XXIII
There was the smell of cookery; also there was the wash of water; sounds came from overhead—creaking, bustling, familiar sounds; footsteps pattered to and fro; now and then some one spoke, and the words they said had to do with the working of a ship.
Then Anthony realized he was lying in a bunk; he sat up, and as he did so he turned sick, and the little boxed-in place with its dim hanging lamp began to swirl. He put his hand to his head; there was a crust of blood upon his forehead, his hair was matted, and trickles, stiff and thick, ran down his face. He got upon his feet and stood for a moment, hoping his head would clear. The vessel careened slightly, showing she was under a good spread of sail. But she had tacked twice since Anthony opened his eyes, and this attracted his attention. He listened; the sounds that came from a distance were not of open water. They were still in the river.
The door stood open; a gush of cool air struck him, rushing in at an open hatch, and he stood in it, drawing it into his lungs, to fan the low-burning embers of his life. The smell of cookery was stronger now; at a little distance from him he saw the broad back of a negro bent over a caldron in which a mess of meat stewed in the bobbing midst of leeks and carrots and other things, Anthony held to the doorway, and as he stood there the black cook turned. The sweating face held only astonishment for a moment; then it broadened into a wide smile.
"Much blood!" said he in English, and pointed at the young man's head.
Anthony regarded him unsteadily; everything swam and whirled; and he still felt cold and sick.
"What ship is this?" he asked.
"Le Mousquet," said the cook. Anthony held tighter to the door-frame and leaned his wounded head against his arms. The cook's smile grew wider; his white teeth gleamed; and he said, now in French: "The last time you were aboard, you came unwanted. This time you were sent for. It makes a difference, citizen, does it not?"
Anthony Stevens, as he stood with his head in his arms, drew in a great breath; sick as he was, though everything sank and rose before him as he turned toward the man, his chin was thrust out; grotesque as his face was, with its hardened trickles of blood, there was that in his eyes that wiped the smile from the negro's face. The man tried to step past him to the companion-ladder, but Anthony warned him back and lurched toward it himself. Slowly he climbed it; he felt as though his heart would burst in his breast. But now he was upon the deck.
To the starboard he saw lights burning in rows and so knew they had not yet dropped below the city. A jib was drawing, as was the mainsail and a topsail; they bellied full in the fresh wind, and the river leaped and gurgled under the vessel's foot. There was a scattering of men along the deck; they looked and whispered as Anthony went aft, holding to the rail, to the housing, to anything that came to his hand. A pilot, muffled in a heavy coat, stood at the wheel; leaning against the bulwark, examining a chart in the light of a ship's lantern, was the man with one eye. The heavy, uncertain step of Anthony caught the officer's attention; he looked up, and as he saw the swaying figure and blood-daubed face he showed his teeth in his customary smirking way, and his eyes shot malice at his victim.
"Well, my young friend," said he, "I see you once more, do I? And aboard my ship, too! I hardly hoped for that."
"Have I been brought here at your orders?" asked Anthony, holding himself as stiffly upright as his sagging knees would let him.
The master of Le Mousquet sneered at him; his side-drawn lips were as mean as a surly dog's.
"Let it be enough for you that you are here," he said; "here, among friends. After your visit to me down the river—you remember that visit, I think?—I felt that I might see you again. But I had no thought it would come about like this."
"Just now," said Anthony, "I have not the strength to answer, or do, as I'd like. And so I ask you put over a boat and have me set ashore before we drop below the city."
The one-eyed man put the heel of his hand against Anthony's chest and threw him against the low top of the cabin.
"You still have that demanding tongue, have you?" he said. "You still think you have but to lift your hand and every one will give way to you." He struck Anthony viciously in the face. "I have something to pay you for, and I'll pay it to the last copper before you are out of my hands."
He was drawing back for another blow when a woman's voice, hurried, breathless, full of anger, said:
"Citizen Captain! Are you a coward, to strike a man so helpless as this?"
It was Mademoiselle Lafargue; she thrust herself between the two, her strong young arm held out to support Anthony, her eyes, full of scorn, upon the master of the privateer.
"Ah, do not be afraid, citoyenne," said he. "He is as strong as a wild boar; and this time it is but my hands I use."
But the girl ignored him; she called to some of the people of the watch.
"He is hurt," she said. "Take him somewhere where he can be quiet."
