The spokesman came aft. A young, hard-faced fellow he was, by name David Spry, and he poured forth a long and whining plea, full of pious sentiments. The gist of it was that none of the men had intended mutiny; that they believed Bosun Pilcher had murdered Simon Blake and had so acted; that they were repentant and heartily sorry for their misdoing, and humbly begged forgiveness. All in all it was a moving and earnest plea, full of arrant hypocrisy and a lie from start to finish. Ned Low told the man as much.
“What’s got into you godly rogues I don’t know,” he concluded. “But I know who’s master o’ this ship, and you’ll know it, every man of you! Go for’ard. All hands stand by to bury the dead at two bells in the next watch. That’s all.”
David Spry went forward, and we shifted the men about so that the watches were again balanced. But Bosun Pilcher sat up in the forechains and cried like a baby over the passing of old Humphrey.
That evening after the dead were gone and it was again my watch Ned Low came up to me as I was having the lights filled and placed. We were alone upon the quarterdeck save for the man at the helm, and we were out of hearing.
“George,” said Low quietly, “what the hell can I do with her? She won’t join us at mess, won’t so much as speak to any of us aft. Her attitude has already had an effect on the men. Damn me, I can’t take the girl by the neck and throttle her!”
“If you did, Ned—” and I checked myself.
A low laugh came from him.
“Oh, aye! You’d be at my throat. Well, lad, much joy to you of the vixen if you win her. An honest lass, with the courage of her convictions—but oh, good Lord!”
The words came from him in a groan.
“Five years ago this night I was a man in hell, George. Look ye, now! I’m suspicious of this Gunner Basil. Philip, the cook, came to me tonight, and, says he, Basil and our halfwit Winter met outside the galley, and Winter drew a knife on the gunner, cursing him most vile.
“‘Now see what you’ve done, you bastard!’ says Winter. For tuppence I’d cut the rotten heart out of you for not waiting, you dog, you!’
“That’s strange talk for the daft man, George. And the cook says that Gunner Basil was in mortal fear. This Winter may be harmless, but like most daft men he may have dangerous spells.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I answered and told him of that day when I had come on Thomas Winter down in the cabin. “Excitement seems to send the poor madman’s wits flying. But what’s all this got to do with five years ago tonight, Ned?”
“I don’t know,” said he shortly enough.
For a moment he laid his arm across my shoulders.
“Oh, lad,” he said softly, “don’t you see that the lass is raising hell with those honest fools up for’ard—and herself all honest, too?”
“Aye,” I told him. “But how to prevent it?”
“Ask the stars, George,” and he drew away with a laugh.
“Damn me if I know! Good night.”
CHAPTER VI
All this while I had not seen a great deal of John Russel. The little we saw of each other, however, intensified the feelings that had arisen between us that morning on the quay below London Bridge. I heartily detested his smooth, sneering ways, and I think he was unable to puzzle me out—had not the honesty to take me for what I was, yet could not quite fathom me for a knave like himself. Ned Low, I felt certain, distrusted the man on general principles.
Fools that we were! We might better have directed our suspicions elsewhere, had we known it—but how were we to know it? Thus moves life itself, toward some vain objective, only to find itself suddenly directed toward othersome. For now, looking back at it all, I really believe that Russel was square enough in his intent toward the rest of us; but our mutual dislike ripened into distrust, and the distrust rotted into maggots of hatred, all quickly and suddenly.
It happened one day when the wind was fitful and changing, and the air heavy with brooding storm, so that all hands were kept bracing about the yards and men’s tempers were apt to fly out at nothing. Not that I make any excuse of this for my own part, since through several days Russel and I had been approaching a crisis.
This came about in some degree through the attitude of Polly Langton. Ever since that day Humphrey Stave was slain she had kept to her word and held no intercourse with any of us aft. Her meals were served in her own tiny box of a cabin, and she treated us with a stony silence as if we did not exist. When she walked the deck, it was forward; and often she talked with the men, and sometimes would relent a little when I saluted her, though she spoke not.
