Part 11

Each time after a visit at Christopher's he'd go through this, and each time the train of thought would have its beginning in some trifling thing. Once as he left the apothecary's shop he saw the windows of the second floor lighted up and the lamp glow shining down upon the snow. Once while he sat with his pipe in the apothecary's back room he heard a light foot on the stairs beyond the partition wall; the street door opened and closed. She had gone out! The streets were dark and lonely! He had half arisen to follow her; then he crushed himself back in his chair. At still another time he heard the faint tinkling of a stringed instrument, and the sweet murmur of a voice, singing a little French song. There was a peaceful something in this that shook Anthony; and as he sat in his room afterward his thoughts were very bitter, indeed.

He tried not to think of her; but when she gained a way into his mind his reflections always had one ending. Magruder! Had there ever been a more vicious and sordid taking off? Was there ever a more bloody or evil deed? The stains of it were deep on Tarrant and the big young man. And the girl? Was she not their friend? Had she not been in Water Street about the time the thing was done? Had not a rumor tied a woman to the crime? Every pulse in his body sent protests to his mind; but his mind was fixed, and he'd rise up and tramp the floor.

One day Charles Stevens did not appear at the counting-room, being ill of a congestion. And in the evening Anthony took him some papers which it was thought necessary that he see, and found him wrapped comfortably in a rug before a fire in the library, reading a play-book. It was then that the words of Tom Horn about books came back to Anthony; and after he had discussed the matter of the papers with his uncle he approached one of the crowded bookcases.

"Sometimes I feel the need of a little variety in my thinking," he said. "Would you mind if I took one or two of these away with me?"

Charles, with the play-book lying upon his snugly wrapped knees, looked at him and smiled.

"Your grandfather never concerned himself with books," said he; "and you are such a replica of him that I took it for granted that your taste must be the same."

Anthony had opened the case and was rummaging among its contents, and Charles went on.

"Those rakehells of the Restoration will amuse you, if your taste runs to their kind," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book with kindly fingers. "You'll find them there in the second shelf, next the fireplace. Or, if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans are just below, and they are a crew that'll shake your soul, or your ribs, just as you'd have them. Those Italian tale-tellers were shrewd workmen,--there in the pigskin, right under your hand,--but if you think you'd care for romance nearer to this present day there is Defoe's narrative of the shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's chronicle of life as he's seen it in his own England."

There was an array of pudgy little books, with stout leather backs and stained edges, upon a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped, took one out, and opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled.

"Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz; how often I've sailed with him as a boy through the pages of that book, to the mouth of the Great Fish River. And there is fine old Vasco da Gama! Many a summer afternoon he and I have doubled the cape, put the complaining pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the sea. And Columbus, and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company. There's a rank and file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine accomplishment; Hawkins, Drake, Davis, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and that never-beaten Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher--"

"What are these?" asked Anthony.

At the bottom of the bookcase, stacked one upon the other, was an array of huge volumes, strong-looking and clean, and each with a number marked upon the leather back, in ink.

"More voyages," smiled Charles. "More expeditions, traffickings, and discoveries. But they are quite modern. In those a patient reader would find a complete record of the doings of Rufus Stevens' Sons, set down from the beginning."

Again Anthony thought of Tom Horn, but now in a new way. Again he saw him, with the successors of these same books before him on the tall desk, and heard him repeat, with an odd significance appearing in the words for the first time:

"The accumulated findings of many men are already written down. If you desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them diligently, study many of them. It will cost you but the price of lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of some winter nights that you might otherwise throw away."

Anthony carried one of the big volumes to the table and opened it under the light. It was kept in a fine, flowing hand, in very black ink and with its rulings perfectly done.

"That's one of old Carberry's," said Charles. "A fine old fellow. He was before Tom Horn. Before him was Lucas, and before Lucas was Parker, a young Quaker who went into a business of his own. Mason had the books while your father was still with us, but there were two or three others between Mason and Parker."

Anthony gave him an odd look.

