Blackkerchief Dick

by Margery Allingham

  She broke off abruptly and looked round her, and brushed the hair off her forehead before she spoke again. All the time Nan rocked silently to and fro.

  “Then I heard him speaking below his breath, and his voice hurt me, Nan, his voice hurt me. ‘Anny,’ he said, ‘Anny, are you come back to me, my love?’ and I heard him fall on his knees at my feet, and I felt his head in my lap and his arms about my waist—and I loved him. Oh, Nan! I loved him so!”

  Her hands clutched at the older woman’s gown convulsively.

  “Mother, will you tell him? Will you tell him?” she broke out suddenly. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t, not when he was kneeling there more like a young lad than a man.”

  Nan stopped rocking and faced the pleading, frantic little girl before her:

  “You did not tell him?” she said slowly.

  Anny shook her head.

  “Nay, I could not tell him—I love him so,” she said. “I got up and ran away to bed, leaving him there, his head on the seat I had left, and, oh, Nan! all night long I dreamed I could still hear him breathing heavily like that and calling ‘Anny, Anny, Anny.’ Oh, Nan! tell him for me, tell him for me! I could not stay in the Ship and he there not knowing. Both our hearts would break.”

  Nan looked at her curiously.

  “I will tell him,” she said.

  A sigh of relief broke from Anny’s lips and Nan went on: “I did not know you had wedded with the Spaniard, lass; why did you so? You must have been mad; what will ye do now?”

  Anny looked at her in astonishment.

  “I had no choice,” she said. “Pet——”

  A light of understanding swept over Nan’s expressive face and she sprang to her feet.

  “Miserable hell-cat that I am,” she exclaimed, her great voice shaking with fury, “to be turned aside by Pet’s damned witchcraft, and sent home without having done aught-—oh, why did ye do it, lass, why did ye do it?”

  Anny shrugged her shoulders.

  “’Tis nothing, mother, nothing,” she said wearily. “I shall not be known as his wife. There will be no difference, save that I cannot wed with Hal.” Once again her voice broke on the name.

  Nan stared at the girl incredulously.

  “Did he say so?” she gasped.

  Anny shrugged again. “Nay, not in words,” she said carelessly, “but he said, ‘Go back to the Ship and I will come,’ so you see nothing will change.”

  The elder woman seized the girl by the shoulders.

  “You’re mad, Anny,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you see he’ll take you away? When the Spaniard comes to the Ship, he comes for you.”

  Anny sprang to her feet, her eyes wide with fear and amazement. This view of the affair had not presented itself to her before.

  “Take me away?” she repeated wonderingly, and then, as the full meaning of the words came to her, a little terrified scream escaped her. “I won’t go,” she said quickly, “I won’t go—leave this Island? leave the Ship? leave Hal? No, I won’t go—I——” She stopped suddenly and turned to the old woman, an expression of horror on her face.

  “There was none who could stay him wedding me,” she said slowly, her eyes growing larger and more frightened at every word. “There was none who could stay him wedding me; there will be none to stay him taking me away—oh!——”

  She dropped down on the beaten earth floor shuddering violently.

  Nan looked down at her for a few seconds, and then out of the door over the flat marshes to the hilly wooded island beyond.

  “The witchcraft of Pet Salt—blast her—stayed me once, Anny,” she said, “but none shall stay me the second time, my daughter.”

  Chapter XXIII

  As Anny ran back to the Ship, her mind was full of one thing only—fear of leaving the Island.

  Nan’s few words had thrown an entirely new light on the situation. Before hearing them she had thought of the future as simply a continuation of her present life. She could hardly imagine a world in which the Ship, the Island, and Hal had no part. They had become necessary to her; and the thought of losing them terrified her. She had been somewhat reassured by Nan’s promise to prevent her from going with the Spaniard, but, as she thought of Dick, with his determined air and ready knife, her heart sank again, and she hurried on, her head full of troubles.

