Part 4

He stepped quickly up the side, acknowledging Cammock’s salute and the pipe of the boatswain. Perrin met him at the break of the poop. He noticed that Perrin stared rather hard at him. He grinned at Perrin cheerfully.

“Yes, I saw her,” he said gaily.

It seemed to Perrin that his gaiety was natural, and that, perhaps, the sight of Mrs. Stukeley, with her husband, had proved an effective cure. A gun’s crew swayed the gear out of the boat. The other guns’ crews, heaving the heavy trucks, training the guns forward, wished that they might help. Captain Cammock resumed his drill.

“Starboard battery, on the bow!” he exclaimed. “Port battery, upon the beam. Imagine them hulks. Them’s the enemy. Bring aft your train tackles. No. No. Oh, what are you playing at? Drop them blocks. What in hell are you thinking of there, number three? I’m not talking to you, port battery. Now. Wait for the word of command. Take heed. Silence. Silence there. Now. Cast off the tackles and breechings. Carry on.”

The figures by the guns became active. Though they carried on “in silence,” there was a good deal of noise, many muttered oaths, much angry dropping of rammers. Captain Margaret stood by Cammock, waiting till the guns were fired. He had learned the practical part of naval gunnery from a book in Cammock’s cabin, _The Mariner’s Friend, or Compleat Sea Gunner’s Vade Mecum_. He watched the drill wearily, knowing how hard and dull a thing it was to the men who swayed the tackles, and hove the trucks along with crows. In the moment of peace after the broadsides, he felt a pity for his men, a pity for humanity. He had hired these men at four shillings a week apiece. He gave them their food, worth, perhaps, tenpence a day, with their rum worth twopence more, bought wholesale, out of bond. “For eleven shillings a week,” he thought, “a man will clog his heavenly soul with gun-drill, which his soul loathes; and refrain from drabs and drams, which his soul hungers and thirsts for.” He felt ashamed that he had not thought more of his men’s comfort.

“You’ve got them into shape already, captain,” he said.

“I’ll get them into trim in time,” answered Cammock. “It takes time.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “it takes time.” He paused a moment, remembered his kindly feeling, and continued. “I want to ask you about fresh meat, captain. Shall I get some fresh meat here, to see us well into the Western Ocean? Or flour, now? I want the hands kept in good trim. I don’t want to lose any by sickness.”

“Fresh meat is always good at sea,” said Cammock. “But there’s better things than meat. For keeping a crew in good shape, you can’t beat sugar and flour. It takes the salt out of their bones.”

Perrin had joined them. “I’ve ordered fresh meat and sugar,” he said. “And three dozen fowls. They’ll be off in about an hour’s time.”

“You oughtn’t to have done that,” said Margaret.

“I paid for them myself,” he answered. “There they come.”

Captain Cammock secured his guns, returned his powder, and piped the boat to be cleared. The hen-coop was lashed down for a full due below the break of the poop. After the meat had been hung in the harness-room, the hands went forward to loaf and stand-by. The two friends walked the poop with Cammock, ten paces and a turn, talking of old times, and of the fortune of the sea.

They were waiting for the ebb-tide to take them out. The wind was fair, but light; they needed the ebb. Waiting like that is always a weariness. Captain Margaret wished that he had never put in to Salcombe. He was a fool, he thought. The thing was over, the wound was closed. He had begun it anew; reopened it. Now he had to apply the cautery. If he had held his course, his ship would have been out of sight of land, going on, under all sail, forty miles south-west from Scilly, bringing him nearer to content at each wave, each bubble. He felt also the discontent of the tide-bound sailor. He felt that he was at liberty wrongfully; that it was wrong for him to be there, doing nothing, merely because the tide still flowed. Perrin, though he was eager to talk to his friend about the results of the farewell call, was bored to death by the inaction, by the sudden stoppage of the routine. As for Cammock, he smoked his pipe, and looked out to windward, wondering inwardly at the strangeness of gentlemen. Thinking that they were hipped, he told them his favourite tale of how the cow came at him one time, when he was hunting for beef near One Bush Key. It was an exciting story; but nothing, he said, to what “happened him” one time when he was loading live steers at Negril, after the cattle pest at Antigua.

“So I got into one of the shore-boats,” he concluded. “I’d had enough of them great horns a yard long.”

“Every man to his trade,” said Perrin curtly.

