Introductory material (continued 4)

“Why. What makes you sigh like that?” she asked.

“Why do I sigh? Captain Cammock was signalling to me. I was afraid we might be quarantined. But it’s all right now. He’s signalled that it’s all right. I’m relieved.”

“Charles,” she said, pausing in the alleyway, “I sometimes feel that I’ve given you pain by coming with you like this. Have I?”

“No, Olivia,” he answered. “How could you?”

“But are you sure? I couldn’t bear to think that I had.”

“I am very sure of that, Olivia.”

“You aren’t angry with me for asking?”

“We’re old friends, you and I, Olivia. Old friends like you and I don’t get angry with each other.”

“Some day I hope you’ll marry, Charles. You’d make the right woman very happy.”

“Ah no, no. We mustn’t talk of that.”

“You will, Charles. You will. And yet it would be sad to see all one’s boy and girl friends married. A woman doesn’t like to feel old.”

“Olivia.”

“Now come in and see Tom. Do you think there are good doctors here?” The question was earnestly asked. It seemed to Margaret that it took for granted that he knew, that it was the woman’s way of taking him into her confidence, into the dark, locked cupboard, meagrely catalogued without, which is a woman’s confidence. It made a strange jangling of all his strings to hear her. In the dark passage there, with her great eyes looking into his, and the earrings gleaming palely against the hair, she moved him, she shook him out of tune.

“Olivia,” he said, stammering. “Olivia. If. When. When your. If you ever have a child, Olivia. Will you let me—let me—— Let me see it often. Be its godfather. Be something to it?”

“Yes,” she said softly, pressing the back of his hand quickly. “Yes, Charles. I promise you that.”

“You aren’t hurt, Olivia?”

“No, Charles. Not hurt.”

“God bless you, Olivia.”

“Come in to Tom, now,” she said in a low voice. She was moved and touched. They went in.

Stukeley sat at the cabin table, drinking brandy without water. He was white and sick. Their entrance made him start up with an oath.

“What’s the matter, Stukeley?” said Margaret. “We aren’t going into—into quarantine. Cammock’s signalled that it’s all right. What’s the matter with you? Let me feel your pulse.”

“Ah,” he said, gasping. “Ah. This heat’s upset me.”

“How are you, Tom?” Olivia tenderly asked. “How’s your head?”

“Oh, my head’s all right. Don’t bother. Don’t bother.” He rose from his seat, laughing wildly. “What a turn it gave me,” he said. “I’m going to see old Brandyco. I’m all right again, Olivia.” He took her by the shoulders and bent back her head so that he might kiss her. “Poor little Olive,” he said caressingly, pinching her arms. “She’s been worrying, ever so. Hasn’t she? Hasn’t she? Eh?” He kissed her eyes. Margaret turned away, wondering whether the kiss smelt worse of brandy or tobacco.

“Don’t go on deck,” said Olivia. “Don’t go on deck, Tom dear. The sun’s so strong.”

“But you’ll want to hear about Jamestown from Cammock.”

“No, Tom dear. I don’t. I want you. I want you to rest and get well.”

“I’d like. I must just see Cammock.”

“But what makes you so eager to see Captain Cammock, Tom?”

“Stukeley looks on the captain as a sort of a show,” said Margaret quickly. “The captain has just been talking with strangers. Wouldn’t you like to see a man who’d really seen a new face, Olivia; and heard a new voice?”

Olivia smiled.

“I don’t think Tom’s strong enough for excitements,” she said.

“No,” said Margaret, leaving the cabin. “But I don’t think there’s much wrong. I think he’ll soon be all right, Olivia. Make him lie down and rest. I must just see the captain.” He went on deck hurriedly, holding his breath till he was in the fresh air. “Poison,” he said to himself. “Poison. What a life. What squalor. That woman going to have a child. And Stukeley, pah. Drinking and smoking there, waiting to be dragged to gaol. She doesn’t see it. One would think he must shock every fibre of her nature. And he doesn’t. He gives her love, I suppose. That was the only thing she wanted. And now that beast is her standard.” In the pure air he blamed himself for thinking ill of her. “After all,” he thought, “Stukeley isn’t a beast to her. She, with her much finer sense, sees something in him. Something that is all the world to her. Something beautiful. She may even be happy with him. She may be.” He thought pitifully of women and angrily of men. It was all wrong, he thought. Men and women could never understand each other, except in rare moments, in love, when the light in each heart burned clearly. Women were hidden; they were driven to covert, poor trembling fawns. They were like the nymphs hidden in the reeds by the river. They took care that men should see only the reeds. He had never really seen Olivia; he was not sure if he knew her yet; he couldn’t say what it was that he loved. He did not care; he was not going to ask. She was beautiful; her beauty moved him to the bone; beauty was in all of her, in the whole woman, the whole nature, body and spirit, in the ways of body and spirit. She was going to have a child; Stukeley’s child; red-cheeked, curly; a little boy-beast, the bully of his school. Ah, but the child would be hers, too. She would bring it up to be like her. He would have that refinement of voice, that lovely, merry, almost timid manner, her eyes, her grace, her shyness. Captain Cammock, who had been watching him for a full thirty seconds, half amused, half sad, that his passion had so strong a hold still, even in a moment of anxiety, now tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ah, captain.”

“It’s all right, sir. Nothing come yet. You can land your goods as soon as you like. The Governor said he remembered you, and hopes that you will wait upon him.”

“Good. I will.”

“It is good, sir. Oh, I’ve ordered some fresh meat, sir, and some fowls.”

“Yes. We must feast to-night. And send the boat in for a cask of fresh water. Two-month water is poor tipple.”

“Yes. What would you say to six-month water? We must give a free pump in port. And a cask of rum or beer, sir, on the quarter-deck, would help our trade. For visitors you know, sir.”

“See to it then, captain. A letter may come while we’re here, though.”

“Then make the Governor and the others your friends. Send ’em a few cases of wine. Square the man-of-war captains. There’ll be no trouble if you make them all your friends.”

“It doesn’t sound pretty.”

“Nor a wrung neck don’t look it.”

During the next few days there was bustle in the Broken Heart. Visitors came aboard to look at samples of goods; to talk with the seamen; and to taste the rum and beer, which was served out, a cup to each comer, for the first forty-eight hours of her stay in the port. All sorts came aboard her; traders and planters, oyster and fisher men, soldiers from the fort, officers of the Governor’s house, Indians, men from the backwoods, trappers, a sun-burned, good-humoured, silent company, very sharp at a bargain.

After the first two days, the trade began. The seamen rigged up trading-booths ashore, with some old sails, stretched upon poles. Planks were laid upon casks to serve as trade tables. The goods were arranged at the back of each booth, in the care of trusty hands. Clothing was more in demand than any other kind of goods; but the only clothes bought were those of fine quality and beautiful colour. It puzzled Captain Margaret to see a small planter, owning perhaps only one white apprenticed servant, or redemptioner, buying clothes of great price, putting them on in the booth, and riding off, like an earl, on his little Virginian horse, to his little clearing in the wilderness. A few planters, especially those who were newly come to the colony from the islands, where they had been privateering, paid for their purchases in ounces of silver. It was easy to recognize these planters. They had not lost their sea-walk, nor that steadfast anxiety of gaze which marks the sailor. They all carried arms; though the richer sort of them wore only pistols and a knife, leaving the carriage of the musket, the bag containing lead, a mould, and some bullets, and the heavy leather-covered powder-bottle, to a redemptioner, a Moskito Indian, or, more rarely, to a negro slave. Cammock had known some of these men in the past. Often, as he sat in the shade, watching the beauty of the scene, now so glorious with coming autumn, Captain Margaret would see one of these strangers approaching, followed by his man. He was always impressed by them, sometimes by their physical splendour, sometimes by the sense that they were full of a rather terrible exuberance. As he watched such a man approaching the booths, puffing at his pipe, dressed in elaborate clothes, hung about with silver at all points, with silver buttons, silver brooches, silver discs, buckles of heavy silver, links and stars of silver, silver chains and necklets, so that the man’s whole wealth was on his body at one time, Captain Margaret was conscious of a feeling of envy. His own training, his own beautifully ordered life in an English college, had shut him off from such a life as this man’s. This clashing, tinkling pirate—he was nothing more, although he often looked so fine—was master of his world. Captain Margaret was the slave of his; the unhappy slave. The pirate could leave his plantation when he wished, letting the wild bines choke his tobacco. He could ship himself in any ship in the harbour, and go to any part of the world which pleased his fancy. If chance flung him down in a tropical forest, on an island in the sea, in a battle, in a shipwreck, at a wedding, he would know what to do, what to say, what to propose. The world had no terrors for such a man. Captain Margaret forgot, when he thought thus enviously, that he himself was one of the few who had escaped from the world, escaped from that necessity for tooth and claw which is nature; and that by being no longer “natural,” instinctive, common, he had risen to something higher, to a point from which he could regard the pirate as an interesting work of art. He never pursued his fancy far enough to ask himself if he would willingly imitate or possess that work; because the pirate, passing him by with a hard, shrewd glance, would stride into the booth, taking off his hat to thrust back his long hair. He would listen then to the conversation. If the man was known to Cammock, the talk began promptly.

“Any Don Peraltoes, this trip?”

“What? Peraltoes? You weren’t there?”

“Ain’t you Ned?”

“And you’re Lion. I’d never have known you. Any of ’em with you?”

“No, I quit the trade. Come and have something.”

Then they would mix some rum and sugar, and sprinkle the mixture with a squeeze of a scrap of lemon-peel. They would drink together, calling their curious toasts of “Salue,” “Here’s How,” “Happy Days,” and “Plenty Dollars.” Then, over the trade as the men haggled—

“Got any powder, Lion?”

“I can only sell powder if you’ve a license from the Governor.”

“Any small arms?”

“The same there.”

“Them’s a nice lot of macheats. How do they come?”

“An ounce apiece. Or fifty pound of leaf.”

