“Why, it seems that when old Devine returned from sending for his lawyer to alter his will, he got a fit of apoplexy, the result of his rage, I suppose, and when they opened his room door in the morning they found him dead.”
“And the son’s away on the sea somewhere,” said Mr. Vickers “and knows nothing of his good fortune. It is quite a romance.”
“I am glad that Frere did not get the money,” said Pine, grimly sticking to his prejudice; “I have seldom seen a face I liked less, even among my yellow jackets yonder.”
“Oh dear, Dr. Pine! How can you?” interjected Mrs. Vickers.
“’Pon my soul, ma’am, some of them have mixed in good society, I can tell you. There’s pickpockets and swindlers down below who have lived in the best company.”
“Dreadful wretches!” cried Mrs. Vickers, shaking out her skirts. “John, I will go on deck.”
At the signal, the party rose.
“Ecod, Pine,” says Captain Blunt, as the two were left alone together, “you and I are always putting our foot into it!”
“Women are always in the way aboard ship,” returned Pine.
“Ah! doctor, you don’t mean that, I know,” said a rich soft voice at his elbow.
It was Sarah Purfoy emerging from her cabin.
“Here is the wench!” cries Blunt. “We are talking of your eyes, my dear.”
“Well, they’ll bear talking about, captain, won’t they?” asked she, turning them full upon him.
“By the Lord, they will!” says Blunt, smacking his hand on the table. “They’re the finest eyes I’ve seen in my life, and they’ve got the reddest lips under’m that—”
“Let me pass, Captain Blunt, if you please. Thank you, doctor.”
And before the admiring commander could prevent her, she modestly swept out of the cuddy.
“She’s a fine piece of goods, eh?” asked Blunt, watching her. “A spice o’ the devil in her, too.”
Old Pine took a huge pinch of snuff.
“Devil! I tell you what it is, Blunt. I don’t know where Vickers picked her up, but I’d rather trust my life with the worst of those ruffians ’tween decks, than in her keeping, if I’d done her an injury.”
Blunt laughed.
“I don’t believe she’d think much of sticking a man, either!” he said, rising. “But I must go on deck, doctor.”
Pine followed him more slowly. “I don’t pretend to know much about women,” he said to himself, “but that girl’s got a story of her own, or I’m much mistaken. What brings her on board this ship as lady’s-maid is more than I can fathom.” And as, sticking his pipe between his teeth, he walked down the now deserted deck to the main hatchway, and turned to watch the white figure gliding up and down the poop-deck, he saw it joined by another and a darker one, he muttered, “She’s after no good, I’ll swear.”
At that moment his arm was touched by a soldier in undress uniform, who had come up the hatchway. “What is it?”
The man drew himself up and saluted.
“If you please, doctor, one of the prisoners is taken sick, and as the dinner’s over, and he’s pretty bad, I ventured to disturb your honour.” “You ass!” says Pine—who, like many gruff men, had a good heart under his rough shell—“why didn’t you tell me before?” and knocking the ashes out of his barely-lighted pipe, he stopped that implement with a twist of paper and followed his summoner down the hatchway.
In the meantime the woman who was the object of the grim old fellow’s suspicions was enjoying the comparative coolness of the night air. Her mistress and her mistress’s daughter had not yet come out of their cabin, and the men had not yet finished their evening’s tobacco. The awning had been removed, the stars were shining in the moonless sky, the poop guard had shifted itself to the quarter-deck, and Miss Sarah Purfoy was walking up and down the deserted poop, in close tete-a-tete with no less a person than Captain Blunt himself. She had passed and repassed him twice silently, and at the third turn the big fellow, peering into the twilight ahead somewhat uneasily, obeyed the glitter of her great eyes, and joined her.
“You weren’t put out, my wench,” he asked, “at what I said to you below?”
She affected surprise.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, at my—at what I—at my rudeness, there! For I was a bit rude, I admit.”
“I? Oh dear, no. You were not rude.”
“Glad you think so!” returned Phineas Blunt, a little ashamed at what looked like a confession of weakness on his part.
