Part 15

But why were they sending the girl from the city? He frowned over this perplexedly. The matter had a meaning he could not see. Then, as he pondered, there came from the back of his mind several things which arranged themselves oddly, and yet confidently, before him.

"What now?" said Anthony, looking at them, and frowning more than ever. "What now?"

The first of the things dealt with was his pause overnight at the Brig Tavern, off the New Castle road. The girl and her father had been there; and they had been associated with persons concerned in fostering piracy, to be carried on under French letters of marque.

"No doubt of that," acknowledged Anthony, and eyed the fact grudgingly; "they stood very intimately with them, indeed."

The second of the things was equally positive, and had been fathered by Christopher Dent on that very night. Many people had visited the Lafargues at their lodgings, French and American; Citizen Genêt, whose words and acts in behalf of legalized piracy had lately filled the public ear and eye, had been one of them.

"Yes," said Anthony, endeavoring to stare the fact out of countenance, "all that is true. But what has it to do with mademoiselle being on board this ship without her father?"

And just as the two things seemed to be wavering, and not at all certain of their purpose, a third fact advanced smartly to their help, and at once set itself to lighting lamps in Anthony's mind. And so, where he had groped before, he now saw clearly.

"The daughter is young," he said. "The father is old. The girl is strong of will; the old man is shaken and infirm. She is his right hand, his prop, the active half of his mind. If she were taken away, he'd be helpless; if she were not constantly at his side to guide his judgments he might be imposed upon. The father is a friend of the French agent, Genêt; and it is Genêt who commissions American-built and American-manned ships to sail against the English."

The three facts merged victoriously into one shining result, and Anthony studied it. The girl's fears had been played upon; she was being sent away, and the old man was being held in the city that he might be turned to the crafty uses of Tarrant and his friends.

Anthony smiled and ceased to plague his throbbing head. This was the kernel of the thing! And so he put all thought from him, composed himself to sleep, and slept soundly.

XXIV

When Anthony awoke he lay still for a space and listened. The river-water washed under the schooner's foot; he could hear the creak of the blocks and that flapping of sail that tells of little wind. A dim gray picked its way through the darkness, for the dawn had entered at the companionway.

Anthony stood up; the sleep had done him a deal of good; his head was steady, and the pain had all but gone. He took a draft of the brandy and stretched himself with wide-flung arms; then he stood frowning and considering. _Le Mousquet_ was a schooner. He knew schooners; he had both stowed and sailed them; and he knew what was possible and likely aboard one. _Le Mousquet_ was private-armed, and manned more than likely by a reckless, insubordinate company, not to be trusted with arms, save in the presence of an enemy. The officers would possibly carry pistols when on duty. At this hour there was hardly more than one on deck; the others would be snoring in their beds.

Anthony stepped across a man who lay asleep outside the door, and went quietly on deck. The river looked cold and quiet: the sails were drawing but little; the watch were muffled in heavy coats to keep out the chill touch of the mist. Anthony moved the length of the deck unnoticed, and down at the after hatch. Here on this side was the captain's room. This, on this hand, would be the room shared by the lieutenants; and here would be the room where the small arms would likely be stored. He examined the lock on this door; it was stout, but the woodwork was worn, and the door loose, and he shoved back the bolt with the blade of his knife. Muskets were racked against the wall at one side; the other bristled with pistols and cutlasses, and a low door opened into the magazine. Methodically, Anthony put three brace of pistols aside; then, one by one, he slipped the remainder noiselessly through the low port-hole into the river; and the muskets, to the number of three dozen, followed them. With powder and ball taken from the magazine, he loaded the pistols he had kept; then he stowed them about his person and went out of the room.

