Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated)

by Robert Louis Stevenson

A certain group had gradually formed about us, for the wreck was still a matter of interest; and at this, one of the bystanders, a rough seafaring man, spoke suddenly.

  “I guess the mate won’t be gone,” said he. “He’s main sick; never left the sick-bay aboard the Tempest; so they tell ME.”

  Jim took me by the sleeve. “Back to the consulate,” said he.

  But even at the consulate nothing was known of Mr. Goddedaal. The doctor of the Tempest had certified him very sick; he had sent his papers in, but never appeared in person before the authorities.

  “Have you a telephone laid on to the Tempest?” asked Pinkerton.

  “Laid on yesterday,” said the clerk.

  “Do you mind asking, or letting me ask? We are very anxious to get hold of Mr. Goddedaal.”

  “All right,” said the clerk, and turned to the telephone. “I’m sorry,” he said presently, “Mr. Goddedaal has left the ship, and no one knows where he is.”

  “Do you pay the men’s passage home?” I inquired, a sudden thought striking me.

  “If they want it,” said the clerk; “sometimes they don’t. But we paid the Kanaka’s passage to Honolulu this morning; and by what Captain Trent was saying, I understand the rest are going home together.”

  “Then you haven’t paid them?” said I.

  “Not yet,” said the clerk.

  “And you would be a good deal surprised, if I were to tell you they were gone already?” I asked.

  “O, I should think you were mistaken,” said he.

  “Such is the fact, however,” said I.

  “I am sure you must be mistaken,” he repeated.

  “May I use your telephone one moment?” asked Pinkerton; and as soon as permission had been granted, I heard him ring up the printing-office where our advertisements were usually handled. More I did not hear; for suddenly recalling the big, bad hand in the register of the What Cheer House, I asked the consulate clerk if he had a specimen of Captain Trent’s writing. Whereupon I learned that the captain could not write, having cut his hand open a little before the loss of the brig; that the latter part of the log even had been written up by Mr. Goddedaal; and that Trent had always signed with his left hand. By the time I had gleaned this information, Pinkerton was ready.

  “That’s all that we can do. Now for the schooner,” said he; “and by to-morrow evening I lay hands on Goddedaal, or my name’s not Pinkerton.”

  “How have you managed?” I inquired.

  “You’ll see before you get to bed,” said Pinkerton. “And now, after all this backwarding and forwarding, and that hotel clerk, and that bug Bellairs, it’ll be a change and a kind of consolation to see the schooner. I guess things are humming there.”

  But on the wharf, when we reached it, there was no sign of bustle, and, but for the galley smoke, no mark of life on the Norah Creina. Pinkerton’s face grew pale, and his mouth straightened, as he leaped on board.

  “Where’s the captain of this — — ?” and he left the phrase unfinished, finding no epithet sufficiently energetic for his thoughts.

  It did not appear whom or what he was addressing; but a head, presumably the cook’s, appeared in answer at the galley door.

  “In the cabin, at dinner,” said the cook deliberately, chewing as he spoke.

  “Is that cargo out?”

  “No, sir.”

  “None of it?”

  “O, there’s some of it out. We’ll get at the rest of it livelier to-morrow, I guess.”

  “I guess there’ll be something broken first,” said Pinkerton, and strode to the cabin.

  Here we found a man, fat, dark, and quiet, seated gravely at what seemed a liberal meal. He looked up upon our entrance; and seeing Pinkerton continue to stand facing him in silence, hat on head, arms folded, and lips compressed, an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance began to dawn upon his placid face.

  “Well!” said Jim; “and so this is what you call rushing around?”

  “Who are you?” cries the captain.

  “Me! I’m Pinkerton!” retorted Jim, as though the name had been a talisman.

  “You’re not very civil, whoever you are,” was the reply. But still a certain effect had been produced, for he scrambled to his feet, and added hastily, “A man must have a bit of dinner, you know, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “Where’s your mate?” snapped Jim.

  “He’s up town,” returned the other.