Because I perceived that she thus softened a little toward me, her manner irked me not at all; but John Russel it infuriated, I observed that after some meeting with her he would walk the decks like a devil incarnate, raging among the men; and once he beat David Spry so furiously with a belaying-pin that the seaman bore the marks of it a fortnight.
Not that he had cause, either. The men were tamed, were obedient and lively and had given no further sign of any trouble.
Between me and John Russel, however, the hot tropic sun quickened ill-feeling. On the morning in question we had a sharp exchange of words when watches were changed. Having lost three men, we were short in each watch; added to which, one of the men was ill with the ague, passing from a quotidian into a tertian, and being too weak to move. So Russel desired to shift Bosun Pilcher out of my watch into his own, which offer I very bluntly refused. We nearly came to blows over it, yet did not.
At eight bells in the afternoon I turned over the deck to him and went below at once to get some sleep; storm was brewing and the heaviness of the air had given me a headache. As I came below I met Dickon in the passage and ordered him to fetch me a mug of ale into the main cabin. There I sat down to the table to pick our course on the chart, as we were getting close to the islands and had need of care.
Hearing someone enter, I spoke over my shoulder without looking up, thinking it Dickon.
“We’re past the Canaries, and I would we had some of that wine aboard! Go you and tell Philip to get a fresh butt brought up for’ard, for the water in that is foul, and to have it well lashed in place at once.”
“Damn your impudence!” said the voice of Russel. “Run your own errands, you cursed Virginian.”
I turned to see Russel at the cupboard, pouring a cup of wine.
“Hark ’ee, Russel or Lopez,” I told him, “a little more civility, if you please! I took you for Dickon—”
“The devil sink you and your takings!” he broke in with a sudden access of fury, turning at me and snarling like a wolf.
Just then Ned Low came into the cabin, and Russel gulped at his wine. Ned perceived nothing amiss, but came and glanced at the chart and chuckled merrily.
“Ha, good and well done, George! By the Lord Harry, we’ve a record to boast of this voyage—hardly a ship spoke, not a head wind nor a calm, and a course fair and straight as an arrow to the islands! Gunner’s on deck, John? I must speak with him.”
He passed out and was gone. Russel looked after him with a dark sneer.
“Aye, you’ll speak wi’ Gunner Basil once too often!” he growled. “I’ve warned you against that pale-eyed devil, you poor fool of a gentleman, you—”
“Keep your tongue off Low,” I snapped. He whipped out an oath, and I saw murder in his eyes; his hand dived down to the pistol in his belt. At that I was out of the chair and at him and knocked the pistol into the corner.
His fist took me under the ear and smashed me against the wall. As I rose I caught sight of Dickon, ale-mug in hand, standing in the doorway and staring out of his evil eyes. Then Russel was atop of me, and his knife was out; but I met him with a blow from the shoulder that tapped the claret, and got out from the wall. He came on, cursing and letting drive with the knife, but I evaded him and got home another blow. Then sanity began to crowd into my brain.
“Let be, you fool!” I cried out, parrying his stroke. “More of this and well all find ou
rselves—”
He stopped short in his stride like a man paralyzed, and for an instant I thought that my words had checked him. It was not my words or my fist, however. He stood there with the knife held out toward me, and slowly his fingers loosened, so that it dropped and tinkled on the floor. His eyes widened on me and his mouth opened, but no words came forth.
Then a bubble of red froth broke on his lips; he dropped to his knees and rolled down on the floor, and I saw the haft of a knife sticking out from his back.
Even while I stared at him in blank horror and wonder I caught the shrill voice of that devil’s spawn Dickon from the companionway.
“Ahoy, cap’n!” it cried out. “Cap’n Low! The mate ha’ killed Mr. Russel, cap’n!”
John Russel, dying, heard that lifting, piercing cry. He heaved upward, raised himself to one elbow, wrenched up his head, and looked at me. A ghastly, twisted smile curled his lips as he slobbered the blood from his pierced lungs. He tried to speak, and could not—then sudden words burst from him.
