The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Are ye bad hurt, sir? There’s a bit flask in here, and a pistol and knife and—”

  “Saints preserve us!” ejaculated Desmond. “If I could but get your two hands free, me lad, we’d fight a bit yet. The bullet’s in me, but how bad hurt I am there’s no saying. If I had a drink—”

  His head was supported by the wall, and now he tried to sit up. With an effort he set his will to the task, but as his body came up he fell sidewise and lay limply across the fiddle case. As he lay thus his fingers found the clasps and opened the case.

  Inch by inch his fingers groped about the thing. While he fought off the blind weakness that gripped him there came a rush of feet and a burst of shots from the passage outside.

  “That’s them,” gasped O’Sullivan. “Doin’ for the chinks like they said—”

  “Ah!” Desmond’s hand closed on the flask. Unscrewing the top was a tremendous effort, but at last it was accomplished. Getting the flask to his lips with shaking hand, he took a swallow of the fiery liquor. It revived and strengthened his body instantly.

  “They were in too much of a hurry to kill me and have done,” he said, smiling a little. “Now, Michael Terence! Here’s the knife, and if ye can roll over a bit—”

  The little man shoved his legs at Desmond, who cut the knotted cords about his ankles. In another moment O’Sullivan was free and on his feet.

  “Can ye walk, sir?” He stooped above Desmond with a pitiful tenderness. “If ye could get to the cabins aft now, where the ladies are—”

  The ladies! Desmond’s jaw clenched suddenly at the thought.

  “Give us your hand, me lad.”

  Breathing heavily, Desmond reeled up and stood leaning against the wall, while O’Sullivan eyed him with a keenly troubled look.

  “Didn’t I say that Balderson—would be tearing things up—if he cut loose?” gasped Desmond. “Now that—he’s loose—he’s a bloody maniac!”

  The fiddler sadly shook his head. “It’s little we can do, sir. Sure, the banshee was in that fiddle o’ mine last night! Will ye let me have a look at the wound—”

  “Leave be, Michael Terence.” Desmond straightened up and stood erect. “I think I can walk a bit now. Stick your head out the door and see how the land lies!”

  O’Sullivan opened the door into the passage and reconnoitered. Desmond, testing his strength, staggered across to the bunks, clinging there for a moment. He then reached into his newly purchased overcoat, which had been flung into the top bunk; from among the packages of bank notes that distended the pockets he drew forth an automatic. O’Sullivan had the pistol taken from the fiddle case.

  Desmond had removed the bank notes, fearing lest the box be stolen or opened by the customs people at Tourane. This act, it now appeared, had precipitated the crisis between Balderson and the Manchus, and Desmond thanked his stars for the inspiration.

  “All clear, sir!” reported the fiddler from the doorway. “If we could be reachin’ the cabins now and set the ladies free, we could do like we done aboard the schooner—”

  “Luck never repeats, me lad,” and Desmond shook his head. “Still, let’s be havin’ a try at it. No doubt they’re all up for’ard, cleaning out the Chinamen. In that case, we might have a fightin’ chance.”

  Between them they emptied the little flask and then, leaning upon O’Sullivan, Desmond left the cabin. They had but a few steps to go in order to reach the cabin presumably occupied by Rosemonde and Doña Juliana, but those few steps were an agony of torment for Desmond, who felt the strength ebbing out of him at each moment. Desmond leaned against the wall, resting, as O’Sullivan stepped forward to open the closed door of the cabin. As he touched it, however, it was suddenly flung open from within, and one of Balderson’s men appeared before them. At the same instant Desmond heard feet on the companion ladder and the nimble of Balderson’s voice. Caught—taken in front and rear!

  The fiddler flung himself forward bodily; he did not dare to fire because of Rosemonde and Doña Juliana, who appeared tied in chairs beyond the doorway. The man facing them uttered a wild cry at sight of Desmond’s terrible figure, then reeled backward as O’Sullivan flung him aside and bore him down. The two men crashed to the floor.

  “At ’em, King!” bellowed Balderson furiously.

  Desmond gained the cabin doorway, but lacked the strength to get farther and to close the door. He turned, seeing Balderson and King charging down the passage at him. Lifting his automatic, he fired point-blank.

