Part 5

‘I will write you an order on the Columbian government for that amount,’ the other went on.

Marpole thumped the table, almost speechless:

‘D’you think I believe that cock-and-bull story?’ he thundered.

Captain Jonsen made no protest.

‘Do you realise that you are technically guilty of _piracy_, making a forced requisition on a British ship like this, even if you pay every farthing?’

Still Jonsen made no reply: though the bored expression of his mate was lit up for a moment by a smile.

‘You’ll pay me in _cash_!’ Marpole concluded. Then he went off on a fresh tack: ‘Though how the devil you got on board without being called beats me!--Where’s my mate?’

Jonsen began in a toneless voice, as if by rote: ‘I will write you an order for five thousand pounds: three thousand for the stores, and two thousand you will give me in money.’

‘We know you’ve got specie on board,’ interjected the little fair mate, speaking for the first time.

‘Our information is certain!’ declared Jonsen.

Marpole at last went white and began to sweat. It took even Fear an extraordinarily long time to penetrate his thick skull. But he denied that he had any treasure on board.

‘Is that your answer?’ said Jonsen. He drew a heavy pistol from his side pocket. ‘If you do not tell us the truth, your life shall pay the forfeit.’ His voice was peculiarly gentle, and mechanical, as if he did not attach much meaning to what he said. ‘Do not expect mercy, for this is my profession, and in it I am inured to blood.’

A frightful squawking from the deck above told Marpole that his chickens were being moved to new quarters.

In an agony of feeling Marpole told him that he had a wife and children, who would be left destitute if his life was taken.

Jonsen, with rather a perplexed look on his face, put the gun back in his pocket, and the two of them began to search for themselves, at the same time stripping the saloon and cabins of everything they contained: firearms, wearing apparel, the bedclothes, and even (as Marpole with a rare touch of accuracy mentioned in his report) the bell-pulls.

Overhead there was a continuous bumping: the rolling of casks, cases, etc.

‘Remember,’ Jonsen went on over his shoulder while he searched, ‘money cannot recall life, nor in the least avail you when you are dead. If you regard your life in the least, at once acquaint me with the hiding-place, and your life shall be safe.’

Marpole’s only reply was again to invoke the thought of his wife and children (he was, as a matter of fact, a widower: and his only relative, a niece, would be the better off by his death to the tune of some ten thousand pounds).

But this reiteration seemed to give the mate an idea: and he began to talk to his chief rapidly in a language Marpole had never even heard. For a moment a curious glint came into Jonsen’s eye: but soon he was chuckling in the sentimentalest manner, and rubbing his hands.

The mate went on deck to prepare things.

Marpole had no inkling of what was afoot. The mate went on deck to prepare his plan, whatever it was: and Jonsen busied himself with a last futile search for the hiding-place, in silence.

Presently the mate shouted down to him, and he ordered Marpole on deck.

Poor Marpole groaned. Unloading cargo is inclined to be a messy business anyway: but these visitors had been none too careful. There is no smell in the world worse than when molasses and bilge-water marry: now it was let loose like ten thousand devils. His heart was almost broken when he saw the havoc that had been made with the cargo: broken cases, casks, bottles, all about the deck: everything in the greatest confusion: tarpaulins cut to pieces: hatches broken.

From the deck-house came the piercing voice of Laura:

‘_I want to come out!_’

The Spanish ladies seemed to have returned to the schooner. His own men were shut up in the fo’c’sle. It was obvious where all the children were, for Laura was not the only vociferator. But the only persons to be seen were six members of the visiting crew, who stood in a line, facing the deck-house, a musket apiece.

It was the little mate who now took charge of the situation:

‘Where is your specie hid, Captain?’

The musketeers having their backs to him, ‘Go to the Devil!’ replied Marpole.

A startling volley rang out: six neat holes were punctured in the top of the deck-house.

‘Hi! Steady there, what are you doing?’ John cried out indignantly from within.

‘If you refuse to tell us, next time their aim will be a foot lower.’

‘You fiends!’ cried Marpole.

‘Will you tell me?’

‘_No!_’

‘_Fire!_’

The second row of holes can only have missed the taller children by a few inches.

There was a moment’s silence: then a sudden wild shriek from within the deck-house. It was so terrified a sound not their own mothers could have told which throat it came from. One only, though.

