Part 21

“He went into the city.” His teeth chattered and clicked; he seemed to have been repeating his phrase for hours. “Into the city,” he repeated. He was ill, really ill. He was in a dream of fever. He was dreaming, he was in a nightmare, giving a message in that dream-speech which none comprehend save the speaker.

“He went into the city,” said Olivia slowly. She sank backwards, till she leaned against the bulkhead, her arms straying out along the beading. “But he came back. He came back.”

“No, ma’am,” said Cammock gently. “He didn’t come back.”

“He’s not killed? Not dead? Oh, can’t one of you speak?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret. “We waited. He went into the city with them.”

“They made friends,” said Perrin. “Your husband went with the Spaniards.”

“Oh, won’t you tell me what has happened?”

“They waited in the boat, ma’am,” said Cammock. “But your husband didn’t come back. And then the Spaniards attacked the boat. Captain Margaret was wounded.”

“And you came away without him?”

“Yes, Olivia. He’s in the city.”

“Oh, my God, my God. But don’t you know if he is dead or alive?”

“No, Olivia,” said Margaret.

“Charles was landing to find him when the Spaniards attacked,” said Perrin. “He was wounded. They wounded him, Olivia.”

“You left him, alone, Charles. Alone. To be killed.”

“We’ll bring him back, Olivia. We can win him back.”

“Oh, but he may be killed. He may be killed. He may be dead now.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Cammock. “We think he’s gone over to the Spaniards, with my book of charts as Basil draw.”

“You think he’s left, left us. You think, Charles. Do tell me. Tell me.”

“They think he’s gone into the city, Olivia,” Margaret said, “to tell the Spaniards of our plans. Into the city, Olivia. We saw him go into the city a long time before. They think he caused the attack on us. In the water. It was like a bad dream. Don’t. Don’t. I’ll bring him back, Olivia. We’ll bring him back to-morrow.”

“I’m quite calm, Charles,” said Olivia in a shaking voice. “I’m quite calm. Look at my hand here. You see.”

“Sit down, Olivia,” Margaret said. “There. In this chair. I want to say this. He went into the city walking with the captain of the garrison. The negro had his stirrup in his toes. They were to dine with the Governor. They were friends. He told me himself. Your husband told me they were friends. After the siesta they ambushed us. Oh, my God. They offered a hostage even. And your husband advised me to refuse it.”

“And you think,” Olivia said, “that Tom, my husband----” She paused. Then gave way to the running gamut of shaking sobs, her head on the table. “Oh, Tom, Tom, come back to me. Come back to me.”

“It was after he had dined with the Governor that they ambushed us,” Margaret repeated. “And I saw Cammock’s map-book in his pocket.”

“But he’d no thought of it,” she cried. “Only this morning. Only this morning. It was so sweet. Oh, he’d no thought of it this morning. None. You know he had none.”

“Of course, no one knows,” said Perrin. “He may be only a prisoner.”

“They never kill prisoners,” said Cammock. “Be easy as to that.”

“And he’s left me,” she sobbed. “Oh, but I know he loves me. It’s not that. I know he does. I know he does. Oh, Charles. What makes you think. I’m quite calm again. I can bear it all. I’m calm. What makes you think that he’s gone?”

“One or two things he asked. He was asking about life with the Spaniards. And his manner.”

“Charles, did you suspect him? Did you expect this when you chose him? Chose him yesterday?”

Margaret sat down at the table, looking at her stupidly, his face all drawn.

“Charles, you didn’t suspect him? You thought of this.”

Margaret burst out crying, with the tearless grief of an overwrought man. “I wish all this had never happened,” he said. “I wish it had all never happened. Never happened.” He checked himself, half aware, in the misery of his fever, that he had to answer Olivia. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-night,” he said. “I’ve got such white hands. Such white hands, like a girl.” He laughed in a shrill, silly cackle. “You must think me a silly girl,” he said.

“Charles,” Olivia cried.

