The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Polly stood and looked at him, her eyes inflexible. Ned Low laughed again.

  “She’ll not speak the word, Winter, nor would I listen. Ye’ll set no foot on this ship again.”

  Thomas Winter stood desolate, with head hanging, for a long moment. Then he heaved a great sigh and looked up.

  “It be main hard on us, masters!” he said slowly. “Will ye make no terms?”

  “Not with you, Winter,” answered Ned, who by this time had his pipe alight and stood puffing calmly. “I’ll take the men aboard and will hand them over for trial; that’s their wages, if they want to come.”

  “Where be David Spry, cap’n?” spoke out one of the men.

  “Dead,” I responded. “Murdered by Dickon, there—”

  “A foul lie, mates!” screeched young Dickon. “Spry were murdered like poor Mr. Russel—knifed un in the back, Master Roberts did! Don’t believe un! It’s but to murder us he wants us aboard!”

  I disdained to answer this. Among the men there arose a violent altercation. Some were for accepting Ned’s terms, anxious to get away from the island at any cost; others called Ned and me bloody murderers and would not allow it. Then one of the men leaped up hotly.

  “We all stick or we all go!” he cried out. “Who says stick?”

  He and three others voted to stay. Two of the men cried that they would come aboard, and he turned on them angrily.

  “No, ye don’t!” he cried. “All or none it is. We stick with ee, Winter!”

  Ned frowned at this, for I think he had counted on some of the men helping to work ship, and this attitude of theirs rather took him aback. Winter, who had listened to them in silence, now faced us, again and spoke.

  “You ha’ the whip hand of us, master,” he said resignedly. “But if ye will have no pity on us, will ye not barter us even for the gold? Give us biscuit and some rum, and water enough to last until we ha’ found the springs, and set a price on it!”

  Now I perceived by the light in Ned’s eyes that it was for this he had been waiting all the time, for he was intent upon getting that gold aboard. One of the men cried out for shoes, since the sand blistered their bare feet, and another for hats.

  “It might be done, lads,” rejoined Ned Low, not too eagerly. “Ye have seven bags o’ gold there. For the top four of those bags I’ll set ashore all the things ye desire; and for the bottom three bags I’ll leave the longboat behind when we sail i’ the morning. What say ye to that?”

  “The boat’s stove!” said Winter.

  “Aye, but I’ve patched her, and ye can clap another patch over. What say ye now?”

  Winter turned and stepped back to the men. There was a hoarse discussion for and against the offer, since certain of the men had no mind to hand over all the gold. Winter, however, argued with them at length, showing them the hopelessness of their condition.

  Polly and I came back under the awning of sail, and Ned joined us.

  “Winter has enough sense to know he’s beaten,” he observed complacently.

  “Be careful of him,” said Polly slowly. “Be careful! Let the gold go and put to sea now, or he’ll play us some trick yet.”

  “Not he,” and Ned chuckled heartily. “Hark to ’em arguing about it! Why, lass, they haven’t so much as a pistol among ’em! It’d be a sin and shame to leave all that gold behind; your gold, that your uncle died to leave you his share of, honestly bought; and the gold poor John Russel died for, and his share ours too! Eh, George? Why so solemn?”

  “Gold gets paid for,” I said. “Oh, I’ll be glad o’ my share, Ned—but gold gets paid for. Some pays in work and sweat and gets little, like I’ve done these years at sea; but I’ve got better things than gold. Some pays in roguery and gets much, and think it the biggest thing in life; but the gold decays on ’em, and they find it’s not so big after all.”

  “Gold don’t decay,” said Ned briskly, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Ha, George, so art still a philosopher, eh?”

  “And I think George has the right of it,” said Polly, then blushed red. “I mean Mr. Roberts—”

  “Na, nay!” said Ned, laughing. “It’s, George and Ned and Polly among us three, lass, why not? Aren’t we friends and comrades together? If we be free and easy, it’s all in good comradeship.”

  “What about Dickon?” I demanded. “You’d not take him aboard, even if the men come?”