The stranger-captain had been slouching about in an agitated way: but at that shriek he turned on Marpole, his face purple with a sudden fury:

‘_Now_ will you say?’

But Marpole was now completely master of himself. He did not hesitate:

‘NO!’

‘Next time he gives the order it will be to shoot right through their little bodies!’

So that was what Marpole had meant in his letter by ‘_every possible threat which villainy could devise_’! But even by this he was not to be daunted:

‘No, I tell you!’

Heroic obstinacy! But instead of giving the fatal order, Jonsen lifted a paw like a bear’s, and banged Marpole’s jaw with it. The latter fell to the deck, stunned.

It was then they took the children out of the deck-house.

They were not really much frightened; except Margaret, who did seem to be taking it all to heart rather. Being shot at is so unlike what one expects it to be that one can hardly connect the two ideas enough to have the appropriate emotions, the first few times. It is not half so startling as some one jumping out on you with a ‘_Boo!_’ in the dark, for instance. The boys were crying a little: the girls were hot and cross and hungry.

‘What were you doing?’ Rachel asked brightly of one of the firing-party.

But only the captain and the mate could speak English. The latter, ignoring Rachel’s question, explained that they were all to go on board the schooner--‘to have some supper,’ he said.

He had all a sailor’s reassuring charm of manner. So under the charge of two Spanish seamen they were helped over the bulwarks onto the smaller vessel, which was just casting off.

There the strange sailors broke open a whole case of crystallised fruits, on which they might turn the edge of their long appetites as much as they would.

* * * * *

When poor stunned Captain Marpole came to his senses, it was to find himself tied to the mainmast. Several handfuls of shavings and splintered wood were piled round his feet, and Jonsen was sprinkling them plentifully with gun-powder--though not perhaps enough, it is true, to ‘blow up the ship and all in it.’

The small fair mate stood at hand in the gathering dusk with a lighted torch, ready to fire the pyre.

What could a man do in such straits? At that dreadful moment the gallant old fellow had to admit that he was beaten at last. He told them where his freight-money--some £900--was hidden: and they let him go.

Just as the darkness closed in, the last of the pirates returned to their ship. Not a sound was to be heard of the children: but Marpole guessed that they had been taken there too.

Before releasing his crew he lit a lantern and began a sort of inventory of what was gone. It was heart-breaking enough: besides the cargo, all his spare sails, cordage, provisions, guns, paint, powder: all his wearing apparel, and that of his mate: all nautical instruments gone, cabin stores--the saloon in fact gutted of everything, not even a knife or spoon left, tea or sugar, nor a second shirt to his back left. Only the children’s luggage was left untouched: and the turtles. Their melancholy sighing was the sole sound to be heard.

But it was almost as heart-breaking to see what the pirates had _left_: anything damaged, such worn-out and useless gear as he had been only waiting for some ‘storm’ to wash overboard--not one of these eyesores was missing.

What, in Heaven’s name, was the use of an insurance policy? He began to collect the rubbish himself and dump it over the side.

But Captain Jonsen saw him:

‘Hi!’ he shouted: ‘You dirty svindler! I will write to Lloyds and expose you! I will write myself!’ He was horribly shocked at the other’s dishonesty.

So Marpole had to give it up, for the time at any rate: took a spike and broke open the fo’c’sle: and as well as the sailors found Margaret’s brown nurse. She had hidden there the whole day: probably from motives of fright.

iii

You would have thought that supper on the schooner that night would have been a hilarious affair. But, somehow, it was _manqué_.

A prize of such value had naturally put the crew in the best of humours: and a meal which consisted mainly of crystallised fruit, followed as an afterthought by bread and chopped onions served in one enormous communal bowl, eaten on the open deck under the stars, after bed-time, should have done the same by the children. But nevertheless both parties were seized by a sudden, overpowering, and most unexpected fit of shyness. Consequently no state banquet was ever so formal, or so boring.

I suppose it was the lack of a common language which first generated the infection. The Spanish sailors, used enough to this difficulty, grinned, pointed, and bobbed: but the children retired into a display of good manners which it would certainly have surprised their parents to see. Whereon the sailors became equally formal: and one poor monkeyfied little fellow who by nature belched continually was so be-nudged and be-winked by his companions, and so covered in confusion of his own accord, that presently he went away to eat by himself. Even then, so silent was this revel, he could still be heard faintly belching, half the ship’s length away.

