With a gesture of his hands, after saluting us with great dignity, Don Sanchez bade us take our places at the table and with never a word of question as to our decision; but that was scarce necessary, for it needed no subtle observation to perceive that we would accept any conditions to get our share of that roast pig. This supper differed not greatly from the former, save that our Moll was taken with a kind of tickling at the throat which presently attracted our notice.
“What ails you, Molly, my dear?” asks Jack. “Has a bit of crackling gone down the wrong way?”
She put it off as if she would have us take no notice of it, but it grew worse and worse towards the end of the meal, and became a most horrid, tearing cough, which she did so natural as to deceive us all and put us in great concern, and especially Don Sanchez, who declared she must have taken a cold by being exposed all day to the damp weather.
“If I have,” says she, very prettily, after wiping the tears from her eyes upon another fit, “’tis surely a most ungrateful return for the kindness with which you sheltered me last night, Señor.”
“I shall take better care to shelter you in the future, my poor child,” replies the Don, ringing the bell. Then, the maid coming, he bids her warm a bed and prepare a hot posset against Moll was tucked up in the blankets. “And,” says he, turning to Moll, “you shall not rise till noon, my dear; your breakfast shall be brought to you in your room, where a fire shall be made, and such treatment shown you as if you were my own child.”
“Oh! what have I done that you should be so gentle to me?” exclaims Moll, smothering another cough. And with that she reaches out her leg under the table and fetches me a kick of the shin, looking all the while as pitiful and innocent as any painted picture. “Would it be well to fetch in a doctor?” says Don Sanchez, when Moll was gone barking upstairs. “The child looks delicate, though she eats with a fairly good appetite.”
“’Tis nothing serious,” replies Jack, who had doubtless received the same hint from Moll she had given me. “I warrant she will be mended in a day or so, with proper care. ’Tis a kind of family complaint. I am taken that way at times,” and with that he rasps his throat as a hint that he would be none the worse for sleeping a night between sheets.
This was carrying the matter too far, and I thought it had certainly undone us; for stopping short, with a start, in crossing the room, he turns and looks first at Dawson, then at me, with anything but a pleasant look in his eyes as finding his dignity hurt, to be thus bustled by a mere child. Then his dark eyebrows unbending with the reflection, maybe, that it was so much the better to his purpose that Moll could so act as to deceive him, he seats himself gravely, and replies to Jack:
“Your family wit may get you a night’s lodging, but I doubt if you will ever merit it so well as your daughter.”
“Well,” says Jack, with a laugh, “what wit we have amongst us we are resolved to employ in your honour’s service, so that you show us this steward-fellow is a rascal that deserves to be bounced, and we do no great injury to any one else.”
“Good,” says Don Sanchez. “We will proceed to that without delay. And now, as we have no matter to discuss, and must be afoot early tomorrow, I will ring for a light to take you to bed.”
So we up presently to a good snug room with a bed to each of us fit for a prince. And there, with the blankets drawn up to our ears, we fell blessing our stars that we were now fairly out of our straits, and after that to discussing whether we should consult Moll’s inclination to this business. First, Dawson was for telling her plump out all about our project, saying that being so young she had no conscience to speak of, and would like nothing better than to take part in any piece of mischief. But against this I protested, seeing that it would be dangerous to our design to let her know so much (she having a woman’s tongue in her head), and also of a bad tendency to make her, as it were, at the very beginning of her life, a knowing active party to what looked like nothing more nor less than a piece of knavery. Therefore I proposed we should, when necessary, tell her just so much of our plan as was expedient, and no more. And this agreeing mightily with Jack’s natural turn for taking of short cuts out of difficulties, he fell in with my views at once, and so, bidding God bless me, he lays the clothes over his head and was snoring the next minute.
