The Dark Frigate

CHAPTER XVII WILL CANTY CHAPTER XVII WILL CANTY They saw a boat coming a long way off, with her men rowing furiously, but by that time there were all manner of sounds on the shore whence the boat had launched forth. Shouts and yells in English and Spanish, with ever the booming of guns, echoed across the harbour. Beacons flamed up and for a while danced fitfully, only to die away when those who tended the fires left them unwatched and with flaming brands joined in the cry; and in the wake of the furiously rowing boat came others that strove with a great thresh of oars to overhaul the fugitive. The activity and tumult were very small and faint under the bright stars in that harbour girdled about with palms. Though the rugged slopes of wild mountains, rising like escarpments above the harbour, by day completely dwarfed it, yet the stars made the mountains seem by night mere pigmy hills, and even the many sounds, which a great echoing redoubled, seemed smaller and fainter in the presence of the vast spaces that such a night suggests. Although the men in the foremost boat rowed out of time and clumsily, their fierce efforts kept them their lead, and they were still far in advance of their pursuers when they tossed up their oars and crouched panting on the thwarts in the shadow of the ship. "Ropes, you fools!" the Old One called. "Cast us ropes! Ropes! Bind fast this bird we've caught and trice him up! Now, my hearts, swing him aloft—there he swings and up he goes! Well done! I'll keep him though I risk my neck in doing it. Make fast a rope at bow and at stern! Good! Every man for himself! Up, thou! And thou! Up go we all! Come, tally on and hoist the boat on board! And the men are aloft? Well done, Jacob! Haul up the anchor and let fall the courses!" It was plain from their manner that those who came swarming up the sides had a story to tell, but there was little time then for story-telling. The pursuing boats lifted their oars and swung at a distance with the tide, since it was plain for all to see that they were too late to overhaul the fugitives. Although on board the stranger ship there were signs and sounds of warlike activity, she too refrained from aggression; and the Old One, having no mind to traffic with them further, paced the deck with a rumble of oaths and drove the men alow and aloft to make sail and be gone. It was "Haul, you swine!" And "Heave, you drunken dogs!" And "Slacken off the weather braces! Leap for your lives!" And "Haul, there, haul! A touch of the rope's end, boatswain, to stir their spirits!" And "Come, clear the main topsail! Up aloft to the topsail yard, young men! A knife, you dog, a knife! Slash the gaskets clear! A touch of the helm, there! Harder! Harder! There she holds! Steady!" Then Harry Malcolm called from the quarter-deck in his quiet, quick voice, "The swivel gun is loaden, Tom. I'll chance a shot upon the advantage." "Good, say I!" quoth the Old One. "And if the first shot prove ill, amend it with a second." They saw moving on the forecastle the light of a match, and after such brief space of time as a spark takes to go from brace-ring to touchhole the gun, which was charged with small shot for sweeping the deck if an enemy should board the ship, showered the distant boats with metal. They saw by the splashing that the charge had carried well and that Malcolm's aim was true, and a yell and a volley of curses told them as well as did the splash, which was dimly seen by starlight, that the shot had scored a hit. While a sailor sponged the gun, Harry Malcolm gave a shog to the full ladle of powder, and keeping his body clear of the muzzle, put the ladle home to the chamber, where he turned it till his thumb on the ladle-staff was down, and gave it a shake to clear out the powder, and haled it forth again. Then with the rammer he put the powder home and drove after it a good wad and in anger and haste called for a shot. Then the Old One laughed through his teeth. "Go thou down, Jacob," cried he, "and give them a ball from the stern chaser. To sink one of those water snakes, now, would be a message worthy of our parting. Jacob! Jacob, I say!" There was no answer from old Jacob. It was Boatswain Marsham who cried back, "He hath gone." "Gone?" quoth the Old One. His face, as the starlight revealed it, was not for the reading, but despite him there was something in his voice that caught the attention of the men. "Gone?" the Old One repeated, and leaned down in the darkness. The shadows quite concealed his face when he was bent over so far that no light from above could fall on it, but he raised his hand and beckoned to the boatswain in a way there was no mistaking. In response to the summons of the long forefinger, Phil climbed the ladder to his side. "You say he hath gone," the Old One quietly repeated. "When did he go?" "I do not know. He kept the deck when I went below for supper." "How did he go?" "Nor do I know that. But three men came into the cabin by way of the gallery while I was there—" "Three men, say you? Speak on." The Old One leaned back and folded his arms, and though he smiled, he listened very carefully to the story the boatswain told. "And when you came on deck he was gone." The Old One tapped the rail. "You have booklearning. Can you navigate a ship?" "I can." "Yea, it may well be that now we shall have need of such learning. It was an odd day when you and I met beside the road. I shall not soon forget that ranting fool with the book, who was as good as a bear-baiting to while away an afternoon when time hung heavy. Oft ha' we left him fallen at the crest, in the old days when he dwelt in Bideford, but Jacob saw no sport in it, nor could he abide the fellow." The Old One looked Phil frankly in the eye and smiled. "In faith, I had a rare game that day with Martin, whose wits are but a slubbering matter at best. But that's all done and away with. And Jacob hath gone! Let him go. Betide it what may, there is one score I shall settle before my hour comes. Go forward, boatswain, and bear a sharp watch at sea, and mind you come not abaft the mainmast until I give you leave." The Old One spoke again when Phil was on the ladder. "Mind you, boatswain: come not abaft the mainmast until I give you leave. I bear you nought but love, but I will have you know that in what I have to do I will brook no interruption." Though Tom Jordan had spoken him kindly, the lad was not so blunt of wit that he failed to detect suspicion in the man's manner. He stopped by the forecastle, and looking back saw that the Old One was giving the helmsman orders, for the ship had cleared the harbour, to all appearances unpursued, and was again bearing up the coast. The Old One then came down from the quarter-deck, and, having spoken to several of the men in turn, called, "Come, Martin; come, Paul, bring the fellow in." And with that, he went into the great cabin, where they heard him speaking to Harry Malcolm. As for Martin Barwick and Paul Craig, they went over to where the one had all this time been lying whom they had trussed up in ropes and hoisted on board. All the time he had been in the ship he had neither moved nor spoken, nor did he speak now as they picked him up, one at his head and one at his feet, and carried him into the cabin. The door shut and for a long time there was silence. There were some to whom the matter was a mystery, and the boatswain was among them; but the whispering and nodding showed that more knew the secret than were ignorant of it. The ship thrust her nose into a heavy swell and pitched until her yards knocked on the masts; the breeze blew up and whipped the tops off the waves and showered the decks with spray; the sky darkened with clouds and threatened rain. But in the ship there was such a deep silence as