Part 10

“Suppose, now. Suppose there is an arrest. Suppose Howard should be firm. It seems hard. My God, I know I meant well; but I’ve got her into a cruel fix. If we let them go. Go back to England, for him to be tried. D’you know, Edward, I think it would be best.”

“I’m quite sure it would be.”

“But you would have to go with her, Perrin. You would have to go. I’d go, too. I’d take my chance.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve enough trouble as it stands.”

“Oh, I’d have to go. I couldn’t stay here and eat my heart out for her.”

“Yes, you will, Charles. Be sensible. I’ll see her safe home, if it comes to that.”

“And the instant you land, Edward, you’ll go to Flaxley, to her uncle, and then to her aunt Pile. Get them to come to her. My God, love blinds a man. I ought to have seen all this. But I could only see what was pleasant to myself.”

“Ah. Don’t say that, Charles. It’s not true. You didn’t know Stukeley.”

“No. Stukeley then was the man Olivia loved.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now? We won’t talk about that, Edward. Get your Donne and read to me.”

“I read so badly.”

“You read excellently. You’re a little slow sometimes.”

“I can’t vary my voice. I could, before it broke. Now I read so monotonously.”

“Verse ought to be read in a monotone, but there is a passionate monotone. Read me the Second Anniversary, and we’ll forget our worries. That sounded rather like a step in the alleyway.”

Perrin leaned out of the door and looked aft.

“It’s no one,” he said. “A beam creaked. Stukeley’s asleep on the cabin lockers.”

“It sounded like a step.”

“I’ll just make sure. No. It can’t have been anybody.” He tiptoed lightly to the cabin door, and looked through. Stukeley was asleep on the locker-tops, his face buried in the cushions. Perrin closed the door quietly, and took his book from his shelf. “It was no one,” he said. “No one at all. Only a beam.”

“Begin, then,” said his friend.

Perrin shut the door, sat down, and began to read that glorious elegy, making a sad business of the changing accents.

While he read, Stukeley sat up and smiled, making rude remarks under his breath. He had retired to his locker-top after dinner, intending to visit Mrs. Inigo as soon as the coast was clear. After half an hour of yawning, he had crept down the alleyway on tiptoe, hoping to find the door ajar, and the handsome woman waiting for him. He noticed that Cammock’s door was open, so that it would be dangerous to attempt the rendezvous; but hearing a murmur of voices he had stolen close to listen. He had expected nothing interesting to himself. He had expected some talk of the situation, possibly some invective, such as he had overheard at other times; but for once he heard something new; something which (as he foresaw) would test the wonderful new scheme which he had made that morning. He half doubted if the scheme would stand the strain; but a little thought convinced him that he ran no risk. So pleasant was the conversation to him that he lingered rather too long, mistaking the intentions of the speakers, so that, when he retreated backwards, he went too swiftly, and made some noise at the door, enough to give Margaret the impression of a step. He had just time to bury his head in the cushions, before Perrin entered. “Fancy old Maggy having the guts,” he said. “We must deal with the little Pill, too. The little dear gets poisonous.” He thought that he would go on deck to pass the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Inigo would have to be abandoned till the morning.

He rubbed his cheeks vigorously to flush them. With a twist of his fingers he ruffled his long black hair, as though he had slept. Then he went yawning down the alleyway, pulling at the skirts of his waistcoat. He looked in at the door of Cammock’s cabin, pretending to be but half awakened. “Did one of you come into the cabin just now?” he asked.

“Yes, I did,” said Perrin. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” he said, gaping. “Only I wondered who it was.”

