‘Look,’ gasped Radenstone. ‘The gap’s closing. The tide’s moving over it. Hurry, run.’
It was true. With desperate speed, their legs moving like pistons, they flew along. A 100 yards or so from the causeway came the last four of the crew. Then they were over, and the sea lay in a sheet over the lane of sand.
‘We’re safe,’ screamed Robert.
‘We’ve got to keep on running,’ panted Gasper. ‘Those sailors can swim. Look, the boat.’
Moored to a rocky cleft lay the ship.
‘There’s a wind coming,’ cried Radenstone. ‘Oh thank God, thank God.’
With fumbling fingers Gasper Liverwick untied the rope, while Richard and Radenstone, helped by Robert, hauled up the sail. A queer sail it was too – a sheet of animal hide – but as the first puff of wind caught it she billowed and the ship was putting out.
At the wheel Gasper sank his head on his arms. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he moaned. ‘Thanks be.’ He thought of the eyes of Rupert Bigarstaff and gave thanks again.
The dangerous calm of the hour before had justified its warning. Irritable flicks of wave stung the ship’s sides, and a few spots of rain began to fall. From the shore came great shouts.
‘Never mind them,’ yelled Robert. ‘There’s plenty of food for them, so they shan’t starve.’
‘What a night, Andromikey,’ gasped Radenstone. ‘Poor Pearson, poor Pearson.’
‘There’s a storm arising,’ shouted Gasper. ‘Slacken the main sail.’
This was duly done, and it was just in time, for a great gust of wind struck the ship and sent her prancing through the waves. Drenched to the skin, their hearts alight with hope, they waited for the morn.
CHAPTER 30
For three days and nights the storm raged, but on the fourth morning they awoke from their stupor to calm skies and unruffled waters. Robert Straffordson rubbed his eyes hard, and moved his wooden pegs. On the horizon he glimpsed a fine sailing ship, and he let out a hoarse cry.
‘A ship,’ he cried. ‘Father, Gasper, look, look – a ship!’
Stumbling up, he raced to Liverwick, who lay against the boat’s side, straining his eyes.
‘You’re right, lad,’ he said huskily. ‘A French craft, by the look of things.’
By now Richard Soleway and Radenstone had joined them.
‘Raise a flag or sign,’ cried the frenzied Robert. ‘They must see us.’
‘They will. Never fear,’ cried Radenstone. ‘They’ll draw near in an hour or two’s time, see if they don’t.’
Shortly after 10, or so they judged it to be, they were within earshot of the French ship. A thin boy in a ragged shirt stood by the bows.
‘English,’ he called, cupping his hands together.
The sound had no time to fade, before Gasper yelled, ‘Yes, can you take us on board? Our craft’s in bad trim.’
The boy turned to the cluster of sailors on board, and a peak-capped man who was evidently the captain.
There was a consultation which took so long that Richard yelled out, ‘Where are we?’
‘About 180 miles from Cape Verdi Islands,’ answered the boy.
The captain raised his voice. ‘Come across,’ he said with difficulty. ‘My ship will come by yours. Draw in.’
They did, and the slight handsome captain boarded their boat. They made a queer group of men. Robert, a rent in his trouser leg showing a stretch of wood; Gasper, his rascally face partly hid by a three-weeks growth of beard; Radenstone, his big brown hands twitching; and Richard, wearing a sullen dogged expression, because for the first time in a fortnight the memory of Andrew Ledwhistle had again risen in his mind.
‘Tous Anglais?’ asked the Frenchman, and they nodded, or Richard did.
‘War has been declared between the Russians and our people and yours,’ said the captain.
Radenstone clasped the hand-rail. The rest said nothing. The Crimean War had begun. Their men would fight the stocky, solid, dissipated Russians: the cold, stout foreigners against the awkward bull-complexioned Britishers.
The handsome captain looked at them curiously and shrugged his shoulders affectedly.
‘’Tis très sad,’ he murmured. He swept a pair of coal-black eyes over them. ‘You are in need of food,’ he said softly. ‘Yes?’
