by Howard Pyle
At this address Barnaby instantly began to be aware that the affair he had come upon was indeed no jest, as he had supposed it to be, but that he had walked into what promised to be a very pretty adventure. Nevertheless, not wishing to be too hasty in his conclusions, he answered very civilly that he had drunk enough already, and that more would only heat his blood.
“Well,” says the stranger, “I may be mistook, but I believe you are Mr. Barnaby True.”
“You are right, sir, and that is my name,” acknowledged Barnaby. “But still I cannot guess how that may concern you, nor why it should be a reason for my drinking with you.” “That I will presently tell you,” says the stranger, very composedly. “Your name concerns me because I was sent here to tell Mr. Barnaby True that ‘the Royal Sovereign is come in.’”
To be sure our hero’s heart jumped into his throat at those words. His pulse began beating at a tremendous rate, for here, indeed, was an adventure suddenly opening to him such as a man may read about in a book, but which he may hardly expect to befall him in the real happenings of his life. Had he been a wiser and an older man he might have declined the whole business, instead of walking blindly into that of which he could see neither the beginning nor the ending; but being barely one-and-twenty years of age, and possessing a sanguine temper and an adventurous disposition that would have carried him into almost anything that possessed a smack of uncertainty or danger, he contrived to say, in a pretty easy tone (though God knows how it was put on for the occasion):
“Well, if that be so, and if the Royal Sovereign is indeed come in, why, then, I’ll join you, since you are so kind as to ask me.” Therewith he arose and went across to the other table, carrying his pipe with him, and sat down and began smoking, with all the appearance of ease he could command upon the occasion.
At this the other burst out a-laughing. “Indeed,” says he, “you are a cool blade, and a chip of the old block. But harkee, young gentleman,” and here he fell serious again. “This is too weighty a business to chance any mistake in a name. I believe that you are, as you say, Mr. Barnaby True; but, nevertheless, to make perfectly sure, I must ask you first to show me a note that you have about you and which you are instructed to show to me.”
“Very well,” said Barnaby; “I have it here safe and sound, and you shall see it.” And thereupon and without more ado he drew out his wallet, opened it, and handed the other the mysterious note which he had kept carefully by him ever since he had received it. His interlocutor took the paper, and drawing to him the candle, burning there for the convenience of those who would smoke tobacco, began immediately reading it.
This gave Barnaby True a moment or two to look at him. He was a tall, lean man with a red handkerchief tied around his neck, with a queue of red hair hanging down his back, and with copper buckles on his shoes, so that Barnaby True could not but suspect that he was the very same man who had given the note to Miss Eliza Bolles at the door of his lodging-house.
“’Tis all right and straight and as it should be,” the other said, after he had so examined the note. “And now that the paper is read” (suiting his action to his words), “I’ll just burn it for safety’s sake.”
And so he did, twisting it up and setting it to the flame of the candle. “And now,” he said, continuing his address, “I’ll tell you what I am here for. I was sent to ask if you’re man enough to take your life in your hands and to go with me in that boat down yonder at the foot of the garden. Say ‘Yes,’ and we’ll start away without wasting more time, for the devil is ashore here at Jamaica — though you don’t know what that means — and if he gets ahead of us, why then we may whistle for what we are after, for all the good ‘twill do us. Say ‘No,’ and I go away, and I promise you you shall never be troubled more in this sort of a way. So now speak up plain, young gentleman, and tell us what is your wish in this business, and whether you will adventure any further or no.”
If our hero hesitated it was not for long, and when he spoke up it was with a voice as steady as could be.
“To be sure I’m man enough to go with you,” says he; “and if you mean me any harm I can look out for myself; and if I can’t, then here is something can look out for me.” And therewith he lifted up the flap of his pocket and showed the butt of a pistol he had fetched with him when he had set out from his lodging-house that evening.
At this the other burst out a-laughing for a second time. “Come,” says he; “you are indeed of right mettle, and I like your spirit. All the same, no one in all the world means you less ill than I, and so, if you have to use that barker, ‘twill not be upon us who are your friends, but only upon one who is more wicked than the devil himself. So now if you are prepared and have made up your mind and are determined to see this affair through to the end, ’tis time for us to be away.” Whereupon, our hero indicating his acquiescence, his interlocutor and the others (who had not spoken a single word for all this time), rose together from the table, and the stranger having paid the scores of all, they went down together to the boat that lay plainly awaiting their coming at the bottom of the garden.
Thus coming to it, our hero could see that it was a large yawl-boat manned by half a score of black men for rowers, and that there were two lanterns in the stern-sheets, and three or four shovels.
The man who had conducted the conversation with Barnaby True for all this time, and who was, as has been said, plainly the captain of the expedition, stepped immediately down into the boat; our hero followed, and the others followed after him; and instantly they were seated the boat shoved off and the black men began pulling straight out into the harbor, and so, at some distance away, around under the stern of the man-of-war.