The seamen looked at the captain; and he smirked at the girl and said:
"Take him below; and," to an officer, "see that he stays there."
Anthony was taken below and placed in the bunk he had occupied before. The girl got some warm water from the cook; and she cleaned the gouts of blood from his head and face.
"This is the second time," said Anthony, "that you've stepped between that man and me. And yet he is your friend, and I am your enemy."
She said nothing but went on cleansing the wounds in his head with soft, light touches; her lips were compressed; he could not see her eyes.
"And yet," he said, "why am I your enemy? How have I become so?"
When he was free of the disfiguring blood, she began to bandage his head; and she told the black cook to bring some brandy. She poured some of this into a glass and gave it to Anthony; he drank it readily. Little by little the feeling of helplessness passed. The potent agents in the brandy advanced warmly through his system, and the weakness fell back before them; his wounded head throbbed painfully under the increased activity of his heart; but it also grew steady; things no longer whirled before his eyes, and there were some spots of color warming in his face. He said to her:
"You hold me your enemy, do you not?"
"Your name is Stevens," she answered.
He lay, looking up at her; and then he began to speak. She had once accepted his help; he had been a stranger, yet she had accepted it gratefully. Had she not? Even more than that: she had waited for him that day in Water Street, and she had appealed to him. It had seemed a time of growing trouble, and she had asked his aid. Was it not so? She must have felt, then, that he was one who would be a friend. And yet only a few hours later she had begun to count him as an enemy. Had it been during those hours that she'd found his name was Stevens?
But she would not talk of this. He must be still. He was ill; he had been badly hurt. Excitement was bad.
There was nothing in the world so soft as the touch of her hands. They were white and wonderful; and so quick! They were dazzling! And each motion was full of meaning; each little turn they made brought him ease.
But in a moment he had frowned these thoughts away; he kept to his questions. In a few hours—it was no more than that—she had come to look upon him as an enemy, and, God knew, it must have been as an enemy bitterly held; as for himself he'd not stab a dog with that same insolence and disregard. And she had turned against him so because she'd found his name was Stevens. Who had told her? Some one had. Was it Tarrant? Was it?
Yes, it was! She said it briefly, coldly! And now he must talk no more. It was bad for him. His hurts were worse than he thought. Quiet would help heal them.
But quiet was the last thing in his mind at that moment; and he put her words aside with an abrupt finality. So it was Tarrant who told her who he was. Tarrant, of all people! What more had he said? What bitter twist had he given his words; into what dirty by-path had he led her mind? The learning of his name alone could not have had the effect he'd seen.
There was a swift anger in her voice as she answered. Was it possible that she, her father's daughter, could think of him as different from his house?
He hung to this doggedly, his eyes upon her face. What did she hold against the house of Stevens? What thing had been told her, that its very name should turn her so instantly. The concern had long years of fair dealing behind it; it was well established in the public regard. What guilt could she point to? What offense did she carry in her mind?
And with that her reticence broke down; and, with a whip to her words that cut, she spoke freely. Her father had striven all his life to do what a man should do and had held himself well in the eyes of his neighbors. In a business way none had a fairer name than he; among merchants, bankers, ship-owners, agents, there was no one entitled to more consideration. For years he had been the French representative of the house of Stevens, a post, so it was thought, of profit and honor; and it had been envied him. But it was a connection that finally earned him suspicion rather than honor; it brought him the distrust of associates; through it, he stood upon the verge of disaster. Why should not the name of Stevens turn her bitter? Wouldn't it be strange if it did not? Shadowy tricks, ruses, subterfuges, veiled rascalities, and double-dealing! What sort of people make a practice of using an honest man's name where it had not been given, and who but rascals would lay claim to insurances on vessels that had never been lost?
Anthony was up at this—up so quickly and sharply that the white of the bandage began to show spots of red. Ships that had never been lost! What ships? But, no; she would not answer; she would not say a word more; he must lie down; see, he was bleeding! He did as he was bidden; but his questions did not stop. She fought him for a space; but again her anger arose, and she talked. Her father was a kindly man; of those who had earned his trust he could believe no wrong, and he had not heeded those people in Brest who had spoken against the house of Stevens. At last, however, there came a time when he had to heed; and then, almost as a part of it, came the letter of Magruder.
Anthony looked up at her with a narrowed, shiny eye. So there had been a letter from Magruder? Her answer was spoken quietly; but he felt he had never known what scorn was until that moment.