stifles a man, which endured and seemed—were it possible—to grow minute by minute more intense until a low cry burst from the cabin. The men sitting here and there on deck stirred and looked at one another; but Philip Marsham leaped to his feet. "Sit down, lad," said the carpenter. "Drop your hand!" "Nay, it is better that I keep my hand on your arm." "Drop your hand! Hinder me not!" "Nay, I am obeying orders." There came a second cry from the cabin, and Phil laid his free hand on his dirk. "Have care, boatswain, lest thy folly cost thee dear. There are others set to watch the deck as well as I." And now three men who had been sitting by the mainmast rose. They were looking toward Phil and the carpenter, and one of them slowly walked thither. Though Philip Marsham had no fear of hard fighting, neither was he an arrant fool, and instantly he perceived that he was one man against many under circumstances that doubled the odds. His heart beat fast and a cold sweat sprang out on his forehead. "What are they doing to him?" he demanded. "Nothing that he hath not richly earned," said the man who had come near the two. Scarcely conscious of his own thought, Phil glanced toward the dark and distant shore; but, slight though his motion, the carpenter's one eye saw it and his none too nimble wit understood it. "Nay," said he, "it is a mad conceit." The carpenter thrust his fingers through his beard, and, being a kindly soul in his own way and having a liking for the boatswain, he wished himself rid of his responsibilities. But since there was no escape from the situation he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders to make the best of it. "I heard of a man once, when I was a little lad," he said, "who was cast ashore on the main, in Mexico or some such place. Miles Philips was his name and the manner of his suffering at the hands of the Indians and the Spaniards may serve as a warning. For they flung him into prison where he was like to have starved; and they tortured him in the Inquisition where he was like to have perished miserably; and many of his companions they beat and killed or sent to the galleys; and himself and certain others they sold for slaves. So grievous was his suffering, he was nigh death when he heard news of Sir Francis Drake being in those seas and ran away to join him. Yet again they caught him—caught this Miles Philips and clapped him into prison with a great pair of bolts on his legs; and yet once more did he escape, for God willed it, and filed off his irons and got him away and so betook him back to England after such further suffering from the Indians and the mosquitoes and the Spaniards and the dogs of the Inquisition as few men have lived to tell the tale of. All this, I have heard from an old man who knew him, is told in Master Hakluyt's book, where any scholar of reading may find it for himself. Though not a man of reading, yet have I taken it to heart to beware of straying from a ship into a strange land." Of all the fellow had said Philip Marsham had heard no more than half, for the cry that had twice sounded still rang in his ears, although since it had died away the second time there was only silence on the deck save for the carpenter's rambling talk. The lad's mind leaped nimbly from one occurrence to another in search for an explanation of the cry. "Tell me," said he, "what happened on shore?" At this the carpenter laughed, pleased with believing he had got the boatswain's thoughts off the affair of the moment. "Why, little enough. They would have persuaded us to leave our weapons at the door, but the Old One was too wise a horse to be caught by the rattle of oats. And whilst he was ducking and smiling and waving hands with the Spaniards, I myself, my ears being keen, heard one cry in Spanish, for I have a proper understanding of Spanish which I got by many pains and much listening—as I was saying, I heard one cry in Spanish, 'Yea, that is he.' And said I to myself, 'Now Heaven keep us! Where have I heard that voice?' And then it came upon me and I cried in English, 'Who of us knew the dog, Will Canty, could talk Spanish?' Whereat the Old One, hearing me, turned and caught a glimpse of Will in the darkness. You know his way—a shrewd blade, but hot-tempered. 'There,' cries he, 'is my man! Seize him!' And with that I, being nearest, made a leap. And they, being at the moment all oil to soothe our feelings and hood our eyes, were off their guard. So the Old One, who likely enough had heard for himself Will Canty's saying, since he too hath a curious knowledge of Spanish, cries, 'Back to the boat, my lads!' For seest thou, if Will Canty was pointing out this one or that, there was treacherous work in the wind. So down through them we rushed, all together, bearing Will with us by the suddenness and audacity of our act, and so away in a boat before they knew our thought." "And who were the other Englishmen?" The carpenter gave the lad a blank look. "Why, there were none." Rising, Phil paced the deck while the carpenter and the others watched him. Some scowled and whispered suspicions, and others denied them, until Phil himself heard one crying, "Nay, nay, he's a true lad. 'Tis only he hath a liking for the fellow." The carpenter neither smiled nor frowned, for though he knew no loyalty deeper than his selfish interests, and though he felt no qualm regarding that which was going on in the cabin (since he had little love for the poor wretch who was the victim), he had a very kindly feeling toward those who got his liking; and it sorely troubled him that Philip Marsham should suffer thus, though it were at second hand. "Come, lad," said he, "sit down here and take comfort in the fine night." Laying his elbows on the rail, Phil thrust his hands through his hair and bit his two lips and stared at the distant shore of Cuba. He feared neither Indians nor insects nor the Inquisition. There were other things, to his mind, more fearful than these. The gasping sound that then came from the cabin was one thing more than he could abide. He turned with the drawn dirk in his hand, but the carpenter was on him from behind, whispering, "Come, lad, come!" And because he could not but be aware of the carpenter's honest good will, he could not bring himself to use the dirk, yet only by using the dirk could he have got out of the long arms that held him fast. For a moment they swayed back and forth; then, when others were hurrying to aid the carpenter, the door of the great cabin opened. A rumble of laughter issued, then the Old One's voice, "Lay him here in the steerage and shackle him fast to the mizzen. He may well be thankful that I am a merciful man." CHAPTER XVIII TOM JORDAN'S MERCY They anchored that noon in a great bay surrounded by forests and mountains, which formed a harbour wherein a thousand sail of tall ships might have lain. Through the long afternoon, while the Rose of Devon swung at her anchor, the wind stirred the palms and a wild stream, plunging in a succession of falls down a mountainside, shone like a silver thread. But Paul Craig sat guard over Will Canty, who lay in the steerage chained to the mizzenmast, and there was no chance for any one of the men to speak with Will. And on deck the carpenter measured and sawed and planed for his purpose; and having shaped his stock he wrought a coffin. First he threw nails in a little heap on the deck, then, kneeling, he drove them home into the planed boards. It was rap-rap-rap, and rap-rap-rap. The noise went through the ship, while the men looked at one another; and some chuckled and said that the Old One was a rare bird; but the Old One, coming out of the great cabin without so much as a glance at the lad who lay chained to the mast, stood a long time beside the carpenter. He kept a grave