His long reverie was at length interrupted by a voice which came in through the little port-hole. “No soundings!”
He glanced up at the tell-tale compass which formed a rather unusual fitting to the mate’s bunk and noted that the ship’s course had been altered three points to the north. She was now heading almost directly for the land and was presumably nearly opposite Adaffia. He re-folded the letter and put it away, but his thoughts went back to its message and to the beloved writer. Presently the voice of the man in the channel who was heaving the lead was heard again; and this time it told of a nearer approach to that dreary shore.
“By the deep, eighteen!”
He noted the depth with faint interest and began to think of the immediate future. As soon as he got ashore he must write to her. It was quite wrong, but he had promised, and he could not but be glad that she had exacted the promise. It would be a joy to write to her, and yet he could feel that he was doing it under compulsion. But it must be a careful letter. There must be in it no sign of weakening or wavering that might mislead her. She must be free and she must fully realize it; must realize that he belonged to her past and had no part in her future. It would be a difficult letter to write; and here he set himself to consider what he should say. And meanwhile the leads-man’s voice came in from time to time, recording the gradual approach to the land.
“By the deep, ele-vern!” “By the mark, ten!” “By the deep, eight!”
At this point he was aware of sounds in the cuddy as if some heavy objects were being moved, and he surmised that the gin-cases were being disinterred from the lazarette. Then he heard the trap fall and heavy footsteps stumbled up the companion-stairs. A moment later the leadsman sang out: “By the mark, sev-ern!” and as Osmond rose from the bunk there came a thumping at his door and a voice sang out:
“The captain wants you on deck, sir, and there’s a canoe a-comin’ alongside.”
Osmond cast a farewell glance round the little cabin and followed the man up on deck, where he found the captain waiting on the poop, standing guard, apparently, over two leathern bags and one of canvas. Looking forward, he saw the crew gathered at the open gangway, regarding with sheepish grins four unopened gin-cases, while a canoe, bearing a scarlet-coated grandee, was just running alongside. As he stepped out of the companion, the captain picked up the three bags, and walking with him slowly towards the gangway, addressed him in a gruff tone and a somewhat aggressive manner.
“According to law,” said he, “I believe you are entitled to a third of the ship’s value for salvage services. There are nearly two hundred ounces of gold-dust in these two leather bags—that is, roughly, eight hundred pounds—and there is forty-eight pounds ten in sovereigns and half-sovereigns, in the canvas bag. Will that satisfy you?
“Rubbish,” said Osmond. “I want eight shillings for two cases of gin broached by your men.”
“You won’t get it from me,” snapped the skipper. “I’ll have nothing to do with intoxicating liquor.”
“If you don’t pay, I’ll sue you,” said Osmond.
“I haven’t had the gin,” retorted the skipper. “It was brought on board without my authority. You must recover from the men who had it. But what do you say about the question of salvage?”
“Hang the salvage!” replied Osmond. “I want to be paid for my gin.”
“You won’t get a ha’penny from me for your confounded poison,” exclaimed the skipper, hotly. “I hold very strict views on the liquor traffic. There are the men who drank the stuff. Make them pay. It’s no concern of mine. But about this salvage question: are you satisfied with what I offer?”
Osmond glanced through the gangway. The gin-cases were all stowed in the canoe; Mensah was beaming up at him with an expectant grin and the canoe-men grasped their paddles. He felt in his pocket, and then, taking the canvas bag from the skipper, thrust his hand in and brought out a handful of coins. From these he selected a half-sovereign, and returning the others, dropped in a couple of shillings from his pocket.
“Two shillings change,” he remarked. He threw the bag down on the deck, and pocketing the half sovereign, dropped down into the canoe. But he had hardly taken his seat on the tie-tie thwart when two heavy thumps on the floor of the canoe, followed by a jingling impact, announced the arrival of the two bags of gold-dust and the bag of specie.
Osmond stood up in the dancing canoe with a leather bag in each hand.
