The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  Next morning off we go betimes, Jack more like Robert Evans than his mother’s son, and I a most seeming substantial man (so that the very stable lad took off his hat to me), and on very good horses a long ride to Chislehurst And there coming to a monstrous fine park, Don Sanchez stayed us before the gates, and bidding us look up a broad avenue of great oaks to a most surprising brave house, he told us this was Hurst Court, and we might have it for our own within a year if we were so minded.

  Hence, at no great distance we reach a square plain house, the windows all barred with stout iron, and the most like a prison I did ever see. Here Don Sanchez ringing a bell, a little grating in the door is opened, and after some parley we are admitted by a sturdy fellow carrying a cudgel in his hand. So we into a cold room, with not a spark of fire on the hearth but a few ashes, no hangings to the windows, nor any ornament or comfort at all, but only a table and half a dozen wooden stools, and a number of shelves against the wall full of account books and papers protected by a grating of stout wire secured with sundry padlocks. And here, behind a tableful of papers, sat our steward, Simon Stout-in-faith, a most withered, lean old man, clothed all in leather, wearing no wig but his own rusty grey hair falling lank on his shoulders, with a sour face of a very jaundiced complexion, and pale eyes that seemed to swim in a yellowish rheum, which he was for ever a-mopping with a rag.

  “I am come, Mr. Steward,” says Don Sanchez, “to conclude the business we were upon last week.”

  “Aye,” cries Dawson, for all the world in the manner of Evans, “but ere we get to this dry matter let’s have a bottle to ease the way, for this riding of horseback has parched up my vitals confoundedly.”

  “If thou art athirst,” says Simon, “Peter shall fetch thee a jug of water from the well; but other liquor have we none in this house.”

  “Let Peter drown in your well,” says Dawson, with an oath; “I’ll have none of it. Let’s get this matter done and away, for I’d as lief sit in a leaky hold as in this here place for comfort.”

  “Here,” says Don Sanchez, “is a master mariner who is prepared to risk his life, and here a merchant adventurer of London who will hazard his money, to redeem your mistress and her daughter from slavery.”

  “Praise the Lord, Peter,” says the steward. Whereupon the sturdy fellow with the cudgel fell upon his knees, as likewise did Simon, and both in a snuffling voice render thanks to Heaven in words which I do not think it proper to write here. Then, being done, they get up, and the steward, having dried his eyes, says:

  “So far our prayers have been answered. Put me in mind, friend Peter, that tonight we pray these worthy men prosper in their design.”

  “If they succeed,” says Don Sanchez, “it will cost your mistress five-and-thirty thousand pounds.”

  The steward clutched at the table as if at the fortune about to turn from him; his jaw fell, and he stared at Don Sanchez in bewilderment, then getting the face to speak, he gasps out, “Thirty-five thousand pounds!” and still in a maze asks: “Art thou in thy right senses, friend?”

  The Don hunches his shoulders and turns to me. Whereupon I lay forth in pretty much the same words as Mr. Hopkins used, the risk of the venture, etc., to all which this Simon listened with starting eyes and gaping mouth.

  “Thirty-five thousand pounds!” he says again; “why, friend, ’tis half of all I have made of the estate by a life of thrift and care and earnest seeking.”

  “’Tis in your power, Simon,” says Don Sanchez, “to spare your mistress this terrible charge, for which your fine park must be felled, your farms cut up, and your economies be scattered. The master here will fetch your mistress home for fifteen hundred pounds.”

  “Why, even that is an extortion.”

  “Nay,” says Jack, “if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my carcase and a ship of twenty men, you may seek a cheaper market and welcome, for I’ve no stomach to risk my life and property for less.”

  “To the fifteen hundred pounds you must add the ransom of two thousand pounds. Thus Mrs. Godwin and her daughter may be redeemed for thirty-five hundred pounds to her saving of thirty-one thousand five hundred pounds,” says the Don.

  And here Dawson and I were secretly struck by his honesty in not seeking to affright the steward from an honest course, but rather tempting him to it by playing upon his parsimony and avarice.

