The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  What with the ship’s roll, few of us were not seasick at times, and I saw little of Polly Langton these days. What little I did see, however, woke in me admiration for her bearing and character and spirit. I think she had ceased to class me with pirates, for she was smiling and merry when we met, and sometimes took the wheel during my watch on deck, fighting it with the skill of any man among us.

  Dickon the cabinboy was quite sick during this period, which was another fortunate thing in my opinion. We replaced him for the time with Thomas Winter, the long-faced halfwit of whom I have spoken. A curious man was that, who seldom spoke, never met the level look of an eye, and mingled not at all with the other men. He had been long at sea; his hands and forearms were much tattooed; yet none could get him to speak of his goings and comings. He had a vacancy in his aspect that surely belied his wits.

  This fellow Winter, also, seemed to be taken with strange spells. One day at noon we had a fleeting glimpse of the sun, and after shooting him with Low I hastily left the deck and jumped below to make calculations and verify our reckoning. As I came into the cabin I found Gunner Basil there, and the man Thomas Winter was speaking to him. I had chance to hear only a few words, but those were spoken in a new voice to me—a sane and sound and bellowing voice.

  “Why, damn your eyes!” Winter was roaring at the gunner. “Who are you to tell me what to do, you whelp of Satan? You stow your jaw, blast you! I’m the one—”

  He broke off at sight of me, and cringed. I was the more astonished, for Gunner Basil seemed to be taking his oaths with shamefaced manner.

  “What’s this?” I broke in upon them. “Winter, was that you I heard? What d’ye mean?”

  “Pardon, sir,” he mumbled. “They roarin’ winds do fetch gusty words out o’ me at times, sir, and all o’ seven devils a-perched up aloft!”

  He shambled away out of the cabin. Gunner Basil looked at me, wagged his head sorrowfully and tapped his skull. He let out his nasal whine.

  “Bear with him, sir; bear with him! The poor afflicted fellow deserves the patience of all men. If he is a bit daft, he is also a good seaman—can hold her by the wind wi’ never a flutter o’ canvas from hour to hour!”

  With an impatient word I settled down to my figures. Afterward I remembered again the complete change of voice and language which had been effected in the daft man, and how he had cringed at sight of me. This wakened my pity, and I thought no more of the incident.

  CHAPTER V

  Fair weather came back to us as suddenly as it had departed, and found us well advanced on our course, though much strained and battered about. Within two days all our sick were recovered, and we fell to work overhauling the rigging as we sailed, for the new cordage had stretched abominably and must be re-pitched into the bargain.

  Hardly had we come into clear skies, however, than trouble let loose aft, as if it had been waiting for fine weather before breaking.

  We were heeling smartly along under a spanking breeze out of the northeast-and-by-east, everything drawing well, and four bells of the afternoon had just struck. Old Humphrey Stave was seated by the for’ard water-butt, working with palm and needle at a spare topsail when the bosun appeared and talked for a little with his crony. Then Pilcher came aft, touched his forelock, begged some tobacco from me and fell into talk. He had something at the back of his mind, but was slow in leaching it.

  “Cook be heatin’ of some pitch in the galley,” he observed, “when you’re ready to get that for’ard rigging painted, sir.”

  Simon Blake was at the wheel.

  “When it’s ready,” I said, “send a man aft to relieve Simon here, and let him and Ezra Blake take up the buckets. They’re good careful men, and I don’t want the deck spattered.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Pilcher shook his earrings, then gave me a queer look.

  “There be some wild talk for’ard, sir,” he went on.

  “What about, bose?”

  “That you’ve been on the Account, sir, and I give the lie to it. But that bain’t all. I don’t like them there godly men, nor they me; but I’ve heard whispers. They do say as you and Mr. Russel and Mr. Low ain’t doin’ right by the lass, and that she’s mortal afraid o’ you gentlemen. Then there’s summat about Mr. Russel bein’ one Portugee Lopez, and it bain’t no secret that Mr. Low is Bloody Ned—”

  “Who’s doing this talk?” I demanded, frowning.

  We were beyond earshot of the helmsman.

  “That I don’t know, sir; just driftin’ it is. These godly scum for’ard seem to think they’ll be made turn pirate.”