“Now, Mensah,” he sang out, “tell the boys to get away one time.”
The paddles dug into the blue water; the canoe bounded forward. Aiming skilfully at the open gang way, Osmond sent the heavy leathern bags, one after the other, skimming along the deck, and the little bag of specie after them. The skipper grabbed them up and rushed to the gangway. But he was too late. The canoe was twenty yards away and leaping forward to the thud of the paddles. Looking back at the brigantine with a satisfied smile, Osmond saw a row of six grinning faces at the rail, and at the gangway a small figure that shook its fist at the receding canoe with valedictory fury.
His homecoming was the occasion of a pleasant surprise. At intervals during his absence he had given a passing thought to his factory and the little solitary house by the beach and had wondered how they would fare while their master was away. Now he found that in Kwaku Mensah he had a really faithful steward, and not only faithful but strangely competent in his simple way. The house was in apple-pie order and the store was neatly kept and evidently a going concern, for when he arrived, Mensah’s pretty Fanti wife was behind the counter, chaffering persuasively with a party of ‘bush’ people from Agotimé, and a glance into the compound showed a good pile of produce, awaiting removal to the produce store. Accounts, of course, there were none, since Mensah ‘no sabby book,’ but nevertheless that artless merchantman had kept an exact record of all the transactions with that uncanny precision of memory that one often observes in the intelligent illiterate.
So Osmond settled down at once, with a satisfaction that rather surprised him, into the old surroundings; and as he sat that evening at the table, consuming with uncommon relish a dinner of okro soup, ‘chickum cotrecks,’ and ‘banana flitters,’ the product of Mrs. Mensah’s skill (her name was Ekua Bochwi, from which one learned that she had been born on Wednesday and was the eighth child of her parents), he was inclined to congratulate himself on Captain Hartup’s refusal to retain him as the provisional mate of the Speedwell.
But in spite of the triumphant way in which he had out-manoeuvred the skipper, Osmond had a suspicion that he had not seen the last of his late commander. For the brigantine, which he had left hove-to and apparently ready to proceed on her voyage, had presently let go her anchor and stowed her sails as if the captain contemplated a stay at Adaffia. And the event justified his suspicions. On the following morning, while he was seated at the breakfast-table, with a fair copy of his letter to Betty before him, he became aware of shod feet on the gravelled compound, and a few moments later the doorway framed the figure of Captain Hartup, while in the background lurked Sam Winter, grinning joy and carrying two leathern bags.
The captain entered, and regarding his quondam mate with an expression that almost approached geniality, wished him “good morning” and even held out his hand. Osmond grasped it cordially, and drawing up a second chair, pressed his visitor to join him.
“A little fresh food,” he remarked, untactfully, with his eye on the leathern bags, “and a cup of real coffee will do you good.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” snorted the skipper. “I’m not starving, and neither are you. The ship’s grub hasn’t killed you. Still,” he added, “as I see you are breakfasting like a Christian and not in the beastly Coast fashion, I don’t mind if I do try a bit of shore tack with you. And you needn’t look at those bags like that. I am not going to force anything on you. I am not an obstinate man” (which was a most outrageous untruth).
“What have you brought them here for?” Osmond demanded stolidly.
“I’ll tell you presently,” replied the skipper. “Bring ’em in, Winter, and dump ’em on that sideboard.”
Winter deposited the two bags on the stack of empty cases thus politely designated and then backed to the doorway, where he was encountered by Kwaku, who was directed to take him to the store and feed him.
“I’ve come ashore,” the captain explained when they were alone, “to see if I can make one or two little arrangements with you.”
Osmond nodded as he helped his guest to stuffed okros and fried eggs (eggs are usually served, on the Coast, fried or poached or in some other overt form, as a precaution against embryological surprises).
“To begin with,” continued the skipper, “I want about half a dozen niggers—a cook, a cabin-boy, and a few hands to do the rough work. Do you think you can manage that for me?”
“I’ve no doubt I can,” was the reply.