“Now ’ware of them, Roberts, or you’re snared! Tell Low—that the man—man Thomas Winter—”
He strangled in his own life-stream, and died on the word.
Now came Ned Low running, with the imp Dickon pointing and crying at his heels, and behind them Gunner Basil and the bosun. Some of the men were following; but Captain Low sent back an angry shout that checked them and ordered Pilcher back to keep the deck. The bosun obeyed with an ill grace and waved his hand to me before he went. Ned Low came on into the cabin.
“I seen it done, cap’n!” shrilled that little devil Dickon, pointing at me. “Took un in the back, ’e did—”
“You little liar!” I burst forth angrily. “It was you flung that knife—”
I started for him; but Gunner Basil whipped out a pistol at me, and I checked myself. A dying man does not waste words. John Russel had spent his last breath in warning me, and those pale, murderous eyes of the gunner’s told me who was back of this snare. I think Gunner Basil would have pistoled me then, had not Ned Low knocked up his weapon.
“What in the devil’s name is all this!” he cried out. “Dickon stow your jaw! George, what happened?”
“Why, Russel and I were fighting,” I said bluntly. “In the midst of it Dickon there threw a knife and struck Russel in the back. That’s all.”
“A black lie!” screamed the boy, flying into a fury of rage. “It was you stabbed un as ’e leaned over the table—never give un a chance! And—”
“Do not cast the stain o’ murder on the innocent boy, Mr. Roberts!” spoke out Gunner Basil in his best preaching manner. “A sanctified vessel is the lad—”
I plunged at him, but Ned Low caught my arm and flung me back. He turned a cold face to the gunner and ordered him on deck.
“It’s your watch, and see that you keep it,” he finished. “This is none of your affair. I want no more words from you, mind that!”
Basil looked him in the eye, and dropped his gaze.
“Aye, sir,” he said, and departed to the deck meekly.
Ned Low took a step forward, leaned over the body of Russel and pulled forth the knife. He rose up and gave Dickon a keen glance.
“Dickon,” he said in a kindly tone, “keep this matter to yourself. You understand?”
The little devil was no more astounded than I was, and could only stare and mumble something about Portugee Lopez. Ned Low nodded thoughtfully.
“True, Dickon. The man was pirate and outlaw. Tell the bosun to bring two hands here and remove the body. And no talking mind.”
The imp gave me one exultant, diabolical grin, and departed. No sooner was he gone, however, than Ned Low turned to me, a blaze of eager vehemence in his face.
“George, never mind talking!” he burst out softly. “Forgive me, lad. Don’t ye see, the little fiend is not alone? Gunner’s with him, and more besides. When the call came cook Philip was just yammering to me about some trouble for’ard, and there’s a gale breaking within the hour and the sails to be handed. Let this matter pass for the moment; well make the boy confess his lie later on.”
“You’re right,” I assented. “And, Ned! When Russel died he was trying to tell me something. He heard the boy shouting at you and warned me of a trap. He tried to send you some message about the man Winter but could not get it out.”
Low’s eyes narrowed speculatively.
“Winter! That proves my point; John had guessed the trouble for’ard—thought the daft man was in it, eh? John was no fool in such things. Well, slip a pistol into your pocket from the locker, George, and take the deck.
“Or, stay! You’re weary. Go sleep, and bar your door; there’s deviltry afoot somewhere. I’ll take this watch. We can’t trust Gunner Basil.”
I nodded and went to my own cabin. There came a tramp of feet as a number of the men descended the ladder; also I heard Polly Langton’s voice and knew that the girl was aroused by the noise. Like a coward I flung myself on my bunk and left Ned Low to do the explaining to the lass.
After perhaps an hour of sleep I wakened as the King Sagamore keeled over almost on her beam ends—wakened to the trampling of feet, the shouts of men, the pipe calling all hands. Getting hurriedly on deck, I found that the blow had come.
