed south where a sharpdagger-blade of inlet plunged deep into the heart of Sydney's lowestslums) "is Wooloomooloo, where young Hartley Allen, descending from thesoft refinements of Darling Point, found his level, organized his own'push' of rock-throwing, head-smashing larrikins and completed thesocial circle. The cycle of metamorphosis had begun its round. I was thethrowback, Whitney. Old 'Crab' Allen, the transported convict ofHoundsditch, lived again in young Hartley Allen, whom most peoplethought of as a racing man and polo player, but who had all the naturalqualifications of an out-and-out crook.

  "I can trace all of my little moral obliquities, Whitney, back to old'Crab,' and, everything considered, I think he would rate me as rather acredit to his name, whatever contempt he might have had for mycomparatively law-abiding father and grandfather, to say nothing of mypillar-of-the-state elder brother. 'Crab' was transported as aconsequence of his persistent disregard of his fellow townsmen's rightsto their lives, wives and silver plate. I--well, I never did care muchfor silver plate."

  All this would have been intensely interesting to me an hour earlier,but now the fervour of my longing for my "_solitude a trois_" (as I waswont to call my seance with the long green bottle and the glass ofcracked ice) was getting beyond control. The flowing lines of thereaches of cove and inlet glowing in the slanting light of the decliningsun were becoming jerky and jagged and intershot with dazzling littlespurts of light like one thinks he sees after receiving a crack on thehead. The evening breeze lapped clammily about my chest and I fumbledclumsily with the buttons of my coat, trying to shut out the chill.

  "I ought to have been back at the hotel before this," I mumbled, gettingto my feet. "You had something more to tell me, hadn't you? You can doit as we walk back. I've got to be going now."

  By this time I wasn't in a state to observe things very carefully.Undoubtedly (as I've thought it over since) Allen had been stalling togain time and screw his nerve up to advancing the plan he had in mind.This being so, it must have jarred him a bit to have me call the turn sosuddenly. I don't remember whether his face showed consternation or not.The one thing I recall was the quick movement of his hand to that humpon his right hip.

  I did not recoil an inch. I am sure of that, for I felt no apprehension.I was beyond apprehension--save over delay. But Allen's hand came backempty. "I'll tell you at once," he said brokenly. "But please sit down.Don't go just yet. We'll have to come to a decision straightaway." Then,seeing I was turning to go: "It's just this: Rona wants you to paint herpicture--on the schooner--the _Cora_. Wants a picture done of the wholelayout--ship, Bell, her, me, Ranga, niggers, everything. Says she'llpose for it on the schooner. Says I must pose too. Seems to be bittenwith the idea of perpetuating the event for posterity, or something ofthe kind. Crazy scheme, but she's set her heart on it. Says when it'sdone, if she likes it, she may go back to the Islands with me. Nothingcertain for me, but it's a chance and I've got to make the most of it.Will you do it, Whitney? She says you've always wanted to paint herpicture, and now she's all for it. You won't turn it down, Whitney?"

  The incongruity of "Slant" Allen in the role of a plaintive pleaderstruck me with scarcely less astonishment than his strange andunexpected request. I was, however, totally unfit to cogitate uponeither just then.

  "I'll think it over and let you know tomorrow," I said dully. "Got to gonow."

  "It has to be decided here and now, once and for all," Allen answeredfirmly. "Here!--" This time there was no hesitation in the movement ofhis hand to the hip-pocket hump. When it came back it was holding a fatstubby flask--one of the thermos type, just coming into general use atthat time.

  "I know what's calling you away, Whitney," he said steadily, unscrewingthe top of the flask and pouring into it a bright green liquid with afamiliar smell and sparkle. "On the off chance that we might be detainedbeyond the hour when you're used to depending upon it, I had this cooledat the Marble Bar--old hangout of mine--and brought it along with me.Don't use the stuff myself, but I know the hooks it throws into a manwho does use it. Drink hearty!"

  He handed me both the brimming screw-top and the flask itself. Thecontents of the former might have been drugged heavily enough to kill ahorse for all I cared. It was absinthe beyond a doubt, and cold enoughto frost the outside of the little nickled cup that held it. I gulped itdown hungrily; replenished and repeated. The third cup I drank lessgreedily, letting my eyes rove slowly where the jerkily jagged zigzagsof hill and headland and foreshore were smoothing into a softer fluencyof contour. Sipping the fourth cup, I unbuttoned my coat to give moreintimacy to the caress of the milk-warm evening breeze.

  "Not bad stuff, Allen," I breathed at last. "Very good of you to thinkof it. What was it you wanted me to do just now?" Five minutes later Ihad promised to meet "Slant" Allen at the railway station in time tocatch the nine-thirty train for Brisbane, en route Townsville.

  It appeared that Rona's ultimatum had stipulated that Allen was to beback in Townsville with me, ready to begin arranging for the picture,inside of ten days. The only northbound boat, the _Waga Tiri_, whichwould arrive within the limit, had already left Sydney but could beovertaken at Brisbane by entraining at once. Allen had booked sleepersfor the express and wired for cabins on the steamer before he called onme at the _Australia_. There was nothing left to do but throw togetherwhat things I wanted and get to the station.

