Justin mumbled his thanks and went into the room Sir Robert had indicated. Pulling off his clothes he crawled between the fine sheets of the curtained bed and was asleep from sheer exhaustion almost before his head was centered on the pillow. Nor were any dreams able to break his rest. But in the other room the dawn light struck full across time-yellowed papers over which His Excellency had been busy the night through.
There was a pattern of sunlight on the wall, dappled by the shadows of leaves. Justin blinked once or twice at it and then sat upright in the wide bed. As if that sudden move had pulled a bell cord a slave arose quickly from the floor and grinned wide-toothed at him, then vanished through the door to reappear at the head of a small procession of his fellows bearing a wooden tub, cans of water, towels and other aids to a gentleman’s toilet.
So did Justin for the first time in his life fall into the hands of a trained body servant and find himself after a somewhat breathless half hour well bathed, shaved and clad, ready to face the most critical society. He ate of the food they brought him, and it was only after they had taken away the empty dishes, that he began to wonder why he had seen or heard nothing of Sir Robert. When he ventured to ask one of the slaves, the fellow only shook his head and said something about “duties.”
“So there you are!” piped a very familiar voice from without the long window. Then, without waiting on an invitation which might not be given at all, Francis Hynde swung a leg over the sill and pulled himself in.
“Didn’t he let you go either?” he demanded, full of some personal slight. “My Uncle Humphrey locked me in—did Sir Robert lock you?”
“Lock me—why?”
“So you wouldn’t go to see the pirates hung? That’s where all the island is now—down watching the hanging. But Uncle Humphrey brought me here and locked me in so I couldn’t go. I climbed out the window but I can’t get over the wall, not unless someone gives me a hand up—” He regarded Justin hopefully. “You could climb it, I think,” he added coaxingly.
Justin shook his head. “No. Haven’t you had enough of running away, Francis? Next time your good luck may not hold.”
“But I’m not running away,” clamored the Baronet. “I but want to see the hanging. Don’t you?”
“There is nothing I would care for less,” returned the older boy truthfully.
“But you aren’t going to be hung, Justin—I heard my uncle say so to my mother this very morning. Why, you’re Sir Robert’s son!” His eyes were wide with wonder at that thought. “I’ll wager that you could tell the sentries at the gate to let us through and they would obey you. Please do so, Justin. This is the finest hanging they have ever had in Bridgetown and we shall miss it all!” Sir Francis looked dangerously near the tear line.
Justin, badgered almost beyond control, flared back. “Stop your whining! I have no wish to go to the hanging, and if your uncle does not want you to go, then you will not either! You’re long out of petticoats, Francis; stop playing the silly child. Cheap was passing kind to you—do you wish to see him choked out of life!”
Francis shrank away from him, his head shaking from side to side. “Please, Justin,” he began almost timidly, “do not be angered with me. But it is so dull here—let us go to feed the birds anyway. Please—?”
Because he had nothing better to do, Justin followed the younger boy out into the garden and watched him take a small bag of grain from the chest in the covered way which led to the stables. But he did not go inside the bird sanctuary with Francis. The talk of hanging made him think of the future—his future—and that was not the most pleasant thing to dwell upon. Nor was the past either! What if Sir Robert had not marked those discrepancies in Francis’ testimony, what if he had not investigated Ghost Peter’s part in the story, then—then at this very hour— He half consciously raised his hands to his throat, touching the fine linen of neckcloth rather than a hempen circlet which might have been there. At this very hour—!
He could stand it no longer. Turning, he ran back into the palace, hunting the way he had heard of but had never ventured to explore, that semi-private stairway which led to the Governor’s own railed walk on the roof, fashioned so that Sir Robert could view his ships.
