“Well…” Mr. Kenny rested his head on his shriveled hands. Reuben had drawn up a chair to sit by him at the desk, unbidden except by a silent glance that Ben had seen. Lounging across the room, Ben felt the coolness of the light, always dusty in this small office, pouring over their faces, the old man and the boy, the sick man and the well-meaning officer of the law. The stirring of pain within himself was so vague he could not know whether it was a foolish jealousy because Uncle John had sent that message to Reuben and not to him, or merely that unreasonable stab of loneliness which may assail any person at certain times. “Well,” said Mr. Kenny, “I see no profit in summoning the watch. I take it, Mr. Derry, you’ve told us everything Mr. Dyckman was able to say before he died?”
“I think so, sir. Sadly little, seeing he was in the last extremity. He spoke his name, he begged to be taken to Captain Jenks. All of the men, sir, heard him say: ‘God’s will be done!’ And as they were endeavoring to lift him, Mr. Dyckman did speak some word of his wife and children, but the men could scarce hear it, and that was all.”
Ben fidgeted. He knew he should have spoken during the journey from Roxbury; Charity’s distracted presence had restrained him. When they left her at home and the Captain took her place in the coach, certainly he ought to have spoken. Captain Jenks had made a difficult and vaguely courageous thing of the journey from the house steps to the coach, winning each step like an old man, his face rigid, red and terrible. Waiting in the coach and looking the other way, Uncle John had murmured to Ben: “Don’t offer your hand to aid him into the seat.” And once the Captain was installed there, Ben had barely room to breathe, let alone speak. But now in the slightly less crowded office he managed to blurt out: “Uncle John.…”
The old man looked up at him dimly, and Reuben searched him with a gaze of intentness like a sword. Malachi Derry wheeled about to observe him with that kind of tight patience that operates like a thumb in the eye. Captain Jenks alone paid him no attention; earlier he had acknowledged Ben’s existence with a grunt, Reuben’s not at all.
“Yes, Ben?” said Uncle John.
“I saw Mr. Dyckman yesterday evening. I ought to have spoke sooner, but didn’t wish to distress little Charity further.” They simply waited; even Captain Jenks was looking at him now, his attention caught perhaps by Charity’s name. “I met Mr. Shawn by chance, and he seemed to wish my company, so we went to dine at—I think the Lion is the name of it, a tavern on Ship Street.”
“Well, young man,” said Mr. Derry, “I know the place, the which—”
Jenks interrupted as if Derry were a plaguy noise in the street: “Shawn? Who a devil’s name is Shawn?”
Mr. Kenny said rather sharply: “I know him, Peter. Let the boy tell it. Why—you met Mr. Shawn yourself, I remember, the afternoon you came ashore. He was with us at the wharf.”
“Oh, that—yah.” Jenks rubbed his face wearily and subsided.
“Go on, Ben.”
“Well, sir, only that Mr. Dyckman came to that tavern while we were there, and was drinking rum with the new bosun Tom Ball, and—had evidently been drinking already for some time. He was very foxed.”
“Jan Dyckman? Are you certain, Ben?”
“Of course, sir. Mr. Shawn noticed it too. I had the thought he might wish me to introduce him to Mr. Dyckman, but Mr. Shawn said nay, let it be another time, for Mr. Dyckman was not himself. In fact, Uncle John, he looked directly at me without recognition, though he knows me well enough. Knew me, I suppose I must say.”
Captain Jenks was staring down into his hands as if wondering why they were empty. To them he said ponderously: “Jan seldom drank, and when he did could always hold his liquor like a man. Shit, I don’t believe it.”
“Peter, my boy Benjamin is not an inventor of tales.”
“Tell him,” said Jenks—Ben might have been in Roxbury—“tell him to spend more time with the futtering books, and less with silver-tongued bloody idlers and Irish at that.”
“Mr. Jenks”—that was Reuben, an ugly softness such as Ben had never before heard in his light adolescent baritone—“you are doing an injustice, to my brother certainly, and perhaps to Mr. Shawn.”
Jenks turned slowly to examine him, as one who wished to ask: Who a devil’s name are you? Beside Reuben’s cold furious face was the waiting quiet of Mr. Kenny. The Captain’s wrath appeared to fade, a fire he could not be troubled to sustain. “D’you tell me the same, John?”
“I do.”
“Then I am sorry, and will retract what I said, and hope no offense was taken.”