Mrs. Inigo’s door was shut, so he passed out to the deck. He wished to avoid Captain Cammock, who walked the poop above him. Mr. Cottrill, who had the deck at the moment, was forward with the boatswain, setting up the fore-backstays with the watch. The only person with whom he could converse was Mr. Iles, the second mate, that smart young seaman, who now sat on an inverted wash-deck tub, in the lee scuppers, mending a pair of trousers which he had taken off for the occasion. Puffs of wind sometimes lifted his shirt skirts, displaying his little wiry legs. The sailmaker, who sat on the booby-hatch, putting a new clue into a royal, was telling him, at each puff, to mind the girls didn’t see.

“By gee,” said Mr. Iles, by no means a bashful man, “I wouldn’t mind if der girls did see.”

“They don’t come around so much when a man gets married,” said the sailmaker. “They get shot in the beam with a wet rag.”

“B’gee,” said Mr. Iles, “I don’t know, Sails. B’gee, I seen some married men as didn’t do much shootin’.”

“It’s the missus does the shooting,” said Sails. “I know there’s not many girls come whistling after me since I got married. But you young fellers,” said Sails, “you think of nothing else, I do believe, except the gells outside Paddy’s.”

“B’gee,” said Mr. Iles. “Dere was one of them girls outside Paddy’s. She was a bute, all right, all right. She’d got a fine skin on her. Gee. Hey. Like old sail.”

“They don’t last at it,” said Sails. “Five years, they say. Then they get froze, down Lavender Pond way. That washes the poor creatures’ rooge off. But there’s not many thinks that when they come ashore, Mr. Iles. Nor you don’t think it.”

“B’gee,” said Mr. Iles, as he stretched his leg out into the sunlight. “That’s a leg all right, all right,” he said. “B’gee, Sails, I don’t t’ink you could show a leg, like what that leg is.”

“I got a leg as I’d show alongside of any man’s,” said Sails.

“Let’s see your leg,” said Mr. Iles. “B’gee, Sails, you’re one of dese consumptive fellers. You ain’t got no legs.”

“I got a better leg’n you got,” said Sails, very touchy, like all sailors, on the subject of his physical strength. “You look here,” he said.

“Mr. Stukeley,” cried Mr. Iles, standing up excitedly. “B’gee, sir, I want to show legs with Sails here. Will you be the judge between us?”

Stukeley had seen similar contests in his visits to the head to be pumped on; but he had hardly expected to see an officer’s vanity put to the touch upon the quarter-deck. “It’ll annoy old Brandyface,” he thought. “Yes,” he answered, “I’ll be the judge. But don’t shock old Brandyface on the poop there.” He said this in the hearing of Captain Cammock, who paused at the poop-rail, looked down on their preparations with an unmoved face, and then turned to walk aft.

“B’gee,” said Mr. Iles. “It’s a pity our girls ain’t here. Dere’s some girls’d die laughing to see us. Come on, Sails.”

Sails extended a bared leg beside him, balancing, like a flamingo, on one foot. The boatswain, coming aft for a sack of paunch-mats, called on his maker to come aft and watch.

“B’gee, Sails,” said Mr. Iles, looking critically at the contesting leg. “You got a pretty good calf all right, all right.”

“You’ve been woolded pretty well, too,” said Sails. “You could keep them going, for a little feller.”

“Them little fellers,” said the boatswain flatteringly. “They do their piece. I seen little fellers keep them going when the rest is gone dormy.” He glanced at Stukeley, to see how Paris would decide.

“Boatswain strip, too,” suggested Stukeley. “Now, bose. Cock up your leg with the others.”

The boatswain shook his head with a laugh, and went back to his work.

“B’gee, sir,” said Mr. Iles, “the old bose is jealous. I’m getting cold, b’gee.” He danced a little step dance, slapping his feet.

“You’ve both got decent legs,” said Stukeley, taking the hint. “Damn good legs. But you want a connoisseur to decide. I’ll get Mr. Perrin!”

“Make him measure us,” said Mr. Iles.

“I ain’t going to have no Mr. Perrin,” said Sails, retiring. “My legs speaks for theirselves. You got no legs, Mr. Iles. You only got muscles. What a leg wants is pathos in the joints, like what I got.”

