Blackkerchief Dick

by Margery Allingham

The silence continued. At last, however, Dick put the knife back in his belt and turned his sharp eyes on his mate.

  “The lass refuses me,” he said.

  Blueneck shrugged his shoulders.

  “These country wenches be mighty particular about marrying their husbands and so forth,” he observed.

  Dick raised his eyebrows.

  “I have said I will wed her,” he said stiffly.

  Blueneck’s jaw dropped.

  “Wed her?” he ejaculated. “Why, Capt’n, you must——” he broke off lamely.

  Dick snapped out the question, “Must what?”

  Blueneck did not vouchsafe an answer, and they sat in silence for a minute or two.

  Dick began to speak, slowly and carefully, as though he was thinking out each word separately.

  “There is a thing on this earth, my friend, called love. And a very vile and evil thing it is. It descends upon a man unawares like a shower of rain, and soaks through to his very marrow. It takes away his energy, his pride in his work and person,” he looked down at the lace ruffles at his cuff and stroked them lovingly, and then added, “and I have reason to think that great men feel it more sharply than others.”

  Blueneck glanced quickly at the dapper little figure by his side, and shrugged his shoulders.

  The Captain was showing signs of strain, he thought.

  “Must the wench be willing?” he asked. “Why not carry her off?”

  Dick shrugged his shoulders.

  “I would rather she were willing,” he said.

  Blueneck looked at him exasperated.

  “Well, if you can’t persuade her I don’t know who can,” he muttered, but Dick did not hear him. He was smiling, his eyes half shut.

  Blueneck spat.

  “Bewitched!” he commented silently to himself. Then an idea struck him and he turned to the Captain.

  “There’s Pet Salt,” he said. “She might do much.”

  “Pet Salt?” Dick turned to him quickly. “Who’s she?”

  Blueneck told the story of his night on Ben Farran’s boat, with as much credit to himself as was possible.

  Dick listened in silence until he had finished; then he rose to his feet.

  “I will go to see this crone,” he said grandiloquently. “Lead me, dog!”

  Pet Salt sat on the deck of her boat mending a net. She was mumbling to herself, and her old knotted finger-joints cracked as she fumbled about with the rough twine she was using. Beneath the hatches she could hear old Ben swearing loudly as he hunted among the empty rum kegs for one that still contained a little of the precious stuff. To judge from his language he had been so far unsuccessful, and the woman shifted uneasily as she sat thinking of the beating he would give her if he found nothing.

  It was then that she heard a voice calling her from the beach.

  “Pet Salt! Pet Salt!”

  Noisily she scrambled to her feet and hobbled over to the side of the hull, and looked down.

  Dick and his mate stood together staring up at her.

  “Good-morning, Mistress,” Dick began in his best manner.

  Pet stared at him open-mouthed, her yellow teeth looking like fangs. She had never seen such finery.

  Dick, although himself rather taken aback at Pet’s appearance, could not but feel flattered at her evident approval of his own.

  Pet’s bleared eyes now fell on Blueneck and a shade of recognition passed over her wrinkled, spirit-sodden face.

  “Oh! it’s you again, ronyon, hey?” she cried, in her cracked crooning voice into which an eager note had crept. “You have no rum kegs slung about you, eh?”

  Blueneck waved his hand impatiently.

  “Throw down the ladder, that we may come up and talk with thee, hag,” he ordered peremptorily.

  Pet hobbled off to obey him without a word, and Dick turned to his mate in something like admiration.

  “You have been well schooled, friend,” he said approvingly. “Yours is an excellent way of dealing with crones.”

  “Have a care!” called Pet from above as she threw the rope-ladder over the side. The end passed within an inch of Blueneck’s shoulders and he looked up angrily.

  Pet was leering at him from the deck.

  “Come up, ronyon,” she said coaxingly.

  Blueneck scaled the ladder in a minute and clambered on to the rolling deck beside her.

  Dick followed, more dignified but not a wit less agile.

  Once on deck he looked about him in disgust. The worm-eaten boards, the empty kegs and other lumber, and the general filthiness of the place disgusted the little Spaniard. His own brig was always kept neat and fastidiously clean.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “A very vile place in truth,” he observed, and then, turning to Pet, he raised his hat as gallantly as if she had been a duenna.