"You seem to have had a number of accountants of late years," said he.

Charles smiled, rather ruefully.

"Yes," said he, "that's true. I don't understand how it is. Our other work-people stay on with us for years. But, among those who have kept our accounts, Tom Horn seems to be the only one who could or would remain."

Anthony's eyes went hungrily up and down the careful columns.

"I think," said he, "I'd rather dip into these than into any other books you have." And then, as his uncle looked at him in surprise, he added, "If I'm to come to the core of the firm's doings, I see no more direct way than this."

"Well, after all," said Charles amusedly, "I was not far wrong. You are your grandfather over again. He'd have preferred the counting-house books to any romance or comedy ever penned."

And so when Anthony set out for his lodgings that night, he carried with him a number of the firm's books; they ran in regular order, and the dates on their backs were of the years immediately following his father's withdrawal from the business.

XVI

Anthony found a fine flavor in the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons, a rich color, and an admirable reticence. Everything was set down with clerkly care, but for all that there was no humdrum routine, no dull insistence on profit and loss, no sordid grasping or squeezing of little things. The columns of figures, as Anthony studied them, did not mean so much the dollars paid out or taken in; they did not seem to deal with hard money, or price, with bargain or sale; when a line was struck under one of them, the result had none of the smell of the counting-room; rather it told of singular adventuring, of hazards, of stratagems in the midst of danger, of bleak days and plunging nights at sea.

He saw wide stretches of water: he saw a red sun and strange stars, and high-hulled ships with odd rigs and worked by dark-skinned men. He saw ports which grew masts as a forest grows trees; he saw boundless riches, precious stuffs, and ant-like populations; and he felt the spiritual depression that emanates from vast huddles of submissive people.

The names of the houses dealt with gave a tropic savor to many an entry; through a list of merchandise Anthony could fancy a caravan plodding; the glare of the sands made his eyes ache; he felt the hot wind on his face.

Batavia! Calcutta! Canton! Silent bells seemed to ring the names in his mind.

Batavia! Dutch Javanese, a place of stinks, of green canals, of hordes of slaves, of stolid Chinamen, a place of pepper, of rattan, of sandalwood; of indigo, arrack and cloves. And its coffee! Its strong, brown, whip-like coffee that made the nerves jump, and started a fever in the blood. And Calcutta! held in one of the holy hands of the Ganges, standing away, many a laborious mile from the sea which made it; Calcutta, bright, opulent, hot, city of the Parsee merchant, of the Hindu, the Greek, the Armenian; place of silks, of wonderful shawls, of rice, ginger, and hides; of oils, ointments, and opium; city of crowding ships, of tangled flags, of many tongues; gateway of riches; sluice carrying off the toil of a patient people; filter through which went all that was good, and which gave back dregs alone.

Then Canton! with its staggering, shell-walled junks, its narrow streets, its sharp smells, its teeming, sweating, cheapened population, its grotesque vice. Grass cloth, damask, nankeen. Table ware! oh, excellent stuff! smooth, durable, shapely, with all the craft of attentive minds in its fabrication. And tea! The fortunes and the fragrance that were boxed up in those little chests! The swift ships that were sent for them: wide-winged ships that took them in, expectantly, departed hastily, and arrived breathlessly. And then such a gathering of merchants, such an uplifting of voices, such a scurrying and planning, such a laying out of money, such profiting and such satisfaction! Boxes of magic! Little chests of sorcery! marked with incantations and odorous of flowers.

A little wicket in Anthony's mind would be thrown open at some such place as this, and the sentinel, posted there by old Rufus, would put out his head.

"You are a true nephew to Charles," the sentinel would say. "You have a deal of the strain of blood that makes play of what should be serious man's work. You refused romances when Charles offered them. You said you'd rather read the books of the house. Very well, but how are you reading them? Are they any more than tale books, taken in the spirit in which you sit down to them? It was your hope, was it not, to come upon some cunning contrivance, or artful bit of knavery? But it will take an open mind for that, and a seeing eye; and neither of those are had by one who reads into a book things that are not there."