  “Three thousand five hundred,” says Simon, putting it down in writing, that he might the better realise his position. “But you say, friend merchant, that the risk is as ten to one against seeing thy money again.”

  “I will run the risk for thirty-one thousand pounds, and no less,” says I.

  “But if it may be done for a tenth part, how then?”

  “Why, ’tis your risk, sir, and not mine,” says I.

  “Yea, yea, my risk. And you tell me, friend sailor, that you stand in danger of being plundered by these infidels.”

  “Aye, more like than not.”

  “Why, then we may count half the estate gone; and the peril is to be run again, and thus all cast away for nought.”

  In this manner did Simon halt betwixt two ways like one distracted, but only he did mingle a mass of sacred words with his arguments which seemed to me nought but profanity, his sole concern being the gain of money. Then he falls to the old excuses Don Sanchez had told us of, saying he had no money of his own, and offering to show his books that we might see he had taken not one penny beyond his bare expenses from the estate, save his yearly wage, and that no more than Sir Richard had given him in his lifetime. And on Don Sanchez showing Mrs. Godwin’s letter as a fitting authority to draw out this money for her use, he first feigns to doubt her hand, and then says he: “If an accident befalls these two women ere they return to justify me, how shall I answer to the next heir for this outlay? Verily” (clasping his hands) “I am as one standing in darkness, and I dare not move until I am better enlightened; so prithee, friend, give me time to commune with my conscience.”

  Don Sanchez hunches up his shoulders and turns to us.

  “Why, look here, Master,” says Dawson. “I can’t see as you need much enlightenment to answer yes or no to a fair offer, and as for me, I’m not going to hang in a hedge for a blue moon. So if you won’t clap hands on the bargain without more ado, I throw this business overboard and shall count I’ve done the best day’s work of my life in getting out of the affair.”

  Then I made as if I would willingly draw out of my share in the project.

  “My friends,” says Simon, “there can be scarce any hope at all if thou wilt not hazard thy money for such a prodigious advantage.” Then turning to Peter as his last hope, he asks in despair, “What shall we do, my brother?”

  “We can keep on a-praying, friend Simon,” replies Peter, in a snivelling voice.

  “A blessed thought!” exclaims the steward in glee. “Surely that is more righteous than to lay faith in our own vain effort. So do thou, friend” (turning to me), “put thy money to this use, for I will none.”

  “I cannot do that, sir,” says I, “without an assurance that Mrs. Godwin’s estate will bear this charge.” With wondrous alacrity Simon fetches a book with a plan of the estate, whereby he showed us that not a holding on the estate was untenanted, not a single tenant in arrear with his rent, and that the value of the property with all deductions made was sixty-five thousand pounds.

  “Very good sir,” says I. “Now you must give me a written note, stating what you have shown, with your sanction to my making this venture on Mrs. Godwin’s behalf, that I may justify my claim hereafter.”

  But this Simon stoutly refused to do, saying his conscience would not allow him to sign any bond (clearly with the hope that he might in the end shuffle out of paying anything at all), until Don Sanchez, losing patience, declared he would certainly hunt all London through to find that Mr. Richard Godwin, who was the next of kin, hinting that he would certainly give us such sanction as we required if only to prove his right to the succe
ssion should our venture fail.

  This put the steward to a new taking; but the Don holding firm, he at length agreed to give us this note, upon Don Sanchez writing another affirming that he had seen Mrs. Godwin and her daughter in Barbary, and was going forth to fetch them, that should Mr. Richard Godwin come to claim the estate he might be justly put off.

  And so this business ended to our great satisfaction, we saying to ourselves that we had done all that man could to redeem the captives, and that it would be no harm at all to put a cheat upon the miserly steward. Whether we were any way more honest than he in shaping our conduct according to our inclinations is a question which troubled us then very little.

  CHAPTER VI.

  Moll is cast to play the part of a fine lady; doubtful promise for this undertaking.

  On our way back to Greenwich we stayed at an inn by the road to refresh ourselves, and there, having a snug parlour to ourselves, and being seated about a fine cheese with each a full measure of ale, Don Sanchez asks us if we are satisfied with our undertaking.

