The Blood Ship Part 4

"But it didn't seem to have any effect. The two of you were as thick as ever. We were laying bets in the tavern that you would be married before you went to sea again. He didn't like that--the talk about your wedding. But he wasn't beaten yet; he was just preparing his ground.

Oh, he was a slick devil!

"He came to me one day and said, 'Beasley, give me the key to the Old Place--and keep your mouth shut and stay away from there.'

"Now you begin to understand? The Old Place--that tumble-down old ruin of a house all alone out there on the cliffs. It belonged to my father, you remember, but it hadn't been lived in for years. I had a key because we young bloods used the place for card-playing, and high jinks.

"I gave him the key. Why not? It was a small matter. He went off to Boston--business trip, he said. I could make a good guess at the nature of the business. Didn't I know his ways? But I wouldn't blab; he owned me body and soul. I was afraid of him. His soft voice, his slick ways, and what he could do to me if I didn't obey!

"He brought Beulah Twigg back with him from Boston. Now you understand? Little Beulah--pretty face, empty head, too much heart.

He owned her body and soul, too. When folks wondered where she had run off to, I could have told them. I knew how he'd played with her, on the quiet, while he sparked Mary in the open--last time he was home.

You were home then, also. Remember, you left a day ahead of him, to join your s.h.i.+p in New York? A China voyage, wasn't it? Well--Beulah left the same day. Just disappeared. And poor old Twigg couldn't understand it. You remember the old fool? Beulah was all the family he had, and after she skipped out he got to drinking. They found him one morning at the bottom of the cliffs, not a hundred yards from the spot where they afterwards found her.

"But I knew what had become of Beulah. I guessed right. Didn't I know his ways with the girls? You know there weren't many women who could stand out against him. Mary could, and did--that's why he was so wild against you. But little Beulah--she threw herself at him. And when she ran away, it was to join him in Philadelphia, and go sailing with him to South America.

"Now you know how he turned the trick on you, don't you? But--don't look at me like that! I didn't know what he was doing, I swear I didn't! I thought he just wanted his sweetheart near him, or that she insisted on coming, or something like that. I thought it was devilish bold of him, bringing the girl where everybody knew her. But then, he really wasn't taking such a chance, because n.o.body ever went near the Old Place, except upon my invitation, and he drove her over from the next towns.h.i.+p in the night, and she didn't come near the village. I knew, but he knew I wouldn't blab. My G.o.d, no!

"Well, he came to me the next day after he got back from Boston. 'I ask a favor of you,' he said to me. Yes--asking favors, when he knew I must do what he said. Smiling and purring--you remember the pleasant manner he had. 'Just a short note. I know you are handy with the pen,' he said.

"What could I do? I had to look out for myself. He gave me a page from an old letter as a sample of the handwriting. It was Mary Barntree's writing; oh, I knew it well. I had it perfect in a few minutes. You know--I had a rare trick with the pen in those days--before this cough got me, and my hand got shaky. The note I wrote for him was a mere line. 'Meet me at Beasley's Old Place at three,' with her initial signed. That was all. But he had a sheet of her own special note paper for me to write on (no, I don't know where he got it!) and of course he knew--like we all knew--how fond the two of you were of lovers' walks out on the cliffs.

"Do you remember how you got that note? Oh, he was a slick devil. He thought of everything. Abel Horn brought it to you--remember? He told you, with a wink and a grin, that it was from a lady--but he didn't say what lady. Remember? Well, Beulah had given him the note, and told him to say that--not to mention names. Abel was a good fellow; he wouldn't gossip. _He_ knew that.

"That wasn't the only note he had written. He made Beulah write one, too, addressed to Mary, and asking her to come to the Old Place, and be secret about it. Ah, now you understand? But--I swear I didn't know what he was leading up to. No, I didn't. I thought it was--well, all's fair in love, you know. And I had to do what he said, I had to!

"Poor little Beulah had to do what he said, too. I only feared him, but she loved and feared him both. He owned her completely. He had made her into a regular echo of himself. She didn't want to, she cried about it, but she had to do what he said.

"Mary came, as he knew she would. Didn't she have the kindest heart in the country? And there he was, with Beulah, with his eyes on her, and his soft, sly words making her lie seem more true. I heard it all. I was upstairs. He placed me there, in case Mary didn't believe; then I was to come in and tell about seeing you and Beulah together in Boston, and how she begged me to bring her home. But--for G.o.d's sake!--I didn't do it. I didn't have to. Mary believed. How could she help believing--the gossip, and poor little Beulah sobbing out her story.