“Steep. Let’s see one. A good trade knife.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I got about fifty acres burned off. That’s the grant here, Lion, fifty acres. Tobacco, you know. I do a bit of fishing, whiles. A nice handy sloop, I got. Small, of course.”

“Crops good?”

“A sight too good, if you ask me. This black soil’ll sprout a coffin. But tobacco’s away down. We burn half our crops, trying to keep up prices. It’s only worth about ninepence.”

“Are you going to stick at it?”

“It’s a bit quiet. I lie out in the woods whiles.”

“Anything else doing?”

“You were here yourself?”

“I come here with Crawfot’s party. I was here. Yes. Sure.”

“Crawfot’s dead, if you mean Tom. Did you ever try any running?”

“Running rum from Jamaica?”

“Yes. I do a bit that way. Other things, too. I’m in with some of Ned’s lot.”

“Ned Davis?”

“Yes. We run blacks sometimes, too. Run ’em into Carolina. New York sometimes.”

“Ah. How did Tom die?”

“Indians. I done a bit that way, too, Lion. You catch two or three squaws. They fetch as much as a white woman down to Campeachy. Two or three of them; it runs into money.”

“I’ve known that done,” said Cammock. “The man done it was Robert Jolly. He come to a jolly end, what’s more. The braves got him.”

“There’s always a risk of that,” said Ned. “And it’s 10,000 lbs. of leaf fine, if the Governor gets you.”

“Well, Ned. If you want fun, why don’t you come in with us. And bring in some of your mates.”

“Is this trade only a blind, then?”

“Not on your life. But we’re in for a big thing. A very big thing. I wouldn’t mention it. But you see, I know you, Ned; and so, you see, it’s like this.”

Between them, Margaret and Cammock persuaded some half a dozen recruits to join during the first few days in port. The new recruits promised to come aboard when the ship sailed, but not before, lest the Governor should grow suspicious. They agreed, also, seeing that Margaret had a commission, to submit to a sharper discipline than was usual among privateers. Margaret had no intention of admitting these men into his fo’c’s’le. They were not waged men like the seamen shipped in London; but volunteers agreeing to serve for shares. To admit them into the fo’c’s’le, where they would enjoy certain privileges not shared by the sailors, would cause bad blood, and bickering for precedence. To avoid this, he planned with Cammock to create a military company, to be called “the men of war.” The privateers who joined him were to be enlisted in this company, under the command (as he suggested) of an old buccaneer (one of the first to join) who kept an alehouse some miles out of Jamestown. This old man was named Raphael Gamage. He had served with Cammock many years before in Morgan’s raid on Porto Bello. As far as Cammock could remember, he was a trusty old man, well liked. The troop of men of war (when fully recruited) was to mess in the ’tween-decks; just forward of the officers’ cabins and the wardroom. At sea, they were to work the mizen-mast, standing three watches. In battle, half of them were to man the quarter-deck guns, while the other half walked the poop as sharp-shooters. But all of them, at all times, were to obey the officers of the ship like the other members of her crew. It was a pleasure to Perrin to help in the arrangement of the ’tween-decks for the reception of these men. He screwed in hammock-hooks and battens, and designed removable mess-tables which the carpenter, being one of the politest of men, thought equal to the Navy.

Trade throve beyond their dreams; for the Broken Heart was the first ship in since the tobacco crop. Her general cargo of hemp and flax seed, tools, wines, ploughs, linens and woollens, boxes, cart-wheels, rope, weapons, books, and musical instruments, sold at good rates, for silver and leaf tobacco.

Captain Margaret had planned to arrive at Jamestown early in the season, so that he might secure the cream of the tobacco crop before the summer fleet came in. Now that he was safe for a little while, he set about his business. At the end of the fifth day he chartered a couple of swift sloops from a Jamaica merchant, and loaded them, in one day, under official supervision, with fifty tons of assorted goods. He kept some twenty seamen at the work, from turn-to time till sunset, driving them himself. His zeal startled all of them. But Margaret was working with his whole nature to save the merchants who had fitted him out. He felt that he had risked their money, by gratifying a foolish whim; now he was to save them, having seen his chance. The bales and casks swung up out of the hold into the sloops. The winches clanked, the ropes creaked, the bosun swore at the slingmen. The slingmen, dripping in the hot darkness, damned and spat, and worked their hands full of splinters. A fine dust rose up out of the hatch to quiver in the sunlight. The slings fell with a rattling thud on to the boxes below; the block creaked as the fall was overhauled; a thirsty throat called “Hoist.” The bosun, too hurried to pipe, bent over the coamings to spit, telling the men on deck to hoist or sway away. Up came the boxes and casks, swinging to the yard-arm tackle. The boatswain, bearing them over, swearing, followed them to the rail, as the yard-arm was rounded in. Then there came the “High enough. Walk back”; and the sling strained slowly downwards to the stevedores, whose black skins gleamed in the sun. By sunset the sloops were cast off from the Broken Heart. Cammock and Margaret swung themselves into the stern of one of them as she sheered out. The slingmen, relieved from their hell below, stared at them silently over the rail with grime-ringed eyes. The sweat had streaked the dirt on their faces, making them look haggard. Like a row of corpses, dug up after the first day of burial, those silent men stood. Margaret, looking at them, thought with horror that the lives of some men might be expressed, defined, summed, in a sort of purser’s tally: so many boxes hoisted out, so many creatures killed, so many pots drunk, so many books read: with the sum added, the life extinct, nothing remaining, nothing for God or the Devil; merely a sum in addition for the harping quirers.

Sail was packed upon the sloops. All that night they drove, a red lamp burning astern. At dawn, when the sea below the woods was like steel, though tremulous in pale light, they were standing in to a jetty on the Accomac side. It was dusk in the clearing where the house stood; but the stumps of felled trees stood up black, a troop of dwarfs; and the cattle moved dimly among them, cropping grass with a wrench. Casks stood at the edge of the jetty; there was a gleam upon their hoops. There was a gleam of dew upon the forest, as a little dawn-wind, stirring the birds, made a patter of dropping. A fire with a waving flame burned under a pent-house, making a thick, sweet smoke, which floated everywhere, smelling of burning gum, driving away the mosquitoes. When the flame leaped up, brightly shaking, it showed a tilted cart, with a man under a red robe asleep against the wheel. Quietly, before the light was come, they made the sloops fast and stepped ashore. They stamped to kill the numbness in their feet; then, rousing the sleeper, they helped him to prepare a breakfast, of apples, fish, and new cider, before trading for his tobacco.

All that day they plied along the Accomac coast, Cammock in the Peach, Margaret in the Daisy, buying tobacco at every clearing, paying the planters in goods. When the Peach sloop was full, Cammock drove her back, with her boom-end under, to sling the tobacco into the Broken Heart at dawn, and to fill up again with trade. Margaret’s keenness puzzled him; the man was on fire. “I thought he was one of these dreamy fellows,” he said to himself. “But he drives a tight bargain, and he goes at it like a tiger.”

He went aboard the ship, putting all hands to the work of clearing and reloading the sloop. Mr. Cottrill met him at the gangway with word that two of their best men had deserted from the trading-booth, taking with them about fifty pounds’ worth of goods; that they had gone off at sunset, just as the sloops cast off; and that one of the men aboard had heard that they were going for a run with a gang of Indian-snatchers. Worse still. The foretopmast was sprung at the heel, and the new spar couldn’t be ready for a week. Cammock had been at a driving strain for a couple of days; but, like most hard cases, he found the second day a day of exaltation, of nervous excitement. The news pleased him; it occupied his mind. He bade his men get out trade from all three hatches as fast as the winches could sway it out, while he with a dozen men went ashore in the sloop, still half full of tobacco.

As soon as he got ashore he struck the booth, crammed all the goods into the sloop, lock, stock, and barrel, and carried them back aboard. As they were thrust into the sloop he made a rough inventory.

“Now, Mr. Cottrill,” he said, “just take this list and check it as soon as you’ve got a chance. Then check it with the trade-book, and find out what’s missing. Then check that with the clerk’s list. Rig up an awning from the break of the poop to the mast there. That’ll be your trade booth. Call the trade clerk. Call Mrs. Inigo. Mr. Harthop, you’ll keep your trade booth here in future. Mrs. Inigo, you’ll have to give up your berth in the sail-locker. See to that, Mr. Cottrill. Mrs. Inigo’ll sleep in the steward’s room. The steward’ll have to go into the round-house. Mr. Harthop, you’ll use the sail-room, where Mrs. Inigo’s been sleeping, as your sample-room. See that no one goes up the alleyway to the cabin. Keep a clear gangway from the alley to the companion there. Mr. Cottrill, give Mr. Harthop three hands and let him arrange his shop. He’d better stone out the sail-room after breakfast. Shift your things, Mrs. Inigo. You, too, steward. Mr. Cottrill, pick out three good hands to be under Mr. Harthop. Quiet, steady men. Pick one or two of the boys. Mr. Harthop, what were you doing to let those men away?”

Mr. Harthop, a little, bald jocular man with a pale face and long drooping moustaches, which gave him a sad, Chinese expression, rolled slowly forward, peering under his spectacles.

“I’d gone up to the Governor’s house, sir, with some velvets.”

“Why didn’t you send one of the men? Or wait till trade was over for the day?”

“The Governor’s lady asked me to come, Captain Cammock.”

“Women’ll be the death of this cruise,” said Cammock to himself. “Who was in charge while you were gone?”

“Smale, the boy, Captain Cammock, sir. I was only gone twenty minutes.”

“There it is,” said Cammock. “Smale, how did this happen?”

“Please, zur,” said Smale, a short young ploughboy from Gloucestershire, “I were a-’avin’ my zupper, zur. ’N I seed a owd feller come up and give ’is fist like to Andrews. And her’d a-done it avore. Zo they talked, and by’n by, Captain Cammock, zur, another feller come like. Her said as Mr. Harthop said as I wus to go to Governor’s house, to fetch a few fowls for th’ ’en-coop. Zo I went. And her’d all gone avore I’d come back. And her’d took the things.”

