Part 12

As a matter of fact, its royals had sunk below the horizon less than an hour after he had first sighted it.

ii

But the alarm of that night caused Jonsen at last to make up his mind.

He altered his course: and as before he had designed it to avoid other shipping, now on the contrary it was calculated to run as soon as possible into the very track of the Eastward Bounders.

Otto rubbed his eyes. What had come over the fellow? Did he want revenge for the fright he had had? Was he going to try and cut out a prize right in the thick of the traffic? It would be like Jonsen, that: to put his head in the lion’s mouth after trembling at its roar: and Otto’s heart warmed towards him. But he asked no questions.

Meanwhile Jonsen went to his cabin, opened a secret receptacle in his bunk, and took out a job-lot of ships’ papers which he had bought from a Havana dealer in such things. _The ‘John Dodson,’ of Liverpool, bound for the Seychelles with a cargo of cast-iron pots_--what use was that in these waters? The man had sold him a pup!--Ah, this was better: ‘_Lizzie Green,’ of Bristol, bound from Matanzas to Philadelphia in ballast_ ... a funny trip to make in ballast, true: but that was no one’s affair but his imaginary owner’s. Jonsen made sure all was in order--filled in the blank dates, and so on--then returned the bundle to its hiding-place for another occasion. Coming on deck, he gave a number of orders.

First, stages were rigged over the bows and stern, and José and a paint-pot went over the rail to add _Lizzie Green_ to the many names which from time to time had decorated the schooner’s escutcheon. Not content with that, he had it painted on every other appropriate place--the boats, the buckets--it was as well to be thorough. Meanwhile, many of the sails were taken down and new ones bent--or rather, old ones, distinctive sails that a man would swear he couldn’t have forgotten if he had ever seen them before. Otto sewed a large patch to the mainsail, where there was no hole. In his zeal Jonsen even considered lowering the yards and rigging her as a pure fore-and-after: but luckily for his sweating crew, abandoned the idea.

The master-stroke of his disguise was permanent--that he carried no guns. Guns can be hidden or thrown overboard, it is true: but the grooves they make in the deck cannot, as many a protesting-innocent sea-robber has found to his cost. Jonsen not only had no guns to hide, he had no grooves: any fool could see he had no guns, and never had had any. And who ever heard of a pirate without guns? It was laughable: yet he had proved again and again that one could make a capture just as easily without them: and further, that the captured merchantman, in making his report, could generally be counted on to imagine a greater or less display of artillery. Whether it was to save their faces, or pure conservatism--presumption that there must have been guns--nearly every vessel Jonsen had had dealings with had reported masked artillery, manned by ‘fifty or seventy ruffians of the worst Spanish type.’

Of course if he met and was challenged by a man-of-war, he would have to give in without a fight. But then, it never pays to fight a man-of-war anyhow. If he is a big one, he sinks you. If he is some little cock-shell of a cutter, commanded by a fire-eating young officer just into his teens, you sink him--and then there is the devil to pay. Better be sunk outright than insult the honour of a great nation in that fashion.

When he at last remembered to take the hatches off the children, they were half dead with suffocation. It was hot enough, stuffy enough anyhow down there, only the square opening above for ventilation; but with the hatches even loosely in place it was a Black Hole. Emily had at last dropped asleep, and slept late, through a chain of nightmares: when she did wake in the closed hold, she sat up, then fainted immediately, and fell back, her breath coming in loud snores. Before she came to again she was already sobbing miserably. At that the little ones began to cry too: which sound it was that reminded Jonsen, rather late, to take the hatches off.

He was quite alarmed when he saw them. It was not till they had been out in the morning freshness of the deck for some time that they even summoned up interest in the strange metamorphosis of the schooner that was in progress.

Jonsen looked at them with a troubled eye. They had not indeed the appearance of well-cared-for children: though he had not noticed this before. They were dirty to a fault: their clothes torn, and mended, if at all, with twine. Their hair was not only uncombed--there was tar in it. They were mostly thin, and a yellowy-brown colour. Only Rachel remained obstinately plump and pink. The scar on Emily’s leg was still a blushing purple: and they all were blotched with insect bites.

