"Spare yourself—I want no bed," says I bitterly. "'Twere a luxury wasted on the likes o' me. My couch shall be the corner yonder."

"Ah, prideful youth! 'Tis sweet to be young, Martin!" says Penfeather with his sudden, whimsical half-smile and clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Sleep where ye will, that corner is as good as another. See, there stands my tuck, a Spanish blade of notable good temper, it hath been a true friend to me many a time ere now and should be a trusty bedfellow. As for me, I'm for a feather-bed. And, Martin," says he, pausing to pinch his chin and view me sideways, "if aught should chance to me—at any time—the chart and treasure will be yours. So good-night, comrade, and sleep sound, for 'tis like we shall wake betimes."

Saying which he turned, slow and thoughtful, and went out, closing the door softly behind him. As for me, being very drowsy, I wrapped myself in my weather-worn cloak, blew out the candles and, lying down in the corner, was presently fast asleep.

Now as I slept I dreamed that Penfeather's long rapier, standing in the dark corner close by, was stealthily endeavouring to free itself from its leathern scabbard with intent to skewer me to the floor as I lay; and, striving thus to draw itself, made soft, strange noises and rustlings insomuch that I presently woke, and staring motionless into the darkness above, knew that these sounds were real. Somewhere close by was a furtive whisper of sound that came and went, a soft-drawn breath, a scraping of fingers on the panelling above me in the darkness; and in that moment also I became aware that the lattice yawned wide upon a square of glimmering blackness. Suddenly a sly-creeping foot touched me unseen and then (even as the owner of this foot tripped over me) came the roaring flash of a pistol hard by, followed immediately by another and, as I lay deafened and half-dazed, the floor quivered to the soft, vicious thud of leaping, swift-trampling feet, and on the air was a confused scuffling, mingled with an awful, beast-like worrying sound. And now (though I was broad-awake and tingling for action) I constrained myself to lie still, nothing stirring, for here (as I judged) was desperate knife-play, indeed more than once I heard the faint click of steel. And now rose shouts and cries and a tramp of feet on the stair without. Someone reeled staggering across the room, came a-scrabbling at the open casement and, as I leapt up, the door burst open and Joel Bym appeared flourishing a naked hanger and with Godby behind bearing a lanthorn, whose flickering light showed Adam, knife in hand, where he leaned panting against the wall, a smear of blood across his pallid face and with shirt and doublet torn in horrid fashion.

"The window!" he gasped. "Shutters! 'Ware bullets!" I sprang forward, but Joel was before me, and crouching beneath the open lattice swung the heavy shutters into position, but even as he did so, a bullet crashed through the stout oak.

"Doors all fast, Joel?"

"Aye, Cap'n! But who's here—is't the preventive? And me wi' the cellars choke-full. My cock! Is't the customs, Cap'n?"

"Worse, Joel!" says Penfeather, wiping sweat from him.

"Art hurt, Adam?" I questioned, eyeing his wild figure, and now I saw that the thin, steel chain was gone from his sinewy throat.

"No, shipmate. But the dagger, look ye—'tis clean disappeared, Martin."

"And good riddance," quoth I. "But, Adam—what o' your chart—gone along o' the dagger, has it?"

"Tush, man!" says he, sheathing his knife, "'Tis snug in that wallet o' yours."

"My wallet!" I cried, clapping hand on it where it hung at my girdle.

"Aye, shipmate. I slipped it there as I bid ye good-night! But, Martin—O Martin, the dead is alive again—see how I'm all gashed with his hook."

"Hook?" quoth Joel, shooting great, hairy head forward. "Did ye—say a—hook, Cap'n?"

"Aye, Joel—Tressady's alive again."

"God love us!" gasped the giant and sank into a chair.



CHAPTER XIII

WE SET OUT FOR DEPTFORD POOL

Penfeather drew clenched hand across his brow, and coming to the table reached the half-emptied flagon and drank what remained of the wine thirstily, while Bym, his great body huddled in the chair, stared at the bullet hole in the shutter with starting eyes: as to me, I picked up Penfeather's fallen pistols and laid them on the table, where Godby had set the lanthorn.

"Tressady!" says Bym at last in a hoarse whisper, "Tressady—O Cap'n, be ye sarten sure?"

"Sure!" says Penfeather, in the same hushed manner, and reaching powder and bullets from a cupboard he began methodically to reload his pistols. "He'll be outside now where the shadows be thickest, waiting me with Abnegation and Sol and Rory, and God knoweth how many more."

"Then he aren't dead, Cap'n?" Penfeather's black brows flickered and his keen eyes glanced from his rent doublet round about the room:

"Howbeit—he was here, Joel!" said he.

"Why then, Cap'n, the dying woman's curse holds and he can't die?" says Bym, clawing at his great beard.

"He was here, Joel, in this room," says Penfeather, busy with powder-horn, "man to man, knife to knife—and I missed him. Since midnight I've waited wi' pistols cocked and never closed eye—and yet here was he or ever I was aware; for, as I sat there i' the dark by the window above the porch, which is therefore easiest to come at, I spied Mings and him staring up at the lattice of this chamber. So here creeps I and opening the door saw him move against the open lattice yonder—a shot no man could miss."

"Aye, Cap'n—aye?"

"And I—missed him, Joel—with both weapons and I within three yards of him, aye, I missed him with both pistols."

"Which is small wonder," says I, "for as you fired he tripped over me, Adam—"

"And why should he trip just then—at the one and only moment, Martin? Chance, says you? Why, when he came leaping on me in the black dark should his hook meet and turn my knife from his throat? Chance again, says you? Why, when he flung me off and made for the window—why must I catch my foot 'gainst that staff o' yours and bring up against the wall with all the strength and breath knocked out o' me, and no chance for one thrust as he clambered through the lattice? By the Lord, Martin, here's more than chance, says I."

"Aye, by cock!" muttered Joel, shaking his head. "'Tis 'witched he be! You'll mind what I told ye, Cap'n—the poor lady as died raving mad aboard the 'Delight,' how she died cursing him wi' life. And him standing by a-polishing o' that hook o' his—ah, Cap'n, I'll never forget the work o' that same hook ... many's the time ... Bartlemy's prisoners ... men and women ... aboard that cursed 'Ladies' Delight!' By cock, I dream on't sometimes and wake all of a sweat—"

"Here's no time for dreams!" says Penfeather, ramming home the charge of his second pistol, "Is the passage clear?"

"Save for the matter of a few kegs, Cap'n, but 'twill serve."

"We start in half an hour, Joel."

"The three o' you, Cap'n?"

"Aye, we must be aboard as soon as maybe now."

"Captain," says Godby, "speaking as a master-gunner, a mariner and a peddler, I'm bold to say as there's nought like bite and sup to hasten a man for a journey or aught beside—flog me else! And there's nought more heartening than ham or neat's tongue, or brisket o' beef, the which I chanced to spy i' the kitchen—"

"Why then, master-gunner," says Penfeather, "go you and engage those same in close action and I'll join ye as soon as I've shifted these rags o' mine."

"Adam," says I, unstrapping my wallet as Bym and Godby descended the stair, "if we are to have our throats cut to-night, 'twere as well I handed back your chart first"; and I laid it on the table.

"Why 'tis as safe with you, comrade—but as you will!" says he, slipping the chain about his neck. "As for any throat-slitting, Martin, you'll find that with danger my inborn caution groweth to timidity—"

"Ha, yes!" I nodded. "Such timidity as walks under the very noses of desperate, well-armed rogues of a moonlight night."

"Why, the moon is down—or nearly so, Martin. And then, besides, this trim little inn hath divers exits discreetly non-apparent. 'Twas a monastery once, I've heard."

"And now a smuggling-ken it seems, Adam."

"Even so, comrade, and no place better suited! And there's the Bo's'n hailing!" says he, as a hoarse roar of "Supper O!" reached us. "Go down, Martin, I stay but to make things ship-shape!" and he nodded towards the books and papers that littered the table. Upon the stairs I met Godby, who brought me to a kitchen, very spacious and lofty, paved with great flagstones and with groined arches supporting the roof, and what with this and the wide fireplace flanked with fluted columns and enriched by carvings, I did not doubt that here had once stood a noble abbey or the like.

"Pal," said Godby, as I stared about me, "you'd never guess as there be nigh three hundred kegs stowed hereabouts besides bales and the like, choke me else! Ha, many's the good cargo I've helped Jo and the lads to run—eh, Joel?"

"So you're a smuggler, Godby," says I.

"Cock," says Bym reproachfully, and setting a goodly cheese on the table with a bang, "say free-trader, cock—t'other 'un's a cackling word and I don't like cackle—"

"Aye," nodded Godby, "that's the word, 'free-trader,' Mart'n. So I am and what then? 'Twas summat o' the sort as got me suspicioned by Gregory and his catchpolls, rot 'em." But here Adam entered, very soberly dressed in sad-coloured clothes, and we sat down to sup forthwith.

"Do we sail soon, Captain?" questioned Godby in a while.

"I hope to be clear o' the Downs a few days hence," says Adam.

"And you so short-handed, Cap'n," quoth Bym.

"Sir Rupert hath 'listed thirty new men, I hear, and rogues every one I'll be sworn."

"Sir Rupert—?" says I.

"My lady's cousin, Martin, and captain of the expedition."

"Is he a sailor, Adam?"

"No, Martin, like most o' your fine gentlemen-adventurers, he knows no more of navigation than this cheese, which is just as well, Martin, aye, mighty well!"

"How so?"

"Who shall say, Martin, who shall say?" And here he took a long draught of ale. In a while, our meal being ended, Penfeather rose:

"As to arms, Martin, ha' ye aught beside your knife?"

"My staff and this pistol," says I, taking out the silver-mounted weapon my lady Brandon had thrust upon me.

"Is't loaded, Martin?" I examined charge and priming and nodded. "Good!" says Adam, "Here's five shot betwixt us, that should suffice. Up wi' the trap, Jo, and we'll out." Hereupon Bym lighted his lanthorn and putting aside the great settle by the hearth, stooped and raised one of the flagstones, discovering a flight of worn, stone steps, down which we followed him and so into a great cellar or vaulted crypt, where stood row upon row of barrels and casks, piled very orderly to the stone roof. Along the narrow way between strode Bym, and halting suddenly, stooped and lifted another flagstone with more steps below, down which we followed him into a passage-way fairly paved, whence divers other passages opened right and left. And when we had gone some distance Adam halted.

"Best bring the light no further, Jo," says he. "And hark'ee, Joel, as to this black rogue—this—y'know who I mean, Jo?"

"Aye—him, Cap'n!"

"That same, Jo. Well, keep an eye lifting and if you find out aught worth the telling, let one o' your lads ride post to Deptford, Jo."

