The Turnbulls

  He turned slowly. That mysterious prescience of his sent a prickling along his nerves. Had he had hair, it would have stood on end.

  He could see nothing in the darkness. Inch by inch, he moved along the rail, blinking rapidly as the salt spray stung his eyelids. Who, besides himself, had been allowed to go upon deck?

  All at once his sliding hand encountered the rough stuff of a sleeve. Some one was standing beside him. He controlled an impulse to continue his explorations of that sleeve. The roar and shrieking of the gale was more deafening than ever.

  Mr. Wilkins, literally trembling, cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted: “Good evening! Wild night, ain’t it?”

  The sleeve moved impatiently, withdrew from Mr. Wilkins’ touch. He felt, rather than heard, a movement as if some one was retreating from him. He was filled with panic. What if this creature removed itself, disappeared again, was lost to him? He might never find it again, for if it had remained hidden before it could easily do it again. Was the creature a criminal who secreted itself during the day, from the sight of others? Did it come up only when it knew it would not be seen? Mr. Wilkins guessed this vaguely. He dared not lose him now. His nose was twitching frantically.

  It was no time for amenities. Mr. Wilkins’ hand reached out desperately in the darkness. It closed upon the sleeve, which jerked angrily. He moved closer to the man who owned it. Yes, it was a man. Mr. Wilkins was happy. He had had a few dealings with extraordinary women, and though they had been profitable they had also presented difficulties not encountered in men. Sometimes Mr. Wilkins had had to be a lover to advance his ends. Hating every one as he did, he did not overmuch enjoy amorous episodes. Too, he especially hated women.

  “Blasted storm!” he roared, retaining his grip on the sleeve.

  There was no answer. But Mr. Wilkins felt a face turned towards him. It belonged to a tall man, he knew, for the impulse of the eyes was high above him.

  Mr. Wilkins shouted with laughter. He put all his geniality, all his bluff fascination into that laugh.

  “How’d ye get above? Bribed the lads, eh?”

  The man must have felt his personality. The jerking of the sleeve stopped. Mr. Wilkins felt his shrug.

  “Yes,” came a voice to him on the wind, curt and surly. There was a relaxation in the unseen body near him. Ah, then it was no criminal. Mr. Wilkins was happy again. He did not object to criminals, but their necessity for unobtrusiveness often delayed important things while certain precautions took place.

  “I like storms,” said Mr. Wilkins. His confiding tone was no mean accomplishment in the face of the gale. “Makes a man feel he can fight ’em. Resist ’em, like. Eh?”

  There was a silence.

  “Now,” said Mr. Wilkins, “there’s some as don’t like storms. Genteel critters as loves a fire, and a bed and curtains. But there’s hardy souls as loves to show anythin’, even a storm, that he’s a better man. That’s it, eh?”

  There was another silence. But Mr. Wilkins knew he had an intent audience.

  He breathed ostentatiously, as if enjoying the buffeting of the wind and the sting of the spray.

  “Give me a man as can take his storms! There’s a man as is a man, I say. Nothin’ can do him in. Let the whole bloody world kick him abaht, and he’ll come up sparrin’, just. I’d not give tuppence for a chap as must whimper downstairs and pull down the blinds. He’s soft, he is. That’s not the sort that does things in this world! Eh?”

  The other was still silent. But Mr. Wilkins sensed his painful listening.

  “There’s Ameriky,” continued Mr. Wilkins. “Wot sort of chaps made Ameriky? The soft ones, with gloves and gaiters? Nah! It was the chaps as had iron in their souls. There’s a place for iron—Ameriky!”

  He had moved closer to the other. He was leaning affectionately against the stiff arm. It was a big arm, muscular and strong. The arm of a man.

  “I know!” shouted Mr. Wilkins. “Ain’t I one as helped ’em? Give me a chap with iron, and me brains is at his service. There ain’t nothing we can’t do—together.”

  There was a gruff sound in the darkness, a contemptuous sound.

  “I’m one as who doesn’t force hisself,” said Mr. Wilkins. “It’s the background for me. Let the other chaps have the bugles. Power behind the throne—that’s Bob Wilkins, sir!”

  “You’re mistaken—Mr. Wilkins,” said a young hard voice. I’m no ‘man of iron.’ I’m a fool, Mr. Wilkins.”