Jonsen called José off his painting job: gave him a bucket of fresh water: the mate’s (the only) comb: and a pair of scissors. José wondered innocently: they did not look to him particularly dirty. But he did his duty, while they were still too sorry for themselves to object actively, to do anything more than sob weakly when he hurt them. Even when he had finished their toilet, of course, he had not reached the point at which a nursemaid usually begins.

It was noon before the _Lizzie Green_ looked herself--whoever that might be: and a little after noon she was still heading for ‘Philadelphia’ when, hull down on the horizon, two sail were sighted, many miles apart, at about the same minute. Captain Jonsen considered them carefully; made his choice, and altered his course so as to fall in with her as soon as might be.

Meanwhile, the crew had no more doubt than Otto had of Jonsen’s intention: and the sound of the whetstone floated merrily aft, till each man’s knife had an edge that did its master’s heart good. I have said that the murder of the Dutch captain had affected the whole character of their piracy. The yeast was working.

Presently the smoke of a large steamer cropped up over the horizon as well. Otto sniffed the breeze. It might hold, or it might not. They were still far from home, and these seas crowded. The whole enterprise looked to him pretty desperate.

Jonsen was at his usual shuffle-shuffle, nervously biting his nails. Suddenly he turned on Otto and called him below. He was plainly very agitated; his cheeks red, his eye wild. He began by plotting himself meticulously on the chart. Then he growled over his shoulder:

‘Those children, they must go.’

‘Aye,’ said Otto. Then, as Jonsen said no more, he added: ‘You’ll land them at Santa, I take it?’

‘No! They must go now. We may never get to Santa.’

Otto took a deep breath.

Jonsen turned on him, blustering:

‘If we get taken with them, where’ll _we_ be, eh?’

Otto went white, then red, before he answered.

‘You’ll have to risk that,’ he said slowly. ‘You can’t land them no other place.’

‘Who said I was going to land them?’

‘There’s nothing else you can do,’ said Otto stubbornly.

A light of comprehension dawned suddenly in Jonsen’s worried face.

‘We could sew them up in little bags,’ he said with a genial smile, ‘and put them over the side.’

Otto gave him one quick glance; what he saw was enough to relieve him.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Sew them up in little bags! Sew them up in little bags!’ Jonsen affirmed, rubbing his hands together and chuckling, all the latent sentimentality of the man getting the better of him. Then he pushed past Otto and went on deck.

The big brigantine, which he had aimed for at first, was proving a bit too far up the wind for him: so now he took the helm and let the schooner’s head down a couple of points, to intercept the steamer instead.

Otto whistled. At last an inkling of what the captain was at had dawned on him.

iii

As they drew nearer, the children were all immensely interested: they had never before seen anything like this big, miraculous tub. The Dutch steamer, an old-fashioned craft, had not differed very materially from a sailing-vessel: but this, in form, was already more like the steamers of our own day. Its funnel was still tall and narrow, with a kind of artichoke on top, it is true: but otherwise it was much the same as you and I are used to.

Jonsen spoke her urgently: and presently her engines stopped. The _Lizzie Green_ slipped round under her lee. Jonsen had a boat lowered: then embarked in it himself. The children and the schooner’s crew stood at the rail in tense excitement: watched a little ladder lowered from her towering iron side: watched Jonsen, alone, in his dark Sunday suit and the peaked cap of his rank, climb on board. He had timed it nicely: in another hour it would be dark.

He had no easy task. First he had his premeditated fiction to establish, his explanation of how he came by his passengers. Secondly, he had to persuade the captain of the steamship, a stranger, to relieve him, where he had so signally failed to persuade his friend the señora at Santa Lucia.

Otto was not a man to show agitation: but he felt it, none the less. This scheme of Jon’s was the foolhardiest thing he had ever heard of: the slightest suspicion, and they were as good as done for.

Jonsen had ordered him, if he guessed anything was wrong, to run.

Meanwhile, the breeze was dropping, and it was still light.

Jonsen had vanished into the steamer as into a forest.

Emily was as excited as any of them, pointing out the novel features of this extraordinary vessel. The children still thought it was professional quarry. Edward was openly bragging of what he would do when he had captured it.

‘I shall cut the captain’s head off and throw it in the water!’ he declared aloud.