"Aye, Cap'n. Aboard ship?"

"Aboard ship."

"Cap'n," quoth he, grasping Adam's hand, "I'm man o' few words, an' thanks t' you I'm snug enough here wi' my wife and darter as is away till this cargo's run, but, say the word, and I'll sail along o' you come battle, murder or shipwreck—"

"Or a hook, Joel?" says Penfeather softly, whereat Joel clawed at his beard and blinked into the lanthorn; finally he gives a great tug to his beard and nods:

"Aye, Cap'n," says he, "for you—even that, by cock!"

"Good lad," says Penfeather, clapping him on brawny shoulder. "Bide where you are, Jo, and Fortune with you and yours. This way, Martin."

So having taken our leave of Bym, Godby and I followed Adam along the passage, guided by the Bo's'n's lanthorn until, turning a sudden, sharp corner, we plunged into pitchy gloom wherein I groped my way until Penfeather's voice stayed me:

"Easy all!" says he, softly. "Have your pistols ready and heed how you come." Creeping cautiously I found myself amid leaves that yielded before me, and stepping through this natural screen, I stumbled into a bush and presently found myself standing in a small copse dim-lighted by a waning moon; and never a sound to be heard save the soft whisper of leaves about us and the faint, far cry of some night-bird.

"Ha!" says Adam at last, gazing away to the sinking moon, "So our journey begins, and from the look o' things, Martin, from the look o' things here's going to be need of all your resolution and all my caution ere we can see the end. Come!"



CHAPTER XIV

HOW I CAME ABOARD THE "FAITHFUL FRIEND"

We followed a roundabout course, now across broad meadows, now treading green cart-tracks, now climbing some grassy upland, anon plunging into the shadow of lonely wood or coppice until the moon was down, until was a glimmer of dawn with low-lying mists brimming every grassy hollow and creeping phantom-like in leafy boskages; until in the east was a glory, warming the grey mist to pink and amber and gold, and the sun, uprising, darted his level beams athwart our way and it was day.

And now from coppice and hedgerow, near and far, was stir and flutter, a whistling and a piping that rose ever louder and swelled to a trilling ecstasy of gladness.

"Hark to 'em—O pal, hark to 'em!" quoth Godby, lifting head to watch a lark that soared aloft. "Here's music, Martin, here's cure for the megrims, hope for the downcast and promise o' joys to come. O hark to 'em!"

All the day Penfeather led us on by lonely ways, never seeming to weary and never at a loss, silent for the most part as one in profound thought, and I speaking little as is my wont, but Godby talked and sang and laughed for the three of us.

It was as we sat outside a little ale-house snugged 'mid trees, eating of bread and cheese, that Penfeather turned suddenly and gripped my arm:

"Martin," says he, "'twill be plaguy business carrying women aboard ship—along o' these lambs o' mine—there's scarce a rogue but cheats the gallows with his every breath!"

"Why then, tell her so, Adam, plain and to the point."

"'Twould be vain breath, Martin, I know her too well—and she is a Brandon!"

"A curse on the name!" says I, whereupon Godby choked into his ale, stared in surprise and would fain have questioned me, but meeting my eye, spake no word.

"D'ye know aught of navigation, Martin?" says Adam suddenly.

"No whit, Adam, but I'll handle a boat with any man."

"Ha!" says he, and sat there pinching his chin until, our hunger being appeased and the ale all drank, we fared on again. So we tramped, and though our road was long I will here make short work of it and say that at last we came, very hot and dusty, into the village of Lewisham, where we would fain have baited awhile at the 'Lion and Lamb,' a fair inn; but this Adam would by no means permit, so, leaving the village, we presently turned aside from the main road into a lane very pleasantly shaded by tall trees and bloomy hedgerows, the which (as I do think) is called Mill Lane. In a while we reached a narrow track down which Adam turned, and now as we went I was aware of strange sounds, a confused hubbub growing ever louder until, deep amid the green, we espied a lonely tavern before which stood a short, stout man who alternately wrung his hands in lamentation, mopped at bloody pate and stamped and swore mighty vehement, in the midst of which, chancing to behold Penfeather, he uttered joyful shout and came running.

"Master Penfeather," cried he, "O Master Penfeather, here's fine doings, love my eyes! Here's your rogues a-fighting and a-murdering of each other, which is no great matter, but here's them a-wrecking o' my house, which is great matter, here's them has broke my head wi' one o' my own pottlepots, which is greater matter, here's me dursen't set of it i' the place and my wife and maids all of a swound—O Master Penfeather, here's doings, love my limbs!"

"Ha," says Penfeather, "fighting, are they, Jerry?"

"Like devils, Captain, your rogues and the rogues as my Lord Dering 'listed and brought here yesterday—O love my liver—look at yon!" As he spoke was a crash of splintered glass and a broken chair hurtled through the wide lattice.

"So!" says Adam, striding towards the inn, and I saw a pistol in his hand. Following hard on his heels I entered the inn with him and so to the scene of the riot.

A long, low room, full of swirling dust, and amid this choking cloud a huddle of men who fought and struggled fiercely, roaring blasphemy and curses. Two or three lay twisted among overturned chairs and tables, others had crawled into corners to look to their hurts, while to and fro the battle raged the fiercer. Leaning in the doorway Penfeather surveyed the combatants with his quick keen glance, and then the hubbub was drowned by the roar of his long pistol; the thunderous report seemed to stun the combatants to silence, who, falling apart, turned one and all to glare at the intruder. And, in this moment of comparative silence while all men panted and stared, from Penfeather's grim lips there burst a string of blistering sea-oaths such as even I had scarce heard till now; for a long minute he reviled them, the smoke curling from his pistol, his black brows knit across glittering eyes, his thin nostrils a-quiver, the scar glowing on his pallid cheek, his face indeed so changed and evil that I scarce knew him.

"... ye filthy scum, ye lousy sons o' dogs!" he ended. "Ha, will ye fight agin my orders, then—mutiny is it?"

"And who a plague are you and be cursed to ye!" panted a great fellow, flourishing a broken chair-leg threateningly and scowling in murderous fashion.

"He'll tell ye—there, behind ye, fool!" snarled Penfeather, pointing sinewy finger. The big man turned, Penfeather sprang with uplifted pistol and smote him, stunned and bleeding, to the floor, then bestriding the prostrate carcass, fronted the rest with head viciously out-thrust.

"And who's next—come!" says he softly, scowling from one to other of the shrinking company. "You, Amos Penarth, and you, Richard Farnaby, aye and half a dozen others o' ye, you've sailed wi' me ere now and you know when I say a thing I mean it. And you'd fight, would ye, my last words to you being 'see to it there be no quarrelling or riot.'"

"Why, Cap'n," says one, "'tis all along o' these new 'listed rogues—"

"Aye, master," says another, "and that's gospel-true, theer aren't a right sailor-man among 'em—"

"Then we'll learn 'em to be!" says Penfeather. "Stand forward the new men—show a leg and bustle, ye dogs!" Scowling and muttering, some twelve unlovely fellows obeyed. "I' faith!" says Penfeather, looking them over, "Here's fine stuff for the gallows! And where's the rest of 'em?"

"Gone aboard this morning along o' Toby Hudd the bo's'un!"

"See here, my bright lads," quoth Penfeather, eyeing each scowling face in turn, "learn this—when you come aboard my ship and I say to one o' ye do this or do that, he does it, d'ye see, or—up to the yard-arm he swings by his thumbs or his neck as occasion warrants. D'ye get me, my bully roarers?"

Not a man of them spake a word, but all stood shifting uneasily beneath Penfeather's quick bright eye, shuffling their feet and casting furtive glances on their fellows.

"Now as to this lump o' roguery," says Penfeather, spurning the still unconscious man with his foot, "have him into the yard and heave a bucket o' water over him. As to you, Farnaby, muster the hands, and stand by to go aboard in half an hour—every unhung rascal."

Without we came on the misfortunate landlord still in the deeps of gloom, but upon Adam's assurance that all damages should be made good, he brought us up a pair of stairs to a fair chamber and there served us a most excellent meal.

Scarce had we risen from table than comes the man Penarth a-knocking, cap in hand, to say the men stood ready to go aboard. We found some score fellows drawn up before the inn, and a desperate lot of cut-throats they looked, what with their hurts and general hang-dog air as they stood there in the light of a rising moon. Having looked them over each and every, Penfeather spat, and setting them in Godby's charge, ordered them to go on before.

"Well, Martin," says he as we followed together, "and how think ye of my lambs?"

"Call them raging tigers, rather—"

"Nay," says he, "tigers be cleanly creatures, I've heard."

"'A God's name, Adam, why truck with such ill rogues? Sure there be many honest mariners to be had?"

"Why as to that, Martin, good men be scarce and ever hard to come by—moreover these scum are a means to an end, d'ye see?"

"How so?"

"Just that, Martin," says he, glancing at me in his furtive manner, "a means to an end."

"What end?"

"Ah, who may tell, Martin?" he sighed, shaking his head. Now when I would have questioned him further he put me off thus with side answers, until we were come to the waterside, which is called Deptford Creek. Here, having seen the others safe embarked we took boat also, and were soon rowing between the huge bulk of ships where dim lights burned and whence came, ever and anon, the sound of voices, the rattle of a hawser, a snatch of song and the like, as we paddled betwixt the vast hulls. Presently we were beneath the towering stern of a great ship, and glancing up at this lofty structure, brave with carved-work and gilding, I read the name,

THE FAITHFULL FRIEND.

At a word from Adam the oars were unshipped and we glided alongside her high-curving side where hung a ladder, up which I followed Adam forthwith. She was a great ship (as I say) of some two hundred tons at least, with high forecastle and lofty stern, though I saw little else ere, at a sign from Adam I followed him down the after-gangway where, taking a flickering lanthorn that hung from a deck-beam, he led me 'twixt a clutter of stores not yet stowed, past the grim shapes of great ordnance, and so down and down to a noisome place beneath the orlop.

"'Tis not over sweet, Martin," says he, "but then bilge-water never is, you'll mind. But you'll grow used to it in time, shipmate, unless, instead o' swallowing this unholy reek you'll swallow your pride and 'list as master's mate."

"I've no knowledge of navigation," says I.

"But I've enough for the two of us, Martin. 'Tis a comrade at my back I need. What's the word?"

"No!" says I, mighty short.

"As you will, shipmate," he sighed, "as you will. Pride and bilge-water go well together!" which said he brought me to a dark unlovely hole abaft the mizzen. "'Tis none too clean, Martin," says he, casting the light round the dingy place, "but that shall be remedied and Godby shall bring ye bedding and the like, so although 'tis plaguy dark and wi' rats a-plenty still, despite the stench, you'll lie snug as your pride will permit of. As for me, shipmate, I shall scarce close an eye till we be clear o' the Downs, so 'tis a care-full man I shall be this next two days, heigho! So good-night, Martin, I'll send Godby below with all you lack."