  That evening the usual company gathered together in the old kitchen of the Ship, and Anny was kept busy serving liquor; she had no one to help her. Sue was down walking on the beach with Big French, and Anny felt half envious when she thought of the other girl’s smooth love affair compared with her own. Hal, too, was away; he had gone off to a mysterious summons which had been brought to him some two hours ago and had not yet returned.

  Old Gilbot was very merry, and as the time drew on he called for the candles to be lighted and then, leaning back in his chair, treated the company to one of his favourite songs—“Pretty Poll, she loved a sailor,” and soon had the rafters shaking with his music and their laughter.

  No one noticed Anny, and the girl went about her duties quietly, almost dreamily. Often she would pause to listen, and stand waiting, her eyes on the door for some seconds, before she went on with her work again, her face set and white.

  Just when the chorus of “Pretty Poll” was at its height, however, there was the sound of footsteps on the cobbles outside and the door opened suddenly. No one noticed it save Anny, and she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed.

  Hal came into the kitchen slowly, screwing up his eyes until they should have got used to the light. The girl watched him fascinated. His face seemed to have suddenly grown very grave and quiet. A man’s face, she thought, and she looked at him wonderingly.

  Suddenly he turned and saw her.

  Anny met his eyes with difficulty, and then dropped them before his gaze, so reproachful and yet so kind. She shivered a little.

  Nan had kept her promise.

  For the next two days Anny saw nothing of the Spaniard and her spirits began to revive. Like all the Island folk, she took life very casually, and, as the days slipped on uneventfully, the event of her marriage, although barely a week passed, grew more and more like a rather exciting dream.

  She was thinking like this as she sat alone in the kitchen’s open doorway, stitching a seam in one of Sue’s new kirtles, when she saw Blueneck coming across the yard towards her. Instantly all her fears returned and her fingers trembled as she pushed the needle to and fro through the coarse flannel.

  He came up and saluted her courteously, as became one addressing the Captain’s lady.

  “Mistress, I have a message for thee,” he said, looking round him cautiously.

  Anny glanced up quickly.

  “There is none with us,” she said, jerking her head towards the kitchen.

  Blueneck looked round the yard hastily, and then bent a little nearer to the girl.

  “Mistress, the Captain bids me tell you that we sail to-morrow night,” he said softly.

  Anny caught her breath and the sailor went on:

  “And, Mistress, he bids me tell you to be ready to go with him when he comes for you.”

  Anny’s sewing slid off her lap on to the ground unheeded.

  Blueneck noticed her confusion and dropping his voice to a whisper, said kindly:

  “Take heart, lass, if ever the Captain kissed a woman, he loves you,” and then, recovering his respectful manner, he added, “and the Captain prays you to be secret for a while.”

  Then with a smile and cheerful wave of his hand he turned and left her.

  Anny sat spellbound.

  It had come.

  Immediately her thoughts flew to Nan. She must tell Nan at once for, whether the old woman could help her or not, the girl realised that she was the only person on the Island who was willing to do so.

  She got up to get her shawl and then remembered that she dare not leave the Ship.

  Sue and Hal were out in the fields and Gilbot had walked down to the sea. The inn c
ould not be left unattended; suddenly she remembered Red.

  The child was playing happily in the garden; he came rather unwillingly when she called him and stood before her, a quaint, bedraggled little figure biting his nails, but he was fond of his sister and listened to her instructions with great attention.

  “Red, will ye run along to Nan for me?” she said, as calmly as she could.

  The child’s face fell, but he nodded all the same.

  “And will ye tell her this? Now do keep it in your head, Reddy,” she was trembling in her agitation. “Tell her this—he wants Anny to go tomorrow, and none can stay him.”

  She spoke very distinctly, as though she was trying to imprint each word on the child’s mind.

  Red screwed up his eyes in a great mental effort.

  “‘He wants Anny to go to-morrow, and none can stay him,’” he repeated at last. Then he turned to his sister. “Who wants you, Anny?” he asked curiously.

  Anny frowned.

  “Oh, go along, dear, go along, hurry!” she almost sobbed.