Cammock kept back what he thought of the Governor’s wife.

“Mr. Cottrill,” he said. “You, Mr. Ramage, and the bosun, will have to stand trade watches. No visitor is to talk to any of the hands under any pretext whatsoever.”

“Ay, ay, sir. I thought I could have trusted Andrews.”

“You may go, Mr. Harthop. It ought never to have been allowed. Directly my back was turned.” He was blaming himself for having been so easy of access, and so friendly with old acquaintance. “Naturally,” he said to himself, “the men got notions. Well, they’ll get no more.” He walked to the waist, where the work was going busily with songs. The sloop was being loaded forward as she discharged abaft. His presence made the men zealous. He had never seen cargo worked so well.

“Bosun,” he called, “who’s night watchman?”

“Pearson, Captain Cammock,” said Harris. He smeared his mouth with the back of his hand, and left a cask to dangle aloft over the hatch. He ran towards Cammock in a shambling trot.

“Tell Pearson that I want him. Mr. Cottrill, choose a good man to stand night watchman with Pearson, to walk round the ship, harbour-guard, all night long, in opposite directions. No man whatever to come aboard or to leave the ship after sunset. Pearson, when you come on duty to-night you’ll apply to Mr. Ramage for a pair of pistols. You’re to shoot at any man who attempts to desert. You’re to heave cold shot into any boat which tries to come alongside. Tell the lamp-man he’s to have lanterns lit abreast the main and fore chains. Call all hands if any boat comes off to us after two bells. You’re to shoot at any boat which does not answer to a hail. You understand.”

“Yes, sir. Shoot at any man as tries to desert, and any boat as don’t reply.”

“H’m,” said Cammock to himself, noting the faces of the crew. “There’ll be no more deserting from this hooker.”

“Carry on,” he said aloud. “Bosun, call away the gig. Let the gig’s crew dress. Doctor, there, kill me six fowls. The best we’ve got in the fattening coop. Steward there. Call the steward you, boy. Tell him to bring a dozen Burgundy. Now, Mr. Cottrill, a word with you, sir. Mr. Perrin and the rest, are they all well?”

“As far as I know, they are, sir.”

“Mr. Stukeley?”

“Mr. Stukeley’s like fat Jack of the Boneyard, I guess, sir. He’s bigger than the admiral.”

“What’s he been doing?”

“He’s been wanting the gig’s crew all day. I told him I needed the men in the hold. He’d have to use the long-boat, I said, when she goes in for water.”

“Very right. Yes?”

“So he came and called me down before the men. Said I wasn’t a gentleman. He said as Captain Margaret had said he and his lady was to have the gig whenever they wanted her.”

“Was Mrs. Stukeley there?”

“No, sir. So I up and said that I’d had no orders. Then he calls me down some more; and goes and gets Mr. Perrin to come to me, to say that Captain Margaret wished to oblige Mr. Stukeley in all things.”

“Yes?”

“So I told Mr. Perrin, pretty quick, I said, I was in command, I said. It wasn’t for him to tell me my duty. I told him to tell his society friends they could do the Barney’s Bull act. They’d get no gig out of me. That’s what I said.”

“Yes?”

“So that Mr. Stukeley, he went ashore in the long-boat, after calling me down some more before the men. He got a shore-boat to go about in. After that he said his boatman should have dinner aboard of us. I stopped that. But Mr. Stukeley was very rude, and then the man got rude. All hands working the hatch there, hearing it all. Mrs. Stukeley beside. So that was two blocks, I thought. I give the boatman a thick ear there and then. I told him if he didn’t sheer off I’d drop a cold shot into him. And I would have. Mr. Stukeley told me to keep my hands off the man. Then the man wanted his money. My hat, we had it all up and down. I thought that Stukeley would hit me, one time. I wish ’e ’ad done. I’d a laid him out.”

“And Mr. Perrin? How did it end?”

“I saw some of the hands knocked off to listen, so I give them a few. And he stood there telling them not to take no blows. Telling ’em to down me. And then the long-boat come alongside with water. Mr. Ramage was in her, of course. He hears the row, and he come over the side just as quick as cut. He just took that Stukeley by the arm, and walked him into the alleyway. ‘Don’t you incite no sailors, sir,’ he says. ‘No more of that, sir. I respects your feelings, sir,’ he says, ‘but for Gord’s and your lady’s sake,’ he says, ‘you quit. You don’t know what you’re doin’.’ That was the end for that time. I suppose we’ll ’ave another dollop of it to-day.”

“Put him in irons at once, publicly, if he gives you any more trouble. And he’s not to talk to any man. That’s another thing. Iron him directly he gives a back answer. Tell Mr. Ramage, too. Now bring those fowls along doctor. I’m off to the man-of-war sloop, about them Indian-snatchers.”

He pulled aboard the man-of-war sloop, with his present of wine and poultry. As he sat in his gig calling to the men to pull the stroke out, he wrote descriptions of the missing seamen.

When he returned to the Broken Heart, the sloop was nearly full of trade. It was just half-past seven. He went to his cabin to wash, walking quickly and quietly, like a forest Indian. There was some slight noise to his left as he entered the alleyway. He turned sharply, to look into the sail-room, to see if it were ready for the samples. The door shut in his face with a bang. He could not swear to it—the door shut in a fraction of a second—yet it seemed to him that he had seen Stukeley with Mrs. Inigo, for one bright flash of time. He would not open to make sure; for it was a woman’s cabin; he might have been mistaken; but he turned in his tracks and blew his whistle. A man ran to him.

“Get some dry stone, and stone this door clean,” he said, showing Mrs. Inigo’s door. “Stone the outside, and keep at it till breakfast.” That would keep Stukeley within (if he were within) until breakfast, at any rate. He flung his clothes from him and swilled himself with water; then dressed rapidly and went to Perrin’s cabin. “Mr. Perrin,” he said, bursting in after knocking once, “how are you, Mr. Perrin? I want you to keep your eye on Mrs. Inigo’s door. See who comes out of it. Is Mrs. Stukeley well?”

“Very well. How are you and the captain?”

“The captain’ll be back later in the day. I’m just off again.”

“We’d a lot of trouble yesterday. I’ll be glad when you’re back for good.”

“Cheer up, sir,” said Cammock. “Remember. Mrs. Inigo’s door till one bell. If Mrs. Inigo comes out, open it and search the cabin.” He went on deck again, where the steward met him with a tray. He sat down on a coaming and made a hurried breakfast, while the sloop’s crew hoisted sail. When he had finished his meal, he glanced into the alleyway, where the man was rubbing holystone across the door. “Anybody in there?” he said.

“I hear some one shifting around, sir,” said the man. “The woman’s getting her gear, sir.”

“Right,” said Cammock. “I wish I could stay to see the end,” he said to himself. “But I must be off.” In a few minutes he was bound again for Accomac, under a huge square cutter’s foresail, which made the sloop leap like a flying-fish.

Very late one night, having just arrived aboard after a week of labour, Captain Margaret sat in his cabin comparing tally-books with Captain Cammock; but quietly, lest they should wake Perrin. He was very tired; for the hurry from one clearing to another, and the long rides into the wilderness to planters who lived far away, had been a strain. He had endured them only in the fire of his excitement. He had enjoyed his week of bargaining; the zest of the struggle had been like wine to him. On the lonely clearings, or drinking with strangers in woodmen’s shacks, he had forgotten his love, forgotten the torment of the voyage, Olivia’s child, the settlement on Darien. All had been forgotten. Now that the struggle was over, he felt the exhaustion; but nodding as he was, over his tally-book, his whirling brain praised him with that excited inner voice which talks to the overwrought. “You’ve got the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop, the cream of the year’s leaf,” the voice kept telling him. He had bought seven hundred tons of the best tobacco in the colony; the little that remained to be sold was the poor, crude leaf from the young plants and the poorly cured, poorly flavoured leaf from the distant walks in the forest.

“We’ve got the whole trade, sir,” said Cammock. “You needn’t fear for your owners.”

“No,” said Margaret. “Now to get a bottom to carry it home. Of course, in a week we ought to have the summer fleet here.”

“They’ll not find much,” said Cammock. “We’ve got it all. But supposing a letter comes with the fleet. We shall have to sail that night probably, shan’t we? Supposing we’ve to cut and run, leaving it all in the warehouse?”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Margaret, “I thought of that, too. Heigho, captain, I’m tired. This week has been an experience. I shall leave Mr. Harthop in charge ashore, with powers to deal. He’s shrewd. He’s got a funny way of getting at the point with that queer humour as a cloak. And I’ve got Howard, Cammock. Howard’s our agent.”

“You’ve got the Governor, sir?”

“Oh yes. That was my first move. I knew old Howard wanted specie; so I went to see him and told him my plans. He was expensive, though. He knew his worth to a penny.”

“What it is to be a gentleman. If I’d gone, he’d have kicked me out. Well. Birth tells, they say.”

Perrin sat up in his bunk, and looked at them through the curtains.

“A servile, insolent, bribing, tipping race, the English,” he said. “An Englishman will never do anything for any one without expecting something.”

“Oh, you’re awake, are you? At it again, too,” said Cammock. “How about that door, sir?”

“Well, Edward, how are you? What door is this?”

“Oh. Mrs. Inigo’s door,” said Perrin. “Oh yes. Yes. Mrs. Inigo came out at eight bells, and then I tried to get in. But it was locked on the inside. So I called Mr. Harthop’s three men, and the man who was scrubbing it.”

“Good. Good,” said Cammock.

“And I told them ‘the door was jammed.’ So they’d a jemmy there, for opening cases with, and we burst the door open. We found Stukeley inside.”

“Stukeley?” said Margaret. “I half suspected that.”

“He was on his knees on the deck, sponging that blue silk dress Olivia wears.”

“Ha,” said Captain Cammock. “I should never have thought of that.”

“Shrewd these Cornish women are.”

“He was rather red in the face, but he asked us what was the matter. Then he asked me to give him a hand, as he’d got to get the dress ready for Olivia, he said. She’d spilt some chocolate down it. It was——”

“Was he flustered? Hectoring?”

