The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “I’ll fight ’ee barehanded, Bloody Ned!” he went on. “Dost remember the fight ye had wi’ Francis Spriggs on his own quarterdeck, eh?”

  Ned started.

  “Zounds! How in the devil’s name d’ye know of that, Winter?”

  “I heard tell on it.”

  Winter took a step forward, his huge hands clenching and opening again at his sides. His mirth vanished. He showed his yellowed fangs in a snarl, as does a dog to frighten an adversary.

  “Fight, ye bruiser! I ha’ looked a long while to get my fingers around that windpipe o’ thine; gizzard and guts, but I’ll tear it out afore I finish ee!”

  A spasm of ferocity crossed his face. He lunged forward and dealt a powerful blow with his fist.

  Ned avoided it, stumbled a little on his numbed feet, evaded the huge Winter and so came around in front of me. There he faced about and put up his hands, and for a moment I saw the old reckless gaiety in his face.

  “Fall to, ye bastard!” he called out—and then drove in a right-hander that rocked Winter’s head on his big shoulders.

  Now they fell to in all truth, Ned’s recklessness vanished; before half a minute was gone he knew that Winter was coming in to tear the throat out of him, literally. After the first few blows all Winter tried to do was to grab with those steel-hook fingers of his. Once he got a grip on Ned’s shoulder, and nothing but a full-weight smash on the point of the chin loosened it. And as he came, Winter began to curse.

  It was no ordinary cursing, but the foulest outpouring of rottenness that could be spawned in tavern or forecastle. That volley of filth drove Ned white with sheer fury, for there was a venomous madness in it that burned. As for me, I wondered what reason there could be back of it, for Winter’s rage was no ordinary battle-anger.

  “If you want it, take it, you dog!” panted Ned suddenly.

  He opened his arms and let Winter come into a clinch. Both men gasped under the impact, then Winter set himself and made as if he would tear Ned Low asunder.

  Instead Ned sent him headlong over the hip in west-country fashion, and when he rolled over and leaped upright, half of Winter’s shirt was torn away. And over his heart there was tattooed a crimson, bleeding heart!

  I saw it, and Ned saw it in the same instant.

  Ned Low took a step backward, and his face was ashen. For a moment he stood powerless, absolutely paralyzed by the realization of whom he faced. Winter grinned and snarled, and then cursed him anew.

  “Aye, it’s Trunnel Toby!” he roared out furiously. “Trunnel Toby it be, ye spawn o’ hell, who have chased me these five year! And now it be Trunnel Toby a-chasing of you—”

  Ned seemed to shiver. Then a frightful cry broke from his lips, and he hurled himself forward, and the other came to meet him. No less was the hatred of the hunted than that of the hunter.

  But now Ned Low was as a very flame of fire. Not a word came from his lips, and his face was a gray mask; his arms wrought upon Winter like the rods of an engine, and all the brute power of the other man was helpless before him. It was an awful thing upon which we stared in that moment—a man taking bitter and utter vengeance for such wrongs as few men have suffered.

  For Ned Low was taking vengeance in red and running measure. He moved about Winter like a dancing corposant, and left the fiery mark of his fists wherever he touched. Not once could Winter reach him. He drove in without mercy or pity, until Winter was backing helplessly before him, roaring in fury yet unable to fight back. Then Ned began to utter sharp, panting words.

  “Take that—for the girl—ye murderer! And that—and that—for the old man—for the two ye killed—wi’ one bullet—and that—”

  “I’ll tear out the throat of ye yet!” roared Winter, even under the blows. “I’ve saved ye up—till I could hang ye—”

  He tried a kick. Ned parried it and drove out with his own booted foot. Winter gave a horrible grunt and doubled up, and Ned smote him full in the face, so that he jerked backward again and fell in the sand. He tried to rise, and could not.

  “Up with ye, murderer!” cried Ned, kicking him. “Up, and take—”

  Something flew over me, catching the last rays of the dying sunlight in its course; something that curved above me against the sky, like a blue flame. I heard Dickon’s wild, shrill cry, and saw Ned Low stagger and throw out his arms. Then he set one hand to his side and pulled out the knife.

  Ned plunged to his knees. Even then he tried to reach the figure of Winter, stabbed down at it with the crimsoned knife, but the blade only dabbled the sand. Ned fell to his hands, and then slowly rolled over and lay still.