“None, sir,” said Ben quickly, inwardly very greatly offended; but Peter Jenks was Faith’s father, and was at present (as Uncle John would have said) not his own man.
Mr. Derry, evidently fatigued from the labor of saying nothing, now mildly and respectfully asked: “Had you more to tell, Mr. Cory?”
“There was one thing,” said Ben, but stopped at a knocking on the office door, and after a nod from Uncle John opened it.
Daniel Shawn was very clean, fresh, brisk. He smiled at Ben, not with any smirk of conspiracy or other reminder of the night, but openly and amiably. “Good morning, Ben—but it’s not the good morning, now that’s no lie.” He turned at once to Mr. Kenny. “Sir, don’t be slow to tell me if I intrude. I heard, sir—the water front is talking of nothing else the day. I wished to say, if there be anything I might do, I owe you some service, Mr. Kenny, if only for your kindness and hospitality the other night, and you may call on me for anything it’s in my power to do at all.”
“That’s kind,” said Mr. Kenny vaguely.
Mr. Derry got his legs loose at last, and moved to lean against the door, by that rambling action somehow making them all his prisoners of the moment. The room had been crowded before—Captain Jenks made any closed space seem so; now, with Daniel Shawn lean and large in his green coat, and Mr. Derry obscurely grown in stature, the little place was stifling as a shut box. “Who are you, sir?”
“Daniel Shawn, seaman. And you?”
“I am Malachi Derry, and Constable. Your name was mentioned but now, Mr. Shawn. I understand you dined yesterday evening with Mr. Cory here, at the Lion Tavern on Ship Street?”
“Oh, I did that,” said Mr. Shawn lightly. “And later, Mr. Kenny, I feared maybe I had presumed, but sir, the boy and I were both at a loose end, you might say, and most pleasant conversation we had, and no harm in it, I hope?”
“Oh, none,” said John Kenny, groping at something in his mind. “I wish Ben might have let me know, but that’s unreasonable of me, for I don’t know how he could, seeing I left early for Roxbury. Ben, you had something more to tell?”
“Yes, and I’m glad Mr. Shawn is here, for he’ll remember it too. There was a man seated at the back of the tavern when Mr. Shawn and I went in, a total stranger, a one-eyed man I’d know again if I saw him, no matter how far away, and—oh, it can’t be important, only a feeling I had—”
“Now I will judge of that,” said Malachi Derry, and came alive, leaning away from the door with the sudden monstrous tension of a cat who has just sighted a wriggle in the grass. “A one-eyed man?”
“Ay, a black patch, over the left eye. And the only reason I mention him, sir, is that when Mr. Dyckman and Ball left the place, this man rose at once and followed them out, but until then he had been sitting idle with the flies gathered on his empty trencher, and when I first saw him I had a feeling that he was—oh, waiting for something.”
Captain Jenks shook his head in grim disgust.
“The left eye, Mr. Cory? You are certain?”
“Yes, Mr. Derry, the left eye. He was—not the common sort. I’d know him again, anywhere. Shabby clothes, black, patched. Tall, thin, a gray diagonal scar across the back of his right hand, and on his face a mad fixed smile such as I never saw on any man before.”
“Oh, come!” said Captain Jenks. “May we not have the precise height of this hobgoblin, in inches and fractions?”
John Kenny said carefully: “Mr. Derry, I have sometimes walked with Ben in the woods. Though an old man, I did not know until then how much the human eye can grasp.” Ben warmed within; he saw Reuben smile as if the small triumph were his own. “You may take it, Mr. Derry, it was the left eye, and with this pencil—catch, Ben!—he can draw you an accurate sketch of the diagonal scar.”
“No need,” said Mr. Derry softly, examining the ceiling, a little relaxed. “I happen to know of mine own knowledge, the description is just.” His gaze wandered here and there, and settled on Daniel Shawn. “Did you also see this man?”
Shawn considered with gravity. “I think I noticed some such person when we entered. I recall I sat facing the front of the tavern. I didn’t notice him leaving, but if it’s Beneen says he left soon after Mr. Dyckman, then sure he did.”
“But,” said Ben—“oh, I remember. When he passed our table, Mr. Shawn, you’d just then leaned to the fireplace, and likely never saw him. One other thing I remember, Mr. Derry—nay, but it was only a feeling of mine, and of no importance—”
“Tell me anyway,” said the Constable.
