It needed no very clever penetration on my part to read danger in every line of this invitation—not only danger to myself, who had been dragged by the heels into the business, but danger to Hall, whose disguise could scarce be preserved when mine was unmasked. And yet he had left Paris, and even then, perhaps, was in the power of the man Black and his crew! What I could do to help him, I could not think; but I determined if possible to glean something from the palpably cunning rogue who had come on the errand.
“I’ll give you the answer to this in a minute,” said I; “meanwhile, have a little whisky? A seaman like yourself doesn’t thrive on cold water, does he?”
“Which is philosophy, yer honor—for could wather never warmed any man yet—me respects to the young lady”—here he looked deep into his glass, adding slowly, and as if there was credit to him in the recollection, “Oi was priest’s boy in Tipperary, bedad”—and he drank the half of a stiff glass at a draught.
“Do you find this good weather in the Channel?” I inquired suddenly, looking hard at him over the table.
He made circles with his glass, and turned his eyes upon Mary, before he answered; and when he did, his voice died away like the fall of a gale which is tired. “Noice weather, did ye say—by the houly saints, it depends.”
“On what?” I asked, driving the question home.
“On yer company,” said he, returning my gaze, “and yer sowl.”
“That’s curious!”
“Yes, if ye have one to lose, and put anny price on it.”
His meaning was too clear.
“Tell your master, with my compliments,” I responded, “that I will come another time—I have business in Paris today!”
He still looked at me earnestly, and when he spoke again his voice had a fatherly ring. “If I make bold, it’s yer honor’s forgiveness I ask—but, if it was me that was in Paris I’d stay there,” and putting his glass down quickly, he rolled to the door, fingered his hat there for one moment, put it on awry, and with the oft-repeated statement, “Oi was priest’s boy in Tipperary, bedad,” he swayed out of the room.
When he was gone, the others, who had not spoken, turned to me, their eyes asking for an explanation.
“One of Hall’s friends,” I said, trying to look unconcerned, “the mate on the yacht La France—the vessel he joins today.”
Roderick tapped the table with his fingers; Mary was very white, I thought.
“He knows a queer company,” I added, with a grim attempt at jocularity, “they’re almost as rough as he is.”
“Do you still mean to sail tonight?” asked Roderick.
“I must; I have made a promise to reach Plymouth without a moment’s delay.”
“Then I sail with you,” said he, being very wide-awake.
“Oh, but you can’t leave Paris; you promised Mary!”
“Yes, and I release him at once,” interrupted Mary, the colour coming and going in her pretty cheeks, “I shall sail from Calais tonight with you and Roderick.”
“It’s very kind of you—but—you see——”
“That we mean to come,” added Roderick quickly. “Go and pack your things, Mary; I have something to say to Mark.”
We were alone, he and I, but there was between us the first shadow that had come upon our friendship.
“Well,” said he, “how much am I to know?”
“What you choose to learn, and as much as your eyes teach you—it’s a promise, and I’ve given my word on it.”
“I was sure of it. But I don’t like it, all the same—I distrust that fool, who seems to me a perfect madman. He’ll drag you into some mess, if you’ll let him. I suppose there’s no danger yet, or you wouldn’t let Mary come!”
“There can be no risk now, be quite sure of that—we are going for a three days’ cruise in the Channel, that is all.”
“All you care to tell me—well, I can’t ask more; what time do you start?”
“By the club train. I have two hours’ work to do yet, but I will meet you at the station, if you’ll bring my bag——”
“Of course—and I can rest for an hour. That always does me good in the morning.”
I left him so, being myself harassed by many thoughts. The talk with Black’s man did not leave me any longer in doubt that Hall had gone to great risk in setting out with the ruffian’s crew; and I resolved that if by any chance it could be done, I would yet call him back to Paris. For this I went at once to the office of the Police, and laid as much of the case before one of the heads as I thought needful to my purpose. He laughed at me; the yacht La France was known to him as the property of an eccentric American millionaire, and he could not conceive that anyone might be in danger aboard her. As there was no hope from him, I took a fiacre and drove to the Embassy, where one of the clerks heard my whole story; and while inwardly laughing at my fears, as I could see, promised to telegraph to a friend in Calais, and get my message delivered.