  “We’ll work it out of ’em,” I said cheerfully. “Run along and attend to that pitch now.”

  He swung forward. Barely had he gone when from below came Polly Langton and Captain Low. They flung me a bare nod, then resumed some talk they had started below decks, and I saw that the girl was flushed and earnest, while poor Ned Low was cold and set and hard in the face. They paused by the windward rail, so that their words came to me and to Simon Blake, at the wheel.

  “And have you no shame for it?” demanded the girl hotly.

  “Shame?”

  Ned uttered a curt, bitter laugh.

  “By the Lord Harry, no! If I’d hanged twice a hundred men, and knew that twice that number would yet die to my hand, I’d go on to the end and be proud of it!”

  “I am sorry to hear such words on your lips,” and she spoke gravely, her anger held down. “I had thought you a gentleman, and I find you glorying in your bloody deeds, in your piracies and murders! Go on to the end, you say. Do you dare admit that your share of this enterprise is to be used in the same fashion—that if the venture succeeds, if you buy out this ship from our company, you go on the Account once more?”

  I cursed under my breath, for Simon Blake was drinking all this in, as his dour face testified; yet I dared not intervene.

  “Aye,” said Ned Low. “I’ll not lie to you, Miss Polly.”

  “Oh, shame on you!” she cried out. “To think that you and your precious friends so inveigled my poor uncle! You and they, to take this money and use if for more piracy and murder—how do I know you and they will respect that oath to my uncle?”

  “Why, take us on trust!”

  Ned broke into a laugh, half vexed, half of whimsical exasperation.

  “As for my friends, I care not and know not what they’ll do with their share. My share puts Bloody Ned on his feet again, madam, and that’s my own affair.”

  She gave him a long look, eyes angry, bosom heaving.

  “Then I am minded to draw out of this venture, sir.”

  “You can’t.”

  Low turned on her, pressed beyond endurance.

  “This is a company matter, my girl—don’t try to make trouble! There’s more behind it all than you know. There’s more hangs on it than you know. We’ll see you safe in London again with your share; and beyond that—have a care! This gold o’ Franklin’s belongs to all of us, mind, not you alone.”

  Now, whether she had meant her threat I know not, but Simon Blake caught his breath sharply, and his face was set in grim lines. But the girl laughed out right merrily under the angry gaze of Ned Low—perhaps she had only meant to tease him, after all. Then she turned and went below without more speech, while Ned fell to pacing the quarterdeck.

  It was a moment after this that Thomas Winter, who was in my watch, came shambling aft to relieve Simon Blake from his trick. A few words passed between them. I stepped up, and Winter repeated the order to go for’ard and tar the lines. Blake nodded assent and obeyed.

  I followed forward, as Simon and Ezra Blake secured their buckets and brushes, and came to a pause beside the water-butt, where Humphrey Stave sat and sewed.

  “Do those buntlines and the forelift first,” I told them, “then work in along the yards from each side, and do the shrouds as you come down. Simon, overhaul that loose foot-rope at the strap, on the fore-yard; tighten it up and watch your seizing.”


  “Aye, sir,” responded Simon, passing the lanyard of his bucket about his neck.

  The two men mounted, and a moment later I turned to find Ned Low at my elbow. He gave me a whimsical glance, and chuckled softly.

  “Caught the bastard, and no mistake, eh? You heard?”

  I nodded.

  “Aye, Ned. So did Blake, at the helm. The men for’ard are talking already about things.”

  “Oh, trice up a couple and give ’em a dozen apiece,” he said carelessly, “and there’ll be no more gossip. Somebody’s been talking to the lass, though, and I don’t like it. John Russel has his eye on her. You watch sharp, lad.”

  “Well, Humphrey Stave, how goes it with the palm? Man, that’s as neat a patch as ever I saw laid!”

  Old Humphrey squinted up over his spectacles.

  “Aye, master, and thankee! You’m be good judge of un, sir.”

  For a moment Low stood glancing around the deck. What he saw in that swift, eaglelike glance of his, I never knew. But suddenly his hand fell on my arm, and his voice sounded in my ear. Ah, the urgency, the repressed fury, of that voice!