  A fool. The astute Mr. Wilkins knew that once a man confessed he was a fool there was no end to his capacities. Provided, of course, that he didn’t carry the thing too far. And from the derisive and embittered tone in that young voice Mr. Wilkins discerned that if the speaker carried other things too far this was not one of them.

  He chuckled. He twined his arm affectionately in the arm of the other man.

  “Where’s the man as ain’t been a fool once or twice in his life? A woman, now. There’s critters who makes fools out of Samsons. Why, they’ve even made a fool out of Mr. Wilkins, sir!”

  There was a convulsive movement in the arm he held. Ah, so it was a blasted woman, eh?

  He enlarged: “A man as ain’t had a woman make a bloody fool out of him once or twice ain’t human. I’ve got no time for him. And I’m a proper man with time, sir. Essence of somethin’, ain’t it? Well, now. I does business with men as is men. And a man ain’t a man as hasn’t had his breeches pulled by a lass or two. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir!”

  He heard a sudden shout of laughter near by. He felt the other turn fully to him. He could not see the face, but he guessed it was a strong and turbulent face, with some ferocity in it. Mr. Wilkins joined in the laughter.

  The ship reeled and shuddered under their feet. They clung together to hold themselves up. They laughed and laughed.

  Finally, Mr. Wilkins said jovially: “May I enquire whom I have the honour to address, sir?”

  The laughter ceased abruptly. There was a withdrawing movement. Then a relaxation, and a shrug. “What the hell does it matter what my name is! But it’s John Turnbull. Not that it means anything to you, Mr. wilkins.”

  Turnbull? Turnbull? Mr. Wilkins’ sandy tufts of brows drew together in the blackness. Where had he heard that name before? Never mind, it would come to him.

  He said, jovially: “Your servant, Mr. Turnbull. Now, as the bloody storm’s getting worse, how about a nip in my cabin?”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Now ’ere,” said Mr. Wilkins, proudly producing a bottle and holding it high so that it caught limpid golden lights from the lamp, “is somethin’ a bit out of the common, It’s Irish, sir, not that I’m one as holds much with the Irish. Queer chaps.”

  He had not taken a very thorough look at his new friend since entering the cabin, but now, as he did so, he felt a momentary consternation after his remarks about the Irish. For this was a Celt face glowering at him in renewed and sullen silence. Now, Mr. Wilkins had had dealings with Irishmen before, but preferred any other race. They inevitably saw through the heartiest suavity, being past-masters in the art of false ingratiation, themselves. They could out-lie Mr. Wilkins, and do it with a grace and finesse which he admired and envied. They could out-cheat him, too, and when he laughed too loudly they laughed even louder, so that it was a matter of conjecture as to who was laughing at whom. They were no gentlemen, and were very frank about admitting it. Mr. Wilkins preferred to deal with gentlemen, for, in the final summing-up before relationships were broken between Mr. Wilkins and the latter, there were some things to which gentlemen would not “stoop.” But there was nothing, Mr. Wilkins would reflect with some apprehension, to which Irishmen would not “stoop.” Gentlemen would threaten to break Mr. Wilkins through law. But the Irishmen had had the unpleasant habit of simply threatening to break Mr. Wilkins, and not in the financial or legal sense at all.

  Mingled with his consternation was an immense disappointment. He had vowed, after his last melancholy experience, to have no more dealings
with the Irish. He saw no reason, nose or no nose, to alter this decision.

  Nevertheless, he allowed himself to hope a little. “Not Irish, sir, I hopes?”

  The scowling face lightened somewhat as its owner threw himself heavily on the carved plush sofa near the wall. “Not Irish, Mr. Wilkins. English. Like you.”

  Mr. Wilkins felt a rush of warm delight. With a flourish, he poured two glasses half-full of the whiskey. “Cockney, sir, a proper Cockney! That’s Bob Wilkins. And proud to say it!”

  He had allowed himself only a brief glimpse at the face of his visitor. Now, beaming, he sat himself carefully on the edge of a little plush chair, and held up his glass to the full extent of his short fat arm. Lounging at ease was not possible for one of Mr. Wilkin’s general architecture, and so he always sat in an attitude of alert and jovial smartness, his short plump thighs apart so that the excellently tailored broadcloth acquired a high sheen across them. Too, his latest weskit, gleaming with colours “rich but not gaudy” added a pleasant touch to his wardrobe.