  “No. I had meant to leave him out of the offer,” said Ned, and knit his brows, “I want those two men if they’ll come; we’ll have need of them. We must work the ship around to the south end of the island and take on fresh water, too. We need those men, George. But Dickon stays here, the foul little beast! Gunner Basil we’ll take with us—”

  “Ahoy, cap’n!” called out the deep voice of Winter.

  We went to the rail, and found him ankle deep in water, staring at the ship.

  “Agreed, cap’n,” he called, “on one condition—that ye let Gunner Basil come free to us. He knows where there be more gold. We can get it i’ the boat and join, the Rose Pink if we ha’ no bad luck. That’s our be offer, cap’n, and I ha’ sweat makin’ the agree to it,”

  “Done with you, Winter,” said Ned Low promptly. “Now listen well! Those men o’ yours shall retire a hundred feet to the top o’ that little sand-hill. You wait for us where you are. At the first sign treachery, you’ll be shot, and those men with you. Understand that, do you?”

  “Aye, sir; but why talk so?” Winter looked astonished. “I be not treacherous, master! It’s mortal good o’ you, says I, to be so main kind to us—wi’ boat and all! Bain’t that so, lads? Come, lads, gi’ the master three cheers!”

  Not they; the six men were again vehemently discussing Winter’s offer to them, two begging to be let go aboard the ship, the other four dissenting violently. Dickon took no share in that talk, but sat chewing on a stick to ease his thirst, glowering savagely at the ship.

  “You’re going to make the barter now Ned?” I asked.

  He nodded, beaming gaily.

  “Aye, lad! Get the gold aboard and stowed. Then by morning most like all six of those rogues will beg to be took away on my terms. We ha’ the sharks for watchdogs, mind ye! It’s all safe enough. Wait now, and you’ll see; I’ll take no chance of that dog tricking me.”

  Under his assuring confidence, Polly’s uneasy look vanished, and I gave over all protest. Indeed, the thought of that gold coming aboard us had a sort of necromancy that bewitched us all with its wizard light.

  We turned to in the waist and got the boat into the water. Winter sang out to know when we would release Gunner Basil, and Ned told him in the morning before we sailed; with which Winter had to content himself, taking our word on the matter.

  Finding that the boat was well patched ad worthy, we got into her some bags of biscuit and other stores, with rum and a breaker of water and everything that could be useful to the rascals save firearms. Winter anxiously demanded if we would leave the boat in the morning likewise, to which Ned assented.

  “Boat and gunner together, Winter! Now get your men up the hill.”

  Ned turned to us.

  “George, you and the bosun take pistols and row the boat ashore, Philip, you stop here at the rail wi’ the muskets handy, and let fly if you see anything amiss.”

  His scheme was safe enough, it appeared. Pilcher and I got down into the boat, put out an par each with pistols at our feet, while Ned sat in the stern with two more pistols, so if need were our pistols could account for six of the rascals. Meantime Dickon and the six men had retired as commanded to the crest of a little sand-hill a hundred feet back from the water.

  “Give way!” said Ned, seating himself.

  He looked up and waved a hand laughingly.

  “Fare you well, Polly! We’ll bring you gold when we come again.”

  “Be careful!” she warned once more.

  We headed the boat for the shore and heaved her slowly through the water. Presently her nose scraped, Thomas Winter
caught her by the bow, and as Pilcher and I stepped out, gave a tremendous pull that brought her a quarter-length up on the sand.

  “Now,” said Ned Low, cocking his pistol, “watch yourself, you dog! Take out the stuff and throw in the gold. Pistols, George, and watch him!”

  Thomas Winter, his long horse-face adrip with sweat, gave us a reproachful look.

  “Can ’ee not see when a man be playin’ fair?” he said, and stooped over his task.

  Indeed it seemed a bit ridiculous that three of us should wait there with our pistols in hand while one man labored. Winter put his giant strength to work with a will and heaved the stuff ashore until at length he had the boat cleared. Then, wiping his brow, he dropped in the sand for a brief rest.

  At this instant we caught a cry from the men on the sand-hill.

  “Ho, master! Ho, cap’n! Wilt take me and Jeff aboard?”

  “Aye, that we will!” sang out Ned Low, who still sat in the boat’s stern.

