Poison Island

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE HUNTED AND THE HUNTER.

  All the drunkenness had gone out of Captain Danny. Gripping my arm,he steered me rapidly through the knots of loafers, up Market Strandinto the crowded Fore Street, across it and up the hill towards opencountry, taking the ascent with long strides which forced me now andagain into a run. Twice or thrice I glanced up at his face, for Iwas scared, and badly scared. His mouth worked, and I observed smallbeads of sweat on his shaven upper lip; but he kept his eyes fastenedstraight ahead, and paid no heed to me.

  At the head of the street the town melted off into a suburb ofscattered houses, modest domiciles of twenty-five pounds or thirtypounds rentals, detached, each with its garden and narrowgarden-door, for Falmouth in those days boasted few carriage-folk.He paused once hereabouts, in the roadway between two walls, andstood listening, while his right hand trembled on his stick; butpresently gripped my arm again and hurried me forward, nor halteduntil we reached the summit, and the open country lay before us, withthe Channel and its long horizon on our left. Here, in a cornfieldon the very knap of the hill, and some two hundred yards back fromthe road, stood the shell of an old windmill, overlooking the sea--deserted, ruinous, without sails, a building many hundreds of yearsolder than the oldest house in Falmouth, serving now but as alandmark for fishermen, and on Sundays a rendezvous for courtingcouples. At the stile leading into the cornfield, Captain Coffinreleased me, climbed over, hurried up the footpath to the windmill,and, having satisfied himself that the building was empty, motionedme to seat myself on the side where its long shadow pointed downacross a bank of nettles, and beyond the edge of the green youngbarley sheeting the slope towards the harbour.

  "Brooks," he began--but his voice rattled like a dried pea in a pod,and he had to moisten his under-lip with his tongue before he couldproceed--"Brooks, are you in any way a superstitious kind o' boy?"

  "That depends, sir," said I, diplomatically.

  "After all these years, too," he groaned, "an' agen' all likelihoodo' natur'. But you saw him--hey? You heard what he said, an' thatcussed song, too? Sang it, he did; slapped it out at the top of hisvoice in a public tavern. I tell you, Brooks--knowin' what _he_knows--a man must have all hell runnin' cold in him to sing themwords aloud an' not care who heard."

  "Why, he sang but a line of it," said I, "and that harmless enough,though dismal."

  "Is that so, lad--is that so?" Captain Danny put out a hand like abird's claw and hooked me by the cuff. "Wasn' there nothing in itabout Execution Dock; nothing about ripe medlars--'medlars a-rottin'on the tree'? No?"--for I shook my head. "Well, then, I could besworn I heard him singin' them words for minutes, an' me sittin' allthe while wi' the horrors on me afore I dared look in his damnedface. An' you tell me he piped but a line of it?" His eyes searchedmine anxiously. "Brooks," he went on, in a voice almost coaxing,"I'd give five hundred pound at this moment if you could look me inthe face an' tell me the whole scare was nothing but fancy--that _he_wasn't there!"

  His grasp relaxed as I shook my head again. Despair grew in hiseyes, and he pulled back his hand.

  "I'll put it to you another way," said he, after seeming to reflectfor a while. "Suppose there was a couple o' men mixed up in an uglyjob--by which I don't mean to say there was any real harm in thebusiness; leastways not to start with; but, as it went on, these twomen were forced to do something that brought them within reach o' thelaw. We'll put it that, when the thing was done, the one o' thispair felt it heavy upon his mind, but t'other didn' care no more thana brass button; an' the one that took it serious--as you might say--lost sight o' the other for years, an' meantime picked up with alittle religion, an' made oath with hisself that all the profits o'the job (for there were profits) should come into innocent hands--You catch on to this?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, then"--he leant forward, his palm resting amid a bed ofnettles. He did not appear to feel their sting, although, while hespoke, I saw the bark of his hand whiten slowly with blisters--"well, then, you can't go for to argue with me that the A'mightywould go for to strike the chap that repented by means o' the chapthat didn'. Tisn' reasonable nor religious to think such a thing--isit now?"