Perhaps it would have gone better if the captain and mate had been there, with their English. But they were too busy, looking over the personal belongings they had brought from the barque, sorting out by the light of a lantern anything too easily identifiable and reluctantly committing it to the sea.

It was at the loud splashes made by a couple of empty trunks, stamped in large letters JAS. MARPOLE, that a roar of unassumed indignation arose from the neighbouring barque. The two paused in their work, astonished: why should a crew already spoiled of all they possessed take it so hardly when one heaved a couple of old worthless trunks in the sea?

It was inexplicable.

They continued their task, taking no further notice of the _Clorinda_.

Once supper was over, the social situation became even more awkward. The children stood about, not knowing what to do with their hands, or even their legs: unable to talk to their hosts, and feeling it would be rude to talk to each other, wishing badly that it was time to leave. If only it had been light they could have been happy enough exploring: but in the darkness there was nothing to do, nothing whatever.

The sailors soon found occupations of their own: and the captain and mate, as I have said, were already busy.

Once the sorting was over, however, there was nothing for Jonsen to do except return the children to the barque, and get well clear while the breeze and the darkness lasted.

But on hearing those splashes, Marpole’s lively imagination had interpreted them in his own way. They suggested that there was now no reason to wait: indeed, every reason to be gone.

I think he was quite honestly misled.

It was after all but a small slip to say he had ‘seen with his own eyes’ what he had heard with his own ears: and the intention was pious.

He set his men feverishly to work: and when Captain Jonsen looked his way again, the _Clorinda_, with every stitch spread in the starlight, was already half a mile to leeward.

To pursue her, right in the track of shipping, was out of the question. Jonsen had to content himself with staring after her through his night-glass.

iv

Captain Jonsen set the little monkeyfied sailor, who had been so mortified earlier in the evening, to clear the schooner’s fore-hold. The warps and brooms and fenders it contained were all piled to one side, and a sufficiency of bedclothes for the guests was provided from the plunder.

But nothing could now thaw them. They clambered down the ladder and received their blanket apiece in an uncomfortable silence. Jonsen hung about, anxious to be helpful in this matter of getting into beds which were not there, but not knowing how to set about it. So he gave it up at last, and swung himself up through the fore-hatch, talking to himself.

The last they saw of him was his fantastic slippers, hanging each from a big toe, outlined against the stars: but it never entered their heads to laugh.

Once, however, the familiar comfort of a blanket under their chins had begun to have its effect, and they were obviously quite alone, a little life did begin to return into these dumb statues.

The darkness was profound, only accentuated by the starlit square of the open hatchway. First the long silence was broken by some one turning over, almost freely. Then presently:

LAURA (_in slow sepulchral tones_). I don’t like this bed.

RACHEL (_ditto_). I do.

LAURA. It’s a horrid bed; there isn’t any!

EMILY. } } Sh! Go to sleep! JOHN. }

EDWARD. I smell cockroaches.

EMILY. Sh!

EDWARD (_loudly and hopefully_). They’ll bite all our nails off, because we haven’t washed, and our skin, and our hair, and----

LAURA. There’s a cockroach in my bed! Get out!

(_You could hear the brute go zooming away. But Laura was already out too._)

EMILY. Laura! Go back to bed!

LAURA. I can’t when there’s a cockroach in it!

JOHN. Get into bed again, you little fool! He’s gone long ago!

LAURA. But I expect he has left his wife.

HARRY. They don’t have wives, they’re wives themselves.

RACHEL. Ow!--Laura, stop it!--Emily, Laura’s walking on me!

EMILY. Lau-RER!

LAURA. Well, I must walk on something!

EMILY. Go to sleep!

(_Silence for a while._)

LAURA. I haven’t said my prayers.

EMILY. Well, say them lying down.

RACHEL. She mustn’t, that’s lazy.

JOHN. Shut up, Rachel, she must.

RACHEL. It’s wicked! You go to sleep in the middle then. People who go to sleep in the middle ought to be damned, they ought.--Oughtn’t they? (_Silence._) Oughtn’t they? (_Still silence._) Emily, I say, oughtn’t they?

JOHN. NO!