I had done all in my power, and I returned to the Hôtel Scribe; but the others had left for the station. Thither I followed them, instructing a servant to come to me at the Gare du Nord if any telegram should be sent; and so reached the train, and the saloon. It was not, however, until the very moment of our departure that a messenger raced to our carriage, and thrust a paper at me; and then I knew that my warning had come too late. The paper said: “La France has sailed, and your friend with her.”
CHAPTER IV.
A STRANGE SIGHT ON THE SEA.
It was on the morning of the second day; three bells in the watch; the wind playing fickle from east by south, and the sea agold with the light of an August sun. Two points west of north to starboard I saw the chalky cliffs of the Isle of Wight faint through the haze, but away ahead the Channel opened out as an unbroken sea. The yacht lay without life in her sails, the flow of the swell beating lazily upon her, and the great mainsail rocking on the boom. We had been out twenty-four hours, and had not made a couple of hundred miles. The delay angered every man aboard the Celsis, since every man aboard knew that it was a matter of concern to me to overtake the American yacht, La France, and that a life might go with long-continued failure.
As the bells were struck, and Piping Jack, our boatswain—they called him Piping Jack because he had a sweetheart in every port from Plymouth to Aberdeen, and wept every time we put to sea—piped down to breakfast, my captain betrayed his irritation by an angry sentence. He was not given to words, was Captain York, and the men knew him as “The Silent Skipper”; but twenty-four hours without wind enough to “blow a bug,” as he put it, was too much for any man’s temper.
“I tell you what, sir,” he said, sweeping the horizon with his glass for the tenth time in ten minutes, “this American of yours has taken the breeze in his pocket, and may it blow him to——I beg your pardon, I did not see that the young lady had joined us.”
But Mary was there, fresh as a rose dipped in dew, and as Roderick followed her up the companion ladder, we held a consultation, the fifth since we left Calais.
“It’s my opinion,” said Roderick, “that if those men of yours had not been ashore on leave, York, and we could have sailed at midnight, we should have done the business and been in Paris again by this time.”
“It’s my opinion, sir, that your opinion is not worth a cockroach,” cried the captain quite testily; “the men have nothing to do with it. Look above; if you’ll show me how to move this ship without a hatful of wind, I’ll do it, sir,” and he strutted off to breakfast, leaving us with Dan, the forward look-out.
Dan was a grand old seaman, and there wasn’t one of us who didn’t appeal to him in our difficulties.
“Do you think it means to blow, Dan?” I asked, as I offered him my tobacco-pouch: and Mary said earnestly—
“Oh, Daniel, I do wish a gale would come on!”
“Ay, Miss, and so do many of us; but we can’t be making wind no more’n we can make wittals—and excusing me, Miss, it ain’t Daniel, not meaning no disrespect to
the other gent, whose papers were all right, I don’t doubt, but my mother warn’t easy in larning, and maybe didn’t know of him—it’s Dan, Miss, free-and-easy like, but nat’ral.”
“Well, Dan, do you think it will blow? Can’t you promise it will blow?”
“Lor, Miss, I’d promise ye anything; but what is nater is nater, and there’s an end on it—not as I don’t say there won’t be a hatful o’ wind afore night—why should I? but as for promisin’ of it, why I’d give ye a hurricane willing—or two.”
We went down to breakfast, the red of sea strength on our cheeks; and in the cosy saloon we made short work of the coffee and soles, the great heaps of toast, and the fresh fruit. I could not help some gloomy thoughts as I found myself on my own schooner again, asking how long she would be mine, and how I should suffer the loss of her when all my money was spent. These were cast off in the excitement of the chase, and came only in the moments of absolute calm, when all the men aboard fretted and fumed, and every other question was: “Isn’t it beginning to blow?”