“You would have been—if I had let you.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in your face. Do you think a woman can’t see in a man’s face when he’s going to insult her?”
“Insult you, hey! Upon my word!”
“Yes, insult me. You’re old enough to be my father, Captain Blunt, but you’ve no right to kiss me, unless I ask you.”
“Haw, haw!” laughed Blunt. “I like that. Ask me! Egad, I wish you would, you black-eyed minx!”
“So would other people, I have no doubt.”
“That soldier officer, for instance. Hey, Miss Modesty? I’ve seen him looking at you as though he’d like to try.”
The girl flashed at him with a quick side glance.
“You mean Lieutenant Frere, I suppose. Are you jealous of him?”
“Jealous! Why, damme, the lad was only breeched the other day. Jealous!”
“I think you are—and you’ve no need to be. He is a stupid booby, though he is Lieutenant Frere.”
“So he is. You are right there, by the Lord.”
Sarah Purfoy laughed a low, full-toned laugh, whose sound made Blunt’s pulse take a jump forward, and sent the blood tingling down to his fingers ends.
“Captain Blunt,” said she, “you’re going to do a very silly thing.”
He came close to her and tried to take her hand.
“What?”
She answered by another question.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-two, if you must know.”
“Oh! And you are going to fall in love with a girl of nineteen.”
“Who is that?”
“Myself!” she said, giving him her hand and smiling at him with her rich red lips.
The mizen hid them from the man at the wheel, and the twilight of tropical stars held the main-deck. Blunt felt the breath of this strange woman warm on his cheek, her eyes seemed to wax and wane, and the hard, small hand he held burnt like fire.
“I believe you are right,” he cried. “I am half in love with you already.”
She gazed at him with a contemptuous sinking of her heavily fringed eyelids, and withdrew her hand.
“Then don’t get to the other half, or you’ll regret it.”
“Shall I?” asked Blunt. “That’s my affair. Come, you little vixen, give me that kiss you said I was going to ask you for below,” and he caught her in his arms.
In an instant she had twisted herself free, and confronted him with flashing eyes.
“You dare!” she cried. “Kiss me by force! Pooh! you make love like a schoolboy. If you can make me like you, I’ll kiss you as often as you will. If you can’t, keep your distance, please.”
Blunt did not know whether to laugh or be angry at this rebuff. He was conscious that he was in rather a ridiculous position, and so decided to laugh.
“You’re a spitfire, too. What must I do to make you like me?”
She made him a curtsy.
“That is your affair,” she said; and as the head of Mr. Frere appeared above the companion, Blunt walked aft, feeling considerably bewildered, and yet not displeased.
“She’s a fine girl, by jingo,” he said, cocking his cap, “and I’m hanged if she ain’t sweet upon me.”
And then the old fellow began to whistle softly to himself as he paced the deck, and to glance towards the man who had taken his place with no friendly eyes. But a sort of shame held him as yet, and he kept aloof.
Maurice Frere’s greeting was short enough.
“Well, Sarah,” he said, “have you got out of your temper?”
She frowned.
“What did you strike the man for? He did you no harm.”
“He was out of his place. What business had he to come aft? One must keep these wretches down, my girl.”
“Or they will be too much for you, eh? Do you think one man could capture a ship, Mr. Maurice?”
“No, but one hundred might.”
“Nonsense! What could they do against the soldiers? There are fifty soldiers.”
“So there are, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, never mind. It’s against the rules, and I won’t have it.”
“‘Not according to the King’s Regulations,’ as Captain Vickers would say.”
Frere laughed at her imitation of his pompous captain.
“You are a strange girl; I can’t make you out. Come,” and he took her hand, “tell me what you are really.”
“Will you promise not to tell?”
“Of course.”
“Upon your word?”
“Upon my word.”
“Well, then—but you’ll tell?”
“Not I. Come, go on.”
“Lady’s-maid in the family of a gentleman going abroad.”
“Sarah, you can’t be serious?”
