“One can always be one’s self,” she replied. “And I shan’t be afraid of danger, with Tom by me.”
“And the danger will threaten him, remember.”
“I shall take care of him.”
Something in her voice, in her manner, made Captain Margaret think that Olivia’s willingness to come with them was merely a willingness to please her husband. It seemed to him that her first sight of England from the sea had come upon her with a shock. He felt that she only kept from tears by an effort, now that the excitement of the race had passed. He saw her look at the men who hauled the braces; following her train of thought, that these were to be her companions for months to come. He felt instinctively that her mind began to dwell upon the possible disagreeable closeness of companionship, shut up in a small ship’s cabin, with three or four men. He wondered whether Stukeley had bullied her into the venture. He thought not. He had ever believed a rogue to be plausible, rather than masterful. He promised himself some little amusement in cross-examining Stukeley, to learn the history of that day’s work. He remembered then that he was their host. He called Stukeley. “Won’t you both come below,” he said, “to see what sort of house you’ve chosen?” He led them down the poop-ladder to the alley-way door. As he passed the door of Perrin’s cabin he heard a shaking voice uttering fierce curses. Perrin was stamping up and down, wholly given over to rage.
Up on deck, Captain Cammock walked the weather-poop, glad at heart that the wind was freshening. The Broken Heart was lying over a little, with the wind on her starboard beam. She was under all sail, going through it at about five knots. “I shall drive you, my duck,” he said. “You shall groan to-night.” He longed for a whole gale, a roaring Western Ocean gale, that the passengers might learn their folly. He eyed the sails, stiff and trembling, with shaking shadows at their clues. The carpenter was screwing battens behind the gun-trocks; the boatswain and half the watch were forward, singing out on a rope. Captain Cammock watched them whenever he turned forward. When he walked aft, he turned, glanced at the compass, looked aloft at the maintopgallant sail, and noted the feathers on the wind-vane. He was reviewing the situation. “It was a good thing for us,” he thought, “that that duchess lady was aboard that frigate. Otherwise we’d a-been chased and took. Now how was it her boat gave chase? The duchess lady arrives from the south; after six days at sea, say. She sends in for letters and stores, and the boat waits at the pier. Now this Stukeley fellow came alongside us in a shore boat, from Salcombe. I saw the word Salcombe on her backboard. Now if I was that Stukeley duck—— How could it have been, I wonder. He couldn’t have come from the pier, because the man-of-war boat lay there. If he wanted to get away, what would he have done? He’d have left word for his gear to be brought down to the water; and then gone off for a walk or drive. Then he’d have sent a boat for his gear, and got her to pick him up and row him about, up towards Kingsbridge, say, as soon as ever he decided to come aboard of us. He knew he was wanted, that duck did. Yes. That was it. For sure. And them who was laying for him hears of that, and sends up a boat to look for him; but he gives her the slip. As soon as the ebb begins, he runs down. And away he comes full tilt for us. Now some one who was laying for him must have been on the jetty, waiting for him to land. Soon as ever he come past, they nip into the cutter in the name of the King and pull after him. A little too far after. One boat pulls to the frigate, and so we get three nine-pounder shots sent at us, before the duchess lady tells ’em to stop that horrid firing. I wonder what that Stukeley duck has done, now.”
He turned over this outline of the Stukeley escape, just as, years before, he had pieced out evidence, and scouts’ reports, when he was cruising on the Spanish Main. He had always wished to have a command on the Main; for he had more than courage to recommend him. He had a keen intuitive shrewdness and a power of deduction. “They never give me a chance on the Main,” he thought. “But I was right about them roasting spuds.” He sighed. That error of his captain had lost them a pound of gold apiece. “Now,” he thought, “if them two birds is coming the cruise we shan’t have a very happy ship.”
Bell after bell passed by; the day wore; the sun set. As he had foretold, the wind drew more to the west; freshening as it shifted. The Broken Heart was beginning to feel the strain. She was lying down a little, and whitening a path in the sea. She was full of odd noises. The breechings on her guns were new, they cracked and creaked at each roll; her decks groaned as the trocks ground. At two bells, when the hands came aft to muster, in the summer twilight, having catted the anchor, she was seven miles from land, driving on in the dusk, making the seas gleam. Her poop-light, like a burning rose abaft all, reddened her wake with bloody splashes. She stooped to it and staggered. Over her bows came the sprays, making the look-outs cower down in their tarred coats. The water whitened aft in a washing rush, gleaming and creaming. By the break of the poop the watch lay. A score of men huddled together in the shade, marshalled by the boatswain in his old blue cloak, scurfed with salt at the seams. Voices murmured among them; one lit a pipe, one hummed. The wind in the shrouds hummed; already the blocks were clacking. Now and then, as they rushed on, in the gathering darkness, the boy above struck the bell; and from forward came the answering bell, with the call of the look-outs, “Weather cathead,” “Lee cathead,” showing that they were alert. The steward came from the alleyway, snuffing up the strong salt air; he climbed the lee ladder to the poop. Battling up to windward against the gale, he halted and uncovered before the captain.
“Well, steward,” said Cammock.
“Captain Margaret sends his compliments to you, seh,” said the old negro, with the soft “boneless” speech of his kind, “and will you step below, seh, to speak with him in the cabin.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” said Cammock. He glanced at the compass-card again, and spoke a word with old Mr. Cottrill, the mate, whose watch it was, according to old sea custom. “Call me if it freshens,” he said; “but don’t take any sail off.”