face while he watched him work, and very serious he looked when he turned away and came and stood beside Philip Marsham. "There are men that would slit the fellow's throat," he said, "or burn him at stake, or flay him alive; but I have a tender heart and am by nature merciful. Though he broke faith and dipped his hands in black treachery, I bear him no ill will. I must needs twist his thumbs to wring his secrets out of him and I can no longer keep him about me; yet, as I have said, I bear him no ill will. Saw you ever a finer coffin than the one I have ordered made for him?" What could a man reply? Although there had been complaining and revolt before, the Old One again held the ship in the palm of his hand, for they feared his irony more than his anger. Darkness came and they lowered the coffin into the boat, whither man after man slid down. "Come, boatswain," said the Old One, in a quiet, solemn voice. "There is an oar to pull." And what could a man do but slide with the others down into the boat and rest on the loom of an oar? Phil shared a thwart with the carpenter, and raised his oar and held it upright between his knees. The coffin lay across the boat amidships, and there were four oars, two on the one side and two on the other; but a man sat beside each oarsman, two more crowded into the bow, and two sat in the stern sheets with the Old One. Then they lowered Will Canty to the bottom in front of the Old One, where he lay bound hand and foot. Shoving off from the ship, the oarsmen bent to their task and the Old One steered with a sweep; but the boat was crowded and deep in the water, and they made slow progress. Mosquitoes swarmed about them and droned interminably. The water licked at the boat and lapped on the white beach. The wind stirred in the palms. The great bay with its mountains and its starry sky was as fair a piece of land and sea as a man might wish to look upon in his last hour; but there are few men whose philosophy will stand by them at such a moment, and there is an odd quirk in human nature whereby a mere droning mosquito can drive out of mind the beauty of sea and land—nay, even thoughts of an immeasurable universe. The men beat at mosquitoes and swore wickedly until the Old One bade them be silent and row on, for although they had come near the shore the water was still deep under the boat, which tossed gently in the starlight. A time followed in which the only sounds were of the wind and the waves and the heavy breathing of the men. Some were turning their heads to see the shore and the Old One had already risen to choose a landing-place, when Will Canty—who, although bound hand and foot, had all the while been edging about in the stern unknown to the others till he had braced his feet in such a way that he could get purchase for a leap—gave a great spring from where he lay, and thus threw himself up and fell with his back across the gunwale, whence, wriggling like a worm, he strove to push himself over the side. The Old One sprang forward in fury to seize and hold him, and caught him by the wrist; but one of the men in zeal to have a hand in the affair drove the butt of his gun against Will Canty's chin, and in recovering the piece he stumbled and pushed the Old One off his balance. So the Old One lost his hold on Will Canty's wrist and before the rest knew what was happening Will had slipped into the deep water and had sunk. That he never rose was doubtless the best fortune that could have befallen him, and likely enough it was the blow of the gun that killed him. But the Old One was roused to such a pitch of wrath at being balked of his revenge that he was like a wild beast in his fury. Quicker than thought, he turned on the man who had pushed against him, and reaching for the coffin that was made to Will's measure—a great, heavy box it was!—raised it high and flung it at the fellow. It gashed the man's forehead and fell over the side and floated away, and the man himself, with a string of oaths, clapped his hand to the wound, whence the blood trickled out between his fingers. "Swine! Ass!" the Old One snarled. "I was of a mind to lay thee in Will Canty's bed. But let the coffin go. Th' art not worthy of it." The boat grated on white sand, and leaping to his feet the Old One cried with a high laugh as he marked his victim's fear, "Get thee gone! If ever I see thy face again, I will slit thy throat from ear to ear." "Nay, nay, do not send me away! Do not send me away!" the man wailed. "O God! No, not that! I shall perish of Indians and Spaniards! The wild beasts will devour me. Nay! Nay!" The Old One smiled and reached for a musket, and the poor fellow, his face streaked with gore, was overcome by the greater terror and fled away under the palms. No shot was fired and neither knife nor sword was drawn ere the echo of the fellow's wailing died into silence; but the Old One then fired a single shot after him, which evoked a last scream. "Come, Martin, take the scoundrel's oar," quoth the Old One, and he turned the head of the boat to sea. They said little and were glad to row briskly out to the ship. Action is ever welcome at the time when a man desires most of all to get away from memory and thought. That night, when they were all asleep, Martin leaped out on the deck and woke them by shrieking like a lunatic, until it seemed they were all transported into Bedlam. He then himself awoke, but he would say only, "My God, what a dream! Oh, what a dream!" And he would rub his hands across his eyes. The grumblers continued quietly to grumble, for that is a joy no power on earth can take away, but there was no more talk of another captain. Some said that now the luck would change and told of prizes they had taken and would take, and recalled to mind the strong liquors of Bideford and the pasties that Mother Taylor would make for them. Others, although they said little, shook their heads and appeared to wish themselves far away. But whether a man felt thus or otherwise, there was small profit of their talking. For another day and night they lay at anchor and ate and drank and sprawled out in the sun. The Rose of Devon, as they had earlier had occasion to remark, was richly found, and they had still no need to bestir themselves for food and drink. But any man with a head on his shoulders must perceive that with old Jacob, who had gone so wisely about his duties and had so well held his own counsel in many things, the ship had lost something of stability and firm purpose even in her lawless pursuits. And Will Canty, too, was gone! As the old writer has it, "One is choked with a fly, another with a hair, a third pushing his foot against the trestle, another against the threshold, falls down dead: So many kind of ways are chalked out for man, to draw towards his last home, and wean him from the love of earth." Though Will Canty had died a hard death, he had escaped worse; and as Priam, numbering more days than Troilus, shed more tears, so Philip Marsham, outliving his friend, faced such times as the other was spared knowing. Of all this he thought at length, and fearing his own conscience more than all the familiars of the Inquisition, in which he was singularly heartened by remembering the stout old knight in the scarlet cloak, he contrived a plan and bode his time. In the darkness of the second night, when the Old One had somewhat relaxed his watchfulness, Boatswain Marsham slipped over the bow and lowered himself silently on a rope he had procured for the purpose, and very carefully, lest the noise be heard on board the ship, seated himself in Tom Jordan's boat and rowed for shore. An honest man can go so far in a company of rogues and no farther. Reaching the land and hauling the boat up on the beach in plain sight of those left in the Rose of Devon, where