Part 3

There was a public room at the Half Moon, and when Anthony descended he turned into it. The floor was sanded, and there were settles and chairs arranged comfortably about; a fire of chestnut knots crackled in a wide fireplace; upon pegs in the wall hung traveling-coats, saddle-bags, and whips; people lounged about and drowsed, or talked in little groups, or read the scant journals by the light of whale-oil lamps. The young man stood in the doorway and searched the room for those whom he hoped to see; but he was disappointed. Then he walked its length, slowly, examining every one present. No, the old Frenchman, and--was it his daughter?--of the New York packet, were not there. He then went into the room on the opposite side of the passage, where the tables were laid for the tavern's hearty supper; but it was too early; none among the guests had yet considered food.

There was a short man with a jolly red face seated upon a bench in the passage; he wore a waterproof hat and held a whip between his knees. Anthony nodded to him, and the round face at once took on the look of a rosy moon.

"The inn seems very well filled," said Anthony.

"It always is," the red-faced man replied. And then, "Are you a stranger in the city, sir?"

"Practically so," said Anthony.

The stout man spoke in a low tone of confidence.

"Senators make this their place of entertainment," he told Anthony. "A justice of the Supreme Court is now drinking in the bar."

"A deal of travel halts here, I'd say," hinted Anthony.

"You say truth, then. I drive a-many here myself; but the public coaches also make it a place of call."

"The sloops and schooners from up and down the river also bring many patrons?" said Anthony.

"The New York packet brought two to-day," said the red-faced man. "An elderly gentleman and his daughter. They are French, I would say. Name of Lafargue. I drove them to Mrs. Craigie's a while ago."

"Then they have left the inn!" exclaimed Anthony.

"For a little space only." The man took out a thick watch of silver and consulted it carefully. "In some hours more," said he, "I shall be going after them."

The brief autumn twilight was settling into dark when Anthony left the tavern. He trudged toward Front Street at a good pace; the Trenton stage was midway in the block above Mulberry Street, and he had no trouble in finding the house of Dr. King--a wide, well-kept building of red brick with white stone steps and hitching-post, and black, varnished rails.

Dr. King greeted him cordially and led him into a thickly carpeted room, with Eastern hangings, and a chandelier, glittering with a score of wax-lights. Mrs. King was a tall woman, stately, with a fine-cut face and an ease of manner not usual with women of the young republic.

"I knew your mother," she told Anthony. "A beautiful, dark creature, who loved your father." She searched his face with her quiet eyes. "No," she said, "you don't look in the least like her. You resemble your grandfather; you have his way of holding your head; you have the same strong-looking body, and the same long face." Anthony smiled at this, and she added quickly: "I was wrong; _that_ is your mother's; and I'm very glad to see it. It's a fine thing to be a man like old Rufus Stevens; but, at the same time, a little softness does not come amiss."

There were some others in the room, and she led Anthony forward.

"Mr. Anthony Stevens," she said, "a nephew of Charles." To Anthony she added: "Mr. Whitaker, and Mr. Sparhawk."

Both these gentlemen arose and shook Anthony by the hand. Whitaker was about his own age, very handsome, with a great head of curling hair and snappy dark eyes. He was something of a dandy; his fine neck-cloth was of amazing height and stiffness; his buckskin pantaloons were so tight about the knees that one wondered how he moved; his claret-colored coat had a huge roll to both collar and lapels, and his waistcoat was of corded silk, with wide flaps over the pockets.

"It's a great pleasure to see you," said this young gentleman, examining Anthony with a careful and rather approving eye. "Didn't know Stevens had a nephew. Don't think I ever heard him say."

Sparhawk was about sixty, a small, perky man, in knee shorts, and with white powder dusted into his hair. He was dry of manner, with a shrewd, yet kindly, eye; there was no man in the port held in higher esteem among merchants. When there was a question of insurances, one went to Sparhawk; and the adjustments he made were always reckoned fair and worthy, and the best that could be done for all concerned.

