“Aye, sir,” said bose. “Four bells it is, sir.”
“Make it so, bose,” I told him, and he went off into the darkness.
The brazen tinkle of the bell had died away before Ned Low spoke again.
“And what think you, George,” he said, “of sailing mate with Bloody Ned?”
I laughed a little at that.
“What else but your own words, Ned? We’re not on the Account, but for honest gold, you say; and enough said. There’s a reason behind every man sails up the sea, you say; and enough said. For the rest, I like you, I have two fists, and if I go to the devil it’s my own fault and no other man’s leading.”
“Well said, George. What reason is behind you?”
“Ruined fortunes, a girl who jilted me, and lack of ties to keep me ashore. Those in the first place. In the latter place, love of good ships, work to do and strength to do it with, and knowledge of my profession. For I hold the sea to be a profession, Ned, in despite of all men! I sailed a small sloop with two boys from the Azores to Barbados once to prove the fact. What was more, I built the sloop before sailing her.”
“You’re a philosopher, George, and damn me if I don’t wish I might be one too!” he responded, and sighed. “Work to do, and strength and knowledge to do it with! What more could any man ask of fortune? But my work’s undone as yet, and when done it’s only a man hanged after all, and small joy of it to me!”
With this he rose, and was gone down below.
I wondered much about his words and his curious tale of Trunnel Toby, and what reason must lie behind his strange pursuit of that creature up and down the waters of the earth. Reason in plenty there must be, but I could not evoke it from his words. It began to appear, however, that he was not the black pirate he was painted, and this was something to cheer me.
So the night wore through, and the wind held fair, sweeping us steadily to the southward on our course, and with the dawn or a little while after we gathered all hands in the waist. Now all the world was shut away from us. We aboard the King Sagamore, bounded by those walls of English oak and India teak, were in a little world apart, devils and angels and men together. There was the dead man, shrouded decently; and by him Ned Low, book in hand, and dark, quick-eyed Russel, dirk and pistol in belt, and Gunner Basil, pale, terrible eyes flaming and stabbing about. Little love those pale eyes bore me, either!
There, too, Bosun Pilcher, gold earrings bobbing beside savage brown cheeks, and back of him the men, making a full score of us, all told. Some I had come to know by this time. Dickon the cabinboy, gray with the sickness and mouthing vile oaths; Simon Blake and Ezra Blake his brother, gaunt, hard-jawed fellows who could prate psalms by the hour; and Philip the cook, a black man who was very joyful about his work and always grinning. Humphrey Stave was chips and sail-maker, a bent gnarled figure with deep eyes behind spectacles, and a bit deaf; Stave was the only other man forward who was not a man of religion and godliness, so that he companioned much with Pilcher.
The others were all hard men, devout enough and good seamen, but given to exhorting each other with prayer and advice. Dennis Langton had picked them for this very reason, having no mind to ship pirates on this voyage.
None the less, he had made a mistake. One of the men, Thomas Winter, was long in the face, a real horse’s face indeed, seeming but little short of a halfwit, nor ever raised his eyes to meet those of another man.
Well, we buried poor Dennis Langton there, sliding him off into the rolling seas; and after reading the proper service Ned Low softly asked the gunner to speak a prayer. Gunner Basil did so, praying a good ten minutes in a long, whining singsong, the other knaves all joining in with their nasal “Amen” when the spirit moved.
Then breakfast, and then to the cabin for the promised meeting, while Gunner Basil held the deck. And in this meeting I had sight of Polly Langton and likewise got a bid from fortune.
CHAPTER IV
We gathered in the stern cabin, and the new sunlight streamed down through the small skylight above and illumined the cabin with a glory of radiance as the ship rolled. Between stern window and skylight we had plenty of light.
The cabin was not ornate. It was our mess cabin aft, and was meant for use, not for ornament. Along the stern wall under the window ran a long file of muskets, locked in their rack by an iron bar and padlock. A locker for charts, another for instruments; a huge cupboard that held dishes and wine and other things; table and chairs and iron lantern slung in gimbals—this was all. Under the table was a trap leading to the lazaret below.