Up there the sun was hot, beating on his uncovered head and bringing out the perspiration on his coated shoulders. But, even without the aid of the brass-bound glass which lay close to his hand in its box, he could see the sweep of the harbor and the boats clustered there about the point on which stood a raw new gallows where men had labored the night through to build a machine to take their fellows out of the world. By the number of small craft pulled up about the point, half the island must be assembled there, and the other was surely to be numbered in the dark mass along the shore. He was too late to witness the procession of the condemned. They were already at the place of execution. He reached for the glass quickly.
That was Creagh they were turning off now. The hangman was not clumsy, and knew his work well, for that thick neck must have been broken cleanly, to give the boatswain the quick death he had denied others. Strange to see Nat Creagh, who had come to mean to him all the lurking cruelty of the world, go so tamely to his end.
But now— Justin’s fingers tightened about the glass as he watched a slim, erect figure walk beneath the swinging feet of the boatswain. Even with the glass it was too far to see Cheap’s expression, but from his bearing he might still be on his own quarter-deck with a wide-open sea before him. Jonathan Cheap was no broken man. He was addressing the crowd, and Justin did not doubt that he was doing it well. And now the Captain mounted the ladder only—only—something had gone wrong. Cheap turned, his arms free from his sides as if his bonds had fallen away. He gave a great leap out away from the reach of the guards who moved toward him seconds too late. There was a bobbing and milling in the crowd and Justin screwed the eyepiece of the glass half into his skull trying to make out what was happening. Had Cheap won free this time also?
The boy dropped the Governor’s fine glass and pounded down the stairs. Half out the door he bethought himself that a man on foot could not win through that throng below—but a mounted man might have a chance—so he headed for the stables where, as luck would have it, a downcast groom was even then saddling a wire-legged roan.
Almost dancing with impatience Justin let him finish the business and then shoved the servant out of the way to swing rather clumsily up—since of horses he had not the knowledge that he had of ships. Before the surprised groom could raise a shout of protest, Justin had given the roan its head and was down the avenue. A sentry would have barred the gate, only at the last minute the man jumped aside, having no wish to play martyr to this mad rider who was drubbing his mount with spurless heels in order to urge an already wild horse to greater speed.
They took the cobbled street at a pace which a more prudent rider would have curbed, but the horse regained its sense and slowed its gallop as they came into the main town. It mouthed the bit angrily and gave no heed to Justin’s awkward guidance, being a settled animal of comfortable years.
So when they cut into the fringe of the crowd by the
. . . at a pace which a more prudent rider would have curbed.
wharves, those disappointed of better places for the show, it was a walk, a slow enough pace for Justin to catch the first of the rumors.
“ ’Tis th’ truth as I do swear, neighbor,” gabbed a small man in the neat coat of a clerk. “Th’ pirates won free at th’ very gallows’ foot an’ are now come to murder us all. Evil day when this came upon us—”
“You ’ave th’ wrong o’ it!” protested another, held tight in the press some feet beyond him. “Th’ Governor it were, Sir Robert hisself. Th’ chief rogue did pistol ’im— before all th’ town! I did ‘ear that fisher cove say it an’ ’e were within a ’undred yards o’ th’ gallows when it ’appened. With ’is own eyes ’e seed it!”
“Be Sir Robert dead?” shrilled a woman and her cry was taken up by those about her.
Justin pulled viciously at the reins. If he could he would have roweled the stupid beast he bestrode until its flanks were bloody. Little by little he was winning through to the edge of the way which led to the gallows’ point. He paid no heed to the curses and threatenings of those he jostled—for he was right, a rider might win through where a man on foot could not.
Down along the lane he struggled, forcing the roan to the work. He could get a fine view of the gallows and what hung there. And he could also see that the space which had been left for the Judge and the other authorities was empty. Did that mean that for once rumor had spoken true? Had Cheap managed to make good his last threat?
There was a swirl in the crowd and over their heads he could see the red-clad shoulders of soldiers who were pushing back the mob, making a free space. Those about him were forced to give way and fall back but Justin remained where he was, and was speedily rewarded by a glimpse of Cocklyn, sober-faced and glum.