From the other side of the lieutenants' door came the grumbling of a man half asleep, and Anthony went in. The officer was sitting up in his bed yawning and scratching his unshaven jaws; he stared at Anthony, surprised; then out of the bed he came with a leap and reached for a pistol that hung from a hook by the trigger-guard. Anthony also grasped at it, and as they struggled the weapon roared thunderously in the narrow space. Desperate at the sound, Anthony tore the pistol from the man's hand and struck him with it shrewdly, and he fell; then the young man whirled about to meet the master of the schooner entering at the door. In trying to avoid the blow that curved toward him, the one-eyed man fell; and as he did so he set up a roaring.

"On deck! Help! Drive a knife through this devil!"

But Anthony wasted no time; in the captain's cabin he threw open the cupboard doors and saw a brace of silver-mounted pistols upon a shelf. One of these, together with the lieutenant's empty one, he threw from a stern window; then with the other he turned to face the officer of the watch whose boots were clumping down the short ladder. At sight of Anthony this man fired; but the young man flattened himself against the wall and his return shot sent the privateersman writhing to the deck with a broken shoulder. Snatching up the man's weapon, Anthony ran up the ladder to the main-deck. The watch was hurrying aft; he could see the black face of the cook above the edge of the forward hatch. Pitching the two empty pistols over the rail, he drew out one of those he had loaded himself.

"Keep your places!" he growled. The blood had started to ooze from his wounds once more and stained the bandages about his head; and as he stood with hunched shoulders menacing them with the pistol the sailors halted. "Close the forward hatch," directed Anthony, "and fasten it down!" They hesitated; he sent a shot rattling among them, and then they leaped to obey. Again an empty pistol went over the side, and a fresh one appeared in his hand. To the man at the wheel he said, "Stand away!"

The man did as he was bidden; and under Anthony's hand the bow of the schooner began to creep around toward the shore. While it was still turning, Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared on deck; her quick glances took in the sullen group of seamen amidships and the grim figure at the wheel.

"In five minutes," she said quietly, "the ship will be aground."

"I had reasoned it at a trifle more than that," said Anthony, giving eye by turns to the schooner's course and the muttering watch. "But a few minutes more or less makes no odds."

She regarded him coldly.

"The two men below are desperately hurt," she said.

"I note that the captain is in no hurry to make a third," said Anthony, cocking his eye toward the after hatch. Almost as the words left him the master of the schooner popped his head above its edge; instantly the long pistol lifted and exploded; the ball tore away the combing, within a foot of the head, and it disappeared like magic. There was silence after this, and with a fresh pistol Anthony casually menaced the watch. The warm, thick smell of a marshy shore came from the nearing bank; birds were whistling; beyond the trees a plowman was heard calling to his horses. The bottom of the schooner scraped, and a shudder ran through her to the tips of her masts. Then she struck; the sails flapped uselessly, and the stern swung about to the tide.

"Lower away a boat," directed Anthony, his frowning eyes on the watch. "And make haste. There are some among you whom I have to thank for the hurts I got last night; which struck the blows, I don't know, but a few leaden slugs may pick them out." He handled the pistol with a readiness that carried fright into their hearts. "Lower a boat."

A small boat was swung over the side and rested upon the water.

"I shall need two men," said Anthony. "You will answer, and you," nodding to two of the seamen. "Get in." The men did so readily enough; and then he turned his eyes upon Mademoiselle Lafargue. "If you please," said he, and waved his hand toward the boat. She reared her head, her eyes darting scorn and resentment; but she did not move from where she stood. "I am going ashore," he said, "and as this ship is no place for you it is a good chance to leave her."

"I shall not leave her in your company, at all events," she said coldly.

"I expected you to say something like that," said Anthony. "And I would like to reason the matter out with you. But it is best that there be no delay. I beg of you to step into the boat."

But she would not; and she defied him with her eyes. He motioned to the watching seamen.

"Put her into the boat."

"You would not dare!" she said, her coldness flaming into anger.

"Put her into the boat," said Anthony.

In a few minutes she was handed into the waiting boat; she made no protest, no resistance, but sat in the bow and covered her face with her hands.