  “Quick, for the love of Heaven! Loaded pistols in the chart locker. Get Russel and the gunner. Don’t run aft, now—easy does it—”

  My blood jumped. I turned and walked aft, seeking as I did so what had caused his abrupt alarm and caution. Except that most of the port watch were on deck sunning themselves I could see nothing out of the ordinary. The men seemed to eye me hard as I passed aft, but that might have been imagination. The quarterdeck was empty, save for the long figure of Thomas Winter at the helm.

  Once at the companionway I was down the ladder with a leap, and darted aft to the cabin. Russel was doubled up in my cabin; I paused to fling open the door.

  “John! Up and arm—quick, man!”

  He had his own arms, and usually wore them, so I darted on into the main cabin and in the chart locker came upon two pistols, loaded and pinned. I ran back, found Russel sitting on the edge of his bunk and blinking at me, and swore at him.

  “On deck! Swift about it!”

  I ran on down the passage and came to the companion ladder. As I started up it, something flew out of the darkness below—a knife, that whanged into the wood beyond my ear with a vicious song. Who flung it I could not see and dared not pause to ask, for I was in fear of what might be happening forward.

  Up the ladder and to the deck again, and just in time to see it happen!

  They thought me gone below, of course, thought Ned Low alone there among them, the dogs! As my head came up, I saw the thing fall—saw the bucket, heavy with pitch, leave the hand of Simon Blake and go hurtling down from the topsail yard. Low did not see it, but he saw Bosun Pilcher gape upward and heard Pilcher cry out and leap aside blindly.

  There was a terrible dull sound, and old Humphrey Stave threw out his arms and bent forward across his sail with his skull stove in. Another and more frightful cry burst from Pilcher; I saw the bosun lean back, saw his arm curl and straighten, saw his knife go flaming up through the air.

  “Take it, ye damned murderer of old men!” he yelled out, and Simon Blake took it fair in the throat, and pitched off the yard clear of the ship’s side.

  Now there was a heave of men over Pilcher; and I, running forward, saw Ezra Blake lean over from the futtock shrouds and drop his own heavy bucket toward Ned Low. The latter, warned by my shout, leaped aside once more and the bucket missed. I flung up one pistol and shot the treacherous hound, and he fell straight at the foot of the foremast, where men were rearing cutlasses from the rack.

  Then Ned Low was into them with both hands, and as one man swung at him with a blade I fired again and that man fell. All this, and the body of Ezra dropping among them, and the sight of me running forward, with John Russel behind me and the gunner also on deck, gave them pause.

  Pilcher broke loose and stood beside the captain, and I joined them. Then came Russel leaping like a hound across the deck with a pistol in one hand and knife in the other, and a wild grin upon his dark face. Behind him came Gunner Basil, long hair flying, pale eyes darting about.

  “Up with those cutlasses again, ye dogs!” shouted Low, and they obeyed sullenly. “So it’s mutiny, is it—murder and mutiny, ye swine of righteousness! You there about the arms rack, stand fast!”

  Four of the men there were, still half determined to fly at us, and Low held out his hand toward them.

  “Gunner Basil! Trice up those four devils. Bose, pipe all hands and give those rascals two dozen.”

  One of the other men stepped forward defiantly and stretched his arm at Pilcher.

  “There’s the man o’ blood, cap’n!” he shrilled forth. “Flung his knife, he did, and murdered poor Simon Blake, as godly a man as ever walked—”

  “After Blake tried to stave in my head, eh?” said Low, pale with fury. “After he’d murdered poor chips, eh?”

  “It was an accident!” cried out the man. “I seen his lanyard break and—”

  “You lie,” said I angrily. “I saw him fling the bucket. You liar, go and join those four scoundrels and take a dozen yourself for your lies!”

  “Approved,” added Ned Low curtly. “Bind these five men, you dogs, and do it swift! Where’s the gunner?”

  “Here I be, sir.”

  Gunner Basil came to the front. He gave an order, and for a moment I thought there would be open mutiny. Then as John Russel grinned and lifted pistol the men obeyed. The five about the mast were bound.

  “Now, men,” said Low sternly. “I want an explanation of this. Pick your spokesman and send him aft to me as soon as the lashing is over.”

