The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  The bell tinkled. He heard footsteps descending the stairway, the rustle of a gown. Then men’s voices as the outer door was opened, one sharp, deep, and incisive, the other drawling. The Fosters had arrived.

  III

  Conspiracy

  Jim rose as the four entered the room. Kitty Whiting—her cousin had called her Kitty and Jim henceforth thought of her as that—had with feminine magic removed all traces of tears. It was plain that she was not on excessively friendly terms with her uncle by marriage. She treated her cousin, a blood relation, more affably, though Jim formed a dislike to Newton Foster at first sight, an antipathy that he immediately wrestled with. He seemed about the same age as Jim, he was undeniably handsome with his black hair and dark eyes, he was more than merely well dressed in light summer clothes with belt, silk shirt, and buckskin shoes, while he carried himself with an easy grace and assured manner coupled with a politeness that could not be challenged. He wore a somewhat bored expression that heightened as he was introduced to Jim, an introduction that he recognized with an informal nod and a slight raising of the eyebrows.

  Stephen Foster was the prosperous, confident man of business, inclined to stoutness. He wore a dark coat and striped flannels and carried a Panama hat. There was some resemblance to his son, but the warfare of commercial life, won by the shrewdness stamped upon his face, had left its marks upon him. His mouth was hard, his lips thin, closing when he delivered himself of any opinion—evidently considered by him the final word—like the slot of a letter box. His eyes were those of a man who has not considered the means to an end, who has matched craft with craft, and learned to keep his own counsel. They were hard as agate, expressionless as the eyes of a dead fish, though there was plenty of life and determination in them. He was clean-shaven, like his son, and the lines of his jaw proclaimed stubbornness. There was something catlike about him, Jim fancied, studying him; an overcare of his hands, a furtive tucking in of his thin lips in a smile that was covert, that hinted at a cruel streak somewhere in his nature. He treated Jim as he might a man applying to him for manual labor, an attitude which helped to color Jim’s impressions.

  At the outset he showed his attitude toward his niece’s views with an attempt at tolerance and sympathy that the girl evidently resented. He refused her offer of cigars.

  “Changed my brand for a lighter one, my dear,” he said, selecting one from a leather case while his son lit a cigarette. “Now then, tell me everything.”

  “You know all that I do,” she said. “And I realize that you think me foolish in believing dad still alive. But I do. And now I have something definite to work upon. It was good of you to come over. If Mr. Lyman does not mind repeating what he has told Lynda and me, perhaps that will be the simplest way. I will only say that it has determined me to go to the island of which he has the position and where he landed. You are interested in the returns of the expedition,” she added with a slight curl of her lip. “I should like to know if you will join me.”

  “And me,” said the spinster quietly. Kitty Whiting slid her hand into her cousin’s. “You had no idea I should permit you to go without me?” the latter asked. The elder Foster put up his hand deprecatingly.

  “We are going too fast,” he said. “I imagined you wished for my advice, for a man’s advice in this matter.” The girl nodded noncommittally. “Now then, my man.”

  Jim swallowed his gorge and began somewhat grimly. The “my man” attitude nettled him. He was emphatically his own man and intended to remain so. Foster was not the type he would have chosen for employer under any circumstances. And he listened with an increasing incredulity he took scant pains to conceal. As for the son, Jim fancied he saw his assumed boredom enlivened with some interest as the tale advanced. Several times he noticed Newton Foster observing Kitty Whiting closely. When he had finished, Stephen Foster lit a fresh cigar and smoked for a moment or two.

  “Those figures, the position of the island,” he said, “you have them with you?”

  “They are at my room. I can give them to you approximately.”

  Foster shook his head.

  “Figures are tricky things, the foundation of success or failure. And approximate figures are like mortar that has got too much sand in it, a false foundation. Facts, facts, facts,” he pounded each word into his palm as if driving home the spikes of argument, “that’s what we are after. Then we apply common sense.