“I am serious. That was the advertisement I answered.”
“But I mean what you have been. You were not a lady’s-maid all your life?”
She pulled her shawl closer round her and shivered.
“People are not born ladies’-maids, I suppose?”
“Well, who are you, then? Have you no friends? What have you been?”
She looked up into the young man’s face—a little less harsh at that moment than it was wont to be—and creeping closer to him, whispered—“Do you love me, Maurice?”
He raised one of the little hands that rested on the taffrail, and, under cover of the darkness, kissed it.
“You know I do,” he said. “You may be a lady’s-maid or what you like, but you are the loveliest woman I ever met.”
She smiled at his vehemence.
“Then, if you love me, what does it matter?”
“If you loved me, you would tell me,” said he, with a quickness which surprised himself.
“But I have nothing to tell, and I don’t love you—yet.”
He let her hand fall with an impatient gesture; and at that moment Blunt—who could restrain himself no longer—came up.
“Fine night, Mr. Frere?”
“Yes, fine enough.”
“No signs of a breeze yet, though.”
“No, not yet.”
Just then, from out of the violet haze that hung over the horizon, a strange glow of light broke.
“Hallo,” cries Frere, “did you see that?”
All had seen it, but they looked for its repetition in vain. Blunt rubbed his eyes.
“I saw it,” he said, “distinctly. A flash of light.” They strained their eyes to pierce through the obscurity.
“Best saw something like it before dinner. There must be thunder in the air.”
At that instant a thin streak of light shot up and then sank again. There was no mistaking it this time, and a simultaneous exclamation burst from all on deck. From out the gloom which hung over the horizon rose a column of flame that lighted up the night for an instant, and then sunk, leaving a dull red spark upon the water.
“It’s a ship on fire,” cried Frere.
CHAPTER III
THE MONOTONY BREAKS
THEY looked again, the tiny spark still burned, and immediately over it there grew out of the darkness a crimson spot, that hung like a lurid star in the air. The soldiers and sailors on the forecastle had seen it also, and in a moment the whole vessel was astir. Mrs. Vickers, with little Sylvia clinging to her dress, came up to share the new sensation; and at the sight of her mistress, the modest maid withdrew discreetly from Frere’s side. Not that there was any need to do so; no one heeded her. Blunt, in his professional excitement, had already forgotten her presence, and Frere was in earnest conversation with Vickers.
“Take a boat?” said that gentleman. “Certainly, my dear Frere, by all means. That is to say, if the captain does not object, and it is not contrary to the Regulations—”
“Captain, you’ll lower a boat, eh? We may save some of the poor devils,” cries Frere, his heartiness of body reviving at the prospect of excitement.
“Boat!” said Blunt, “why, she’s twelve miles off and more, and there’s not a breath o’ wind!”
“But we can’t let ’em roast like chestnuts!” cried the other, as the glow in the sky broadened and became more intense.
“What is the good of a boat?” said Pine. “The long-boat only holds thirty men, and that’s a big ship yonder.”
“Well, take two boats—three boats! By Heaven, you’ll never let ’em burn alive without stirring a finger to save ’em!”
“They’ve got their own boats,” says Blunt, whose coolness was in strong contrast to the young officer’s impetuosity; “and if the fire gains, they’ll take to ’em, you may depend. In the meantime, we’ll show ’em that there’s someone near ’em.” And as he spoke, a blue light flared hissing into the night.
“There, they’ll see that, I expect!” he said, as the ghastly flame rose, extinguishing the stars for a moment, only to let them appear again brighter in a darker heaven.
“Mr. Best—lower and man the quarter-boats! Mr. Frere—you can go in one, if you like, and take a volunteer or two from those grey jackets of yours amidships. I shall want as many hands as I can spare to man the long-boat and cutter, in case we want ’em. Steady there, lads! Easy!” and as the first eight men who could reach the deck parted to the larboard and starboard quarter-boats, Frere ran down on the main-deck.