they might swim for it if they would, he set off across the hills and under the palms. Upon reaching the height he looked back and for a moment watched the old ship as she swung with the tide on the still, clear water. He hoped he should never see her again. Then he looked down at the tremulous and shimmering bay where Will Canty lay dead, and was glad to plunge over the hill and leave the bay behind him. CHAPTER XIX A MAN SEEN BEFORE There was sullen anger and worse in the Rose of Devon when day broke, for the boatswain, too, had gone and the boat lay in sight upon the beach whereby all might know the means of his going. One watching from the mountain would have seen the Rose of Devon spread her sails and put to sea like a great bird with white wings. But there was no one on the mountain to watch, and when the ship had sailed, no human being remained to interrupt the placid calm that overspread the bay that summer morning. The sun blazed from a clear sky, and the green palms rustled and swayed beside the blue water, and in all the marvelously fair prospect of land and sea no sign or mark of violence remained. Phil Marsham had gone in the night over the hills and across the narrow peninsula between two bays. Though the way was rough, the land was high and—for the tropics—open, and he had put the peninsula behind him by sunrise. He had then plunged down into a swampy region, but, finding the tangle of vines and canes well nigh impassable in the dark, he had struggled round it and had again come to the shore. There, finding once more a place where a man could walk easily, he had pressed on at dawn through a forest of tall trees in infinite number and variety, with flowers and fruits in abundance, and past a plain of high grass of wonderful greenness. A short time after sunrise he drank from a spring of water and ate ship's bread from the small store with which he had provided himself. But he dared not linger, and resuming his journey he came upon two huts where nets and fishing-tackle were spread in the sun to dry. The heat, which seemed to swell from the very earth, by then so sorely oppressed him that he stopped for a while in a shady place to rest. But still he dared not stay, and although upon again arising he saw that dark clouds were covering the sky, he once more stepped forth with such a stout heart as had carried him out of London and all the long way to Bideford in Devon. It gave him a queer feeling to be tramping through an unknown land with no destination in his mind, yet he vowed to himself that, come what might, he would never go back to the Rose of Devon. There is a time when patience and forbearance are enough to earn a man a hempen halter, and thinking thus, he faced the storm and renewed his determination. The wind rose to a furious gale; the clouds overswept the sky and thunder shook the earth and heavens. The rain, sweeping down in slanting lines, cut through the palm leaves like hundreds upon hundreds of thrusting swords; and lightning flamed and flashed, and leaped from horizon to horizon, and hung in a sort of continual cloud of deathly blue in the zenith, blazing and quivering with appalling reverberations that went booming off through the mountains and came rolling back in ponderous echoes. It was enough to make a brave man think the black angels were marshalling for the last great battle; it was such a storm as a boy born in England and taught his seamanship in northern waters knew only by sailors' tales. The rain beat through the poor shelter that he found and drenched him to the skin, and the roaring and thundering of the tempest filled him with awe. And when the storm had passed, for it lasted not above three quarters of an hour, the sun came out again and filled the air with a steamy warmth that was oppressive beyond description. Then the woods came to life and insects stirred and droned, and mosquitoes, issuing from among the leaves and grasses, plagued him to the verge of madness. One who has lived always in a land where mosquitoes return each year in summer is likely to have no conception of the venomous strength with which their poison can work upon one who has not, by much experience of their bites, built up a measure of resistance against it. Phil's hands swelled until he could not shut them, and the swelling of his face so nearly closed his eyes that he could hardly see. When two hours later, all but blinded, and thirsting and hungry, he came again to the shore and made out in the offing, by squinting between swollen eyelids, the same Rose of Devon from which he had run away and to which he had vowed he would never return, his misery was such that he would have been glad enough to be on board her and away from such torment, though they ended the day by hanging him. But the Rose of Devon sailed away over the blue sea on which the sun shone as calmly and steadily as if there had been no tempest, and Philip Marsham sat down on a rock and gave himself up as a man already dead. There two natives of the country found him, and by grace of God, who tempered their hearts with mercy, carried him to their poor hut and tended him with their simple remedies until he was in such measure recovered of the poison that he could see as well as ever. He then set out once more upon his way to he knew not where, having rubbed himself with an ointment of vile odour, which they gave him in goodly quantity to keep off all pestiferous insects, and on the day when he ate the last morsel of the food with which the natives had provided him he saw from the side of a high hill a strange ship at anchor in a cove beneath. Now a ship might mean one thing or she might mean another; and a man's life might depend on the difference. Drinking deeply from a stream that ran over the rocks and through the forest, and so at last into the cove, Philip Marsham returned into the wood and sat upon a fallen tree. He saw a boat put out from the ship and touch on the shore a long way off, where some men left her and went out of sight. After an hour or two they came back, and, entering the boat, returned to the ship. He saw men working on deck and in the rigging; he heard the piping of a whistle, and now and again, as the wind changed, he heard more faintly than the drone of insects the voices of the men. Being high above the shore, he found the mosquitoes fewer and the wind helped drive them away; yet they plagued him continually, despite his ointment, of which little was left, and made him miserable while he stayed. He would have hurried off had he dared; but the chance that the ship would be the means of saving his life withheld him from pursuing his journey, while doubt concerning the manner of craft she was withheld him from making known his presence. In mid-afternoon he saw far away a sail, which came slowly in across the blue plain of the sea; and having clear eyes, trained by long practice, he descried even at that great distance the motion of a heavily rolling ship. From his seat high on the hill he could see a long way farther than the men in the ship in the cove, and a point of land shut off from them an arc of the sea that was visible from the hill; so when night fell they were still unaware of the sail. Though he had watched for hours the ship in the cove, the runaway boatswain of the Rose of Devon had discovered no sign of what nation had sent her out or what trade her men followed; but there came a time when his patience could endure suspense no longer. He picked his way down to the shore, following the stream from which he had been drinking during his long watch, and cautiously moved along the edge of the water till he came to the point of land nearest the anchored ship, whence he could very plainly hear voices on board her. There were lights on the stern and on deck, and