  “Up town!” sneered Pinkerton. “Now, I’ll tell you what you are: you’re a Fraud; and if I wasn’t afraid of dirtying my boot, I would kick you and your dinner into that dock.”

  “I’ll tell you something, too,” retorted the captain, duskily flushing. “I wouldn’t sail this ship for the man you are, if you went upon your knees. I’ve dealt with gentlemen up to now.”

  “I can tell you the names of a number of gentlemen you’ll never deal with any more, and that’s the whole of Longhurst’s gang,” said Jim. “I’ll put your pipe out in that quarter, my friend. Here, rout out your traps as quick as look at it, and take your vermin along with you. I’ll have a captain in, this very night, that’s a sailor, and some sailors to work for him.”

  “I’ll go when I please, and that’s to-morrow morning,” cried the captain after us, as we departed for the shore.

  “There’s something gone wrong with the world to-day; it must have come bottom up!” wailed Pinkerton. “Bellairs, and then the hotel clerk, and now This Fraud! And what am I to do for a captain, Loudon, with Longhurst gone home an hour ago, and the boys all scattered?”

  “I know,” said I. “Jump in!” And then to the driver: “Do you know Black Tom’s?”

  Thither then we rattled; passed through the bar, and found (as I had hoped) Johnson in the enjoyment of club life. The table had been thrust upon one side; a South Sea merchant was discoursing music from a mouth-organ in one corner; and in the middle of the floor Johnson and a fellow-seaman, their arms clasped about each other’s bodies, somewhat heavily danced. The room was both cold and close; a jet of gas, which continually menaced the heads of the performers, shed a coarse illumination; the mouth-organ sounded shrill and dismal; and the faces of all concerned were church-like in their gravity. It were, of course, indelicate to interrupt these solemn frolics; so we edged ourselves to chairs, for all the world like belated comers in a concert-room, and patiently waited for the end. At length the organist, having exhausted his supply of breath, ceased abruptly in the middle of a bar. With the cessation of the strain, the dancers likewise came to a full stop, swayed a moment, still embracing, and then separated and looked about the circle for applause.

  “Very well danced!” said one; but it appears the compliment was not strong enough for the performers, who (forgetful of the proverb) took up the tale in person.

  “Well,” said Johnson. “I mayn’t be no sailor, but I can dance!”

  And his late partner, with an almost pathetic conviction, added, “My foot is as light as a feather.”

  Seeing how the wind set, you may be sure I added a few words of praise before I carried Johnson alone into the passage: to whom, thus mollified, I told so much as I judged needful of our situation, and begged him, if he would not take the job himself, to find me a smart man.

  “Me!” he cried. “I couldn’t no more do it than I could try to go to hell!”

  “I thought you were a mate?” said I.

  “So I am a mate,” giggled Johnson, “and you don’t catch me shipping noways else. But I’ll tell you what, I believe I can get you Arty Nares: you seen Arty; first-rate navigator and a son of a gun for style.” And he proceeded to explain to me that Mr. Nares, who had the promise of a fine barque in six months, after things had quieted down, was in the meantime living very private, and would be pleased to have a change of air.

  I called out Pinkerton and told him. “Nares!” he cried, as soon as I had come to the name. “I would jump at the chance of a man that had had Nares’s trousers on! Why, Loudon, he’s the smartest deep-wate
r mate out of San Francisco, and draws his dividends regular in service and out.” This hearty indorsation clinched the proposal; Johnson agreed to produce Nares before six the following morning; and Black Tom, being called into the consultation, promised us four smart hands for the same hour, and even (what appeared to all of us excessive) promised them sober.

  The streets were fully lighted when we left Black Tom’s: street after street sparkling with gas or electricity, line after line of distant luminaries climbing the steep sides of hills towards the overvaulting darkness; and on the other hand, where the waters of the bay invisibly trembled, a hundred riding lanterns marked the position of a hundred ships. The sea-fog flew high in heaven; and at the level of man’s life and business it was clear and chill. By silent consent, we paid the hack off, and proceeded arm in arm towards the Poodle Dog for dinner.