Saying which Penfeather turned, and groping his way into the darkness, left me scowling at the flickering lanthorn.



CHAPTER XV

TELLETH OF A NAMELESS BLACK SHIP

And now within my gloomy hiding-place, dim-lit by flickering lanthorn, I passed many weary hours, while all about me was a stir and bustle, a confused sound made up of many, as the never-ending tread of feet, the sound of hoarse voices now faint and far and anon clear and loud, the scrape of a fiddle, snatches of rough song, the ceaseless ring and tap of hammers—a very babel that, telling of life and action, made my gloomy prison the harder to endure. And here (mindful of what is to follow) I do think it well to describe in few words the place wherein I lay. It was indeed a very dog-hole, just below the orlop, some ten feet square (or thereabouts) shut in 'twixt bulkheads, mighty solid and strong, but with a crazy door so ill-hung as to leave a good three inches 'twixt it and the flooring. It had been a store-room (as I guessed), and judging by the reek that reached me above the stench of the bilge, had of late held rancid fat of some sort; just abaft the mizzen it lay and hard against the massy rudder-post, for I could hear the creek and groan of the pintles as the rudder swung to the tide. Against one bulkhead I had contrived a rough bunk with divers planks and barrels, the which with mattress and bedding was well enough.

Now opposite my berth, within easy reach of my hand, was a knot-hole the which, by some trick of the grain, had much the look of a great staring eye, insomuch that (having no better employ) I fell to improving on nature's handiwork with my knife, carving and trimming around it; and in betwixt my sleeping, my eating and drinking (for Adam and Godby kept me excellent well supplied) I would betake me to my carving and fashioning of this eye and with my initials below it, the which foolish business (fond and futile though it was) served in no small measure to abate my consuming impatience and the dreary tedium.

Howbeit on the third day, my situation becoming unbearable, I stumbled out from my dog-hole, and groping my way past kegs and barrels firm-wedged in place against the rolling of the vessel, I climbed the ladder to the orlop. Here I must needs pause, for, dim though it was, the light from the open scuttle nigh blinded me. In a while, my eyes growing strong, I got me to the main-deck, where again I must stay to shade my eyes by reason of the radiance that poured through an open gun-port. Glancing around after some while, I saw no one and wondered, for here was the main gun-deck. Ten great pieces a side I counted, with ports for divers more. I was yet wondering at the emptiness about me when I heard sudden uproar from the deck above my head, shouts, cries, a rush and patter of many feet, and above all Penfeather's furious hail.

Wondering, I came to the open port, and leaning out saw it was evening with a heavy mist creeping down upon the waters, and through the mist loomed a great, black ship drifting lubberly across our hawse. Louder and more furious grew the shouting above, answered by a hail aboard the great, black craft as, broadside on, she swung towards us.

And now, creeping in the mist, I beheld a small boat with a great, shapeless bundle in the stern-sheets and rowed by a single waterman who swung easily to his oars, scanning now the "Faithful Friend," now the great black ship, like one who bided the inevitable crash. Sudden I heard the roar of one of Penfeather's ever-ready pistols followed by his voice up raised in vicious sea-curses, and glancing up saw the black ship right aboard of us and braced myself for the impact; came a shock, a quiver of creaking timbers and the groan of our straining hawsers as the black ship, falling off, drifted by in a roaring storm of oaths and blasphemy. Now when her battered stern-gallery was nigh lost in the mist, bethinking me of the boat I had seen, I glanced about and beheld matter that set me wondering; for he was the fellow plying his oars with a will and so near that I might have tossed a biscuit aboard him; moreover the great misshapen bundle had lain in the stern-sheets was there no longer, which set me mightily a-wondering. Long after man and boat were swallowed up in the fog I sat there lost in thought, insomuch that I started to feel a hearty clap on the shoulder and, turning, beheld Godby, a pair of great gold rings in his ears, and very sailor-like in all things from sea-boots to mariner's bonnet.

"Here's a ploy, Mart'n!" says he with a round oath. "Here's yon curst lubberly craft carried away our starboard cat-head and six-feet o' the harpings wi't, sink him! And us but waiting for my lady to come aboard to trip anchor and away. And now here's we shorebound for another two days at the least as I'm a gunner! And all on account of yon black dog, burn him! A plaguy fine craft as sails wi' no name on her anywheres, keelhaul me else! But Penfeather winged one o' the lubberly rogues, praise God, Mart'n! Which done and with due time to curse 'em, every mother's son of 'em, he turns to—him and the carpenter and his mates—there and then to repair damages. Ha, a man o' mark is Captain Adam, pal."

"Godby," says I, "did ye chance to see aught of a boat carrying a great bundle in the stern-sheets and rowed by a man in a red cap?"

"Nary a blink, Mart'n—why?"

"I'm wondering what came of that same bundle—"

"Hove overboard belike, pal—there's many a strange thing goes a-floating out to sea from hereabouts, Mart'n—drownd me!"

"Belike you're right!" says I.

"Mart'n, Sir Rupert's ashore to meet her ladyship, so you'm free to come 'bove deck if so minded?"

"Nay, I'll bide where I am, Godby."

"Why then come, Mart'n, clap your eye on my beauties—here's guns, Mart'n, six culverins and t'others sakers, and yonder astern two basilisks as shall work ye death and destruction at two or three thousand paces; 'bove deck amidships I've divers goodly pieces as minions, falcons and patereros with murderers mounted aft to sweep the waist. For her size she's well armed is the 'Faithful Friend,' Mart'n!"

Thus Godby, as he led me from gun to gun slapping hand on breech or trunnion, and as I hearkened 'twas hard to recognise the merry peddler in this short, square, grave-faced gunner who spake with mariner's tongue, hitched ever and anon at the broad belt of his galligaskins, and rolled in his gait already.

"She's a fair ship!" says I, seating myself on one of the great guns mounted astern.

"She is so, Mart'n. There's no finer e'er sailed from Deptford Pool, which is saying much, split me if it isn't. Though, when all's said, Martin, I could wish for twenty more men to do justice to my noble guns, aye thirty at the least."

"Are we so short?"

"We carry but ninety and two all told, pal, which considering my guns is pity—aye, vast pity, plague me else! 'Twould leave me shorthanded to serve my guns should they be necessary, which is fair and likely, Martin."

"And black rogues they are!" says I.

"Never clapped eyes on worse, pal, kick me endwise else! But Captain Adam's the man for such and I mean to work 'em daily, each and every, at my guns as soon as we be well at sea. Ah, there soundeth Toby Hudd's pipe—all hands on deck—this should be her ladyship coming aboard. So here's me aloft and you alow, and good luck to both, pal." Saying which he nodded, gave a hitch to his wide galligaskins and rolled away. Now coming to the gun-port I have mentioned I must needs pause there awhile to look out across the misty river already darkening to evening; and thus presently beheld a boat, vague and blurred at first, but as it drew nearer saw in the stern-sheets four gallants who laughed and talked gaily enough, and the muffled forms of two women, and in one, from the bold, free carriage of her head, I recognised, despite hood and cloak, my Lady Joan Brandon; nay, as the boat drew in, I heard the sweet, vital tones of her voice, and with this in my ears I caught up my lanthorn and so descended to the orlop. Now as I paused at the narrow scuttle that gave down to my noxious hiding-place, I thought to hear a step somewhere in the gloom below.

"Ha, Godby!" says I. "Are you down there, man?" But getting no answer, I descended the ladder, bethinking me of the rats (whereof I had no lack of company), and coming into my dog-hole, closed the rickety door, and having supped, cast myself down upon my bed and blew out the light, and despite the rustle and scutter away there in the dark beyond my crazy door I was very soon asleep.

And in my sleep what must I dream of but rats with eyes that glared in the dark, that crawled ever nearer, while one that crept upon my bosom grew and swelled into a great fellow with a steel hook in place of one hand, a face with flashing white teeth and glowing eyes that peered close ere eyes and teeth vanished, and I sunk down and down into a black emptiness of dreamless slumber.



CHAPTER XVI

TELLS HOW WE WERE DOGGED BY THE BLACK SHIP

I awoke in panic and, leaping up groped in the pitch-dark until my eager fingers closed on the haft of the sheath-knife under my pillow, and with this naked in my hand I crouched awaiting I knew not what; for all about me was direful sound, groans and cries with wailings long drawn out in shuddering complaint. Then, all at once, my panic was lost in sudden great content, and thrusting away the knife I took flint and steel and therewith lighted my lanthorn; since now indeed I knew these dismal sounds nought but the creak and groan of the stout ship, the voice of her travail as she rose to the seas. And as I hearkened, every individual timber seemed to find a voice, and what with this and the uneasy pitching and rolling of the ship I judged we were well under weigh and beyond the river-mouth. This (bethinking me of the damage we had sustained from the great black ship) set me to wondering, insomuch that I reached for my lanthorn, minded to steal on deck that I might know our whereabouts and if it were day or night, since here in the bowels of the ship it was always night. So (as I say) I reached for the lanthorn, then paused as above all other sounds rose a cheery hail, and under the door was the flicker of a light. Hereupon I opened the door (though with strangely awkward fingers) and thus espied Godby lurching towards me.

"What, Mart'n pal," says he, sitting beside me on my berth and setting down the food and drink he had brought, "are ye waking at last?"

"Have I slept long, Godby?"

"You've slept, Mart'n, a full thirty hours."

"Thirty hours, Godby?"

"Split me crosswise else, pal!"

"Mighty strange!" says I, reaching for the flask he had brought, for I felt my mouth bitterly parched and dry, while, added to the consuming thirst, my head throbbed miserably.

"Well, here we be, pal, clear o' the river this twelve hours and more. And, Mart'n, this is a ship—aye, by hokey, a sailer! So true on a wind, so sweet to her helm, and Master Adam's worthy of her, blister me else!"

"'Tis strange I should sleep so long!" says I, clasping my aching head.

"Why, you'm wise to sleep all ye can, pal, seeing there be nought better to do here i' the dark," says he, setting out the viands before me. "What, no appetite, Mart'n?" I shook my head. "Lord love ye, 'tis the dark and the curst reek o' this place, pal—come aloft, all's bowmon, the fine folk han't found their sea-legs yet, nor like to while this wind holds, Mart'n—so come aloft wi' Godby."

Nothing loth I rose and stumbled towards the ladder, marvelling to find my hands and feet so unwieldy as I climbed; the higher I went the more the rolling and pitching of the ship grew on me, so that when at last I dragged myself out on deck it was no wonder to find the weather very blusterous and with, ever and anon, clouds of white spray lashing aboard out of the hissing dark with much wind that piped shrill and high in cordage and rigging.