In the morning we found the Don just as kind to us as the day before he had been careless, and so made us eat breakfast with him, to our great content. Also, he sent a maid up to Moll to enquire of her health, and if she could eat anything from our table, to which the baggage sends reply that she feels a little easier this morning and could fancy a dish of black puddings. These delicacies her father carried to her, being charged by the Don to tell her that we should be gone for a couple of days, and that in our absence she might command whatever she felt was necessary to her complete recovery against our return. Then I told Don Sanchez how we had resolved to tell Moll no more of our purpose than was necessary for the moment, which pleased him, I thought, mightily, he saying that our success or failure depended upon secrecy as much as anything, for which reason he had kept us in the dark as much as ever it was possible.
About eight o’clock three saddle nags were brought to the door, and we, mounting, set out for London, where we arrived about ten, the roads being fairly passable save in the marshy parts about Shoreditch, where the mire was knee-deep; so to Gracious Street, and there leaving our nags at the Turk inn, we walked down to the Bridge stairs, and thence with a pair of oars to Greenwich. Here, after our tedious chilly voyage, we were not ill-pleased to see the inside of an inn once more, and Don Sanchez, taking us to the King’s posting-house, orders a fire to be lighted in a private room, and the best there was in the larder to be served us in the warm parlour. While we were at our trenchers Don Sanchez says:
“At two o’clock two men are coming hither to see me. One is a master mariner named Robert Evans, the other a merchant adventurer of his acquaintance whom I have not yet seen. Now you are to mark these two men well, note all they say and their manner of speaking, for tomorrow you will have to personate these characters before one who would be only too glad to find you at fault.”
“Very good, Señor,” says Dawson; “but which of these parts am I to play?”
“That you may decide when you have seen the men, but I should say from my knowledge of Robert Evans that you may best represent his character. For in your parts today you are to be John and Christopher Knight, two needy cousins of Lady Godwin, whose husband, Sir Richard Godwin, was lost at sea seven years ago. I doubt if you will have to do anything in these characters beyond looking eager and answering merely yes and no to such questions as I may put.”
Thus primed, we went presently to the sitting-room above, and the drawer shortly after coming to say that two gentlemen desired to see Don Sanchez, Jack and I seated ourselves side by side at a becoming distance from the Don, holding our hats on our knees as humbly as may be. Then in comes a rude, dirty fellow with a patch over one eye and a most peculiar bearish gait, dressed in a tarred coat, with a wool shawl about his neck, followed by a shrewd-visaged little gentleman in a plain cloth suit, but of very good substance, he looking just as trim and well-mannered as t’other was uncouth and rude.
“Well, here am I,” says Evans (whom we knew at once for the master mariner), flinging his hat and shawl in a corner. “There’s his excellency Don Sanchez, and here’s Mr. Hopkins, the merchant I spoke on yesterday; and who be these?” turning about to fix us with his one blue eye.
“Two gentlemen related to Mrs. Godwin, and very anxious for her return,” replies the Don.
“Then we being met friends all, let’s have up a bottle and heave off on this here business without more ado,” says Evans; and with that he seats himself in the Don’s chair, pokes up the fire with his boots, and spits on the hearth.
The Don graciously places a chair for Mr. Hopkins, rings the bell, and seats himself. Then after a few civilities while the bottle was being opened and our glasses fi
lled, he says:
“You have doubtless heard from Robert Evans the purpose of our coming hither, Mr. Hopkins.”
“Roughly,” replies Mr. Hopkins, with a dry little cough. “But I should be glad to have the particulars from you, that I may judge more clearly of my responsibilities in this undertaking.”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaims Evans, in disgust. “Here give us a pipe of tobacco if we’re to warp out half a day ere we get a capful of wind.”
CHAPTER V.
Don Sanchez puts us in the way of robbing with an easy conscience.
Promising to make his story as short as he possibly could, Don Sanchez began:
“On the coming of our present king to his throne, Sir Richard Godwin was recalled from Italy, whither he had been sent as embassador by the Protector. He sailed from Livorno with his wife and his daughter Judith, a child of nine years old at that time, in the Seahawk.”
“I remember her,” says Evans, “as stout a ship as ever was put to sea.”
“On the second night of her voyage the Seahawk became parted from her convoy, and the next day she was pursued and overtaken by a pair of Barbary pirates, to whom she gave battle.”
