There was a note of finality in the last word and Big French started to walk on. “Rum,” he said over his shoulder, and added to Dick in an undertone, “’Tis only a poor crone—peace to her—her wits’ diseased.”
“Oh!” the Spaniard felt the pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver dollar. “Here, mother of sin,” he said as he tossed it to her, “buy thyself rum withal. Almsgiving is a noble virtue,” he added piously to French, as they prepared to walk on. Hardly had the words left his lips when his silver dollar hit him on the back of the head with considerable force.
“May you burn, you mange-struck ronyon,” the deep voice grew shrill in its intensity. “All men are villains and you are a king among them.”
With a foreign oath the Spaniard turned about.
“Rum—rum—r-u-m,” the voice faded away and they heard the patter of feet down the road.
Blackkerchief Dick laughed sharply.
“It is well for Mother Swayle that she lives in the East,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Were she in the West she would take my bounty, if not——” he laughed unpleasantly.
Big French looked at him anxiously, uncertain how the fiery Spaniard had taken the old woman’s vagaries.
“The old one was ducked as a witch in the merrymaking at the Restoring of the King,” he said at last. “She was not quite drowned,” he continued, “so the folk—wenches mostly—look up to her and as I said, Captain, her wits’ diseased.”
Dick shrugged his silken-coated shoulders.
“’Tis no matter,” he said with a wave of his hand.
Big French sighed in relief and they walked on in silence for a minute or so. They were now some four hundred yards from the Ship. The high building with its great thatch showed a dark outline against the cold, starlit sky, but all the uncurtained lower windows showed the warm glow within and from the partly open door the sound of singing came out to them on the cold breeze.
The two unconsciously hastened their steps. When they reached the gate of the courtyard the words of the song could be heard clearly above the noise of laughter and banging of pewter.
“Pretty Poll she loved a sailor”
Gilbot’s voice was piping a little in advance of the rest.
“And well she loved he,
But he sailed to the mouth
Of a stream in the South
And was losht in the rolling sea,
And was losht in the rolling sea.”
Dick straightened his lace ruffies at his throat.
“The dogs seem merry,” he observed as he kicked open the door, and stepped into the candle-lit kitchen of the Ship.
All eyes were immediately turned on him, and he stood perfectly still for some seconds enjoying to the full the impression he was making.
The Ship’s company was used to the simple finery of Captain Fen de Witt and his men, and most of them had been to the Western end of the Island and had seen strangers who had come, it was whispered, from London itself, but Dick’s magnificence was wholly new to most of them, while even those who had seen him before were surprised at the contrast which his glistening figure made with the sombre background of the Ship kitchen’s smoke-blackened walls.
Hal stood staring at him as long as any of the others, and Mistress Sue let the rum she was drawing fill up one of the great pewter tankards and spill over on to the stones before she noticed it, so intently did she look at the stranger in the doorway.
Gilbot alone took no notice of the visitor. He sat happily in his place by the fireside, his head thrown back a little and his eyes closed, beating time to imaginary singing with his empty pot.
Joe Pullen was the first to speak. He had just entered by a side door and apparently was entirely unimpressed by the Spaniard or anyone else.
“Evening,” he remarked, as he walked over to the most comfortable seat in the chimney corner and sat down. “Evening to you too, sir,” he said, noticing Dick for the first time—and then he added, peering out of the fireplace—“Mistress Sue, a rum if you please.”
Blackkerchief Dick, noting that the spell was broken, swaggered forward into the firelight.
“Greeting, friends,” he said courteously, and then after looking round curiously his eyes rested on Gilbot. “Is this mine host?” he asked.
Gilbot’s eyes opened slowly and his jaw dropped as he saw for the first time the splendidly-garbed figure.
“Eh?” he said at last. “Washt?” He tried to rise but gave it up as an impossibility, his brow clouded and he turned his tankard upside down on his knee.
Dick stood looking at him, a slight smile hovering round his mouth and twitching the sides of his big Jewish nose.