Captain Margaret asked if the long-horns were bred from imported stock. Cammock had expected them to laugh. The situation was saved by the entrance of a sixth-rate, under all plain sail, on the last of the flood. Her blue sides were gay with gold leaf; her colours streamed out astern; she broke the water to a sparkle. In her main-chains stood a leadsman crying his melancholy cry of “And a half, three,” which another voice repeated harshly. Though she came quietly she came swiftly; for the flood had strength. She was a lovely thing, swaying in there softly. The _Broken Heart_ saluted her. The friends watched her as she passed. Cammock saw his opportunity. He turned to his companions.

“What d’ye make of her?” he asked them.

Perrin called her “a man-of-war”; Margaret “a beautiful thing.”

“I’ll tell you what _I_ make of her,” said Cammock. “She was built in France, that’s easy seen, and she was bought or taken at least three years back. She was re-masted at Deptford, and her captain thinks the masting’s spoiled her. She’s been in the West Indies within a year, and there she’d a pile of hard times. Lost her topmasts for one of them. Then she came home, and took a big nob of some sort up the Mediterranean, for political reasons, and in a hurry, with a scratch crew. She’s made a quick passage, and the captain’s cabin is taken up with ladies, probably one big sort of a duchess or that. The Government is short of funds, and the wind’s going to draw more westerly. Her lieutenant is a Devonshire man. And I bet I know her captain’s name and what her hands think of him. That’s what I make of her.”

“How d’you know all that?” said Perrin.

“Every man to his trade,” said Cammock. He felt that he had retrieved the honour lost over the cows.

At this moment four bells were made; the cabin steward rang them to the cabin supper.

They found the table heaped with dainties; for Perrin and Cammock had foraged ashore together, so that the last night in port might be merry. Punch, strawberries, and a pigeon-pie. Captain Margaret proposed the conundrum, why strawberries would be considered flippant among the bakemeats at a funeral dinner. Captain Cammock gorged the conundrum, hook and all.

III. OUTWARDS

“And we are bound to New Barbary With all our whole ship’s company.” _Captain Glen._

“I have a vessel riding forth, gentlemen, And I can tell you she carries a letter of mart. What say you now to make you all adventurers? You shall have fair dealing, that I’ll promise you.” _A Cure for a Cuckold._

After supper, the party went on deck again, to see the last of their country. The two mates, who had their cabins in the after ’tween-decks, where they messed, had made all ready for getting under way. The hands walked to and fro about the fo’c’s’le, waiting for the order. The last bum-boat had shoved off for the shore, having sold her last onion and last box of red herrings. Snatches of song came aft to the poop. It was slack water; the sea seemed to be marking time. Already, further up the harbour, a schooner had swung athwart the stream. One or two boats were hoisting their foresails, ready to catch the first ebb. The sun was still strong in the heavens; there was more than an hour of day to come.

“We may as well up hook,” said Cammock, “if you’ll say the word, sir.”

“All ready, captain,” said Margaret. “We’ll go as soon as you like.”

“Right,” said Cammock, bustling forward to the poop-rail. “Hands up anchor, bosun.”

The boatswain’s pipe made the call. The fo’c’s’le was thronged with hurrying sailors. The trumpeter at the gangway blew a flourish, and sounded his “Loath to depart.” The men cheered as the bars were shipped. The waisters tended on the messenger with their nippers. Slowly the pawls began to click as the men strained round, heaving on tiptoe. The two capstans hove in, moving the cable. All down the ’tween-decks rang the snapping creak of a cable at a shaking strain. Some one at one of the bars, down in the half-darkness, began to sing. The crowd made chorus together, lifting the tune. Voice after voice joined in. Bar after bar sounded and shouted. The ship rang with song. The music of the tune floated out over the harbour. In the sixth-rate, the men joined in, till the whole crew were singing. Ashore they heard it. In the schooners at anchor, in the inns ashore, in the dance-house up the town, the music made echo, stirring the heart. As the light wind moved or failed, so died the tune or lifted. With a great sweep it rose up, towering on many voices, then drooped to the solo, to soar again when the men sang. They were singing that they would go no more a-roving. To Margaret and Perrin, standing there at the poop-rail, hearkening to them, much moved by the splendour of the song, the coarse old words seemed touching, infinitely sad, the whole of sea-life set to music.

