The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Your governor knows me,” I told them, “also Senhor Gonsalvo, the former governor. They will tell you that I am an honest man of my word. How soon can you get the men here?”

  They talked together, and decided to return at once to San Nicholas, saying that they could be back the day after tomorrow in the morning, barring bad weather. Ned Low made me a sign of delighted assent, and so we agreed upon it. Before sunset the blacks were rowing out of the bay, and so departed.

  Although Ned and I kept watch and watch that night, we saw no signs of Winter coming back. Sunrise was at hand, we were getting breakfast in the galley, when Ned stepped to the rail, then called me and ran aft for the glass. Sure enough, there was a blot out between the sandspits.

  When we had inspected that blot through the glass we stood staring one at the other in blank amazement. For the tube showed us that this was the longboat indeed, with a figure stooped aft, bailing the water out of her, which we took to be that of Polly Langton; only two others were aboard her, and these at the oars—cook Philip and Bosun Pilcher. They were rowing her slowly and wearily, as men who had been long hours at the task, and the boat was low in the water.

  “Stove in, George,” said Ned Low, wrinkling up his eyes perplexedly. “Now what’s it mean, I wonder? Where’s Winter and the other six?”

  So slowly did they come on that it was after sunrise when they drew near, and Polly waved to us. The two men were too exhausted to wave, although we caught a faint grin from Philip and saw the bosun nod his head to us as the faces strained upward. The boat was half filled with water, and we saw that she was badly stove in the bows.

  In fact, so weary were all three of them that they hardly made any comment upon finding us two alone there and the ship ours. The two men crawled over the rail and sank down, gasping for breath. Polly leaned against the rail and looked at us with a tremulous smile upon her lips. Her hair was fallen about her cheeks, and she was very lovely.

  “Where’s Winter?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the sand-hills.

  “Coming. We ha’ been rowing most o’ the night—”

  “Rest then,” said Ned. “Come, George! I’ll be cook. You bring ale.”

  I fetched some ale, and Ned produced biscuit and turtle-steak. We asked no questions, but waited, and when she had eaten a little the girl suddenly looked up at us.

  “Gentlemen, I ask your pardon, for—for everything,” she faltered. “I ha’ learned the truth—”

  Ned took her hand and smoothed it, looking into her eyes.

  “Dear lass,” he said gravely, “why speak so? Sure, we owe our lives to your wit and good sense. Had you not taken the head of things—”

  Her eyes widened and came to me.

  “But—but they used me as a tool!” she said. “Bose Pilcher has told me all, as you told me last night, Mr. Roberts! It is all true about that man Winter—”

  “Does he suspect that you know?” I demanded.

  “No, no! He was glad enough when I offered to come back in the boat and bail her—”

  “Then where’s the gold?”

  Ned broke out in a laugh.

  “Come, lass, forget all else and tell us what’s happened?”

  “Aye, he has the gold,” she said, color coming into her cheeks. “We found it just where the directions said. But in coming ashore we ran on a sunken rock that hurt the boat; to fetch back the gold in her was impossible. So Winter remained to bundle it into canvas and carry it across the headland to the bay here. He was too excited over the gold to protest my departure, and sent Pilcher and cook Philip with me. He is sure that bose has joined in his schemes, you see. He’ll be here some time today.”

  “Good!” cried Ned joyfully. “You, lads, get for’ard and sleep while you can. First, however, help get the boat hauled in, and I’ll go to work on her. Canvas and pitch will make her tight enough to use in a pinch.”

  When the boat was hauled aboard Pilcher and the cook stumbled off to sleep, and Ned fell to his task, whistling blithely.

  I got a spare sail rigged aft for a sun-shelter and remained talking with Polly Langton, who refused to go below. She was much concerned to have matters set right between her and us—but no more anxious on this head than was I myself.

  From Pilcher, I discovered, she had gained a very accurate understanding of the whole situation—including her worthy uncle’s past history, since the bosun had held back nothing. However it must have shocked her, she was now facing too stern realities to spend much thought on the past.