“Aye, and I’d have done the same,” cries Evans, “though they had been a score.”
“After a long and bloody fight,” continues Don Sanchez, “the corsairs succeeded in boarding the Seahawk and overcoming the remnant of her company.”
“Poor hearts! would I had been there to help ’em,” says Evans.
“Exasperated by the obstinate resistance of these English and their own losses, the pirates would grant no mercy, but tying the living to the dead they cast all overboard save Mrs. Godwin and her daughter. Her lot was even worse; for her wounded husband, Sir Richard, was snatched from her arms and flung into the sea before her eyes, and he sank crying farewell to her.”
“These Turks have no hearts in their bellies, you must understand,” explains Evans. “And nought but venom in their veins.”
“The Seahawk was taken to Alger, and there Mrs. Godwin and her daughter were sold for slaves in the public market-place.”
“I have seen ’em sold by the score there,” says Evans, “and fetch but an onion a head.”
“By good fortune the mother and daughter were bought by Sidi ben Moula, a rich old merchant who was smitten by the pretty, delicate looks of Judith, whom he thenceforth treated as if she had been his own child. In this condition they lived with greater happiness than falls to the lot of most slaves, until the beginning of last year, when Sidi died, and his possessions fell to his brother, Bare ben Moula. Then Mrs. Godwin appeals to Bare for her liberty and to be sent home to her country, saying that what price (in reason) he chooses to set upon their heads she will pay from her estate in England—a thing which she had proposed before to Sidi, but he would not hear of it because of his love for Judith and his needing no greater fortune than he had. But this Bare, though he would be very well content, being also an old man, to have his household managed by Mrs. Godwin and to adopt Judith as his child, being of a more avaricious turn than his brother, at length consents to it, on condition that her ransoms be paid before she quits Barbary. And so, casting about how this may be done, Mrs. Godwin finds a captive whose price has been paid, about to be taken to Palma in the Baleares, and to him she entrusts two letters.” Here Don Sanchez pulls two folded sheets of vellum from his pocket, and presenting one to me, he says:
“Mayhap you recognise this hand, Mr. Knight.”
And I, seeing the signature Elizabeth Godwin, answers quickly enough: “Aye, ’tis my dear cousin Bess, her own hand.”
“This,” says the Don, handing the other to Evans, “you may understand.”
“I can make out ’tis writ in the Moorish style,” says Evans, “but the meaning of it I know not, for I can’t tell great A from a bull’s foot though it be in printed English.”
“’Tis an undertaking on the part of Bare ben Moula,” says the Don, “to deliver up at Dellys in Barbary the persons of Mrs. Godwin and her daughter against the payment of five thousand gold ducats within one year. The other writing tells its own story.”
Mr. Hopkins took the first sheet from me and read it aloud. It was addressed to Mr. Richard Godwin, Hurst Court, Chislehurst in Kent, and after giving such particulars of her past as we had already heard from Don Sanchez, she writes thus: “And now, my dear nephew, as I doubt not you (as the nearest of my kindred to my dear husband after us two poor relicts) have taken possession of his estate in the belief we were all lost in our voyage from Italy, I do pray you for the love of God and of mercy to deliver us from our bondage by sending hither a ship with the money for our ransoms forthwith, and be assured by this that I shall not dispossess you of your fortune (more than my bitter circumstances do now require), so that I but come home to die in a Christian country and have my sweet Judith where she may be less exposed to harm than in this infidel country. I count upon your love—being ever a dear nephew—and am your most hopeful, trusting, and loving aunt, Elizabeth Godwin.”
“Very well, sir,” says Mr. Hopkins, returning the letter. “You have been to Chislehurst.”
“I have,” answers the Don, “and there I find the estate in the hands of a most curious Puritanical steward, whose honesty is rather in the letter than the spirit. For though I have reason to believe that not one penny’s value of the estate has been misemployed since it has been in his hands, yet will he give nothing—no, not a maravedi to the redemption of his mistress, saying that the letter is addressed to Richard Godwin and not to him, etc., and that he hath no power to pay out monies for this purpose, even though he believed the facts I have laid before him—which for his own ends doubtless he fains to misdoubt.”