  “I would descend and talk with thee on the shore, if you please, Mistress,” he said. “This ship distresses me.”

  He went again to the ladder, picking his way daintily across the dirty deck. Slowly he climbed down again; Pet and Blueneck followed him without a word.

  “Prithee, Mistress, be seated,” said Dick, indicating a bank of seaweed and seating himself on a breakwater some four feet away.

  Pet sat down heavily and looked from Dick to Blueneck in a half-witted, puzzled way, her big loose mouth sagging open on one side, showing the large yellow teeth which so irritated Blueneck.

  Suddenly she stretched out a bony hand towards Blackkerchief Dick and began in a droning whine:

  “May the Lord bless ye, fine gentleman; could ye spare a drop o’ rum for a poor woman to take to her man who is dying of cold? Old Pet Salt knows you, pretty sir. Old Pet don’t forget a generous face when she sees one. Pet remembers when she came to the Ship and you gave her a keg. Could you spare a little, fine gentleman?”

  Dick stared at her; he remembered her now, and instinctively drew a little further away.

  “Hold thy peace, hag, and hark to me,” he said sharply, “and much rum may come of it—nay,” he continued, as the old woman struggled to get to her feet and come towards him, “keep thy distance and let thy dull wit take in as much of this as it can. You have a grand-daughter?”

  A cunning light crept into the old bleared eyes.

  “Ah!” she said, putting on a pathetic whine. “I have, God bless her pure heart and body. One my man loves dearly! What would you have with her, fine gentleman?”

  Dick waved his hand.

  “Woman,” he said softly, his voice taking on that musical quality which his enemies knew so well, “it would be well if thou and I knew each other’s mind a little more clearly—rum is a precious thing to you, eh?”

  Pet’s eyes glistened and her lips moved without sound.

  “I have much rum,” Dick went on, looking at the old woman steadily, “and I would wed your granddaughter.”

  “Wed?” the exclamation escaped her before she could stop it.

  Dick went on as though he had not heard her.

  “At your boat and by a priest that I shall bring with me, I would wed her.”

  “Oh!” Pet said, and smiled knowingly.

  “But so far the lass will have none of me,” Dick continued, noting Pet’s amazement, “and so, Mistress, I would wish you to persuade her to wed me here secretly.”

  “Ay, and if I do?” Pet broke in.

  “If you do—you earn enough rum to keep you and your husband in liquor for the rest of your life.”

  Dick put his hands on his belt and looked at the old wretch quizzically.

  Pet began to laugh. It was a terrible sound, half a wheeze and half a choke.

  “I’ll persuade her,” she muttered.

  Dick quickly put up one white beringed hand.

  “Nay, Mistress, you must use no violence on her,” he said, “neither must you harm her with spirit charms or other bedevilments; I would not have her hurt.”

  Pet Salt looked at him out of the corner of her e
yes.

  “I’ll not hurt your love, Master,” she laughed—“she shall marry thee—and by a priest you bring—ha—ha!”

  Blueneck had never seen his Captain blush before and he now regarded the little Spaniard with great interest.

  The usually sallow skin was stained with a vermilion, as he turned on the woman in anger.

  “Keep to your promise then and be silent,” he said softly, “or by Heaven I’ll blow your pig-sty of a rat-ridden hulk off the Island.”

  The woman looked at him frightened for a moment, but soon she began to laugh.

  “She shall wed thee, my pretty, fine gentleman, she shall wed thee—I’ll see to that,” she said, scrambling to her feet—” and the rum shall be paid, you promise, master?”

  Dick nodded.

  “I swear it,” he said. Then he got up and beckoned to Blueneck to follow him.

  “Good-morrow, Mistress,” he said, taking off his hat.

  Pet stood looking after them.

  “I’ll coax her,” the woman called. “I’ll coax her,” And all the way as they went down the beach they could hear her cracked, horrible laughter.

  Chapter XVIII

  “Rum! rum! ru-u-m-m!”