  To his dismay, the shot failed to stop Balderson. That huge Viking figure came upon him with a roar and he felt himself gripped in those mighty arms, while Balderson grinned into his face. His weapon was held against his side, useless.

  Over Balderson’s shoulder he had a terrible vision of King plunging upon O’Sullivan with ready knife, then he heard the fiddler’s shrill voice:

  “I’ll hold ’em, sir! Get the big man now—”

  But Balderson, grinning, was crushing the life out of him. Desmond was going limp, when he heard the voice of Rosemonde piercing his darkening senses. What she cried out was lost, but her voice wakened him. He fired downward, and the bullet carried King off his feet—yet not before King’s knife had plunged home.

  Inch by inch Desmond worked his left arm loose. Balderson’s strength seemed to be suddenly weakening. With a burst Desmond freed his left hand and seized that wild yellow beard. A last frightful effort that seemed to call up all the flickering life within him, and he jerked back Balderson’s head.

  His right hand came free, and he fired.

  His last memory was of O’Sullivan coughing terribly.

  CHAPTER XIV

  FAIR SAILING

  When Desmond came to himself, he was lying upon the deck of the schooner in the morning sunlight, Doña Juliana holding his hand, her hot tears falling on his palm.

  He had a brief glimpse of Rosemonde, a weapon in her hand, ordering two frightened yellow men about; then he asked weakly for the fiddler.

  “He—he is gone,” responded Juliana, sobbing. “His last words—were for you—”

  Desmond closed his eyes for a moment, heartsick. Then a shadow fell across his face, and he looked up again to see Rosemonde kneeling beside him. A strange wonder filled him at sight of her tear-wet face, for in it there was a great tenderness and love, and her fingers that touched his hand were trembling.

  “What is it, fairy mistress?” asked Desmond faintly.

  “Get those dressings, dear,” Rosemonde looked at Juliana, and the latter rose to her feet with a sob. “We’ll have to stop the bleeding at once. Don’t be afraid of those yellow curs; they’ll obey.”

  Desmond smiled as Rosemonde bent over him.

  “Praise be!” he uttered. “It’s all right you are, me dear love! And ye’ll not be sayin’ more about Juliana yonder?”

  “Oh, hush, hush!” implored Rosemonde. “And to think that you didn’t know all the time. But no wonder you did not, for she only told me that night at the Résidence—”

  “Know what, fairy mistress?”

  “That she thought you loved her—and pitied you, because she loved a Spaniard there in Manila—and—”

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” ejaculated Desmond, a sudden light of comprehension flooding upon his brain. “Is it tellin’ me the truth you are, Rosemonde? And listen now—ye’ll not turn away from me any more—”

  She bent above him, tears upon her cheeks. “Only live, please live!” she cried choking. “Oh—I didn’t think you would ever come back to yourself long enough for me to tell you all my heart.”

  “Praise be!” said Desmond, folding his fingers upon hers. “Praise be, me dear love! They couldn’t kill me—now. And we’ll go to America, you and I, and there we’ll begin to live, fairy mistress—”

  Rosemonde, at the new life in his voice and the glory in his eyes, smiled and bowed her lips to his.

  PIRATES’ GOLD

  CHAPTER I

  It was past six bells and growing on to n
oon, and I was a homesick man as I stood on the quay below London Bridge and watched the King Sagamore swinging on her hawser out in the tideway. For she was Virginia-owned, and I, George Roberts of Virginia, knew her well, so that the sight of her was like a touch of home to me.

  Also, I had a vile headache, and my memory of the previous night’s events was very hazy. I had met a number of other captains, and I think some ship-owners, at the Royal Arms, though I could remember only Ned Low and the dark man, Russel, because I liked the one and disliked the other. I seemed to remember that Low had promised his interest to try to get me a ship, or else a chief mate’s berth, but I could recall little of what he had said, except that he told some gorgeous yarns of the Guinea trade.

  “Good morning, Captain Roberts!” came a voice, and I turned to see Russel himself approaching.

  I greeted him without pleasure, for there was a sneer in his eyes, and I did not like his gold-laced hat and jeweled fingers, or the look in his dark face.