  Red looked at her in mild surprise, and then trotted off obediently, muttering to himself as he ran and letting the words keep tune to the soft pad of his feet. “He—wants—An—ny—to—go—to—mor—row, and no—one—will—stay—him.”

  He was very hot and breathless by the time he reached Nan’s hut, and he stammered out the words to the old woman, who listened eagerly, a strange light in her eyes.

  “To-morrow?” she said, as the boy sank down on the floor, panting and gasping.

  Red looked up.

  “Yes,” he said, and added: “And no one will stay him.” He repeated the words as though they held no meaning for him.

  A fierce expression grew on Nan’s rugged face and she bent down to the little fellow and shook him half-angrily.

  “You lie, boy, you lie,” she said, her face very close to his. “Do you hear?—you lie—for there is one who will stay him, nay, who shall. Get back to your sister—tell her not to fear.”

  Chapter XXIV

  “Ah, Master Gilbot, ’twill be a deal quieter than this to-morrow night, I reckon.”

  Master Granger leaned across from his seat in the chimney corner and jerked his head in the direction of the body of the room where everything was in commotion.

  The Anny was due to sail on the night-tide, and her crew were celebrating its departure with rum and song.

  One of the long tables had been pulled out and round this some ten or twelve men sprawled in more or less comfortable attitudes. Behind these were others sitting on rum kegs or leaning against the walls. They were all very merry, and from time to time loud shrieks of laughter shook the old Ship’s rafters and made them echo again and again.

  Round the flickering fire, the first of the season, but a bright one, sat the Islanders, Joe Pullen, French, Cip de Musset, Granger, Gilbot, and a few others. They did not mix with the roaring, yelling crowd of seamen, but sat stolidly, drinking slowly, talking slowly, and enjoying themselves after their own quiet fashion. Now and again, perhaps, a young man would leave his seat to go over and split a joke and a pint with a sailor, but the majority kept themselves to themselves, neither objecting to, nor wholly approving, the noisy pleasure of the smugglers.

  Hal, especially, was very taciturn. He stood quietly in a candle-lit corner, cleaning pewter, and spoke hardly at all. Sue, however, was in a very good humour; in her best kirtle, and her hair tied with a bow of scarlet ribbon which French had given her, she flew hither and thither carrying the liquor.

  Anny had not yet appeared, and Blueneck nudged Noah Goody as they sat at the long table, when the time crept on, and still she did not come.

  Little Red sat on French’s knee keeping very still and listening to the conversation with the utmost interest.

  Granger’s remark called forth a chorus of “Ay’s,” some disconsolate, but mostly cheerful.

  Gilbot looked at the reeling crowd out of the corner of his little red-rimmed eyes; then he chuckled:

  “Nish,” he said thickly, a weak, happy smile playing over his big, puffy face. “Nish, oh! very nish indeed. Letsh have a song,” and he struck up “Mary Loo “in a thin, quavering voice.

  At this moment the door was flung open and a wave of cold air blew round the stifling kitchen; several men from the table turned to swear at the intruder, but their mouths shut silently and they rose to their feet as they saw who it was.

  Blackkerchief Dick stepped lightly into the room and, shutting the door behind him, stood smiling on the company, a slim, dapper little figure in black velvet.

  Then he removed his black beaver and called loudly for liquor all round. His words were received with cheers, and once again the talk broke out and the singing restarted.

  Dick perched himself on the end of one of the empty tables and looked about for Anny. The smile faded from his face when he saw she was not there, and a look of disappointment took its place. He had no doubt she was preparing to fly with him, but he had expected to see her waiting for him, her big eyes and wistful little face alight with expectation, and, he flattered himself, love. His vanity was hurt at her neglect. So his astonishment and anger when he saw her come in a few minutes later, in her usual kirtle and serving apron, an unwonted colour in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes as she fluttered to and fro from one knot of seamen to another, leaving a smile here and jest there, and a pert, stinging remark somewhere else, knew no bounds. He looked at her in amazement; she had not even glanced his way. The disappointed expression left his face and a smile returned, but it was not the same smile.