  “I have no desire to say anything derogatory against this young man’s character. I will simply say that we know nothing about it. He comes without references, to tell an interesting story. I am going to be frank, to discuss the matter in a businesslike way, to speak as if he were not present, to set aside all personality, to look at all sides of the question.

  “It would be quite possible, for instance, that someone accustomed to seafaring has seen the Golden Dolphin and gone aboard of her. Many must have done so, aside from her crew. Such a one, with the trained eyes of a sailor, would have no trouble in registering necessary details for an accurate description.

  “He sees—this person, you understand, is quite supposititious—he sees, or hears at second-hand in maritime circles, the account of the Golden Dolphin being overdue, coupled with accounts of its building, launching and the story—foolishly spilled to the newspapers against my protest at the time—of her ownership, the romance of her captain returning to the sea upon a quest for treasure.

  “This supposititious person later finds himself out of a job at a time when wages are ridiculously high and producers shutting down on production. Ships lie idle, commerce is at a standstill; the shelves and counters of the shops of the world are dusty, awaiting reorganization. He comes, this seafaring man, to Foxfield, spinning an interesting yarn to highly interested parties. Perhaps he looks for a reward; perhaps he smells a soft berth. Pardon me—” Again Foster lifted a deprecating hand. Jim Lyman had half risen from his chair, his hands clenching, his eyes blazing with indignation. Newton Foster looked on like a man at a comedy. Kitty Whiting was on her feet.

  “Uncle! Mr. Lyman is my guest, here in my house. You insult him and me.” Foster did not lose the urbanity with which he had greased his insinuation.

  “Tut, tut, my dear. I am speaking purely impersonally. I cast no aspersions upon Mr. Lyman. That is one side of the question. For the other, assuming that his story is correct in every detail, I can see that he brings no assurance of the success of such a madcap expedition as you propose. We have talked much of this over before, my dear. I can fully appreciate your desire to believe your father alive. I would not for a moment tear down your hopes if I felt they held any basis. As for the pearls—if we could be sure of finding this island and the ship, the chances that the treasure would be still aboard are to me infinitesimal. The expense would be great, the risk, from a business standpoint, far outweighing any possibility of profit. I am accustomed to looking at such things mathematically. I have made my money upon sound, logical bases of chance. I do not allow my peculiar interests to blind my commercial vision. If a similar situation was laid before me I should, in the light of common sense, proclaim it a wildcat scheme. If your father were alive he would long since have found some means of communication. I have already invested heavily in this enterprise and written it off as one of the few failures with which I have been concerned. I do not care to throw good money after bad. That is my reaction.”

  His own blood still hot, Jim found it impossible to listen quietly to this cold-blooded argument, though his own opinion had trended in the same general direction. But Stephen Foster’s thoughts were evidently centered upon the financial aspect alone. Captain Whiting he callously scored out of the affair. He thought only of his profit and loss columns, of the red ink figures that represented to him his share in the Golden Dolphin. He might present the facts in the inexorable light of logic, but it was unnecessary for him to be brutal. The cat had manifested itself. Jim felt the insincerity of the man as a dog scents a taint. The girl spoke coldly, mistress o
f her emotions, her face pale and set.

  “I can readily understand, Uncle, that there being no true relationship, no tie of blood between you and my father, you can the more easily consider his life ended. I can comprehend the hesitation with which you contemplate any suggestion of spending your money without a sure return in sight. I am doing this for love. If I were a man and in your position, I trust I should be a better gambler. I thank you for your advice, but I do not intend to take it. I can sell this business tomorrow by the sending of a wire. I shall do so and spend my last penny in the endeavor to follow up a clew that my heart tells me will lead me at last to my father.” Foster looked at her grimly, with tight lips, moving his head slightly from side to side as if to emphasize her folly. His son, gripped by the girl’s eloquence, by the restrained fire of her purpose, the beauty of her, was moved as Jim had been and was again. He went swiftly to her side.