“As a trader, sir,” says Mr. Hopkins, “I cannot blame his conduct in that respect. For should the venture fall through, the next heir might call upon him to repay out of his own pocket all that he had put into this enterprise. But this Mr. Richard Godwin, what of him?”
“He is nowhere to be found. The only relatives I have been able to discover are these two gentlemen.”
“Who,” remarks Mr. Hopkins, with a shrewd glance at our soiled clothes, “are not, I venture to think, in a position to pay their cousin’s ransom.”
“Alas, no, sir,” says Jack. “We are but two poor shopkeepers of London undone by the great fire.”
“Well now, sir,” says Mr. Hopkins, fetching an inkpot, a pen, and a piece of paper from his pocket. “I may conclude that you wish me to adventure upon the redemption of these two ladies in Barbary, upon the hazard of being repaid by Mrs. Godwin when she recovers her estate.” And the Don making him a reverence, he continues, “We must first learn the extent of our liabilities. What sum is to be paid to Bare ben Moula?”
“Five thousand gold ducats—about two thousand pounds English.”
“Two thousand,” says Mr. Hopkins, writing. “Then, Robert Evans, what charge is yours for fetching the ladies from Dellys?”
“Master Hopkins, I have said fifteen hundred pounds,” says he, “and I won’t go from my word though all laugh at me for a madman.”
“That seems a great deal of money,” says Mr. Hopkins.
“Well, if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my carcase and a ship of twenty men, you can go seek a cheaper market elsewhere.”
“You think there is very small likelihood of coming back alive?”
“Why, comrade, ’tis as if you should go into a den of lions and hope to get out whole; for though I have the Duke’s pass, these Moors are no fitter to be trusted than a sackful of serpents. ’Tis ten to one our ship be taken, and we fools all sold into slavery.”
“Ten to one,” says Mr. Hopkins; “that is to say, you would make this voyage for the tenth part of what you ask were you sure of returning safe.”
“I would go as far anywhere outside the straits for an hundred pounds with a lighter heart.”
Mr. Hopkins nods his head, and setting down some figures on
his paper, says:
“The bare outlay in hard money amounts to thirty-five hundred pounds. Reckoning the risk at Robert Evans’ own valuation (which I take to be a very low one), I must see reasonable prospect of winning thirty-five thousand pounds by my hazard.”
“Mrs. Godwin’s estate I know to be worth double that amount.”
“But who will promise me that return?” asks Mr. Hopkins. “Not you?” (The Don shook his head.) “Not you?” (turning to us, with the same result). “Not Mrs. Godwin, for we have no means of communicating with her. Not the steward—you have shown me that. Who then remains but this Richard Godwin who cannot be found? If,” adds he, getting up from his seat, “you can find Richard Godwin, put him in possession of the estate, and obtain from him a reasonable promise that this sum shall be paid on the return of Mrs. Godwin, I may feel disposed to consider your proposal more seriously. But till then I can do nothing.”
“Likewise, masters all,” says Evans, fetching his hat and shawl from the corner, “I can’t wait for a blue moon; and if so be we don’t sign articles in a week, I’m off of my bargain, and mighty glad to get out of it so cheap.”
“You see,” says Don Sanchez, when they were gone out of the room, “how impossible it is that Mrs. Godwin and her daughter shall be redeemed from captivity. Tomorrow I shall show you what kind of a fellow the steward is that he should have the handling of this fortune rather than we.”
Then presently, with an indifferent, careless air, as if ’twas nought, he gives us a purse and bids us go out in the town to furnish ourselves with what disguise was necessary to our purpose. Therewith Dawson gets him some seaman’s old clothes at a Jew’s, and I a very neat, presentable suit of cloth, etc., and the rest of the money we take back to Don Sanchez without taking so much as a penny for our other uses; but he, doing all things very magnificent, would have none of it, but bade us keep it against our other necessities. And now having his money in our pockets, we felt ’twould be more dishonest to go back from this business than to go forward with it, lead us whither it might.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 22