  We heard a cry from Polly. Among the men on the hill arose something of a scuffle. Two of them were trying to break away, the others were restraining them. Winter paid no heed to this, but lay panting, his eyes closed.

  Then the two men got free and began to run, the others hot after them as they leaped down the hillock. The two struck at their pursuers, who followed at their heels, cursing and struggling. Ned Low heaved up his pistol.

  “Let ’em go, you rascals!” he cried.

  At that Thomas Winter heaved himself up and looked. Then his stentorian voice roared.

  “Stand back, ye villains! Back, or I’ll break your blasted heads—

  The two foremost came running to us, the others still at their heels. Ned hesitated to fire, as did Pilcher and I. From the ship Philip let fly with a musket, the ball going high. A cry broke from one of the men running to us.

  “Don’t let un stop us, cap’n! We’re coming—”

  Winter roared at them again, but the rout of men came rushing at us, At a little distance Dickon and the four pursuers paused. The other two came panting up and dropped on their knees beside the boat.

  “Wilt take us, cap’n?” they begged together.

  “Aye, but you’ll stay in irons until we sail,” said Ned Low, then looked up at the others. “In with you, lads. You there, stand back! Back!”

  Sullenly the others began to obey, while Winter roared at them again. One of the men clambered into the boat—and then went sprawling atop of Ned. The other was up and at me before I realized his intent. Winter whirled and flung himself at Pilcher.

  And the others came bursting at us.

  CHAPTER XII

  I cut a sorry figure in this mishap, for my pistol went off in air, and I was on my face in the sand with two men plunging on me. Ned Low blew out the life of his assailant, but could not get rid of the body before another was on him. As for the bosun he went down like an ox under the fist of Winter and stayed down.

  And cook Philip dared not fire for fear of hitting us.

  A cruel trap it was, well sprung and full of guile, and we were in truth snared in our own folly. I was bound hand and foot and left lying, but wrenched myself about so that I could see what was happening. All this took place, not as I give it here, but so swiftly that it were hard to realize at once.

  Ned Low was struggling both with dead and living, trying to get his other pistol free, in the stern of the boat. She had careened as the load was taken out of her, and now Thomas Winter, an ugly grin showing his fangs, leaned forward and bore down on her with his weight. As she gave, Ned Low and his assailant were tumbled into the water.

  “That takes the bite out of his pistol!” quoth Winter. “At him, lads—and alive, mind ye! Any man uses his knife, I’ll spread-eagle!”

  Why he was so anxious to take Ned alive was by no means clear, and it came very near to costing him all that he had gained. For Ned was on his feet, knife in hand and standing knee-deep in water; twice, with knife and fist, he broke clear of the men and was trying to swim for it to the ship, taking the chance of sharks. He could not get away, however.

  At length one of the men got a grip on his knife-arm, and the others piled in. All went down in a turmoil of water and spray, and they haled Ned ashore with a man hanging to either arm, and so bound him.

  Winter turned, shot out a long arm and seized Dickon by the shoulder.

  “Boy, bide ye here and watch un, and if ye murder un I’ll flay the hide off thy back!” he said, in so deadly a voice that the boy shrank back.

  Then, loosing Dickon, Winter roared at the men:

  “Pile in, lads; pile in! To the ship, afore they lay a gun on us!”

  He shoved out the boat and leaped in, the five remaining men after him. There were only two oars in the boat, but with two men to an oar they sent her through the water. From the King Sagamore began to bang muskets; both Polly and the black cook were firing from the rail, but quite failed to stop the boat. Two of the men were wounded, and no other damage was done.

  A groan broke from Ned Low as the boat swept in under the ship’s side and the men began to go up. Dickon, who had picked up one of Pilcher’s fallen pistols, echoed the groan in a demoniac chuckle.

  Not quite so easily done, however! The first man over the rail went back to feed the sharks, with a ball through him. Winter and the others piled aboard and beat the black cook down; we could hear Winter roaring at them not to kill him, for they would have need of every man to work ship.

  Polly had fled to the quarterdeck with a pistol, and now Winter ran at her. She would have killed him then, with luck; but the priming flashed in the pan. Winter tore away the weapon and picked her up and took her below. A moment later he reappeared, having locked her in a cabin.