  In the next half-hour Anny surpassed herself for gaiety. Her laugh rang out loud and clear, almost every other second, and the whole company was at her feet in ten minutes.

  Even old Gilbot noticed her, and, wagging his head sagely, said that “good lashes “were “good business.”

  But for Dick she had no eyes; not once did she meet his glance, bring his liquor, or come within five feet of him.

  At first his surprise kept him silent and grave, so that Blueneck observed in a whisper to Goody that it was wont to be the lasses and not the Captain who were grave when sailing time came, and that times had changed, but after a while Dick’s smile grew more and more pronounced and he called for rum again and again.

  Still Anny took no notice of him. Louder and louder grew her laugh, quicker and quicker her retorts, brighter her smile, and more numerous her admirers.

  Hal looked up from his pewter cleaning and sighed.

  “She was never so happy when we were sweethearts,” he muttered.

  Only Sue looked at Anny strangely; she was a woman and she knew that there was a false note in the girl’s laughter, and that the light in her eyes was an almost desperate one. But she was an Islander, and therefore another lass’s business was none of hers, and she said nothing to her nor to anyone else.

  At last the Spaniard could bear this lack of notice no longer, and raising his voice called pleasantly enough:

  “Mistress Anny!”

  The girl started and the tray of mugs which she was carrying rattled nervously, but she recovered herself in a second, and smiled radiantly at him.

  “Will your lordship wait till I put these down?” she said gaily, with mock deference.

  Dick’s smile grew broader, and Blueneck who was watching him whistled softly between his teeth and nudged Goody again.

  “Not at all,” Dick was saying, his voice very soft and caressing.

  Anny put down the tray with a clatter.

  “Oh, there now,” she exclaimed brightly, “if I haven’t spilt one half of Master French’s sack; I must fill it up. Here, Hal, will ye go to the Captain for me while I do this? I know he likes being served quickly.”

  Hal went over to him obediently.

  The Spaniard’s eyelids flickered and his smile broadened as he ordered more rum, planking down a jacobus in payment.

  The time went on and Gilbot and his customers grew more and more lively;
still Anny avoided the Spaniard, and still he sat on the table steadily drinking rum.

  Suddenly in the middle of a song Dick looked at the clock, and then rising to his feet, shouted:

  “Get aboard, dogs!”

  The singing died away immediately and all eyes were turned on the clock. The hands pointed to 8.15.

  Then a murmur rose among the crew and one bolder than the rest said something about orders being a quarter to nine.

  Dick sprang to his feet and his hand played round the hilt of his knife.

  “A mutiny?” he asked softly.

  Instantly there was a shuffle towards the door and they filed out one by one, and Gilbot, his fuddled brain just realising that the merriment had suddenly died down, began to pipe cheerfully:

  “Oh, no one remembers poor Will

  Who stuck by hish mate at the mill.”

  Dick laughed and took it up, and the crew, glad to find him so easily recovered, joined in eagerly, and they filed off down the road, singing in chorus:

  “He ground up more bones

  Than barley or stones,

  And more than old Rowley could kill.

  More bones, more bones,

  More bones, more bones,

  More bones than old Rowley could kill.”

  “Ah, well!” said Joe, rising to his feet, as the last man reeled drunkenly out of the doorway. “I reckon I’ll be getting down to look to my boat.”

  The others laughed; it was well known that the smugglers would commandeer any rowing-boat that might come their way to take them to the brig, and like as not would set it adrift to be carried out to sea.

  “I’ll go with ye, lad,” said Granger, and they went out together.

  Most of the others followed, leaving only French, Red, and Cip de Musset sitting with Gilbot round the fire.

  Anny and Sue stood by the door talking together, their backs to the Spaniard, while Hal went on cleaning pewter.

  Dick swaggered over to French.

  “Master French,” he said softly, his beautiful voice very even and clear, “hadst thou not better go down to the brig and see to thy goods?”