‘S-s-sh!’ exclaimed Harry in a stage whisper.

‘Coo! I don’t care!’ cried Edward, intoxicated with bravado. ‘Then I shall take out all the gold and keep it for myself.’

‘I shall sink it!’ said Harry, in imitation: then added as an afterthought, ‘Right to the very bottom!’

Emily fell silent, her peculiarly vivid imagination having the mastery of her. She saw the hold of the steamer, piled with gold and jewels. She saw herself, fighting her way through hordes of hairy sailors, with her bare fists, till only the steamer’s captain stood between her and the treasure.

Then it happened! It was as if a small cold voice inside her said suddenly, ‘_How can you? You’re only a little girl!_’ She felt herself falling giddily from the heights, shrinking. She was _Emily_.

The awful, blood-covered face of the Dutch captain seemed to threaten her out of the air. She cowered back at the shock. But it was over in a moment.

She looked around her in terror. Did any one know how defenceless she was? Surely some one must have noticed her. The other children were gibbering in their animal innocence. The sailors, their knives half concealed, grinned at each other or cursed. Otto, his brows knotted, stood with his eyes fixed on the steamer.

She feared everybody, she hated everybody.

Margaret was whispering something to Edward, and he nodded. Again panic seized her. What was Margaret telling him? Had she told every one? Did they all know? Were they all playing with her, deceiving her by pretending not to know, waiting their own time to burst their revelation on her and punish her in some quite unimaginably awful way?

_Had_ Margaret told? If she crept up behind Margaret now, and pushed her in the sea, might she yet be in time?--But even as she thought it, she seemed to see Margaret rising waist-high out of the waves, telling the whole story to everybody in a calm, dispassionate voice, and climbing back on board.

In another flash she saw the fat, comfortable person of her mother, standing at the door of Ferndale, abusing the cook.

Again her eyes roamed round the sinister reality of the schooner. She suddenly felt sick to death of it all: tired, beyond words tired. Why must she be chained for ever to this awful life? Could she never escape, never get back to the ordinary life little girls lead, with their papas and mamas and ... birthday cakes?

Otto called her. She went to him obediently: though with a presentiment that it was to her execution. He turned, and called Margaret too.

She was in a more attentive mood than she had been the other night with the captain, Heaven knows! But Otto was too preoccupied to notice how frightened her eyes were.

Jonsen had no easy task on the steamer: but Otto did not greatly relish his own. He did not know how to begin--and everything depended on his success.

‘See here,’ he burst out. ‘You’re going to England.’

Emily shot him a quick glance. ‘Yes?’ she said at last: her voice showing merely a polite interest.

‘The captain has gone onto that steamboat to arrange about it.’

‘Aren’t we staying with you any longer, then?’

‘No,’ said Otto: ‘you’re going home on that steamboat.’

‘Shan’t we see you any more, then?’ Emily pursued.

‘No,’ said Otto: ‘--Well, some day, perhaps.’

‘Are they all going, or only us two?’

‘Why, all of you, of course!’

‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

There was an awkward silence, while Otto wondered how to tackle the real problem.

‘Had we better go and get ready?’ asked Margaret.

‘Now listen!’ Otto interrupted her. ‘When you get on board, they’ll ask you all about everything. They’ll want to know how you got here.’

‘Are we to tell them?’

Otto was astonished she took his point so readily.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The captain and me don’t want you to. We want you to keep it a secret, do you see?’

‘What _are_ we to say, then?’ Emily asked.

‘Tell them ... you were captured by pirates, and then ... they put you ashore at a little port in Cuba----’

‘--Where the Fat Woman was?’

‘--Yes. And then we came along, and took you on board our schooner, which was going to America, to save you from the pirates.’

‘I see,’ said Emily.

‘You’ll say that, and keep the ... other a secret?’ Otto asked anxiously.

Emily gave him her peculiar, gentle stare.

‘Of course!’ she said.

Well, he had done his best: but Otto felt heavy at heart. That little cherub! He didn’t believe she could keep a secret for ten seconds.

‘Now: do you think you can make the little ones understand?’

‘Oh yes, I’ll tell them,’ said Emily easily. She considered for a moment: ‘I don’t suppose they remember much anyway. Is that all?’