  "He might punish the one first," said I, judicially, "and keep theother--the wicked man--for a worse punishment in the end. A greatdeal," I added, "might depend on what sort of crime they'd committed.If 'twas a murder, now--"

  "Murder?" He caught me up sharply, and his eyes turned from watchingme, to throw a quick glance back along the footpath, then fastenedthemselves on the horizon. "Who's a-talkin' of any such thing?"

  "I was putting a case, sir--putting it as bad as possible.'Murder will out,' they say; but with smaller crimes it may bedifferent."

  "Murder?" He sprang up and began to pace to and fro. "How came thatin your head, eh?" He threw me a furtive sidelong look, and haltedbefore me mopping his forehead. "I'll tell you what, though: Murderthere'll be if you don't help me give that devil the slip."

  "But, sir, he never offered to follow you."

  "Because he reckoned I couldn' run--or wouldn', as I've never runfrom him yet. But with you in the secret I must give him leg-bail,no matter what it costs me. And, see here, Brooks: you're clever foryour age, an' I want your advice. In the first place, I daren't gohome; that's where he'll be watchin' for me sooner or later. Next,our plans ain't laid for startin' straight off--here as we be--an'givin' him the go-by. Third an' last, I daren't go carryin' thesecret about with me; he might happen on me any moment, an' I'm notin trainin'. The drink's done for me, boy, whereas _he_'ve beenfarin' hard an' livin' clean." Captain Coffin, with his hands deepin his pockets, stared down at the transport at anchor below, andbent his brows. "I can't turn it over to you, neither," he mused."That might ha' done well enough if he hadn' seen you in my company;but now we can't trust to it."

  He took another dozen paces forth and back, and halted before meagain.

  "Brooks," he said, "how about your father?"

  "The very man, sir," I answered; "that is, if you would trust him."

  "Cap'n Branscome tells me he's one in a thousand. I thought first o'Branscome, but there's folks as know about my goin' to him fornavigation lessons; an' if Glass got hold o' that, 'twould be a hotscent."

  "Glass?" I echoed.

  "That's his d--d name, lad--Aaron Glass; though he've passed underothers, and plenty of 'em, in his time. Well, now, if I can slip outo' Falmouth unbeknowns to him, an' win to your father--on thePlymouth road, I've heard you say and a little this side ofSt. Germans--"

  "You might walk over to Penryn and pick up the night coach."

  Captain Coffin shook his head as he turned out his pockets.

  "One shilling, lad, an' two ha'pennies. It won't carry me. An' Idaren' go home to refit; an' I daren' send _you_."

  "I could take a message to Captain Branscome," I suggested; "an' hemight fetch you the money, if you tell him where to look for it."

  "That's an idea," decided Captain Coffin, after a moment's thought.He unbuttoned his waistcoat, dived a hand within the breast of hisshirt, and pulled forth a key looped through with a tarry string.This string he severed with his pocket-knife. "Run you down to thecap'n's lodgings," said he, handing me the key, "an' tell him to gostraight an' unlock the cupboard in the cornder--the one wi' thetoolips painted over the door. You know it? Well, say that on thesecond shelf he'll find a small bagful o' money--he needn't stay tocount it--an' 'pon the same shelf, right back in the cornder, a rollo' papers. Tell him to keep the papers till he hears from me, butthe bag he's to give to you, an' you're to bring it along quick--_with_ the key. Mind, you're not to go with him on any account; an'if you should run against this Glass on your way, give him a wideberth--go straight home to Stimcoe's--do _anything_ but lay him on tomy trail by comin' back to tell me. Understand? There, now, hark tothe town clock chimin' below there! Six o'clock it is--four bells.If you're not back agen by seven I shall know what's happened an'take
steps accordin'. An' _you'll_ know that I'm on my way to yourfather by another tack. 'What tack?' says you. 'Never you mind,'says I. If the worst comes to the worst, old Dan Coffin has a shotleft in his locker."