Being sheltered by the high bulwark hard beside the quarter-deck ladder, I leaned awhile to stare about me and drink in great draughts of sweet, clean air, so that in a little my head grew easier and the heaviness passed from me. Ever and anon the moon peeped through wrack of flying cloud, by whose pale beam I caught glimpses of bellying sails towering aloft with their indefinable mass of gear and rigging, and the heel and lift of her looming forecastle as the stately vessel rose to the heaving seas or plunged in a white smother of foam.

"She rides well, Mart'n!" roared Godby in my ear. "Aha, here's duck of a ship, pal!"

"Where's Adam?" I questioned.

"To'-gallant poop, Mart'n. Lord love ye, it's little sleep he's had since we hove anchor. Hark'ee, pal—he's got it into his head as we'm being dogged!"

"Dogged, man—by what?"

"By that same great black ship as fouled us—he has so, pal—roast me else! But come your ways." So saying, Godby climbed to the quarter-deck and I after him, and mounting the poop-ladder, presently came on Penfeather, peering hard over our lee.

"Ha, is it you, shipmate!" says he, drawing me out of the wind. "Look yonder, d'ye see aught of a rag o' sail, Martin?" Following his pointing finger, I stared away into the distance across a tumbling spume of waters vague in the half-light. "D'ye glimpse aught, Martin?"

"Nothing, Adam!"

"Wait for the moon, shipmate—now, look yonder!" As the light grew, I swept the distant horizon with my eyes until, all at once against the night, I saw the sheen of distant canvas that gleamed and was gone again as a cloud veiled the moon. "You saw it, Martin?"

"Plainly!" says I, whereupon he sprang away to the men at the helm; came the hoarse roar of speaking-trumpet, and decks and waist below seemed alive with scurrying, dim figures; and now was a chorus of shouts and yo-ho-ing as the "Faithful Friend," obedient to his commands, swung off upon an altered course.

"Godby," says Adam, beckoning us where stood the compass or bittacle, "look'ee, as she bears now we should be nigh enough yon curst ship to learn more of her by peep o' dawn."

"Aye, Cap'n—and then?"

"Then you shall try what you can do wi' one o' those long guns o' yours."

"Lord love ye, Cap'n, that's the spirit!" cried Godby, hitching joyously at his broad belt, "All I asks is a fair light and no favour!"

"And you have the middle watch, Godby man, so I'll get a wink o' sleep," says Adam, "but do you call me so soon as we raise her hull. As for you, Martin, you'll have slept your fill, I judge."

"And yet I'm plaguy drowsy still!" says I.

"There's a spare berth in the coach, comrade, an you're so minded!"

"Nay, Adam, I'll watch awhile with Godby."

"Good! You've keen eyes, Martin—use 'em!" says he, and goes down the ladder forthwith.

And now, pacing the lofty poop beside Godby, I was aware that the "Faithful Friend" was dark fore and aft, not a light twinkled anywhere.

"How comes this, Godby!" says I, pointing to the dim shapes of the great stern lanthorns above us.

"Cap'n's orders, Mart'n! We've been dark these two nights, and yet if yon craft is what we think, 'twould seem she follows us by smell, pal, smell. As how, say you? Says I, last night she was fair to be seen having closed us during the day, so out go our lights and up goes our helm and we stand away from her. At dawn she was nowhere and yet—here she is again—if yon ship be the same."

"Which we shall learn in an hour or so, Godby."

"Aye, Mart'n, if she don't smell us a-coming and bear away from us. And yet she must be a clean, fast vessel, but we'll overhaul her going roomer or on a bowline."

"Roomer? Speak plain, Godby, I'm no mariner!"

"Time'll teach ye, pal! Look'ee now, 'roomer' means 'large,' and 'large' means 'free,' and 'free' means wi' a quartering-wind, and that means going away from the wind or the wind astarn of us; whiles 'on a bowline' means close-hauled agin the wind, d'ye see?"

"Godby, 'tis hard to believe you that same peddler I fell in with at the 'Hop-pole.'"

"Why, Mart'n, I'm a cove as adapts himself according. Give me a pack and I'm all peddler and j'y in it, gi'e me a ship and I'm all mariner to handle her sweet and kind and lay ye a course wi' any—though guns is my meat, Mart'n. Fifteen year I followed the sea and a man is apt to learn a little in such time. So here stand I this day not only gunner but master's mate beside of as tight a ship, maugre the crew, as ever sailed—and all along o' that same chance meeting at the 'Hop-pole.'"

"And though a friend of Bym you knew little of Adam Penfeather?"

"Little enough, Mart'n. Joel be no talker—but it do seem Jo was one of the Coast-Brotherhood once when Cap'n Penfeather saved his life and that, years agone. So Joel comes home and sets up marriage, free-trade and what not, when one day lately Master Adam walks into the 'Peck o' Malt,' and no whit changed for all the years save his white hair. And here comes rain, Mart'n—"

"And wind!" says I as the stout ship reeled and plunged to the howling gust.

"No, Mart'n," roared Godby above the piping tumult, "not real wind, pal—a stiffish breeze—jolly capful."

Slowly the night wore away and therewith the buffeting wind gentled somewhat; gradually in the east was a pale glimmer that, growing, showed great, black masses of torn cloud scudding fast above our reeling mastheads and all about us a troubled sea. But as the light grew, look how I might, nowhere could I descry aught of any ship upon that vast horizon of foaming waters.

"Ha!" says Godby, venting huge sigh, "there's to be no play for my guns this day, Mart'n."

"Nay but," says I, mighty perplexed, "what's come of her? She could never have marked our change of course at the distance and 'twas black dark beside, and we bore no lights."

"Mayhap she smelt us, pal, as I said afore. Howbeit, 'tis beyond me, cram me wi' rope-yarn else!"

Now, as he spoke, up came the sun, turning lowering sky and tempestuous ocean to glory; every ragged cloud became as it were streaming banners enwrought of scarlet and gold, every foaming billow a rolling splendour rainbow-capped, insomuch that I stood awed by the very beauty of it all.

"I love the good, kind earth, Mart'n, wi' its green grass and flowers a' peep, 'tis a fair resting-place for a man when all's done and said, but yonder, pal—ah, there's glory for ye! Many's the time I've watched it, dawn and sunset, and, minding all the goodly ships and the jolly lads as are a-sleeping down below, at such times, Mart'n, it do seem to me as if all the good and glory of 'em came aloft for eyes to see awhile—howbeit, 'tis a noble winding-sheet, pal, from everlasting to everlasting, amen! And by that same token the wind's veering, which meaneth a fair-weather spell, and I must trim. Meantime do you rouse Master Adam." And here, setting hands to mouth, Godby roared high above the wind:

"Watch ho! Watch! Brace about—bowse away there!"

As I crossed the deck, up the poop ladder comes Adam himself, his red seaman's bonnet tight-drawn about his ears and a perspective-glass under his arm. "'Tis as I thought, Martin," says he, pinching his chin and scowling away to leeward, "she changed course as we did."

"Nay but, Adam, how should she know we changed and the night so black?"

"Very easily, shipmate, by means of a light—"

"We bore no lights, Adam."

"None the less someone aboard this ship signalled yon black craft by means of a lanthorn, 'tis beyond doubt!"

"And why should she follow us, think ye?"

"Why am I a marked man, shipmate, why have I been dogged hither and yon across seas? Come into the coach and I'll tell ye a thing. Godby!" says he, coming where Godby stood beside the steersman, "lay her on her old course. 'Tis Merrilees takes next watch, I think—tell him to warn me as soon as we raise her accursed topsails."

"What," says I, as we climbed from the lofty poop, "you think she will dog us still, then?"

"I know it, Martin!" says he gloomily, and so brought me into a smallish cabin under the top-gallant poop; here were bunks to larboard and starboard with a table mid-way furnished with calendars, charts, a cross-staff, an astrolabe, with globes and the like, while against the walls stood rows of calivers, musquetoons and fusees, set in racks very orderly. "Aye, shipmate," says he, noting my gaze, "every firelock aboard is either here or in the arm-chests i' the round-house below, and our powder is all stored well aft, by reason that I am a cautious man, d'ye see! Sit ye, Martin! Now as to this black ship—first of all she fouls us in the river, the which was no accident, Martin, though just what the motive was I'm yet a-seeking. Second, as she drifted past us whom should I see aboard her but Abnegation Mings and pulled trigger a moment too late, but winged another o' the rogues. Third, when we'd repaired our damage and got us clear of the river what should we see but this same black ship hove short waiting us, for she presently stands after us. And so she's dogged us ever since and so dog us she will to the world's end unless I can bring her to action."

"She's a fighting ship by her looks and heavily armed!" says I.

"So are we, Martin!"

"And our men, Adam?"

"Ah!" says he, pinching his chin, "there it is, Martin, there it is! Look'ee, shipmate, in all this crew there are no more than twenty men I can count on, nay, less—ten only can I swear by. See now, here's you and Merrilees and Godby, here's Farnaby and Toby Hudd the bo'sun, Treliving the carpenter, and McLean his mate, here's Robins and Perks and Taffery the armourer—good mariners all. These I can trust, shipmate, but never another one!"

"And what of the captain, Sir Rupert Dering?"

"That, Martin!" says Penfeather, snapping his fingers. "A very gentleman-like fool, d'ye see, a bladder of air—like his three fellows."

"So we have four gentlemen aboard, Adam?"

"Aye—princocks all that do nothing but vie in court to her ladyship! Now look'ee, Martin, what with one thing or another, and this hell-fire ship on our heels in especial, there's stir and disaffection among the crew, a-whispering o' corners that I don't like, and which is apt to spread unless looked to. Wherefore this morning I ordered a certain red-haired rascal fifty lashes athwart a gun. But the bo'sun had laid on but poor ten and the fellow roaring lustily when into the 'tween-decks cometh my lady in mighty taking, and seeing the rogue's back a little bloody, ordered him freed and thereafter cossets him wi' dainties from her own table. Lord love ye! Which cometh o' women aboard ship!" And here Adam sighed mighty dismal.

"Why then," says I, "here's work for me, belike."

"As how, Martin?"

"Nay, leave it to me, being little better than rogue myself I should know how to outmatch roguery!"

"Meaning you'll spy on 'em, shipmate?"

"And lie and cozen and join fellowship with 'em if need be. Howbeit there's aught afoot I'll bottom it, one rascally fashion or t'other."

"'Tis desperate risk, Martin, and should they suspicion you—"

"Why, look, Adam, my life's none so sweet or precious that I'd cherish it in lavender. Besides I've a feeling I may not die until—at least, not yet."

