Lulled by the heat and silence Justin himself must have dozed because when the man they both awaited came, it was without his seeing. He roused just in time to see a half-naked half-breed fetch Johns a savage kick.
“Up wi’ ye, ye rum bottle!”
Danby grunted and then, opening his eyes, scrambled up in a great hurry.
“Aye, Cap’n. ‘Ere I be—”
“ ‘Ere ye be a-snorin’ so half th’ island could come humpin’ up without yer seein’! Addle-pate!”
The red-brown hand of the breed slapped full across Johns’ face with force enough to send him sprawling back across the rock beneath the shadow of which he had been sleeping.
“No one be’ere,” he jabbered hastily. “They wos gone ‘ours ago—”
“They? An’ who wos they?” The breed came closer to Johns, his hand at his sash. But Johns had noted that gesture and now he fairly babbled.
“Boys—they wos fishin’ loike. But they was gone—’ours ago.”
“Boys!” The breed turned away from Danby and began a search of the cove, examining the sand and the edge of the cliff track with care. Something he found at the latter place froze him for a long moment and then, as a cat might leap, he was back to catch Johns’ bent shoulders in a racking grip which brought a thin whimper from the old man.
“What manner o’ boys, ye lack-wit? There be th’ mark o’ ‘eeled shoes on that path!”
“They wos quality right enough. One o’ ‘em wos that brat as lives wi’ Major Cocklyn. An’ th’ other—loikely ‘e’s gentry too—”
“Ye bottle-befogged numskull! Ye fish-brained dog! ‘Ere ye ‘ad th’ whole answer t’ our riddle in yer ’ands—an’ let ’em go! What wouldn’t we give t’ get Cocklyn’s brat! I ’ave a fair mind t’ see th’ color o’ yer liver—”
By some feat of strength, which Justin would not have believed the frail old man still had in him, Danby broke out of the other’s grip and ran towards his dugout, striving to thrust it into the sea. But the breed did not follow him—except with a contemptuous burst of laughter. And when Johns discovered that no pursuer was breathing down his neck, he turned and faced inland again.
“Ye never said as ’ow ye wanted ’em,” he whined.
“True enough. An’ who can expect wit from a broken pate? No, I’ll not lay finger on ye now, Johns. Come back, ye ’ave word fer me—”
Warily Johns left the refuge of the dugout, but he kept a boulder well between them as he returned.
“Ye be no mad at Johns—”
“Mad? No, we’re th’ best o’ friends, Danby. Now then, what news do ye carry?”
“Marster Shrimpton, ’e ‘as bin t’ th’ Governor, ’e ’as. But thar ain’t no sloop o’ war t’ spare—that wos wot th’ Governor said t’ ’im. An’ ’is Cap’n—’e say’e ain’t afeared o’ any pirate livin’ an’ that ’e is willin’ t’ sail. Sa Marster Shrimpton—’e be still two ways ’bout it. Only them in town—they says ’is luck is runnin’ out. An’ two men from th’ brig—they cut an’ run larst night. They ’eard some stories—”
The breed chuckled. “Likely they did, likely they did.
“Up wi’ ye, ye rum bottle!”
Well, so Marster Shrimpton is still o’ two minds? We must change that, an’ speedily, so ‘e’ll o’ one—ours! I ’ave a use fer th’ Endeavor an’ th’ time is runnin’ out. ‘Ere.” From his sash he pulled a purse and tossed it to Johns who snatched with eager fingers. “Go drink an’ tell more tales to th’ sailors.”
“Aye. Right ye be! An’ wot ’bout th’ other one—”
“Th’ other one?”
“Aye, th’ lad wot ’as bin arskin’ fer ye—”
The other man was still. Beneath the twisted rag he wore around his head, greasy locks of hair made a ragged fringe to hide his forehead and eyes and a coarse beard masked mouth and chin. But about him there was something oddly familiar, so that Justin longed to see him more clearly.
“Someone ’as bin arskin’ fer me, John’s?”
