Part 8

“That’s what you must do,” said Cammock. “Get the steadiest men you can. Plant your crops, when you’ve cleared a patch of ground. Hit the Spaniards hard at the first try. That’ll bring all the privateers to you. Hit ’em again hard at a bigger port; and I do believe, sir, you’ll have two or three thousand skilled troops flocking to you. Old Mansvelt, the old Dutchman. You know who I mean. He tried to do what you are trying. That was at Santa Katalina. But he died, and Morgan had to do it all over again. Then Morgan had his chance. He’d fifteen hundred men and a lot of ships. He’d taken Chagres and Porto Bello. He had the whole thing in his hands. With all the spoil of Panama to back him up. The Isthmus was ours, sir. The whole of Spanish America was in that man’s hands. But no. Come-day-go-day. He went off and got drunk in Port Royal; got a chill the first week; got laid up for a time; then, when he did get better, he entered Jamaica politics. The new governor kept him squared. The new governor was afraid of him. But what he done you can do. You have a little success, and make a name for yourself, and you’ll have a thousand men in no time. That’s enough to drive the Spaniards off the North Sea. When you’ve driven ’em all off, the King’ll step in. The King of England, I mean. He’ll knight you, and give you a bottle-washing job alongside his kitchen sink. Your settlement’ll be given to one of these Sirs in Jamaica. There, sir. I wish you luck.”

The meeting was now broken up. Perrin brought from his cabin a box of West Indian conserves and a packet of the famous Peruvian sweetmeats. He offered them to Olivia, then to all the company. The steward brought round wine and strong waters. Mrs. Inigo, passing through the cabin with a curtsey, left hot water in Olivia’s state-room. She wore a black gown and white cap. She looked very handsome. She walked with the grace of the Cornish women. She reminded Captain Cammock of the Peruvian ladies whom he had captured before Arica battle. They, too, had worn black, and had walked like queens. He remembered how frightened they had been, when they were first brought aboard from the prize. Olivia followed Mrs. Inigo into the state-room. “I must just see if she’s got everything she wants,” she murmured. She remained in the state-room for a few minutes talking with Mrs. Inigo. Perrin noticed that Stukeley looked very hard at Mrs. Inigo as she passed through with the jug. He decided that Stukeley would need watching.

“Where are you putting her?” said Stukeley.

“Who? Mrs. Inigo?” said Margaret. “Along the alleyway, to the starboard, in the big cabin which was once the sail-room.”

“I see,” said Stukeley.

“By the way, Stukeley,” said Margaret. “Now that you’ve got over your sickness, would you like to be one of us? And will you stand a watch? I’m going to stand two watches a day with the mate’s watch, and Edward here will do the same with the starboard watch.”

“I’ll think it over,” said Stukeley, evidently not much pleased. “I’ll think it over. I think I’ve listened to enough jaw for one night. I’m going to turn in.”

Margaret, quick to save Olivia from something which he thought might annoy her, made a neat parry. “Oh, don’t say that, Stukeley. Come on deck for a blow; then we’ll have a glass of punch apiece.”

“Come on,” said Perrin, attempting, with an ill grace, the manner of a jovial schoolboy. “Come on, my son. Catch hold of his other arm, Charles.”

As he seized Stukeley’s arm to give him a heave, Stukeley poked him in the wind, and tripped him as he stepped backward. “What’re you sitting down for?” he said, with a rough laugh.

Perrin was up in a second. He seized a heavy decanter, and hove it into Stukeley’s face. Stukeley in guarding the blow received a sharp crack upon the elbow. Margaret and Cammock pulled Perrin aside, under a heavy fire of curses.

“What d’ye mean by losing your temper? Hey?” said Stukeley.

Margaret drew Perrin out of the cabin. “Good night, Stukeley,” he said as he passed the door.

He left Cammock standing by his chair, looking into Stukeley’s face. There was a pause for a moment.

Then Stukeley began with, “That damned old woman nearly broke my elbow. If he’s a friend of yours----”

“He is,” said Cammock.

“Oh, so you’re another of them. Well. Lord. You make a queer crew. Do you know that?”

Cammock did not answer, but remained standing, like a figure of bronze, staring into Stukeley’s face. For fully a minute he stood there silently. Then he spun round swiftly, in his usual way, giving a little whistle. He paused at the door to stare at Stukeley again.

“I’m glad you admire my beauty,” said Stukeley. “You’re not much used to seeing gentlemen, are you?”

