“The Jew a ruined man! Hark at him! Four-Eyes”—this to a great lanky fellow who lay asleep in the corner—”the little Jew can’t sell ’em under two hundred, I reckon; oh, certainly not; why, of course. Here, you, Splinters, pay him for a thick-skinned, thieving shark, and give him a hundred for the others.”
The boy Splinters, who was a black lad, seemingly about twelve years old, came up at the word, and took a great canvas bag from a hook on the wall. He counted three hundred gold pieces on the floor—pieces of all coinages in Europe and America, as they appeared to be by their faces, and Hall, who had squatted like the others, picked them up. Then he asked a question, while the little black lad, who bore a look of suffering on his worn face, stood waiting the Captain’s word.
“Mister Captain, I shall have waiting for me at Plymouth tomorrow a relic of the great John Hawkins, which, as I’m alive, you shouldn’t miss. I have heard them say that it is the very sword with which he cut the Spaniards’ beards. Since you have told me that you sail tomorrow, I have thought, if you put me on your ship across to Plymouth, I could show you the goods, and you shall have them cheap—beautiful goods, if I lose by them.”
Now, instead of answering this appeal as he had done the others, with his great guffaw and banter, Captain Black turned upon Hall as he made his request, and his face lit up with passion. I saw that his eyes gave one fiery look, while he clenched his fists as though to strike the man as he sat, but then he restrained himself. Yet, had I been Hall, I would not have faced such another glance for all that adventure had given me. It was a look which meant ill—all the ill that one man could mean to another.
“You want to come aboard my boat, do you?” drawled the Captain, as he softened his voice to a fine tone of sarcasm. “The dealer wants a cheap passage; so ho! what do you say, Four-Eyes; shall we take the man aboard?”
Four-Eyes sat up deliberately, and struck himself on the chest several times as though to knock the sleep out of him. He seemed to be a brawny, thick-set Irishman, gigantic in limb, and with a more honest countenance than his fellows. He wore a short pea-jacket over the dirty red shirt, and a great pair of carpet slippers in place of the sea-boots which many of the others displayed. His hair was light and curly, and his eyes, keen-looking and large, were of a grey-blue and not unkindly-looking. I thought him a man of some deliberation, for he stared at the Captain and at Hall before he answered the question put to him, and then he drank a full and satisfying draught from the cup before him. When he did give reply, it was in a rich rolling voice, a luxurious voice which would have given ornament to the veriest common-place.
“Oi’d take him aboard, bedad,” he shouted, leaning back as though he had spoken wisdom, and then he nodded to the Captain, and the Captain nodded to him.
The understanding seemed complete.
“We sail at midnight, tide serving,” said the Captain, as he picked up the miniature and the other things; “you can come aboard when you like—here, boy, lock these in the chest.”
The boy put out his hand to take the things, but in his fear or his clumsiness, he dropped the miniature, and it cracked upon the floor. The mishap gave me my first real opportunity of judging these men in the depth of their ruffianism. As the lad stood quivering and terror-struck, Black turned upon him, almost foaming at the lips.
“You clumsy young cub, what d’ye mean by that?” he asked; and then, as the boy fell on his knees to beg for mercy, casting one pitiful look towards me—a look I shall not soon forget—he kicked him with his foot, crying—
“Here, give him a dozen with your strap, one of you.”
He had but to say the words, when a colossal brute seized the boy in his grip, and held his head down to the table board, while another, no more gentle, stripped his shirt off, and struck him blow after blow with the great buckle, so that the flesh was torn while the blood trickled upon the floor. The brutal act stirred the others to a fine merriment, yet for myself, I had all the will to spring up and grip the striker as he stood, but Hall, who had covered my hand with his, held it so surely, and with such prodigious strength, that my fingers almost cracked. It was the true sign-manual for me to say nothing, and I realised how hopeless such a struggle would be, and turned my head that I should not see the cruel thing to the end.
When the lad fainted they gave him a few kicks with their heavy boots, and he lay like a log on the floor, until the ruffian named “Roaring John” picked him up and threw him into the next room. The incident was forgotten at once, and Captain Black became quite merry.