Now they were moving slowly, making the water talk. Their spritsail was set. Hands were aloft loosing the topsails. On the fo’c’s’le head the mate bustled, looking over the rail. Very slowly the ship moved; but now, as she left her berth, heading for the narrows, past the breakers, where Ram Rock gleamed in his smother, the song at the capstan ceased. On deck, a watch gathered at the halliards. The foretopsail jolted up to the song of “Lowlands.” Sail was being made. Voices from aloft gave notice to hoist away. In the bustle and confusion, with coils of rope rattling down, men running here and there, getting pulls of this and that, and the noise of the sails slatting, the two friends walked the poop, looking back at the sixth-rate, dipping their ensign to her. Cammock had come aft, and was standing by them, looking aloft at the boy on the maintopgallant yard. He spun round suddenly, hearing a hail from the man-of-war.

“Hullo!” he shouted; adding, under his breath, “Lord, she’s going to press us.”

He darted to the bulwark, and shouted “Hullo!” again. He saw the mate of the watch, in a dirty old tarred coat, walking her weather gangway, where a soldier stood at attention in old red regimentals.

The mate of the watch did not speak to them. He merely lifted his hand to Cammock, and pointed towards the jetty.

“A boat for us,” said Perrin.

“Very much obliged to you, sir,” cried Cammock to the mate of the watch.

“Lend me your glass, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret uneasily.

He seized the glass hastily, and looked at the advancing boat. She was rowing rapidly towards them.

“Who the devil can it be?” said Perrin, as he watched Cammock bring the ship to the wind. “Lord, captain,” he said, with real anger. “It’s that woman with her husband.”

“It’s a lady, that’s plain,” said Cammock. “And they’re in a hurry. The man’s double-banking the stroke oar.”

“They’ve got a lot of gear in the boat,” said Perrin.

“Presents, I guess,” said Cammock. “A present of fowls and that. Or a case or two of bottles.”

Captain Margaret flushed, walked up and down uneasily, and called to the steward to open wine.

“There’s something queer,” said Cammock to Perrin. “Hark at all them shouts. Gad, sir, I believe they’re being chased. There’s two shore boats after them. Ain’t they smoking, hey?”

Indeed, the pursuing boats were being pulled furiously; their oars were bending.

“What in James is the rally?” said Cammock. “Is Captain Margaret made King of England or anything?”

Perrin looked at Cammock with a flush upon his face.

“Captain Cammock,” he said, “they’re coming aboard us. They’re being chased. I bet they’re flying from their creditors.”

“Lord,” said Cammock.

He watched the chase with deeper interest. Captain Margaret joined them.

“Charles,” said Perrin, “they’ve come to beg a passage. Stukeley’s being chased by creditors. Man, for heaven’s sake don’t take them in. Don’t, man.”

“What nonsense,” said Margaret. “Have you never seen these boatman race before?”

Cammock spoke. “I suppose you want me to pick them up, sir?”

“Certainly,” said Margaret.

“Very good, sir,” he answered.

He looked at the hurrying boats. Cries came from the pursuers. Men and women were running down the steps to the pier, now black with people, excited, shouting people. Olivia and Stukeley were now almost within fifty yards. Stukeley was standing in the sternsheets, double-banking the stroke with all his strength.

“There, sir,” said Cammock. “Did you hear that, sir? Those fellows in the cutter are singing out to them to stop. There. They’re going to fire.”

Captain Margaret muttered something; his face flushed suddenly, and then became pale. A gun was fired from the cutter.

“Firing overhead,” said Cammock absently.

“Captain Cammock,” cried Margaret, “lively now; get her off to her course.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” he cried.

He sprang to the helm, shouting his orders. He was back in a moment.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, as the ship paid off. “Are you not going to pick them up?”

“Yes, of course I am,” said Margaret.

“And the other boats, too, sir?”

“No,” he answered. “Not yet anyhow.”

A hail came from the pursuing boats. “Ship ahoy! Stop those persons on your peril.”

“King’s officers, sir,” said Cammock. “They’re fugitives from the law. It’s transportation to receive fugitives, sir.”

Two more guns were fired in quick succession; a bullet from one of them struck the bends of the _Broken Heart_.

“Arrest those fugitives. In the name of the King,” came the shout of a man in the cutter.

The words were clear enough. All that Margaret saw was Olivia’s face, laughing and happy, her great eyes bright, as the boat swept alongside.

“It’s a hanging matter, Charles,” said Perrin, biting his thumbs till the blood came.