One thing might have made him so— Justin leaned down to catch at the coat of a man brushing past.
“What has—” he began, but the fellow wrenched free as if he were afraid and thrust on. Only someone else mouthed indistinctly, “Th’ Governor—”
The foremost of the soldiers had almost reached him now, a dozen or so were cleaving a path for a small group of men, four of whom were bending under the burden of a blanket in which lay something long and limp. Justin was out of the saddle at that. One of the guardsmen tried to shoulder him aside but he sent the man off balance with a shove and so reached through to the officer who seemed to be in charge of the procession.
“Is it Sir Robert?” His mouth was dry, so dry that he could hardly form the words.
The man shook loose from his grip. “Have you lost your mind? Sir Robert is back yonder!”
One of the soldiers, perhaps the same one he had pushed aside, now thrust him well away and before he could recover lost ground, the whole cortège had been swallowed up by the crowd. The roan had been swept away and he stood there wondering what to do next.
“Lord, it’s Master Scarlett!” Lieutenant Griffen was at his side. The young officer’s wig was aslant and he carried his gallooned hat in his hand for saftey. “Did you ever lay eye on such a muddle?” he demanded, his expression one of disgust. “If it were not that His Excellency and the Major have their wits about them there would be lives lost in this business.”
Fearing lest he be swept away again, Justin dared to link fingers in the Lieutenant’s sash.
“Please,” he begged, “tell me what has chanced. Is Sir Robert hurt?”
“Sir Robert? Bless you, no. He’s down there at the point trying to keep some order. And there’s where I want to be also—if it is possible to get there. Keep your hold, Master Scarlett, if you wish to go with me, and we’ll see if two can push better than one.”
It seemed that two might fight back against the stream where one could be swept helplessly along. Foot by foot, using bent elbow and once or twice their fists, they edged along, until, of a sudden, the crowd thinned and for the first time in some minutes they were able to catch a deep breath again.
“We’ve won through,” commented the Lieutenant with satisfaction. “There is His Excellency now, over there with Major Cocklyn.”
But Justin had been struck with an odd shyness which kept him where he was. Sir Robert seemed right enough, his usual calm self in contrast to the red-faced exasperation of those about him. He was giving orders now and Justin noted that those within sound of his voice were moving smartly to obey them. A moment later he caught sight of his son, but his gaze did not linger. Justin might have been any one of the soldiers and planters gathered there. Only when another red-coated squad had been sent off on some errand Sir Robert moved unhurriedly toward the boy.
“May I ask what brought you hither?” he asked with formal politeness not far removed from sarcasm.
Justin flushed hotly and was then angry because of his confusion. “They said you were hurt,” he muttered.
For a moment there was silence between them, then, “It was enterprising of you to come for the truth,” observed his father. “No, rumor lied, as she usually does. It was Cheap, not I, who caused this great uproar.”
“I was on the ship lookout,” confessed Justin, “and saw him jump free. But what happened after?”
“Cheap’s luck was run out—as he should have known. He tried to dive into the bay and caught his head a knock on the prow of a fishing boat. It snapped his neck as clean as the rope might have done. So he ends with a broken neck after all his contriving—as I warned him these twenty years since.”
So it had been Cheap that the soldiers were bearing away in the blanket. Justin sighed and at the moment felt the touch of Sir Robert’s hand on his shoulder, heard a question rapped out as if he were a guardsman under examination.
“Do you grieve for that man?”
But his bewilderment was plain enough, his astonished face answered for him.
“I beg your pardon for that,” Sir Robert said dryly. “Now get you back to the palace—this sun is not for a fever-ridden man. We shall have time for conversation later.”
Aye, they would have time later. Justin suddenly smiled and, as he had inwardly known he would, his father smiled back.
“Go to, you rogue,” His Excellency added softly. “I’ll have you know that I have an iron hand with pirates.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Justin touched his forehead in a sea-man’s smart salute.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1948 by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5666-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Andre Norton, Scarface
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