“Why, only that when he passed our table, he looked at me, just one quick look from his one eye, and—I can’t explain this, Mr. Derry. He did nothing, you understand, only glanced at me and likely with no thought for me at all, and yet I felt as if he’d spat in my face.”
“Ay, that,” said Constable Derry as if he found nothing strange in it at all, and Ben looked down at the little pencil in his fingers, wondering why Daniel Shawn should suddenly be angry with him. Not anger perhaps; only something probingly cold and measuring in the large blue eyes. It could not really be so, Ben thought. Or if it was so, then it meant that Shawn was hurt or offended because Ben had run away without waiting for him from Mistress Gundy’s house.…
* * * *
Reuben watched the glittery ink-blots of Mr. Derry’s little brown eyes; heavy brows above them danced for Reuben’s troubled amusement like busy moths. “Another name was mentioned—a new bosun, Tom Ball—will that mean bosun of your ketch Artemis, Mr. Kenny? And could you or the Captain tell me anything of him?”
“I’ve met him only to shake hands. Peter?”
“Good sailor,” said Captain Jenks thickly. “Obeys orders, works hard, keeps his mouth shut—more’n that I never ask of my men.”
Except, Reuben thought, their souls and their lives. But how can a captain demand less than that even if he would? Reuben tried to put the thought away, and succeeded, because now every nerve of observation in him had grown taut to the edge of agony, and the focal point was not Captain Jenks. Something in this crowded room was wrong as a rattlesnake in a flower bed. It became a severe effort not to look toward the blue eyes of Daniel Shawn. Reuben forced his attention back to what the Constable was saying—something more about Tom Ball, maybe not important. “Another thing, Mr. Kenny, and I’ll be on my way. Have you ever heard tell of one named Jack Marsh, or some say it should be Judah Marsh, or Judas?”
“Why, that name—it doth echo somewhere.…
“Think back, sir, ten or eleven years. Eleven it is—’96. An occasion when a certain Captain Avery, or Every, alias Bridgeman and sometimes called Long Ben, was allowed to enter Boston, and that openly, to dicker for the sale of his plunder gotten under the black flag. To the great scandal, I must say, of any man who can tell a privateer from a gallows-bird, but so it was, Mr. Stoughton being acting Governor.”
Mr. Kenny peered down his nose with the lopsided half of a smile, perhaps suspecting Mr. Derry of humorous intent in linking holy Stoughton with dreadful Avery. Malachi Derry appeared quite innocent. “Mph, yes, and m’lord Bellomont as Governor had his Captain Kidd, yes yes. Of course, Mr. Derry, I remember Avery, as who would not?”
“We suffered much odious brawling in the town by Avery’s men.”
“I recall it.”
“One of them, known then as Judah or Judas Marsh, did have his left eye gouged out in a brush with—umph—some of the ruder element.” A glint in the brown eyes suggested he might not be wholly innocent after all. “It happened near my establishment, though I didn’t witness it.”
“And I recall the roustabout who blinded him was flogged, and Marsh—(but wasn’t it March, Mr. Derry?)—nursed the wound at the Alms House as an idle, drunken and disorderly person.”
“And escaped.”
“Oh?—that I’d forgotten. So many have done so, and we still continue to use the Alms House, damn the thing, because the House of Correction is not in fit posture to restrain ailing rats. And by the way, Constable, if the Meeting shall ever instruct the Selectmen and Justices in this particular, I predict nothing will come of it. Go on, pray.”
“Amen, sir. Yes, Marsh escaped after Captain Avery had gone his way. Later Marsh was seen, oh, here and there—Plymouth, Salem Village—alway with an evil reputation. And disappeared—for good, it was thought—about the time we began to hear tell of John Quelch. A month ago I received intelligence from a worthy man of my acquaintance at Gloucester, who is a justice of the peace and a man of substance.” Mr. Derry swelled comfortably and brushed lint from his jacket, applying the pressure of a genial silence.
John Kenny said reminiscently: “I was obliged to serve a year once as constable, at Roxbury—mph—must confess that lieth further in the past than 1696. Onerous occupation.” He smiled like a December thaw. Mr. Derry looked politely attentive and slightly sulky. Mr. Kenny sighed and obliged: “You heard, from your friend at Gloucester—?”