“I’m all right,” he said. “I’m all right.” He pulled himself together with an effort. “Look here,” he said. “Here. I oughtn’t to have let him go alone. It was my fault. All my fault. Into the city alone. You say I thought of this. Never entered my head. Never. I’m talking like a drunk man. What’s the matter with you? No. It was my fault. But. Olivia. Olivia. Don’t. Don’t cry. We’ll get him back. We’ll take Tolu. I swear I’ll take Tolu. I’ll bring him back to you, Olivia. Only. You don’t mean what you said then.” He sank back in his chair. “I think I’m tired,” he added weakly.

Olivia was on her knees at his side, pressing his hand to her heart.

“Charles,” she said. “Charles, you’re hurt. You’re hurt. Wounded. I didn’t mean that, Charles. I was upset. But. Oh, you’ll bring him back. Bring him back to me.”

“I’ll bring him back to you, Olivia,” he answered, stroking her hand. “I’ll bring him back.” He raised her from the deck. “And I’ll help him to that. To what you talked of. This morning.”

“To?”

“The new life together,” he whispered. “Oh, Lord, Olivia. Stop those guns. Stop those guns. They’re red-hot.”

From very far away, in the heat of the battle, in the smoke and trampling, where the triumphing horses laughed, he seemed to hear Olivia’s voice.

“My God. I’ve kept him here. And he’s wounded. Edward. Edward. Is he dead?”

“Help me, captain,” said Perrin’s voice. “You’ve kept him on the rack, Olivia.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “Lay him on my bed. That’ll be quieter. I must nurse him. Let me have some bark and limes, Captain Cammock. Lay him down there. Now some cold water.”

He was half conscious of being lifted out of the light, while a multitude of Spaniards charged him. He saw the faces, he saw the horses’ heads flung back, and the foam spatting their bit-cups. He was slashing at spear-heads, which pressed in a crown of points about his skull. After that, he fell into the wildness of fever, seeing that endless vision in his brain, the endless, disordered procession of soldiers, and guns, and ships, which shouted crabbed poetry, poetry of Donne, difficult to scan, exasperating:--

“Men of France,”

the procession shouted,

“changeable chameleons, Spitals of diseases, shops of fashions.”

So he lay, for many hours, feverish and sick, rambling and incoherent.

He was ill for some days, during which Olivia nursed him tenderly. She found in the vigil a balm for her own sorrow, a respite from the anxieties which ate her heart. The uncertainty made it worse for her. She would fall asleep, sitting uneasily in the chair by the bed, to dream of her husband lying in the earth, among the roots of the creepers, the mould in his eyes. Or she would see him chained to a log, working in the gang, carrying mud bricks to the walls, or singing, like the man in Cammock’s tale, with whip-cuts on his body. Sometimes, in the worst dreams, she saw him with the veiled figure of a woman, and woke crying to him to come back to her, knowing herself deserted. She had at first prayed that the men would attack Tolu at once, to bring him back to her. The point had been debated among the captains. But Perrin, at his best now, with his quiet, clumsy sympathy, had shown her that this was not possible.

“And see, Olivia,” he said, “they must expect us. And we must run no risk of failure. You see, don’t you, what a danger it would be to him if we tried and failed? And the town will be full of troops for the next week or two, expecting an attack.”

There were other good reasons against instant action. Cammock was sure that the Spaniards would send a force against the lurking-places along the Main, now that they had his charts as guides. Other captains thought this possible; so the word was given to return to Springer’s Key. After their arrival, they prepared the fort against attack, and warned all privateers at the frequented anchorages. Then, having time, they careened the _Broken Heart_, washing her with lime till she had something of her old speed again. Other privateers joined them when they heard that they intended to take Tolu. Margaret, sitting in the cabin, a convalescent, talked of his plans with Olivia. Many of the buccaneers were employed ashore, making long “dug-out” canoas for the attack. He pointed to one of these, as it lay bottom up on the sand, while the seamen tarred it against the worm.

“I expect we shall bring your husband off in that one,” he said.