  “You seem mighty busy,” he went on, his heavy-lidded gaze searching me. “The cap’n put you under the table, I hear! Well, what think you of the King Sagamore?”

  “Out of trim,” I responded. “She’s down by the head, or I’m a Dutchman!”

  “Oh!” said Russel, eying me. “But you’re a Virginian, sir—and a seaman to boot! I never heard of seamen coming from Virginia or the other colonies.”

  This angered me, as it also puzzled me. Why on earth the man should want to pick a quarrel, I could not see. But, knocking out my pipe and smiling, I obliged him swiftly.

  “Plenty you never heard of, I imagine! Particularly here in England.”

  “Eh?”

  He bent his black brows upon me, scowling.

  “How mean you?” he added.

  “Why, just this: What was your name before you made it Russel?”

  At that, his white teeth showed. He clapped hand to belt as if feeling for a pistol, and I laughed at him.

  “Aye, try it with a Virginian!” I told him and chuckled again. “Think you’re on the high seas, my bucko? Russel, forsooth! If you’re not a Portugee, I don’t know my business! Aye, snarl all you please—and ladies’ rings to your fingers. You cursed fool, don’t you know they hang pirates in London town? How long since you were on the Account, as the gentry of that profession term it?”

  That reached him between wind and water, as it were. I really meant to taunt him into action, since I wanted to feel my fist in his dark face; but I went too far. His hands dropped. He stood motionless, his eyes eating into me, and they become bloodshot.

  “On the Account!” he repeated the phrase, a thickness in his voice. “You speak glibly of it! Perhaps you’ve been on the Account yourself, my fine Virginia sailor?”

  “Why, perhaps I have,” said I cheerfully. “And what of it?”

  He looked at me for another moment, then turned on his heel and strode away very swiftly, as one who goes of set purpose. I looked after him, frowning. He had been at the tavern with Captain Low the previous night. Ned Low was an engaging rascal of the sort that men love, had been master of a Guineaman, and had traded at the Indies. Russel was of a very different stripe; a sinister man, certainly no Englishman, and I wondered that Ned Low would keep company with him.

  However, I dismissed the matter, filled my pipe afresh and turned to watch the ship out in the stream. She was making ready to sail, and to a seaman’s eye she presented some uncommonly interesting aspects.

  That homesick feeling grew on me as I looked. My first voyage had been made in her, under old Andrew Scott—a cold and hard master he was, too! Anyone who had sailed with Scott had tales to brag of. But Cap’n Scott was dead and gone these two years, thanks to a drinking bout with Sandy Fisher aboard the Margaret at Barbados; for Sandy craftily mixed some rare claret in the rum, and Cap’n Scott never rose from under the table.

  Well, Scott was dead, and here was I a captain, and yonder the old King Sagamore! Heartily did I wish that I were commanding her or at least aboard of her, since I was down to my last guinea, with no hope of a ship except I took out a slaver, for which I had no stomach.

  Gossip along the quay told me that she was bound for Virginia, but I doubted this. She was in ballast, and no ship went to Virginia in ballast these days. Also she had bent a new suit of canvas and was fresh-varnished; and I, knowing how stingy were her owners, realized that this was something like a miracle.

  What was more, I perceived a featherbed being put aboard her from the lighter alongside. A featherbed, indeed! No wonder all the Thames boatmen jeered her as they passed, and the crew of a fishing-lugger tied at the quay began to bawl comments which set the river in a roar of laughter. I wondered who was going to use that featherbed.

  One cannot deny that the King Sagamore has a certain roll to her in the best of seas; an uneasy and fretful roll, as if endeavoring to shake loose of the bloodstains that have sunk into her teak. Even old Cap’n Scott had groaned and left the deck at times.

  Just now I heard a voice calling out:

  “There ’e be, sir! That’s ’im a-smoking of the ’bacca!”

  I glanced about, to see a quay loafer pointing me out to a gentleman approaching rapidly. I faced about to meet this stranger in some surprise.

  He was a man in a hurry; a small fellow of forty-odd, wizened and thin in the cheeks, his eyes very sparkling. From his heaving chest and awry wig, he had lately been running. As he strode up to me he produced a snuffbox with a great air of grandeur.

