Blackkerchief Dick Page 11

  Blueneck gulped, and his eyes started from his head and the blood tingled and danced in his veins.

  The noise, it was certainly not a song nor yet the cry of an animal, but a sort of long-drawn-out sighing on a high quavering note, came nearer and grew louder. Now the light was within fifteen paces of him and he held his breath. Nearer it came.

  “Donna Maria, let it pass,” he prayed. Now it was within five yards of him, and came nearer still. Straining his eyes he could make out a fearful bundlelike figure behind the lantern. The noise grew louder; nearer it came till the light stopped three feet away from him, and fell on the most evil and half-human face the terrified sailor had ever seen.

  This was the last straw and Blueneck screamed. The sound rang out high and short as he dropped back on the weed, half-insensible. However much the thing with the lantern had frightened him, he certainly frightened it with his yell, for it sprang back and emitted a howl which started the echoes and woke the sea-birds, who screamed also as they flapped sleepily away.

  Blueneck shut his eyes and waited three seconds of horrible suspense. Then he felt the light beating on his eyelids, and heard a cracked human voice very near him say:

  “Oh! ye would be spying on me, would ye, ye hell-traitor?”

  The words reassured Blueneck more than perhaps anything else would have done and he opened his eyes. The terrible old face was very near his own, and hot spirit-tainted breath blew into his nostrils, but what fixed his attention was the glitter of steel above the figure’s head.

  Blueneck rose to the situation now that he was assured of the old woman’s mortality (he decided that it must be an old woman). He was not the man to be frightened of a knife other than his captain’s.

  “Pity a poor sailor; so stiff with the cold that his legs will not bear him,” he moaned, in a pitiful pleading whine.

  The old woman laughed horribly.

  “You don’t catch birds like Pet Salt with chaff, hell-rat,” she said.

  “Pet Salt!” Blueneck began to understand.

  “Mistress,” he said, “what are you about?”

  “Killing a spying knave,” was the reply, and the blade descended until its point pricked his throat.

  Things were turning out more seriously than Blueneck had expected and he spoke quickly.

  “Is it rum you want, lady?” he said as steadily as he could, the blade pricking deeper as the words moved the muscle of his throat.

  “It is, hell-rat—it is,” Pet Salt bent nearer, “and no spying dog shall stop me from getting it. Ye waited out here till you were too stiff to move, did you? Ah, you blue-livered pike, the devil looks after his own.”

  “Then I’m the man to get it for thee. I’m the mate of the Coldlight.”

  Blueneck had just time to get out the words or she would have killed him.

  “How do I know you be not?” she said shrewdly, though visibly shaken at his words, as she withdrew the knife.

  “I swear,” began the sailor.

  Pet Salt stopped him.

  “Swear!” she screamed. “What’s a seaman’s oath to me?”

  “Look at my garments,” said the anxious Blueneck. “Are they those of a comman man or one befitting my station?”

  Pet, like many other women before and since, was moved at the sight of the bright colours and good stuffs.

  “They be ruined with salt water,” she remarked. “What happened to you, hell-rat?”

  Blueneck paused before he spoke. His pride forbade him to tell the truth, and his prudence warned him against a lie. Finally he made a compromise between the two and told a fairly plausible story of two men setting upon him, of a fearful fight, and finished up with a faithful account of the ducking which he had received.

  Pet seemed satisfied. How much she believed is another matter but, as she often told Ben Farran, she understood sea-folk and all their tricks.

  She put up the knife somewhere in her rags and set down the lantern.

  “Try and stand,” she commanded.

  Blueneck obeyed as one in a dream; slowly and painfully he staggered to his feet, only to drop again almost immediately.

  Pet waddled after him.

  “Rub your legs,” she said, “and hurry. You’ve got to work for me before the cocks crow.”

  Wearily Blueneck did as he was bid, and the old woman hobbled off to the bank of seaweed where she set to work unearthing the kegs. With a grunt of satisfaction she set the last one beside the others and turned to Blueneck.