  “Dad!” he exclaimed, protestingly. Then to his cousin. “Kitty, you and I have some measure of the same blood in us. You are a sport and a wonder. I will go with you.”

  “Not with my consent. Not with my money,” said his father coldly. The two faced each other. It seemed to Jim that a look of special meaning passed between them. The boy sat down, silenced but not crestfallen.

  “If I recover the pearls—” began the girl. Stephen Foster interrupted.

  “In the articles of partnership it is provided that a third interest in any profits of the expedition shall be mine in consideration of the money I advanced for building and outfitting. The name of my son, Newton, is mentioned as participant in that third. The duty of bringing back those pearls devolved upon your father, Captain Avery Whiting. It was part of his duty to use all due diligence and precaution in expenditures and the handling of his ship. According to his letters the pearls were secured. One third of them belongs now to me. If, by any miracle, they should be recovered, I should be prepared to stand my proportionate share of any extraordinary outlay—but I will not advance a cent.

  “The sale of your business is your own affair, but I can hardly see you, even under the able chaperonage of your cousin, Miss Warner, outfitting and handling an expedition. You have no conception of the difficulties and cost of doing so, the predestined failure. Doubtless this young man will be glad to give you the benefit of his experiences—for a compensation.” Jim’s furious glance beat against the ice of the older man’s expression as inadequately as the wintry sun tries to affect the polar planes. If only Foster had been younger, he thought. He had practically been called a liar, a cheap adventurer looking for a soft berth at the expense of a girl’s affection for her father.

  “I imagined,” Stephen Foster went on, “that you attached some weight to my judgment or you would not have asked me to come over here tonight. You are not conscious of that weight in the very natural flurry of your stirred-up emotions. But I beg of you to sleep over the matter. Tonight you will not sleep; you are too upset. Make no decision until the day after tomorrow. I, too, will give it further consideration. We will take it up again. If you still insist upon what I now believe to be an act of quixotic folly, though praiseworthy from a purely sentimental standpoint, and if I have not changed my mind at that time—say forty-eight hours from now—I will promise to give you every aid possible and wish you God-speed.”

  Jim discounted the suavity of the speech with his strong sense of Foster’s hypocrisy. He did not think the man had any human feelings. In place of a heart there was a cashbox; his brain was a filing system for commercial logic. He spoke as if he felt he had expressed himself too strongly, had struck more fire from his niece than he had expected, finding flinty indomitableness where he had expected wax. Yet the girl seemed softened.

  “I will think it over until then,” she replied. “I asked you here as a partner, Uncle. Without doubt you are entitled to your opinions and you have often practically demonstrated their value. But I do not think I shall change my mind. I thank you for your offer to help—for my father’s sake as well as my own.”

  It was said gracefully, but it held a dismissal. Kitty Whiting stood, and the visitors perforce stood with her. She had the poise of a woman twice her age. She commanded the situation with dignity and assurance. Stephen Foster bade her good night with urbanity, Lynda Warner with the suggestion that she was somewhat of an inferior, whereupon the light of humor showed in the spinster’s eyes and the twitch of her lip. Lyman he overlooked entirely. Newton pressed the girl’s hand.

  “Dad will come round,” he said. “I’m coming along, anyway.”

  She gave him a grateful glance. Jim registered the belief that Newton Foster meant to express his ardent admiration of his cousin rather than any conviction in the success of the trip. The two left; there was the whirr of a starting motor, the closing of a door and the girl returned to find Lyman looking for his hat.

  “You’re not going?” she asked him, a complimentary emphasis on the first word.

  “I think I had better,” Jim answered, his decision confirmed by a little nod given to him by Lynda Warner over the girl’s shoulder. He himself felt some of the strain Kitty Whiting must have been under. It was natural that they should want to be alone. He, too, wanted to think things over. “I’ll bring over my diary tomorrow,” he said.