‘That’s all,’ said Otto: and they walked away.

‘What was he saying?’ Margaret asked. ‘What was it all about?’

‘Oh shut up!’ said Emily rudely. ‘It’s nothing to do with you!’

But inwardly she did not know whether she was on her head or her heels. Were they really going to let her escape? Weren’t they just tantalising her, meaning to stop her at the last moment? Were they handing her over to strangers, who had come to hang her for murder? Was her mother perhaps on that steamer, come to save her? But she loved Jonsen and Otto: how could she bear to part with them? The dear, familiar schooner.... All these thoughts in her head at once! But she dealt firmly enough with the Liddlies:

‘Come on!’ she said. ‘We’re going on that steamer.’

‘Are _we_ to do the fighting?’ Edward asked, timorously enough.

‘There isn’t going to be any fighting,’ said Emily.

‘Will there be another circus?’ asked Laura.

Then she told them they were to change ships again.

When Captain Jonsen came back, mopping the sweat from his polished forehead with a big cotton handkerchief, he seemed in a terrible hurry. As for the children, they were so excited they were ready to tumble into the boat: in such a flurry they nearly tumbled into the sea instead. _Now_ they knew why they had been washed and combed.

It did not seem at first as if there was going to be any difficulty about getting them started. But it was Rachel who began the break-away.

‘My babies! My babies!’ she shrieked, and began running all over the ship, routing out bits of rag, fuzzy rope-ends, paint-pots ... her arms were soon full.

‘Here, you can’t take all that junk!’ dissuaded Otto.

‘Oh but my darlings, I can’t leave you behind!’ cried Rachel piteously. Out rushed the cook, just in time to retrieve his ladle--and a battle-royal began.

Naturally, Jonsen was on tenterhooks to be gone. But it was essential they should part on good terms.

José was lifting Laura over the side.

‘_Darling_ José!’ she burst out suddenly, and twined her arms tightly round his neck.

At that Harry and Edward, who were already in the boat, scrambled back on deck. They had forgotten to say good-bye. And so each child said good-bye to each pirate, kissing him and lavishing endearments on him.

‘Go on! Go on!’ muttered Jonsen impatiently.

Emily flung herself in his arms, sobbing as if her heart would break.

‘Don’t make me go!’ she begged. ‘Let me stay with you always, always!’ She clung tight to the lapels of his coat, hiding her face in his chest: ‘Oh, I _don’t_ want to go!’

Jonsen was strangely moved: for a moment, almost toyed with the idea.

But the others were already in the boat.

‘Come on!’ said Otto, ‘or they’ll go without you!’

‘Wait! Wait!’ shrieked Emily, and was over the side and in the boat in a flash.

Jonsen shook his head confusedly. For this last time, she had him puzzled.

But now, as they rowed across to the steamer, all the children stood up in the boat, in danger of tumbling out, and cried:

‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’

‘Adios!’ cried the pirates, waving sentimental hands, and guffawing secretly to each other.

‘C-c-come and see us in England!’ came Edward’s clear treble.

‘Yes!’ cried Emily. ‘Come and stay with us! All of you!--_Promise_ you’ll come and stay with us!’

‘All right!’ shouted Otto. ‘We’ll come!’

‘Come _soon_!’

‘My babies!’ wailed Rachel. ‘I’ve lost ’most all my babies!’

But now they were alongside the steamer: and soon they were mounting a rope ladder to her deck.

What a long way up it was! But at last they were all on board.

The little boat returned to the schooner.

The children never once looked after it.

And well might they forget it. For exciting as it had been to go onto a ship of any kind for the first time, to find themselves on this steamer was infinitely more so. The luxury of it! The white paint! The doors! The windows! The stairs! The brass!--A fairy palace, no: but a mundane wonder of a quite unimagined kind.

But they had little time now to take in the details. All the passengers, wild with curiosity, were gathered round them in a ring. As the dirty, dishevelled little mites were handed one by one on board, a gasp went up. The story of the capture of the _Clorinda_ by as fiendish a set of buccaneers as any in the past that roamed the same Caribbean was well known: and how the little innocents on board her had been taken and tortured to death before the eyes of the impotent captain. To see now face to face the victims of so foul a murder was for them too a thrill of the first water.