through an open port he got sight of hammocks swinging above the guns on the main deck. At last he took off the greater part of his clothes and piled them on a rock; then, strapping his dirk to his waist, he waded silently into the water. Reaching his depth, he momentarily hesitated, but fortifying his resolution with such philosophy as he could muster, he began deliberately and silently to swim. Letting himself lie deep in the water and moving so slowly that he raised no wake, he came into the shadow of the ship. It was good to feel her rough planking. He swam aft under the quarter, and coming to the rudder laid hands on it and rested. Above him he could see, upon looking up, a lighted cabin-window. His own body seemed ponderous as he slowly lifted himself out of water. He raised one hand from the tip of the rudder just above the tiller to the carving overhead and got grip on a scroll wrought in tough oak. He put his foot on the rudder, and feeling above him with his other hand seized fast the leg of a carved dragon. Very thankful for the brave ornaments with which the builder had bedecked the ship, he next got hold of the dragon's snout, and clinging like a fly, unseen and unsuspected, above the black water that gurgled about the rudder and the hull, he crawled silently up the stern. Coming thus to the lighted cabin window, he peeked in and found the place deserted. On the table a cloth was laid, and on the cloth such a dinner service as he could scarce have dreamed of. There were glasses of rare tints, with a few drops of wine left in them, which glowed like garnets under the bright candles. There were goblets of silver, and even, he believed, of gold. There were wonderfully delicate plates crusted with gold about the edges. There was an abundance of silver to eat with and a great decanter, wrought about with gold and precious stones, such as simple folk might not expect to see this side of Heaven. At the sound of steps, Phil drew back and hung over the water on the great stern of the ship. A boy came into the cabin and stepped briskly about clearing the table. Voices came down from above—and they were speaking in English! What a prize she would have made for the Rose of Devon, Phil thought, and grimly smiled. "Boy!" a voice bellowed from somewhere in the bowels of the ship. "Yea, yea, master," cried the boy, and with that he scurried from the cabin like a startled chick. Phil raised his head and renewed his hold, for he could not cling there forever; yet how to introduce himself on board the ship was a question that sorely puzzled him. He threw a bare leg over the sill, the more easily to rest, and revolved the problem in his mind. They were plainly honest Englishmen, and right glad would he have been to get himself in among them. Yet if he came like a thief in the night, they must suspect him of evil intentions without end. While he thus attacked the problem from one side and from the other, it occurred to him that the best way was to crawl down again into the water and swim back to the shore from whence he had come. There, having donned his clothes, he would call for help. Surely there was no one so hard of heart as to refuse a lad help in escaping from the pirates. He raised his leg to swing it out of the window again and put his scheme into practice, when he felt—and it startled him nearly out of his skin—a hand lay hold on his ankle. If you will balance yourself on the outside of any window with one foot over the sill, you will find it exceedingly difficult to pull your foot away from some one inside the window without throwing yourself off the wall, and Phil for the moment was reluctant to make the plunge. Slowly at first he twisted and pulled, but to no purpose. With waxing vigour he struggled and yanked and kicked and jerked, but completely failed to get his ankle out of the hand that held it. It seemed that a gentleman who had been sitting at a little desk, so placed that Phil could not have seen it without thrusting his head all the way into the cabin, had looked up, and, perceiving to his mild surprise a naked foot thrust in through the window, had nimbly arisen, and stepping lightly toward the foot, had seized the ankle firmly at the moment when Phil was about to withdraw it. The gentleman marvelled much at what he had discovered and purposed to get at the reason for it. Not only did he succeed with ease in holding the ankle fast against his captive's somewhat cautious first kicks; he anticipated a more desperate effort by getting firm hold with both hands, so that when his captive decided to risk all, so to speak, and tried with might and main to fling himself free and into the water by a great leap, the gentleman kept fast his hold and held the lad by his one leg, who dangled below like a trapped monkey. Very likely it was foolish of Philip Marsham to attempt escaping, but as I have said he was of no mind to be caught thus like a thief entering in the night, and he was so completely surprised that he had no time at all to collect his wits before he acted. Yet caught he was, and, for a bad bargain, hung by the heels to boot. "Boy," the gentleman said, and his voice indicated that he had a droll humour, "call Captain Winterton." The boy, further sounds revealed, who had come silently and in leisure, departed noisily and in haste. Heavy steps then approached, and a gruff voice cried, "What devilish sort of game is this?" "Take his other leg, Charles, and we shall soon have him safe on board. I am not yet prepared to say what sort of game it is, beyond saying that it is a rare and curious game." Thereupon a second pair of hands closed on Philip Marsham's other ankle, and, would he or would he not, he was hauled speedily through the cabin window. "Young man," said the gentleman who had first seized him, "who and what are you, and from whence have you come?" "I am Philip Marsham, late boatswain of the Rose of Devon frigate. I came to learn from what country this ship had sailed and to ask for help. I myself sailed from Bideford long since in the Rose of Devon, but, falling into the hands of certain sailors of fortune who killed our master and took our ship, I have served them for weary months as a forced man. Having at last succeeded in running away from them, I have come hither by land, as you can see, suffering much on the way, and I ask you now to have compassion on me, in God's name, and take me home to England." "Truly," said the gentleman, "those devilish flies have wrought their worst upon him. His face is swelled till it is as thick-lipped as a Guinea slave's." He spoke lightly and with little thought of Phil's words, for his humour was uppermost in him. He was in every way the fine gentleman with an eye for the comical, accustomed to having all things done for him and as little likely to feel pity for this nearly naked youth as to think it wrong that the little cabin boy should stand till morning behind his chair, lest by chance, desiring one thing or another, he must compromise his dignity by fetching it for himself. But now the other, Captain Winterton, a tall, grave man, with cold face and hard cold eyes, stepped forward, and speaking for the first time said: "Do you remember me?" Phil looked him in the eye and felt his heart sink, but he was no coward. "I do," he replied. Captain Winterton smiled. He was the first of the three men who had come on board the Rose of Devon by way of her gallery, and had entered the great cabin the night when Phil Marsham sat there at supper. It then burst upon Phil that in the whole plain truth lay his only hope. "I ran away from them—they had forced me into their service!