They nodded dumbly.
‘One of my men shall stay here in charge.’ He lapsed into French and called something out.
Stiffly the four climbed to the other boat and watched three slim sailors man their own. They were led below and food was set before them. The white-faced boy sat with them. They learnt that his name was Jim Racliff.
‘I went to sea when I was 15,’ he told them. ‘Captain is a good man and kind.’
They in their turn told them their story, and summoned the French captain. The map was brought out and the captain grew greatly excited.
‘A find indeed,’ he stuttered. ‘Good sirs, permit.’ He turned to Jim and spoke hurriedly. ‘The captain begs that he should take you back to England and set out with an expedition to stake the oil,’ interpreted Jim slowly.
CHAPTER 31
It is the year 1857 in the month of January.
There was in the room of a certain building down Pentworth Street a great bustling and removing. Hammers hammered, screws screwed, nails nailed and the like, as well as a hundred other such things. Richard Soleway stood by the door, sleeves rolled up and his hair on end. With him stood Gasper Liverwick. If Old Andrew had been alive, his diary would have been well-stocked. Three years ago the Crimean War had begun. The papers had been full of Palmerston, a plain woman called Nightingale or some such name, Sidney Herbert and many more. Two years ago Victor Radenstone and Robert Straffordson had gone to live on the New Era Isle. Less than a year ago the French Captain Defause and Liverwick and Soleway had located the oil, and claims had been staked. Radenstone had divided the oil between Defause, Gasper and Soleway. He had himself given a sum of money to the Chinese Missionary Society, and Richard was now a very rich man.
Gasper turned to his friend. ‘What name shall we put on the door, Dick?’
‘No name whatever as yet,’ answered Richard. ‘In another ten years or so I may put something up.’ He took his coat off his peg and struggled into it. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe I will in ten years or so.’
CHAPTER 32
Phillip Hobart turned round to his friend Henry Cordane and said reflectively: ‘That unnamed firm in Pentworth Street is doing damned well. They handled Crewell Newbolt’s case last week.’
Cordane shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘Really?’ he yawned. ‘I say, old chappie, your date’s wrong. It’s June 11th 1862 not July 7th.’
The firm of Gladridges and Wilkinson held a board meeting in the year 1879. ‘We are met,’ said the Chairman, ‘to decide what we are to do in this great crisis. What can we do to keep our name? The Pentworth lawyers must be equalled.’
CHAPTER 33
Richard Soleway pushed a greying lock of hair back from off his forehead. He looked his 55 years, and the old man by his side shook his head.
‘You need a holiday, Dick.’
Old Gasper Liverwick sounded concerned. He was 72, with a head of black hair not lightened by even a rumour of whiteness. The hands of the one-time sea-dog were traced with heavy purple veins, but they did not shake.
Richard leaned back in his chair and looked around him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’m going to have it. In a month’s time we can leave this place and settle down far away.’
‘You mean the business is all ready for Ernest Ledwhistle and his son?’ asked Gasper heavily. He knew he did not need an answer. The last 30 years had been spent in hard brain-work with hardly a break. It had all been done for Ernest Ledwhistle and his son James, and now the task had been accomplished and they could rest.
Ernest sat in an office too that afternoon, but he was sick at heart. He had for 11 years sat at this high desk totting up figures. His mother was still alive, a frail voluptuo
us senile old hag of nearly 80. The years and the poverty had not gone well with her. She would at this moment be with Anna in their poky little parlour, for she lived with them now. His son James would not be at home. He would be at least growing strong and healthy in Virginia along with Charles Coney, his sister’s boy. His memory drifted back to the days when Francis had been but seven and James barely two. James Coney had come in and Old Andrew had thanked him profusely. He remembered with a sudden smile how Fanny had blushed and how Charlotte had stuffed her sampler into her mouth. ‘30 years ago,’ he sighed. ‘30 years ago –’ his face darkened – 30 years ago Martin Andromikey had killed his father. He had brought shame and suffering to his poor old mother, and caused her mentality. But for Martin Andromikey, Francis would not be an incurable drunkard. But for Martin Andromikey –
His hands fell forward onto the desk and he groaned hopelessly. 30 years ago all his castles had been brought crashing to the ground, by that same Martin Andromikey. ‘And 30 years from now,’ he whispered, ‘please God I shall be dead.’ And Jane and Francis, Charlotte and James, what were they going to be? ‘Oh God,’ he muttered. ‘Oh God.’