The tension was first broken by a beautiful young lady in a muslin dress. She sank on her knees beside little Harry, and folded him in her delicate arms.

‘The little angel!’ she murmured. ‘You poor little man, what horrors you have been through! How will you ever forget them?’

As if that were the signal, all the lady passengers fell on the astonished children and pitied them: while the men, less demonstrative, stood around with lumps in their throats.

Bewildered at first, it was not long before they rose to the occasion--as children generally will, when they find themselves the butt of indiscriminate adoration. Bless you, they were kings and queens! They were so sleepy they could hardly keep their eyes open: but they were not going to bed, not they! They had never been treated like this before. Heaven alone knew how long it would last. Best not waste a minute of it.

It was not long before they ceased even to be surprised, became convinced that it was all their right and due. They were very important people--quite unique.

Only Emily stood apart, shy, answering questions uncomfortably. She did not seem to be able to throw herself into her importance with the same zest as the others.

Even the passengers’ children joined in the fuss and admiration: perhaps realising the opportunity which the excitement gave of avoiding their own bed-time. They began to bring (probably not without suggestion) their toys, as offerings to these new gods: and vied with each other in their generosity.

A shy little boy of about her own age, with brown eyes and a nice smile, his long hair brushed smooth as silk, his clothes neat and sweet-smelling, sidled up to Rachel.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.

‘Harold.’

She told him hers.

‘How much do you weigh?’ he asked her.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You look rather heavy. May I see if I can lift you?’

‘Yes.’

He clasped his arms round her stomach from behind, leant back, and staggered a few paces with her. Then he set her down, the friendship cemented.

Emily stood apart; and for some reason every one unconsciously respected her reserve. But suddenly something seemed to snap in her heart. She flung herself face-downwards on the deck--not crying, but kicking convulsively. It was a huge great stewardess who picked her up and carried her, still quivering from head to foot, down to a neat, clean cabin. There, soothing and talking to her without ceasing, she undressed her, and washed her with warm water, and put her to bed.

Emily’s head felt different to any way it had ever felt before: hardly as if it were her own. It sang, and went round like a wheel, without so much as with your leave or by your leave. But her body, on the other hand, was more than usually sensitive, absorbing the tender, smooth coolness of the sheets, the softness of the mattress, as a thirsty horse sucks up water. Her limbs drank in comfort at every pore: it seemed as if she could never be sated with it. She felt physical peace soaking slowly through to her marrow: and when at last it got there, her head became more quiet and orderly too.

All this while she had hardly heard what was said to her: only a refrain that ran through it all made any impression, ‘_Those wicked men ... men ... nothing but men ... those cruel men._...’

Men! It was perfectly true that for months and months she had seen nothing but men. To be at last back among other women was heavenly. When the kind stewardess bent over her to kiss her, she caught tight hold of her, and buried her face in the warm, soft, yielding flesh, as if to sink herself in it. Lord! How unlike the firm, muscular bodies of Jonsen and Otto!

When the stewardess stood up again, Emily feasted her eyes on her, eyes grown large and warm and mysterious. The woman’s enormous, swelling bosom fascinated her. Forlornly, she began to pinch her own thin little chest. Was it conceivable she would herself ever grow breasts like that--beautiful, mountainous breasts, that had to be cased in a sort of cornucopia? Or even firm little apples, like Margaret’s?

Thank God she had not been born a boy! She was overtaken with a sudden revulsion against the whole sex of them. From the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes she felt female: one with that exasperating, idiotic secret communion: initiate of the γυναικεῖον.

Suddenly Emily reached up and caught the stewardess by the head, pulling it down to her close: began whispering earnestly in her ear.

On the woman’s face the first look of incredulity changed to utter stupefaction, from stupefaction to determination.

‘My eye!’ she said at last. ‘The cheek of the rascals! The impudence!’

Without another word she slipped out of the cabin. And you may imagine that the steamer captain, when he heard the trick that had been played upon him, was as astonished as she.

For a few moments after she had gone Emily lay staring at nothing, a very curious expression on her face indeed. Then, all of a sudden, she dropped asleep, breathing sweetly and easily.