  “Come on,” she said.

  Blueneck staggered to his feet; he was still very unsteady, but the rubbing had partially restored his circulation and he was just able to stumble along.

  Pet pointed to the three kegs.

  “Carry two,” she said shortly.

  Blueneck looked around him hopelessly. It was still dark and lonely and some of the horror he had felt when he first saw Pet Salt returned to him. He shuddered; the bent old figure in front of him clad in dirty evil-smelling rags seemed again to take on some of the fear-inspiring qualities of a fiend or marsh-goblin. He struggled on to where the kegs were lying and with great difficulty hoisted one on to his shoulder.

  Pet lifted up another.

  “Put this under your other arm,” she said, “and mind your stepping; it’s heavy.”

  Blueneck took it without a word.

  Pet took up the last keg and turned to him, her ugly bulbous face showing red with exertion in the lantern’s flickering light.

  “Now follow after me,” she said, and hobbled off.

  Long afterwards Blueneck described this journey from the bank of seaweed to Ben Farran’s boat as a walk through hell itself.

  Time after time the keg under his arm slipped and fell in the soft powdery shingle, and he had to bend his stiffened and aching body to pick it up again, while the terrible cracked voice of Pet Salt railing in the most fearful language rang in his ears.

  But he went on. Once he fell and cut his head on a breakwater stone, and the old woman kicked him with her wooden-shod foot and bade him rise in a tone that had fear in it as well as command.

  Once they saw a lantern in the far distance and Pet made him crouch and wait silent till it passed on. Again and again he felt that he must break away and regain his lost courage, but always the fear of the dark desolateness and the awful old woman prevented him, and he went on meekly.

  How at last he managed to climb up the rope-ladder and scramble on to the deck of the Pet and then down the hatchway to the stifling cabin and bunk-room below he did not know. However, he did it and fell through the doorway into Ben Farran’s presence in a fainting condition.

  When he recovered himself the air was full of a strange sickening odour, mixed with the fumes of steaming rum.

  He looked round him curiously. The room was very small even for a boat and marvellously dirty and untidy.

  A few rags were bundled together in a corner forming a rude sort of bed, and an old iron stove smoked and spat in another. On the top of this stood an iron bowl, and it was from this Blueneck decided that the strange smell came.

  In a corner by the stove lay Ben Farran snoring loudly with his mouth open.

  Blueneck looked at him curiously. He had been a fine big man he judged, and had some strength and comeliness, but much rum had changed him, and he sprawled there a most ungainly, loathsome figure. His shoulders were bent till he lost any pretension to height, his jaw was weak and drooping, and great blue pouches of flesh hung under his eyes. This, combined with an enormous stomach and bent podgy legs, gave him a great resemblance to a fat toad.

  Blueneck looked away and turned his attentions to himself. He found that his outer garments had been removed and that his arms and legs were covered with a black-greenish paste. He looked at them in surprise and disgust and began to rub off the caked mixture as fast as he could. But he noticed that his stiffness had left him and that he felt as well and strong as he had done the night before he had his fight with Joe Pullen.
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br />   Pet came in presently and he saw that she was growing fast like Ben, rum-sodden and old. She smiled when she saw him, and he thought how horribly pale her toothless gums showed across the flaming purple redness of her face.

  “Now, master mate of the Coldlight, I would bargain with thee,” she began, as she handed him his clothes newly dried and motioned him to dress.

  Blueneck said nothing, but took his garments and began to put them on.

  “Methinks your Captain the Spanish Dick has set eyes on a pretty wench,” she said slowly.

  The sailor did not look up; he was mournfully regarding his best doublet coat stained and faded with salt water.

  “Oh, there be many pretty wenches who have had his eyes upon them,” he said carelessly.

  Pet swore roundly and with such vehemence that he glanced at her.

  “But one particular wench?” she went on, relapsing again into quietness. “I have long ears.”