"You would be Robert's son," said he. "I recall you well as a boy. A very active boy," to the others. "Given to such things as diving from the rigging of any ship in the docks he managed to get aboard of."

When they had settled down once more, Whitaker crossed his tightly clad legs and said:

"You'll not like it here. It's a devil of a place, I find. Since I came back I can think of nothing but getting away again."

Mrs. King laughed amusedly.

"I'm afraid, Tom," she said, "they spoiled you by keeping you so long in foreign parts."

"They opened my eyes," returned Whitaker. "They gave me some chance to see what the world is like."

"I have been a matter of six voyages," said Sparhawk, in his precise way. "And I have been a general agent in as many ports from time to time. And this I have learned: the ports of the world are not _the_ world."

"Very well," said Whitaker, composedly. "Whatever they are, I like them. Calcutta, now!" said he, to Anthony. "There's a place for you! Were you ever in Calcutta?"

"No," said Anthony.

"You should go there," said the other. "You should, by all means. It's an astonishing place. I was there three months--for Stevens; you never put your eyes on such a cargo as I stowed into the _Sea Mew_. Riches was no name for it. It was prodigious. Unfortunate she went down, though. Too bad."

"She was lost, then?" said Anthony.

"Yes; never heard of her after the day she sailed for home. Great pity. She was a magnificent ship; and the loss was murderous to the insurance people."

"You had more misfortunes than that, had you not?" said Sparhawk. "Was there not a Stevens vessel, out of Lisbon for Liverpool, carrying ivory and wine? The _Two Brothers_, I think."

Whitaker wrinkled his brows.

"Yes," said he. "The _Two Brothers_. A fairly lucky ship, too. Quick voyages and good returns. I went in her to Lisbon with a mixed cargo from the Malayan ports, just after the _Sea Mew_ sailed. I expected to come home in her, but things got tangled, somehow; they took in the Liverpool merchandise, and I was sent off to Brest to see to some matters there. Devilish odd how things come about, isn't it? There's no doubt but the thing saved my life. If I hadn't been sent there I'd have gone down with the ship. But who sent me, I don't know. The word was given in an indirect way. I tried to trace it afterwards; but it seems it was all a mistake; no one was responsible."

Sparhawk pursed his lips and regarded Whitaker interestedly; and then, after a moment, he fell to calculating.

"There was a matter of twelve thousand English pounds went down in the _Two Brothers_," said he, striking a total; "and in the _Sea Mew_ I think it was more."

"It was much more," admitted Whitaker. "I would say twice as much." He shook his head of hair, and looked somewhat bewildered. "It was a deal of money to scatter over the bottom of the sea," said he. "I'm glad I had nothing to do with it."

Anthony studied the young dandy. He had an engaging appearance; and there was about him that superficial air of knowing that usually comes of experiences lightly felt. His mouth was pleasant, but it had little resolution; his eyes were quick, but there was no promise that they saw anything below the surface.

But as Anthony's glance went to Sparhawk he saw something greatly different. Here was resolution enough for twenty; here was a quiet, persevering mind, a man whose interest was plainly in those things not easily seen. And this matter of the sunken ships seemed to engage him shrewdly; it seemed to Anthony it must be a subject that he'd occasion to consider more than once before.

"From Brest I think you came home," said Sparhawk.

"Yes," said Whitaker. "But my experience there was none of the pleasantest. I delivered certain papers to the house's representative, Lafargue, by name, and they occasioned a great scurrying of one kind or another, though I never knew why." Sparhawk smiled primly, and Whitaker, who noticed it, looked annoyed. "It seems to me," he went on resentfully, "when a man is entrusted with a firm's business, there should be no withholding of any sort. No, I'll confess I didn't enjoy Brest overmuch."

"Did you say the representative at that port was named Lafargue?" asked Anthony, with interest.

"Yes, an oldish man, with quite a formidable nose, and an eye that would bore you through and through. And that reminds me," added the dandy, "who should I run across to-day at the coffee-house but this same gentleman. I have no notion what brings him to America; I talked with him for some moments, but he can be very reticent when he so desires. I learned that at Brest."