“Good. Well, then, there is this gold-dust. If you care to change your mind, say so, and the stuff is yours.”
Osmond shook his head. “I came on board for my own purposes,” said he, “and I am not going to take any payment for looking after my own business.”
“Very well,” the skipper rejoined: “then if you won’t have it, I may as well keep it; and I shan’t if it remains on board. It was that gold-dust that tempted Dhoody and the others. Now I understood from you that you have got a safe. Is it a pretty strong one?”
“It’s strong enough. There are no skilled burglars out here.”
“Then I’m going to ask you to take charge of this stuff for me. You see that both bags are sealed up, and there is a paper inside each giving particulars of the contents and full directions as to how they are to be disposed of if anything should happen to me. Will you do this for me—as a matter of business, of course?”
“Not as a matter of business,” replied Osmond. “That would make me responsible for the safe custody of the bags, which I can’t be, as I may have to be absent from Adaffia and leave my man, Mensah, in charge of the factory. I will put the stuff in my safe with pleasure, and I think it will be perfectly secure there; but I won’t take any payment or accept any responsibility beyond exercising reasonable care. Will that do?”
“Yes,” replied the captain, “that will do. What is good enough for your own property is good enough for mine. So I will ask you to lock the stuff up for me and keep it till I ask for it; but if you should hear that anything has happened to me—that I am dead, in fact—then you will open the bags and read the papers inside and dispose of the property according to the directions written in those papers. Will you do that? It will be a weight off my mind if you will.”
“Certainly I will,” said Osmond. “But have you any reason to expect that anything will happen to you?”
“Nothing immediate,” the captain replied. “But, you see, I am not as young as I was, and I am not what you would call a very sound man. I am subject to occasional attacks of giddiness and faintness. I don’t know how much they mean, but my doctor at Bristol warned me not to treat them too lightly. He gave me a supply of medicine, which I keep in the chest, and when I feel an attack coming on, I turn in and take some. But still, ‘in the midst of life we are in death,’ you know; and I’m ready to answer to my name when the call comes.”
“Well,” said Osmond, “let us hope it won’t come until you have got your goods safely home to Bristol. But in any case, you can depend on me to carry out your instructions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cook,” said the captain. “I am glad to get that little matter settled. The only anxiety that is left now is the ivory. I had thought of asking you to take charge of that, too, but it would be awkward for you to store. And, after all, it’s fairly safe in the hold. A man can’t nip off with a dozen eighty-pound tusks in his pocket. So I think we will leave that where it is, ready stowed for the homeward voyage. By the way, have you got any produce that you want to dispose of?”
“Yes, I have a ton or two of copra and a couple of puncheons of oil; and I can let you have some kernels and rubber. Perhaps you would like to take some of the produce in exchange for trade goods.”
The arrangement suited Captain Hartup exactly, and accordingly, when they had finished breakfast and stowed the gold-dust in the safe, they adjourned to the produce store to settle the details of the exchange. Then half a dozen canoes were chartered, the new hands mustered by Kwaku, and for the rest of the day the little factory compound and the usually quiet beach were scenes of unwonted bustle and activity. Sam Winter (secretly fortified with a substantial ‘tot’ of gin) was sent on board to superintend the stowage and breaking-out of cargo, while the skipper remained ashore to check off the goods landed and embarked.
The sun was getting low when the two white men set forth to follow the last consignment down to the beach. When they had seen it loaded into the canoes and watched its passage through the surf, Captain Hartup turned to Osmond, and having shaken his hand with almost unnatural cordiality, said, gruffly but not without emotion:
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Cook. I’ve a good deal to thank you for, and I don’t forget it. Providence brought us together when I badly needed a friend, and He will bring us together again, no doubt, in His own good time. But how or when, no one can foresee.”