  Now I went over with her the varied details of the voyage, pointing out how this and that had come about; and, having the perspective of distance and an awakened mind, Polly could clearly enough discern the right and wrong of things. Of Ned Low I could say very little, but I told enough to make her see that he was not altogether the bloody pirate he had been named.

  In an hour we were talking and laughing together as friendly as ever or perhaps more so, and there came up mention of her native Devon. At that she cried out bitterly:

  “Oh, if we could only get away from here before the men come back! I want none of that gold. I would it were all at the bottom of the sea! And I am afraid of Winter. If you had heard and seen him when they brought the gold up out of the hole you’d have thought he was more devil than man! Can’t we work the ship out now, at once?”

  “It might be done,” I said, casting an eye at the bay. “There’s a light air off the land—Oh, Ned! Ned!”

  Ned Low had finished his work on the boat and came at my call, pipe in one hand and mug of ale in the other. Very merry and laughing he was, too.

  “Ned, the lass fears Winter. And I am none so sure that it were wise to lie here all today and tonight. He took a brace of muskets with him, and pistols. What d’ye say to letting the gold go hang, slipping the hawser, and—”

  “Not by a good deal!” exclaimed Ned coolly.

  He regarded Polly with a smile, his brown face very frank and cheerful to see.

  “I don’t blame ye, Polly, for wanting to be rid of it all and away from here; but, lass, gold is mighty useful in the world. Once away from the King Sagamore, once back in London or Devon or where ye will, a few thousand guineas is a mighty fine thing wherewith to fight the world, the flesh and the devil! If the clergy had each a pocketful o’ money there’d be less talk of hell and more of heaven—I’ll wager ye never heard a bishop talk of hell now! Nor ever will. We see the world quite different through gold spectacles, lass—”

  “A brave dissertation, Ned,” I broke in dryly, “but come to the point!”

  He pointed overside with his pipe, to where several large black fins were slowly cleaving the water.

  “There y’are—come to pick the leavings of our turtle! What better guard could we have against Winter tonight, George? Without a boat he can’t reach us, and a musketball or two will do us no harm. So fear not; we are safe from him and all others!

  “As for the gold, I mean to have it from him; that’s one reason for not leaving. The second is like unto it—I’ll not leave him wi’ that gold in his paws, d’ye mind? I need the gold, and I’ll not see him rewarded with it. Nay, leave him ashore for a day or so without fresh water or food or strong liquor, and hear how the dog’ll whine to us! We’ll, give him bread for gold, and when the last red round piece is down below I’ll slip the cable and set our black island men to the braces and leave Thomas Winter here to think on his sins.

  “For your sake, lass,” he continued, “I’ll not try to hang him, since that might make or lead to trouble. We’ll leave him marooned and be content wi’ the gold.”

  Leaving him to argue the matter with Polly, I took his mug and went forward to get some ale. While I was there, Pilcher came yawning on deck. I paused for some talk with him, and he told me what had finally and terribly convinced the girl. Under the jubilant excitement of finding the gold Winter had momentarily flung off his mask, telling the lass that he meant to have her as well as the gold; he had charg
ed Pilcher to watch her closely and to lock her into her cabin on reaching the ship.

  What Winter had said to Polly Langton was enough to set any man’s blood to boiling. Then and there I changed my mind about leaving the bay.

  “Bose, who’s this fellow Winter?” I demanded. “He’s no riffling jack playing in luck. There must be a name to him that men would know.”

  “Aye, sir, but I could never come at it.”

  Pilcher shook his gold earrings.

  “Gunner Basil knows him, I be certain; no one else. Where be gunner and Dickon, sir?”

  I told him of Dickon’s escape.

  “Gunner’s ironed down below. You must have deceived them all finely, bose! Winter really thought you’d go on the Account with him, eh?”

  “Gunner be an old fool,” Pilcher grinned at me. “Yet there’s murder in the heart of un, mark that! The tales he’s poured into me would shiver your soul, Mr. Roberts! If he be not a liar he ha’ seen and done such things as ’ud melt a Turk!”

  “Go down and talk to him,” I suggested. “Perhaps you can get something out of him about Winter. That man’s a pirate, a known man, I’m certain of it.”