Dinner-parties of that day were not managed with the same care as in these. They were usually an indulgence of men, who ate liberally and drank heavily. Cookery was a thing given some attention, though table arrangements were simplicity itself. But Dr. King had a taste for such things; also, he had the generous nature that prompts frequent entertainment, and the large wealth that makes it possible.

Anthony found the table laid with fine napery; the silver and glass and delicate ware shone handsomely under the carefully set candle-light. As was customary, all the dishes were placed upon the table at the one time, and each guest was expected to help his neighbor.

There were a fragrant soup of leeks, and the head and shoulders of a fine cod, with Madeira. A brace of plump, black ducks lay upon a long dish; there were roasted venison, deep vessels of parsnips, and celery, and jelly in cunning molds. A fine, full-flavored Burgundy was drunk with the game. Upon a huge platter was a turkey poult, brown and full-breasted, ringed by roasted oysters and rice-patties; wherever a vacant place showed itself upon the cloth were placed dishes of marrow pudding, cherry-tarts, and pippins, stewed, and thick with cream.

It was perhaps nine o'clock when Sparhawk left; and a little later Whitaker followed him. After a space Mrs. King left the doctor and Anthony together at the table with a bottle between them, and each drawing at a long-stemmed pipe. Anthony said:

"I've always understood the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons to be wide-flung, but, somehow, I'm continually being surprised at the evidences of it."

A soft-footed black servant came in, snuffed the candles, put a fresh log upon the fire, and disappeared.

"And any recollections I have of my uncle," added Anthony, "are based on impressions carried away with me as a boy."

Dr. King smiled, but at the same time there was a grave look in his eyes.

"Upon the whole," said he, "those things might be a very fair base upon which to form a judgment of him. For if there ever has been a man who took what may be called the spirit of boyhood into his after life it is your uncle."

Anthony looked at him questioningly, and the doctor went on.

"Your father was always the thoughtful one, as a lad; I remember that quite well. His sums were always done methodically; his maps were drawn with care. Charles was your slap-dash fellow. A great reader, but of romances, of obscure histories, of the lives of men whose doings, as set down, do not often meet the common eye. Your father, as a boy, formed a plan for his work and went through with it, conscientiously. Charles loved to browse and dream; and then his mind would suddenly leap into life, and carry out some extraordinary idea. He does this still."

"What you are telling me does not make a usual equipment for a merchant," said Anthony.

"No," replied Dr. King. "And it is an equipment that has made many a circumspect dealer stand aghast. But, in spite of his seeming lack of qualifications as a merchant, Charles is a magnificent one. He detests plodding; he hates detail; with routine he will have nothing to do. I doubt if any one has ever seen him foot up a column of figures or turn to a ledger for a point of information; yet no man anywhere is more possessed of the spirit of commerce. But it is commerce as a pageant, as a spectacle, a wide, spirited vision, rich with color, alive with movement, remarkable with discovery. There is nothing of the huckster in Charles; he is no mere chafferer or trafficker in commodities. In his mind ships are not dull things of oak, stuffed with cargo; they are the laden argosies of the world, crossing the seven seas, their sails filled with glory."

Anthony's eyes shone.

"Why," said he, "I think I understand that."

"The rich ports of history are the most frequent stopping-places of his mind," proceeded Dr. King. "Even as a schoolboy this was so. While other lads took delight in the doings of the military heroes of antiquity, Charles took to sea in the galleys of the Phenician merchants, searching out new lands, new peoples, new trade. While the others thrilled with the story of Thermopylæ, his gaze was fixed upon Tyre, with its great docks, its famed factories of purple, its crowding ships. His companions listened with pleasure to the voice of Cato pronouncing the doom of Carthage in the Roman senate; but Charles saw only the passing of a wondrous people, who had carried commerce to a point never previously touched in history. Venice he looked upon with almost idolatry; here the manufacturer, the merchant, the trader had lifted themselves to the places of kings; the hardy enterprise of the Genoese seafarers gained his unbounded admiration, and he never tired talking of them. But Prince Henry of Portugal was his hero; from amid the batterings of a war that had gone on for many generations, he saw this mind arise and fill with its dream of the rich regions beyond Sahara. While other boys of his age were hurry-skurrying through some rough, healthful sport, Charles, with his lame foot, would sit silent; in his mind he would enter the lonely tower at Cape St. Vincent, as the prince had so often done; and while the gray sea threw itself against the desolate headland he'd brood upon its avenues and the possibility of traversing them to India, the land of his desire."