  Upon that, having secured the ship, the men began to go over her like famished wolves. Gunner Basil was found and let loose. The ale-cask was broached and our turtle was made way with; one and all were so keen for food and drink that they forgot all else.

  Dickon stood on the shore and bawled curses at them unheeded. So he turned to the pile of stuff we had brought ashore, broke out some biscuit, opened the rum and the water and began to get himself into a fine condition of drunkenness. Ned and I looked one at the other, but I could not reproach him.

  “You were right, George,” he said, and swore bitterly.

  That was all, but it showed how keen was his self-blame for what had happened.

  After a little Dickon came to his feet, staggering, for the rum had shot to an empty stomach and he was drunk. Plucking out his knife, he made his uncertain way to the form of Bosun Pilcher, who lay as Winter had stretched him out. Squatting clown, he began with deliberate deviltry to cut the gold earrings from the ears of the bosun.

  Naturally enough this treatment revived Pilcher, who sat up cursing. Dickon hiccupped, fell way and retreated. I cried out to Pilcher to kill the young devil and free us, but as bose came to his feet Dickon picked up his pistol and let fly. Pilcher reeled to the shot, and a staining smear of red leaped out across his face; turning around, not knowing what had happened, Pilcher ran for it, Dickon with the second loaded pistol staggered after him and fired again, but missed.

  The bosun disappeared over the crest of the sand-hills, whether dying or dead we knew not, and Dickon came back again uttering oaths. A roar of maudlin approbation came from the men watching the ship’s rail. He shook his fist at them and returned to his rum.

  With all these things the afternoon was passing quicker than we knew; but to me and Ned Low, lying there on the open sand, the time dragged like an eternity. Dickon gave no heed to us, but sat maundering over the pistols, trying to recharge them with futile fingers until his potations and the hot sun sent him fast asleep. The pile of goods we had fetched ashore lay where Winter had flung them. Beyond the pile of canvas-sacked gold lay gray and hideous, at least to my eyes; since for this gold had Polly’s liberty and our own lives been bartered. The men aboard ship were still drinking and feasting.

  The sun was
fast westering when Ned Low turned a white, strained face to me.

  “I ha’ almost got it, but not quite,” he said in a low voice. “When I roll over, see can you put your fingers on the cord.” A chorus of drunken song lifted to us as he wrenched about in the sand and got his back to mine. Of Pilcher we had seen nothing. Either the bosun was dead or lying hurt and unconscious like a wounded animal.

  Instinctive hope rises in all of us. Now as I fumbled with blind fingers for the cords at Ned’s wrists I perceived Dickon asleep in the sunlight of the dying afternoon, saw the pistols at his feet, realized that we might yet have a desperate chance to win. And as the thought came to me I heard the rattle and clatter of men getting into a boat, and turned my eyes to the bay to see the longboat shoved off from the ship and sent toward us by half drunken oarsmen, with Winter in the stern.

  “Give way, ye dogs!” came his voice. “Lively does it!”

  “No time to lose, lad,” said Ned coolly. “I’ve been all afternoon working ’em loose.”

  “There y’are then.”

  I could not see him as I lay, but I heard him curse softly. His hands were too stiff and bloodless for his fingers to work on his bound feet. Meantime the longboat was coming in to the shore, Winter standing in the stern and roaring at his rowers to lay back. Drunk as they were, they brought him in with a rush.

  He leaped out of the boat and was at us—just as Ned Low rose up free. For a long moment the two men looked at each other; behind Winter, the four men tumbled ashore and stood gaping, too fuddled to know what was going on. But I, looking up at Winter, perceived that he seemed cold sober. Behind Ned, Dickon was stirring and staggering to his feet, wakened by the voices. Winter and Ned Low stood motionless, a grin upon the horse-face of Winter, who realized that Ned’s feet would scarce bear him as yet.

  “Why, here’s Bloody Ned the pirate!” said he, and guffawed.

  I had never before known, as I knew now upon looking up at him, the indescribable villainy of the man’s face; perhaps he had never before let himself go free of restraint. Now, with the mask off, the furious and inhuman cruelty of him was all evident.