—a week since. Nay, it is true! I am no liar! And it will pay you well to keep a sharp watch this night, for a vessel like enough to the Rose of Devon to be her twin is this minute lying behind yonder point." "Ah! And you sailed, I believe you said, from Bideford. Doubtless you have kept the day in mind?" "Why, 'twas in early May. Or—stay! 'Twas—" "Enough! Enough! The master of—" "But though I marked neither the day of the week nor the day of the month, I remember the sailing well." "Doubtless," quoth the captain dryly, "but it will save time and serve thy cause to speak only when I bid thee. Interrupt me not, but tell me next the name of the lawful master in whose charge thy most excellent ship sailed from Bideford." This keen and quiet captain in the King's service was of no mind that his prisoner should tell with impunity such a story as he might make up on the moment. Accordingly he proceeded to draw forth by question after question such particular parts of the story as he himself desired to hear, now attacking the matter from one angle and now from another, watching his prisoner closely the while and all the time standing in such a place that the lad had no chance at all of escaping through the open window. CHAPTER XX A PRIZE FOR THE TAKING "We shall see," said Captain Winterton, when he had listened to all of the tale that he would hear. He turned about. "Boy," he cried, "go speedily and send Mr. Rance in to me." The boy departed in haste and in a moment there entered a junior officer, who stared in frank curiosity at the three in the cabin. "Mr. Rance," said the captain, "go aloft in person to the main truck and look about you sharply. Come back and report what you see." "Yea, yea, sir," the young man replied, and with that he was gone. The captain stood by the cabin window and frowned. Plainly he had small confidence in the good faith of the prisoner and regarded his story as at best an attempt to save himself at the expense of his friends. The gentleman of the humours, somewhat sobered by the captain's manner of grave concern, returned to his desk, but sat tapping his fingers and watching Philip Marsham. It had instantly, of course, dawned upon the runaway boatswain that his peril was more serious than he had had reason earlier to believe. For supposing the unknown sail should in all truth be the Rose of Devon,—and since she was cruising idly thereabouts nothing was more probable,—he stood between the Devil, or at all events the Devil's own emissary, Thomas Jordan, and a deeper sea than any ship has ever sailed: the sea upon which many a man with less plain evidence of piracy against him has embarked from a yardarm with a hempen collar about his neck and a black cap over his eyes. Who, pray, would accept for sober truth such a tale as any scoundrel would make out of whole cloth to save himself from hanging? Despite all he could do or say, he now saw plainly, he must stand convicted, in their minds, of being at the very least a spy sent to learn the state of affairs on board this tall ship in which he was now a prisoner. Then back to the cabin came young Mr. Rance and very much excited did he appear. "Sir," he exclaimed, and stood in the door. "Tell your tale." "A ship lieth two cable's lengths from land on the farther side of the point, and a boat hath set out from her and is following the shore as if to reconnoitre." "Ah," said the captain, "it is quite as I thought. No drums, mind you, nor trumpets, Mr. Rance. Call the men to quarters by word of mouth. Make haste and put springs on the cables if there be time before the boat rounds the point. Bid the gunner make all preparations for action and order a sharp watch kept; but order also that there be no sound or appearance of unusual activity. Send me a corporal and a file of men, and the master." The gentleman at the desk chuckled. "Come, boy, clear the table," said the captain. The boy jumped and returned to his work. The master came first, but the corporal and his men were close at the master's heels. "Take this fellow to the gun room, clap him into irons, and set a man to watch him." "Yea, yea. Come, fellow, march along." And thus sending before them Boatswain Marsham, erstwhile of the Rose of Devon frigate, the corporal and his men departed from the cabin. There were guns on the right hand and the left—ordnance of a size to sink the Rose of Devon with a broadside. There were sailormen thronging between-decks in numbers to appall the young prisoner who came down among them nearly naked from his swim. Though no greater of burthen than the Rose of Devon, the ship was better armed and better manned, and all signs told of the stern discipline of a man-of-war. The alternatives that Phil Marsham faced, as he sat in shackles with no spirit to reply to the jibes of the sailors and watched men stripped to the waist and moving deftly among the guns, were not those a man would choose. If his old shipmates took this tall and handsome ship, a blow on the head and a burial over the side was the kindest treatment he could expect of them. And if not—the gallows loomed beyond a Court of Admiralty. For hours the hum of voices went up and down the main deck and for hours Boatswain Marsham sat with the bolts upon his legs and wrists and saw the life of the ship go on around him. The men leaped here and there at a word, or lolled by their guns waiting for orders. The night wore on, and nodding, Phil thought of the two ships lying one on each side of the point of land and by all appearances two quiet merchantmen. Yet one, he knew to his sorrow, smelled devilishly of brimstone; and the other, in which he now sat a prisoner, though her ports were closed and her claws sheathed, was like some great tiger watching through half-shut eyes a bold, adventurous goat. As the night wore on, he dared hope that the reconnoitering boat had returned to her ship with news that had sent her away in haste, whereby there was a chance that his tale might yet be taken for the truth that it was; and the longer he waited the higher rose his hope, and with the better reason. But an hour or more after midnight he heard men beginning to talk as if there was something new in the wind, and the nearest gunner put his ear to a cat-hole. "The dogs are out; I hear oars," he whispered. "Yea, though they are rowing softly, I swear I can hear oars." A hush came over the ship and those below heard faintly a hail given on deck. Distant sounds came and went like whispers out of the sky, then somewhere outside the ship a great shouting arose and one of the men at a starboard gun cried gleefully, with a round oath, "Verily they are bent on boarding us, lads! Their foolish audacity seasons the term of all our weary waiting." "Hark! They are hailing!" cried another. "Come, strike your flag. Have an end of all this talk," a distant voice called. Whereat Philip Marsham, who knew the voice, thought that though their audacity cost him his life it was in its own mad way superb. The reply was inaudible below, but a boat crashed against the ship. There was a burst of yelling, followed by a rattle of musketry, then a voice boomed down, "Haul up your ports and run out your guns!" At that the men beside the guns sprang up with running and calling and the ports flew open and the sounds from without became suddenly louder and clearer. On the one hand were boys handing up filled budge-barrels; on the other were gunners with linstocks ready and powder for the priming. Then, "Ho, Master Gunner," a great voice roared, "withhold your fire! The boats are under the guns and too near for a fair shot!" It was such a moment as a man remembers always, for there was the smoke of powder in the air, with a din of splashing and cursing, and overhead a great hubbub, then silence save for the quick beat of oars. "See! See!" cried the men. "There go their boats, splintered and all but sunk! And see! There go ours! To your oars, lads, to your