“Afterwards. Not then. He kept saying that Olivia wished to wear the dress at breakfast.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. Oh yes. I don’t know, Charles. There might have been nothing wrong.”

“I thought I saw something,” said Cammock.

“Well,” said Margaret. “I suppose we’ll have to discharge Mrs. Inigo, and pay her passage home. Captain Cammock, what do you think of Stukeley?”

“I’m like the parrot,” said Cammock, “I think a lot more’n I’ll say. Now turn in, all hands. A long lie, and pie for dinner. Captain Margaret, if you don’t turn in, you’ll find you won’t sleep. Oh. Has Mr. Stukeley been in irons?”

“He’s been threatened with them. He’s been very quiet though lately. That Inigo time gave him a scare, I think.”

“Well. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night.”

As Captain Margaret drew his bunk-curtains and settled himself to sleep, the voices in his brain took bodies to them, fiery bodies, which leaned and called to him. “You’ve got the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop, the pick of the crop,” they called. “Lucky devil. Lucky devil. Oh, you lucky devil.”

VIII. IN PORT

“Yet still he stands prefract and insolent.”

Charles, Duke of Byron.

After breakfast the next morning the two Stukeleys sat in their stateroom talking. They had had a week of comparative isolation, of comparative privacy, very sweet to Olivia, who had learned, during the voyage, to regret the days at Salcombe, when one had but to close a door, to shut the world of love from that other world, full of thorns and thistles, where ordinary mortals walked, not having the key of the burning imagination. With Margaret and Cammock away, and Perrin seldom present at meals, owing to his fear of the badgering of Stukeley, the cabin of the Broken Heart had come to be something of a home to her. She could feel again that nothing else really existed, that no one else really lived, that all the world, all the meaning and glory and life of the world, centred in the two burning mouths, in the two hearts which divined each other, apprehending all things in themselves. During that week of privacy she had even learned to think tenderly again of the three men who had shared the cabin with her. She found that she no longer resented Cammock’s want of breeding; his want of culture; his past as explained by Tom; his social position as compared with her aunt Pile’s coachman. During the voyage she had grown to dislike Margaret and Perrin, much as one dislikes the guests who have overstayed their welcome. She had been too much in the rapture of love to see things clearly, to judge character clearly; she had taken her judgments ready-made from Tom, who disliked the two men. She had liked them both as old friends; had liked them much, in the old days, before she knew life. But, under the strain of the voyage, ever prompted by Stukeley’s bitterness, while looking on them as her friends, she had come to resent their continual presence, to be cross at their conversation, which (as she felt instinctively) was restrained by their dislike of Tom, through their want of imaginative sympathy with his point of view. Now that they were no longer ever present, like spices added to each dish till every dish disgusts, she thought of them both with pity; feeling that they were growing old in their ways, narrowed in their sympathies, never knowing the meaning of life, which is love. Thus thought she, in the confidence of exulting health, in the rapture of being possessed, with the merciless pity of a newly married woman. This that she had waited for, this love which crowned and made her, it cleared the eyes, she thought, it exalted, it ennobled, it glorified. She would that those two pathetic figures, Margaret so serious and proud, with his clumsy walk, and halting, almost affected picked precision of phrase, and Perrin, the forlorn parasite who looked as though he had been frozen, were married; she would so gladly see them happy, tasting something of the joy which made earth heaven to her. Margaret would be a beautiful lover, very thoughtful and tender, but cold; he was cold-hearted, she thought, and rather frightening. Perrin would be attracted by some little merry woman who would laugh at him and twist him round her finger. Perrin, she confessed to Tom, attracted her more than the other, because he looked so wretched. Being so happy herself, she wished others to be happy. Her education, like most women’s education, had been aimed to make her fear the world, to make her shrink from those characters who judged the world and sought to direct it. Her own world, beautiful as it was, existed only by the exclusion of such characters; her nature could not accept Margaret wholly; she could only respect and vaguely fear him, as one respects and fears all things which one is not wise enough to understand. Perrin looked wretched, and having a tenderness for wretched folk, she thought that she understood him. All the time, unknown to her, the three men summed her up with pity and reverence and tender devotion; but mostly with pity, and with a mournful, tender curiosity. It was perhaps partly that curiosity which had made their absence pleasant to her. Their absence had been a relief to her, it had also relieved her husband. And since their arrival at Virginia her husband had made her anxious; he had behaved very queerly at times, ever since the first day. She felt that he was keeping something from her, perhaps some ailment which tortured him and made him irritable. She had been very thankful to have her dear love so much to herself during an entire week.

But at breakfast that morning the presence of the three men (and the prospect of their future presence) had shown her how much she longed for the quiet retirement of a home, where life could be culled, chosen, made up as one makes a nosegay, by beautiful friends, art, music, all the essences of life, all doubly precious to her now that life had become so precious.

“Tom,” she said, “Tom, dear, I want to talk to you about our life here. I don’t think it can go on, dear.”

“Why, little Olive, what’s up? What ruffles your serenity?”

“Tom, dear, I cannot bear this ship life. And those three men. At every meal I feel that one of them is watching me. Oh, and no woman to talk to. I think of our lovely times at Salcombe, Tom. We could shut the door; and it would be just our two selves.”

“Jolly times at Salcombe, hadn’t we? But what’s the matter, eh?”

“This ship life, Tom. It’s that. The men are so rude, and so rude to you, Tom. I can’t go on with it. I want to go back to England.”

“But I’ve promised to go to Darien, Olive.”

“I know, dear. I know. Don’t think me very foolish, Tom. But I don’t think I’m strong enough. Tom, darling, could not we leave this life? Think how rude Mr. Cottrill was to you only the other day. I do so long for our old happy life together. Away from the sea.”

“Look here, Livy. I understand. You’re lonely. Suppose we go and stay ashore for a while. You would meet ladies ashore. You’ve met them already.”

“Tom, I can’t meet those ladies. They’re not nice.”

“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with Mrs. Montague?”

“I feel that she isn’t a nice woman. That she isn’t—— You know I went to see her the day before yesterday. She was hung about with silver just like a savage, and all the young officers were there, playing cards. And Captain Montague had gone to Charlestown, and she was alone there, with all those men. So I sat down for a moment to rest after the walk and then came away. That was no place for me.”

“Well, we could stop with the Governor. Maggy knows him. What’s wrong with old Mrs. Prinsep?”

“I don’t like her, Tom. She’s a bitter woman. Oh, Tom, let’s go home.”

“But I’ve promised, Livy.”

“Yes, dear. I know. But we can’t always keep our promises. We can’t go to Darien. We can’t.”

“But what else can we do? We must, my dear. I can’t pay our passage home. I came away in such a rush. I’ve not got five pounds with me.”

“Oh, Tom, Tom. But that doesn’t matter, dear. We could borrow. Charles or Edward would lend to us.”

“No, thanks, Livy. There are some things I draw the line at. I can’t take a man’s hospitality and then borrow money from him.”

“But—— I know them better than you do, Tom. I could ask them.”

“Do you suppose, Livy, that I could let you borrow money from any man?”

“Then we could ask for a passage home in the convoy to the summer fleet. They would take us.”

Stukeley smiled uneasily, knowing only too well how likely he was to get a passage home with that convoy in any case.

“Olive,” he said, “do you remember a tale Captain Cammock told us about a little ruined city full of gold?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“D’you know, Olive, I’ve been half planning with Cammock to go to look for that ruined city. You see, Livy, we shall only be here probably till the summer fleet arrives. Ten days, or so. Do you think you could stand it for another month or two? If we found that city, I could buy my little Olive that summer cottage we set our hearts on.”

“Oh, take me home, Tom. Never mind the cottage. And I couldn’t have you going into the forest. I couldn’t be alone in the ship.”

“But then, Olive. Since I married my little Olive here, I’ve been wanting to do something for others. Living as a bachelor, one gets selfish. I want very much to help those Indians, Olive. To do something in return for you, dear.”

“I know, dear. It’s so like you. It’s noble of you. But you could do something for the people at home: for the poor. You could teach them. We could teach them together. But oh, don’t let’s go to Darien, Tom. We shall be separated. Tom, I couldn’t bear to be alone in the ship. And there may be fighting.”

“Come, come, Livy,” said Stukeley. He was nettled at what he judged to be her damned female pigheadedness, yet anxious to make his indignation appear moral. That is the common custom of the wicked, to the world’s misfortune. “Come, come,” he said, “you mustn’t talk in that way. We’re going to liberate the Indians. Eh? To show them what British Freedom means. Eh? We mustn’t think of ourselves, and our little aches and pains. We must think of the world.” He himself was ever ready to think of the world, or the flesh, or the devil, or all three. “We must think of the world, Livy. And if we should succeed. I think you would be proud of me, Livy.”

“I should be, Tom, dear. Very, very proud. But oh, Tom, do let us go home. We should be so happy there again. Here, we can’t get away from strangers. I can’t live among these people. They’re dreadful. And Darien, Tom. It’s a lawless place, full of the most terrible men.”

“Oh, they’re all right,” he answered. “They’re all right. And I shall be with you, my dear child. We must go to Darien, Livy. My honour’s pledged. I can’t draw back in honour. They would call me a coward. They’d say I was afraid. Besides, I can’t very well pay our way home. And I can’t borrow. You do realize my position, Livy? We must go on.”

“Oh, Tom,” said Olivia, crying now, in spite of brave efforts. “I didn’t think—I thought you’d take me when I begged you. We might be home in three weeks. Oh, Tom, do.” She clung to him, looking up at him, smiling appeal in spite of tears. Stukeley bit his lips from annoyance, longing to box her ears, to give her, as he phrased it, something to cry for. She thought that he was on the rack between his pledged honour and his love for her.