"Now, my bullies," said Anthony, as he stepped to the rail, "stand well back. If I see a head of one of you until I get ashore, I'll speak to you with this," and he motioned with the pistol.

The two seamen pushed off and fell to the oars; Anthony sat athwart the stern, the pistol between his knees, the rudder handle in his left hand; he watched the schooner, the men pulling the boat, and also the landing-place which he had selected. Within ten minutes they had reached a platform built upon spiles, and used by river sloops in taking in the produce of the farms. Anthony was the first out; he helped Mademoiselle Lafargue ashore, and then they both stood silent upon the little wharf and watched the boat pull back to _Le Mousquet_.

XXV

Anthony examined the schooner's position, while the boat pulled toward her; her nose was wedged into a mud flat, but as her stern had moved around toward the north he knew the tide was working up the river.

"In an hour," he said, "there will be water enough to float her off." He turned toward the girl; she had her cloak drawn about her, and her eyes were still on _Le Mousquet_. She seemed to have no regret at leaving the vessel; but the manner of her leaving had left her furious.

"The next thing," said Anthony, "is to procure a conveyance and get you back to your father."

"You need not trouble yourself," she said.

"As I am the cause of your being here," said Anthony, "I owe it to you to see you safe."

"I cancel all obligations," she said. "You owe me nothing."

Anthony looked at her stubbornly.

"Very well," said he. "Then I owe it to myself. And in debts owing to myself I always demand payment in full." He looked inshore, over the fields, green with the freshness of April; on a knoll, about a mile away, were the white walls of a house amid a screen of trees. "There's a farmstead," said Anthony; "we can find some means there of getting back to the city."

"I shall not stir," said Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"It's plain enough," said Anthony, "that you do not greatly favor my company. There are certain things which you believe of me; you've been told of plottings, of guilt, of treachery; and the shadow that I stand in is, no doubt, a dark one to your eyes. But why distrust me while you have confidences in certain others? For I, at least, have never tried to shoot a man as he slept, and I have never struck one who was helpless."

"I shall not stir from where I am," said the girl.

"It's a full mile across the fields to the house," said Anthony, "but I have no doubt I can carry you."

"You would not dare!" said she, startled.

"I think you used those very words on board the schooner," said he. There was a pause; and then he added quietly. "Will you go willingly, or must I do as I've said?"

She looked at him with level gaze; the fire in her eye was quieted, though her head was as high as ever.

"I will go," she said, "for there is nothing else for me to do. But I do not go willingly. You are compelling me, and I hate you for it."

He said nothing in reply; and so they set off toward the distant farmstead. Here they encountered a human enough man and a woman who stared and listened but who never ventured a word.

"I have need of my horses and men at this season," said the farmer; "but as you are hurt and the lady must needs have some way of reaching the city you may have a pair and a wagon."

An oldish sort of man, who diligently chewed a straw, was called; in a short space he had a span of farm horses harnessed to a two-seated wagon, with a body swinging on heavy leather bands. Anthony handed Mademoiselle Lafargue to the rear seat; then he took his place beside the driver, and they started. Chester was passed in the first half hour. The girl spoke never a word; now and then Anthony looked back at her to assure himself that she was as comfortable as the pitching wagon permitted, and he was also silent. It was afternoon when the heavy-footed horses crossed the lower ford and began to draw toward the city; the clock in the tower of the state-house, seen across a huddle of painted roofs, told four as they crossed Chestnut Street; and in a little while they drew up before Christopher Dent's door.

Anthony helped the girl out, mounted the white marble steps with her, and knocked. And while they waited he said:

"In a night or two I shall call upon your father; there are things that press for discussion between us. And, if you are so disposed, I should be glad if you were present to listen." She made no reply, standing with her head averted. And he went on: "If any one, no matter who, tells you of danger to yourself in remaining in the city, give no heed to him. Remain with your father; do not be separated from him; for, I warn you, that any possible danger is not with you but with him."