oars, ere their ship hath time to flee! See! There they go! Yea, and there go we!" The Old One had made his last blunder. He had come by night, thinking to board a peaceful merchantman laden with a rich cargo, and had found himself at the head of his score of men on the deck of a man-of-war. To all those below, but most of all to Philip Marsham chained in the gun room, it was a blind, confusing affair; but the sounds told the story; and though darkness hid the blood that was spilled, there was no mistaking the cries for quarter and the shrieks of agony. Nor was there need for haste to reach the Rose of Devon, since the men left as keepers of the ship were too few to make sail. Captain Charles Winterton of the King's navy himself boarded the dark frigate by starlight, and a capital lark he found it, for behind his stern mien was a lively taste for such adventure. With lusty shouting he swept the handful of men from her deck, and having put a prize crew and his lieutenant in charge of her, he brought back a few more prisoners to join company with the luckless boarders he had sent down to be locked in irons below. They were sad and angry gentlemen, for there are those to whom the laughter of a hundred sailors is worse than death by the sword. The first of them all to enter the gun room was Tom Jordan. His cheek was gashed and his hair was singed and blood smeared his shirt from shoulder to shoulder and one arm hung limp and broken; but though he was in great pain he smiled, and when they led him into the gun room and he saw Philip Marsham with bolts on wrists and ankles, he laughed aloud. The fellow was a very mark and pattern of a scoundrel, but he had the courage and spirit of a hero, and had he first gone to sea under another king than James or Charles he might in some overwhelming danger have saved England. Great admirals are made of such timber—bold, resolute, utterly dauntless—and any bold man might have fallen into the same trap that had caught Tom Jordan. (Nay, had nothing warned Captain Winterton or aroused his suspicions, there was a fighting chance for Tom Jordan to have taken his ship from him even so.) But Tom Jordan had gone to sea in the days when the navy was going to the dogs, and, like many another lad of spirit who left the King's service to join the pirates, he had adventured with the Algerians before he led the gentlemen of Bideford. And at last, hazarding a final effort to retrieve his luck, he had unwittingly thrust his head into the halter. Yet, though they had broken his body, they had failed to touch his courage; despite his pain, he could smile and even laugh. Turning his great grief into a jest, he cried, "Holla, O bravest of boatswains! This is a joy I had not looked for. It seems that, if hang I must, I shall not hang alone." And laughing again, right merrily, he swooned away, which Captain Charles Winterton, having himself come down with the others to see them all shackled, watched with quiet interest. They brought down the carpenter, who was shaking like a man with an ague, and his beard waggled as he shook. They brought down Martin Barwick, whose face was drawn and haggard, and his hand rubbed his throat, for it itched in a prophetic manner. Then came Harry Malcolm, who stopped before Phil and spat at him and cursed him, and Paul Craig, who had neither eye nor thought for any one besides himself, and a dozen others of whom there was not one that failed to revile at their erstwhile boatswain. A hapless time of it Philip Marsham had among them, but it added little to his great burden of misery. Nor, for the matter of that, did reviling content them; for toward morning, when the others were dozing, Harry Malcolm, whom they had locked to a longer chain, crawled over to where Phil lay and very craftily tried to kill him with bare hands. The guard cried out, but instead of stopping, the man redoubled his efforts to throttle the lad whom he had seized from behind when he was asleep; whereupon the guard struck a sharp blow with the butt of his musket, and when the corporal had come running and had felt of Harry Malcolm's wrist and had listened for his heart and had turned him over on his back, he cursed the guard with fluent oaths for robbing the gallows. CHAPTER XXI ILL WORDS COME TRUE To the Isle of Wight, and thence to Spithead and Deptford, came in time the Sybil of forty-four guns, Captain Charles Winterton, and accompanying her, in the hands of a prize crew, the Rose of Devon frigate. There, bundling certain unhappy gentlemen of fortune out of the ship, they sent them expeditiously up to London and deposited them for safe keeping in the Marshalsea prison, a notable hostelry which has harboured great rogues before and since. In the fullness of time, the Lord High Admiral of England, "who holds his court of justice for trials of all sea causes for life and goods," being assisted by the Judge of Admiralty and sundry others, officers and advocates and proctors and civilians, was moved to proceed against the aforesaid gentlemen of fortune. So they heard their names cried in the High Court of Admiralty and were arraigned for piracy and robbery on the high seas and charged with seizing the frigate Rose of Devon, the property of Thomas Ball and others, and murdering her master, Francis Candle, and stealing supplies and equipment to the value of eight hundred pounds. Nor was that the whole tale of charges, for it seemed that the Lords of Admiralty laid to the discredit of those particular gentlemen of fortune numerous earlier misdeeds of great daring and wickedness and an attempt to take His Majesty's ship Sybil, which had cost the lives of certain of His Majesty's seamen and had occasioned His Majesty much grief and concern. He who read the indictment spoke in a loud and solemn voice, such as might of itself make a man think of his sins and fear judgment; but they were already cowed and fearful, save only the Old One, who still held his head high and very scornfully smiled. The cook bent his head and shivered and dared not look the jury in the face. The carpenter wept and Martin Barwick was like a man struck dumb and Paul Craig kept working his mouth and biting at his lips. There was a great concourse of people, for who would not seize upon the chance to see a band of pirates? But a very poor show the pirates made, save the Old One; for though they had talked much and often of their valour and had represented themselves as tall fellows who feared nothing in life or death, they were now and for all time revealed as cowards to the marrow of their bones. Quietly and expeditiously the officers of the Court swore their first witness, who smelled of pitch and tar and bore himself in such wise that he was to be known for a sailor wherever he might turn. To their questions he replied with easy assurance, for he was not one of those fellows who cope with great gales and storms at sea only to be cowed by a great person on land. "Yea, sir," quoth he, "there is among mariners common talk of a band of sea sharks that hath long resorted to His Majesty's port of Bideford. Yea, my lord.—And have I met with them? That I have, and to my sorrow. This month two years I was master in a likely snow, the Prosperous of three hundred tons, which fell afoul of that very company, as their boasting and talk discovered to us, who took our ship and set me adrift in a boat with seven of mine own men, whereby, God being merciful unto us, we succeeded after many hardships in winning to the shore of Ireland, whence the Grace of Bristol bore us home to England.—The fate of the others in our company? In faith, some, I am told, joined themselves with that same band of sea sharks. The rest were slaughtered out of hand.