CHAPTER 34
London
October 18th
Dear James,
This letter will be a great surprise to you no doubt but a pleasant surprise. 3 weeks ago I was handed the Pentworth firm. The mysterious owners disappeared leaving a document that entitled me to the business. Come home at once, son, for I wish to set up. Charles is needed too. Your mother has written to your aunt. Will expect you as soon as possible.
Yours affectionately, Father.
This extraordinary letter James Ledwhistle read out to his cousin Charles.
‘What on earth do you make of that?’ gasped he in amazement. ‘It’s incoherent. Come home at once.’
Charles broke out in a delighted laugh. ‘Think of it, Jim,’ he cried. ‘Just think of it. I can leave Father’s shop and join forces with you, as Uncle suggests. Come, I want to talk to Mama.’
He led the way out of the room and they found Fanny seated on a couch sorting out some bills. But can this be the perspiring Fanny Ledwhistle of old? Where is the flustered stoutness, the foolish gaze? Certainly not in this competent matronly woman with the grey hair.
Her son waved the letter in front of her and sat down beside her.
‘Mother,’ he cried. ‘Mother, is it true? Am I to go to England with James? Tell me, am I?’
The busy figure said primly, ‘Yes, Charles, you are. I should hardly have expected you to show joy at leaving your home.’
Before her son could reply, James Coney came into the room.
‘So you know about it at last, do you, lads?’ he said.
James had not altered. The grey hair hung jaggedly over his eyes and his long wrists shunned his coat sleeves.
‘Uncle James,’ asked young Ledwhistle perplexedly. ‘What does it all mean? Has Father been left this – this Pentworth firm? And if he has, why? What does anyone know about Papa, that they should let him inherit this business? He’s only a clerk.’
‘It’s quite true though, boy,’ replied Coney. ‘From what I can gather from your father’s somewhat incoherent and muddled letter, these lawyers have totally disappeared leaving only this deed proclaiming a transfer of ownership.’
He turned to Charles and said somewhat drily: ‘It’s your chance to get out of the shop and incidentally your social rut.’
Fanny’s lips tightened. If she had been a coquette, with perhaps some reason for being one, she would have tossed her head. James Coney’s humour never failed to shock her, though her very being sometimes struggled to enjoy it.
Charles was silent. Inwardly he was transported with joy. His father, he knew, would not resent this feeling. James Ledwhistle was still puzzled. For his own part he had no yearning to return to the squalid home he had left at the age of 14. How different he thought was England and its people from such as these Virginians. He thought of the injustice, the filth and the greed of England. Outside the jasmine stirred and there drifted on his senses a lingering perfume. Here it was different: the black-skinned natives with their silky hair and even teeth. It was growing dusky, and faintly on the evening air that was heavy with the scent of flowers came the sound of a voice uplifted in song. The voice was rich and throbbed with feeling.
‘Oh, Masser lying on the hard brown cross,
Masser’s a-dying and we canna help.
The sky is growing heavy, it is blackening with its loss,
And that dear head is drooping,
It’s a-drooping on de cross.’
And then there swelled on the breeze a chorus of other throats:
‘Jesus oh Jesus, his head is drooping now,
Jesus, oh Jesus, we canna let yer die.
Oh, Masa, can’t you see us crying?
Youse are going upward, youse are lifting up de sky.’
The little room was in darkness now and the flowered curtains swayed gently. Outside there was gathering a little group. Charles caught the gleam of a polished tooth, the white of a glistening eye and a shiny patch on an ebony skin.