"Well," said Anthony, as he fired the tobacco in his pipe at one of the candles. "I now see the foundation of some of the things I've heard said of him."

"These dreams of his," said Dr. King, "he has carried with him through life. He does not plot nor contrive in his business; things rush upon him like inspirations. His ships are the stanchest, the fleetest, and have the greatest capacity of any in the port; his suggestions to the builders made them so, though many a head was shaken over them before the sea and the wind proved his word. These same ships have sailed on many a voyage which crafty mariners looked upon as folly; but Charles Stevens has a way of turning bad into good, and causing avoided places to teem with riches."

"I find myself with a great desire to meet my uncle," said Anthony, with a smile. "Christopher Dent says you are upon intimate terms with him, and yet you talk of his doings as though he were a hero of legend. It is only a very remarkable man who can inspire a thing like that."

The physician looked at the young man through the haze of curling tobacco smoke that drifted between them; and there was a shadow upon his face.

"What I have told you," said he, "are the facts as a good many know them. But, if necessary, I could speak of other things of which only little is known, and that to a very few."

Once more the cringing figure of Magruder came into Anthony's mind, the gray of fear in his mean face, and unintelligible words upon his lips.

"These things," said Anthony to the doctor, "would, I suppose, not be so favorable as the others?"

"No," said Dr. King. He sat looking at Anthony steadily for a space; then he added, "How long do you mean to remain in the city?"

"I don't know. It will, I think, altogether depend upon circumstances."

Dr. King nodded. His eyes were still upon the young man, a look of speculation in them. He studied the well-set head, the clear eye, the long face, with its strong jaw, so like that of old Rufus. His glance took in the supple power of the body buttoned so tightly into the coat of Lincoln green, and the strong, ready hands that rested upon the arms of his chair.

"You could, if you would, remain here?" said he.

"I could."

Dr. King put down his pipe and leaned across the table.

"You never saw me before to-day," said he; "but I am your friend. I am your uncle's friend." He paused a moment, and then went on: "Do not go away. Stay here. You may be able to do nothing; and, then again, you may be able to do a great deal."

"What?" demanded Anthony, and the out-thrust chin seemed to point at the man leaning toward him.

Dr. King settled back into his chair; the aggressive chin, the stubborn frown knotted between Anthony's eyes seemed to bring him to a sudden decision.

"If you are shrewd," said the doctor, "you may be able to prevent great losses upon land and sea. If you have courage you may stop death itself as it enters your uncle's house."

"What losses threaten his goods?" asked Anthony. "What hand is lifted against his life?"

"I know there have been losses," said Dr. King, "and instinct tells me there is danger. But I know nothing definite; I could not point to anything; I could not make an accusation that would stand reasoning over. And yet I am confident as I am that I'm speaking to you that you are needed at Rufus Stevens' Sons. Take the place that's yours in the counting-room; keep your eyes open; tell no one why you are there--_no one_, mind you; and, who knows? you may come to the bottom of a detestable state of affairs."

"Then there is no immediate danger?"

"No."

Anthony pondered, pressing the black ash into the pipe bowl with his forefinger.

"I will stay," said he, at last.

V

That night was not a very comfortable one for Anthony. He lay awake for a long time, his straight-forward mind laboring with the facts of the day; when he did finally drop off, his sleep was not a deep one; it was thronged with grotesque images, and incidents that caricatured what he had seen and heard.