Yes, there had been a letter. It was this that had caused her father to venture from France that he might clear his name and recover what was his own. But Magruder was a coward! He dared not have it known that he talked to them, and that is why they had visited his place so late at night. Anthony wrested that from her. And she had gone in and found him dead. Magruder had warned them: and he had paid the penalty.
"Yes," said Anthony. "And it was the thing he feared." He looked at her with steady eyes, "And so you went into Magruder's counting-room—you went alone—and found him dead. And afterwards some one told you you'd been seen leaving the place; and also that suspicion had begun to whisper concerning you. Who told you this? Was it Tarrant?"
Yes! Her eyes flashed as she said it. It was Tarrant. He had told her that; he had told her more than that.
What? Anthony was upon the suggestion like a terrier, eager, worrying. What was it? And the scorn in her eyes was deeper, as she answered.
"Another was seen to leave Magruder's place," she said. "It was a man. He left it secretly, quickly. And, as he thought, unnoticed. As no word has been spoken of this he has felt safe; he has been content to allow the blight of his guilt to fall upon a woman."
Anthony lay very still; but his eyes held to her. And he told himself it was worth a great price—even the cold scorn laid upon him—to see so much spirit in a human face. Then he spoke.
"And Tarrant has told you all this?" She said nothing; but her look was enough. "Very well. And it was Tarrant, also, who advised, I think, that you leave the city in this ship to escape some action of the officers of justice." He searched her face keenly and then said: "Why is your father not with you?"
"My father must remain where he is, to force his claims against those who have wronged him."
She turned to go, and this time he did not stop her. She would leave the brandy, she told him; and she would see that some one was within call if he needed help. Then she left him. And he lay still for a long time and thought of the things she had said.
She and her father had come to America for the same reason that had brought him north. Well, well! Magruder had sent to France for them. And they had gone to the trader's counting-house, as he had gone the second time; and they had found him dead.
What a scurrying and scampering there must have been in the burrows under Rufus Stevens' Sons when the rats scented their danger, thought Anthony. They had feared the girl's speaking with him, and so had poisoned her mind against him. They had seen even greater peril in Lafargue's going straightforwardly to Charles, as he must have done; and, to prevent this, they had cleverly diverted against the firm the very tide of suspicion which Magruder had thought to set against themselves.
"Oh, the rats," said Anthony; "oh, the damned, scampering, crafty rats!"
But why were they sending the girl from the city? He frowned over this perplexedly. The matter had a meaning he could not see. Then, as he pondered, there came from the back of his mind several things which arranged themselves oddly, and yet confidently, before him.
"What now?" said Anthony, looking at them, and frowning more than ever. "What now?"
The first of the things dealt with was his pause overnight at the Brig Tavern, off the New Castle road. The girl and her father had been there; and they had been associated with persons concerned in fostering piracy, to be carried on under French letters of marque.
"No doubt of that," acknowledged Anthony, and eyed the fact grudgingly; "they stood very intimately with them, indeed."
The second of the things was equally positive, and had been fathered by Christopher Dent on that very night. Many people had visited the Lafargues at their lodgings, French and American; Citizen Genêt, whose words and acts in behalf of legalized piracy had lately filled the public ear and eye, had been one of them.
"Yes," said Anthony, endeavoring to stare the fact out of countenance, "all that is true. But what has it to do with mademoiselle being on board this ship without her father?"
And just as the two things seemed to be wavering, and not at all certain of their purpose, a third fact advanced smartly to their help, and at once set itself to lighting lamps in Anthony's mind. And so, where he had groped before, he now saw clearly.
"The daughter is young," he said. "The father is old. The girl is strong of will; the old man is shaken and infirm. She is his right hand, his prop, the active half of his mind. If she were taken away, he'd be helpless; if she were not constantly at his side to guide his judgments he might be imposed upon. The father is a friend of the French agent, Genêt; and it is Genêt who commissions American-built and American-manned ships to sail against the English."
The three facts merged victoriously into one shining result, and Anthony studied it. The girl's fears had been played upon; she was being sent away, and the old man was being held in the city that he might be turned to the crafty uses of Tarrant and his friends.
Anthony smiled and ceased to plague his throbbing head. This was the kernel of the thing! And so he put all thought from him, composed himself to sleep, and slept soundly.