  “Be goin’ to hang ’un, sir?”

  “Aye. You might get the line and block ready now, too.”

  I went aft with the ale and informed Ned and Polly bluntly that I was for staying until the men returned. Then Ned Low saw what the bosun was doing at the main and questioned me about it.

  “Making ready for Winter,” I said. “The man hangs.”

  “Why so changed?” said Ned, laughing. “Would you jeopardize us all?”

  “He insulted the lass here,” I said. “Make no more talk about it now.”

  Polly Langton looked at me, and the color came into her face. We must have looked mighty humorous, for Ned Low began to laugh again and went forward. When he was gone, the little lass spoke softly.

  “You must not bear him such ill, Mr. Roberts—”

  “No protests if you please!” I told her frankly. “Pilcher told me what was said, and I’ll give that rascal what he deserves if it kills me! But it won’t. Before we leave here the rogue hangs.”

  She looked troubled, but made no more mention of the matter.

  All this while we were keeping a sharp eye upon the sand-hills, but in vain; and since Winter and the six men could not come near the little bay without being seen, we were safe in taking our ease.

  After a little Philip appeared and came aft. We were prompt to thank him for his loyalty, and for those keys which had near cost him his life to obtain. The Negro was delighted with our words of praise, and Ned promised him more substantial reward later, when occasion offered.

  I had never seen Ned so full of good spirits as this morning. Polly began to take all in jest his announced purpose of buying out her share of the ship and going forth once more on the Account, and small wonder; no man ever looked less like a pirate than Ned Low that morning. Even when he stated that he would transship her at Lisbon she thought him joking.

  So came noon, and Philip brewed us a mighty stew of green turtle in the regular island style, which we hugely enjoyed. Pilcher had held some conversation with Gunner Basil, but it was all one-sided. He reported that the gunner would utter nothing save oaths, and those unfit for repetition.

  We had just lighted our pipes, and cook Philip was clearing away the meal from the shelter aft, when Polly Langton looked up and changed countenance suddenly. I followed her gaze, and came to my feet.

  “Stand by, Ned! Here they are.”

  We stood at the rail, watching the seven bowed men coming over the crest of the sand toward the bay. Seven? No, there was one more following them; eight in all, and the eighth was the cabinboy, Dickon.

  CHAPTER XI

  Foremost of the eight came Thomas Winter. He and the six men after him had flung away their arms, even to pistols; they bore each of them a rude canvas sack, some on shoulders, others in arms, and by their weariness under that dragging weight of wealth we knew how great was the treasure they had unearthed. Dickon alone carried no burden.

  “Dickon has told them his tale—yet they come!” exclaimed Ned Low, watching the scene with frowning perplexity.

  We shared his uneasy wonder, all of us. We had expected anything but this open coming. It could not be doubted that Winter now knew we held the ship, and he probably thought the gunner dead; he could have had little hope of Pilcher and the cook having subdued us. Yet he came on openly, the six men behind him, bringing their golden treasure down to the shore of the bay! And all unarmed, too, except for knives.

  “I looked for them to attack us tonight somehow,” I observed, “but not for such a coming. Watch out for tricks, Ned!”

  “Yes, yes!” added Polly earnestly. “Don’t let him trick you!”

  “Fear not,” said Ned Low quietly. “I want but that gold of him, and he can have the island! And let him try his tricks, now that we know him for what he is.”

  The eight came filing down to the sandy shore of the bay, a scant cable’s length from us.

  “Way enough, lads,” cried Thomas Winter, dumping his load into the sand. In the hot stillness of the bay, with not a breath stirring aloft, each sound reached us plainly; the hot panting of the men, as one by one they added their burdens to the pile; the oaths and curses of Dickon, toiling in their wake; the dull sound of clinking metal as the pile of gold grew complete. More than one of the godly rogues vented himself of profane words as shoulders and arms were rubbed.

  “Gold makes a change, even as I told you, in men,” commented Ned Low. “Mark those rascals, George! A day or so ago they were pious, regenerate dogs—and now look at the flame in their faces, the passion in them!”