Mrs. Vickers, of course, was in the way, and gave a genteel scream as Blunt rudely pushed past her with a scarce-muttered apology; but her maid was standing erect and motionless, by the quarter-railing, and as the captain paused for a moment to look round him, he saw her dark eyes fixed on him admiringly. He was, as he said, over forty-two, burly and grey-haired, but he blushed like a girl under her approving gaze. Nevertheless, he said only, “That wench is a trump!” and swore a little.
Meanwhile Maurice Frere had passed the sentry and leapt down into the ’tween decks. At his nod, the prison door was thrown open. The air was hot, and that strange, horrible odour peculiar to closely-packed human bodies filled the place. It was like coming into a full stable.
He ran his eye down the double tier of bunks which lined the side of the ship, and stopped at the one opposite him.
There seemed to have been some disturbance there lately, for instead of the six pair of feet which should have protruded therefrom, the gleam of the bull’s-eye showed but four.
“What’s the matter here, sentry?” he asked.
“Prisoner ill, sir. Doctor sent him to hospital.”
“But there should be two.”
The other came from behind the break of the berths. It was Rufus Dawes. He held by the side as he came, and saluted.
“I felt sick, sir, and was trying to get the scuttle open.”
The heads were all raised along the silent line, and eyes and ears were eager to see and listen. The double tier of bunks looked terribly like a row of wild beast cages at that moment.
Maurice Frere stamped his foot indignantly.
“Sick! What are you sick about, you malingering dog? I’ll give you something to sweat the sickness out of you. Stand on one side here!”
Rufus Dawes, wondering, obeyed. He seemed heavy and dejected, and passed his hand across his forehead, as though he would rub away a pain there.
“Which of you fellows can handle an oar?” Frere went on. “There, curse you, I don’t want fifty! Three’ll do. Come on now, make haste!”
The heavy door
clashed again, and in another instant the four “volunteers” were on deck. The crimson glow was turning yellow now, and spreading over the sky.
“Two in each boat!” cries Blunt. “I’ll burn a blue light every hour for you, Mr. Best; and take care they don’t swamp you. Lower away, lads!” As the second prisoner took the oar of Frere’s boat, he uttered a groan and fell forward, recovering himself instantly. Sarah Purfoy, leaning over the side, saw the occurrence.
“What is the matter with that man?” she said. “Is he ill?”
Pine was next to her, and looked out instantly. “It’s that big fellow in No. 10,” he cried. “Here, Frere!”
But Frere heard him not. He was intent on the beacon that gleamed ever brighter in the distance. “Give way, my lads!” he shouted. And amid a cheer from the ship, the two boats shot out of the bright circle of the blue light, and disappeared into the darkness.
Sarah Purfoy looked at Pine for an explanation, but he turned abruptly away. For a moment the girl paused, as if in doubt; and then, ere his retreating figure turned to retrace its steps, she cast a quick glance around, and slipping down the ladder, made her way to the ’tween decks.
The iron-studded oak barricade that, loop-holed for musketry, and perforated with plated trapdoor for sterner needs, separated soldiers from prisoners, was close to her left hand, and the sentry at its padlocked door looked at her inquiringly. She laid her little hand on his big rough one—a sentry is but mortal—and opened her brown eyes at him.
“The hospital,” she said. “The doctor sent me”; and before he could answer, her white figure vanished down the hatch, and passed round the bulkhead, behind which lay the sick man.
CHAPTER IV
THE HOSPITAL
THE hospital was nothing more nor less than a partitioned portion of the lower deck, filched from the space allotted to the soldiers. It ran fore and aft, coming close to the stern windows, and was, in fact, a sort of artificial stern cabin. At a pinch, it might have held a dozen men.
Though not so hot as in the prison, the atmosphere of the lower deck was close and unhealthy, and the girl, pausing to listen to the subdued hum of conversation coming from the soldiers’ berths, turned strangely sick and giddy. She drew herself up, however, and held out her hand to a man who came rapidly across the misshapen shadows, thrown by the sulkily swinging lantern, to meet her. It was the young soldier who had been that day sentry at the convict gangway.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 4