With the traces of grief gone from her cheeks Polly Langton sat down, and we after her. For lack of mourning she wore her gray gown; a kerchief about her throat fastened by a gold brooch; and what a head was this rising above! All a glory of yellow gold hair, and a red-cheeked, west-country face that was filled with sweetness and ability, browned by the sun and air, with skin delicately textured as any court lady’s!
Yet the splendor of her face lay in the eyes; gray with golden flecks were they, level and meeting a man’s gaze fair and unafraid; deliberate eyes, not to be hurried or overborne. Through these windows one perceived the fine woman’s soul within, shrinking a little, yet meeting the issues of fate with a certain cool poise that was almost disdain. Could this girl ever be waked into hot passionate anger or emotion, I thought, she would stop at nothing!
Painted and powdered, patched and gowned, Polly Langton might have been no beauty; but in her simplicity she was beautiful enough. I did not miss the grip that was in Russel’s eyes as he watched her; nor did she; for she gave him a slow look that made him change countenance.
Ned Low, when we were seated, put on the table before him that little black snuffbox which I had brought him from Langton. Then Russel spoke up, civilly but with a thrust to his words.
“One minute, cap’n! This is secret company business. Why does George Roberts sit with us?”
“At my bidding,” and Ned Low smiled a little, taking no offense. “He is my friend, and I trust him to the full. Also I propose that he is to have a full third of my share of the gold when recovered—”
“I want no gifts, Ned,” I intervened.
“No gift at all, George Roberts,” he returned, a somber look in his eyes. “We don’t know what lies ahead of us, but I think you are going to be a great man in this enterprise, and here you, a captain like myself, are serving as mate. Zounds, man! Was it not agreed between us that first night we met?”
“As to that I can’t say,” was my response, and Ned uttered a laugh.
“It’s a company matter,” spoke up Russel, an ugly note in his voice. “Put it to the vote, I say!”
“It’s no company matter what I do with my own,” snapped Low angrily, a dark color rising in his cheeks. “But the deciding voice lies with Miss Polly, and I put the vote. What say you, madam?”
All this while the girl had been looking at me with appraising eyes. Now she leaned back in her chair and spoke as if she had no interest in the affair.
“I agree,” she said quietly, “though it is your own business, as you say.”
So Russel sat back and bit his lip.
“Now,” began Ned Low, “let us inform Captain Roberts of our quest. You’ve heard of the pirate Franklin, George? Some time since, I was in company with him when he took a huge amount of moidores out of a Portugee Indiaman from Goa.”
He broke off, for the girl was holding his eye. He flushed a trifle once more.
“Then it is true,” she asked coolly, “that you and Mr. Russel were on the Account, as they call it?”
“That is true,” said Ned. “It is also true that I would touch no penny of the loot, my lady. Then I had no use for it. Now I have use. Captain Franklin buried a great share of the gold, which he swore belonged to me, on one of the Verde Islands. He and I alone knew the place. It is this gold that we go to recover.
“According to the agreement, a third share goes to me, another to John Russel, another to Mistress
Langton here. Out of my share, a third goes to Captain Roberts. This is understood and agreed?”
A nod came from the other two. But now Polly Langton spoke up—cool and well-considered words; and her speech must have come as a tremendous shock to each one of us.
“Since Captain Roberts is a friend of yours, Captain Low, and is to share in your proceeds, he is evidently tarred with the same brush as you and Mr. Russel! By your own word you are pirates. How my poor uncle came to his death I know not, but I think it was through entering into this scheme of yours.
“Shame on you! He was an honest city merchant, and you bloody men tangled him in your ruthless wiles! Had it not been for you we would still be living in Lombard Street, and happy there.”
She paused, coldly deliberate. Ned Low was staring at her like a man thunderstruck. John Russel was all agape, but harsh amusement was rising in his eyes. Before it could break out she was calmly continuing her speech.