Still Cammock did not answer. At last he spat through the half-opened gun-port. “My God,” he said. Then he walked out on deck, leaving Stukeley rubbing his elbow; but softly chuckling, thinking he had won the field.

V. STUKELEY

“Thus can my love excuse the slow offence.” _Sonnet li._

“I can endure All this. Good Gods a blow I can endure. But stay not, lest thou draw a timeless death Upon thyself.” _The Maid’s Tragedy._

One morning, about six weeks later, when the _Broken Heart_ was near her port of call, Captain Margaret sat at the cabin table, with a book of logarithms beside him, a chart before him, and a form for a ship’s day’s work neatly ruled, lying upon the chart. He made a faint pencil-line upon the chart, to show the ship’s position by dead-reckoning. Then, with a pair of compasses, he made a rough measurement of the distance still to run. Stukeley, lying at length upon the locker-top, watched him with contempt.

The _Broken Heart_ had had a fair summer passage, with no severe weather. She had spoken with no ships since leaving Falmouth. Her little company of souls had been thrown upon themselves, and the six weeks of close association had tried their nerves. There were tense nerves among the afterguard, on that sunny morning, just off Soundings.

“Where are we?” Stukeley asked.

“Just off Soundings,” said Margaret.

“Where the blazes is that?”

“About four hundred miles to the east of Accomac.”

“How soon shall we get to Accomac?”

“A week, perhaps. It depends on the wind.”

“And then we’ll get ashore?”

“Yes. If you think it safe.”

“What the devil d’you mean?”

Captain Margaret sat back in his chair and looked at Stukeley as an artist looks at his model. Many small, inconsidered, personal acts are revelations of the entire character; the walk, the smile, the sudden lifting of the head or hand, are enough, to the imaginative person. So, now, was Captain Margaret’s look a revelation. One had but to see him, to know the truth of Perrin’s epigram. Perrin had called him “a Quixote turned critic.” He looked at Stukeley as though he were above human anger; his look was almost wistful, but intense. He summed up the man’s character to himself, weighing each point with a shrewd, bitter clearness. His thought was of himself as a boy, pinning the newly killed moth upon the setting-board.

“Look here,” said Stukeley.

“Do you think it safe?”

Stukeley rose from the locker and advanced across the cabin.

“So little Maggy’s going to preach, is he?” he said lightly. “Let me recommend little Maggy to keep on his own side of the fence.”

Margaret shrugged his shoulders. It seemed to him to be the most offensive thing he could do, in the circumstances.

“Supposing that it’s not safe?”

Stukeley laughed, and returned to the locker. He pulled out a pipe and began to fill it.

“Maggy,” he said, “why don’t you get married?”

“My destiny.”

“Marriage goes by destiny. Eh?”

“Marriage. And hanging, Stukeley.”

That brought him from the locker again. “What the hell d’you mean by that?”

“Oh,” said Margaret. “It’s safe in Accomac, I should think.”

“What is?”

“The evil-doer, Stukeley. The cheat, the ravisher, the---- But I don’t think you ever committed a murder. Not what is called murder by a jury.”

“Ah. You cast that at me,” said Stukeley. “Recollect now, Maggy. That’s enough. I’d be sorry to hit you.”

“Would you?” said Margaret. “Well. Perhaps. But if it’s not safe, Stukeley, what are you going to do?”

“Stay here, little Maggy. Oh, ducky, you are so charming. I shall stay on board with my own little Maggy.”

“You’d better remember my name when you speak again, Stukeley. I take no liberties from a forger.”

“Have you been reading my papers? In my cabin?”

“It _was_ forgery, wasn’t it?”

“Is it any business of yours?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because, Stukeley, I may have to see the Governor about you. I may be asked about you when you land. I may even have to hand you over to--well, disgrace.”

“Rot. How the hell will the Governor know? Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Then it _was_ forgery?”

“Certainly no damn maggot like you’ll call it anything. No man alive.”

“But supposing they try you, my friend. Eh? Suppose, when we land, when we anchor, you are taken and sent home. What would a jury call it?”

“We’re not in Falmouth harbour now. Nor in Salcombe.”