  “Aye, that we are,” replies Dawson, mightily pleased as usual to be a-feasting. “We desire nothing better than to serve your honour faithfully in all ways, and are ready to put our hands to any bond you may choose to draw up.”

  “Can you show me the man,” asks the Don, lifting his eyebrows contemptuously, “who ever kept a treaty he was minded to break? Men are honest enough when nought’s to be gained by breaking faith. Are you both agreed to this course?”

  “Yes, Señor,” says I, “and my only compunction now is that I can do so little to forward this business.”

  “Why, so far as I can see into it,” says Dawson, “one of us must be cast for old Mrs. Godwin, if Moll is to be her daughter, and you’re fitter to play the part than I, for I take it this old gentlewoman should be of a more delicate, sickly composition than mine.”

  “We will suppose that Mrs. Godwin is dead,” says the Don, gravely.

  “Aye, to be sure; that simplifies the thing mightily. But pray, Señor, what parts are we to play?”

  “The parts you have played today. You go with me to fetch Judith Godwin from Barbary.”

  “This hangs together and ought to play well; eh, Kit?”

  I asked Don Sanchez how long, in the ordinary course of things an expedition of this kind would take.

  “That depends upon accidents of many kinds,” answers he. “We may very well stretch it out best part of a year.”

  “A year,” says Jack, scratching his ear ruefully, for I believe he had counted upon coming to live like a lord in a few weeks. “And what on earth are we to do in the meanwhile?”

  “Teach Moll,” answers the Don.

  “She can read anything print or scrip,” says Jack, proudly, “and write her own name.”

  “Judith Godwin,” says the Don, reflectively, “lived two years in Italy. She would certainly remember some words of Italian. Consider this: it is not sufficient merely to obtain possession of the Godwin estate; it must be held against the jealous opposition of that shrewd steward and of the presumptive heir, Mr. Richard Godwin, who may come forward at any time.”

  “You’re in the right, Señor. Well, there’s Kit knows the language and can teach her a smattering of the Italian, I warrant, in no time.”

  “Judith would probably know something of music,” pursues the Don.

  “Why, Moll can play Kit’s fiddle as well as he.”

  “But, above all,” continues the Don, as taking no heed of this tribute to Moll’s abilities, “Judith Godwin must be able to read and write the Moorish character and speak the tongue readily, answer aptly as to their ways and habits, and to do these things beyond suspect. Moll must live with these people for some months.”

  “God have mercy on us!” cries Jack. “Your honour is not for taking us to Barbary.”

  “No,” answers the Don, dryly, passing his long fingers with some significance over the many seams in his long face, “but we must go where the Moors are to be found, on the hither side of the straits.”

  “Well,” says Dawson, “all’s as one whither we go in safety if we’re to be out of our fortune for a year. There’s nothing more for our Moll to learn, I suppose, señor.”

  “It will not be amiss to teach her the manners of a lady,” replies the Don, rising and knitting his brows together unpleasantly, “and especially to keep her feet under her chair at table.”

  With this he rings the bell for our reckoning, and so ends our discussion, neither Dawson nor I having a word to say in answer to this last hit, which showed us pretty plainly that in reaching round with her long leg for our shins, Moll had caught the Don’s shanks a kick that night she was seized with a cough.

  So to horse again and a long jog back to Greenwich, where Dawson and I would fain have rested the night (being unused to the saddle and very raw with our journey), but the Don would not for prudence, and therefore, after changing our clothes, we make a shift to mount once more, and thence another long horrid jolt to Edmonton very painfully.

  Coming to the Bell (more dead than alive) about eight, and pitch dark, we were greatly surprised that we could make no one hear to take our horses, and further, having turned the brutes into the stable ourselves, to find never a soul in the common room or parlour, so that the place seemed quite forsaken. But hearing a loud guffaw of laughter from below, we go downstairs to the kitchen, which we could scarce enter for the crowd in the doorway. And here all darkness, save for a sheet hung at the further end, and lit from behind, on which a kind of phantasmagory play of Jack and the Giant was being acted by shadow characters cut out of paper, the performer being hid by a board that served as a stage for the puppets. And who should this performer be but our Moll, as we knew by her voice, and most admirably she did it, setting all in a roar one minute with some merry joke, and enchanting ’em the next with a pretty song for the maid in distress.