  “More like thirst,” commented the girl practically. “The water in the boat’s cask was foul. And they have thrown away even the provisions in order to carry the gold.”

  That was true. The group of men stood there staring at us, and even in the face of Winter we could lead the hopeless despondency of a beaten man. They had neither water, food nor arms. We, who held the ship, held everything.

  At length Winter came down to the water’s edge and hailed us.

  “Ahoy! Pilcher, are you there, bosun?”

  “Aye,” roared back bose. “Here and with the cap’n, ye damned dog!”

  Winter stared at us from his long face.

  “I hadn’t thought ye’d go back on us, bose,” said he, and shook his head. “Be you with ’em too, Miss Polly?”

  She would not answer him. Ned Low made laughing response.

  “Come aboard, Thomas Winter! Come aboard, with the men. Swim, lads, swim! The ale is warm, but hearty, and here fine fresh turtle, and fish for the taking. Come aboard, lads, and never mind the sharks.”

  The other men and Dickon were by now sprawled in the sand in various attitudes of despair. But Thomas Winter stood and stared at us.

  “Master Low, ye’d never see us starve an’ die o’ thirst?” he cried.

  “Aye, and with a good heart!” said Ned cheerfully. “There’s water to the south end of the island, lads. Take up your gold and go for it.”

  Sullen curses from the men showed how his words bit, and how they themselves had changed from their former godliness. Ned Low laughed at them.

  “Come, come, regenerate hearts!” he derided. “Shall I have up Gunner Basil out of his irons to give you some godly exhortation?”

  “Master, we be poor, unlucky men,” returned Thomas Winter mournfully. “There be no gettin’ around it, you ha’ beat us. We ha’ throwed the main, and you ha’ beat us despite all. Will ye not ha’ mercy on us?”

  “Not I,” said Ned Low blithely. “What about your rendezvous with the Rose Pink, Master Winter? Do you still think to pick her up, and carry these good honest lads off to a life o’ piracy?”

  I watched the men at this, hoping to find that this was news to them; but they clustered about Dickon, merely glared at us. Evidently they had thrown off al
l restraint. The very sight and touch of the old had corroded their souls. Thomas Winter only wagged his long head and wiped sweat from his brow.

  “You ha’ beat us,” he said again. “We ha’ no water, no food, and will die like dogs out here i’ the hot sun. Take us board, master, even if it be in irons!”

  “Not I,” quoth Ned Low, tamping tobacco into his pipe. “I want ye not. You have gold there in plenty. Eat it, drink it! Make a canopy of it to shade yourselves from the sun! We’ll be gone from here tomorrow morning, and ye can enjoy the gold to the full.”

  A sudden transport of rage shook Winter.

  “Gizzard and guts! Will ye have no mercy, damn ye?” he roared out.

  “Should have thought of that yesterday,” I broke in, and he stared at me as if he had never seen me before. “You dog, Winter! I’ll see you hanged for what you said to the lass. Mind that! I’ll see that the island men know you for pirates, and the first king’s ship we speak will come to take you off.”

  “Master Roberts, you’ll never do that?” he returned as if struck aghast by the possibility. “We didn’t do no harm to you, sir—only put ye in the bilboes, so to speak, for a day or two. We be main sorry for all we ha’ done, masters; aye, we be main sorry! We be naught but poor sailormen, masters. Ye’d not bear malice against us? And now you ha’ the ship and all’s well, you’d never go off and maroon us here?”

  “Aye,” said Ned imperturbably. “Like the dogs you are!”

  “Do ’ee speak to un for us, mistress!”

  Brazenly Winter addressed himself to Polly.

  “After all, mistress, we be Englishmen! Maybe we ha’ been tempted; aye, it’s true enough, the yellow gold tempted us, mistress! But we be not all bad. Do ’ee speak a word to cap’n, and he’ll hear it. We’ll work ship good and faithful, we will. Aye, he can have us in irons for the mutineers we be, so he don’t leave good men here to die o’ thirst! Do ’ee speak a word to ’un, do now!”