"Wait!" says he, as I rose. "Bide a while, Martin!" And, opening a locker beneath his bunk, he took thence a shirt of fine chain-work like that he himself wore. Shaking my head I would have put it by but he caught my arm in his powerful grip and shook me insistent. "Take it, Martin," says he, "take it, man, 'tis easy and pleasant as any glove, yet mighty efficacious 'gainst point or edge, and you go where knives are sudden! Stay then, take it for my sake, shipmate, since trusty comrades be few and mighty hard come by." So in the end I did it on beneath my doublet and found it to irk me nothing. "And now, what?" he questioned, as I opened the door.

"Sleep," says I, yawning.

"There's a bunk yonder, Martin," says he, eyeing me 'twixt narrowed lids.

"Nay, I'm for my dog-hole, Adam."

"You seem to sleep much and mighty well, despite stench and rats, shipmate."

"I'm grown used to 'em," says I, with another yawn, "and as to sleeping I do little else of late—'tis the dark, belike, or bad air, or lack of exercise." Now as I rose to be gone, the deck seemed to heave oddly beneath my feet and the cabin to swing dizzily round, so that I must needs grip at the table to steady myself, while Adam peered at me through a haze as it were.

"What's here, Martin, are ye sick?" he questioned.

"A vertigo!" I mumbled, "I'll into the air!" In a little the dizziness abating, I got me out on deck and found in the rushing wind mighty comfort and refreshment, while Adam steadied me with his arm. "Let be!" says I, shaking off his hold. "'Twas nought—I'll go sleep again." And waiting for no more I stumbled down the quarter-ladder; but even as I went, the haze seemed to close about me thicker than ever, and groping my way to the ship's side I sank across the bulwark and was miserably sick. This agony passing, I made my way below until I reached the orlop; but now feeling my sickness upon me again I crept away into a dark corner and cast me down there. And lying thus in my misery I little by little became aware of someone weeping hard by, a desolate sobbing very pitiful to hear. Insomuch that (maugre my weakness) I got up and going whence this sobbing proceeded, presently came on a small, huddled figure, and stooping, saw it was a little lad. At my step he started to his knees, elbow upraised as if expecting a blow.

"Why d'ye weep, boy?" I questioned. "What's your trouble?"

"Nowt!" says he, cowering away; but taking him by his little, thin shoulders I lifted him into the dim light of a swinging lanthorn, and looked into a small, pallid face swollen and disfigured by cuts and bruises wrought by some brutal hand.

"Who did this?" I demanded.

"Nobody!" says he, gulping a sob.

"Who are you?"

"'Tween-decks boy."

"How old are you, child?"

At this he stared up at me out of his swollen eyes, then covering his face in ragged sleeve broke into convulsive sobbing.

"What now?" says I, drawing him beside me. "What now?"

"She used to call me 'child'—my mother—" and here his grief choked him. Now as I looked down upon this little, pitiful creature, I forgot my sickness in sudden, fierce anger.

"Boy," said I, "who's been flogging you—speak!"

"Red Andy," he gasped, "'e be always a' doin' of it 'e be—wish I was dead like my mother!"

"Jim, ho Jimmy," roared a voice from somewhere in the gloom forward, "Jim—plague seize ye, show a leg, will 'ee—" Here (and before I could stay him) the boy started up and pattered away drying his tears as he ran. Now as I lay there I kicked off my shoes and hearkened expectant. Thus, all at once I heard a murmur rising to a wail that ended in a shrill scream, and getting to my feet I crept stealthily forward. Past main and foremasts I crept, past dark store-rooms and cubby-holes, and so to a crack of light, and clapping my eye thereto, espied two fellows rolling dice and beyond them the boy, his hands lashed miserably to a staple in the bulkhead, his little body writhing under the cruel blows of a rope's-end wielded by a great, red-headed fellow.

Now in my many desperate affrays with my fellow-slaves (those two-legged beasts) I had learned that it is the first blow that tells; wherefore groping for the latch I stealthily opened the door and, or ever the red-headed fellow was aware, I was upon him from behind and, giving him no chance for defence, I smote him a buffet under the ear that tumbled him against the bulkhead whence he sank to hands and knees. Then while, half-dazed, he strove to rise, I kicked him down again, and setting my foot upon his chest, caught up the rope's-end he had dropped and beat him therewith until he roared, until he groaned and lay writhing, face hid beneath his crossed arms. Then, whipping out my knife, I fronted his two mates, the one a doleful, bony man with a squint, the other a small, mean, black-eyed fellow in a striped shirt who, closing one bright eye, leered at them with the other; all at once he nodded, and pointing from the knife in my fist to the fellow groaning beneath my foot, drew a long thumb across his own stringy throat, and nodded again. Hereupon I stooped above my captive and set the flat of my blade to his forehead just below his thick, red hair.

"Look'ee, dog!" I panted, while he glared up at me beneath his bruised arms, "Set so much as a finger on yon pitiful brat again and I'll cut a mark in your gallows-face shall last your life out."

"His throat, cully—quick's the word!" breathed a voice in my ear. But now as I turned and the little black-eyed fellow leapt nimbly back, was a creaking and groaning of the ladder that led to the main-deck above, and down comes a pair of prodigious stout legs, and after these a round body, and last of all a great, flat face small of mouth, small of nose, and with a pair of little, quick eyes that winked and blinked betwixt hairless lids.

The fat fellow having got him down the ladder (and with wondrous ease for one of his bulk) stood winking and blinking at me the while he patted one of his plump cheeks with plump fingers.

"Love my limbs!" says he in soft, high-pitched voice. "Perish and plague me, but who's the friend as be a rope's-ending o' ye, Andy lad—you as be cock o' the ship?" Here the fellow beneath my foot essays to curse, but groans instead. "Bless my guts!" says the fat man, blinking harder than ever, "So bad as that, Andy lad? Wot then, hath this fine, upstanding cock o' cocks thrashed all the hell-fire spirit out o' ye, Andy lad? Love my innards—I thought no man aboard could do as much, Andy."

"He jumped me from behind!" says the fellow Andy 'twixt snarl and groan and writhing under my 'prisoning feet.

"And where," says the fat man, smiling at me, "where might you ha' come from, my bird o' price? The bo'sun's mate Samuel Spraggons is me, friend—Sam for short, called likewise Smiling Sam—come, come, never scowl on Sam—nobody never quarrels with the Smiler, I'm friends wi' everyone, I am, friend."

"Why then—loose the child!" says I.

"Child? Ha, is't this little rogueling ye mean, friend?" As he spoke (and smiling yet) he caught the boy's ear and wrung it 'twixt vicious thumb and finger, whereon I whirled the rope's-end, but he sprang out of reach with wondrous agility and stood patting plump cheek and smiling more kindly than ever, the while I cut the cords that bound the boy's wrists, who, with an up-flung, wondering look at me, sped away into the orlop and was gone.

"Now mark ye, Spraggons," says I, "harm the child again—any of ye—and I'll beat your fat carcass to a jelly."

"No, no!" quoth he, "you can't quarrel wi' me, the Smiler don't never quarrel wi' none. You'd never strike Smiling Sam, friend!"

"Stand still and see!" says I. But hereupon he retreated to the ladder and I, feeling my sickness upon me again, contented me by throwing the rope's-end at the fellow and stepping out backward, clapped to the door. So with what speed I might I got me down into the hold and to my dog-hole. And here I saw I had left my lanthorn burning, and found in this light strange comfort. Now being mighty athirst I reached the demijohn from the corner and drank deep, but the good water tasted ill on my parched tongue; moreover the place seemed strangely close and airless and I in great heat, wherefore I tore off my sleeved doublet and, kicking off my shoes, cast myself upon my miserable bed. But now as I lay blinking at the lanthorn I was seized of sudden, great dread, though of what I knew not; and ever as my drowsiness increased so grew my fear until (and all at once) I knew that the thing I dreaded was Sleep, and fain would I have started up, but, even then, sleep seized me, and strive how I would my eyes closed and I fell into deep and fear-haunted slumber.



CHAPTER XVII

TELLETH HOW AN EYE WATCHED ME FROM THE DARK

It is not my intention to chronicle all those minor happenings that befell us at this time, lest my narrative prove over-long and therefore tedious to the reader. Suffice it then that the fair weather foretold by Godby had set in and day by day we stood on with a favouring wind. Nevertheless, despite calm weather and propitious gale, the disaffection among the crew waxed apace by reason of the great black ship that dogged us, some holding her to be a bloody pirate and others a phantom-ship foredooming us to destruction.

As to myself, never was poor wretch in more woeful plight for, 'prisoned in the stifling hold where no ray of kindly sun might ever penetrate, and void of all human fellowship, I became a prey to wild, unholy fancies and a mind-sickness bred of my brooding humours; my evil thoughts seemed to take on stealthy shapes that haunted the fetid gloom about me, shapes of horror and murder conjured up of my own vengeful imaginations. An evil time indeed this, of long, uneasy sleepings, of hateful dreams and ill wakings, of sullen humours and a horror of all companionship, insomuch that when came Godby or Adam to supply my daily wants, I would hide myself until they should be gone; thereafter, tossing feverishly upon my miserable bed, I would brood upon my wrongs, hugging to myself the thought of vengeance and joying in the knowledge that every hour brought me the nearer its fulfilment.

And now it was that I became possessed of an uneasy feeling that I was not alone, that beyond my crazy door was a thing, soft-breathing, that lurked watchful-eyed in the gloom, hearkening for my smallest movement and following on soundless feet whithersoever I went. This unease so grew upon me that when not lost in fevered sleep I would lie, with breath in check, listening to such sounds as reached me above the never-ceasing groaning of the vessel's labour, until the squeak and scutter of some rat hard by, or any unwonted rustling beyond the door, would bring me to an elbow in sweating panic.

To combat the which sick fancies it became my custom to steal up from my fetid hiding-place at dead of night and to prowl soft-footed about the ship where none stirred save myself and the drowsy watch above deck. None the less (and go where I would) it seemed I was haunted still, that behind me lurked a nameless dread, a silent, unseen presence. Night after night I roamed the ship thus, my fingers clenched on the knife in my girdle, my ears on the strain and eyes that sought vainly every dark corner or patch of shadow.

At last, on a night, as I crouched beside a gun on the 'tween-decks I espied of a sudden a shape, dim and impalpable-seeming in the gloom, that flitted silently past me and up the ladder to the deck above. Up started I, knife in hand, but in my haste I stumbled over some obstacle and fell; but up the ladder I sprang in pursuit, out into moonlight, and hastening forward came face to face with Adam.

"Ha-rogue!" I cried, and sprang at him with up lifted knife; but as I came he stepped aside (incredibly quick) and thrusting out a foot tripped me sprawling.

"Easy, shipmate, easy!" says he, thrusting a pistol under my nose. "Lord love you, Martin, what would you now?"