Beulah said it was you who got the best of her. She didn't want to say it, she faltered and choked on the lie, but _his_ eyes were on her, and his voice urged her, and so she had to say it. The very way she carried on made the lie seem true.

"Well, Mary did just what he expected her to do. She promised to help Beulah; she told Beulah she would make you make amends. Then she rushed out of the house and met you coming along the cliff road--coming along all spruced up, and with the look about you of one going to meet a lady. Just as _he_ planned.

"What more could Mary ask in the way of evidence than the sight of you in that place at that time? Of course she was convinced, completely convinced. And she behaved just as he knew she would behave--she denounced you, and threw your ring in your face, and raced off home.

And you behaved just as he knew you would behave. He was a slick devil! He knew your pride and temper; he counted on them. He knew you would be too proud to chase Mary down and demand a full explanation; that you would be too angry to sift the thing to the bottom. You packed up and went off to New York that night to join your s.h.i.+p--and that was just what he wanted you to do.

"Next morning you were gone, and--they picked up little Beulah at the bottom of the cliffs. And you gone in haste, without a word. They said she jumped--desertion, despair, you know what they would make of it. The gossip--and Abel Horn's tale--and you running away to sea.

"And I--my flesh would creep when I looked at him. I was certain she--didn't jump. I tell you he was a devil. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do. He didn't have such a feeling as mercy. Didn't I find it out? He wanted to get rid of me--and he did. Before the week was out; before Beulah was fairly buried, before Mary was outdoors again. He showed those checks I had signed--and I had to go, I had to go far and in a hurry. After all I had done for him, that's the way he treated me."

There was a movement of chairs in the next room, and a sc.r.a.ping of feet. There was more talk, Newman's heavy murmur, and responding whines. But I do not remember what else was said. In fact, although I have given you Beasley's tale in straight-forward fas.h.i.+on, I did not overhear it as I tell it. I caught it in s.n.a.t.c.hes, so to speak, rather disconnected s.n.a.t.c.hes which I pieced together afterwards. I heard this fellow, Beasley, talk while lying drowsing on the bed, and not trying particularly to understand his words. In fact, I did drop off to sleep. First thing I knew, the Knitting Swede was shaking me awake.

"Yump out of it, Yackie," says he. "We go aboard."

I turned out, shouldered my sea-bag, and went downstairs. There was Newman, with his dunnage, waiting. He was alone. There was no sign of my beggar about. In fact, I never saw him again. Newman's face didn't invite questions.

As a matter of fact, I didn't even think of asking him questions. I had forgotten Beasley; I was worrying about myself. Now that the hour had come to join the s.h.i.+p, I wasn't feeling quite so carefree and chesty. I went into the bar, and poured Dutch courage into myself, until the Knitting Swede was ready to leave.

We rode down to the dock in a hack. I was considerably elated when the vehicle drew up before the door; It is not every sailorman who rides down to the dock in a hack, you bet! The Swede was spreading himself to give us a grand send-off, I thought! But I changed my mind when we started. The hack was on Newman's account, solely; and he made a quick dash from the door to its shelter, with his face concealed by cap and pea-coat collar. He didn't want to be seen in the streets--that is why we rode in the hack!

The ride was made amidst a silence that proved to be a wet blanket to all my attempts to be jovial, and light-hearted and devil-may-care.

The Swede slumped in one seat, with our dunnage piled by his side, wheezing profanely as the lurching of the hack over the cobblestones jolted the sea-bags against him, and grunting at my efforts to make conversation. Newman sat by my side. Once he spoke.

"You are sure the lady sails, Swede?" was what he said.

"_Ja_, I have it vrom Swope, himself," the crimp replied.

Now, of course, I had already reasoned it out that Newman was sailing in the _Golden Bough_ because of the lady aft, and that he had once owned some other name than "Newman." That was as plain as the nose on my face. I didn't bother my head about it; the man's reasons were his own, and foc'sle custom said that a s.h.i.+pmate should be judged by his acts, not by his past, or his motives. But I did bother my head about his question in the hack--or rather about the Swede's manner of replying to it. It was a little thing, but very noticeable to a sailor.

The Swede's manner towards me was one of genial condescension, like a father towards an indulged child. This was a proper bearing for a powerful crimp to adopt towards a foremost hand. But the Swede's manner towards Newman was different. There was respect in it, as though he were talking to some skipper. It considerably increased the feeling of awe I was beginning to have for my stern s.h.i.+pmate.

I supposed we would join the rest of the crew at the dock, and go on board in orthodox fas.h.i.+on, on a tug, with drugged and drunken men lying around, to be met at the rail by the mates, and dressed down into the foc'sle. Such was the custom of the port. But when we alighted at Meigg's Wharf not a sailor or runner was in sight. A regiment of roosting gulls was in lonely possession of the planking. The hack rattled away; the Swede, bidding us gather up our dunnage and follow him, waddled to the wharf edge, and disappeared over the string-piece.