  Blueneck, who was slow of comprehension, looked at her in surprise; her remark struck him as being strangely irrelevant.

  “I hear what is said on the Island,” the old woman continued. “I know your Captain hath a great liking for Ann Farran, Ben’s gran’daughter.”

  Blueneck looked even more puzzled.

  “Ay, and if it be so, what then?” he said.

  Pet smiled again.

  “Your Captain carries much rum,” she observed.

  Blueneck nodded and pulled on his boots.

  “This Ann Farran hath but one kinsman in the world save her bastard half-brother,” Pet went on crooningly.

  Blueneck stood up, he began to see to what she was leading up.

  “There would be none to look for the wench, or hark to the wench if one were quieted,” she went on suggestively.

  “And that one loves rum!” observed Blueneck.

  Pet smiled again.

  “And that one loves rum!” she repeated.

  Blueneck stood thinking for a moment or two, his hands clasped in his pockets.

  “For this news, Mistress, I will say naught of what has passed this evening, nor of the three rum kegs,” he said.

  Pet nodded; the man seemed intelligent.

  “Nor will I say aught of a lost boat,” continued the sailor, darting his bright black eyes upon her.

  Pet blinked. This man was too intelligent, she told herself.

  “I will tell the Captain of your bargain,” Blueneck went on. “It may be he will hear. Meanwhile,” he looked at the array of little kegs on the floor, “you will not die of thirst, Mistress.”

  Pet shrugged her shoulders and looked across at the slovenly figure by the stove.

  “We both drink well,” she said.

  Blueneck looked from one to the other.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” he sneered, and walked out up the hatchway. “I will tell the Captain,” he called back, as he climbed down the rope-ladder and on to the now sunlit wall.

  He walked along talking to himself in a whisper. Now and again he paused and made as though to go back. Then he recovered himself and went on still muttering. Finally he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, it won’t be the first time rum has bought a fair lass anyway,” he said aloud, “and it ain’t a right thing in a man to go against old habits.”

  And lifting his head he began to whistle blithely.

  Chapter XII

  It was seven o’clock on the following Wednesday evening and there was an air of expectation in the Ship’s kitchen.

  The Coldlight was due to sail under a new name at the late tide.

  Anny was upstairs preparing herself for Dick’s coming, while in the room below the talk ran high and many conjectures as to the Captain’s intentions were put forward and withdrawn, as the company drank round the fire.

  “Osh, where’s the man as can withstand a pretty lass?” said Gilbot, smiling and hiccoughing over his sack.

  “Ah, maybe, maybe, but ’tis a wonderful risky thing, this changing names o’ crafts,” put in Granger, wagging his head. “I don’t hold with it myself.”

  “Ah, I reckon the Captain knows what he’s about; there ain’t many like him to a mile,” remarked another man.

  “You’re right there,” said old Cip de Musset, who had been sitting silently in a corner for some time. “He ain’t no crab, but I’d not let a lass o’ mine have much to do with him.”

  “What do you mean?” said Hal, firing up and coming over from the doorway where he had been standing.

  Old Gilbot began to laugh.

  “Hark to th’ lad,” he gurgled. “One would think he loved her hisself.”

  Hal turned away from the light before he spoke and no one saw the deep flush which crept up over his features even to the roots of his hair, making his scalp tingle uncomfortably.

  “We look after our wenches at the Ship, Master Gilbot,” he said hastily.

  Gilbot nodded happily.

  “Ay,” he said, “wesh do, wesh do!” and the talk continued.

  Just as the clock by the chimney-piece struck the quarter, steps were heard coming across the yard, and Blackkerchief Dick, flanked by Blueneck and Habakkuk Coot, and backed by some nine or ten hardy ruffians, marched in at the door.

  In an instant the little Spaniard was the centre of an enthusiastic group, for, since his first coming to the ship, Dick had done much to make himself popular, and now his deep musical voice was raised good-naturedly above the din calling for rum all round and sack for those who wished for it.