“No, Livy,” he said, parodying Captain Margaret’s manner towards an inferior. “No, Livy, dear. Don’t make it hard for me. We must never draw back from a noble cause, dear.” He thought that this would bring more tears, and force him to be brutal; he was not going to stand there while she snivelled on his shoulder. “A snivelling woman,” he always maintained, “is not a thing to be encouraged.” But to his surprise his answer checked her tears; she had never loved him more than when he placed his honour even above his love for her.

“There, Tom,” she said. “Forgive me. I won’t cry any more, dear. My nerves are upset. I won’t ask again, Tom. Of course, we’ll go to Darien. But I wasn’t thoughtless of your honour, Tom. You don’t think that? I wasn’t. I was only fidgety and frightened. Women are so silly. You don’t know how silly.”

“There, there,” he said. “There, there. What pretty ears you’ve got, Livy. Why in the world d’you wear earrings with ears like yours?”

“They’re only clip earrings, you old goose.”

“I shall bite them.”

“No, Tom. Not my ears now. My dear Tom. Do forgive me. You know I love you.”

“You’ve got the reddest lips I ever saw in a woman, Livy.”

“Oh. Do you notice women’s lips?”

“I notice yours. Almost the first thing I noticed of you was how red your lips were. What do you put on them?”

“Nothing. You put something on them sometimes.”

“What? A gag?”

“No. Your old silly mouth that asks so many questions.”

“I’ll get you some hot water for your eyes. You must bathe them.”

“How good and tender you are to me, Tom.”

As he walked to get a jugful of hot water he muttered to himself about her. “Bread and butter,” he repeated. “Bread and butter. A life of bread and butter. Forty years of it, good luck. Forty years of it to come. Batter pudding.” He met with Cammock in the alleyway; it occurred to him to be civil. “Captain Cammock,” he said, “will you join me in my smoking-room after dinner to-day? I’ve some Verinas tobacco. I’d like your opinion of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Cammock, wondering what had caused such sudden friendliness. “But which do you call your smoking-room?”

“That little tiny cabin just forward of the bath-room. It’s only big enough for a few chairs and a bookshelf.”

“Oh, the after-hospital,” said Cammock. “I’ll be very pleased, sir. But where did you speak with Verinas tobacco, Mr. Stukeley?”

“I spoke with it ashore,” said Stukeley, “of a Mr. Davis, whom I think you know.”

“Ah,” said Cammock. “Indeed? Well. After dinner, sir.”

Later in the morning, Stukeley tried his tobacco alone, on the cabin cushions, looking through the windows at the town. He added up the chances for and against himself, smiling with satisfaction at the kindly aspect of the planets. His chief fear had been an arrest on arrival. That fear had been proved to be groundless. Then there was the chance of arrest after the arrival of the summer fleet with the mails. That chance, though possibly dangerous, was not to be dreaded. Old Howard, the Governor, was a friend of Maggy’s, and Maggy had bribed him to obtain illegal rights of trade. He could put the Governor into some trouble, should he press for an arrest on the arrival of orders from the Board. But he wasn’t likely to press for an arrest. He would give a quiet hint for them to go. But even if the arrest were ordered, he had allies in the Broken Heart. He knew that Margaret and the others would do anything to shield and spare Olivia. They thought that she was going to have a child. Good Lord, they were a comical trio. They thought that an arrest would probably kill her. And Maggy, that stiff, shambling, stuck-up, conceited prig, Maggy who had been going to fight a duel with him. Swords and pistols, damme; swords and pistols, damme. Well. What had it all come to? Why, Maggy would stop him in the alleyway, taking him gently by the arm, as one takes the doctor by the arm, when he comes out of the sick-room. “How is Olivia, Stukeley? How is she this morning?” Bated breath, good Lord. Best doctor’s manner. And Perrin running ashore for fruit and fresh fish and eggs. And Cammock. Well, Cammock was a bit of a dark horse; so he would make much of Cammock for some days. Besides, that little ruined city, full of gold, might turn out to be worth looking for. As for Olivia, she would have to come to Darien, whether she cried or not. He rather liked living at free quarters, as cock of the walk. He wasn’t going to go ashore in Virginia to settle among the colonists. Besides, in Darien, there would be a bit of sport, by all accounts. There would be shooting; perhaps a little shooting at Spaniards; plunder to be made; good living generally. The only bitter sediment in this cup of pleasure was Mrs. Inigo. He had been very nearly caught with Mrs. Inigo. He knew that he had raised suspicions, that he would have to walk warily for some little time. He wished that he was married to Mrs. Inigo. All this talk of love, such talk as Olivia loved, this talk of trust and sacrament and the rest of it. He was sick of it. He thought that men were naturally polygamous. A few fools and perverts. What right had they to dictate to him? Mrs. Inigo would be just the sort of wife for him. She would understand. And she wouldn’t make him sick with talk about Beauty. She hadn’t mixed with the gang of twisters Olivia had known. Maggy was the boy for Beauty. There was where Olivia learned her beauty talk. Twisters. That was all that Maggy’s gang were. He would like to twist their necks. As for the colonials, the Virginian women didn’t please him. The garrison ladies were like all the garrison ladies known to him, silly little empty fools, without enough imagination to be vicious. They could just chatter, play cards, kiss their beastly lap-dogs, and wear their English clothes to church, so as to show off before the colonials. The colonial girls were not like women at all. They were like young horses, like young men. They would dance and romp, like colts in a hay-lot. But their idea of an evening’s amusement was to roll a man in a corn-crib, and smother him with pillows or flour. The colonial men bored him; he had always thought ill of farmers. Their talk was all of the tobacco crop, the duty, the burning of half the leaf, and the destruction of those plantations which were too productive. They had no wines. Their only drinks were rum and new cider. They did not play cards. Their chief amusement seemed to be riding to prayer-meetings. They would often ride forty miles to a prayer-meeting in the woods. He rather liked them for that. He would have ridden a hundred miles to avoid a Church service there, under a Virginian parson. “They pay their parsons in tobacco,” he said to himself. “They get the very sweepings of the Church. What souls they must have, when you can save five thousand of them for forty pounds a year.”

Thus his thoughts ran inside his skull, under his curly black hair, behind that red face so long the adoration of shop-girls. But after dinner, in the little room known as the after-hospital, when, stretched at ease in the bunk, he could see Cammock sitting upright in the chair, through the wavering tobacco-smoke, his thoughts ran upon other matters. He thought of the coming cruise to Darien.

“Good tobacco, captain?”

“Yes, sir. But it’s not Verinas. It’s too strong. Too red. This is some of that Mexican tobacco. It leaves that tang, like a metal. That’s how you can tell, sir. Just puff out, sir, and roll your tongue round. You taste what I mean?”

“Yes. But I bought it as Verinas. I paid four shillings the Spanish pound.”

“That gang of Davis’s saw you coming, sir.”

“Really? Well. It’s my turn to laugh next. You tell them that, captain.”

“They’re no friends of mine, sir,” said Cammock simply.

“Aren’t they? I thought they were particular friends of yours. You sailed with them?”

“I’ve sailed with a good many as I’m no friends with.”

“Really.”

“I say nothing against them,” said Cammock. “They’re very good seamen. Doing good as planters, too, sir. They’ve quite a lot of ground burnt off. I dare say you’ve seen it.”

“Yes. But I thought from what they said that they were particular friends of yours. Eh?”

“Indeed, sir. When did you see them?”

“I saw them yesterday, Captain Cammock.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“They said that you and Captain Margaret had just arranged to take about thirty of them, as a sort of company of soldiers. To have them aboard here. Eh? Men of war. Eh? Pretty nearly the whole village of them.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“You don’t like your little secrets to be known.”

“Ah? Oh. I forgot to ask, Mr. Stukeley. How is Mrs. Stukeley?”

“She’s very well, thanks. You didn’t think I’d learn your little secret about the men of war.”

“I didn’t think one way or the other. You’d have known some day sure enough. I needn’t disguise the fact. Yes. We’ve just got thirty of them, to join at an hour’s notice.”

“When we sail? When will that be?”

“We ought to a gone to-day. Only our foretopmast’s sprung. We have to wait for a new one. But you know yourself, sir. We may have to sail at an hour’s notice, spar or no spar.”

“Thank you for reminding me. You’re a person of great delicacy, Cammock. For one of your rank in life.”

“I believe I am, sir. Let it go at that.”

“Can we sail at an hour’s notice?”

“If the Governor, and that old frigate, the royal Nonsuch, don’t object. I suppose we could if we had to, even without a topmast. But if our topmast ain’t aboard, we couldn’t run very fast. I reckon we could, sir.”

“Leaving all that tobacco ashore?”

“Yes. All except about fifty ton, which we’ve got aboard. That tobacco’ll go home in the summer fleet, if the fleet don’t want to cross home light.”

“I hear you’ve got all the pick of the crop.”

“You hear a lot of things, sir. Well-informed man, Ed Davis.”

“He knows what’s going on,” said Stukeley. “When you’re shut up with a couple of old sheep, like your two owners, you need a change.”

“So I believe, sir.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean just what I said.”

“Ah, yes. A simple, rugged nature. Eh? But how can we put to sea with so much cargo out of her?”

“We’re not too light, Mr. Stukeley. It ain’t as though we’d emptied her. We’ve taken in a lot of fresh water. A lot of scantling, too. A lot of this Virginia cider. Then there’s the new cables we bought from them Hog Islers. Besides the fifty odd ton of tobacco. Still, I don’t say but what she’ll cut up a bit of a dance, if she gets any weather going south.”

“I thought all her cargo was consigned to Virginia.”

“Did you, sir?”

“Surely. What’s the good of fencing? Good luck, captain. I’m not an old sheep, like your owners.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“You’re getting funny, captain. A wit. You ought to have been at the University.”

“That’s where they make gentlemen, sir.”

“Oh, you know that?”

“We’d one of them come with us in the Trinity. I know all about the universities.”

“He taught you, eh? Private tuition in the forecastle?”

“Yes. As you might say. One of the things he taught was—— Well. You were at one yourself. I don’t think he could have learned you much.”

“Don’t you? Could he have learned me (as you call it) that the reason you’ve not discharged your cargo here is that you’re going to try to trade along the Main?”