“B’gee, Mr. Stukeley,” said Iles, “I think I got old Sails to the bad.”

“Your legs are like mine, Sails,” said Stukeley. “They show a bit old alongside a fresh young buck like Mr. Iles here.”

“Ah, go on, sir,” said Sails. “Them legs Mr. Iles got, I wouldn’t be seen dead with.”

Mr. Iles stuck his needle in his cap. He yawned, and spurned his tub into the scuppers. “I’m going below now,” he said. “I’ll have a bit of a fiddle before eight bells.” He glanced at Stukeley, who seemed willing to talk. “You’ve never been below in the ’tween-decks, have you, sir?” he said. “You come down and see the sights. I ain’t got much, but I can give you a chair and a look around. Come on down this way, sir.” He led the way down the booby-hatch, into the ’tween-decks, where the light from the boom-gratings and the open hatch-mouths made sunny places in the gloom. A lamp or two, hung under the quarter-deck, gave light to the after part, showing a few whitewashed, jalousied cabins on both sides of the ship. “That’s the round-house,” said Iles, nodding towards the port side. “The idlers live in the round-house. Anybody in?” he cried, shaking the door. “There’ll only be the cook in at this time. Rise and shine there, doctor.” But the doctor was down in the forepeak grubbing up dunnage for firewood. All that Stukeley saw of the round-house was the darkness of a vault, through which gleamed the oil-cloth on a table, and the paint upon a sea-chest. The clue of a hammock sloped down from the beams just above his head, like the crow’s-foot on a stay. The place smelt of oil; for the lamp had been allowed to burn itself out. “Fine dry little house,” said Mr. Iles. “Dry as a bone. They’ve good times in there, them idlers. This is where me and Mr. Cottrill bunks. Over here, sir, to starboard. Mind them bosun’s stores amidships.” He led the way to a couple of dingy boxes on the starboard side. They were more roomy than the cabins on the deck above; but they gave one no feeling of comfort. Mr. Iles’s home was littered with second-mate’s stores. It gave out the penetrating, homely stink of spunyarn. Spare log-lines and lead lines were heaped in a spare bunk. From the beams dangled a variety of lamps, and bunches of thin candles, like corpses’ fingers. His oilskins swung behind the door, and dripped upon an old swab laid below, as a sort of doormat. “I been oiling up my skins,” he explained. “Don’t it stink, hey? Stinks like hell, I call it. Good for consumptives, stink is, they say. I couldn’t ever see it myself.”

“Do you get your meals in here?” said Stukeley.

“Damn that boy,” replied Mr. Iles, evidently searching for something. “He hasn’t put my water-carafe back. He’s left it in the wardroom again. Come on into the wardroom, Mr. Stukeley.”

He led the way aft to the wardroom, which stretched across the breadth of the ship right aft. The big chase-ports were open, so that the room was light. One could see the grunting, kicking rudder-head, with its huge blocks for the relieving-tackles. The long chase-guns were trained athwartships, and securely housed. A tablecloth of old soft sail was thrown across one of them. A cleated table stretched athwartships just forward of it.

The table was rimmed with a batten to keep the plates from falling. “Here’s my water-carafe,” said Mr. Iles. “Sit down, Mr. Stukeley. I’ll fetch you the rum and a pannikin. We ain’t got much. But you may as well have what there is.” From the adjoining wardroom pantry he produced a bottle of rum, about half full, and a couple of tin pannikins. Mr. Iles held the bottle against the light to observe the level of the spirit. He also sniffed at the mouth after removing the cork. “I have to watch that boy,” he explained. “He likes his little dollop a bit too well. I don’t think he’s been at this though. Does it seem to you’s though it been watered?”

“No, sir,” said Stukeley, swallowing his allowance. “It’s very sound spirit. Wants another year in cask perhaps. How much of this do you get a day?”