  I took the key and ran. The alley where Captain Branscome lodged laya gunshot on this side of the Market Strand; and while I ran I kept--as the saying is--my eyes skinned for a sight of the enemy.The coast, however, was clear.

  But at Captain Branscome's door a wholly unexpected disappointmentawaited me. It was locked, and I had not hammered on its shiningbrass knocker before a neighbouring housewife put forth her head froma window in the gathering dusk, and informed me that the captain wasnot at home. He had gone out early in the afternoon, and left hisdoorkey with her, saying that he was off on a visit, and would notreturn before to-morrow afternoon at earliest. For a moment I wastempted to disobey Captain Danny's injunctions, and fetch the moneymyself, or at least make a bold attempt for it; but, recollecting howearnestly he had charged me, and how cheerfully at the last he hadassured me that he had still a shot in his locker, I turned andmounted the hill again, albeit dejectedly.

  The moon was rising as I climbed over the stile into the footpath,and, recognizing my footstep, the old man came forward to meet me,out of the shadow on the western side of the windmill, to which hehad shifted his watch.

  My ill-success, depressing enough to me, he took very cheerfully.

  "I was afraid," said he, "you might be foolin' off for the money onyour own account. Gone on a visit, has he? Well, you can hand himthe key to-morrow, with my message. An' now I'll tell you my nextnotion. The St. Mawes packet"--this was the facetious name given toa small cutter which plied in those days between Falmouth and thesmall village of St. Mawes across the harbour--"the St. Mawes packetis due to start at seven-thirty. I won't risk boardin' her at MarketStrand, but pick up a boat at Arwennack, an' row out to hail her asshe's crossin'. She'll pick me up easy, wi' this wind; but if shedon't, I'll get the waterman to pull me right across. Bogue, thelandlord of The Lugger over there, knows me well enough to lend meten shillin', an' wi' that I can follow the road through Tregony toSt. Austell, an' hire a lift maybe."

  I could not but applaud the plan. The route he proposed cut off acorner, led straight to Minden Cottage, and was at the same time theone on which he was least likely to be tracked. We descended thehill together, keeping to the dark side of the road. At the foot ofthe hill we parted, with the understanding that I was to run straighthome to Stimcoe's, and explain my absence at locking-up--or, as Mr.Stimcoe preferred to term it, "names-calling"--as best I might.

  Thereupon I did an incredibly foolish thing, which, as it proved,defeated all our plans and gave rise to unnumbered woes. I wasalready late for names-calling; but for this I cared little.Stimcoe had not the courage to flog me; the day had been a holiday,and of a sort to excuse indiscipline; and, anyway, one might as wellsuffer for a sheep as for a lamb. The St. Mawes packet would belying alongside the Market Strand. The moon was up--a round, fullmoon--and directly over St. Mawes, so that her rays fell, as near asmight be, in the line of the cutter's course, which, with a steadybreeze down the harbour, would be a straight one. From the edge ofMarket Strand I might be able to spy Captain Coffin's boat as heboarded. Let me, without extenuating, be brief over my act of folly.Instead of making at once for Stimcoe's, I bent my steps towardsMarket Strand. The St. Mawes packet lay there, and I stood on theedge of the quay, watching her preparations for casting off--theskipper clearing the gangway and politely helping aboard, between thewarning notes of his whistle, belated marketers who came running withtheir bundles.

  While I stood there, a man sauntered out and stood for a moment onthe threshold of the Plume of Feathers. It was the man Aaron Glass,and, recognizing him, I (that had been standing directly under thelight of the quay-lamp) drew back from the edge into the darkness.I had done better, perhaps, to stand where I was. How long he hadbeen observing me--if, indeed, he had observed me--I could not tell.But, as I drew back, he advanced and strolled nonchalantly past me,at five yards distance, down to the quay-steps.

  "All aboard for St. Mawes!" called the skipper, drawing in his plank.

  "All but one, captain!" answered Glass, and, disdaining it, withoutremoving his hands from his pockets, put a foot upon the bulwark andsprang lightly on to her deck.