  Then there was a silence. Even Dickon stood aghast before his deed.

  Upon that silence broke a storm of oaths and curses and orders from the ship. Gunner Basil stood on the rail, shaking his fist and trying to waken the staring men.

  “Aboard with ye! Aboard wi’ the gold—aboard!” he yelled frantically. “Aboard, ye drunken fools, afore night comes!”

  They awoke, stirred, broke into movement. I could say no word, for the tears that were blinding my eyes, until Dickon came and took the knife from Ned’s relaxed hand. Then I cursed him, and cursed him so bitterly that he could not answer me, but ran to the boat.

  Me they hove into the stern, and the groaning figure of Winter above me. Then the gold was stowed aboard, and, leaving poor Ned where he lay, they ran out the boat and set her for the ship.

  So the day died, and the swift twilight of the tropics merged into night almost by the time I was carried over the rail and flung into the scuppers; and the buckets of sea-water that they flung over the quivering bulk of Winter came running down past me in reddened streams.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Lanterns were lighted above the deck, dimly lighting the planks and coiled ropes and sea gear strewn about. Besides Winter, Gunner Basil and Dickon, there remained four men, two of them wounded; I, who lay bound in the scuppers, and cook Philip, who had been beaten into a mass of bruises and now went groaningly about his work in abject terror. Polly Langton had not appeared on deck, being still locked below.

  Winter was a long time in being brought to life, for Ned had near killed him, I lay watching in bitterness of soul. So this man was Trunnel Toby! That explained much—his crafty dissimulation, his plotting, his venomous hatred of Ned Low, his anxiety to take Ned alive. Gunner Basil and he had shipped aboard us, with Dickon, with the twofold intent of pirating us and murdering Ned Low.

  And they had won. Despite all, they had won. Pilcher was dead, and Russel, and Ned Low; they had the ship, the treasure—and at thought of Polly Langton down below I kept back a groan.

  Gunner Basil brought dry clothes, which Winter donned, his face all puffed and bruised out of shape. Dickon brought him a great flagon of rum, which he gulped down neat. With this to hearten him Winter was soon on his feet and ordering things. Gunner Basil, who knew what arrangements I had made with the black islanders, told him that he might look for a crew in the morning, but Winter was more interested in learning just what had happened ashore. He sent for Dickon, who faced him jauntily at first, but soon changed in demeanor.

  “So it was you knifed Bloody Ned!” said Winter heavily. “I have a mind to hang ’ee, lad.”

  He meant the words, too. Dickon shivered under his baleful stare.

  “It was to save your life!” cried the boy. “He had ’ee down—”

  An oath burst from Winter.

  “Stow yer jaw! I’d ha’ broke his cursed neck in another moment, ye swab! Get out o’ my sight afore I gut ye! Ho, gunner! Is the boat made fast?”

  “Fast, but not hauled up,” responded Gunner Basil. “I had thought to go ashore later and turn some turtle—”

  “Turtle be damned!” growled Winter.

  “Where be the gold? Fetch it here, lads, on the deck Fetch it here, my bullies!”

  Dickon slunk into the background, stumbled over me and kicked me savagely, uttering a flood of curses whose malevolence was directed r
ather at Winter, I thought, than at me.

  The roughly sacked gold was brought up and chunked down on the deck. Winter called for a knife and then stooped down—painfully, since he was bruised and sore from head to foot. With the knife he slit the canvas of each sack, and let all the gold come out into a ruddy yellow stream over the planks.

  “There y’are!” he roared. “Dickon, more rum! There y’are, lads—fill yer pockets! That’s what braw lads gets on the Account—gold! Take it, bullies!”

  Though I was across the deck from them, I could see all that took place there beneath the lanterns. Everyone flung forward at the gold. Those four seamen, who a short fortnight previous had been exhorters to righteousness, and honest enough about it too, had now been turned completely to the rightabout. They matched the eager oaths of the gunner and Dickon in the scramble for the gold, until it dawned upon them that there was more gold here than they could well stuff into pockets, so that they all fell to laughing and jesting hideously.

  The rum entered into it too, for a keg was brought up and broached, and all hands fell into a wild saturnalia. Each man decked himself to his fancy with plundered stuff from our after cabins; pistols and knives were brought forth and donned; in the midst came a flash and a roar as Dickon’s pistol went off and came near to killing one of the men. The answer was a blow, and the two fell to fighting until Winter flung them apart with a bellowing laugh and made each of them down a mug of rum.