“Aye. Came down in th’ night an’ give me rum ’e did an’ arsked ’bout those from th’ sea. Thar be ’em in th’ town as says ’e is one o’ ye wot is a-lookin’ out news from the’ Governor fer ye. Marster Shrimpton, ’e does say ’e should be in th’ jail alongside o’ ’em others—”
“So that one ’as bin a-arskin’— Well, wonders thar ’ave bin in th’ past—one can never tell. Should ’e arsk again, Johns—” He hesitated so long that Danby ventured to prompt him.
“Aye;—wot would ye’ave Danby do?”
“Iffen ’e arsks again—send ’im t’ me, Johns. By that way ye know of—”
Danby was eager enough to get away—running his dugout into the waves with the spryness of a younger man. But the breed made no move out of the cove. Instead he crouched in the sand and started dribbling the stuff through his dirty fingers in an ever widening circle. Almost—Justin caught a breath—almost as if he were searching for something lost.
The boy crawled as close as he dared to the lip of the cliff. He was mad to see the man below at closer quarters —but not so mad that he lost all caution.
Unfortunately there was no way down into the cove which did not lie in plain view and long before he could get down he would be sighted by his quarry. If he could have only hidden down there—!
Grunting impatiently the breed got to his feet. Then, before Justin could move to follow, he set off along the shore at a smart pace, scrambling over the rocks at the far end of the cove and splashing through the tide pools. Justin hurried along the top of the cliff, only to be fronted within a few paces by a hedge of thornbush—and, when he had won around that, the shore as far as he could see was bare of all except the birds. The breed was gone.
Tired, hot, and ill-pleased with himself, Justin started back to Bridgetown. And at last he had time to wonder what had happened to Francis. That the younger boy was sulking somewhere and had not delivered the message was evident, and Justin was planning just what he would say to Sir Francis upon the occasion of their next meeting when a familiar figure in an unaccustomed hurry came puffing down the lane toward him.
He had never before seen Amos’ dignity so ruffled, his pace so fast, and when the serving man came up with Justin the haste and heat left him panting so that he could hardly demand in steady speech:
“Where be Sir Francis? Look ye, Lady Hynde would ’ave ‘im—”
“I sent him to Major Cocklyn a good time ago.”
Amos merely goggled without understanding. “’Er Ladyship is in a tantrum. Best get ’im ’ome, Marster Blade.”
“I tell you—he is home! I sent him there with a message to his uncle.”
“Th’ Major ‘as bin a-sittin’ wi’ some gentlemen all th’ afternoon. Sir Francis never came. Marster—iffen somethin’ ’as bin ’appenin’ t’ Sir Francis ’er Ladyship’ll ’ave our ’eads, she will! ’E never came ’ome, ’e didn’t!”
“Mayhap he went to the governor’s palace. We’ll look there.”
Privately Justin thought that Francis Hynde was in hiding somewhere, prepared to pay off his guardians with a great fuss. And when they were deep in the search, being berated for their laxness, he would come forth with some tale to excuse himself. It was just the sort of play which Francis liked best.
“Seen Sir Francis, marster?” replied the sentry at the back lane, the favorite entrance of the Baronet. “Aye, ’e did come up th’ lane ’bout an ’our since. Wanted t’ know iffen ’is Excellency were back yet, ’e did. When Hi said no, ’e were off agin—met someone down by that far ’ouse thar an’ wint off wi’ ’im.”
By the far house! Justin flung a word of thanks to the soldier and hurried down the lane, with Amos at his back. The far house was the corner house where the wider lane met a narrow runnel between dwellings. Blank doors and shuttered windows faced them. There was no one on either street as far as they could see.
“Vas you vishing sometings, my fine sir?”
The voice seemed to lisp out of the air and it was Amos who slapped the shutter open so that the weasel visage behind its crack was clear. Hook nose made a parrot’s beak upon a mottled white face. But there was no fear in those small dark eyes nor in the crooked mouth which smiled gap-toothed at them.
“Vas you vishing sometings?” the woman repeated.
“Aye.” Justin assembled some small show of manners. “We are hunting a small boy, ma’am. He was last seen talking to a man at this corner. Did you chance to sight him?”