  Now, in the light of the swaying and flickering lamps, he studied his guest, while the latter glanced with uneasy appreciation about the cabin. It was large, and spacious, with a good sound walnut bed, a commode, a fine rug, a mahogany wardrobe, a sofa, and two or three smaller chairs of plush and gilt. It was heated by a small round iron stove, very grateful after the cold black wind outside. Here, the storm was less evident, the swaying almost pleasant. Curtains of red plush were drawn across the portholes, behind which the gale mourned and howled. Mr. Wilkins’ luggage, very elegant and of the best leathers, was disposed neatly beside his bed, and locked with sturdy brass locks.

  So, thought Mr. Wilkins, his face quite pink with the exertions of his friendliness and the warmth of the cabin, this was one who knew “good things,” and was at the present time not in possession of them. The young man’s clothes showed distinction and taste, and were of even better material than Mr. Wilkins’ own. His watch-chain was not quite so heavy and opulent, but it was delicately chased and finely wrought. The ruffles at his wrists, and his cravat, though not ostentatious, must have cost a pretty penny.

  Turnbull. Turnbull. Even while he smiled and smacked his lips over the whiskey, Mr. Wilkins ruminated. He would have it in a moment.

  In the meantime, without at all giving the appearance of it, Mr. Wilkins studied every feature of the lowering young face opposite, which had sunken into a dark apathy and abstraction. The young man held his glass, but had not begun to drink of it yet. He appeared to have fallen into a sombre revery. A big handsome face. Mr. Wilkins was slightly disappointed at the youth of it for a moment. But he read that countenance astutely. Power there, and turbulence, and lack of discipline. A wild and disorderly mouth and look, vehement black eyes that could become passionate and fierce, a short and bellicose nose, a good hard chin and a deep dimple in it. The black curls on the large round head told of virility and strength of body. A willful devil, a bad one to cross. Murder wouldn’t be beyond the blighter. Nothing would, in fact. If the angles were still faintly soft with youth, that would alter in good time. There were clefts beside that large full mouth, which would certainly become ridges in later years. Yes, a bad un. But an excellent one for Mr. Wilkins’ money!

  Mr. Wilkins loved big men, muscular men. The little chaps were their own masters. Bloody little devils as knew their own minds and stuck to ’em. A man couldn’t do much with ’em, for they were diseased with conceit. The big men were rarely conceited. Not that they were soft, though, thought Mr. Wilkins, shaking his head slightly to himself. But they had presence; they had wit. Despite the evidences of tumultuous passions on the young man’s face, Mr. Wilkins did not doubt that he could see things that were to his own advantage.

  Mr. Wilkins loved the fashion in which John Turnbull’s coat fitted his shoulders and his narrow compact waist, the elegance with which the light pantaloons draped themselves over his good long legs. He admired the slenderness and arch of the restless feet in their boots of finest polished kid.

  “Your health, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins, though he had already drunk half the whiskey.

  The young man started, raised his eyes as if confused and bewildered at finding himself here. He looked at the glass as if seeing it for the first time. Then he put it to his lips, hesitated, then, as if seized with desperation, he swallowed half of it quickly. He did not splutter, turn red, or choke, though it had been a formidable swig. Ah, so then he could drink too, might even be guilty of drunkenness on occasion. Good. Mr. Wilkins despised and feared men who did not drink. They were bloodless; they were cold and calculating. Moreover, it had been Mr. Wilkins’ experience that men who did not drink were liars and passionless and extremely dangerous. Worse, they did not possess that wild ruthlessness so necessary for success, and the enrichment of Mr. Wilkins. They kept their slimy wits about them, and men who kept their wits about them rarely rose above the status of clerks, if they were poor, or rarely became masters of fate, if they were in better circumstances. Give Mr. Wilkins wildness and savagery and a good drinking capacity: men like that never recognized boundaries or limits. The long patience of the teetotaler led to nothing but a quiet deathbed.

  Mr. Wilkins knew that the way to receive confidences was first to be frank and open himself. He engaged John’s eyes, inclined his head with an even wider and more affable smile, drained the last of his glass. He filled the stateroom with the warmth of an amiable and affectionate disposition. His bald rosy head twinkled in the lamplight. It was very cosy here, with the stove and the drawn curtains.