“I promised my uncle to take this gold if we got it. What I do with my share is another matter, I may be penniless, but beyond taking out what my poor uncle put into this venture, I’ll not turn this bloody coin to my own use.
“Very well, then. I want it understood plainly that I’m a full third partner in this enterprise, and intend to remain so. I’m not to be put in a corner and disregarded because I am a woman. My uncle picked a good crew for this voyage; if you gentlemen think you can run away with this ship or go pirating, you’ll discover otherwise. We are here for a certain purpose, and none other.”
Now her voice softened—perhaps from what she read in the eyes of Ned Low.
“Indeed I do not mean to speak like a shrew, but there’s the fact. You’re pirates. I am a woman, but I have some ability at sea. The crew are honest men. I think you mean me well, and will respect the oath which you gave my poor uncle; but I want to have things understood. Already the men are whispering that you intend running away with the ship. Be careful! That’s all. I am through, Captain Low.”
There was a space of silence, while we stared at her. It was easy to perceive that Dennis Langton had kept her ignorant of his past. She thought him a good, honest merchant, not knowing that he had buccaneered with the worst of them, had partnered with the infamous Spriggs. She was acting upon genuine belief, deeming the rest of us mighty insecure men.
Russel uttered a laugh and began to speak, a sneer in his heavy eyes. Ned Low turned to him, face set and cold, and uttered three words—
“Be silent, John!”
Russel checked himself, shrugged and leaned back grinning. Thus the matter passed; Ned was trying to keep from the poor girl the knowledge of what her uncle had been, was trying to leave her memory of him unsoiled. Yet he was a fool for his pains. She was bound to learn the truth eventually.
“Since I haven’t known you or your friends three days, Miss Polly,” I said easily, “you can’t charge me with their crimes. My record is clear for all men to read, and if you’ll go out to Virginia you’ll find that it’s not a bad record either. And as to Captain Low, I believe you’ll find that he’s—”
“Stow it, George!” snapped Low.
I obeyed, for he was angry.
He looked across the table at the girl, and she at him, though her gaze had softened a bit. Very handsome he was, and too proud to take notice of her words. He opened the black snuffbox that lay before him and took out the hard, folded bit of vellum, all the while keeping his eyes on the girl. And then he spoke to her briefly.
“Dear lady, you have naught to fear from us, upon my honor! Now let us to business. I propose to lay this little chart before you—Franklin himself made it—and then destroy the thing. We shall keep the position of the moidores in our own minds. If by any chance of the sea we do not reach the Verde Islands, then whichever one of us can first come to the spot is at liberty to take the gold.”
There was a little silence while he opened up the vellum. It was not easy, for the whitish skin was hard and dry and promised to crack at the folds. As he opened it slowly, I saw that on one side of it was writing, and that over the ink there had been wax laid on and polished, keeping the ink waterproof.
Then abruptly the voice of the girl leaped at us. Soft it was, but uttered in broad Devon that betrayed her apprehension and fear.
“Quick! Catch mun—look to door!”
She said afterward that the door-catch had moved slightly. Russel saw it, for he was out of his chair, silent and with a stealthy agility that amazed me, and in two steps was at the door. He opened it. There came a terrific crash as a tray dropped to the floor, and we saw Dickon the cabinboy outside.
Russel had him by the shoulder and heaved him inside and swore at the ale that spattered his feet.
“What means this, lad?” demanded Ned Low angrily. “Who bade you listen at doors?”
The little imp was no whit in awe or frightened, he faced us in stiller defiance. He could not have seen fifteen years, yet the debased evil of his features would have done credit to any pirate, and he glowered at us with all the hatred of a man for men.
“It bain’t so,” he said stoutly. “I weren’t a-listening, Master Low! Cook Philip sent me wi’ breakfast for mistress—and now look at un! Pewter bent, ale gone—”
Russel gave him a hearty cuffing and threw him out into the passage. As the boy picked himself up I saw the look he flung at Russel—a deadly, vicious look such as comes from the eyes of a disturbed and angry snake. Then Russel slammed the door shut and came back to his chair.