“A small boy is it? Zare vas such a von. He did have him a new knife vitch he showed to ze man. And ze man said that if he vould come vit him zare might be yet a sword also—”
“The man! What was he like—this man?”
“Tall he vos—bigger nor you, young sir. And he had no ears on his head. Red vas his hair yet. And he did tell ze young lord zat he vos a sailorman.”
“Which way did they go when they left here?”
“Down zare, young sir. Toward ze harbor yet.”
Amos showed a grave face. “We’d best go t’ th’ Major, Marster Blade. Iffen they ’ave ’im in one o’ those boozin’ dens it’ll take th’ soljers t’ ’ave ’im out agin.”
Justin shook his head. “Soldiers would never get him out. That rats’ nest can hide ‘half a hundred who’ll never be found. No, we needs must chance it alone, Amos. Or better let me go—I have knowledge of such places—”
In his impatience he did not heed that the serving man drew a little away from him, nor did he note the strange new hardness in the man-servant’s tone as he answered:
“Aye, marster, doubtless that be best.”
So they parted, Amos going back toward Cocklyn’s home while Justin took the downward road in great strides, seeking the noisome tangle of the lower town.
It was to the Harp and Bottle that he went first, for Danby’s hints about the place were a clue. And the first man he saw within, once his eyes were accustomed to the murk, was Johns himself with a full tankard before him and a smile of childish pleasure on his bearded lips. Sitting with him were two strange seamen who were deeply interested in what the old man was telling them.
“Be ye alookin’ fer some’un, marster?” The half-breed waiter lounged up to Justin, wiping his hands on his rag apron.
“Aye, a child. He has run away and was seen in these parts. I had some hopes he might be found—”
“ ’Ere?” the waiter shrugged. “Well, there be brats aplenty ’ereabouts, marster. Take yer pick. But none in th’ Harp. This ben’t no place fer ’em. Best ’unt along th’ wharves loike—th’ lads play at fishin’ an’ sich thar.”
But Danby had sighted Justin and now he pushed away from his companions with a sudden indifference which left them puzzled, coming up eagerly to the boy.
“’Ow be ye, marster? Are ye asearchin’ fer ’em wot ye spoke on—?”
“Not now, Danby. I am looking for the boy who was with me in the cove—”
“Then ’ave ye come t’ th’ right place. Th’ Cap’n was awantin’ t’ see ’im loikwise. Come ‘ere. ’Tis best not t’ keep th’ Cap’n awaitin’. ’E be an onpatient man—”
He seized upon Justin and urged the boy toward the back room of the Harp and Bottle, half pushing him through the rough hide door curtain. They were then in an evil-smelling black pocket filled with kegs among which Danby threaded his way with the ease of much practice.
Then the old seaman put his two hands on the wall itself and pushed sharply to the right. A rough panel moved sidewise far enough to leave space for a body to squeeze through. Danby pawed at Justin’s arm pulling him into the room beyond.
“ ’Ere ’e be, Cap’n,” he announced and then, before Justin could interfere, he was back out through the panel and had slapped the sliding door to, leaving Blade captive on the wrong side.
There was light here, but the light of thick yellowish candles, not that of honest day. And the smell of age-old foulness was sour enough to choke a man.
“See! It is true, what I said!” shrilled a voice Justin knew very well.
Hunched on a stool, his elbows resting on a table, his hands supporting his sharp chin, sat Sir Francis Hynde thoroughly at ease and enjoying his company to the full. But his companions— Justin blinked and hoped that he had made no other revealing sign. After all he had never really believed that Nat Creagh, Quittance and Cheap were as dead as the world wished them. This was only his private nightmare dragged out into the light at long last.
“Aye, Sir Francis, you spoke true—” That was Cheap with his devilish purr. Even in this filthy hole he went in a laced shirt and with polished boots on his feet.
Now Quittance, still in his greasy half-breed’s disguise, was more in tune with his surroundings and did not look out of place against the mildewed wall. And Creagh— well, Creagh was his old brutal self.