‘Draw the curtains,’ said Fanny sharply, and he did.
CHAPTER 35
Ernest Ledwhistle ushered his son and nephew Charles Coney into the office of the firm of Ledwhistle and Coney. James was aghast at the magnificence of the surroundings. The polished woodwork, the burnished scuttle, the sparkling blackness of the grate and the bubble-like clarity of the windows overlooking the busy street.
Ernest smiled proudly as he said, ‘One day, boys, this firm will be as great as my father made his.’
‘But sir,’ cried Charles, ‘did you know the Pentworth lawyers? Were you a relation or an acquaintance of long standing?’
‘I have never met them in my life,’ was the answer. ‘They have completely disappeared too, but they’re genuine enough.’
He looked round with a long-drawn-out sigh of expectancy, as if he half hoped to see the disapproving face of Old Jacob Steinhouse staring at him from behind the half-opened door.
Charles sat down at a desk whose top, gleamed and burnished, waited for him. James was not so willing to adapt himself to a desk. He had last night met his grandmother and the incident had both sickened and revolted him. Ernest had not moved into their new house yet, and she sat among her squalid surroundings. They shared their house with a family of 9: a father and 8 children. James remembered going into the back parlour. The dingy light that filtered sluggishly through the window curtains lighted on a cage above a chair. The stench was horrible, and as he gazed with hot eyes the green parrot squawked loudly. And then he had seen his grandmother, Mary Ledwhistle. With what horror he saw the hair-rimmed eyes, the red amber light in those bright pupils, which were sparkling with the very emptiness of their gaze. The lips were drawn up and yellow, her chin low and hanging. Her face was covered in brown freckles and there were large bags under the vision-less eyes. Her white hair, grey with dirt, hung round her ears. A drab shawl covered her shoulders and a shapeless colourless sack adorned her body. A disgusting pair of slippers covered her old feet, and her fading hands waved uselessly around in the air.
She saw James but took not the slightest notice of him. ‘Folly,’ she cackled, her eyes taking on an expression that was truly frightening in their intensity. ‘Why, what are you squawking for, you foolish bird? Foolish. Feathers aren’t green but feathers are yellow – yellow and blue.’ She lapsed into silence and then cried out, gasping, ‘Blue, yellow, red, grey and black. Purple too. Foolish, foolish. Wise bird, Polly, Polly.’
Then she seemed to take her grandson in. James shrank back from that stare. Ah, the stare of rotting age. You should see that stare, Richard Soleway, and shrink from it also.
She stopped her restless moving, and her stillness was more terrifying than her motion had been the moment before.
‘You’re Martin?’ she screeched. ‘You’re Martin, aren’t you? Andrew,’ she wailed, ‘qu
ick, here’s Andromikey. Quick, Andrew get the irons. Brand it on his forehead. Brand him, burn him!’ Then she cried feverishly, ‘It’s blue and green and yellow, Francis. How naughty, Polly.’
At that moment Ernest had come into the room and the old woman had stopped her rambling. The old head had gone to one side, and she looked not unlike the green parrot, thought James.
‘This is James, Mother,’ said Ernest gently.
The old woman became still again and her eyes seemed to glow like the coal in a watchman’s shelter. ‘Ernest,’ she croaked. ‘It’s that young Andromikey. He’s there, can’t you see?’
‘Come, James,’ Ernest had said calmly. ‘Her brain has dissolved, poor soul. We will send the servant round with a bottle of port.’
Now James tried to forget her, and settle down to work, for he wanted to make a success of the firm which had landed on their laps, but oh, it was hard to banish his rotting grandmother from his mind, or to forget her strange words.
CHAPTER 36
We are in another part of the land, in the quiet country lane which leads to the gentle graveyard of St Carthage’s. A figure is tottering betwixt the hedgerows, his gnarled hand clutching a stout walking-stick. There is something familiar in his gait, something that we have seen before in those rheumy blue eyes that tremble in the breeze blowing in from the sea.
Collected Stories Page 26