Not a word was spoken after they had thus left the shore, and they might all have been so many spirits for the silence of the party. Barnaby True was too full of his own thoughts to talk (and serious enough thoughts they were by this time, with crimps to trepan a man at every turn, and press-gangs to carry him off so that he might never be heard of again). As for the others, they did not seem to choose to say anything now that they had been fairly embarked upon their enterprise, and so the crew pulled away for the best part of an hour, the leader of the expedition directing the course of the boat straight across the harbor, as though towards the mouth of the Cobra River. Indeed, this was their destination, as Barnaby could after a while see for himself, by the low point of land with a great, long row of cocoanut-palms growing upon it (the appearance of which he knew very well), which by-and-by began to loom up from the dimness of the moonlight. As they approached the river they found the tide was running very violently, so that it gurgled and rippled alongside the boat as the crew of black men pulled strongly against it. Thus rowing slowly against the stream they came around what appeared to be either a point of land or an islet covered with a thick growth of mangrove-trees; though still no one spoke a single word as to their destination, or what was the business they had in hand.
The night, now that they had come close to the shore, appeared to be full of the noises of running tide-water, and the air was heavy with the smell of mud and marsh. And over all was the whiteness of the moonlight, with a few stars pricking out here and there in the sky; and everything was so strange and mysterious and so different from anything that he had experienced before that Barnaby could not divest himself of the feeling that it was all a dream from which at any moment he might awaken. As for the town and the Ordinary he had quitted such a short time before, so different were they from this present experience, it was as though they might have concerned another life than that which he was then enjoying.
Meantime, the rowers bending to the oars, the boat drew slowly around into the open water once more. As it did so the leader of the expedition of a sudden called out in a loud, commanding voice, whereat the black men instantly ceased rowing and lay on their oars, the boat drifting onward into the night.
At the same moment of time our hero became aware of another boat coming down the river towards wher
e they lay. This other boat, approaching thus strangely through the darkness, was full of men, some of them armed; for even in the distance Barnaby could not but observe that the light of the moon glimmered now and then as upon the barrels of muskets or pistols. This threw him into a good deal of disquietude of mind, for whether they or this boat were friends or enemies, or as to what was to happen next, he was altogether in the dark.
Upon this point, however, he was not left very long in doubt, for the oarsmen of the approaching boat continuing to row steadily onward till they had come pretty close to Barnaby and his companions, a man who sat in the stern suddenly stood up, and as they passed by shook a cane at Barnaby’s companion with a most threatening and angry gesture. At the same moment, the moonlight shining full upon him, Barnaby could see him as plain as daylight — a large, stout gentleman with a round red face, and clad in a fine, laced coat of red cloth. In the stern of the boat near by him was a box or chest about the bigness of a middle-sized travelling-trunk, but covered all over with cakes of sand and dirt. In the act of passing, the gentleman, still standing, pointed at this chest with his cane — an elegant gold-headed staff — and roared out in a loud voice: “Are you come after this, Abram Dowling? Then come and take it.” And thereat, as he sat down again, burst out a-laughing as though what he had said was the wittiest jest conceivable.
Either because he respected the armed men in the other boat, or else for some reason best known to himself, the Captain of our hero’s expedition did not immediately reply, but sat as still as any stone. But at last, the other boat having drifted pretty far away, he suddenly found words to shout out after it: “Very well, Jack Malyoe! Very well, Jack Malyoe! You’ve got the better of us once more. But next time is the third, and then it’ll be our turn, even if William Brand must come back from the grave to settle with you himself.”
But to this my fine gentleman in t’other boat made no reply except to burst out once more into a great fit of laughter.
There was, however, still another man in the stern of the enemy’s boat — a villanous, lean man with lantern-jaws, and the top of his head as bald as an apple. He held in his hand a great pistol, which he flourished about him, crying out to the gentleman beside him, “Do but give me the word, your honor, and I’ll put another bullet through the son of a sea cook.” But the other forbade him, and therewith the boat presently melted away into the darkness of the night and was gone.
This happened all in a few seconds, so that before our hero understood what was passing he found the boat in which he still sat drifting silently in the moonlight (for no one spoke for awhile) and the oars of the other boat sounding farther and farther away into the distance.
By-and-by says one of those in Barnaby’s boat, in Spanish, “Where shall you go now?”
At this the leader of the expedition appeared suddenly to come back to himself and to find his tongue again. “Go?” he roared out. “Go to the devil! Go? Go where you choose! Go? Go back again — that’s where well go!” And therewith he fell a-cursing and swearing, frothing at the lips as though he had gone clean crazy, while the black men, bending once more to their oars, rowed back again across the harbor as fast as ever they could lay oars to the water.