The morning passed in this way, a long morning, with the sea like a mirror, and the sun as a great circle of red fire in the haze. Hour after hour we walked from the fore-hatch to the tiller, from the tiller to the fore-hatch, varying the exercise with a full inspection of every craft that showed above the horizon. At eight bells we lay a few miles farther westward, the island still visible to the starboard, but less distinct. At four bells, when we went to lunch, the heat was terrible below, and the sun was terrible on deck; but yet there was not a breeze. At six bells some dark and dirty clouds rose up from the south, and twenty hands pointed to them. At “one bell in the first dog” the clouds were thick, and the sun was hidden. Half-an-hour later there was a shrill whistling in the shrouds, and the rain began to patter on the deck, while the booms fretted, and we relieved her in part of her press of sail. When the squall struck us at last, the Channel was foaming with long lines of choppy seas; and the sky southward was dark as ink. But there was only joy of it aboard; we stood gladly as the Celsis heeled to it, and rising free as an unslipped hound, sent the spray flying in clouds, and dipped her decks to the foam which washed her.
During one hour, when we must have made eleven knots, the wind blew strong, and was fresh again after that; so that we set the foresail unreefed and let the great mainsail go not many minutes later. The swift motion was an ecstasy to all of us, an unbounded delight; and even the skipper softened as we stood well out to sea, and looked on a great continent of clouds underlit with the spreading glow of the sunset, their rain setting up the mighty arched bow whose colours stood out with a rich light over the wide expanse of the east. Nor did the breeze fall, but stiffened towards night, so that in the first bell, when we came up from dinner, the Celsis was straining and foaming as she bent under her pressure of canvas, and it needed a sailor’s foot to tread her decks. But of this no one thought, for we had hardly come above when we heard Dan hailing—
“Yacht on the port-bow.”
“What name?” came from twenty throats.
“La France,” said Dan, and the words had scarce left his lips when the skipper roared the order—
“Stand by to go about!”
For some minutes the words “’bout ship” were not spoken. The schooner held her course, and rapidly drew up with the yacht we had set out to seek. From the first there was no doubt about her name, which she displayed in great letters of gold above her figure-head. Dan had read them as he sighted her; and we in turn felt a thrill of delight as we proved his keen vision, watching the big cutter, for such she was, heading, not for Plymouth, but for the nearer coast. But this was not the only strange thing about her course, for when she had made some few hundred yards towards the coast, she jibbed round of a sudden, with an appalling wrench at the horse; and there being, as it appeared, no hand either at the peak halyards or the throat halyards, the mainsail presently showed a great rent near the luff, while the foresail had torn free from the bolt-ropes of the stay, and was presenting a sorry spectacle as the yacht went about, and away towards France again.
Such a display of seamanship astounded our men.
“Close haul, you lubbers; close haul!” roared Dan, in the vain delusion that his voice would be heard a quarter of a mile away. “Keep down yer ’elm and close haul—wash me in rum if he ain’t comin’ up again, and there she goes right into it. Shake up, you gibbering fools; luff her a bit and make fast. Did ye ever see anythin’ like it this side of a Margit steamer?”
The skipper said nothing, but as the yacht luffed right up into the wind again, he groaned as a man who is hurt. Piping Jack looked sorrowful too, and said, almost with tears in his eyes—
“Axin’ yer pardon, sir, but hev you got a pair of eyes in your head which can make out anything unusual aboard there?”
“They’re a queer lot, if that’s what you mean, and they haven’t got enough seamanship amongst them to run a washing tub. Is there anything else you make out?”
“A good deal, sir; and look you, there ain’t a living soul on her deck, or may I never see shore again.”
“By all that’s curious, you’re right. There isn’t a man showing!”