RACHEL (_dreamily_). I think there’s lots more people ought to be damned than are.

(_Silence again._)

HARRY. Marghie.

(_Silence._)

Marghie!

(_Silence._)

JOHN. What’s up with Marghie? Won’t she speak?

(_A faint sob is heard._)

HARRY. I don’t know.

(_Another sob._)

JOHN. Is she often like this?

HARRY. She’s an awful ass sometimes.

JOHN. Marghie, what’s up?

MARGARET (_miserably_). Let me alone!

RACHEL. I believe she’s frightened! (_Chants tauntingly_) Marghie’s got the bogies, the bogies, the bogies!

MARGARET (_sobbing out loud_). _Oh_ you little fools!

JOHN. Well, what’s the matter with you then?

MARGARET (_after a pause_). I’m older than any of you.

HARRY. Well, _that’s_ a funny reason to be frightened!

MARGARET. It isn’t.

HARRY. It is!

MARGARET (_warming to the argument_). It isn’t, I tell you!

HARRY. _It is!_

MARGARET (_smugly_). That’s simply because you’re all too young to know....

JOHN. Oh, hit her, Emily!

EMILY (_sleepily_). Hit her yourself.

HARRY. But, Marghie, why are we here?

(_No answer._)

Emily, why are we here?

EMILY (_indifferently_). I don’t know. I expect they just wanted to change us.

HARRY. I expect so. But they never _told_ us we were going to be changed.

EMILY. Grown-ups never _do_ tell us things.

_Chapter 4_

The children all slept late, and all woke at the same moment as if by clockwork. They sat up, and yawned uniformly, and stretched the stiffness out of their legs and backs (they were lying on solid wood, remember).

The schooner was steady, and people tramping about the deck. The main-hold and fore-hold were all one: and from where they were they could see the main-hatch had been opened. The captain appeared through it legs first, and dropped onto the higgledy-piggledy of the _Clorinda’s_ cargo.

For some time they simply stared at him. He looked uneasy, and was talking to himself as he tapped now this case with his pencil, now that; and presently shouted rather fiercely to people on deck.

‘All right, all right,’ came from above the injured voice of the mate. ‘There’s no such hurry as all that.’

On which the captain’s mutterings to himself swelled, as if ten people were conversing at once in his chest.

‘May we get up yet?’ asked Rachel.

Captain Jonsen spun round--he had forgotten their existence.

‘Eh?’

‘May we get up, please?’

‘You can go to the debble.’ He muttered this so low the children did not hear it. But it was not lost on the mate.

‘Hey! Ey! Ey!’ he called down, reprovingly.

‘Yes! Get up! Go on deck! Here!’ The captain viciously set up a short ladder for them to climb through the hatch.

They were greatly astonished to find the schooner was no longer at sea. Instead, she was snugly moored against a little wooden wharf, in a pleasant land-locked bay; with a pleasant but untidy village, of white wooden houses with palm-leaf roofs, behind it; and the tower of a small sandstone church emerging from the abundant greenery. On the quay were a few well-dressed loungers, watching the preparations for unloading. The mate was directing the labours of the crew, who were rigging the cargo-gaff and getting ready for a hot morning’s work.

The mate nodded cheerfully to the children, but thereafter took no notice of them, which was rather mortifying. The truth is that the man was busy.

At the same time there emerged from somewhere aft a collection of the oddest-looking young men. Margaret decided she had never seen such beautiful young men before. They were slim, yet nicely rounded: and dressed in exquisite clothes (if a trifle threadbare). But their faces! Those beautiful olive-tinted ovals! Those large, black-ringed, soft brown eyes, those unnaturally carmine lips! They minced across the deck, chattering to each other in high-pitched tones, ‘twittering like a cage of linnets ...’ and made their way on shore.

‘Who are they?’ Emily asked the captain, who had just re-emerged from below.

‘Who are who?’ he murmured absently, without looking round. ‘Oh, those? Fairies.’

‘_Hey! Yey! Yey!_’ cried the mate, more disapprovingly than ever.

‘_Fairies?_’ cried Emily in astonishment.

But Captain Jonsen began to blush. He went crimson from the nape of his neck to the bald patches on the top of his head, and left.

‘He is _silly_!’ said Emily.

‘I wonder if we go onto the land yet,’ said Edward.