  “Your pardon, sir,” he addressed me, his words rapid and with authority. “You are Captain Roberts, the Virginian?”

  “I am,” was my response.

  “My name is Dennis Langton, merchant and goldsmith, living at the Wheatsheaf in Lombard Street. I had word this morning from Low that you’d be sailing with us.”

  He rattled this all out in a breath. Then he flung a glance over his shoulder and suddenly thrust the snuffbox at me.

  “Here, take this and fetch it aboard wi’ you—move sharp now! Tell Ned that I’ll come aboard as he drops downstream. Give it to him and no other. With you this side Gravesend—Devil sink me! The dogs have caught the trail—hide it, lad—”

  Leaving the snuffbox hidden in my fist, the spry little man darted away from me and ran for cover like a hunted rabbit. I gaped after him, thinking him a madman until the burst of shouts went up from the running men.

  “Stop thief!” went up the yells, shrill and sharp with the hunting fever. “Escape! Trip him up—’scape! ’Prentices out—stop thief—king’s name! Pirate and thief—”

  Upon and past me swept a shrilling throng in a mad rush, two constables in the lead. Langton vanished in among the buildings, and they after him, and the chorus of yells was swiftly drowned in the noise of the city.

  I stood there staring after the rout, until the whimsicality of it all drew a laugh from me. The swift change from the pompous manner and address to the wild flight was ludicrous. The incident was strange and unreal—a merchant of Lombard Street pursued as thief and pirate!

  Pirate! Dennis Langton! Suddenly the name flashed across my consciousness and startled me. Three years previously, or rather four, since it was early in 1720, I was mate aboard the ship Susannah, owned by a merchant of Southwark Side, near London. There had been much talk aboard her of how she had fallen prey to a brace of pirates near Madeira last voyage and had later escaped. Spriggs was one of the rovers, the same who was lately hanged at Tyburn and still hangs there.

  And the other one—Now the name came back to me clear enough! Langton, and none other; Dennis Langton, a soft-spoken man, who was reputed to have murdered many with his own hand.

  Could the pirate Langton be the same man as this merchant and goldsmith? Most unlikely, and yet all things are possible in this world!

  Now came suspicion that he had stolen the snuffbox which he forced on me, and that I might be taken for a thief. This vanished when I opened my hand. The box was a small one of black wood, a
bsolutely worthless. Nor had the little man the look of a cut-purse.

  And what was it he had said about Captain Low? A message for Low, too. And what was that about my shipping with Low? I felt bewildered.

  Thrusting the snuffbox into my pocket, I drew again on my pipe, frowning over this singular incident. I was still turning it over in my mind perplexedly, when there arose a new and more singular matter which drove it completely out of my head; and no wonder!

  Hearing my name called, I looked around to see Captain Low himself coming toward me, bravely puffing at a pipe and laughing to himself over some inward joke.

  “Ha, Roberts! A fine morning to you, George! Damn me, but we had a pretty rouse last night! Why are you standing thus idle in the market place?”

  “Why, for lack of work!”

  Smiling, I gave him a grip of the hand.

  “It seems to me that you said something about looking you up today—but I confess that last rum punch we brewed put a stopper on my brain! Sink me if I can remember a thing.”

  “What!”

  Low gave me a singular yet whimsical look.

  “Come, lad! You don’t mean to say that you can’t remember our discussion?”

  “Not a thing,” I said ruefully. “I’ve lost even the name of your ship, Ned!”

  He broke into a roar of laughter, dropped his pipe and smashed it, roared again, then clapped me heartily on the shoulder and swung me about.

  “There she lies, Roberts, damn me, this is a creamy jest! Wow! Wait until I tell John Russel about this! And you entered with me as chief mate, too! Oh, lad, ha’ pity on me! Yonder’s the King Sagamore with poor Gunner Basil loading the last aboard; and me sleeping abed all morning thinking you stood on her deck!”

  “Good Lord!” I stammered. “D’you mean to say that I, George Roberts, shipped as chief mate with you—”

  He fell to roaring again with laughter, and I chimed in, helpless to withstand it. We stood there like two fools, holding our sides and sending up shouts of mirth that drew curious folk about to stare and wonder if we were loose from Bedlam.