  Nan Swayle sat in her miserable little cabin with her knees drawn up to her chin; her cat was perched on a rum keg beside her and there was no light save for the cold gleam of stars coming in from the open door. She sat there, a tall, gaunt figure, steadily rocking herself to and fro as though keeping time to some monotonous rhyme. She was talking to herself in a deep, weary voice, and the words she uttered were always the same, “Rum—rum—ru-u-m-m!”

  Outside on the marshes everything was very quiet, and she rocked on, undisturbed for a while. Then from the direction of the Stroud she heard the squeak of a frightened gull as it flew up disturbed from its rest, and then another a little nearer, and again nearer still.

  The woman did not cease her rocking; she knew someone was coming over the dykes to see her, but what mattered that?

  Suddenly she stopped, however, leaned her head forward to listen, and then sprang from her chair with surprising agility and hurried to the door.

  “Nan—Nan, where are you?” called a girlish voice out of the darkness.

  “Stay where ye are, Anny lass, till I get ye a light.”

  Nan’s stentorian tones boomed over the flat bogs. Hurriedly she crossed to the darkest corner of the little hut, where she fumbled for a minute or two. There was the sound of soft scraping of flint on steel, then the tinder caught fire and Nan lit a tallow dip and carried it to the door, holding it high above her head.

  There was no breath of wind in the cloudless night and the flame burned steadily.

  “Oh! Nan, I’m so glad ye’re here,” came the same voice out of the darkness, this time a good deal nearer.

  “Why, lass, wherever else would I be? What’s ailing ye, my girl?”

  Anny scrambled over the last dyke and staggered breathless into the circle of light thrown by the little flame of the dip.

  “Let me come in and talk with ye, mother,” she said, clutching hold of the elder woman’s ragged kirtle.

  Nan put a strong, bony arm round the girl’s shoulders, and when she spoke her deep voice had a softer quality in it than before.

  “Sit down, lass, sit down, and get your breath, and then I’ll listen to ye as long as my eyes will keep open,” she said kindly.

  Anny sat down on the upturned rum keg, after first displacing the cat, who spat at her viciously.

  Nan snatched a leather thong from the wall and lashed at it savagely, whereupon it slunk into a corner and lay down on a heap of onions, keeping one baleful eye fixed on its mistress’s visitor.

  Nan sat down on a three-legged stool, the only other article in the room save for a huge iron bowl which hung on chains over the now empty grate and several bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof, and looked at the girl critically.

  Anny’s face was very white and drawn, and she looked about her with a hunted expression in her wild green eyes. She had evidently been crying as she came along, for there were tear marks on her white cheeks.

  Nan said nothing, but sat looking at her, her strong, rugged face absolutely expressionless.

  “I’ve got to marry Blackkerchief Dick, Nan,” Anny said at last. “What will I do?”

  Nan’s eyes flickered.

  “Got to? Who says Anny Farran’s got to do aught she don’t want to?”

  “Pet Salt said——”

  “What!” Nan’s face blazed with fury. “That blue-livered, mange-struck ronyon! Truth, lass, you’re mad to think on her! The louse-ridden, thieving, man-stealing, spirit-sodden devil,” she muttered to herself.

  Anny shook her head.

  “She says I’ll be took to the Castle if I don’t do as she bids,” she said hurriedly.

  Nan lashed the earthen floor with her strip of leather.

  “The woman’s a lying fiend,” she said quickly and intensely.

  The girl laid her hand on the other woman’s trembling arm.

  “I know she is, mother, I know she is, but what will I do?” she said softly.

  Nan looked up impatiently.

  “Do? why, do naught, the old hell-kite, the sithering——”

  “Ay, but listen, mother! Listen!” the girl’s voice was so insistent that the older woman allowed her voice to die away to a muttering.

  Anny went on.

  “If I don’t wed Master Dick, Nan, Pet Salt “—Nan began to mumble again, but Anny took no notice—” saith that he will carry me off without him marrying me—and, mother, I would be wed.”

  Nan paused in her muttered imprecations to look at the girl. This was a new side of the affair, and she realised the importance to the girl’s mind. She began to consider it carefully, while Anny watched her face with almost painful eagerness.