“I was mistaken,” spoke up Polly contritely. “I thought perhaps someone was listening—I’m sorry if little Dickon suffered for my error.”
“He’s not hurt,” said Russel. “Now, Ned, out with it! Which one of the islands is it?”
“St. Vincent,” answered Captain Low, holding the vellum spread out under his fingers. “You know it?”
“I’ve not landed there,” said Russel.
“Franklin has it marked 16°49’ north latitude, by 7°6’ west longitude from the Cape de Verde,” went on Ned Low, “but I think he’s off a point or two. George, get out the charts, will you? We’ll show Miss Polly just where we’re going.”
I got out the proper chart, by which time the others were ready to relinquish the bit of vellum to me, though Russel watched me keenly while I handled it. Upon it was rudely scratched the outline of St. Vincent, one of several uninhabited and rocky islands to the northwest of the Cape Verde group. On the northeast tip of the island was marked a cross, with the bearings below. I uttered an exclamation.
“Upon my word, gentlemen! I remember this place; I was there for turtle while we were making salt at the Isle de Sal! Aye, the very spot—and we had best lay up the ship in the cove at the north side of the island, which is the closest.”
“It is ill spoke of on the chart,” said Russel, looking up.
“Aye, for the trades blow square into it,” I assented. “But a ship may be towed out by boats during the morning calm. I’ve seen the St. Nicholas men do it often. And the bay is so smooth that you may lay a ship ashore without the least damage.”
“Memorize those bearings, George,” said Ned Low. “We must destroy the thing.”
That was an easy matter, the more so that I knew the exact spot. The northeast side of the island, unlike the rest, is low and sandy. A cable-length off the shore at low tide is a round, smooth rock that rises like a broken column out of the water to the height of ten feet; Franklin had marked it “Tower Rock,” and there could be no mistake. Bearing from this due west a quarter mile were a group of dragon-trees.
Now I recalled these trees quite clearly, since they were the only group of this species which had escaped destruction, and I was interested in their singular nature and had even visited them, getting some of the gum. Half a cable-length to the west-and-by-north of these trees was a large boulder jutting out of the sand, and the gold was buried on the north side of that boulder.
So said the vellum, and you may judge of my interes
t in the matter, and of how the others were interested to hear me tell of the place as I knew it, though I did not recall that boulder. Franklin had been a few points amiss on his bearings of the island, but that was nothing. He certainly was not astray on his local features.
“Do you think,” Polly Langton asked me, a sparkle in her eyes, “that anyone might have come there and found the treasure?”
“Not unless he were looking for it,” I told her. “No one comes to that island except for turtle, or to shoot wild goats, or to fish. The black island men from St. Nicholas come there often, but they make no stay. There is fresh water in a large bay on the northwest side the island—Porto Grande it is called.”
“Aye, it is marked.”
Ned Low rolled up the big chart.
“Russel,” he went on, “have you finished with the bearings? And you, George? And you, Miss Polly?”
We had it all in our heads, well enough. So Captain Low struck a light, and presently the white vellum curled and crumpled and became a black ash on the table. Then Low looked up at us, and laughed in his gay manner.
“And now, comrades, a sneaker to our good luck and fortune!”
He brought wine and flagons from the cupboard, and we pledged Franklin’s gold, the girl with a flash to her eye and color to her cheek. Then, since Polly Langton had not yet broken her fast, I went to hasten Dickon with his second tray, and so took charge of the deck. And this ended our conference.
We had now no further talk among ourselves of the gold, for it was a dangerous matter, and would keep well enough until we arrived at the spot. With the next morning indeed foul weather came upon us; not contrary, but heavy gales that swept us on our course yet kept all hands on the jump. Day after day they continued unabated, and the King Sagamore, for all her battering and straining, leaked no more water than could be got rid of in an hour’s pumping of mornings.
During those days we were too busy to have much time for mischief, which in the light of after events I think was most fortunate. There was indeed some preaching and ranting up forward, but since it gave the men an outlet we made no objection, even when Gunner Basil made long-winded discourses of a Sabbath.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 43