Just at this moment Captain Cammock entered, whistling a tune through his teeth. He glanced at both men, with some suspicion of their occupation. “Come for the deep-sea lead-line,” he explained. “We’ll be in soundings by to-night. Getting on nice, ain’t we?” He opened one of the lockers and took out the lead-line. “You’d ought to come on deck, sir, to-night, to see how this is done. It’s a queer sight,” he said. “I’m off to the cook now, to get a bit of tallow for the arming.”

“Stop just a moment, captain,” said Margaret. “I want to ask you something. How often do letters go to Virginia, from London?”

“I suppose about twice a week, now there’s no war. Almost every day, in the summer, you might say. Yes. They’re always going.”

“Have we made a good passage?”

“Nothing extra. It’s been done in five weeks by the baccalao schooners. Less.”

“The baccalao schooners. They’re the cod-boats? Are they very fast?”

“Oh, beauties. But ain’t they wet.”

“Then we might find letters waiting when we arrive?”

“Very likely, sir. I was going to speak to you about that.” He looked with meaning at Stukeley.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” said Stukeley.

“You might have letters waiting, too,” said Cammock. “Society invitations and that.” He glanced up at the skylight as he spoke, and then watched Stukeley’s face to note the effect of his words. Stukeley turned pale.

“Stukeley,” said Margaret, “don’t you think you ought to tell your wife?”

“Will you please mind your own business, Maggy. She’s my wife, not yours.”

“Then I shall tell her. Shall I?”

“Tell her what?”

“I’m going on deck,” said Cammock. “You come on deck, sir, too.” He passed out of the cabin, carrying his heavy lead. He paused at the door for a moment to ask his friend again. “Come and see how it’s done, sir,” he said. He got no instant answer, so he passed out, wondering how it would end. “It’s none of my job,” he said sadly. “But I’d give a deal just to hit him once. Once. He’d have a thick ear to show.”

“Tell her what?” repeated Stukeley, as the door closed.

“That you may be arrested as soon as we arrive. That the case may go against you.”

“You would tell her, would you?”

“She ought to know. Surely you can see that. Shall I tell her?”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve go---- You lowsy. You’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

“I should very much like to, Stukeley.”

“I don’t doubt. And you’re the one---- That’s like you poets. You’re a mangy lot, Maggy. I see you so plainly, Maggy, telling my wife. Like a cat making love. In the twilight. Oh, I’ve seen you.”

“Go on, Stukeley.”

“You come crawling round my wife. I’ve seen you look at her. I’ve seen you shake hands with her. I’ve seen your eyes. Doesn’t she make your mouth water? Wouldn’t you like that hair all over your face? Eh? Eh? And her arms round you. Eh?”

“Stukeley,” said Margaret, “I’d advise you to stop. Stop now.”

“Wouldn’t you like to----?”

“Stop.”

“I know you would. Poems, eh? I’ve read a lot of your poems to her, Maggy.”

“Were you looking for my purse?”

“No, Maggy. But I thought you needed watching. I don’t want any mangy poet crawling round my wife. So I just watched you, Maggy.”

“Yes?”

“Oh yes. I don’t think you’ve succeeded yet, Maggy. Even in spite of your poems.”

“Stukeley,” said Margaret, rising from his chair, “when we get to Accomac you will come ashore with me. I’ll do my best, when we’re ashore, to put my sword”--he advanced to Stukeley, bent swiftly over him, and touched him sharply on the Adam’s apple--“just there, Stukeley. Right through. To save the hangman the trouble.”

Stukeley watched him with amused contempt; he laughed. “Maggy’s in a paddy,” he said. “No, Maggy. I’m a married man, now, ducky. What would my wife do if she woke up one fine morning and found me gone? Eh?”

“Are you afraid to fight?”

“Afraid of a little crawling maggot who comes whining out some measly poems?”

Margaret took a quick step forward, and shot out a hand to seize Stukeley by the throat. Stukeley caught him by the wrist.

“Look here, Maggy,” he said.

“Drop my wrist. Drop it.”

“Take your dirty wrist.”

“Take back what you said.”

“You do amuse me, Maggy.”

“Take it back.”

“You ought to have been a woman. Then you could have married that damned fool Perrin. And you could have----”

“You----”

“Ah no, ah no. No blows, Maggy.”

“Take back what you said.”

“That I was afraid?”

“You’d better, Stukeley.”

“Did I say that I was afraid? I’m not, you know. It’s you who are afraid.”

“You’ll see.”