Once he awoke. It was a moon-lit night; through the window he could see the bell swinging in the tower across the way; he reasoned that it had just done striking, and the blows had awakened him. He tried to see the hour by his watch, but could not; so he arose and took it to the window. It was one o'clock. He stood moodily looking down into the street so silvered and quiet; from somewhere, a long way off, came the rumble of wheels and the notes of a coach horn; and he shivered as he thought of the harassed passengers, beginning a journey in the thin chill of the night.

He was about to turn from the window when a movement caught his eye in the shadow cast by the tower; it was a dim, leisurely movement, and well toward the edge, where the shadow met the moonlight sharply. Almost at once he saw its nature; the figures of two men came into the light and paused. They seemed on the point of separating, and the pause was for a parting word. They shook hands with the quick, hard clutch of persons well satisfied, and each turned away. But one, he who had faced eastward in the direction of the river, suddenly paused.

There was something familiar to Anthony in the gesture that stopped the other man; and the two joined once more in talk. However, it was but for a moment. The man with the familiar gesture seemed to ask a question, which the other answered, and in so doing lifted his hand and pointed at Anthony's window. The first man threw back his head; a ringing laugh broke the stillness, and Anthony at once recognized him; it was the man with the saddle-bags who had come ashore that morning from the New York packet.

Anthony watched the two separate; the one held steadily toward the river; the other crossed the street toward the inn; and a moment later Anthony heard the outer door open and close. He stood for a moment in the center of the floor and pondered; there was something in the scene he had just witnessed which started a cold shuddering in his blood--the same feeling he'd experienced on many a night as the wilderness closed around him, and he knew the shadows were peopled with gliding forms, each bearing a weapon that might let out his life.

But this was civilization! This was the capital city of the nation! The two men may have been cronies, detained somewhere by the flavor of a particular bottle. How was he to be sure that it was his window at which the man who had entered the inn had pointed? There were other windows; it may have been one of those. But, even though it had been his, what did it signify? A hundred reasons, each entirely innocent, might account for the gesture. The fancy that the thing held a danger amused his reason; but still the creeping continued in his blood, and instinct rang its warning in his pulse. He went to his chest, threw open the lid, and took out a heavy, knotted walking-stick, iron-shod and formidable. He was balancing this in his hand and regarding it from under frowning brows when he caught the sound of a light foot in the hall; it paused at his door; his head went up, and, clutching the cudgel, he stood listening.

The latch lifted softly; there was an instant's pause, and then the door began to push inward. Anthony saw a young man with a tall hat, a fashionably cut coat, with metal buttons, small-clothes, and shoes that had silver buckles. He carried himself very erect and with perfect composure. Closing the door after him, he advanced to the bedside, and took a chair. It was plain that in the uncertain light of the room, to which his eyes were not accustomed, he fancied the bed occupied, for he bent his head forward and addressed it.

"Now," said he, "if you'll be good enough to wake up, I'll have a few important words with you."

There was a pause, as he waited for the stirring of the sleeper; none followed, and he reached out his hand. As it met with only empty sheets, he exclaimed impatiently; and then out of the semi-darkness came the voice of Anthony.

"Perhaps," said he, "a little candle-light might improve matters."

"Oh," said the intruder, turning with perfect composure toward the sound, "so you are there? I took it for granted that at this hour you'd be abed."

Anthony struck a light and touched it to the wick of a candle; then, the knotted stick in his hand, he stood glowering at his visitor.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said the man. He placed his tall hat upon a table, and seemed quite at his ease. "Also," and he nodded at the cudgel, "I'm quite mortified to have given you alarm."

"You need not disturb yourself about that," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm accustomed to alarms, and also to what follows after." Then, with the sudden cut to his voice which always told of a rising temper, "What the devil do you mean by easing yourself into my room, like this?"

"Sit down," said the man, unruffled. "And let us talk."

"I warn you," said Anthony sharply, "that that won't do. I will not sit down, and I will have no talk with you except upon one subject. What are you doing here?"

The man crossed one leg upon the other and examined Anthony in the candle-light.

"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go quietly back to--is it New Orleans?"