  He turned and walked aft. Then came Polly Langton running, and joined Pilcher, who was holding the head of poor old Humphrey Stave in his arms, tears coursing down his savage brown cheeks. Humphrey blinked up out of the blood, and saw the girl there, white and feared.

  “Oh minny, minny!” cried the dying man. “Here’s your lad Humphrey coom home again! Oh, minny, I ha’ cried for ’ee! Home from sea, minny, wi’ presents for ’ee—”

  His head sagged over, and that was all save that Pilcher broke into a storm of sobbing and wild cursing grief. Then the girl’s voice thrust in.

  “What—what is all this?”

  She saw the five men being led aft to the main.

  “What have those men done? I heard shots—”

  “Murder and mutiny, lass,” said John Russel, smirking at her. “But for George Roberts here they had murdered Ned Low and taken the ship.”

  “Aye, and they killed poor old Humphrey,” I added. “Bose, go and do your duty, man.”

  Tears unwiped, Pilcher leaped up and ran aft for his lash. White-faced, the girl stared about, saw the five being triced up and knew the purpose of it. I called to the other men about us, and at my order they laid out old Humphrey and Ezra Blake. Simon was gone into the deep already. The other man whom I had shot was but wounded across the scalp.

  “Take charge here, John,” I said to Russel. “I must see to a matter below.”

  I went aft, passing Ned Low, who stood white and stern at the rail of the quarterdeck, his eyes glittering fiercely. How far this mutiny extended we could not tell, of course; whether all the crew were in it, or only the two Blakes. Perhaps indeed Simon Blake had merely seized the chance to kill the captain without premeditation.

  Going below, I looked along the ladder for that knife which had so narrowly missed my head. The knife was gone, and I swore roundly to myself over the fact. Either Gunner Basil or Russel had flung it, I felt convinced, and I suspected the former. As I looked, Dickon the cabinboy came sleepily to the foot of the ladder, rubbing his eyes.

  “What be the fuss, sir?” he asked. “I was asleep down yonder—”

  “Get up and see,” I responded. “And let the flogging of better men keep you from evil courses, younker! Up with you.”

  He went to the deck above, and I after him. And there I saw a thing that was bad for discipline.


  Pilcher had begun laying on the lash, and the first man under his whip was bloody, for the bosun was in savage mind. But Polly Langton had stopped him and now was standing by, looking aft at Ned Low and demanding that the men be given fair trial. Poor lass! She little dreamed what her intervention was going to mean in the end!

  “Dear girl,” replied Ned softly enough, yet with steel in his voice, “these men ha’ tried to murder me and take the ship. They ha’ done murder already. They’re getting off light with two dozen, lass. Stand aside, and interfere not!”

  “I’ll not have it!” she stormed back at him. “You bloody-minded pirates, this is past endurance! These poor men—”

  “Bose!”

  Now the voice of Ned Low thundered out like a trumpet across the deck.

  “Lay on, I bid ye!”

  Pilcher shook his earrings, and the cat swung, and the man under it screamed out. At this, Polly Langton turned about, and held out an arm to the men who watched the scene.

  “Help me stop it!” she cried wildly enough. “Take the ship from these pirates, these murderous brutes—come, men! Stand by me; don’t let your comrades be lashed like dogs—”

  Well, the words died on her lips as she saw the uselessness of it. John Russel, all again until his teeth flashed white in the sun, stood to one side, and the hearts of the men sickened in them under his look. So Polly knew that her plea was futile, and with a little groan that hurt my soul she turned again to Ned Low.

  “Well do they call you Bloody Ned!” she said in a slow and deliberate voice that carried far. “Never dare to speak to me again, you or your friends—I wash my hands of you and your filthy gold and all your doings! Go on; do your worst to these helpless men, but never speak to me, I command you!”

  With this she bent her head and, tears on her cheeks, went aft and so below. While Bosun Pilcher, tears likewise on his own cheeks but from different cause, brought down the cat with all his brawn in the blow, so that the hurt man screamed again.

  Presently it was done, Gunner Basil standing by and counting the blows to each man. Then, the groaning dogs staggering forward, Ned Low summoned the spokesman from the other men. All this while Thomas Winder had stuck to the wheel, wagging his long face vacantly but keeping the ship close to her course.