“Not so pleased to see old friends, are you, Master Scarface? By the cut of that coat you’ve come up in the world since last we met. I hear that you find favor with our dear Sir Robert these days—”
There was only one card left for him to play now—one card which might just bring both Francis and himself out of this danger. If he could trick Cheap—? And if his plan did not work he would be in no worse state than he stood now.
“What makes you so sure that I have a liking for this coat, Captain Cheap?” he asked as calmly as he could.
And with that he had caught Cheap’s interest. “So? And what mean you by that, young cock? Your story had better be a pleasing one—well thought of—or Creagh shall have you—you and your young friend here.”
“When they told me that you were not taken, nor had your body been found, I suspected that somewhere within Bridgetown there were those who knew the true tale. I tried to find such a one—Danby can tell you—”
To his overwhelming relief Quittance nodded at that. “Aye. Johns told me so this very day. Scarface has been asking for ‘men from the sea.’ ”
“Th’ better t’ set we’uns in jail,” croaked Creagh. “Why list t’ ’is lyin’ tongue, Cap’n?’
“Aye—what about that, Scarface? When last we met you were in no mood to welcome us as friends. I wonder that your back is skinned again—that was a well-laid flogging,” mused Cheap.
Justin shrugged. “There are worse things than floggings, Captain Cheap—say a well-stretched neck! Do you think that a man in this town trusts me or that I have aught to look forward to in the end but being sold as a bondsman? Oh, aye, I have Sir Robert’s interest now—but how long will that last? He is like all the gentry—fickle in his favor. And a flogging is better than the slave brand. When a man’s been free, he has no liking for ill looks and upheld noses—”
“Upheld noses?” snorted Creagh. “Well, in th’ ’our, bully boy, ye’ll not ’ave one left t’ cock!”
“Wait!” Cheap’s hand slapped the table top. “I wonder—” He was eyeing Justin as if he had suddenly seen the boy sprout wings—or, as was more likely in their world, horns and a tail. “A man may be wrong—even I may have been wrong! So you have no liking for Sir Robert?”
“No liking and no disliking. He is a great gentleman, I am a reprieved pirate—he does not have dealings with such as me. He has kept me under his hand hoping to have news of you or of Tortuga out of me. But that is all.”
“No liking or no disliking. Well, that be fair enough. So these pious dogs who kennel in Bridgetown look down their noses at a pirate? Well enough. I think, Scarface, that the years behind us have been sadly misspent. We should be friends, you and I, not at swords’ points. It seems that we may have something in common after all. And Sir Francis has already told me that you have been unusually discreet concerning my affairs. I was touched by that, really I was, my boy. But when I have heard the rest of your story mayhap I shall even have occasion to bless the day when I picked you out of the gutter for one of my crew.”
“There’s little more to my tale, Captain. I’ve been at the palace under S
ir Robert’s eye most of the time.”
“He has been teaching me the sword,” struck in Sir Francis eagerly. “Do you know, Captain Cheap, he can use the sword with either hand—?”
“So have you said before,” commented the Captain with some impatience. “It appears, Scarface, that there is much about you that I do not know. Have you any other strange accomplishments? What other tricks have you used to dazzle Sir Robert?”
“None. He has little interest in me.”
Cheap laughed. “Strange. Most strange. Quite the cream of the whole jest. Some day I must share it with you, Scarface, and then you will laugh too. Has he never asked you of the past?”
“Of Tortuga, aye. He wanted to know who were the Lords nowadays and once he asked of a ship called the Maid of Cathay.”
“The Maid of Cathay, eh?” Cheap smiled—very happily and very evilly. “Aye, that would interest him. And you answered him then?”
“What could I answer but the truth? I have never heard of her.”
“No, you have not. She was before your time, long before your time. So that memory is still green in Sir Robert’s skull, is it? Faith, Fate begins to show me her full grin at last. This time when we play, all the winning tricks lie in my hand. And there are some very good ones—Master Shrimpton, Sir Francis and you—you, my dear Scarface— you!”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
“DAMME, I’M AN ADMIRAL!”
* * *
“WHAT IS your game, Captain?” A month ago he might not have dared such a question. But now, with Francis here and little hope for the escape of either of them, he was emboldened to face up to Cheap.