“Yes?” she answered. “But I’ve been thinking, Charles, that I shall never see Tom again.”

“What reasons have you?” he asked. “Look, Olivia, I’ve been thinking it over. There is so much possible to you. Your husband would be happy at a kind of life I’ve planned for him. On a sugar estancia in Jamaica. Or one of the big plantations here, as soon as the ground is cleared.”

“Charles,” she said, “the plantations here will never be cleared. You’ve been dreaming. I’ve been dreaming. And I shall never see Tom again.”

“You were always the despondent one in the old days,” he said lightly; then, growing grave, he added, “Olivia, all the voyage, I helped your dreams. I lied to you. All the voyage long, I lied. I longed to spare you. I could see no better way.”

“I was a great fool, you thought.”

“No love is folly,” he answered. “But now I see what is possible. After a wreck one finds the planks loose for a raft.”

“You think that, Charles? A woman finds no planks, as you call them. Do you think my life can be patched up by planks? Do you know why I pray for you to go to Tolu?”

“To restore your husband to you.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been thinking, Charles. I want you to go to Tolu to restore Captain Cammock’s book. That is the first thing. And to make you sure that he isn’t--that he wasn’t killed in your service. I know what you will find at Tolu, Charles. He’s not my husband now. I see him too clearly. He’s forgotten us all by this time. Oh, you know he has.”

“One has no right to say that.”

“It’s strange how a ship alters one’s judgments,” she said, with a little laugh. “I used to be afraid of you. I couldn’t bear----”

“We were in the way,” he answered.

“I was in a dream. A bad dream. Now it’s over.” She shuddered, turning her head aside.

“No, Olivia. Not that,” he said. “Life isn’t over. I can’t talk to you as I should. My wound makes me stupid. You don’t know men, Olivia. Men are selfish, brutal, greedy. You were never told that. You never saw that side of them. It’s only one side. I’ve no right to talk to you like this; but I’m your guardian here. Now suppose. Men, even lovers, aren’t single-natured, like women. Suppose a man saw a woman in his better moment, saw how beautiful and far above him she was, and loved her for that moment, truly, before falling back to his old greeds.”

“Love is not like that.”

“We’re talking about life, Olivia. The moment of love was worth while to both of them.”

“To myself and to my husband?”

“Yes. If you care to put it that way.”

“And now? What now?”

“Now that you know, Olivia, you know that it’s not all greed, any more than it is all love. You’ve seen a man’s weakness. His sin, even. You’ve seen the part of him he hid from you. We all have a skeleton to hide.”

“I’m not to be moved by sophistry, Charles.”

“Ship life tries the nerves, Olivia.”

“Are you pleading for him now, Charles?”

“Olivia, don’t let me hurt you by discussing your husband. But did you ever realize him?”

“Yes. I suppose I did.”

“He was unlike any man you had ever seen. Ah. Don’t answer. I know you too well, Olivia. I know all this.”

“It seems a long time ago,” she said coldly. She was pulling a little arnotto rose to pieces, petal by petal, crushing the petals till her finger-tips were stained and scented.

“You never realized him, Olivia. I never realized him. I did not know in Salcombe that day that he is a man with a frightful physical energy. On shore he could work it off. It’s not easy to say this. But at sea, in a ship, shut up here, it turned inward. Do you see, Olivia?”

“Does that excuse a man? That he has a frightful physical energy, and that it turns inward?”

“I’ve nothing to do with excuses. But, suppose that that was the case. Suppose, too, that he had but a moment to decide in Salcombe, between a lie, you, and the possibility of a new life, and the truth, arrest, and the certainty of disgrace. He chose you, the lie, and the possibility. He lied to you. The moment he told the first lie, you became, in his eyes in a sense, an enemy to beware of, an enemy who must be kept from the truth at all costs.”

“Yes. I have seen that, of course. And the lie grew all through the voyage.”

“He was afraid to run the risk of losing you, by telling you the truth.”

“That was not much of a compliment to me, was it?”