  We learnt afterwards that Moll, who could never rest still two minutes together, but must for ever be a-doing something new, had cut out her images and devised the show to entertain the servants in the kitchen, and that the guests above hearing their merriment had come down in time to get the fag end, which pleased them so vastly that they would have her play it all over again.

  “This may undo us,” says Don Sanchez, in a low voice of displeasure, drawing us away. “Here are a dozen visitors who will presently be examining Moll as a marvel. Who can say but that one of them may know her again hereafter to our confusion? We must be seen together no more than is necessary, until we are out of this country. I shall leave here in the morning, and you will meet me next at the Turk, in Gracious Street, tomorrow afternoon.” Therewith he goes up to his room, leaving us to shift for ourselves; and we into the parlour to warm our feet at the fire till we may be served with some victuals, both very silent and surly, being still sore, and as tired as any dogs with our day’s jolting.

  While we are in this mood, Moll, having finished her play, comes to us in amazing high spirits, and all aglow with pleasure shows us a handful of silver given her by the gentry; then, pulling up a chair betwixt us, she asks us a dozen questions of a string as to where we have been, what we have done, etc., since we left her. Getting no answer, she presently stops, looks first at one, then at the other, and bursting into a fit of laughter, cries: “Why, what ails you both to be so grumpy?”

  “In the first place, Moll,” says Jack, “I’ll have you to know that I am your father, and will not be spoken to save with becoming respect.”

  “Why, I did but ask you where you have been.”

  “Children of your age should not ask questions, but do as they’re bid, and there’s an end of it.”

  “La, I’m not to ask any questions. Is there nothing else I am not to do?”

  “Yes; I’ll not have you playing of Galimaufray to cook wenches and such stuff. I’ll have you behave with more decency. Take your feet off the hearth, and put ’em under your chair. Let me have no more of these galanty-shows
. Why, ’twill be said I cannot give you a basin of porridge, that you must go a-begging of sixpences like this!”

  “Oh, if you begrudge me a little pocket-money,” cries she, springing up with the tears in her eyes, “I’ll have none of it.”

  And with that she empties her pocket on the chair, and out roll her sixpences together with a couple of silver spoons.

  “What,” cries Jack, after glancing round to see we were alone. “You have filched a couple of spoons, Moll?”

  “And why not?” asks she, her little nose turning quite white with passion. “If I am to ask no questions, how shall I know but we may have never a spoon tomorrow for your precious basin of porridge?”

  CHAPTER VII.

  Of our journey through France to a very horrid pass in the Pyraneans.

  Skipping over many unimportant particulars of our leaving Edmonton, of our finding Don Sanchez at the Turk in Gracious Street, of our going thence (the next day) to Gravesend, of our preparation there for voyage, I come now to our embarking, the 10th March, in the Rose, for Bordeaux in France. Nor shall I dwell long on that journey, neither, which was exceedingly long and painful, by reason of our nearing the equinoctials, which dashed us from our course to that degree that it was the 26th before we reached our port and cast anchor in still water. And all those days we were prostrated with sickness, and especially Jack Dawson, because of his full habit, so that he declared he would rather ride a-horseback to the end of the earth than go another mile on sea.

  We stayed in Bordeaux, which is a noble town, but dirty, four days to refresh ourselves, and here the Don lodged us in a fine inn and fed us on the best; and also he made us buy new clothes and linen (which we sadly needed after the pickle we had lain in a fortnight) and cast away our old; but no more than was necessary, saying ’twould be better to furnish ourselves with fresh linen as we needed it, than carry baggage, etc. “And let all you buy be good goods,” says he, “for in this country a man is valued at what he seems, and the innkeepers do go in such fear of their seigneurs that they will charge him less for entertainment than if he were a mean fellow who could ill afford to pay.”