Here the quadroon maid opened the door, and the girl went in; and Anthony made his way to Dr. King's in Front Street. The physician opened the door himself, for he was in the hall, bidding good-bye to Mr. Sparhawk. In the room where the doctor saw to such things, the bandages were taken from Anthony's head.

"A care-free blackguard had you in hand here," said Dr. King, as he looked at the wounds.

Mr. Sparhawk, who had volunteered his services at the sight of Anthony's condition, held a basin of hot water ready, while he also inspected the hurts.

"He did not hold his hand at any rate," said he. "A thief, no doubt," he added. "There are a deal of them lurking about of a night."

While Dr. King dressed his head, Anthony related the circumstances of the attack. At mention of the _Le Mousquet_, Mr. Sparhawk exclaimed, sharply.

"What?" said he. "Will they stop at nothing? Do they dare such things as this? Is a citizen not safe in the streets of his own city? Must we be constantly on guard against a parcel of ruffians?"

"Yesterday I heard you speaking with Mr. Stroude concerning the ship _Eclipse_," said Anthony. "When does she sail?"

"She sailed with the tide, some hours ago," said Mr. Sparhawk. "And so _Le Mousquet_ dropped down last night!" The little man shook his head. "There will be devilment enough off the capes to-morrow," he said; "and more than one honest person's money will be put in jeopardy."

After the young man's wounds had been attended to, Dr. King said:

"You should have a rest for a day or two; I would advise your going home and to bed."

"I shall do so," said Anthony, "for my legs are not over-strong under me; and they are telling me of it, more and more plainly every step I take."

Mr. Sparhawk walked with him up Front Street.

"The cunning of these villains," said the little man; "the cunning of them is past all belief. They have managed it so that pillage is becoming a recognized thing; rapine has public approval; loot is so common we think nothing of it."

Anthony smiled.

"I would not go so far as that," he said; "but I agree that there is a deal of guile round about us."

"We boast of our open trade and commercial candor," said Mr. Sparhawk. "We set ourselves up as superior to the Spaniards who hold every port and river they control under private tribute. But, if the truth were known, we have our share of mercantile malpractice here. There are places," said he warmly, "that are regarded as above reproach, but which are charnel-houses of business honor; there are men who sit in the full light of public confidence, weaving plots as shameless as any in the art of the spider."

"Where is the law?" asked Anthony.

"The law is inadequate, and I sometimes think, shrewdly kept so."

Mr. Sparhawk held to this strain until they reached Anthony's lodgings in Sassafras Street. The walk had done the young man no good, and his face was white as he said good-by to the little man at the door. Mr. Sparhawk noted this.

"No," said he, "I will help you to your room. These hurts of yours have taken a deal more of your vitality than you think."

Anthony was glad enough to put some of his weight upon Mr. Sparhawk in going up the steep stairs; and the little gentleman also aided him in getting off his clothes and into bed. And then he brewed him an excellent drink.

"And now sleep," said he. "It will help you more than anything else." He lifted the window so that the air might blow in and do its share of the healing; he nodded in a most friendly and obliging fashion as he was about to go, and then his eyes chanced upon one of the bulky old ledgers lying upon a table. "What?" said he, "a ledger? Do you still use your spare time of an evening, so?"

Said Anthony:

"Open the door there." Mr. Sparhawk did so; he saw in the inner room piles of books of a similar kind, and his face changed expression; his eyes met those of Anthony quickly. "They are those which have gone before, and come after, the one on the table," said the young man.

Mr. Sparhawk stroked his chin.

"It is odd how the history of Rufus Stevens' Sons attracts you," said he.

"Not all of it," said Anthony. "But those things which I find of sharp importance I set down in a little book of my own."

The greedy look in Mr. Sparhawk's face increased.

"That, too, is here, I suppose," said he, and he looked about.