“Half a pint’s the whack,” said Mr. Iles, “but I don’t touch my whack the first month, till the water slimes. Then I’ve a matter of three gallons saved, in case I get company come. Have another go, Mr. Stukeley?”

“Thank you,” said Stukeley, holding out his pannikin. “Here’s to old Brandyface, our bold commander.”

“Old Cap Hammock,” said Iles, twitching the left side of his upper lip in the smile peculiar to him.

“What do you think of old Brandyface?” said Stukeley. “Perhaps you’re used to pirates?”

“What’s pirates got to do with it?” said Mr. Iles. “Drink hearty, sir. I got a demijohn in the spare bunk there. What’s pirates got to do with it?”

“Well. There’s old Brandyface in the cabin, isn’t there?”

“Old Cap Hammock ain’t no pirate?”

“Wasn’t he? He was damned near hung for it. Not so long ago, either.”

“Is that so?” said Iles. “Is that so, now? Straight?”

“He’s only an old buccaneer. What d’you think of the old boy?”

“I ain’t paid to think,” said Mr. Iles evasively. “Gee. I didn’t know he was that sort. I wish I’d known.”

“Why?”

“Here. You ain’t doing your piece. You want to do better’n that. Lay aft with your pannikin.”

“He was one of the gang which worked in the South Seas,” said Stukeley. “You know the sort of thing they did. Ruffians. He was at it all his life.”

“I wish I’d known. Gee. Hey?”

“Why?”

“Here, fill fair. Fill fair.”

“You’ll make me cocked.”

“Cock in your eye, sir. Lap the cream of it.”

“He’s a nice one to have command of a ship. Eh?”

“So he was nothing but an old pirate? Gee.”

“What sort of an old man is he to work with?”

“I wish I’d known. B’gee, sir, I’d have---- What sort is he? He don’t know nothing. He’s only an old woman. He cain’t knot a rope-yarn. If I’d known, I’d have----”

“What would you have?”

“He got fresh with me one time. He give me the slack of his old lip, about leaving the harness-cask unlocked. I’d have called him down if I’d known. I don’t let any old pirate get gay with me. See?”

“He’s a dirty old swine,” said Stukeley. “He and those damned old women your owners.”

“That Perrin’s a bute, for fair, hey?”

“They make a nice trio to leave your wife alone with.”

“Your wife’s a peach, I guess. Hey?”

“If she is, she’s a green one. Give us the bottle there.”

“Is it true the Margaret fellow’s sweet on her?”

“Who? Oh, that little crawler. There’s a picture of a man.”

“I never had much truck with him. His look’s enough for me.”

“For me, too. Look here, Iles. I’m sick of the company in the cabin. That old pirate, and those two twisters, and my wife sitting up like a cold jelly. Ah. Good luck. Sick of it. You come up and have supper with us to-night. And bring your fiddle.”

“I guess old Brandyface’d raise a stink.”

“If he does, we’ll call him down. He’s not going to dictate my guests to me. I’ll have in any one I like.”

“Gee. That would be great. Hey?”

“I’m not going to let an old pirate say who’s to be my friends.”

“He’ll heave me quit of the cabin.”

“I’ll heave him if he does. Pretty quick.”

“Gee. I’d like to come. But he’ll be mad as hell.”

“All the better. And those two twisters, too.”

“That Perrin. Hey? He asked me one time what I did to make my hair grow.”

“He’s about the damnedest fool I’ve met.”

“Have another ball. There’s one bell. It’ll be my watch in a quarter of an hour.”

“You’ll come, then?”

“Oh, I’ll come. But gee, Mr. Stukeley, old Brandyco’ll fire me.”

“We’ll have a bit of sport if he does. Bring your fiddle. Oh. Let’s have a song. Let’s sing ‘Tickle Toby.’”

“No. I don’t know it well enough. Let’s have this one about the sailor’s wives. D’you know this one?”