Gilbot’s face cleared as suddenly as it had clouded.
“Ashk Hal,” he said triumphantly, and leaning back once more he closed his eyes.
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
“You Mistress,” he said, turning to Sue who dropped a curtsey. “Can I have a bedchamber here this night?”
Sue replied that all was ready for him, and Dick, having assured himself that everything was to his liking, put his hand into his pocket and drawing out a handful of gold and silver coins tossed them lightly on the table.
“Drinks all round, I pray you, Mistress,” he said to Sue.
There was a slight stir among the company, and the Spaniard was regarded with still more respect.
Sue stood looking at the coins, her hands on her hips. “’Tis much too much,” she murmured.
Blackkerchief Dick laughed.
“Marry! Then, Mistress, ’twill do for the next lot. I pray thee haste, my throat is parched,” he said.
Sue, her eyes round with admiration, curtseyed again and ran to the inner door.
“Anny, lass, come hither I prithee,” she called, and then hastened to obey the Spaniard.
Anny stepped in unnoticed a moment or two later, and busied herself with the tankards.
Dick was sitting with his back towards her and she did not see him.
“Here, lass,” said Sue, seeing her, “the foreigner would drink sack — wilt get it for him?”
There was not much call for Canary Sack at the Ship, so Anny was some minutes finding and tapping a cask. When she returned from the cellar, a flagon in her hand, the talk had become more animated and one or two lively spirits had started a song, but above the noise a voice penetrating although musical was saying loudly, “Marry! Master French, do you never drink aught but rum in the East that a gentleman is kept waiting ten minutes for a cup of sack?”
French’s deep tones replied slowly.
“Nay, Captain, very little else but rum; sack be only for gentlefolk.”
Anny hastened forward.
“Here’s for you, sir,” she said briskly, and then stopped, awe-struck before the Spaniard, dazzled by his appearance.
Blackkerchief Dick stretched out a white jewelled hand for the tankard without looking at the girl.
“Thank thee, Mistress,” he said carelessly, lifting it to his lips.
Still Anny did not move and Hal Grame, looking up from the rum keg which he was tapping, cursed the Spaniard’s clothes with that honest venom which is only known to youth.
“Ah, a good draught!” The Spaniard put down the pot and touched his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“Mistress, another by your leave,” he said suddenly. Then his gaze, too, became fixed, his dark eyes taking in every detail of her face.
“God’s Fool!” he exclaimed. “Mistress, you are wondrous fair.”
Anny blushed and, her senses returning to her, she curtseyed and taking up the empty tankard tripped off with a gentle “As you wish,” as she went.
Blackkerchief Dick stared after her for a second or two before he turned to French.
“By my faith, Master French, you have no poor skill in choosing a wench,” he said.
Big French laughed and reddened.
“Oh!” he said carelessly, “’tis not she but the other I would h
ave favour from.”
The Spaniard darted a look of misbelief at his big companion, but he said nothing for Anny had returned and was standing before him a brimming tankard in her hand.
Blackkerchief Dick took the wine and set it by untasted, but retained the brown hand which was even smaller than his own, and held it firmly.
“Mistress,” he said, and Anny thought she had never seen such bright, merry eyes, “would you deem it an offence if I asked you your name?”
Anny smiled and curtseyed as she pulled away her hand.
“There be no more offence in asking my name than in holding my hand, sir,” she said. “’Tis Anny Farran, an you please so.”
“Anny, a good name and a simple,” said the Spaniard, choosing to ignore the first remark. “Now tell me, fair Anny,” he continued, “hast ever been told how beautiful thou art?”
The girl looked round. No one in the noisy company round the fire was listening to them and a gleam of mischief twinkled in her eyes before she dropped them as she turned again to the Spaniard.
“Nay, sir,” she said. “Neither has my mirror.”
“Then ’tis a right vile and lying thing, Mistress,” said Dick, “for by my knife,” here he drew the slender thing from his chased silver belt and held it up to the light, “I never saw a comelier lass than thee.”