  I soon saw where this would end. Presently Winter cocked one bunged eye at the main yard, and roared at the gunner.

  “Ha, Gunner Basil! Be that block an’ tackle rigged to hang me?”

  “Aye,” hiccupped the gunner, who was reeling. “Master Roberts rigged un.”

  “Ho, ho!” laughed Winter, and flung a knife across the deck that passed over me and slapped into the bulwark. “Shalt hang at sunrise, Roberts, ye dog! Shalt go to hell to join Bloody Ned, damn ye both! Dickon! Where are ye, Dickon? Go unlock the lass’ door and bid her come hither, else I’ll come down and fetch her!”

  He added a jest to this that fetched a howl of maudlin laughter from the other men. Dickon slipped away aft.

  Just here I heard a faint sound, and twisted about to see the black cook Philip come crawling along the rail toward me cautiously. He was in mortal fear, and his teeth were chattering from terror; none the less, he reached up and took from the wood that knife Winter had flung, and then set it to my bound wrists.

  “They’ll murder us all,” he whispered. “Swim for it, master! I’ll wait.”

  Then he went crawling away again into the darkness, and I realized that my hands were free, and the knife left beside them. That was the act of a brave soul!

  So numbed was I that it was some time ere any feeling crept into my fingers, and I was as helpless as if still bound, though my arms could move freely enough. While I lay trying to get some sense of touch into my hands, in order to take the knife and free my ankles, Polly Langton came quietly into the circle of lantern-light, followed by Dickon.

  The men gaped at her in shamed silence. Winter was seated on the keg, and met her look with a bold stare. Then he spoke.

  “Dickon! Draw rum for the cap’n’s lady!”

  Dickon moved about the task. As for me, I found the knife with my fingers, and inch by inch moved it in front of me and toward my ankles, fearful lest some eye catch the motion. None did, however, and presently I was parting the hemp that bound me.

  Not that this new freedom of mine gave any hope. I lay at the starboard rail of the ship; across from me, near where Winter and the men were grouped, the ropes ran down to the longboat. Gain that boat I could not. All I could do would be to go over the rail and swim for the shore.

  Help Polly Langton I could not, unless I attack and kill the whole band of those rogues; and that was an impossibility, even had I firearms. At best she might leap the rail and chance sharks in a swim for the shore. Even then Winter would pursue. And if we got away in the darkness, what remained? A lingering death from thirst and hunger and misery of the hot sun.

  I had not forgotten Ned Low, however. As I felt the cords give under the blade, it came to me that I might at least finish Winter, give the lass a fighting chance to reach the shore and perhaps work damage on the other rogues ere they killed me. And this I resolved to do, for I was mad to get a blow at that devil Winter.

  My ankles free, I began to rub them cautiously.

  Dickon came with the pewter flagon, but Polly took no heed. He shoved it at her, and, grinning, laid his hand on her arm. At that she snatched the flagon and struck it over his head, so that he staggered from the blow and cursed as the rum went over his face. Aye, and his hand went to the knife at his belt, whereat Winter came to life suddenly.

  Rising, he swept forward an open-handed blow that knocked Dickon sprawling.

  “None o’ that, ye spawn of hell!” he roared. “Get up!”

  Dickon rose with so black a look that I thought he would let fly at Winter. But the latter only broke into a laugh at the boy’s aspect, in which the other men joined.

  “Lay hand to the cap’n’s lady again, and I’ll hang ye!” he said, then turned to the lass with his bold regard. “Gi’ me the cup, lass! I’ll fill it again for ’ee. Shalt have silks and jewels, diamonds and pearls! Trunnel Toby’s lass ye shall be—give it to me!”

  She dropped the flagon on the deck.

  “Murderers!” she cried out, “Oh, I saw it all from the cabin window! What have ye done with Master Roberts?”

  “We be going to hang un at dawn,” said Winter, and grinned. “Come, lass, come! What wilt offer for his life, eh?”

  “She be soft i’ that quarter,” spoke up Gunner Basil with a hiccup. “Main soft, I tell ’ee, Toby! Look out she don’t knife ye, Toby. Dost remember the Spanish jade that slipped a knife into Cap’n Franklin, hey? Damn my eyes, but she split his weasand! Look out ye don’t go the same way, Toby.”