“All through that voyage, Olivia, we were in terror of being arrested on arrival. It was in our thoughts night and day. We used to sit in my cabin there, planning what we could do, if we found a warrant waiting for us. The strain made him reckless.”

“Why should it have made him reckless?”

“Because there was no one on board, except a few inferiors, who could console him. He could not confide in you. He had lied to you. We were not his sort. There was no one else to whom he could turn.”

“Except some inferiors, to whom he turned.”

“Yes, Olivia.”

“And you could watch this, without a word, without attempting to put the matter right.”

“Your husband wished to spare you, Olivia. We could not speak. We thought. We thought you were going to have a child.”

“Ah,” she said, breathing hard, “I understand now.”

“All through the voyage, your husband was probably thinking that you would soon learn, and that when you learned you would have nothing more to do with him. Imagination is rare in men. He could think of no other possibility. He made up his mind that you would cast him off, and therefore he cast you on without giving you a chance to do otherwise. Imagination is rare in women, Olivia, and you could not see his point of view, any more than he could see yours.”

“You think I was proud and unforgiving. I have. It. If he’d turned to me. And he left me that morning with a stolen book in his pocket, intending to see us no more.”

“Ah. We see now all that can come of a hasty moment.” He rose from his seat and stood before her. “Olivia,” he said, “I don’t extenuate. I’ve tried to explain. Perhaps neither of you saw very clearly. After Tolu, Olivia, there’s a life possible for you. You haven’t plumbed each other’s natures. You haven’t really lived yet. A fool’s paradise isn’t life. You don’t know what you may make of each other’s lives. He had not much chance, with that ghastly business hanging over him. You had none. Could you not start fair, after Tolu?” She pulled the remaining rose leaves from the arnotto, one by one. “It’s worth it, Olivia.”

“Thank you, Charles,” she said quietly. She walked slowly to her state-room.

“Yes,” he said to himself, after she had gone. “Yes. It’s the best thing.”

XII. THE END

“The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers.” _The Tragedy of Bonduca._

“Let’s sit together thus, and, as we sit, Feed on the sweets of one another’s souls.” _A Wife for a Month._

“A fair end Of our fair loves.” _The Elder Brother._

Ten weeks passed before they felt the time ripe for their attack. By that time Margaret had made a good recovery; his wound was well healed over; he could even use the arm a little. Before leaving the anchorage, he put more guns in the fort, and chose out a garrison to fight them. He had every reason to be pleased with his success. A large part of Springer’s Key had been cleared, under his direction, for plantain-walks and vanilla-patches, as well as for Indian corn. More than a hundred more privateers had come to him, and he had planned with Tucket to load the _Broken Heart_, on his return from Tolu, at a new logwood forest, never yet cut, on the banks of the Azucar. He felt happier than he had felt since leaving England; for now his way seemed clear. His old suspicion of Pain had gone. Pain’s men had worked like slaves to clear the key for culture. It seemed to him that he was going to succeed after all, and that he would, as he had planned, make something of the wasted energies of the men of the account. He had even started Tucket on a dye-works, with half a dozen cauldrons, and a bale of cotton for experiments. The huts of the Indians had been altered and enlarged. Springer’s Key Town was now a walled city, with a few wooden shops, where the _Broken Heart’s_ goods were sold for gold-dust. His thoughts ran much upon gold-dust; for the rivers were full of it, according to the privateers. He went up the Conception River with some Indians and a party of Pain’s men, during the last of the weeks of waiting, to look for gold-dust in the sands. They washed with sieves in several likely places, finding about six ounces in all. The Indians said that there was more higher up, in the rapid upper reaches, in the torrents of the Six Mile Hills, away to the south. On the way downstream, he cut a bundle of mangrove, thinking that the bark might be of use to tanners in Europe, since the Indians dressed hides with it. The damp heat of the Isthmus overcame him. He saw that nothing could be done there. No Europeans would ever do much in such a climate. But at sea in the bright Samballoes, where the winds blew steadily, never dying to a calm, he felt that much could be done. He offered bounties to all who would clear patches for tobacco, arnotto, cochineal, and indigo. Tucket, a steady, shrewd man, who saw a chance of doing what he had always longed to do, helped him ably. The dye-works occupied their mornings together. The rest of the day, after the noon heat, was passed in the supervision and encouragement of the citizens. The brush at Tolu, and the bringing off of Ed, had made him popular. He found that the privateers were fairly well disposed towards him. Even the inscrutable Pain seemed friendly.