  But Nan’s hatred for Pet Salt was too great to allow her to think clearly on any subject connected with her old enemy for more than two minutes at a time, and she soon broke forth into low, tense reviling.

  “Look!” she said, suddenly springing up and standing between Anny and the open doorway, a tall, black figure against a background of stars. “Look at me, child—do you know how old I am?—forty-three! You’re surprised? Of course, I look sixty, don’t I? Tell me—tell me.”

  Anny looked at the rugged face that had evidently once been so beautiful; the light from the dip flickered over it and accentuated each wrinkle and hollow. She nodded.

  “Ah!” Nan lifted her clenched fist above her head. “That is her work, the woman of hell. Once my cabin was the sweetest, cleanest, and neatest on the Island, my lips were the reddest, my hair the blackest, my smile the most prized——Oh, that crawling filcher, would I might feel these hands about her scabby neck!”

  Anny sighed. She knew it was no use to attempt to stop Mistress Swayle in this mood so she crouched back in her corner, while the cat, which had at first objected to her, now came to hide in the folds of her kirtle. He also knew his mistress’s vagaries.

  Nan went on, her voice rising higher and higher, and her words coming faster and faster until she seemed to be repeating some frenzied chant.

  “She took my man—your grandsire—she stole him from me with promises of rum to rot his soul with—God curse her. I, a sweet milk lass working all day in my dairy with a flowered kirtle to my back and shoes to my feet—and she, a dirty, mangeeaten quean. Oh! may the red-plague fall on her and her rat-eaten boat. And he, a simple, kind-hearted lad with a liking for the spirit! Oh! that kite shall go through torments in her time! But he loved me—not her, devil baste her.”

  Anny rose to her feet and the cat ran away squealing.

  “Mother Swayle,” she said pleadingly, “what will I say to her?”

  Nan seemed to come to herself again for she patted the girl kindly on the shoulder.

  “You run back to the Ship, lass. I’ll see the ronyon,” she said.

  Anny took her ha
nd.

  “You’re good to me, mother,” she said.

  Nan pulled her hand away sharply.

  “Go off with you, child,” she ordered harshly, and, as Anny sped over the marshes, she heard the deep voice behind her getting fainter and fainter, calling, “Rum—rum—rum!”

  Early on the next morning Mistress Swayle set out for Pet Salt’s boat. The sun, rising red out of the sea, tinged her black gown and flying elf-locks with a certain rustiness as she bent her head before the salt morning wind and strode down the ill-made road. She walked along with sweeping strides a five-foot bramble stick in her hand. On either side of her stretched the grey-green, dyke-patterned saltings, while ahead gleamed the fields of ripening wheat and blue vetches.

  She was murmuring to herself as she went along and often paused to shake her stick at some unseen adversary.

  Her cat followed her at a respectful distance, always keeping one eye on the bramble stick.

  As it was some way to Pet Salt’s boat, Nan was tired by the time she reached the Ship and would have gone in and rested there had she not been beset by a pack of young urchins, Tant Pullen and little Red among them, who danced round her in a ring, calling “Witch!” and “Devil’s Aunt!” and so forth.

  The old woman—for she looked old—laid about her vigorously with her stick and as she was very strong soon prevented them from barring her way, but they followed her for a long distance along the wall.

  Pet Salt lifted a tousled head above the hatchway, sniffed the cool clean salt air, and shivered. Then, hastily wrapping a piece of old sail-cloth round her mouth and nose, she scrambled on to the dirty deck and hurried across to a heap of kegs piled up high. Under these she at last unearthed a partially full one, and hugging it to her bosom, ran back to the hatchway, her bare feet sounding oddly on the rotten boards.

  It was at this moment that Nan tapped on the side of the boat with her stick and shouted in tones loud enough to awaken the seven sleepers:

  “Ho, there, you dirty ronyon, come out, come out, Pet Salt, Heaven blast ye!”

  At the sound of her voice Pet dropped the keg she was carrying, and tearing the sail-cloth from her face, hobbled over to the side and looked down.

  “What! you round here, you hell-cat, sneaking a look at your love, I suppose, you old——”