"So you'll follow me, will you!" I panted. "You'll creep and crawl and spy on me, will you?"

"Neither one nor t'other, Martin."

"'Twas you climbed the gangway but now!"

"Not I, Martin, not I." And as I scowled up at him I knew he spoke truth, and a new fear seized me.

"And you saw no one, Adam? Nothing—no shape that flitted up the ladder hitherwards and no sound to it?"

"Never a thing, Martin, save yourself."

"Why then," says I, clasping my temples, "why then—I'm mad!"

"How so, comrade?"

"Because I'm followed—I'm watched—spied upon sleeping and waking!"

"Aye, but how d'ye know?" he questioned, stooping to peer at me.

"I feel it—I've known it for days past, and to-night I saw it. I'm haunted, I tell you!"

"Who by, shipmate?"

"Aye!" I cried. "Who is it—what? 'Tis a thing that flits i' the dark and with never a sound, that watches and listens. It mounted the ladder yonder scarce a moment since plain to my sight—"

"Yet I saw nothing, Martin. And not a soul stirring, save the watch forward, the steersman aft, and myself."

"Why then I'm verily mad!" says I.

"Not you, shipmate, not you. 'Tis nought but the solitude and darkness, they take many a man that way, so ha' done with 'em, Martin! My lady's offer of employ yet holdeth good, so 'list with me as master's mate, say but the word and—"

"No!" says I, fiercely. "Come what may I take no service under an accursed Brandon!" Saying which I got me to my feet and presently back to the haunted dark.

Thus the days dragged by all unmarked by me (that took no more heed of time) for my fevered restlessness gave place to a heaviness, a growing inertia that gripped me, mind and body; thus when not lost in troubled sleep I would lie motionless, staring dully at the dim flame of the lanthorn or blinking sightless on the dark.

This strange sickness (as hath been said) I then set down to no more than confinement and my unwholesome situation, in the which supposition I was very far beside the mark, as you shall hear. For there now befell a thing that roused me from my apathy once and for all, and thereby saved me from miserably perishing and others with me, and the manner of it thus:

On a time as I lay 'twixt sleep and wake, my glance (and for no reason in the world) chanced upon that knot-hole in the opposite bulkhead, the which (as already told) I had wrought into the likeness of a great eye. Now, as I stared at it, the thing seemed, all at once, to grow instinct with life and to stare back at me. I continued to view it (dully enough) until little by little I became aware of something strange about it, and then as I watched this (that was no more than a knot-hole) the thing winked at me. Thinking this but some wild fancy or a trick of the light I lay still, watching it beneath my lowered lids, and thus I suddenly caught the glitter of the thing as it moved and knew it for a very bright, human eye that watched me through the knot-hole. Now this may seem a very small matter in the telling, but to me at that moment (overwrought by my long sojourn in the dark) it was vastly otherwise.

For maybe a full minute the eye stared at me, fixed and motionless and with a piercing intensity, then suddenly was gone, and I lying there, my flesh a-tingle, my heart quick-beating in a strange terror, so that I marvelled to find myself so shaken. Leaping up in sudden fierce anger I wrenched open the door and rushed forth, only to fall headlong over some obstacle; and lying there bruised and dazed heard the soft thud and scamper of rats in the dark hard by. So I got me back to my bunk, and lying there fell to a gloomy reflection. And the more I thought, the fiercer grew my anger that any should dare so to spy upon me.

Thus it was in one of my blackest humours that Godby found me when, having set down the victuals he had brought, he closed the crazy door and seated himself on the cask that served me as chair, and bent to peer at me where I lay.

"Mart'n," said he, speaking almost in a whisper, "be ye awake at last?" For answer I cursed him heartily. "Avast, pal!" says he shaking his head, "look'ee, Mart'n, 'tis in my mind the devil's aboard this ship."

"And what then?" I demanded angrily. "Am I a raree show to be peeped at and watched and spied upon?"

"Anan, pal—watched, d'ye say?"

"Aye, stared at through the knot-hole yonder awhile since by you or Penfeather."

"Never knowed there was a knot-hole, Mart'n," said he in the same hushed voice and staring at the thing, "and as for Cap'n Adam he aren't been anigh you this two days. But 'tis all one, pal, all one—this ship do be haunted. And as for eyes a-watching of ye, Martin, who should it be but this here ghost as walketh the ship o'nights and makes away wi' good men."

"How d'ye mean?" I questioned, reaching the ale he had brought. "What talk is this of ghosts?"

"What's yon?" he whispered, starting up, as a rustling sounded beyond the door.

"Mere rats, man!"

"Lord love ye, Mart'n," says he, glancing about him, "'tis a chancy place this. I don't know how ye can abide it."

"I've known worse!" said I.

"Then ye don't believe in spectres, Mart'n—ghosts, pal, nor yet phantoms?"

"No, I don't!"

"Well, Mart'n, there be strange talk among the crew o' something as do haunt the 'tween-decks—"

"Aye, I've overheard some such!" I nodded. "But, look ye, I've haunted the ship myself of late."

"And yet you've seen nowt o' this thing, pal?"

"No. What thing should I see?"

"Who knows, Martin? But the sea aren't the land, and here on these wild wastes o' waters there's chancy things beyond any man's wisdom as any mariner'll—ha, what's yon?" says he under his breath and whipping round, knife in hand. "'Twas like a shoeless foot, Mart'n ... creeping murder ... 'Tis there again!" Speaking, he tore open the door and I saw his knife flash as he sprang into the darkness beyond; as for me I quaffed my ale. Presently back he comes, claps to the door (mighty careful) and sinking upon the upturned cask, mops at his brow.

"Content you, Godby," says I, "here be no ghosts—"

"Soft, lad—speak soft!" he whispered. "For—Lord love you, Mart'n, 'tis worse than ghosts as I do fear! Dog bite me, pal, here's been black and bloody doings aboard us this last two nights."

"How so, Godby?" I questioned, lowering my voice in turn as I met his look.

"I mean, lad, as this thing—call it ghost or what ye will—has took three men these last two nights. There's Perks o' Deptford, McLean as hails from Leith, and Treliving the Cornishman—three good men, Mart'n—lost, vanished, gone! And, O pal, wi' never a mark or trace to tell how!"

"Lost! D'ye mean—overboard?"

"No, Mart'n, I mean—lost! And each of them i' the middle watch—the sleepy hour, Mart'n, just afore dawn. In a fair night, pal, wi' a calm sea—these men vanish and none to see 'em go. And all of 'em prime sailor-men and trusty. The which, Mart'n, sets a cove to wondering who'll be next."

"But are you sure they are gone?"

"Aye, Mart'n, we've sought 'em alow and aloft, all over the ship, save only this hole o' yourn—the which you might ha' known had ye slept less."

"Have I slept so much, then?"

"Pal, you've done little else since you came aboard, seemingly. All yesterday, as I do know, you slept and never stirred nor took so much as bite or sup—and I know because while we was a' turning out the hold a-seekin' and a-searchin' I come and took a look at ye every now and then, and here's you a-lyin' like a dead man but for your snoring."

"Here's strange thing, and mighty strange! For until I came aboard I was ever a wondrous light sleeper, Godby."

"Why, 'tis the stench o' this place—faugh! Come aloft and take a mouthful o' good, sweet air, pal."

"You say you sought these men everywhere—even down here in the hold?"

"Aye, alow and aloft, every bulkhead and timber from trucks to keelson!"

"And all this time I was asleep, Godby?"

"Aye—like a log, Mart'n."

"And breathing heavily?"

"Aye, ye did so, pal, groaning ye might call it—aye, fit to chill a man's good blood!"

"And neither you nor Adam nor the others thought to search this dog-hole of mine?"

"Lord love ye—no, Mart'n! How should three men hide here?"

"Three men? Aye, true enough!" says I, clasping my head to stay the rush and hurry of my thoughts.

"Come aloft, pal, 'tis a fair evening and the fine folk all a-supping in the great cabin. Come into the air."

"Yes," I nodded, "yes, 'twill clear my head and I must think, Godby, I must think. Reach me my doublet," says I, for now I felt myself all shivering as with cold. So Godby took up the garment where it lay and held it out to me; but all at once let it fall and, drawing back, stood staring down at it, and all with never a word; whiles I sat crouched upon my bed, my head between my clenched fists and my mind reeling beneath the growing horror of the thought that filled me. And now, even as this thought took dreadful shape and meaning—even as suspicion grew to certainty, I heard Godby draw a gasping breath, saw him reach a stealthy, fumbling hand behind him and open the door, and then, leaping backwards, he was swallowed in the dark, and with a hurry of stumbling feet, was gone.

But I scarcely heeded his going or the manner of it, so stunned was I by the sudden realisation of the terror that had haunted my ghastly slumbers and evil wakings, a terror that (if my dreadful speculations were true) was very real after all, a peril deadly and imminent.

The truth of which I now (and feverishly) set myself to prove beyond all doubt, and reached for the lanthorn. Now in so doing my foot caught in the doublet lying where Godby had dropped it, and I picked it up out of the way; but as I lifted it into the light I let it fall again (even as Godby had done): and now, staring down at it, felt my flesh suddenly a-creep for, as it lay there at my feet, I saw upon one sleeve a great, dark stain that smeared it up from wrist to elbow—the hideous stain of new-spilt blood.



CHAPTER XVIII

CONCERNING THE MARK OF A BLOODY HAND AND HOW I LAY IN THE BILBOES ON SUSPICION OF MURDER

It was with an effort at last that I dragged my gaze from the hateful thing at my feet, only to meet the wide stare of that great eye my knife had wrought and (albeit no human eye now glittered there) yet it seemed none the less to watch my every move so persistently that I snatched off my neckerchief and pinning it against the bulkhead with my knife, hid the thing from sight. Which done, I spurned my blood-stained doublet into a corner and getting to hands and knees with the light beside me, began my search.

My bunk was formed of boards supported by four up-ended casks and stretched the whole length of my small chamber. Upon these boards was a pallet covered by a great blanket that hung down to the very flooring; lifting this, I advanced the lanthorn and so began to examine very narrowly this space beneath my bed. And first I noticed that the flooring hereabouts was free of dust as it had been new-swept, and presently in the far corner espied a blurred mark that, as I looked, took grim form and semblance; stooping nearer I stared at this in the full glare of the lanthorn, then, shrank back (as well I might) for now I saw this mark was indeed the print of a great, bloody hand, open at full stretch. Crouching thus, I felt again all the horror I had known in my dreams, that dread of some unseen, haunting presence seeming to breathe in the very air about me, a feeling of some evil thing that moved and crept in the dark beyond the door, of ears that hearkened to my every move and eyes that watched me unseen. And this terror waxed and grew, until hearing a faint stirring behind me, I whirled about in panic to see the neckerchief gently a-swing against the bulkhead where I had pinned it; and though this was caused by no more than the motion of the ship (as I judged), yet in my then state of mind I whipped out my pistol and, levelling at the knot-hole, pulled the trigger, whereon was a mere flash in the pan and no more. This of itself steadied me, and sitting on my bed I found that the charge had been withdrawn.