  “In the afternoon?” suggested Lynda Warner. “Tomorrow is a holiday, you know. The Golden Dolphin will be closed and I’ve an idea its inmates will sleep late.” He caught the meaning, illustrated by the tiny brackets of tiredness about the girl’s mouth as she smiled, the faint purple shadows ringing her eyes.

  “I’ll be over about two?”

  “Just one question,” said Kitty Whiting. “I’ll worry about it unless you answer it. If you were in my position and going on such a quest, how would you set about it?”

  “I’d take train to California,” said Jim promptly. “To San Francisco. And I’d try to charter a power boat. I mean an auxiliary engine aboard a sailing vessel—a schooner or a ketch. Times are hard and they are selling off yachts and launches every day on the Eastern coast. I imagine it’s the same way out West. I’d rustle a crew out there. No difficulty about that. And it would save you time and money. But, if I was in your position, Miss Whiting, I am not at all sure I’d go. I don’t believe—”

  She broke in on him with a pathetic little gesture of her hands.

  “You, too?” she said. Lynda Warner suddenly stretched out her hand. “Good night, Mr. Lyman.”

  “Good night, and thank you,” the girl echoed. And Jim found himself out in the street walking toward his hotel. His room there, lacking conveniences, utterly lacking in elegance or true comfort, was a far cry from the place he had just left. It was long years since Lyman had been received as guest in such surroundings, and he carried the contrast to himself, as he turned in, after making sure his diary was in his grip and looking up the position he had copied from the log of the Whitewing.

  162° 37'w.

  37° 19' s.

  Cabalistic nine figures and two letters. One hundred and sixty-two degrees and thirty-seven minutes west from Greenwich, the longitude; thirty-seven degrees and nineteen minutes south from the equator, the latitude. Prick the spot on the charts and one would find vacancy—New Zealand a thousand miles to the west, the Cook Islands a thousand to the north, to the east nothing marked save the reefs of Legouve and Maria Theresa in all the long sea leagues to the South American coast opposite the isle of Juan Fernandez; to the south only the Sargasso Sea and the Antarctic drift. Yet those figures in hands no more competent that his could guide a vessel to where the Golden Dolphin lay stranded in the jungle with perhaps a million dollars in pearls aboard, with Captain Avery to be found, alive or dead; perhaps with nothing but what he had found and seen. Without the figures certainly nothing at all. Ships might search that ocean wilderness for years and never hit upon that beckoning mountain spur rending the mists, the shadowy highland in the offing.

  The whole thing would have seemed like a dream to him had he not t
he water-stained diary in which he had made entry of the Whitewing’s voyage, and memory of the fearful voyage of the open boat north and east, the men dying of exposure and thirst madness, and at last the rescue.

  And Stephen Foster had taken him for a sea tramp, with a ready lie coined out of a few printed facts made up to play upon the sentiments of a bereaved girl! His blood surged hot again as he sat on the bed reading over the log. The cold-blooded money grubber, counting his risks! Yet in his heart Lyman was influenced by the decision of the business man, coinciding with his own. It was a wild-goose chase. If he went he had nothing to lose, and he gained a berth and salary, aside from any sharing of the pearls that the probabilities declared were not there. For the girl there would be heart-eating anxiety, hope long deferred, hour after hour of racking suspense, besides the perils of the voyage, and if failure came at last, crushing despair. If it was only the pearls at stake it would be a good gamble for a man, but for a girl, clinging to a faith blindly against all likelihood, it was a different thing. The one would be, at the worst, a glorious adventure; the other carried the hazard of endurance prolonged to the snapping point, the permanent bruising of a brave and sensitive soul.

  Lyman suffered a natural despondency born of his treatment by Foster. He began to wonder what the girl really thought of him. He had the diary for proof; he could give her that and slip out of it, dropping all responsibility. To take up her cause would be apt to label him an adventurer in the worst sense of the word, a speculator upon the credulity and sentiment of a woman. Failure would so label him, perhaps leave her penniless. Still—