"Why, where is the crew?" I asked of Newman. "You and I, alone, aren't going to sail the ruddy packet?"

"They'll follow later," replied Newman. "The Swede is going to put us two aboard. He's getting the boat free now."

I stopped stock still. The constant surprises were rapidly shocking me sober, and this last one fairly took my breath for a moment. The Swede was putting us on board!

Now, the King of Crimps didn't put sailormen on board. He hired runners to oversee the disposal of the slaves. The most he did was lounge in the sternsheets of his Whitehall while his retainers rowed him out to a s.h.i.+p to interview the captain, and collect his blood money. It was unusual for the Swede to go down to the dock with a couple of men; and now, he was going to fasten his lordly hands upon a pair of oars and row us out to our vessel!

"Say, what is the idea?" I demanded of Newman. "We are no flaming dukes to be coddled this way!"

Newman placed his hand upon my shoulders. "What say you call it off, lad?" he said. "That h.e.l.l-s.h.i.+p yonder is no proper berth for you.

Take my advice, and dodge around the corner with your bag. I can fix it with the Swede, all right."

I should have liked to have taken the advice, I admit. I was not in nearly such a vainglorious mood as I had been back in the Swede's barroom, with the waterfront applauding me. If Newman had offered to dodge around the corner with me, I'd have gone. The aspect of that empty wharf was depressing, and there was something sinister about all these unusual circ.u.mstances surrounding our joining the s.h.i.+p. I began to feel that there was something wrong about the _Golden Bough_ besides her bucko mates, and I possessed the superst.i.tions of my kind. But Newman did not offer to dodge around the corner with me. He was merely advising me, in a fatherly, pitying fas.h.i.+on that my nineteen-year-old manhood could not stomach.

"I s.h.i.+pped in her, and I'll sail in her," I told him, shortly. "I can stand as much h.e.l.l as any man, and I'd join her if I had to swim for it. That flaming packet can't scare me away; I'll take a pay-day from her, yet!" I was bound I'd live up to my reputation as a hard case! I was letting Newman know I was just as proper a nut as himself.

The Swede hailed us from the darkness beyond. We reached the wharf edge, and dimly made out the Swede's huge bulk squatting in a Whitehall boat below. "Yump in!" he bade us. We tossed our bags down, followed ourselves, and a moment later I was bidding farewell to the beach.

The Swede lay back manfully on the oars, grunting with every stroke.

He was expert; he seemed to make nothing of the inrus.h.i.+ng tide, and quickly ferried us out into the fairway. Newman and I sat together in the sternsheets, each wrapped in his mantle of dignified silence. I kept my eyes on the black bulk of the vessel we were rapidly nearing, and I confess my thoughts were not very cheerful. One needed jolly companions, and more drink inside than I had, to have cheerful thoughts when joining the _Golden Bough_.

The Swede lay on his oars when we were a few hundred yards from the s.h.i.+p, allowing us to drift down with the tide. He fumbled about his clothes for a moment, and produced a bottle. "Here, yoongstar, you take a yolt!" he commanded, pa.s.sing me the bottle.

I thought he was just bolstering up my courage, and I was grateful. I swallowed a great gulp of the fiery stuff. It was good liquor, and possessed an added flavor to which I was stranger.

I pa.s.sed the bottle to Newman; he accepted it, but I noticed he did not drink.

The Swede lifted up his voice and hailed the s.h.i.+p. Immediately, the most magnificent fore-topsail-yard-ahoy voice I had ever heard bellowed a reply, "Ahoy, the boat! What d'ye want?"

"That ban Lynch," remarked the Swede to us. Then he called in reply.

"Ay ban Swede Olson with two hands for you! Heave over da Yacob's ladder, Mistar Lynch!" He lay back on his oars, and shot us under the quarter.

A moment later the three of us were standing on the clipper maindeck, confronting a large man who inspected us with the aid of a lantern.

Afterwards, I discovered Mister Second Mate Lynch to be a handsome, muscular chap, with not so much of the "bucko" in his bearing as his reputation led one to expect. But at the moment I was impressed only by his big body and stern face. In truth, even that impression was hazy, for the drink I had taken from the Swede's bottle a moment before proved to be surprisingly potent. No sooner did I set foot upon the deck than I commenced to feel a heavy languor overcoming my body and mind.

Lynch turned, and his voice rumbled into the lighted cabin alleyway.

"Oh, Fitz, come here. Those two jaspers we heard of have come aboard."