Until eight bells were made, Mr. Iles sang to Mr. Stukeley, who joined in the choruses, and sometimes offered a solo. The songs were all vile. They were the product of dirty drinking-bars, and dirty young men. Youth sometimes affects such songs, and such haunts, from that greed for life which is youth’s great charm and peril. That men of mature experience should sing them, enjoying them, after tasting of life’s bounty, was hateful, and also pitiful, as though a dog should eat a child. The couple went on deck together at eight bells, singing their scrannel for the mustering crew to hear.

A few minutes before his watch was up, Mr. Iles gave the deck to the boatswain, and went below to dress. It was not his day for a first wash, but Mr. Cottrill gave him the first turn of the basin (it contained about a pint) on promise of a plug of tobacco at the next issue of slops. Mr. Iles washed himself carefully, in spite of Mr. Cottrill’s complaint that water so soapy would hardly serve the second comer, let alone the boy, who had the reversion of it after him. After washing, he combed his hair, put on his best suit, gave his shoes a rub of lamp-black, took his fiddle from its case, and went on deck to muster his watch at four bells. A few moments after four bells, while the dismissed starboard watch went whooping forward to supper, the steward rang the cabin bell, and Stukeley met his guest at the alleyway door.

“Come in,” said Stukeley. “Before old Brandynose comes aft.”

They passed aft into the cabin.

Margaret, Perrin, and Olivia were already seated when they entered. Mrs. Inigo stood behind Captain Cammock’s empty chair, waiting to take the covers. She was looking with contempt at the wife she had supplanted, thinking her a confident, pale, thin-lipped thing, and wondering what her husband could have seen in her. Captain Cammock had been delayed for a moment, having cut his chin while shaving. When Stukeley entered Perrin was talking to Olivia.

“For whom is the place there?” he was saying, nodding towards the napkin opposite to him.

“Why, we’re laid for six,” she answered.

“Yes,” said Stukeley. “Olivia, let me introduce Mr. Iles. Mr. Iles has come to give us a little music.”

Olivia, rather startled (for she had seen Mr. Iles about the decks, dressed like a seaman, and doing seaman’s work, with much foul language), glanced at the man and made a little cold bow, dropping her eyes to her plate as Mr. Iles advanced, holding out his hand.

“This is Mr. Iles, Captain Margaret.” Stukeley grinned to see Captain Margaret’s anger plainly show itself for a moment. But he had misjudged his victim’s power of self-control. Margaret’s face instantly became impassive. He stared rather hard at Mr. Iles, inclined his head in a little cold bow, and wished him “Good evening,” the only words which occurred to him, in a little cold voice.

“Hell,” said Stukeley to himself, “I ought to have introduced Perrin first. Now Pilly’ll take his cue from Maggy.”

“Mr. Perrin I think you know,” he continued aloud. “You sit over here, Mr. Iles, by me.”

Perrin looked at Mr. Iles and blushed, partly with anger at having to meet the man, partly at the slight put upon them all, upon Olivia even, by Stukeley’s invitation. Mr. Iles for the moment was dashed by the chill of his reception, and awed by the circumstance of the cabin dinner. His thought, for a few chaotic seconds, was what in blazes to do with the napkin. Did it go round the neck, or how? Olivia felt that the coldness of Margaret and Perrin was in some sort a reflection upon her husband; it nettled her to defend Mr. Iles against her will. She guessed that Mr. Iles must be a fine musician, that her husband had discovered his talent, and had decided, it was just like her dear Tom, that his talent made him a fit companion for her. She would talk to Tom about it that night, however, as there might be unpleasantness to them all if Mr. Iles were to be admitted to the cabin even occasionally. Even Mrs. Inigo seemed to be sniffing with contempt. Had she known it, the negro steward was at that instant spreading the news in the round-house, where Sails proposed that the company should go on deck to hear Captain Cammock at the moment of his introduction. Olivia’s reflections lasted for a few seconds. She seemed to pass over the whole situation in an instant of time. Mr. Iles had hardly sat down, hiding his hands below the table, when Olivia, as though divining his thoughts, came to his rescue, by bending forward graciously, taking up her napkin (it was folded in the likeness of a sea-boot), and spreading it, unfolded, upon her lap. Perrin, who was watching her, guessed her intention. His natural kindness gave him a sort of pity for Mr. Iles, whom he judged (from his confusion) to be an unwilling agent. He leaned across towards him, and made some remark likely to put him at his ease.