Anny looked at the knife curiously.
“’Tis a pretty weapon you have, sir,” she said innocently.
Dick laughed.
“Pretty,” he said, “Ah, fair Anny, I would not send the blood from those bright cheeks of thine by telling thee what this same dagger and this right hand have together accomplished.”
“Oh, never mind the wenches, Captain, let’s have the story,” said one of the group at the fire, the company’s attention having been drawn to the Spaniard on the appearance of the knife. Blackkerchief Dick stood up.
“Sack for everyone,” he said grandiloquently as he threw another handful of coins on the trestled table. And then as the tankards were passed round, “To the fairest wench on the Island, Fair Anny of the Ship,” he said, lifting his tankard above his head.
The toast was given with a will. The Spaniard was in a fair way to win popularity.
“’Tis a fine gentleman, Hal,” whispered Anny to her sweetheart under cover of the general hubbub.
“Ay, a deal too fine,” replied the boy putting a pot down with such violence that all the others rattled and clinked against one another with the shock.
Anny laughed.
“Thou art very foolish, O Hal o’ mine,” she said softly.
“There be more tales to tell o’ this dagger than will suffice for one evening.”
The Spaniard’s voice was once more raised in a flaunting tone. “Let it be enough,” he continued, “to say that it hath some ninety lives to answer for.”
There was a general gasp at this information and a slow smile spread over Blackkerchief Dick’s face as he noted their amazement.
“It will be wonderful old I reckon?” Joe Pullen put the question quietly, but as though he expected an answer in the affirmative.
“Nay,” the Spaniard smiled again, “’twas of my own killings I was talking,” he said.
“Oh!” Joe Pullen leant back and closed his eyes as though bored with the conversation.
This procedure seemed to irritate the Spaniard, for he said suddenly, “Look, friend, ’tis a fair weapon,” and he threw the glittering thing at the man in the high-backed seat with a seemingly careless jerk of the wrist. The dagger shot through the air a streak of glistening steel, and fastened itself in the wood half-an-inch above Joe’s head.
Sue shrieked, but there was a murmur of admiration at the feat from the men looking on.
Lazily Joe Pullen sat up and wrenched the blade out of the soft wood; he studied the dagger carefully.
“Ah!” he said at last, an expression of polite interest on his face, “a wonderful fine throw that, sir,” and then added, the knife poised delicately between a clumsy thumb and forefinger, “I wonder now could I do that?” He raised his hand and appeared to be taking aim directly at the Spaniard’s head.
“And was losht in the rolling sea,”
murmured Gilbot; his head fell forward on his chest, and his pot slipping off his knee fell clattering on the stones. The noise woke him and he looked up just in time to see Pullen, knife in hand, standing in the middle of the room.
“Eh? eh?” the old man’s voice had the remnant of a note of authority in it. “Put down t’ knife, lad. Ain’t no good in knives.” His head fell forward on his chest again. “Why not shing happy shong?” he mumbled.
Joe grinned. “Ah,” he said slowly, “maybe the old n’s right.” He handed the knife to the Spaniard who took it without a word. “I might have hit you—I ain’t a very good hand wi’ knives,” said Joe pleasantly.
The Spaniard smiled graciously. “Doubtless you will learn,” he said, his jauntiness returning, and then continuing, “fair Mistress Anny, will you see these tapped?” and he pointed to five rum kegs which Blueneck, Habakkuk Coot, and one or two others of the Coldlight’s crew had just brought in. “Rum all round,” he said, “and the charge to me.”
By the time his last command had been obeyed the company in the Ship was more noisy than before, and, answering to the call for a song, old Gilbot, having been assisted to his feet, leaned his back against the nearest ale barrel and quavered forth in a voice which evidently had once been very tuneful:
“Oh, no one remembers poor Will
Who shtayed by hish mate at the mill;
He ground up more bonesh
Than barley or stonesh,
And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“More bones, more bones,” roared the company as the rum flowed more freely.
“More bones! more bones!