  At one of the first hoardings, I was aware of a bill-sticker at work: it was a late hour for this employment, and I checked Pinkerton until the sheet should be unfolded. This is what I read: —

  TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.

  OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE

  WRECKED BRIG FLYING SCUD

  APPLYING,

  PERSONALLY OR BY LETTER,

  AT THE OFFICE OF JAMES PINKERTON, MONTANA

  BLOCK,

  BEFORE NOON TO-MORROW, TUESDAY, 12TH,

  WILL RECEIVE

  TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.

  “This is your idea, Pinkerton!” I cried.

  “Yes. They’ve lost no time; I’ll say that for them — not like the Fraud,” said he. “But mind you, Loudon, that’s not half of it. The cream of the idea’s here: we know our man’s sick; well, a copy of that has been mailed to every hospital, every doctor, and every drug-store in San Francisco.”

  Of course, from the nature of our business, Pinkerton could do a thing of the kind at a figure extremely reduced; for all that, I was appalled at the extravagance, and said so.

  “What matter a few dollars now?” he replied sadly. “It’s in three months that the pull comes, Loudon.”

  We walked on again in silence, not without a shiver. Even at the Poodle Dog, we took our food with small appetite and less speech; and it was not until he was warmed with a third glass of champagne that Pinkerton cleared his throat and looked upon me with a deprecating eye.

  “Loudon,” said he, “there was a subject you didn’t wish to be referred to. I only want to do so indirectly. It wasn’t” — he faltered — ”it wasn’t because you were dissatisfied with me?” he concluded, with a quaver.

  “Pinkerton!” cried I.

  “No, no, not a word just now,” he hastened to proceed. “Let me speak first. I appreciate, though I can’t imitate, the delicacy of your nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it, and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B. Longhurst — a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters — weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and — I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better — but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best.”

  “My poor Jim,” said I, “as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn’t know you had done wonders! All day I’ve been admiring your energy and resource. And as for that affair — — ”

  “No, Loudon, no more, not a word more! I don’t want to hear,” cried Jim.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to tell you,” said I; “for it’s a thing I’m ashamed of.”

  “Ashamed, Loudon? O, don’t say that; don’t use such an expression even in jest!” protested Pinkerton.

  “Do you never do anything you’re ashamed of?” I inquired.

  “No,” says he, rolling his eyes. “Why? I’m sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I can’t see what I would want to be ashamed for.”

  I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend’s character. Then I sighed. “Do you know, Jim, what I’m sorriest for?” said I. “At this rate, I can’t be best man at your marriage.”

  “My marriage!” he repeated, echoing the sigh. “No marriage for me now. I’m going right down to-night to break it to her. I think that’s what’s shaken me all day. I feel as if I had had no right (after I was engaged) to operate so widely.”

  “Well, you know, Jim, it was my doing, and you must lay the blame on me,” said I.

  “Not a cent of it!” he cried. “I was as eager as yourself, only not so bright at the beginning. No; I’ve myself to thank for it; but it’s a wrench.”

  While Jim departed on his dolorous mission, I returned alone to the office, lit the gas, and sat down to reflect on the events of that momentous day: on the strange features of the tale that had been so far unfolded, the disappearances, the terrors, the great sums of money; and on the dangerous and ungrateful task that awaited me in the immediate future.