“Ned Davis knows a lot, it seems.”

“Don’t be so confounded smart and hippy. See? I know all your plans. I know all you can do, and all you’re going to try to do. And I know exactly where you’ll go wrong.”

“Then we shan’t have the trouble of telling you.”

“What d’you say to going up the river after Springer’s little city? Eh? There might be something in that.”

“I met a power of clever men in my time,” said Cammock. “I don’t say men of learning and that. I mean clever fellers. I been up rivers with ’em.”

“Looking for cities?”

“Cities sometimes. Sometimes it was gold mines. Then again it’d be Indians. Boys to spear fish and that. Or perhaps it was only a snatching-raid. The clever fellers was never any good at it. But, hear ’em talk. My.”

“I gather your intellect is trying to express the fact that you dislike me. I think I trace so much. I see your brain floundering towards it.”

“Huh,” said Cammock, snorting. “I think I see you floundering towards that little city. Man alive. Good heart alive. D’ye know what sort one of them rivers is, to go up? You’ve neither skill nor sense of it. You lie there bilged in your bunk like a barge at low tide, and you come the funny nigger, trying to get a raise. I’ll tell you what them rivers is like. See here, now. Listen to me. I’ll perhaps give you some idea of the land you’re bound for.”

“Really? I don’t know that I want to hear you.”

“No. But I want you to hear me, Mr. Stukeley. I’ll tell you where the golden city is.”

“Now you’re talking business.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well. When you come in from the Samballoes, you’ll see the land ahead of you, like a wall of green. Just like a wall. Think. Dense. Then you come to two rivers, about thirty yards across. They’re the two mouths of the Conception River. You try to go up one of them in your boat. First thing you know is a thundering big bar. You’d be surprised how ugly them little bars get. Well. Suppose you get across. What’s next? D’ye know what a snag is?”

“A branch of alder or willow, fallen into the river.”

“Yes. Or a whole whacking big great oak, Mr. Stukeley, fallen right across, and rotting there. With its branches all jammed up with drift and drowned things. Hornets’ nests stuck in ’em. Great grey paper bags. So then you land, and take out your macheat, and cut a path around that tree, and drag your boat round. May take you an hour or more. Then into your boat again, after sliding down a mud-bank with eighteen inch of slime on top. Presently you come to a lot more trees. Out you get and cut another road. Perhaps you go back a half-mile to find a place where you can land. Oh. It’s death, going up one of them brooks. Then, there’s shallows where you wade. Rapids where you wade and haul, losing your footing and getting soused. By and by comes a cloud-burst somewhere in the hills above. Or perhaps a jam of logs bursts, a kind of a natural dam, a mile or two above you. Then. Woosh. You see a wall of water a yard high coming at you. If you’re slippy on your oars you get ashore from that. Maybe you hear it coming. It makes a roar like the tide. You drag your boat ashore.”

“Aren’t you rather laying it on for my benefit?”

“As for laying it on, Mr. Stukeley, I’ll make you judge for yourself as soon as we come on the coast. I tell you one thing. You’ll sing mighty small when you come to tackle such a country. That’s something you won’t have learned, where you learned your manners.”

Stukeley laughed. “Well. Go on with your yarn,” he said. “I like hearing of foreign parts.”

“No,” said Cammock. “I’m not going on. But there’s your city. It’s within twenty miles of the sea, and within five of the eastern Conception.”

“Will you come to look for it with me?”

“No, sir,” said Cammock. “I won’t. I don’t fancy your company.”

“I like you, captain.”

Cammock looked at him steadily for a moment, and then lit his pipe at the brazier.

“What are the women like in Darien?”

“You’re a married man, Mr. Stukeley.”

“Thank you. I know I’m a married man. I asked you what the women are like?”

“They’re mostly a rather duskish brown or copper colour.”

“So I think I know. Can a fellow have any fun with them?”

“They’re modest, merry creatures. Very kind, simple creatures. Another thing. They’re strong as colts. You see, they do most of the work. They’ll carry a man like you. I guess you’re one and a half hundred-weight. They’d carry you across a swamp. And they’re only very small, you know. As for fun, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cammock, the chaste pirate.”

“Now go easy, Mr. Stukeley. I can take a lot, but I don’t take pirate of any man.”

“The virgin martyr.”

“We had one of our men a martyr, Mr. Stukeley. He tried to have a bit of ‘fun,’ as you call it, with one of the Samballoes women. Lemuel Bath his name was. They caught him, as it happened. And they done to him what they do to each other, if they try any ‘fun’ and get caught. That was ashore on the Main at the back of Sasardi there. I was ashore the next day, filling water at the ’Seniqua. We seen Bath come crippling down the beach, with his head back, and his hands tearing his chest all bloody. Tearing his chest into strips with pain. Naked, too. He died that evening. No, sir. Don’t you try it.”

“Thanks. Niggers aren’t in my line. I leave them to pirates.”

“That’s you. It’s time I was on deck, Mr. Stukeley. Adios, señor. Divertiete. That’s what we used to say to the Spaniards when their ransoms were paid.” He nodded to the head which watched him from the bunk. Turning on his heel, he passed from the cabin, pressing his thumb upon his pipe to kill the ember in the bowl. “I wonder if there’s many like him,” he said to himself. “I wonder what it is makes him like that. I’d like him in a watch. Oh, mommer.” As he muttered thus, in passing to the deck, Stukeley turned in his bunk, drawing the curtain. “Hulking boor,” he said to himself. “Hulking old savage. This is the sort of company we keep when we come to sea. Crusty he gets, when you bait him.” He thought of the little golden city and of the little brown women, with resolve to try them both. “Good luck,” he said; “I hope we’ll soon get out of here, before Olivia’s nerves go off again.” As he settled himself down for his nap he was roused by a noise in the sample-room, where Mr. Harthop broke in a caskhead with a tomahawk. He went to the alleyway-door to call down the passage to Margaret’s cabin.

“Margaret,” he cried, “can’t you stop that beastly noise for a bit? Olivia’s lying down.”

“I am sorry,” said Margaret, coming from his cabin. “I ought to have—— Mr. Harthop, will you please unhead your casks on deck? The noise upsets Mrs. Stukeley. Apologize for me, Stukeley.”

The noise ceased, and Stukeley slept like an infant, showing his strong white teeth in a smile. Harthop muttered and swore, wishing that a ship with a woman in her might sail the rivers of hell; for that was all she was fit for. He reproved the man who was working with him for suggesting the tomahawk. The man sulked and loafed for the rest of the afternoon, and then told a sympathetic fo’c’s’le that you got your head bit off if that pale judy in the cabin heard you so much as “hem.” Harthop, nursing his wrath till knock-off time, took it out of the boy who kept his cabin clean.

“Can’t you find some other place to stow your brass-rags, without putting them under my mattress?”

“Please, sir, they’re not the brass-rags. They’re the rags you stuff in the leaky seam, sir. In wet weather, sir.”

“My bed’s no place for them, you dirty young hound. What have you done with the molasses that was left?”

“You’d ate all your molasses, sir; from last week.”

“There was some left in the tin. You’ve been at it again.”

“No, sir. I swear I haven’t, sir.”

“How many times have I told you I won’t have you swear? Eh? Give me my supplejack.”

“Oh, sir, I won’t do it again. I won’t do it again.”

“There, my boy. Perhaps that’ll teach you another time. Now go and lay my supper. If you don’t stop howling I’ll give you another six.”

The boy went forward howling, to hide in the darkness of the hold, where he could cry by himself, choking with misery and shame, praying for death. If he had had a flint and steel he would have burnt the Broken Heart at her anchor. As he had none, he sobbed himself to sleep, careless of Mr. Harthop’s supper, full of the bleeding, aching misery which none save the wronged child can ever taste to the full. When it was dark and all had gone to bed, he crept aft to the ward-room, where the bread-barge and the case of spirits stood, just as the two mates had left them. He helped himself to bread and rum; for misery had made him reckless. Besides, having defied Mr. Harthop he might as well defy the two mates. So he ate and drank, looking at the light on the landing-stage, which made a golden track to dance. It trembled in yellow flakes on the water, a path of gold, to the blackness of the rudder eddies below him. He was not very sure if he could swim so far; but he did not care. He was too wretched to mind drowning. It was very dark in the wardroom. It was dark above him in the cabin. Below him, the ship’s shadow was dark. He was sure that the watchmen would not see him. They never walked on the poop. After a moment of groping he found the falls of the relieving-tackle, and unrove the raw hide till he had an end ten feet long. He hitched the tackle so that the block should not creak, and paid out the end through the chase-port. Then, as even the most miserable of us will, he felt the misery of leaving. This ship of wretchedness had been a home to him. He remembered the singing in the dog-watch. It was awful to have to go like that. In his wretchedness, a tear or two rolled down his cheek, to splash on the port-sill. A light footstep moved up and down above him. One of the stern-windows of the cabin opened with a little rattle. He heard Stukeley’s voice coming from the state-room drowsily. Then Mrs. Stukeley spoke from overhead.

“It’s such a beautiful night, Tom. Do come and see the stars. They’re wonderful. Wonderful. Come and see them, Tom dear.”

“You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Bow-wow-wow. What an old bear. I shan’t. I’ve got on my dressing-gown.”

“Thanks. I prefer my bed.”

The listener in the wardroom smiled in spite of his misery; then trembled lest the lady should stay long. For suppose a watchman crept below to see if the mates had left any rum behind them? Suppose anybody came—Mr. Harthop, Mr. Ramage? He peered into the ’tween-decks, where all was dark and still, save for the cat’s eyes gleaming green, watching for a mouse, and the snores of Mr. Ramage in his hammock. Then, up above him, moved by the beauty of the night, the woman began to sing, in a voice of drowsy sweetness, in a little low voice that made each word a pearl, a round, lustrous pearl, a tiny globe that glowed in the mind, it was so perfect, so ripe, so tender. She was singing that old song of Campion’s about the woman who had played with love in the hour of her beauty. She was a woman who had played, and been played with; till her beauty withered just as she had learned the worth of love, just as life had made her worthy of love, at her coming to wisdom:—

Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?