  Hal and Sue darted about in obedience to his order and soon the company stood silent, mugs in hand, waiting for the toast. At this moment the inner door opened and Anny, dressed in the purple gown that Sue had given her, stepped into the kitchen.

  Dick was at her side in a moment and respectfully taking her hand led her into the centre of the room.

  “Ann of the Island, her health and beauty for ever!” he shouted, his tankard high above his head. The toast was given boisterously, and Anny blushed and smiled shyly.

  Old Gilbot was enjoying himself thoroughly and took advantage of a lull in the conversation to exclaim:

  “Letsh have a shong!” and then without any more ado began to quaver “Pretty Poll ”at the top of his voice.

  The company took up the burden and the final “Lost in the rolling sea” was bellowed till the rafters shook.

  “More rum,” called Dick, and then, as though obeying an impulse of the moment, he sprang upon one of the forms and resting one foot on the trestled table exclaimed:

  “Hark ye, dogs! here is a new song, mine own song, a song of Dick Delfazio’s own composing.”

  And then throwing back his head he began to sing in a remarkably true tenor voice, swaying his body in tune to his own music:

  “Fair as a seagull and proud as the sea,

  As naught in the world is fair Anny to me,

  So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,

  Oh! where is another like Ann of the Isle?

  Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,

  Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”

  By this time the rumkins were all replenished and the chorus of the song was taken up and repeated to the accompaniment of jingling pewter.

  Dick still kept his position and took up the song again, his dark eyes flashing and smiling at the girl who watched him fascinated.

  “Avaunt ye fine ladies of France and of Spain,

  So wayward, so wanton, so proud, and so vain.

  No sweet pleading look, no trick, or no wile,

  Shall ever more tempt me from Ann of the Isle.

  Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,

  Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”

  And then he added before anyone could speak, “To the brig, boys,” and skipping lightly off the table he offered his hand to Anny and led the way out into the yard, the whole company following, roaring as they went:

  “Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,

  Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”r />
  Anny looked up shyly at the Spaniard, her heart beating quickly with excitement. He was strolling jauntily along her hand tightly held in his own; the starlight touched the jewelled hilt of his knife, and his big mournful black eyes winked and smiled happily.

  He loved display, pageant, parade; she could see that by the way his men marched around him in regulated order, and by his gorgeous clothes, and she herself became a little intoxicated by the air of excitement, and the singing of the laughing, jostling crowd.

  Glancing at him under her lashes she slipped her hand through his arm and laughed a little self-consciously.

  A curious self-satisfied but half-regretful smile passed over his face and he bent towards her.

  “Give me a kiss, little one,” he said softly.

  A wave of cold water seemed to dash over Anny’s pleasure and she drew her arm away stiffly, saying: “Prithee, sir, I would return to the Ship.”

  Again the curious smile spread over Dick’s lips, but this time there was no regret.

  “Pardon, Mistress, methinks thy beauty and mine own singing hath made my brain whirl. Prithee, prithee, fair one, give me thy hand again.”

  Anny looked at him and held out her hand without a word. He seemed so debonair, so gracious, such a fine gentleman, and his soft eyes sought hers almost beseechingly, she thought.

  “Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,

  Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”

  sang the company as the little procession neared the water-side.

  Sue, who walked between French and Cip de Musset, looked at the two small figures in front and sighed involuntarily. She also thought that the Spaniard was a fine gentleman and she also had seen his dark eyes fixed mournfully on the other girl’s face, and she began to laugh and talk noisily to hide her vexation.

  Gallantly Blackkerchief Dick led the little serving-wench down over the planked way to the row-boat, helped her in, and then stepped lightly after her. Several of the company crowded in behind them and they pushed off. The rest of the band seized other boats that were anchored near the shore and followed as best they could.

  Once on board the brig, Anny looked about her with delight; the shrouded sails and spider-web-like rigging pleased her immensely; the swinging lanterns overhead showed the clean boards and newly-painted sides, and she laughed with satisfaction as she noted first one thing and then another.