“Bring in the victuals, you, John,” he said, “and let Dick say us a grace; he’s been doing nothing but drink these eight hours.”
Dick, a red-haired, penetrating-looking Scotsman, who carried the economy of his race even to the extent of flesh, of which he was sparse, greeted the reproof by casting down his eyes into the empty can before him.
“Is a body to cheer himself wi’ naething?” he asked; “not wi’ a bit food and drink after twa days’ toil? It’s an unreasonable man ye are, Mister Black, an’ I dinna ken if I’ll remain another hoor as meenister to yer vessel.”
“Ho, ho, Dick the Ranter sends in his resignation; listen to that, boys,” said the Captain, who had found his humour again. “Dick will not serve the honourable company any longer. Ho, swear for the strangers, Dick, and let ’em hear your tongue.”
The man, rascal and ill-tongued as I doubt not he was at times, refused to comply with the demand as the food at length was put upon the table. It was rich food, stews, with a profuse display of oysters, chickens, boiled, roast, à la maître d’hôtel, fine French trifles, pasties, ices—and it was to be washed down, I saw, by draughts from magnums of Pommery and Greno. I was, at this stage, so well accustomed to the scene that the novelty of a company of dirty, repulsive-looking seamen banqueting in this style did not surprise me one whit, only I wished to be away from a place whose atmosphere poisoned me, and where every word seemed garnished with some horrible oath. I whispered this thought to Hall, and he said, “Yes,” and rose to go, but the Captain pulled him back, crying—
“What, little Jew, you wouldn’t eat at other people’s cost! Down with it, man, down with it; fill your pockets, stuff ’em to the top. Let’s see you laugh, old wizen-face, a great sixty percent croak coming from your very boots—here, you, John, give the man who hasn’t got any money some more drink; make him take a draught.”
The men were becoming warmed with the stuff they had taken, and furiously offensive. One of them held Hall while the others forced champagne down his throat, and the man “Roaring John” attempted to pay me a similar compliment, but I struck the cup from his hand, and he drew a knife, turning on me. The action was foolish, for in a moment a tumult ensued. I heard fierce cries, the smash of overturned boards and lights, and remembered no more than some terrific blows delivered with my left, as Molt of Cambridge taught me, a sharp pain in my right shoulder as a knife went home, the voice of Hall crying, “Make for the door—the door,” and the great yell of Captain Black above the others. His word, no doubt, saved us from greater harm; for when I had thought that my foolhardiness had undone us, and that we should never leave the place alive, I found myself in the Rue Joubert with Hall at my side, he torn and bleeding as I was, but from a slight wound only.
“That was near ending badly,” he said, looking at the skin-deep cut on my shoulder. “They’re wild enough sober, but Heaven save anyone from them when they’re the other way!”
I looked at him steadily for a moment; then I asked—
“Hall, what does it mean? Who are these men, and what business carries you amongst them?”
“That you’ll learn when you open the papers; but I don’t think you will open them yet, for I’m going to succeed.” He was gay almost to frivolity once more. “Did you hear him ask me to sail with him from Dieppe tomorrow?”
“I did, and I believe you’re fool enough to go. Did you see the look he gave you when he said ‘Yes’?”
&
nbsp; “Never mind his look. I must risk that and more, as I have risked it many a time. Once aboard his yacht I shall have the key which will unlock six feet of rope for that man, or you may call me the Fool again.”
It was light with the roseate, warm light of a late summer’s dawn as we reached the hotel. Paris slept, and the stillness of her streets greeted the life-giving day, while the grey mist floated away before the scattered sunbeams, and the houses stood clear-cut in the finer air. I was hungry for sleep, and too tired to think more of the strange dream-like scene I had witnessed; but Hall followed me to my bedroom, and had yet a word to say.
“Before we part—we may not meet again for some time, for I leave Paris in a couple of hours—I want to ask you to do me yet one more service. Your yacht is at Calais, I believe—will you go aboard this morning and take her round to Plymouth? There ask for news of the American’s yacht—he has only hired her, and she is called La France. News of the yacht will be news of me, and I shall be glad to think that someone is at my back in this big risk. If you should not hear of me, wait a month; but if you get definite proof of my death, break the seal of the papers you hold and read—but I don’t think it will come to that.”