Whither are thy flatterers gone, with all their feigning?

All fled, and thou, alone, still here remaining.

. . . . . . . . . . .

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perusèd,

Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excusèd,

“None ever lived more just, none more abusèd.”

The window closed amid murmured words; Stukeley, moved by the voice, had drawn his wife away. The boy sighed that it was over; then corked the rum-bottle and put it in his pocket. He would have taken some bread, had he been able to carry it dry. He thought of dashing to his chest in the half-deck for an extra shirt; but gave up the plan as being too risky. Very quietly and quickly he slid down the rope into the water, letting the tide take him, striking out now and again, towards the landing-stage. He was puzzled by the coming of the ripples; they hit him in the cheek before he judged that they were near. He got a mouthful once, and choked; but none heard. Very soon he was clambering up the landing, gulping rum with shudders. Then, after wringing out his jacket, he set out to run along the sandy track that was the street. The dogs barked as they heard his feet beat; but he kept on, for some three miles, till he dropped tired out among the wood. There he lay shivering in the scrub till the dawn, when, seeing a plantation near, he sought shelter of the planter, who hired him “for his keep,” glad of the chance. In the morning, when hue and cry was made for him, when boys and men called and crawled for him among the cargo of the ship, no one suspected that Stukeley was the indirect cause of his desertion. The mates swore when they found their rum gone. The other boys swore when they had to do the deserter’s work. Cammock swore at the watchmen for not barring in the chase-ports, while the watchmen swore that they had barred them. Mr. Harthop swore that if ever he caught that boy again he would give him cherriliccum pie. Thus the matter came to an end.

IX. A FAREWELL DINNER

The shame and obloquy I leave thine own;

Inherit those rewards; they’re fitter for thee.

Your oil’s spent, and your snuff stinks: go out basely.

The False One.

Standing on the poop, looking seaward, the five cabin-dwellers watched the summer fleet come in. It came in haltingly, a scattered troop of ships, some with spars gone, one or two, fir-built, streaked white where a shot had struck; all seaworn. Cammock, watching them, sent his boat round to the “men of war” to order them aboard at once. Harthop had already been settled ashore, in charge of the tobacco, under the Governor’s eye. He would make good terms for the ship’s owners; the merchants at home could hardly lose on the venture.

“We’re all right, sir,” said Cammock to Margaret. “There’s probably a letter. But the Governor’s your friend. You needn’t worry.”

“I wish I could see things as you see them, captain,” said Margaret. “But I can’t. How is it you always have a plan? How do you discipline yourself? How is it you’re always ready?”

“I dunno, sir. I’ve only got a few things to think of, and I think ’em out. P’r’aps that’s it. But just step aft, sir. Look here, sir. We’re ready to sail. The new topmast’s aloft. We’re a little light, perhaps, but nothing to hurt. The thing is—are you going to give him up? You got to decide now.”

“I can’t. We must think of her child.”

“She can’t have a child on the Isthmus.”

“There’ll be time enough to arrange something else when we get there. But she must be spared the shock.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll send the long-boat in for all the fresh meat and fruit there is.”

“Oh, I know, captain. I know it’s not the rightest thing for her. A voyage to sea.”

“She’ll get that anyway, sir. Either way. Very good, sir. I’ll have all ready to sail. I’ve sent for the ‘men of war.’ They’ll join us either here, or between the Points. Well, Mr. Perrin. We’re off to-night, sir.”

“But we’re all dining with the Governor. You’ve surely not forgotten that, Charles.”

“Look there, Edward. There’s the summer fleet.”

“What if it is? We can’t throw the Governor over. We must dine with the Governor. What? You an Englishman and want not to dine with a lord?”

“How about our friend there?”

“No Englishman would arrest a guest at dinner. He values his digestion and his butler’s opinion too much. There’s no risk. Oh, we must go to the dinner. I’ve got a new American coat to go in.”

“No harm in it, sir,” said Cammock. “It might divert the lady, poor thing.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, sighing. “If it won’t tire her.” He crossed over to the Stukeleys. “Olivia,” he said, “Perrin has just reminded me that we’re dining to-night at the Governor’s. It won’t tire you?”

“Tire me? Of course it won’t.”

“You would like to go?”

“We both want to go. Tom’s going to sing ‘Twankydillo.’ We may have enough ladies for a dance.”

“We shall probably sail, directly we come aboard to-night.”

“Sail, Charles? Not for Darien?”

“Yes, Olivia. For Darien.”

“Ah-h.” She turned white. Little as she liked Virginia, she knew it, she had proved it. The unknown was before her now, close at hand, shapeless yet, ill-defined, a spectral country. For a moment she stared blankly at Margaret with the eyes of a frightened animal. “Isn’t it. Isn’t it rather sudden?” she asked.

“Yes. Rather sudden,” he answered in a hard voice. “But, of course, we may not go. You see, Stukeley. You see, Olivia. The summer fleet there may have letters for us. May have letters for us.” He groped about for an excuse. “My owners,” he went on. “My merchants may wish me to proceed at once. On the other hand, we may be told to trade at Charleston. Or trade rather longer here. Though we’ve done well here. It’s possible. You understand, Olivia. I told you the day we left Falmouth. Our whole aim was to have our work done before the summer fleet arrived. To buy up the tobacco crop before some of it is fully cured. And, to tell the truth, we’ve hurried all we could.”

“Don’t worry, old girl,” said Stukeley, drawing his wife aside. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.”

“Oh, Tom. Don’t go. Don’t let us go.”

“Oh, come, come,” he said, biting his lips. “It’ll be all right. Maggy. Come here, Maggy. If you meet a home-bound English ship on our way we may ask to be transhipped.”

“Oh,” said Olivia; “then why not go ashore now, Tom? Why go on to Darien?”

Stukeley muttered to himself about his folly. “Now we’re going all over it again,” he said to himself. “Remember, I’m pledged in honour, Livy,” he said.

“Then, Charles, you’ll release him from his pledge, won’t you? Let him come ashore. I want to go home.”

Margaret flushed, and then turned white. For a moment he wavered; she saw him waver.

“You will, Charles. Won’t you?”

“Olivia,” he answered. “I cannot. I’d like to. But he’s such a good Spanish scholar. He’s the only one of us who really knows Spanish. I’d grown to count on him. We all had.”

“But you could get Spanish talkers here, Charles. Couldn’t he, Captain Cammock?”

“No, ma’am. You couldn’t get gentlemen, Mrs. Stukeley. And you see the Dons is particular.”

“Yet you sailed from London without a Spanish talker.”

“Yes,” said Perrin. “But our plans were different then.”

“How were they different then? I’m going to cross-examine you all.”

“We decided to try to trade with some of the Spanish cities, Olivia; having so good an interpreter.”

“I thought you were going to fight with the Spanish cities. That’s what we decided in council.”

“My dear Livy,” said Stukeley. “You’re like a justice of the peace.”

“But I want——” She checked herself sharply, and looked at the incoming ships. The men also turned to look, as she had planned that they should.

“That’s a nice one, isn’t it, Captain Cammock?”

“The Dutch-built one, Mrs. Stukeley? No.”

“How do you know she’s Dutch-built?”

“How do you know whether to trust a man when you meet him, Mrs. Stukeley? You don’t rightly know. You have an instinct. I’ve an instinct for ships. There’s twenty things tells me she’s Dutch, long before I’ve time to examine them.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, only too glad of the diversion. “But I want you to tell us now what it is that makes you say she’s Dutch. It’s in her hull, isn’t it? What is it in her hull?”

“The Dutch, sir,” said Cammock, “are built for the India trade, and they give their ships a rather high sheer, and not quite so much camber as an English builder likes. Then they like a very flat floor, and a tuck that——” He wandered on into a swamp of sea terms, taking it for granted that his hearers understood him. Margaret and Perrin plied him close with questions as the ship loitered past them, rolling in the light wind, her men singing out at her cluelines. While they talked, Stukeley and Olivia went below to the cabin; Stukeley with the feeling that Olivia would now make no more fuss; Olivia with the sense that all was not well, that something was withheld from her.

“Tom,” she said suddenly, as soon as the cabin-door had closed, “you’re keeping something from me. What is it? Why am I not to know?”

“I’m not keeping anything back.”

“Tom, I think you’re being made a tool of. I think Charles has some scheme that isn’t quite right. Don’t be dragged into it, Tom.”

“Dragged into it, Livy?”

“You’ve a noble, trusting nature, Tom; and I love you for it. But. Oh, I feel sure Charles has some deep-laid scheme, that he’s afraid to tell you of. I don’t think he was telling the truth to me just now.”

“Oh, nonsense, Livy. He couldn’t tell a lie if he tried.”

“No, Tom, dear; but he was trying.”

“When?”

“He was trying to find a reason for the ship’s sailing to-night.”

“But it was the plan, Livy. We expected to sail as soon as the summer fleet came.”

“Why, Tom? Tell me that.”

“There may be letters ordering us to sail. My dear girl. Maggy’s got a whole firm of merchants to order him as they please. We had to be ready in case an order came from them. There may be no order.”

“But we weren’t ready, Tom. When the fleet was signalled we were in the midst of trading.”

“Yes. But my dear child. If there’s no order, we may trade again to-morrow.”

“You think it’s all right then, Tom? Do you?”

“Of course I do, Livy. You’ve got fine eyes, Livy. Did you know that?”

“But why should they alter their scheme of fighting the Spaniards? You promised to help the Indians against the Spaniards. Now you’re suddenly asked to help Charles’s merchants to make trade with the Spaniards. You never promised to do that. And I should never have let you. Never. Never. Oh, Tom, they’ve tricked us cruelly. They aren’t going to help the Indians, Tom. They’re going to make money, like common city-merchants. And they want my noble, generous Tom to help them. Don’t do it, dear. Don’t do it. I can’t bear it.”

“My dear Livy.”