  Winter laughed—broke into a hearty guffaw. He stooped for the pewter cup, bent it into shape again and held it to the spigot of the keg. When he had downed the rum he wiped his swollen lips and tossed away the flagon.

  “Come, lass!” he said in a maudlin jocularity that might turn at any instant to a raging madness. “Come, lass! Wilt give a kiss to spare thy Roberts a day, eh? A kiss for a day—a day for a kiss, lass! Rot me, the rum ha’ got my tongue.

  “Bloody Ned be dead, and the bosun dead, and Trunnel Toby’s loose. Here be a fine ship, and the Rose Pink yonder be waitin’ for us, and Trunnel Toby be commodore. Aye! Ye shall be commodore’s lady, sweety lass, wi’ diamonds an’ rubies from the Indies, and fine silk to wear! Come, lass—a day for a kiss!”

  No one was watching me; all eyes were on the lass, standing there straight and slim and defiant before the brute who taunted her. I had no skill throwing the knife, or I might have sunk it into him then. I gathered myself together and waited, ready to shout to Polly and leap forward at them.

  “I will ha’ naught to do with you, ye murderers!” she spoke out bravely. “Aye, and if ye hang Master Roberts I’ll never rest until I see each one of you brought to Tyburn Tree and laid there!”

  At this, Winter guffawed again.

  “Sink me, but I like a lass o’ spirit! So ye’ll bring me to Tyburn, eh? Well, many another ha’ said that, lass. Ned Low said it five year gone, when I pistoled the doddering old rogue who called him son, and when I put my knife into his lass! Aye, and where’s Bloody Ned now, tell me? Call him up from hell to help ee, lass! Here, give us a kiss and well leave Roberts’ hanging until sunset instead o’ sunrise!”

  He lunged forward, his hand outstretched to grip the lass.

  She drew back a step, then, swift as light, threw her weight into a ringing blow. Her fist took Winter squarely in the mouth, where Ned Low had battered him sorely; and, no less from the pain than from the surprise, sent him staggering and stumbling sidewise until he tripped over a coiled rope and came to hands and knees.

  A wild
howl of laughter and mirthful oaths surged up from one and all. Winters recovered, swayed on his feet, then uttered a roar of anger. I gathered myself for the leap, and a shout to Polly was upon my very lips—when it was checked.

  For the girl took a step backward, staring at the rail. So great was the fright painted in her face, that the men turned to see what she was staring at; and so did Winter. And, over the rail, they saw the face of Ned Low rising.

  Terror froze me, no less than them. Ned was dead in the sand, and Bosun Pilcher was dead, yet there rose the head and shoulders of Ned Low, and beside him those of Pilcher, whose earrings glittered yellow in the lantern light. Ghastly and terrible were they, heads and faces streaming with water, and drew themselves over the rail to the deck. From the one side Winter gaped upon them, a frightful honor in his countenance, from the other, the group of men, sitting there paralyzed.

  “Back from hell to help the lass, Thomas Winter!” said Ned.

  At sound of his voice I ceased to shiver, for that voice of his was alive and no ghost. I rose and stepped forward to join them, but no man heeded me.

  A sudden howl, an awful thing to hear, shrilled up from the men. They fell backward, rolled on the deck, stumbled over each other, trying to get away. Pilcher, empty handed like Ned, grinned and started toward them. But Ned Low stepped forward and faced Winter, who was trembling there as he stood.

  “Bloody Ned!” he gasped. “Back to hell with ’ee, I’m done with ’ee!”

  “You’re not done with me till I see ye hung!” shot out Ned, and started forward.

  “Ghost or no,” rang out a thin, drunken scream, “I’ll kill ye over again!”

  It was Dickon. He darted out of the shadows, mad with fear and rum, and his arm swung in an arc. I shouted at Ned and, hearing the shout, Ned turned. The knife went past him, singing viciously—and thudded into another mark. The sound of it hitting was plain to all of us.

  From Winter broke a furious, gasping shout. He put hand to belt, and a pistol broke the silence with its roar. Then he tired his second pistol. Through the smoke I saw Ned go plunging forward, bringing him down to the deck with raked hands. And through the smoke I saw the boy Dickon, rent and riddled by those bullets, fall across the rail and gasp out his life.