  It is difficult, in the retrospect of such affairs, to avoid attributing to ourselves in the past a measure of the knowledge we possess to-day. But I may say, and yet be well within the mark, that I was consumed that night with a fever of suspicion and curiosity; exhausted my fancy in solutions, which I still dismissed as incommensurable with the facts; and in the mystery by which I saw myself surrounded, found a precious stimulus for my courage and a convenient soothing draught for conscience. Even had all been plain sailing, I do not hint that I should have drawn back. Smuggling is one of the meanest of crimes, for by that we rob a whole country pro rata, and are therefore certain to impoverish the poor: to smuggle opium is an offence particularly dark, since it stands related not so much to murder, as to massacre. Upon all these points I was quite clear; my sympathy was all in arms against my interest; and had not Jim been involved, I could have dwelt almost with satisfaction on the idea of my failure. But Jim, his whole fortune, and his marriage, depended upon my success; and I preferred the interests of my friend before those of all the islanders in the South Seas. This is a poor, private morality, if you like; but it is mine, and the best I have; and I am not half so much ashamed of having embarked at all on this adventure, as I am proud that (while I was in it, and for the sake of my friend) I was up early and down late, set my own hand to everything, took dangers as they came, and for once in my life played the man throughout. At the same time, I could have desired another field of energy; and I was the more grateful for the redeeming element of mystery. Without that, though I might have gone ahead and done as well, it would scarce have been with ardour; and what inspired me that night with an impatient greed of the sea, the island, and the wreck, was the hope that I might stumble there upon the answer to a hundred questions, and learn why Captain Trent fanned his red face in the exchange, and why Mr. Dickson fled from the telephone in the Mission Street lodging-house.

  CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH JIM AND I TAKE DIFFERENT WAYS.

  I was unhappy when I closed my eyes; and it was to unhappiness that I opened them again next morning, to a confused sense of some calamity still inarticulate, and to the consciousness of jaded limbs and of a swimming head. I must have lain for some time inert and stupidly miserable, before I became aware of a reiterated knocking at the door; with which discovery all my wits flowed back in their accustomed channels, and I remembered the sale, and the wreck, and Goddedaal, and Nares, and Johnson, and Black Tom, and the troubles of yesterday, and the manifold engagements of the day that was to come. The thought thrilled me like a trumpet in the hour of battle. In a moment, I had leaped from bed, crossed the office where Pinkerton lay in a deep trance of sleep on the convertible sofa, and stood in the doorway, in my night gear, to receive our visitors.

  Johnson was first, by way of usher, smiling. From a little behind, with his Sunday hat tilted forward over his brow, and a cigar glowing between his lips, Captain Nares acknowledged our previous acquaintance with a succinct nod. Behind
him again, in the top of the stairway, a knot of sailors, the new crew of the Norah Creina, stood polishing the wall with back and elbow. These I left without to their reflections. But our two officers I carried at once into the office, where (taking Jim by the shoulder) I shook him slowly into consciousness. He sat up, all abroad for the moment, and stared on the new captain.

  “Jim,” said I, “this is Captain Nares. Captain, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  Nares repeated his curt nod, still without speech; and I thought he held us both under a watchful scrutiny.

  “O!” says Jim, “this is Captain Nares, is it? Good morning, Captain Nares. Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir. I know you well by reputation.”

  Perhaps, under the circumstances of the moment, this was scarce a welcome speech. At least, Nares received it with a grunt.

  “Well, Captain,” Jim continued, “you know about the size of the business? You’re to take the Nora Creina to Midway Island, break up a wreck, call at Honolulu, and back to this port? I suppose that’s understood?”

  “Well,” returned Nares, with the same unamiable reserve, “for a reason, which I guess you know, the cruise may suit me; but there’s a point or two to settle. We shall have to talk, Mr. Pinkerton. But whether I go or not, somebody will; there’s no sense in losing time; and you might give Mr. Johnson a note, let him take the hands right down, and set to to overhaul the rigging. The beasts look sober,” he added, with an air of great disgust, “and need putting to work to keep them so.”

  This being agreed upon, Nares watched his subordinate depart and drew a visible breath.

  “And now we’re alone and can talk,” said he. “What’s this thing about? It’s been advertised like Barnum’s museum; that poster of yours has set the Front talking; that’s an objection in itself, for I’m laying a little dark just now; and anyway, before I take the ship, I require to know what I’m going after.”

  Thereupon Pinkerton gave him the whole tale, beginning with a businesslike precision, and working himself up, as he went on, to the boiling-point of narrative enthusiasm. Nares sat and smoked, hat still on head, and acknowledged each fresh feature of the story with a frowning nod. But his pale blue eyes betrayed him, and lighted visibly.