So saying, he left me with a hearty handshake. Poor fellow, I did not know then that I should break the seal of his papers within three days.
CHAPTER III.
“FOUR-EYES” DELIVERS A MESSAGE.
A warming glare of the fuller sun upon my eyes, the cracking of whips, the shouting of fierce-lunged coachmen, the hum of moving morning life in the city, stirred me from a deep sleep as the clocks struck ten. I sat up in bed, uncertain in the effort of wit-gathering if night had not given me a dream rather than an experience, a chance play of the brain’s imagining, and not a living knowledge of true scenes and strange men. For in this mood does nature often play with us, tricking us to fine thoughts as we lie dreaming, or creating such shows of life as we slumber, that in our first moments of wakefulness we do not detect the cheat or reckon with the phantoms. I knew not for some while, as I lay back listening to the hum of busy Paris, if the Perfect Fool had or had not told me anything, if we had gone together to a house near the Rue Joubert, or if we had remained in the hotel, if he had begged of me some favour, or if I had dreamed it. All was but a confused mind-picture, changing as a kaleidoscope, blurred, shadowy. It might have remained so long, had I not, looking about the room, become aware that a letter, neatly folded, lay on the small table at my bedside. It was the letter which brought the consciousness of reality; and in that moment I knew that I had not dreamed but lived the curious events of the night. But these are the words which Martin Hall wrote:—
“Hôtel Scribe. Seven a.m.—I leave in ten minutes, and write you here my last word. We shall sail from Dieppe at midnight. Do not forget to cross to Plymouth if you have any friendship for me. I look to you alone.—Martin Hall.”
He had left Paris then, and set out upon his great risk. The man’s awe-inspiring courage, his immense self-reliance, his deep purpose, were marked strongly in those few simple words, and I had never felt so great an admiration for him. He looked to me alone, and assuredly he should not look in vain. I would follow him to Plymouth, losing no moment in the act; and I resolved then to go farther if the need should be, and to search for him in every land and on every sea, for he was a brave man whose like I had not often known.
I dressed in haste with this intention, and went to déjeûner in our private room below. Roderick was there, sleepy over his bottle of bad Bordeaux, and Mary, who insisted on taking an English breakfast, was in the height of a dissertation on Parisian tea.
“Did you ever see anything so feeble?” she said, being fond of Roderick’s speech mannerisms and often mimicking them. “Isn’t it pretty awful?” and she poured some from her spoon.
“‘Pretty awful’ is not the expression for a polite young woman,” replied Roderick, with a severe yawn; “anyone who comes to Paris for tea deserves what he gets.”
“Yes, and what he gets ‘takes the biscuit.’”
“Mary!”
“Well, you always say, ‘takes the biscuit’; why shouldn’t I?”
“Because, my child, because,” said Roderick, slowly and paternally, “because—why, here’s Mark. Hallo! you’re a pretty fellow; I hope you enjoyed yourself last night.”
“Exceedingly, thanks; in fact, I may say that I had a most delightful evening with men who suited me to the—tea—thank you, Mary! I’ll take a cup—and now tell me, what has he bought you?”
I thought that a judicious policy of dissimulation was the wise course at that time, for I had not then determined to share my secret even with Roderick, as, indeed, by my word I was bound not to do until Hall should so wish. In this intent I hid all my serious mood, and continued the pleasant chatter.
Mary had soon poured out a cup of the decoction which Frenchmen call tea, an aqueous product, the fluid of chopped hay long stewed in tepid water, and then she answered—
“Let me see, now, what did Roderick buy me? Oh, yes! I remember, he bought me a meerschaum pipe and a walking-stick!”
“A what?” I gasped.
“A meerschaum pipe, and a walking-stick with a little man to hold matches on the top of it.”
Roderick looked guilty, and admitted it.
“You see,” he said in apology, “they sold only those things at the first place we came to, and you don’t expect a fellow to walk in Paris, do you? Now, when I’ve rested after breakfast, I suggest that we all make up our minds for a long stroll, and get to the Palais Royal.”
“Well, that’s about three hundred yards from here, isn’t it? Are you quite sure you’re equal to it?”