Except for a rag of sail forward we were stripped to meet it. The first blast of the wind had sent us over; now there was peace for a moment. The ship righted, fell away; and then the main fury of the storm drove down. Through the darkness the huge masses of cloud to windward were lightning-shot, sending an eerie glare across the waters.
Now we beheld it coming—a white line of spray and spindrift, racing down from the horizon under the glare of lightning, I was busy amidships, getting everything lashed down anew, when the keen, cold blast of wind smote us I sang out to all hands to hold on, and we leaped to the lifelines. Then we were smothered under water and spray.
Two of our men must have gone at that minute, for we never afterward saw them.
A poorer ship than the King Sagamore would never have risen out of that welter, for she laid over while three heavy seas swept her. Then she began to rise; the scrap of sail forward caught and held; she answered her helm and came before the wind, and we were off.
That night the loss of those two men was felt badly, for every hand was needed; and to add to our troubles the ship was making water, a butt having been loosened somewhere forward and the leak hard to get at. None the less we counted ourselves lucky all told; particularly in this, that the gale was driving us fair on our course, and we might look to raise the islands in two days or less.
Now of the company that had left London, twenty all told besides Polly Langton, we had lost six. Aft, there remained captain, mate and gunner, and we took the bosun into our company as second mate. Forward were Dickon, Philip the cook, Thomas Winter, and seven of the sons of righteousness who were led by David Spry; ten in all. It was by no means a large ship’s company, but we could take on a few hands at the islands, for the Cape Verde men are glad to ship.
So night wore into dawn again, and ever we fled south and south with the storm roaring at our heels, the King Sagamore picked up and hurled forward with a hissing rush by every mountain-wave. With daybreak the leak began to show so bad that I resolved to take it in hand myself, for it was beneath a timber near the well on the larboard side.
Ordering Thomas Winter down into the hold with a lantern, I followed with David Spry to help me. We got the timber cut away about the trunnel, which remained fast in the plank; the butt had started indeed, and the water shot in the full breadth of the fourteen-inch plank.
When we had somewhat checked the force of the stream with oakum we moused the trunnel, took two clove hitches about it and lashed the trunnel to a bar, just as a port is lashed, I had brought along two rollers, or screws, such as we use in Virginia to roll tobacco hogsheads; these I screwed fast at each corner of the plank and then lashed them into the bar. All this took time and energy; and, having done mo
st of the work myself, I was half drowned and aching in every muscle of my arms when we finished.
“Now, David Spry,” I said, “fetch that calking mallet and drive the oakum tight. Lay more oakum on; and you, Winter, get us a chock of wood. We’ll nail battens over that, and I’ll guarantee she won’t weep.”
“Aye, sir,” said David Spry, picking the mallet out of the water. “She’ll not weep a drop.”
Thomas Winter held up the lantern high. I was leaning against a beam for support. In the yellow light that halfwitted face of Winter’s altered suddenly to a look of such wild ferocity that I was for the moment paralyzed.
“She’ll not weep, David Spry!” he cried out in a bellowing voice. “Strike, lad!”
The seaman struck—not at the seam, but at me.
The mallet caught me above the ear and drove my head against the oak. So sudden, so unexpected and bitter, was the assault, that before I knew what was happening I was dazed and reeling under the blow. I went down into the knee-deep water, and Spry flung himself on top of me, fetching me another crack that knocked the sense out of me.
So there was I taken like a pole-axed bull.
* * * *
When I wakened again, it was to hear my name called. I found myself lying in darkness, but on dry planks. When I moved there echoed from the blackness a rattle of chains, and I found wrists and ankles in irons. By the surge and heave of the deck, the groanings of beams and the creak of the rudder-irons near by I perceived that I was lying in the lazaret aft, down in the run of the ship.
“George!” came a voice again to me. “George Roberts!”
“Hello, Ned!” I answered. “Is that you?”
“Aye,” he replied as his foot touched mine.
“Art hurt?”
“Naught worse than a lump or two over the ear. You’re not taken likewise?”
“Taken without a blow, lad!”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 45