“’Bout ship,” roared the skipper, and every man ran to his post, while I touched Captain York on the shoulder and pointed to the seemingly deserted and errant yacht.
But the skipper’s eyes were not those of a ground-gazer; he needed no aid from me; what others had seen, he had seen, and he nodded an affirmative to my unspoken question.
“What do you think it means?” I asked, as we came up into the wind, and the men were belaying after close hauling for the beat; “are they hiding from us, or is she deserted?”
But the only answer I got was the one word “Rum,” uttered with a jerky emphasis, and taken up by Dan, who said—
“Very rum, and a good many drunk below, or I don’t know the taste of it.”
The obvious thought that the yacht we had sought and run down was without living men upon her decks had taken the lilt from the seamen’s merry tongues, and a gloom settled on us all. Perhaps it was more than a mere surmise, for an uncanny feeling of something dreadful to come took hold of me, and I feared that, finding the yacht, we had also found the devil’s work; but I held my peace on that, and made up my mind to act.
“Skipper,” said I, “order a boat out; I’m going aboard her.”
He looked at me, and shook his head.
“When the wind falls, perhaps; but now!” and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Is there any sign that the breeze will drop?”
“None at present; but I’ll tell you more in an hour. Meanwhile,” and here he whispered, “get your pistols out and say nothing to the men. I shall follow her.”
His advice was wise; and as the dark began to fall and the night breeze to blow fresh, while the yacht ahead of us swung here and there, almost making circles about us, we hove to for the time and watched her. I begged Mary to go below, but she received the suggestion with merriment.
“Go below, when the men say there’s fun coming! Why should I go below?”
“Because it may be serious fun.”
She took my arm, and linking herself closely to me as to a brother, she said—
“Because there’s danger to you and to Roderick; isn’t that it, Mark?”
“Not to us any more than to the men; and there may be no danger, of course. It’s only a thought of mine.”
“And of mine, too. I shall stay where I am, or Roderick will go to sleep.”
“What does Roderick say?”
He had joined us on the starboard side, and was gazing over the sea at the pursued yacht, which lay shaking dead in the wind’s eye, but Mary’s question upset whatever speculation he had entered upon.
“I’ve got an opinion,” he drawled, with a yawn.
“You don’t say so——”
“The wind’s falling, and it’s getting beastly dark.”
“Two fairly obviou
s conclusions; do you think you could keep sufficiently awake to help man the boat?—in another ten minutes we shall see nothing.”
“Do you think I’m a fool, that I’m going to stop here?”
“Forgive me, but I’m getting anxious. Martin Hall sailed on that yacht; and I promised to help him—but there’s no need for you to do anything, you know.”
“No need when you are going—pshaw, I’ll fetch my Colt, and Mary shall watch us. I don’t think she is afraid of much, are you, Rats?”—he called her “Rats” because they were the one thing on earth she feared—and then he went below, and I followed him, getting my revolver and my oil-skins, for I knew that it would be wet work. I had scarce reached the deck again when I felt the schooner moving; but no break of light showed the place where the other was, and the skipper called presently for a blue flare, which cast a glowing light for many hundred yards, and still left us uncertain.
“She’s gone, for sure,” said Dan to the men around him, for every soul on board, even including old Chasselot—called by the men “Cuss-a-lot”—our cook, was staring into the thick night; “and I wouldn’t stake a noggin that her crew ain’t cheated the old un at last an’ gone down singing. It’s mighty easy to die with your head full o’ rum, but I don’t go for to choose it meself, not particler.”
Billy Eightbells, the second mate, was quite of Dan’s opinion. The looks of the others told me then that they began to fear the adventure. Billy was the first really to give expression to the common sentiment.
“Making bold to speak,” he said, “it were two years ago come Christmas as I met something like this afore, down Rio way——”
“Was it at eight bells, Billy?” asked Mary mischievously. She knew that all Billy’s yarns began at eight bells.
“Well, I think it were, mum, but as I was saying——”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 218