“I don’t care if they hang me fifty times,” said Margaret. “They fired at her.”

“Oh, all right. All right,” said Perrin resignedly. “Now we’re in for trouble,” he added angrily. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. I knew how it would be.”

“Hands clear boat,” said Cammock to the boatswain.

Olivia and Stukeley tripped up the gangway to the quarter-deck.

Margaret greeted them; but Stukeley pushed past him to Cammock and Perrin.

“Here,” he said, drawing them aside. “We’re coming with you. I’m wanted. And I’m coming with you. She thinks I’m coming to help--to help the Indians.” He seemed to choke with laughter. He was out of breath from rowing.

Cammock did not answer, but walked to the rail, and called to the boatmen in the boat. “Hook on these boxes lively now,” he said. “You’d best come aboard, all four of you, unless you want a taste of gaol.”

Two of the men hooked on the trunks in one sling; the other two cast off the boat and dropped astern, as the tackle swept the trunks over the side. It was all done in a moment.

Perrin found himself with Stukeley, who was talking. “She must never know it,” he was saying, between gasps. “Oh, Lord, what a joke, eh?” Perrin heard him absently, for his ears were straining to hear what his friend said to Olivia. There she was, flushed with the race, swaying a little as the ship swayed. He heard the words, “We beat them,” and saw her go to the rail to watch the pursuing boats. Perrin took off his hat, advanced to her, and bade her welcome. He could have hurled her overboard willingly. His reason for advancing was to see what the pursuing boats were doing.

“It was such a race,” said Olivia. “But we beat them. They chased us all the way from Halwell. It was such fun.” She talked on excitedly; Perrin had never seen her so radiant. She was delighted to be on board, going to the New World, in a real ship. And then the suddenness of it, and the rush of the boat-race.

As for the boats, one of them, the cutter, was a hundred yards or more astern, pulling hard upon their quarter. The other was rowing up alongside the sixth-rate. Perrin saw a man in a red coat waving a paper from her sternsheets. The man-of-war’s deck was full of men, who had crowded to the side to watch. Cammock was hurrying his hands. His maintopsail and topgallantsail were mastheaded together, to songs which made Olivia hasten to the poop-rail to hearken. Loud was the jolly chorus. The ship felt the sail. Bubbles burst brightly over the trailing anchor-flakes. Old Harry beacon drove by, rolling in the wash they made. Cammock walked aft hurriedly to take a bearing. He noticed then for the first time that the cutter which had fired on them was the red cutter of the man-of-war. He could now see her broadside. Her men fired no more. They were stepping the mast, while two of them kept way upon her. “We’re in for it now,” he thought. He let his helmsman feel that it would not do to glance astern.

“You mind your eye,” he said fiercely. He took an anxious glance at the Wolf Rock, and at the toppling seas on the Blackstone. “I never saw a beastlier place,” he said. “Haul in there, leadsman,” he shouted. “Another cast, now.”

The ship seemed to pause a moment, like a bird suddenly stricken with the palsy. A kind of death seemed to lay hold of her, checking all on board. She dragged a moment, and then drove on, muddying the sea. She had touched Ripple Sands.

“My God, we’re done if you stick,” said Cammock. “And here’s Splat Point and the Bass.”

He bent over the binnacle; Stukeley came to him.

“Hello, captain,” he began. “My old sea-dog. Eh? Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”

Cammock took his cross-bearing without answering. Then he looked steadily at the harbour-mouth, and at the curved white line of the bar. He bade his helmsman “come to” a point. He conned the ship, ordered a small pull of a sheet, and glanced astern at the man-of-war.

Stukeley repeated his question. “Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”

Cammock glanced at him for a second. “Lots of dirty pubs ashore there,” he said coldly. He turned to look again at the man-of-war.

He was not too far from her to see that she was casting loose her forecastle gun. He looked bitterly at Stukeley. “I wonder what you’ve done, my duck,” he said under his breath. He walked up to the little group by the mizen shrouds; he wished not to annoy the lady.

“Captain Margaret, sir,” he said. “May I just speak to you a moment?”

His owner stepped aside with him.

“Look here, sir,” he said hurriedly, “the man-of-war’s going to fire on us. I don’t know what reasons you may have for taking these people aboard. But the man’s escaping from justice, and the lady’s been bamboozled. In another ten ticks you’ll have a round-shot into you. Now, sir, is it fair? A round-shot may kill and maim you a dozen hands, with the decks so busy as they are. Let me heave her to, sir. The man’s a damned scum. And it’s hanging if you’re caught.”