“I can’t have you mixed up with merchants.”

“Look here, old girl. Aren’t you a little unreasonable? We’ve decided that we can help the Indians best by making some sort of agreement with the Spaniards.”

“You say we have decided this. When was it decided? Why wasn’t I told?”

“We haven’t really decided. It was suggested last night. After you’d gone to bed.”

“Why wasn’t I told? What was suggested?”

“It’s a fine idea, Livy. Cammock suggested our going to one of the towns and proposing an agreement with the Governor.”

“What sort of an agreement?”

“The Governor to trade with us, just as if we were Spanish. The English to abstain from hostilities, and the Indians to be accounted English subjects. And they want me to interview the Governor.”

“It’s only an excuse to make money, Tom. To make money without the self-sacrifice of fighting. And what if the Spaniards refuse?”

“Then we should have some just excuse for proceeding as we’d planned.”

“Tom, I don’t think they’ve been straightforward with us. There’s something hidden. I’m sure of it.”

“But what can be hidden, Livy? My darling charmer. Eh? Besides, look here, my beauty-spot. I’m ambitious. I want to make my Livy proud. See? If I see these Governors, and bring off some arrangement. You see? It’s a big matter, Livy. It’s knighthood. It may be a seat on the Trade and Plantations Board. It may be all sorts of things.”

“Yes,” she said. “Tom, I quite see that. I’m ambitious for you, too. There, dear, I know you’ve set your heart on it. Oh, Tom, though, I hate the thought of it all. And I’m sure there’s something hidden. I’m sure there is. I wish I knew.”

“Nonsense,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Where’d you like to be kissed? I’m going to kiss your nose because you’ve got it turned up in the air to-day.”

“I haven’t, Tom.”

“Come here,” he said, catching her as she wriggled free. “None of your wriggles. Come and be kissed. You’re not going to dress till your nose is kissed.”

An hour later, they stood in the Governor’s house waiting for the Governor to receive them. They fidgeted about the large, cool, rather bare room; now staring through the window at the ships, now fingering the books, turning up the pictures to the light. Stukeley took a pistol from the wall, and examined the engraved silver of the butt. Olivia chatted with Perrin about the rambler roses trailing round the window.

“We must take some slips to Darien,” said Perrin. “But I don’t much like this dark red kind.”

“We have them at home,” she answered quietly. “I shall take home some slips from Darien; for everything will grow with us. I expect lots of things would transplant.”

“Yes, lots,” he answered.

“Olivia,” said Margaret, “have you seen this Rembrandt?”

“Why,” she said. “It’s the Hundred Guilder Print. It’s like meeting an old friend.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, peering. “It’s a very beautiful state, too. What’s the etching beyond you there, Edward?”

“One of Hollar’s.”

“Ah, yes,” said Margaret. “It’s interesting to put a Hollar beside the real thing. No artist can make a ship wonderful to us. A ship is a wonderful work of art without him. Just look at them there, Olivia.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, looking at the ships. “Why. The Broken Heart’s under sail.”

“Her topsails are on the caps. Ready for us to go.”

“In case we do go?”

“Yes. In case.” Olivia looked at him steadily, noting that, for all his self-control, he seemed uneasy at her look. The situation was saved by the entrance of an orderly, in the white coat and blue scarf of the Virginia troop. He saluted.

“The Governor presents ’s compliments ’n’ ’ll join you d’rec’ly.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I suppose the mails have arrived? Do you know?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, as he stood in the doorway. “In the summer fleet, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“What have you got there, Tom?” said Olivia.

“A little pretty pistol,” he said.

“Nice silver chasing,” said Perrin.

“Spanish,” said Margaret. “They make those at Toledo.”

“Let me see,” said Olivia.

“Yes. Spanish,” said Stukeley. “Wheel-lock. Loaded. Priming-cup lidded. A very nice little gun. See the Spanish motto?”

“What does the Spanish mean?” asked Olivia. “Se nada, pero. I can’t read it.”

“It means, ‘I know nothing. But I talk well.’ I wonder if I’ve forgotten my pistol shooting. Eh? I used to be able to nail the ace of diamonds at a dozen yards. Let’s make Pilly back up against the wall, and do the William Tell act.”

“Tom, dear. Don’t play with that. It’s loaded. You might hurt somebody.”

“Yes. Put it down, Stukeley,” said Margaret. “It’s one of old Howard’s treasures. Put it down.”

“Put it down?” said Stukeley. “You’ve got a nerve to tell me to put it down. I want this little gun. I like it. I’m going to bag it. If anybody interferes with me at dinner, Livy, I shall just plug him. Pop. In between the eyes. You see if I don’t.” He slipped the pistol into his pocket.

Margaret smiled to see Olivia’s face of horror.

“Why,” said Stukeley. “Why, Livy, that’s what they do in this country. What are old what’s-his-name’s swords like? Look here, for a sword. Eh? There’s a temper. Look here. See?”

“That’s a fine piece of steel,” said Margaret. “Is it Milanese?”

“Milanese? Milanese? Milanese in your eye. Are you touched? It’s Spanish. Comes from a place called Toledo, if you’ve ever heard of it. Spanish motto like the other. Old Howard must collect Spanish things.”

“What is the motto?” Olivia asked.

“No me saques sin razon: well. Do not draw me without reason. Unless he spits in your face, for instance. No me envaines sin honor: Nor sheathe me till. Well. Till you’ve made sure.”

“Made sure?”

“Seen that the other fellow’s juice is pink. Stand still, Maggy, till I see if you’ve got red blood in you. I could prod you from here just under your fourth rib. Ping. Eh? This sword just suits me. Look, Olivia. Look how they’ve inlaid this hilt.”

“What beautiful work, Tom. And what a waste. To put all that beautiful work on to a sword.”

“A sword’s a knight’s weapon,” said Margaret. “How could we defend Olivia Stukeley if our swords weren’t worthily made.”

“There’s the question,” said Stukeley. “Look at old Pilly there. What book have you got there, Pilly? Read it out to us.”

“It’s a book of sick man’s meditations,” said Perrin. “I won’t read it out. Look at it. It’s all thumbed to dog’s ears.”

“Howard’s,” said Margaret. “What an extraordinary book for him to have.”

“Oh,” said Perrin, “that’s the secret of an Englishman’s success. He’s nothing better than a pirate, grabbing all he can get. Oh, I’m not English, myself. But the secret of his success is in this book here. He makes his peace with God as he goes on. The other people. I don’t know about the Dutch. They beat you; so they must be like you, only better. The other people try to make their peace before or after; and so they lose, either way. But you know, Olivia, you are——”

“The Dutch didn’t beat us,” said Stukeley. “We beat them. So you’re out of it there, little Taffy with the Leek.”

“How about the Medway? Look, Olivia. Look at Jamestown. This is the capital of our chief colony. Would any other nation in the world produce a capital of twenty wooden houses, a fort, a church, and a Governor’s mansion? This is the mansion. Look at it.”

“A better mansion than you’ve got at home,” said Stukeley. “What are you talking of?”

“Suppose the Dutch were here. Think what a city they’d have built.”

“What a hot head it is,” said Margaret gently. “I don’t agree with you a bit, Edward. You’re all wrong. The Dutch haven’t done much in the East.”

“At least, they’ve worked; and made the Indians work.”

“And the English here. Have they worked?”

“Not so much.”

“Isn’t that an argument against you? It tells just the other way. Work is often one of the most degrading things in the world. All work that gives no rapture of creation is degrading. That is why the merchant is poor company, and the professional a conservative. The Dutch built Batavia; but their system has ruined the spice trade. The Spaniards built San Domingo; but their system ruined the island. They’ve built Panama and Lima; but they’ve destroyed both Costa Rica and Peru. A city can only be the growth of a civilization. You can only build a colonial city by agreeing to ruin the colony. So here. There may be a time when all the trees in sight will have sailed out to sea. This harbour may be crowded with ships. Who knows? This place may be another Athens some day.”

“There’s not much Athens here now. The colonials aren’t much like Athenians.”

“I think they’re very like, Edward. They’re fond of liberty. They take a beautiful pride in their bodies. They are attached to the country. They’re very like Athenians. The world doesn’t alter much.”

“How about Plato and Sophocles?”

“They were not the world. They had wrought themselves to something finer than the world.”

“The Governor’s got a devil of a lot of letters,” said Stukeley. “There goes his secretary to him.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I pity the man who tries it,” Stukeley muttered, thinking of an arrest.

“Is this a very good harbour for ships?” Olivia asked.

“Yes; very good,” said Margaret. “Don’t you love to imagine the river here full of ships, the biggest and most beautiful kinds of ships? And then the banks here, and yonder, with a city. A city, built of marble. Marble cathedrals. And a great citadel on the hill there.”

“A great naval power is always on the brink of ruin,” said Perrin. “Athens was a great naval power, and had her navy smashed by a power without a navy. Carthage the same. Spain was greatest at the eighty-eight. There’s another instance.”

“Naval power is a very fine thing,” said Margaret. “You’re mixing up greatness, and the weakness which comes of overweening pride, or the defect of greatness.”

“That’s what you silly Celts are always doing,” said Stukeley.

At this moment the orderly reappeared, saluting.

“Beg pardon, sirs,” he said, “but which of you gents is Captain Margaret?”

“I am.”

“ ’Is lordship’s compliments, sir; ’n’ will you step this way?”

Margaret glanced at the faces of his friends. Stukeley sat down, nursing the sword, looking at the doorway and at the window. Perrin, who sincerely hoped he was about to see the end of Stukeley, enjoyed a mental vision of the Ephesian matron. His day-dream was of Olivia in black, in a darkened London room, and of himself, the comforter, come to console her, with platitude in low tone, sentiment speaking grief’s language. Olivia turned to the spinet. She tried one or two notes with her finger, making little wry mouths at the want of tune. “Is there any Virginian music, Edward?” she asked. “I heard some negroes singing in the tobacco fields the other day. It sounded very sweet. It came home to one strangely. All working songs come home to one, don’t you think?”