It was not an easy matter to rule such citizens. He began by making a rough division of labour. Those who loved hunting went in parties daily to the Main to hunt. Those who liked to work in the islands cut and cleared jungle, planted plantains, tobacco, or arnotto. Others took boats and fished. Some built huts or canoas. Some dug wells and trenches to supply the plantations. Many Indians came to them. Springer’s Key knew a few weeks of bustling prosperity. Margaret began to worry about another problem--the sex problem, the problem of wives for his settlers. Where was he to get white wives for three hundred men? How was he to avoid the horrors of the mixed races? He remembered in Virginia the strange and horrible colonial mixtures, the mixtures of white with red, white with black, black with red, red with all the mixtures, black with all the mixtures, creatures of no known race, of no traditions, horrible sports, the results of momentary lusts, temporary arrangements. One could buy white transported women in Jamaica at thirty pounds apiece. One could buy redemptioners in Virginia for the same sum. Many of the men at work about him had done so, during their lives in the colonies. But how was a nation to be born from convicted thieves, petty larcenists, bawds, procuresses, women burnt in the hand, branded women? He resolved to hurry home as soon as the plantations began to bear, as soon as the Spaniards began to recognize his rights. He must get settlers, honest, reputable settlers. He would have to search England for them, hundreds of them, so that the bright Samballoes might become the world’s garden. He began to know the islands now. He saw them in all their beauty, Venices not yet glorious, sites for the city of his dream. They shone in their blossoms, hedged by the surf, splendid in their beauty. Among these hundreds of islands, these sparkling keys, were homes for the poor of the world, food for the hungry, beauty for the abased, work for the stinted, rest for the exhausted. For an army could feed from them in the morning, and pass on, yet in the evening there would be food for another army. The earth brought forth in bounty. All the fruits of the world grew there. The trade winds smelt of fruit. The bats from the Isthmus darkened the stars at twilight as they came to gorge the fruit; yet in the morning, when they flew screaming to their caves, it was as though they had scattered but a husk or two, scattered a few seeds, a few sucked skins. The sea gave a multitude of fish. The woods were full of game. It was an earthly paradise. It went to his heart to think that he was almost a king here. To the Indians he was more than a king: he was a god.

He loved the Indians. He loved their dignity, their pride in the white man’s friendship, their devoted service. It reminded him of his life at school and of the devotion of small boys to their captain. During his convalescence he had had many talks with an Indian prince, whom the seamen called Don Toro. He had learned from this man to speak a little in the Indian tongue, enough to draw from him something of the Isthmus. He wished to clear the Isthmus of its poisonous tangle of forest, so that the shore might become savannah land, as at Panama. He longed to see the jungle go up in a blaze, in a roaring, marching army of fire, that would cut a blackened swath to the hills, leaping over tree-tops, charring the undergrowth, making good pasture for cattle, for the great, pale Campeachy cattle which his ships should bring there from Sisal. He tried to make Don Toro understand his wish, but failed; for Don Toro was a woodland Indian; the forest was his home. That stroke of policy, the bonfire, would have to wait till he could bring the Indians to help him, and till the logwood on the banks of the rivers had all been cut and shipped. But he wished that all those miles of wood were lying in blackened ashes. It was now the bright, dry season, when the woods were pleasant, musical with bell-birds, sweet with blossoms. In a few weeks there would come the rains, the months of rain, the streaming months, when the trees would rise up from a marsh, when the sound of dropping would become a burden, the months of the white-ribbed mosquito and the yellow fever.