—Nay, my lord, the night was black and my sight of the scoundrels was brief. I much misdoubt if I should know them again." "Come, come," quoth His Lordship, tapping the papers spread on his great table, "look at these prisoners gathered here at the bar and tell me if there be one among them of whom you can say, 'This man was there; this man did thus and so.'" So the witness came, with the air of a man who is pleased to be seen of many people, and looked them over, one and all; but at the end of his looking he sadly shook his head. "Nay, my lord, the night was dark and sight was uncertain; and though I should rejoice—none more than I!—to see a pirate hanged, I am most loath to swear away the life of an innocent man. There is no man here of whom I can truly say I have seen him before." His Lordship frowned and the proctors shook their heads; the prisoners sighed and breathed more freely. The tale was at an end, and bearing away with him his smell of pitch and tar the fellow returned to his place. Four witnesses were then summoned, one after another, and told tales like the first. One had been in a ship that was seized and sunk in Bristol Channel; the second had received a gaping wound in the shoulder off St. David's Head, and had known no more until he found himself alone on the deck of a plundered flyboat; the third had fallen into evil company in Plymouth, which beat him and robbed him and left him for dead, and from the talk of his murderous companions he had learned, before they set upon him that they were certain gentry of Bideford; and the last of the four told of the murderous attack of a boarding party, which had taken a brig and tumbled him over the side into a boat. "Yea, my lord," he cried, "and I fear to think upon what befell our captain's little son, for of all our crew only three men were left alive and as they sailed away from us three we heard the boy shrieking pitifully." One by one the witnesses wove with their tales a black net of wickedness, but they could not or would not say they knew this prisoner or that. The Judge frowned darkly from his bench and the people in the seats opened their mouths in wonder and excitement at the stories of robbery and murder. But the net was woven loosely and without knots, for thus far there had been no one to pick out this man or that and say, "It was he who did it." So the cook and the carpenter took heart; and the colour returned to Martin Barwick's face; and the Old One, leaning back, still smiled scornfully. Yet the Judge and the advocates seemed in no way discouraged, from which the men of the Rose of Devon might have drawn certain conclusions; for as all the world knows, judges and advocates with a band of pirates under the thumb are, for the honour of the law, set upon making an example of them. There was long counselling in whispers, then a bustle and stir, and an officer cried loudly, "Come, make haste and lead her in." A murmur passed over the court and the people turned their heads to look for the meaning of the cry. Then a door opened and an officer appeared, leading by the arm a very old woman. Phil Marsham felt his heart leap up; he saw Martin raise his hand to his throat with a look of horror. But when he stole a glance at the Old One, he saw, to his wonder, that the Old One was smiling as calmly as before: truly the man was a marvel of unconcern and a very cool and desperate rascal. "Is this the woman?" quoth my Lord the Judge, who raised his head and lifted his brows to see her the better. "Yea, my lord." "Hm! Let us look into this matter!" There was silence in the room except for the sound of shuffling papers. "This woman, commonly known as Mother Taylor, is to be hanged this day sennight, I believe." "Yea, my lord." "And it hath been suggested that if she can lay before us such evidence as is needful, she will be commended to the King's mercy and doubtless reprieved from the gallows. Hath all this been made plain and clear to her?" "Yea, my lord." "Hm! It appears by these papers, woman, that keeping a house to which rogues of all descriptions have resorted is the least of your crimes." A strange, cracked old voice burst shrilly upon the still court. "'Tis a lie, my lord! Alas, my lord, that wicked lies should take away my good name, and I tottering on the edge of the grave!" There were cries of "Silence!" And the officer at the old woman's side shook her by the arm. "And to continue from the least to the greatest, you have disposed of all manner of stolen goods, and have prepared slow poisons to be sold at a great price and have stained your hands with murder." "Alas, my lord, it is a wicked lie—!" They shook her into silence, but her lips continued to move, and as she stood between the officers her sharp little eyes ranged about the court. There was further counselling among the proctors, then one cried sharply, "Come, old woman, remember that the hangman is ready to don his gown, and answer me truly before it is too late: on such and such a day you were at your house in Bideford, were you not?" "Nay, sir, I am old and my wits are not all they were once and I cannot remember as I ought." "Come, now, on such a day, did not a certain man come to your house in Bideford and abide there the night?" "It may be—it may be—for one who keepeth a tavern hath many guests." "Look about you, old woman, and tell us if you see the man." "Nay, good sir, my wits wander and I do not remember as I used." As Philip Marsham watched her hard face, so very old and crafty, he paid little heed to the low voices of the proctors and the Judge. But the sharp command, "Look this man in the face and tell us if you have ever seen him before," came to the erstwhile boatswain of the Rose of Devon like the shock of cold water to a man lying asleep. They led her before Tom Jordan—before the Old One himself—and the two looked each other full in the face, yet neither fluttered an eye. In all truth they were a cool pair; it had taken a Solomon to say which of them was now the subtler. "Nay, my lord, how should I know this man? He hath the look of an honest fellow, my lord, but I never saw him ere this." Thereupon the officers exchanged glances and the proctors whispered together. They led her before Martin Barwick and again she shook her old white head. "Nay, my lord, I know him not." But Martin was swallowing hard, as if some kind of pip had beset him, and this did not escape the notice of the Court. Down the line of accused men she came and, though she walked in the shadow of the gallows, she said of each, in her shrill, quavering old voice, "Nay, my lord, I know him not." Of some she spoke thus in all truth; of others, though she knew it would cost her life, she craftily and stoutly lied. And at last she came to Philip Marsham, whose heart chilled when he met the sharp eyes that had looked so hard into his own in Bideford long before. "Nay, my lord, he is a handsome blade, but I never saw him ere this." Some smiled and sniggered; but the old woman shrugged, and lifted her brows, and stood before the Court, wrinkled and bent by years of wickedness. Say what you will of her sins, her courage and loyalty were worthy of a better cause. In despair of pinning her down, they led her away at last to a bench and there she sat with officers to guard her. Now she watched one man and now she watched another. Often Philip Marsham felt a tremor, almost of fear, at seeing her eyes looking hard into his own. But though of the old woman the Court had made nothing, the exultation that showed in the faces of some of the prisoners was premature, for the Lords of Admiralty had other shafts to their bow, as any gentleman of fortune might have known they would. Again there was a stir among the ushers, and in the door appeared one at whose coming Tom Jordan ceased to smile.

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