And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“Ah, ha, may the Lord bless ye, fine gentleman, and could ye spare a drop o’ rum for a poor woman to take to her man who’s dying o’ the cold.”
This request uttered in a high-pitched whining voice coming from just behind the half-opened door startled the revellers and they paused to listen, all eyes being fastened on the door. They watched it open a little further, and round it just below the latch appeared the head of an old woman. The face, red and coarse, smiled leeringly and the grey elf locks above it were matted and ill-kempt.
Anny, who was standing near Blackkerchief Dick, caught her breath.
“Lord! ’Tis Pet Salt,” she whispered as she shrank against the table.
The Spaniard dropped a hand over hers unnoticed by anyone save Hal. “Why shudderest thou, wench?” he said softly. Anny slipped her hand away.
“’Tis naught,” she said.
“Will ’ee spare a little rum, fair gentlemen?”
The old woman came a little further into the room disclosing a body so bent and twisted as to be hardly human. She came nearer, the firelight flickered on her, and a murmur rose from the company, she was so ragged and scarred. The Spaniard looked at her critically, then he turned to French.
“You have strange crones up this part of the Island, friend,” he observed.
French laughed.
“Oh, this one won’t treat your almsgiving the way Nan Swayle did,” he said.
At the sound of the name, Nan Swayle, an extraordinary change came over the terrible old figure in the firelight. She straightened herself with a fearful effort and her small eyes blazing with fury broke forth into such a stream of horrible epithets that the rough company of the Ship looked at one another shamefacedly.
“Peace, hag,” the Spaniard strode out from the crowd and touched the old woman with the top of his forefinger.
Pet Salt stopped and seeing the gaudy figure in front of her fell on her knees and holding up a fat, begrimed hand, recommenced her whining.
Dick stood there for a second or two, and then turned his head. “Blueneck,” he said, “bring out a small rum k
eg.”
The old woman fell snivelling at his feet.
The Spaniard kicked her gently.
“O mother of many evils,” he said, “get thee out of this room with thy keg, methinks the air stinks with thee.”
Blueneck stepped forward, jerked the woman to her feet, and put the rum on the floor beside her. Mumbling blessings, thanks, and curses, she stumbled out of the open door, the keg clasped in her arms.
Dick watched her go and then turned to Sue. “Mistress, I would wash my hands,” he said, looking at the tip of his forefinger.
Sue ran to get water and the company began to break up for the night.
“Good night to ’ee,” shouted Hal, as Joe Pullen went out, “may thy wife be sleeping sound.”
“Would she were sleeping with a heavenly soundness, mate,” replied the other as he shut the door behind him.
The crew of the Coldlight went off in a body to their ship rolling and singing happily.
Sue and Hal assisted the old landlord to his room, a nightly duty of theirs, and Anny flitted about getting candles for the visitors.
Dick looked at Big French as they stood for a moment alone together before the dying fire.
“Methinks thy horses will not have recovered from their lameness by to-morrow, friend French,” he said, as Anny, two lighted candles in her hand, appeared at an inner doorway.
French followed the direction of the other’s eyes, then he shrugged his broad shoulders.
“As you wish, Captain,” he said carelessly, and wondered why the Spaniard should laugh so triumphantly at his answer.
Some minutes later all was still in the Ship Tavern. Hal Grame alone stood before the fast-greying embers in the kitchen, thinking miserably. For the first time since he could remember his childhood’s sweetheart had forgotten to kiss him as she bade him good-night.
Chapter V
“An excellent repast, fair Mistress, and one I warrant you well-appreciated.”
Blackkerchief Dick pushed the empty platter from before him, leaned back in his seat, and looked round the room with approval.
It was six o’clock in the morning; and although only a faint greyish light was beginning to steal in the windows and the air was cool and slightly rum-tainted, the kitchen in the old Ship Inn presented a cheerful and lively scene of domestic bustle. The fire, though newly-lighted, blazed brightly and the logs, some with the hoar-frost still glittering on them, crackled and spat merrily.
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