“I shall see. You are afraid. You’re in love with Olivia, ducky. D’ye think you’re going to fight me? Not Maggy. You’d like me away, wouldn’t you, Maggy. Then perhaps she’d. She’s an awful fool when you come to know her, Maggy. To know her as I know her. She might be fool enough to. And then. Oh. Bliss, eh? Bliss. Morning, noon, and night. Eh?”

“Stukeley, I’ve stood a good deal----”

“Yes, ducky. But don’t be so excited. You won’t fight me. You’ll be afraid. You’ll lick my boots, like you’ve done all the time, so as to get a sweet smile from her. Doesn’t she smile sweetly, my little Maggy? You’ll lick my boots, Maggy. And hers. Lick, lick, lick, like a little crawling cat. Wouldn’t you like to lick her hand, Maggy? Her fingers? Don’t go, Maggy. I’m just beginning to love you.”

“We’ll go on with this at Accomac, Stukeley.”

“We shan’t fight, Maggy. If you killed me, she’d never marry you. Besides, it would kill her, Maggy. She loves me. She wants a man, not a little licking cat. You’re content to spend your days licking. My God; you’d die, I believe, if you couldn’t come crawling round her, sighing, and longing to kiss her. That’s your life. Well. Kill me. You’ll never see her again. Then what would the little crawler do? Go and put his arms round Perrin? But d’you know what I should tell Olivia before going out with you?”

“What would you tell her?”

“I’d tell her that I suspected you of making love to her. Eh? That you admitted it, and that I gave you this chance of satisfaction out of consideration, instead of thrashing you. So any way I’ve the whip hand, Maggy. She’d never look at you again, and you can’t live without her. Can you?”

“Anything else?”

“Just this. You’ll never see her again if--if anything happens at Accomac. Through the Governor, you know. We should go home together. And the shock, eh? Loving husband hanged, eh? So take it from one who loves little Maggy, that you aren’t going to fight me, and that for all your gush you’ll help me in Accomac in case there’s trouble. And Olivia shall let you kiss her hand, shall she. Or no, you shall have a shoe of hers to slobber over, or a glove. Now go on deck, Maggy, and cool your angry little brow. A little of you goes a long way, Maggy. That’s what Olivia told me one night.”

He stopped speaking; for Margaret had left the cabin. “I wonder where he’s gone,” Stukeley muttered, smiling. Through the half-shut door he could see Margaret entering the cabin which he shared with Perrin. “What a rotter he is,” he thought. “I suppose now he’ll have a good cry. Or tell it all to that dead frog, Perrin.” For a moment, he thought that he would go on deck to walk with Perrin, not because he wanted to see the man, but because, by going on deck, he would keep both Perrin and the captain from talking to Olivia, who was mat-making on the poop, amid a litter of coloured silks. He thought with some disgust of Olivia. So that he might not be reminded of her, he drew the sun-screen across the skylight, shutting out the day. “Oh Lord,” he said, yawning, “I wish I was back in the inn with that girl, Jessie. She was some fun. Olivia gets on my nerves. Why the devil doesn’t she get some blood in her? These pious women are only good to ravish. Why the devil don’t they enter nunneries? I wish that one of these three sprightly lads would have a try at Olivia. One never knows, though. Even Olivia might take it as a compliment.” For a moment he wondered if there were any chance of trouble at Accomac. Very little, he concluded. He laughed to think of the strength of his position. It was a pleasure to him to think that three men hated him, perhaps longed to kill him, and that one refrained because of Olivia, while the other two refrained because of the first. “Lord, Lord,” he murmured, with a smile. “And they’ll all three die to save me. I’d go to Accomac if there were a dozen governors. I wonder if the Indian girls are any fun.” He was hardly built for marriage, he thought. Those old days had been sweet in the mouth. There was that sleepy-looking girl--Dick Sadler’s wife. She was some fun. How wild she used to get when she---- He wished that Perrin would come below as a butt for some of his ill-temper.

It was only four bells; there were at least two hours to wait till dinner-time. He was sick of sleeping; he was sick of most of his shipmates; he could not dice “one hand against the other.” Reading bored him, writing worried him, sketch he could not. He stretched himself down on the locker-top, and lit his pipe. Tobacco was forbidden in the cabin for Olivia’s sake; but he argued that he was the real commander of the ship, the practical owner, since he ruled her material destiny by ruling Olivia. As he smoked, it occurred to him that perhaps he had done wrong to anger Captain Margaret. That Maggy was a sullen devil. He might turn sullen, and give him up in spite of Olivia. He smoked quietly for a little time, till a scheme came to him, a scheme which gave him pleasure, so good it seemed.