Laying by the useless weapon (for I had neither powder nor ball) I fell to profound meditation. And now indeed many things were plain; here (methought) had been the ghost, here had lain the murderer of three men, here in the one and only safe place for him in the whole ship, viz., beneath my bed, the while I lay there in drugged sleep. It would be simple matter to steal hither in my absence and drug my food, and would explain the strange nausea had so afflicted me of late. Here then I had the secret of my day-long sleeping, my vapours and black humours, here the explanation of my evil dreams and ghastly visions while Death, in human guise, crept about my couch or stooped above my unconscious form. But (I reasoned) I was not to be murdered, since I was of more use to him alive than dead and for three reasons (as I judged). First, that in his stealthy comings and goings he might be mistaken for me and thus left alone; secondly, that dressed in my habit he might haply father his crimes on me; and thirdly, that I (lying here drugged and asleep) might afford him the one and only escape from pursuit and capture. And yet (thinks I) what manner of man (or rather devil) should this be who, clad in my doublet, could make away with three lusty fellows and no one the wiser? Hereupon (and all in a flash) I seemed to see again the great black ship drifting down on us in the river and the man who rowed the skiff with the misshapen bundle in the stern-sheets—the bundle that had vanished so inexplicably.

"By the living God," says I in a whisper, "here's an end to all the mystery at last!" And so remained a great while sitting motionless on my bed, being mightily cast down and utterly confounded. Rousing myself at last I drew my knife from the bulkhead and put out the light; then very cautiously set wide the door, and thus lapped in the pitchy dark (and mighty thankful for the good chain-shirt beneath my jerkin) stood holding my breath to listen. But hearing no more than the usual stir and bustle of the ship, I stole forward silent in my stockinged feet, and groping before me with my left hand, the knife clenched in my right, began to steal towards the ladder. And now, despite shirt of mail, I felt a cold chill that crept betwixt my twitching shoulder-blades as I went, for that which I feared was more hateful than any knife.

Howbeit, reaching the ladder, I got me to the orlop (and mighty thankful) and so to the upper deck, to find a wondrous fair night breathing a sweet and balmy air and with a round moon uprising against a great plenitude of stars. The moon was low as yet and, taking advantage of the shadows, I got me into the gloom of the mainmast where the boats were stowed; and here (being well screened from chance view) I sat me down to drink in the glory of sea and sky, and to wait for chance of speech with Adam. And huge joy was it to behold these vast waters as they heaved to a slumberous swell and all radiant with the moon's loveliness; or, gazing aloft, through the maze of ropes and rigging, marvelled at the glory of the heaven set with its myriad starry fires. And, contrasting all this with the place of black horror whence I had come, I fell to a very ecstasy. And now, even as I sat thus lost in pleasing wonderment, from the quarter-deck hard by came the sweet, throbbing melody of a lute touched by skilled fingers and therewith a voice richly soft and plaintive, yet thrilling with that strange, vital ring had first arrested me and which I should have known the world over. So she sang an air that I knew not, yet methought it wondrous sweet; anon she breaks off, all at once, and falls to the song I had heard her sing before now, viz.:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree."

Now as I hearkened, my gaze bent aloft, the starry heavens grew all sudden blurred and misty on my sight, and I knew again that deep yearning for a life far different from that I (in my blind selfishness) had marked out for myself. "Here truly" (thinks I) "is one of Godby's 'times of stars,' the which are good times being times of promise for all that are blessed with eyes to see—saving only myself who (though possessing eyes) am yet not as other men, being indeed one set apart and dedicated to a just act of vengeance. But for this, I too might have been happy perchance and with a hope of greater happiness to be."

Something the like of this was in my thoughts while the song was a-singing, and I half-blinded by tears that would not be blinked away. Howbeit, the song ending, I was aware of a man's voice something high-pitched and precise:

"I vow and protest, dear madam, 'tis rare—a night angelic and an angel here to sing us to an ecstasy."

"Faith, Joan," says another voice, "your singing might draw any man's heart out of him, sweet cousin."

"And that is but bald truth, I vow, my lady!" spoke a third.

"Why then, gentlemen," says she, laughing, "here's an angel will to bed ere so ill a chance befall you."

Now here (being minded to steal a look upon her) I rose, and creeping to the great mast, edged myself into the shadow and so beheld one that crouched there already, and knew him for that same red-headed fellow I had belaboured with the rope's-end. He was staring up at the quarter-deck and, following his look, I saw my lady stand leaning upon the rail, her shapely figure outlined against the moonlight, her face upraised to the sky. So stood she awhile, the gentlemen beside her (very brave in their velvets and new-fangled great periwigs) until came her maid Marjorie; then she sighed, acknowledged the gentlemen's bows and flourishes with a graceful curtesy, and bidding them a laughing "good-night" went her way, her shapely arm about Marjorie's trim waist. Hereupon the red-headed fellow uttered a sound 'twixt a sigh and groan, and beholding him now as he yet stared after her, I saw his face convulse and a look in his eyes as he tongued his lips as made my very gorge rise, and I crept a pace nearer.

"Be that you, Smiler?" says he, his gaze still fixed. "O mate, yon's a rare dainty bit—a sweet armful, Smiler—"

"Dog!" I cried in sudden choking fury. At this he leapt back, hardly escaping my fist.

"Ha—is't you again!" cries he, and with the words sprang at me and fetched me a staggering buffet in the mouth. At this (forgetting all prudence) I closed with him, and, heedless of his blows, secured the wrestling grip I sought and wrenching him down and across my knee, saw his face suddenly be-splashed with the blood from my cut mouth the while I strove to choke him to silence. But he struggled mightily and thrice he cried "murder" in despite of me, whereupon the cry was taken up by one here and others there, until the very ship seemed to roar "murder."

Followed a rush of feet, a confusion of voices all about me and, loosing my adversary, I reeled back to the mast under a rain of blows.

"Stand away—back all!" cried a voice. "Gi'e mea shot at the rogue!" and the muzzle of a caliver was thrust into my face, only to be dashed aside as Adam sprang before me.

"Hold off!" says he, whereupon they shrank back from me, one and all, before his levelled pistol, and there came a moment's silence wherein I heard Godby utter a gasp, and letting fall the caliver he stared at me a-gape. "Here's no murderer, ye fools!" says Adam, scowling round on them, "'Tis no more than—ha, way for Sir Rupert—make way for the Captain, there!"

"Pray what's to do, Master Penfeather?" demanded Sir Rupert, hasting forward with drawn sword and the three gentlemen behind him. "What's all this riot?"

"Nought but a stowaway rogue, Sir Rupert, and one beknown to me in England."

"Ha!" says Sir Rupert, stroking a curl of his great peruke, "How cometh he brawling with the watch?"

"Look'ee, my masters," cried the red-headed fellow (gasping and making great to-do of gurgling and clasping his throat where I had squeezed him) "look'ee, sirs, at my bloody face—all bloodied I be and nigh done for by yon murdering rogue. Here's me on my watch and no thought o' harm, and suddenly out o' nowhere he takes him and grips me from behind and would ha' murdered me as he murdered t'others!"

"Ha!" cried Sir Rupert, "The man reeks blood, observe, Master Penfeather, and here's grave charge beside!"

Now as I leaned there against the mast I saw a figure flit down the quarter-ladder and fain would have fled, yet seeing this vain, hung my head and cowered in a very agony of mortified pride.

"And you know this man, you say, Master Adam?" questioned Sir Rupert.

"Aye I do, sir, for a desperate fellow, and so doth my Lady Brandon—and yourself also."

"Ha? Bring him forward where I may get look of him." The which being done, Sir Rupert starts back with sword-point raised.

"By heaven!" he cried, "How cometh this fellow aboard?"

"A stowaway as I said, sir," quoth Adam. "You mind him very well, it seemeth."

"Aye, verily!" says Sir Rupert, tapping me lightly with his sword as I stood between my captors. "Ha—you're the rogue stood i' the pillory!"

"Aye!" I nodded, scowling at his dainty person. "And you're the one that set me there!"

"'Tis a rogue ingrain!" said Sir Rupert, frowning in turn. "O a very desperate fellow as you say, Master Adam, and like enough the murderer we are a-seeking." Hereupon I laughed and was kicked (unseen) therefor by Adam.

"My lady!" says he, turning where she stood hard by, "You have seen this fellow, I think."

"Yes," says she readily. "And indeed, Cousin Rupert, I know more of this—of him than you do, and very sure am I he is no murderer—nor ever will be!" Here for a moment her glance rested on me, and meeting that look I forgot my wounded vanity and degradation awhile.

"Sweet my lady," says Sir Rupert, "Your gentle woman's heart may not brook scenes the like of this. Go seek thy tender pillow and leave such to us of sterner mould."

"Nay, cousin, my gentle woman's heart knoweth innocence from guilt, methinks, and here standeth innocent man, stowaway though he be."

"Why then as stowaway will I entreat him, fair cousin. Master Penfeather, clap him in irons till the morning, away with him—nay, I myself will see him safely lodged." Here, and without further parley, I was led below, watched by the whole ship's company, and so to a dismal place abaft the lazarette, where the armourer, Master Taffery, duly locked me into the manacles (arm and leg) beneath the eyes of Penfeather and Sir Rupert who, seeing me this secure, presently left me to darkness and my solitary reflections.

Howbeit, after some while I heard the sound of key turning and Adam re-entered bearing a light; having locked the door on us, he set down the lanthorn on the floor and, seating himself on the bench whereto I was shackled, falls into a passion of cursing both in English, Spanish (and Indian for aught I know) for never had I heard the like words or such deep fervour.

"Adam," says I (he being at a pause), "'tis hard to think you were ever a student of divinity!"

Hereupon he glances at me from the corners of his eyes and shakes his head:

"Your face is bloody, Martin, are ye hurt?"

"My belly's empty, Adam."

"Why, I guessed as much, shipmate, Godby's bringing ye the wherewithal to fill it. In the meantime I'll free you o' your bilboes awhile, though I must lock you up again that you may be found snug and secure in the morning." So saying he took a key from his pocket and therewith set me at liberty.

"Ah, Martin," quoth he, as I stretched myself, "why must ye go a-raising of tumults above deck under our very noses? Here's mighty ill plight you've got yourself into, and here's me a-wondering how I am to get ye out again. Here's been murder done, and, look'ee, this coxcombly captain hath got it into his skull that you're the murderer—aye, and what's worse, every soul aboard likewise save only Godby and myself."