‘We’d better wait until we’re told, hadn’t we, Emily?’ said Harry.

‘I didn’t know England would be like this,’ said Rachel: ‘it’s very like Jamaica.’

‘This isn’t England,’ said John, ‘you stupid!’

‘But it must be,’ said Rachel: ‘England’s where we’re going.’

‘We don’t get to England yet,’ said John: ‘it must be somewhere we’re stopping at, like when we got all those turtles.’

‘I like stopping at places,’ said Laura.

‘I don’t,’ said Rachel.

‘I do, though,’ pursued Laura.

‘Where are those young men gone?’ Margaret asked the mate. ‘Are they coming back?’

‘They’ll just come back to be paid, after we’ve sold the cargo,’ he answered.

‘Then they’re not living on the ship?’ she pursued.

‘No, we hired them from Havana.’

‘But what for?’

He looked at her in surprise: ‘Why, those are the “ladies” we had on board, to look like passengers--You didn’t think they were real ladies, did you?’

‘What, were they dressed up?’ asked Emily excitedly: ‘What fun!’

‘I like dressing up,’ said Laura.

‘I don’t,’ said Rachel, ‘I think it’s babyish.’

‘_I_ thought they were real ladies,’ admitted Emily.

‘We’re a respectable ship’s crew, we are,’ said the mate, a trifle stiffly--and without too good logic, when you come to think of it. ‘Here, you go on shore and amuse yourselves.’

So the children went ashore, holding hands in a long row, and promenaded the town in a formal sort of way. Laura wanted to go off by herself, but the others would not let her: and when they returned, the line was still unbroken. They had seen all there was to see, and no one had taken the least notice of them (so far as they were aware), and they wanted to start asking questions again.

It was, then, a charming little sleepy old place, in its way, this Santa Lucia: isolated on the forgotten western end of Cuba between Nombre de Dios and the Rio de Puercos: cut off from the open sea by the intricate nature of the channels through the reefs and the Banks of Isabella, channels only navigable to the practised and creeping local coasting craft and shunned like poison by bigger traffic: on land isolated by a hundred miles of forest from Havana.

Time was, these little ports of the Canal de Guaniguanico had been pretty prosperous, as bases for pirates: but it was a fleeting prosperity. There came the heroic attack of an American squadron under Captain Allen, in 1823, on the Bay of Sejuapo, their headquarters. From that blow (although it took many years to take full effect) the industry never really recovered: it dwindled and dwindled, like hand-weaving. One could make money much faster in a city like Havana, and with less risk (if less respectably). Piracy had long since ceased to pay, and should have been scrapped years ago: but a vocational tradition will last on a long time after it has ceased to be economic, in a decadent form. Now, Santa Lucia--and piracy--continued to exist because they always had: but for no other reason. Such a haul as the _Clorinda_ did not come once in a blue moon. Every year the amount of land under cultivation dwindled, and the pirate schooners were abandoned to rot against the wharves or ignominiously sold as traders. The young men left for Havana or the United States. The maidens yawned. The local grandees increased in dignity as their numbers and property dwindled: an idyllic, simple-minded country community, oblivious of the outer world and of its own approaching oblivion.

‘I don’t think I should like to live here,’ John decided, when they got back to the ship.

Meanwhile the cargo had been unloaded onto the quay: and after the siesta a crowd of about a hundred people gathered round, poking and discussing. The auction was about to begin. Captain Jonsen tramped about rather in the way of everybody, but especially annoying the mate by shouting contrary directions every minute. The latter had a ledger, and a number of labels with numbers on them which he was pasting onto the various bales and packages. The sailors were building a kind of temporary stage--the thing was to be done in style.

Every moment the crowd increased. Because they all talked Spanish it was a pantomime to the children: like puppets acting, not like real people moving and talking. So they discovered what a fascinating game it is to watch foreigners, whose very simplest words mean nothing to you, and try to guess what they are about.

Moreover, these were all such funny-looking people: they moved about as if they were kings, and spat all the time, and smoked thin black cigars, the blue smoke of which ascended from their enormous hats as from censers.

At one moment there was a diversion--the crowd suddenly gaped, and there staggered onto the stage the whole crew of the schooner carrying a huge pair of scales: it was always on the point of being too much for them, and running suddenly away with them in another direction.