He shook Osmond’s hand again and, stepping into the waiting canoe, took his seat on a parcel of rubber. The incoming breaker surged up and spent its last energy in a burst of spray on the canoe’s beak. The little craft lifted and, impelled by a hearty shove from the canoe-men, slid down the beach on the backwash and charged into the surf. For a few minutes Osmond stood at the brink of the sea watching the canoe as it hovered amidst clouds of spray, dodging the great combers and waiting for its chance to slip through the ‘shouting seas’ to the quiet rollers outside. At length the periodical ‘lull’ came; the paddles drummed furiously on the green-blue water; the canoe leaped at the following wave, disappeared in a burst of snowy froth, and reappeared prancing wildly but safely outside the line of surf. A little figure in the canoe turned and waved its hand; and Osmond, after a responsive flourish of his hat and a glance at the anchored brigantine, turned away from the beach with an odd feeling of regret and walked slowly back to the factory, pondering on the captain’s curious and rather cryptic farewell.
CHAPTER VIII
The Last of the ‘Speedwell’
For a couple of months Osmond’s life at Adaffia drifted on monotonously enough, yet not at all drearily to a man of his somewhat solitary habits and self-contained nature. The factory prospered in a modest way with very little attention on his part, causing him often to reflect regretfully on poor Larkom’s melancholy and unnecessary failure. That kindly wastrel was now secured—for a time—from oblivion by a neatly-made wooden cross, painted white and inscribed with his name, a date, and a few appreciative words, which had been set above his grave when the other cross had been removed to grace an elongated heap of sand which represented the resting-place of the late John Osmond.
Moreover, there were breaks in the monotony which had not existed before the adventure of the Speedwell. His letter to Betty (in which, among other matters, he had related with naive satisfaction the incident of the leathern bags and the defeat of Captain Hartup) had evoked a lengthy reply with a demand for a further letter; and so, much against his judgment, he had been drawn into a regular correspondence which was the occasion of alternate and conflicting emotions. Every letter that he wrote racked his conscience and filled him with self-contempt. But the arrival of the inevitable and always prompt reply was a delight which he accepted and enjoyed without a qualm. It was very inconsistent. To the half-naked native who acted as the semi-official postman, he would hand his letter shamefacedly, with a growl of disapproval, admonishing himself that “this sort of thing has got to stop.” And then, on the day when the reply was expected, he would take a telescope out on the sand-hills and remain for hours watching the beach for the appearance in the remote distance of that same native postman.<
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These letters, mostly written from head-quarters, kept him informed respecting events of local interest, and, what was much more to the point, of Betty’s own doings and movements. He learned, for instance, that there were rumours of a native rising in Anglóh (officially spelt Awuna), the region at the back of Adaffia; and that—regardless of this fact—Betty was trying to get her father’s permission for a little journey of exploration into this very district.
This latter item of news set his emotional see-saw going at double speed. His judgment denounced the project violently. First, there was the danger—obvious, though not so very great; for the African is essentially a gentlemanly fighter, if rather heavy-handed, and would avoid injuring a white woman. But he is a shockingly bad marksman and uses slugs and gravel for ammunition, so that accidents are very liable to happen. But apart from the danger, this expedition was highly undesirable, for it would bring Betty into his neighbourhood, and of course they would meet—she would see to that. And that meeting ought not to take place. It would only prolong a state of affairs that was disturbing to him and ruinous to her future prospects. He felt this very sincerely, and was foolish enough to say so in his reply to her letter.
From time to time his thoughts wandered to Captain Hartup, and always with a tendency to speculate on the meaning—if there were any—of the note of foreboding which he thought he had detected in the captain’s last words as they said “good-bye” on the beach. Those words—together with something final and testamentary in his manner when he had deposited the bags of gold-dust in the safe—seemed to hint at an uncertainty of life and distrust of the future on the captain’s part, on which Osmond reflected uneasily. And at last, there came a day on which the skipper’s meaning was made clear.
One morning, in the short interval between the night and the dawn, he awoke suddenly and became aware of a dusky figure between his bed and the window.
“Mastah!” the voice of Mensah exclaimed, excitedly, “dat ship, Speedwell! I look um. He fit for come on de beach.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 35