Perrin joined them, leaving Olivia alone. Her husband was talking to the helmsman, getting no answer.

“Charles, for the Lord’s sake, send them in,” said Perrin. “Do, for the Lord’s sake, think what you’re doing. You’ll ruin yourself. You’ll wreck the cruise. You simply can’t have them aboard. Look at that great hulking beast abaft there.”

“Hi, you,” called Cammock angrily. “Clear away from the helm there.”

Stukeley stared at him, much surprised.

“Yes, I mean you,” said Cammock.

“No man must talk to the helmsman,” said Margaret gently.

“Your old sea-dog hasn’t learned manners, eh?” said Stukeley insolently. “You must teach him.”

He stared at Cammock, who returned the stare, and then spun upon his heel to con the ship through the channel.

Perrin drew Margaret aside.

“Oh, Charles. For the last time. Think what you’re doing. I must heave her to. You aren’t fit to decide. Heave to, Captain Cammock.”

“As she goes,” cried Margaret angrily. “No, Edward,” he added quietly; “I’ll take them. I’ll save her one shock, anyway. And if I must hang for it, I must. That’s settled.”

“You don’t even know what he’s done,” said Perrin.

“He’s her husband,” said Margaret. “And they fired on her. They fired on her. Now go and talk to her. No more talk, Ned. They’re coming with us. Go and talk to her.”

Perrin turned from his friend with a gesture of childish passion. He took off his hat, ripped the brim from the crown with a single violent tug, and flung both portions into the sea. Then he walked swiftly down the ladder (and to his cabin) muttering curses so vehemently that they seemed to shake him. As he passed under the cabin door a flash came from the bows of the sixth-rate. A ball from a long nine-pounder hit up a jet from the sea close alongside, then bounded on, raising successive jets, till it was spent. Another shot flew over them. A third, fired after an interval, brought the maintopgallant braceblock down. A part of the sheave just missed Olivia’s head.

“They ought not to salute with shot,” explained Captain Margaret. “They always do. And that bit of lignum vitæ--feel it; isn’t it beautifully smooth and hard--would have given you a nasty bruise. Hold on,” he called, catching her arm, “she’s rolling. We’re going over the bar. It’s all very well wishing a ship a pleasant voyage,” he continued. “But I wonder they don’t kill people.” His thought was, “Can she be such a fool? Surely she must know.” But at that time he knew very little of Stukeley.

Olivia answered him. The shot and the rattle of the falling gear had filled her mood. “Yes,” she said. “But I must be prepared for that. I must be with Tom, by his side, when we fight the Spaniards. I do think it’s fine of him to want to help the Indians.”

“Yes,” said Captain Margaret. “But won’t you go below? A braceblock on the head is a very bad preparation for helping any one.” He glanced anxiously astern at the man-of-war; he was surprised to see that she was not in sight. The _Broken Heart_ was clear of the harbour, feeling the heave outside, hidden from Salcombe by Lambury Point. The pursuing cutter was sailing back to the sixth-rate. It was a shock to him, for a moment of time, to think that now he had burned his boats, and that he was pledged to a very doubtful venture. “There’ll be no more firing,” he added. “Doesn’t Bolt Head look fine from here? Look at the breakers on the rocks there. Olivia, you must put on a warm coat or wrap. The sea-wind is cold.”

“I’d rather be as I am,” she answered. “Tell me, Charles,” she added, “are you sure that you would like us to come with you? Quite sure? We could easily go ashore at Plymouth. But my husband is so bent on coming, and he’ll be so useful to you. You will let us come, won’t you? You know, all my life has been so empty. And now. Now I’m so happy, I want every one else to be happy. Oh, I’d love to help the Indians.”

“You shall come, certainly,” said the captain. “But are you sure you’re fitted for the voyage? Our venture is not exactly. Ladies are out of place. You may have to suffer a great deal of very great hardship. And then you might---- I want you to think, Olivia. You might--we all might--be captured by the Spaniards.”

“Oh,” she answered, “I went into that with Tom, after you’d gone, about half an hour after, when I told him of your visit. Directly I told him of it, he was eager to come with you. The first thing he said was, ‘Olivia, do you think your friends would take us?’”

“It must have been rather a shock to you. To decide in such a hurry.”