He looked at me reproachfully.
“You don’t want a man to kill himself on his holiday, do you? You’re fatally energetic. Now, I believe that the science of life is rest, the calm survey of great problems from the depths of an armchair. It’s astonishing how easy things are if you take them that way; never let anything agitate you—I never do.”
“No, he don’t, does he, Mary? But about this excursion to the Palais Royal; I’m afraid you’ll have to go alone, for I have just had a letter which calls me back to the yacht. It’s awfully unfortunate, but I must go, although I will return here in a week, if possible, and pick you up; otherwise, you will hear of my movements as soon as I know them myself.”
Somewhat to my astonishment, they both looked at me, saying nothing, but evidently very much surprised. Mary’s big eyes were wide open with amazement, but Roderick had a more serious look on his face. He did not question me, he did not say a word, but I felt his thought—”You hold something back”—and the mute reproach was keen. Perhaps some explanation would then have been demanded had not another interruption broken the unwelcome silence. One of the servants of the hotel entered to tell me that a man who wished to speak with me was waiting outside, and asked if I would see him there or in the privacy of our room. As I could not recall that anyone in Paris had any business with me, I said, “Send the man here”; and presently he entered, when to my intense surprise I found him to be no other than one of the ruffians—the one called “Four-Eyes” by the Captain of the company I had met on the previous evening. Not that he seemed in any way abashed at the meeting—he walked into the room with a seaman’s lurch, and steadied himself only when he saw Mary. Then he rang an imaginary bell-rope on his forehead, and “hitched” himself together, as sailors say, looking for all the world like some great dog that has entered a house where dogs are forbidden. His first words were somewhat unexpected—
“Oi was priest’s boy in Tipperary, bedad,” said he, and then he looked round as if that information should put him on good terms with us.
“Will you sit down, please?” was my request as he stood fingering his hat, and looking at Mary as though he had seen a vision, “and permit me to ask what the fact of your serving a priest in Ireland has to do with your presence here now?”
“That brin
gs us to the point av it, and thanking yer honor, it’s meself that ain’t aisy on them land-craft which don’t carry me cargo on an even keel at all, so I’ll be standin’, with no offence to the Missy, sure, an’ gettin’ to the writin’ which is fur yer honor’s ear alone as me instruckthshuns goes.”
He rang the bell-rope over his right eye again, and gave me a letter, well written on good paper. I watched him as I read it, and saw that in a power of eye that was astounding, he had fixed one orb upon Mary and one upon the ceiling, and that the two objects shared his gaze, while his body swayed as though he was unaccustomed to balance himself upon a fair floor. But I read his letter, and write it for you here—
“Captain Black presents his compliments to Mr. Mark Strong, whom he had the pleasure of receiving last night, and regrets the reception which was offered to him. Captain Black hopes that it will be his privilege to receive Mr. Strong on his yacht La France, now lying over against the American vessel Portland, in Dieppe harbour, at 11 tonight, and to extend to him hospitality worthy of him and his host.”
Now, that was a curious thing indeed. Not only did it appear that my pretence of being Hall’s partner in trade was completely unmasked by this man of the Rue Joubert; but he had my name—and, by his tone in writing, it was clear that he knew my position, and the fact that I was no trader at all. Whether such knowledge was good for me, I could not then say; but I made up my mind to act with cunning, and to shield Hall in so far as was possible.
“Did your master tell you to wait for any answer?” I asked suddenly, as the seaman brought his right eye from the direction of the ceiling and fixed it upon me; and he said—
“Is it for the likes of me to be advisin’ yer honor? ‘Sure,’ says he, ‘if the gentleman has the moind to wroite he’ll wroite, if he has the moind to come aboard me—meanin’ his yacht—he’ll come aboard; and we’ll be swimming in liquor together as gents should. And if so be as the gentleman’ (which is yer honor), says he, ‘will condescend to wipe his fate on me cabin shates, let him be aboard at Dieppe afore seven bells,’ says he, ‘and we’ll shame the ould divil with a keg, and heave at daybreak’—which is yer honor’s pleasure, or otherwise, as it’s me juty to larn!”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 217