He lay lazily on the locker-top, looking out over the sea, through the stern-windows. The sun was shining, making the track of the ship gleam. Just below Stukeley, sometimes almost within a sword’s thrust, when the counter squattered down, slapping the sea, were the rudder eddies, the little twirling threads, the twisted water which spun in the pale clear green, shot through with bubbles. They rose and whirled continually, creaming up and bursting, streaking aft in whiteness. Over them wavered some mewing sea-birds, dipping down with greedy plunges, anon rising, hovering, swaying up. Stukeley watched them with the vacant stare of one bored. For a few minutes he amused himself by spitting at those which came within range; then, proving a poor marksman, he rummaged for a biscuit, thinking that he would fish for them. He found a hank of white-line, and tied a bit of biscuit to the end. He was about to make his first cast when Mrs. Inigo entered, bearing a buck-basket containing her week’s washing, now ready to be dried.

When the _Broken Heart_ left Falmouth, Captain Margaret made certain orders to ensure Olivia’s comfort. He had tried to put himself in her place, to see with her eyes, to feel with her nerves, knowing that her position on board, without another lady to bear her company, would not be a pleasant one. The whole of the ship abaft the forward cabin bulkhead had been given up to her. The three members of the afterguard took their meals in the cabin, but seldom entered it at other times, unless they wished to use the table for chess, cards, or chart-work. The negro steward, who had once ruled in the cabin, was now little more than a cabin-cook. Mrs. Inigo did much of his work. She cleaned the cabin, laid the breakfast, served Olivia’s early chocolate, letting the negro cook wash up. Cammock and Perrin agreed with Captain Margaret that the after part of the ship should be left as much as possible to the two Stukeleys, so that Olivia might feel that she was living in a private house. After the cabin supper, at the end of the first dog-watch, no man of the three entered the cabin unless Olivia invited him. Margaret felt that Olivia was touched by this thought for her. She was very gracious to him during her first evening party. It was sweet to hear her thanks, sweet to see her, flushed and laughing, radiant from the sea air, sitting there at the table, as Cammock dealt the cards for Pope Joan. That evening had been very dear to him, even though, across the cabin, on the heaped green cushions, lay Stukeley, greedy for his wife’s beauty, whetting his swine’s tusk as the colour came upon her cheek. It would all be for him, he thought, and the thought, now and then, was almost joyful, that she should be happy. It was not in his nature to be jealous. The greatest bitterness for him was to see the desired prize neglected, unappreciated, never really known; and to apprehend, in a gesture, in a few words, the thought implied, which the accepted lover failed to catch, or else ignored. He had tested Stukeley’s imaginative sympathy by the framing of another rule. In a small ship like the _Broken Heart_ there is little privacy. To prevent a possible shock to her, he arranged that on washing-days the clothes of the women should be hung to dry from the cabin windows (from lines rigged up below the port-sills, where they were out of view of the crew). Olivia was pleased by this arrangement, without quite knowing why. Stukeley saw no sense in it. On this particular morning the arrangement bore peculiar fruit, very grateful to Stukeley, who had long hungered for a change.

Mrs. Inigo entered with the buck-basket, closing the door behind her. She dropped the basket on the deck below the window-seat, seized the clothes-line, and began to stop the linen to it, in the sea-fashion, with rope-yarns. She was a little flushed with the exertion of washing, and she was a comely woman at all times.

“I’m going to help you,” said Stukeley.

She smiled, and looked down, as he helped her to tie some clothes to the line. She blushed and smiled; he took her hand.

“Let go my hand,” she whispered.

He pressed the hand, and though she drew back, a little frightened, he managed to catch the other. He kissed the hands. They were rough but warm.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t, Mr. Stukeley.”

“Ah, Bess,” he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her, “why didn’t you give me a chance before?”

Half an hour later Bessy Inigo went forward to peel potatoes for dinner, while Stukeley slept upon the locker-top till the steward roused him at one bell.

He went on deck, when he was called, to get a breath of air before dinner. He found Olivia at work with her little balls of silk, while Perrin, on the lee side of the skylight, was drawing for her a ship upon canvas. Perrin was talking to Olivia, asking her questions about her work. At the break of the poop Captain Cammock stood, waiting with his quadrant to take the height of the sun.