“D’you know whether we’re in soundings yet, Mr. Iles?”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Iles. “They won’t make no cast of der lead till der middle watch.”

“What sort of a run has it been to-day?” asked Olivia.

“It’s been a good run, miss, all right, all right,” he answered, growing confident. “We done seven knots ever since der forenoon.”

“Just step forward, Mrs. Inigo,” said Margaret, “and ask Captain Cammock if we shall begin without him?”

“I’ll go,” said Perrin.

“No. I’ll go, sir,” said Mrs. Inigo.

“You look pale, Maggy,” said Stukeley. “Anything wrong?”

“Thanks. I’m particularly well. Are you well?”

“Very, thanks. You look annoyed about something. Doesn’t he, Iles?”

“You don’t look quite right to me, sir,” said Iles.

“Really.”

“Captain Cammock will be here in a minute, sir.”

“Let’s begin,” said Olivia. “I’m hungry.”

“Take the cover,” said Margaret.

“B’gee, sir,” said Iles. “You don’t know sailors, or you wouldn’t do a ting like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” said Margaret, hoping to get some scrap of knowledge to atone for his irritation. “Tell me what I’ve done wrong, please?”

“Taken der cover off der soup,” said Mr. Iles.

“Is that a great crime at sea?” said Olivia.

“It’s the old man’s perk,” said Mr. Iles. “B’gee. I was in a turtler once, off of the Grand Cays there. I done that once. I didn’t do it a second time. No, sir.”

“What did they do to you?” said Olivia.

“He give me der lid for me supper, lady.”

“How old were you then?” said Perrin.

“A young one,” said Iles. “My old pop was the old man in that ship.”

“Your old----?”

“My pop. The old one. My father.”

“Tell us one of those stories you were spinning me this afternoon, Iles,” said Stukeley. “That one about the girl. You know. The girl. The girl who----”

“Which girl?” said Mr. Iles. “I don’t know which girl you mean.”

“The girl outside Paddy’s. Mr. Iles is a wonderful raconteur,” he explained. “He’s like an old sailor, you know. Excellent. He told me some this afternoon.”

“What sort of stories do you tell?” Olivia asked.

“Just amusing stories to pass the time, miss,” he answered.

“Do you make them up yourself?”

“Some of them I seen myself, miss,” he answered. “I don’t know who makes the others up. Some son of a---- Some gentleman’s son with nothing better to do. But b’gee, I don’t tink I could tell one of them kind here exactly.”

“Why not?” asked Captain Margaret, looking at him coldly. “Why couldn’t you?”

“I guess you know, all right, all right.”

“I don’t frequent pothouses. So perhaps I don’t know.”

“That’s where you sentimental prigs go wrong,” said Stukeley, flaring up. “It’d do you a sight of good if you did frequent pothouses. You meet better people in a pothouse than you do in one of your Chelsea twaddle-shops.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Margaret calmly. “What is a Chelsea twaddle-shop, Olivia? You’ve stayed at Chelsea. What is it? A book-shop?”

Olivia smiled. Captain Margaret was like her dead brother; he did not show temper even when people spoke to rouse him. She defined the offending shop.

“It’s a name Tom gives to houses in Chelsea, like my aunt Pile’s house. Where the people talk a good deal of poetry and painting. Where you meet intellectual people.”

“Don’t you like intellectual people, Stukeley?”