They put Barnaby True ashore below the old custom-house, but so bewildered and amazed by all that had happened, and by what he had seen, and by the names he had heard spoken, that he was only half conscious of the familiar things among which he suddenly found himself transported. The moonlight and the night appeared to have taken upon them a new and singular aspect, and he walked up the street towards his lodging like one drunk or in a dream. For you must remember that “John Malyoe” was the captain of the Adventure galley — he who had shot Barnaby’s own grandfather — and “Abram Dowling,” I must tell you, had been the gunner of the Royal Sovereign — he who had been shot at the same time that Captain Brand met his tragical end. And yet these names he had heard spoken — the one from one boat, and the other from the other, so that he could not but wonder what sort of beings they were among whom he had fallen.
As to that box covered all over with mud, he could only offer a conjecture as to what it contained and as to what the finding of it signified.
But of this our hero said nothing to any one, nor did he tell any one what he suspected, for, though he was so young in years, he possessed a continent disposition inherited from his father (who had been one of ten children born to a poor but worthy Presbyterian minister of Bluefield, Connecticut), so it was that not even to his good friend Mr. Greenfield did Barnaby say a word as to what had happened to him, going about his business the next day as though nothing of moment had occurred.
But he was not destined yet to be done with those beings among whom he had fallen that night; for that which he supposed to be the ending of the whole affair was only the beginning of further adventures that were soon to befall him.
IV
Mr. Greenfield lived in a fine brick house just outside of the town, on the Mona Road. His family consisted of a wife and two daughters — handsome, lively young ladies with very fine, bright teeth that shone whenever they laughed, and with a-plenty to say for themselves. To this pleasant house Barnaby True was often asked to a family dinner, after which he and his good kind host would maybe sit upon the veranda, looking out towards the mountain, smoking their cigarros while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon the guitar and sang.
A day or two before the Belle Helen sailed from Kingston, upon her return voyage to New York, Mr. Greenfield stopped Barnaby True as he was passing through the office, and begged him to come to dinner that night. (For within the tropics, you are to know, they breakfast at eleven o’clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at mid-day, as we do in more temperate latitudes). “I would,” says Mr. Greenfield, “have you meet Sir John Malyoe and Miss Marjorie, who are to be your chief passengers for New York, and for whom the state cabin and the two state-rooms are to be fitted as here ordered” — showing a letter— “for Sir John hath arranged,” says Mr. Greenfield, “for the Captain’s own state-room.”
Then, not being aware of Barnaby True’s history, nor that Captain Brand was his grandfather, the good gentleman — calling Sir John “Jack” Malyoe — goes on to tell our hero what a famous pirate he had been, and how it was he who had shot Captain Brand over t’other side of the harbor twenty years before. “Yes,” says he, “’tis the same Jack Malyoe, though grown into repute and importance now, as who would not who hath had the good-fortune to fall heir to a baronetcy and a landed estate?”
And so it befell that same night that Barnaby True once again beheld the man who had murdered his own grandfather, meeting him this time face to face.
That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him closer, it seemed to him that he had never seen a countenance more distasteful to him in all his life. Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good enough nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out from his face and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always a-smarting. His lips were thick and purple-red, and his cheeks mottled here and there with little clots of veins.
When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat to such a degree that it made one wish to clear one’s own throat to listen to him. So, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips a-sticking out, it appeared to Barnaby True he had never beheld a countenance that pleased him so little.
But if Sir John Malyoe suited our hero’s taste so ill, the granddaughter was in the same degree pleasing to him. She had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair — though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion — and the bluest eyes that ever he beheld in all of his life. A sweet, timid creature, who appeared not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to that great beast, her grandfather, for leave to do so, for she would shrink and
shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a glance upon her. When she did pluck up sufficient courage to say anything, it was in so low a voice that Barnaby was obliged to bend his head to hear her; and when she smiled she would as like as not catch herself short and look up as though to see if she did amiss to be cheerful.
As for Sir John, he sat at dinner and gobbled and ate and drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word of civility either to Mr. Greenfield or to Mrs. Greenfield or to Barnaby True; but wearing all the while a dull, sullen air, as though he would say, “Your damned victuals and drink are no better than they should be, but, such as they are, I must eat ’em or eat nothing.”
It was only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses off in a corner together that Barnaby heard her talk with any degree of ease. Then, to be sure, her tongue became loose enough, and she prattled away at a great rate; though hardly above her breath. Then of a sudden her grand-father called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was time to go, upon which she stopped short in what she was saying and jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though he were going to strike her with that gold-headed cane of his that he always carried with him.
Barnaby True and Mr. Greenfield both went out to see the two into their coach, where Sir John’s man stood holding the lantern. And who should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head who had offered to shoot the Captain of Barnaby’s expedition out on the harbor that night! For one of the circles of light shining up into his face, Barnaby True knew him the moment he clapped eyes upon him. Though he could not have recognized our hero, he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so much as touched his hat either to him or to Mr. Greenfield; but as soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach, banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver, and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time favoring both Barnaby and the old gentleman.