“I heard that this man Marsh—sometimes his name did appear as March, it’s all one—had been hanging about there recent, seeking a berth with one of the fishing vessels, but because of his foul conversation and ugly habit, none would have him. My informant advised me that Marsh had left, possibly for Boston, and recommended I be watchful, seeing trouble follows this man as stink follows a polecat. Marsh, I hear, is quick with a knife, and nowadays they do call him Smiling Jack. I believe, sir, that thanks to this timely aid from Mr. Cory, we may be able to conclude the grievous happening of last night by persuading Mister Marsh to dance without benefit of a floor.”
“Still, what do we know, man?” Mr. Kenny bleakly asked. “Item, he left the tavern when Dyckman did. Any man might have done so for any of a dozen innocent reasons.”
Mr. Derry smiled slowly, reached in the air for an imaginary throat, twisted it, wiped his hand lingeringly on his breeches. “Mr. Kenny, if Marsh be found anywhere in the town, I can detain and question him. Why, I dare say he’ll be found before Mr. Dyckman must be buried. He shall be brought before the body, and does any man doubt the wounds will bleed?”
“May I be there!” said Captain Jenks to his tremendous hands.
Reuben felt a new sort of sternness in his great-uncle as the small old man leaned far over the desk. “Peter.” He waited until the Captain turned to look at him. “Peter, I will not delay the sailing of Artemis. When she hath her cargo and her complement, and the tide is right, she’ll go, sir, and landside justice no concern of hers.”
“Well, John—” Captain Jenks sighed cavernously. “Well, John.…” For the dozenth time he rubbed at his flushed face as if cobwebs clung to it; his gaze wandered until it met Constable Derry’s, and then he spoke more or less as to a friend: “Find him soon, Constable.”
Daniel Shawn had stepped to the window, a little behind Mr. Kenny. Reuben could see him, his gaunt and handsome face staring away through the smeary glass. “It’s the hard thing such a man as Mr. Dyckman should die, and for what? The poor scrap of money he may have had with him—what’s money beside a man’s life, Mother of God?”
Nobody answered him. To the Captain Mr. Derry said: “I expect to find him soon enough,
and you have the right to be present when he’s examined. You understand, sir, there’ll be no interference with the law, no cheating of the gallows, for except I be strangely deluded, the man will hang.” Malachi Derry bowed to the room at large and moved to the door on the balls of his feet.
“And that no great loss, I suppose,” said Mr. Kenny. A tumbling of disorderly papers on the desk had threatened to submerge his gold-headed cane. He rescued it and rubbed the handle, that was shaped into an elfin woman’s leg and thigh, against the dry sagging skin beneath his jaw. “But Jan will still be dead.”
Stooping for a passage of the doorway, Mr. Derry paused to stare in disapproval. “Mr. Kenny, surely you, sir, will not display a froward heart before the will of the Lord? We are insects before his footstool: we do what we may, more we cannot. Is it for us to question the judgment? Did not your friend himself commend his soul to God? He said: ‘God’s will be done!’ Amen.”
“I am sure he said it.” Mr. Kenny gazed at the Constable politely. “Mr. Dyckman was a Lutheran, by the way. If you find Marsh, and if his guilt be proven on him, I shall not protest his being hanged, or hanged, drawn and quartered since that ever pleaseth the multitude, and left on the handiest gallows Boston can provide, as a plain apodeixis”—Mr. Derry winced and looked largely wise—“a veritable indicium of human justice. Good morning, Mr. Derry.”
Reuben heard through the opened door into the warehouse the boom of rolling barrels, thud of boxes, metallic clang of large voices echoing back from barren walls. Artemis was filling her hold with a cargo of salt cod for Bridgetown in Barbados. Word of the death had occasioned a pause in the clamor earlier in the morning; a short one: commerce and the seasons don’t wait. The warehouse, Reuben thought, was a roaring djinn, the ships its only masters; it could pause in its thundering activity if someone died, as a giant might hesitate at the squeak of something under his foot, but not for long. Within him a cool voice remarked that a simile was a mischancy nag to ride—ride him easy.… He saw Ben lean down, returning that pencil to the desk, and Ben was evidently doing battle with some private unease. It was necessary, Reuben reflected with some coolness of his own, to talk with Ben as soon as they could be alone together, if only to learn what it was about yesterday evening that Ben had not told.… Outside, Mr. Derry’s voice rumbled: “Yes, Mr. Eames, he’s within, but engaged.”
The Edgar Pangborn Megapack Page 85