"And my lady!" says I.

"True, shipmate, true! She spoke for ye, as I guessed she might."

"And how should you guess this, Adam?"

"By adding one and one, Martin. But even so, comrade, even though she stand by you—what can she do, or Godby and I for that matter, 'gainst a whole ship's company crazed wi' panic fear—fear, aye and small wonder, Martin! Death is bad enough, murder's worse, but for three hearty fellows to disappear and leave no trace—"

"Aye, but was there no trace, Adam?"

"None, shipmate, none!"

"No blood anywhere?"

"Never a spot, shipmate!"

"Why then is there ever a man aboard with a wounded hand, Adam?"

"Not one to my knowing and I've turned up the crew on deck twice these last two days—every man and boy, but saw not so much as cut finger or stained garment among 'em—and I've sharp eyes, Martin. But why d'ye ask?"

"Because the man who made away with these three fellows was wounded in the hand, Adam—howbeit that hand was bloody."

"Hand, shipmate," says Penfeather softly, "would it be a right hand—ha?"

"It was!" I nodded. "The mark of a great right hand."

"Aye, aye!" says Adam, pinching his chin. "A right hand, Martin. And where was the mark, d'ye say?"

"Beneath my bed."

"Bed, Martin—your bed!" Here he caught his breath and rose up and stood looking down at me betwixt narrowed lids and a-pinching at his square chin.

"Aye—there, Adam, the only place in the ship you never thought to search—there he lay safe hid and I above him in a drugged sleep!"

"Drugged!" says Adam, betwixt shut teeth. "Aye ... drugged ... crass fool it was not to ha' guessed it ere this." And now he falls silent and stands very still, only his sinewy fingers pinched and pinched at his chin as he stared blindly down at the floor. So now I told him of my fevered dreams and black imaginations, of my growing fears and suspicions, of the eye had watched me through the knot-hole and of the man on the river with the boat wherein was the great mis-shapen bundle which had vanished just after the black ship ran foul of us.

"Lord!" says Adam at last. "So the mystery is resolved! The matter lies plain as a pikestaff. Ha, Martin, we've shipped the devil aboard it seems!"

"Who weareth a steel hook, Adam!"

"And yet, Martin, and yet," says he, looking at me from the corners of his eyes, "herein, if we seek far enough, we may find the hand of Providence, I think—"

"How?" says I. "Providence, d'ye call it?"

"Aye, Martin—if we do but seek far enough!" Here he turned in answer to a furtive rapping, and opening the door, I heard Godby's voice. "Come in, man, come in," says Adam, "here's only Martin."

"Aye," quoth I heartily, "come in, God-be-here Jenkins that was my friend." At this in he comes unwillingly enough and with never so much as a glance in my direction.

"Here's the wittles, Cap'n," says he, and setting down the food and drink he had brought, turned away.

"What, Godby, ha' ye no word for a poor murderer in his abasement?" says I. Whereat he shakes his head mighty gloomy and keeping his gaze averted. As for Adam he stood pinching his chin the while his quick, bright eyes darted from one to other of us.

"How, are ye going and never a word?" quoth I as Godby crossed to the door.

"Aye, I am!" says he, with gaze still averted.

"Why you left me in mighty hurry last time, Godby,"

"Aye, I did!" says he.

"Why then tell us wherefore—speak out, man."

"Not I, Martin, not I!" says he, and touching his bonnet to Penfeather hasted away.

"Ha!" says Adam, closing and locking the door. "And what's the riddle, Martin?"

"My doublet. Godby, chancing to take it up, finds it all a-smear with blood and incontinent suspects me for this black murderer, which comes hard since here's an end of Godby's faith and my friendship."

"Why look now, Martin, his suspicions are in reason seeing that what with drugs, deviltries and what not, you've been mighty strange o' late and more unlovely company than usual, d'ye see!"

"Howbeit!" says I, scowling and reaching for the food, "Here's an end to my friendship for Godby. Now as to you—what d'you say?"

"I think, shipmate, that your doublet bloody and you the grimly, desperate, gallowsy, hell-fire rogue you strive so hard to appear, Martin, I say here's enough to hang you ten times over. One thing is sure, you must leave this ship."

"Not I, Adam!"

"The long-boat's astern, victualled and ready."

"No matter!" says I.

"'Twill be no hard matter to get you safe away, Martin."

"Howbeit, I stay here!" says I, mighty determined. "I'm no murderer!"

"But you're a man to hang and hanged you'll be and you can lay to that, d'ye see?"

"So be it!" says I.

"Very fine, shipmate, but as I was saying the long-boat is towing astern, a good boat and well stored. The moon will be down in an hour—"

"And what of it?" I demanded.

"'Twill be easy for you to slip down from the stern gallery."

"Never in the world!" quoth I.

"And as luck will have it, Martin, Bartlemy's Island—our island—lieth scarce eighty miles south-westerly. Being thither you shall come on our treasure by the aid of the chart I shall give you, and leaving the gold, take only the four coffers of jewels—"

"You waste your breath, Adam!"

"Then, shipmate, with these jewels aboard you shall stand away for another island that beareth south a day's sail—"

"Look you, Adam," says I, clenching my fists, "once and for all, I do not leave this ship, happen what may."

"Aye, but you will, shipmate."

"Ha, d'ye think to force me, then?"

"Not I, Martin, but circumstances shall."

"What circumstances?"

Here and all at once Adam started up as again there came a soft knocking at the door. "Who's there?" he cried. And then in my ear, "'Tis she, Martin, as I guess, though sooner than I had expected—into the bilboes with you." Thus whispering and with action incredibly quick, he clapped and locked me back in my shackles, whisked food, platter and bottle into a dark corner and crossed to the door. "Who's there?" he demanded gruffly. Ensued a murmur whereupon he turned the key, set wide the door and fell back bowing, bonnet in hand, all in a moment.

"Good Master Adam!" says she gently, "Pray you leave us awhile and let none intrude on us." At this Adam bows again very low with a whimsical glance at me, and goes out closing the door behind him.



CHAPTER XIX

CONCERNING THE PRINCESS DAMARIS

For a while she stood looking down on me, and I, meeting that look, glanced otherwhere yet, conscious of her regard, stirred uneasily so that my irons rattled dismally.

"Sir," says she at last, but there I stayed her.

"Madam, once and for all, I am no 'sir!'"

"Martin Conisby," she amended in the same gentle voice, "Master Penfeather telleth you refused the honourable service I offered—I pray you wherefore?"

"Because I've no mind to serve a Brandon."

"Yet you steal aboard my ship, Master Conisby, you eat the food my money hath paid for! Doth this suffice your foolish, stubborn pride?" Here, finding nought to say, I scowled at my fetters and held my peace, whereat she sighed a little, as I had been some fretful, peevish child: "Why are you here in my ship?" she questioned patiently. "Was it for vengeance? Tell me," she demanded, "is it that you came yet seeking your wicked vengeance?"

"Mine is a just vengeance!"

"Vengeance, howsoever just, is God's—leave it unto God!" At this I was silent again, whereupon she continued, her voice more soft and pleading: "Even though my father had ... indeed ... wronged you and yours ... how shall his death profit you—?"

"Ha!" I cried, staring up at her troubled face, "Can it be you know this for very truth at last? Are you satisfied of my wrongs and know my vengeance just? Have ye proof of Sir Richard's black treachery—confess!" Now at this her eyes quailed before my look and she shrank away.

"God forgive him!" she whispered, bowing stately head.

"Speak!" says I, fiercely. "Have ye the truth of it at last?"

"'Tis that bringeth me here to you, Martin Conisby, to confess this wrong on his behalf and on his behalf to offer such reparation as I may. Alas! for the bodily sufferings you did endure we can never atone, but ... in all other ways—"

"Never!" says I, scowling. "What is done—is done, and I am—what I am. But for yourself his sin toucheth you no whit."

"How?" cried she passionately. "Am I not his flesh—his blood? 'Twas but lately I learned the truth from his secret papers ... and ... O 'twas all there ... even the price he paid to have you carried to the plantations! So am I come pleading your forgiveness for him and for me ... to humble myself before you ... see thus ... thus, upon my knees!"

Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me, the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abasement.

"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive—I—that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe ... Rise, I pray."

"And for—my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father—"

"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief.

"Your face is cut, Martin!" said she at last, very softly, "Suffer that I bathe it." Now turning in amaze I saw her yet upon her knees, looking up at me despite her falling tears: "Wilt suffer me to bathe it, Martin?" says she, her voice unshaken by any sob. I shook my head; but rising she crossed to the door and came back bearing a small pannikin of water. "I brought this for the purpose," says she.

"Nay, indeed, I—I am well enough—"

"Then I will make you better!"

"No!" says I, angrily.

"Yes!" says she patiently, but setting dimpled chin at me.

"And wherefore, madam?"

"Because I'm so minded, sir!" So saying she knelt close beside me and fell a-bathing my bruised face as she would (and I helpless to stay her) yet marvelling within me at the gentle touch of her soft hands and the tender pity in her tear-wet eyes. "Martin," says she, "as I do thus cherish your hurts, you shall one day, mayhap, cherish your enemy's—"

"Never!" says I. "You can know me not at all to think so."

"I know you better than you guess, Martin. You think it strange belike and unmaidenly in me that I should seek you thus, that your name should come so readily to my lip? But I have remembered the name 'Martin' for the sake of a boy, long years since, who found a little maid (she was just ten year old) found her lost and wandering in a wood, very woeful and frightened and forlorn. And this boy seemed very big and strong (he was just eleven, he said) and was armed with a bow and arrows 'to shoot outlaws.' And yet he was very gentle and kindly, laying by his weapons the better to comfort her sorrows and dry her tears. So he brought her to a cave he called his 'castle' and showed her a real sword he kept hidden there (albeit a very rusty one) and said he would be her knight, to do great things for her some day. Then he brought her safely home; and he told her his name was Martin and she said hers was Damaris—"

"Damaris!" said I, starting.

"Often after this they used to meet by a corner of the old park wall where he had made a place to go up and down by—for six months, I think, they played together daily, and once he fought a great, rough boy on her behalf, and when the boy had run away she bathed her champion's hurts in a little brook—bathed them with her scarf as thus I do yours. At last she was sent away to a school and the years passed, but she never forgot the name of Martin, though he forgot her quite ... but ... you ... you remember now, Martin—O, you remember now?" says she with a great sob.

"Aye, I remember now!" quoth I, hoarsely.

"It is for the sake of this boy, Martin, so brave, so strong, yet so very gentle and kindly—for him and all he might have been that I pray you forego your vengeance—I beseech you to here renounce it—"