  It was rather a wrench, checking myself after getting all poised forflight with the "Green Lady," but not so hard as it would have been hadI really "got off the ground." The contents of Allen's flask were hardlymore than a strong bracer. Once I got back to the hotel and into mypacking, it was easy going, especially as my enthusiasm was mounting forthe work ahead. To have Rona for a model at last! And for such apicture!

  The dramatic appeal of the thing grew on me with every passing minute.It was not, to be sure, quite the kind of a work I was best prepared todo. With my ambition to become a marine painter, I had gone in more forcolour than for anatomy and drawing; but I was still confident that Icould make good with anything that gripped my imagination strongly. And"The Saving of the Black-birder" (I had already given it a tentativename) fairly took me by the throat. I would not fail with it. Nay, more,I would triumph. Perhaps--why not?--Paris! Yes, "The Black-birder"should open a short-cut to my goal. The rails beneath the wheels of thespeeding Brisbane Express were clicking _black-bir-der_--_black-bir-der_when I dropped off to sleep that night somewhere along toward theQueensland boundary.

  That the morrow should bring some reaction from this fine frenzy wasinevitable, but it was a comparatively slight one. That Allen haddeliberately planned to draw me away and take advantage of my weaknessfor absinthe to gain my intervention in his favour was evident enough.Indeed, the consummate manner in which he turned the trick argued analmost pathological intimacy with the reaction of the insidiously subtleessence of wormwood upon the human brain. But I did not hold thisheavily against him. It was plain that he had only done it to play safein a matter respecting which he did not dare to take any unnecessarychances of failure. I could not but admit to myself that I wouldprobably have fallen in with the plan ultimately in any event. There wasno disloyalty to my friend in making him (as I intended to do) thecentral figure in a picture that I hoped would become famous in twohemispheres. On the contrary, what gre
ater tribute was there I could payto his memory? If Rona cared to flaunt that memory by going off to theIslands with Allen, it was her own kettle of fish. Besides, she had notgone yet; didn't even appear to have committed herself definitely in thematter.

  To minimize explanations and the possibility of complications, Allen andI had agreed to defer wiring our Sydney friends of our departure untilafter we were aboard the _Waga Tiri_ in Moreton Bay. His message to theChairman of the Reception Committee, and mine to Benchley at myExposition, went ashore on the tender that brought us off, and thesteamer was under way before they could have been put upon the wires. Itwas not until the next northbound boat brought the Sydney papers toTownsville that we learned what a wave of surprise and speculation hadbeen started by our joint hegira.

  In the course of the voyage Allen told me some few further details ofdevelopments in Townsville. Before his departure he had managed toinduce Rona, for her own comfort, to move her headquarters from RatuLal's joint to the Medical Mission of the London Bible Society. The headsurgeon of the Mission he characterized as "a good old sport" he hadknocked up against in the Straits and the Dutch Indies. He was just likean ordinary missionary to look at, but redeemed in "Slant's" eyes by areal love of horses, and even--very much on the quiet--a shrewd interestin racing. "It's in his blood. He can't help it," Allen explainedlaconically but comprehensively.

  Explicit instructions had been left at the Mission that Rona was not tobe worried about her spiritual future. She was to be just a "straightboarder" until Allen's return. She was well provided with money, as hehad seen to having everything Bell had with him at the time of his deathdeposited to her account at a local bank. This had included eighty goldsovereigns, found in a money-belt around Bell's waist, and some hundredsof Chilean silver _pesos_ he had brought off to the _Cora_ in a canvassack.

  Ranga had been put up at the Sailors' Home. There had been a flatrefusal to receive him at first, on account of his colour, but this waspromptly withdrawn when it was found the request came from Allen, whomthe town was going pretty strong on delighting to honour just at thatjuncture. Allen, who seemed very fond of the big fellow, also saw thatthe latter was comfortably provided with money.

  Allen did not speak again of the proposed picture until the steamer wasnosing up to her buoy in Cleveland Bay. Then, after inquiring if I hadeverything I needed to go ahead with, he intimated that he wouldprobably find Rona fretting to get things under way. "She seemed to havesome wild sort of an idea," he said, "that the whole thing would be doneon the schooner--that we all might move out there, bag and baggage, andmake it our head-quarters until the picture was completed. She evenwanted me to go out to that plague-rotten wreck with her and look theground over before I left. I had no time for it, of course, and am jollyglad I didn't. Can't see what the good of it would have been anyhow. Iwas hoping I had seen the last of the damned hulk, though I suppose Ican stick it for an hour or two in a pinch. I fail to see what she'sdriving at, but whatever it is you may as well make up your mind thatshe will have her way about it."

  I assured him that the picture would probably be mostly studio work asfar as he was concerned, though I myself might want to sketch a fewdetails on the schooner. It might save time, however, I suggested, ifthe whole lot of us went aboard before I began work so I could figureout a tentative grouping and get a general idea of the composition. ThenI could make notes and sketches of whatever parts of the schooner wouldbe included, and be ready to work on the individual figures as soon as Irigged up a studio.