Anthony's coat lay upon a chair beside his bed; he reached out and thrust a hand into the breast pocket; but it came out empty. Mr. Sparhawk saw his expression change.

"You carried it there?" said he.

"Yes," said Anthony, "and it's gone!"

Mr. Sparhawk smiled, and nodded.

"Are you surprised?" he asked. "What else was there to expect? Have you not been on board _Le Mousquet_?"

Anthony lay looking at the ceiling; Mr. Sparhawk stood with his hand on the door-latch.

"However," said the little man consolingly, "your loss is not, as the insurers of ships say, complete. You still have the ledgers; and what they've yielded once they'll yield again."

And so, with a nod and a smile and a good-by he was gone. Anthony lay with the coverlet drawn up under his chin, and propped high with pillows; his head throbbed and swam; he drowsed between wakefulness and sleep, and strange pictures lit up his mind. There was a vessel that crossed his sleep--a slim, swift vessel, her sails filled with mist, and driving away over a darkened sea. She was fleeing from him, and he was following, making slow head against winds and storms. Though the ship was a great way off, he could see into her cabin; there was a light there, a yellow light with a spot of red at its heart--and beside this sat a man who wore a patch over one eye, and he smirked over Anthony's note-book, which he held in his hand.

There were strange things in that book; there were matters that opposed each other fancifully, and told of ships and men and cargoes, and places; and there were other things, like shouted lies. Anthony had studied them and knew them well. And now, as he drowsed, the cabin was gone, the ship had disappeared, the sea had changed to land; but his thought still had to do with books. He sat before a great many of them; they were heavy, sober, and clean; they were the ledgers of Rufus Stevens' Sons, the solid books of a solid house; surely in them no wrong could thrive. But there were flaming lightnings in the sky; the world was full of pain and weariness, and the books held knowledge which he must have; so he began to open them. They seemed countless; each was like the other in its dull leather, and their rows stretched across plains and streams, and through cities, away among vague spaces, and disappeared in the rising of mists, the booming of waters, and the dashing of spray.

And now, under his hand, were the books of Lucas, and the books of Carberry. These he especially desired. They were thick and seemed to promise pleasant things; but they opened evilly; the mind sprang back from their pages, repelled. But, for all that, they were well and carefully written, just as he had been told they would be. Lucas had set down his statements in a useful hand, clear and with excellent spacing. Carberry's way was well ordered; he had a confident, clerkly smoothness, which all but covered astonishments that caught the breath from one's lips. But Anthony found himself held among the pages of Lucas much oftener, for Lucas's day, so it seemed, had been one of rare daring; there had been courage and devilment in his time, and no great care. The waters had been awash with costly stuffs; ships were sucked to their doom, and dead men had floated down the byways of the sea.

Now he saw a river sealed with ice, and through the ice countless bowsprits poked forlornly; many eyes looked through a thickening mist, eyes with black patches over them; then a ship loomed through it, a ship with sides as wide as the world; a man in a bo'sun's-chair was let down; he held a pen and ink-pot and along the water-line of the ship he wrote unreadable things in a practiced hand. Anthony strove to understand the words, but could not. He fought with the mists to see the man's face. Once he fancied it was a clean-cut, handsome one with cold eyes and a sneer about the lips; but as he pronounced Tarrant's name the face changed. It was now a bright one, full of inspiration and eager purpose. Anthony looked to find how the man sat in the chair and saw he was nursing a lame foot. But it could not be Charles! For the man was of splendid bulk; as he wrote he laughed, and the mist whirled at the sound, and the waters leaped and threw it back.

And then the books came again,--the weary, weary books,--greater than before and bursting with threats. The pages were hard to turn; it took all the strength he had to come to the smallest thing, and, oddly enough, between the leaves he found those muskets and pistols which he had thought at the bottom of the river. And, as he took up each, the touch of the iron told him he'd best put them carefully by for need in a future time. And this he did, for the menace in the books made his heart feel cold.