  He saw that his guest was wretched and furtive, filled with some heavy and Rebellious misery. He must discover what that misery was, and then alleviate it.

  “Your first trip across, sir?” he asked, with an open and loving look in his protruding hazel eyes.

  “Yes,” said John, curtly, looking into the depths of his glass and shaking the golden contents.

  “My tenth, sir!” beamed Mr. Wilkins. “I enjoys it. Though,” he added with a wink, and putting his finger along the side of his nose with the most engaging of sly expressions, “though it’s business with me afore pleasure.”

  John was not interested. He raised the glass and drank the rest of the whiskey with a gesture of wretched defiance.

  “I’m a man as likes company,” confided Mr. Wilkins. “Friends. Wot’s life without friends? And then, you asks, why aren’t you married, Mr. Wilkins? Why do you travel alone? Ah!” said Mr. Wilkins, with a sigh, “that’s a story in itself!” ,

  The young man studied the bottom of his glass.

  “A bachelor, I takes it, sir?” asked Mr. Wilkins, sympathetically.

  The young man continued to scrutinize the glass for some moments. Then he looked up. He laid down the glass on the table with a sort of suppressed violence.

  “No!” he said.

  Mr. Wilkins exhibited extravagant evidences of delight and surprise. “Why, confound you, sir, you’re a happy man!” he ejaculated, as if John had imparted to him an astounding revelation. “A happy man, I repeat, sir! Would this be your honeymoon, beggin’ your pardon?”

  He leaned towards John, his cherubic face red with pleasure, though inwardly he was cursing the unknown girl who might prove a temporary obstacle.

  “Honeymoon,” repeated John, slowly, as though savouring the word in all its repulsion. His expression darkened still more. He grinned, very unpleasantly. “You can call it that, Mr. Wilkins. I’ve been married less than a week.”

  So! thought Mr. Wilkins, he hates the lass. A hasty marriage, like, or a forced one. All the better! The girl was disposed of.

  He jumped to his feet, positively radiating his delight. “We’ll drink to the leddy, sir, that we will! A honeymoon! Ah, I envies you, Mr. Turnbull!” He poured fresh whiskey into the glasses. His broad pink forehead was pricked with little drops of hearty sweat. Though he did not look directly at John, he saw that the unpleasant grin had become a vicious grimace.

 
He sat down again, slapping his thigh with one hand while he raised the glass with the other. They drank again. “Ah,” breathed Mr. Wilkins, deliciously.

  Then he assumed an expression of acute concern. “The little leddy wouldn’t be seasick, would she, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “Yes, very seasick,” replied John, and he smiled again, as if the thought gave him a grim and malicious pleasure.

  “Then,” said Mr. Wilkins, with increasing concern, “I’ve got just the thing for her! One swig, and they’re up dancin’ like a bloody fairy.”

  He produced the bottle from his coat-tails, and regarded it with reverence. It was an oily brown liquid, leaving residues of little brown flecks on the glass. John shuddered at it.

  “If a man wasn’t sick before, I’ll wager he’d be sick after a swig of that glue,” he said, disdainfully.

  Mr. Wilkins betrayed no offense. He looked at John earnestly.

  “You’re wrong, sir! Very wrong indeed. I’ve seen ’em dying like flies, and green as grass, and I’ve put the bottle to their lips and ’ad ’em up singin’ in no time. No time at all! It was given to me by a Dutchman, a trader. Right out of the jungle, sir. Medicine men. Proper chaps with the herbs, those lads.”

  He swirled the contents about in the bottle, took a neat swig, himself, pursed up his lips and shook his head seriously. “Wholesome as milk, Mr. Turnbull.”

  But John was interested. “Dutchman? I—I am interested in trade. My father is an importer, a merchant.”

  At the mention of his father, his dark face saddened, became gloomy.

  Mr. Wilkins stared. Turnbull. Ah, he had it. James Turnbull. Importer. His face reflected a genuine if puzzled delight.

  “Mr. James Turnbull! Thought as I’d heard the name before. Ah, a fine gentleman, Mr. Turnbull!” His face became even more genial, if slyly arch. “You wouldn’t be goin’ to Ameriky to arrange a little trade for your Pa, would ye, Mr. Turnbull?”