"I was wrong," said Anthony. "I admit it. I was wrong."

"The winter is an excellent time for a search like this," spoke the sentinel; "and the winter is passing. In the spring other things will take your attention. So work diligently now; give your mind to it, and put aside all else. The things you have been thinking are those a man finds who reads by moonlight."

And then the wicket would close with an exasperated little snap; and Anthony would set himself squarely to his task, hunting, tracing, and examining. There was now no line of writing in any of the books that was so honest but it had to prove itself; there were no figures so obvious but they came under suspicion. As fast as he finished with the books he had, he brought more to his lodgings, and there was not a night but one of them was open on the table; his light burned steadily into the small hours while he read and made notes of those things which drew his attention.

"A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well give him his way."

Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what he said was:

"I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be had by doing what he's elected to do."

Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not backward; and I've found it does very well."

One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and looked at Anthony.

"I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is not a skilled one."

"No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."

"Your capitals do not tower enough," said Tom Horn; "your round letters are too full in the belly, and your loops are squat." He peered at Anthony over the great ledger, the candle on either side toning out the transparent quality of his skin but adding to the worn expression; the shadows made the deep-set eyes seem deeper, the hope in them more despairing. "To give smoothness to your hand," said he, "you should study some one who took pride in such things." He nodded, his gaze holding to the young man's face. "Back before my day with the firm's books, there was a man of the name of Lucas who wrote a very useful hand. And Carberry, who came after him, also had a well-ordered pen. You would do well to give attention to both; but, of the two, Lucas would give you most for your effort."

"I have not yet come to Lucas's period in the books," said Anthony; "nor yet Carberry's. But when I do I'll remember what you say."

The winter drew on, a series of bitter nights and gray, wind-driven days; the report came that the bay was a mass of great floes, and that sledges heavily burdened were venturing a mile or more from shore on either side. The roads were filled with hard-packed snow; wheeled vehicles had not been seen for weeks.

Then one evening there walked into the counting-room of Rufus Stevens' Sons one Corkery, mate of the firm's ship _General Stark_, and, in a brief seaman-like way, told how the vessel was ice-bound at New Castle and from all appearances would remain so until the coming of spring.

This news caused Anthony to walk the floor; for the _Stark_ was laden with hides, drugs, and sugar, and the market for these things was brisk. The ship should never have ventured into the bay. It seemed that Captain Small had managed her indifferently.

"Captain Small is ill of a lung fever," said Corkery. "He hasn't set foot on deck since we left Hatteras."

"As mate," said Anthony, "you took his place. When you saw the floes, you should have headed the vessel for New York. With the merchandise landed there we'd have contrived a way to deal with it."

Corkery was a blunt man, with no affectation of speech.

"With a master tumbling about on his bed, and praying to God, and raving about things that must have passed in his boyhood, I was glad to arrive, as near as I could, at the place called for in the ship's papers," said he. "You here in the counting-room can talk of markets easily enough, for you are always where you can watch them; also, you can talk offhand of changing a ship's destination, for you've no one to answer to if you've guessed wrong."

Anthony smiled and nodded, for he knew the mate spoke truth.

"I hope all that could be done for Captain Small has been done," said he.

"He is ashore at New Castle, at the house of a doctor in the place, and is being well seen to," said Corkery.

"That is good," said Charles. "And, as to the ship, I suppose all we can do now is see that she's well watched to keep her from thieves, and from damage by the ice."

"That is all. The second mate is aboard, and the crew is one to be depended on. I'll go back myself in a day or two."

But Anthony frowned; and after Corkery had gone he continued to pace the floor.

"Ah, well," said Whitaker, after a time, approaching him, "it does no good to fidget. It's the hard season, and nothing else was to be expected. We can only wait until the ice is out, and the vessel can come comfortably up to her dock."

"But while excellent cargo is within hands' reach are we to sit here twiddling our thumbs?"

"What else can we do?" asked Whitaker cheerily. "When a ship is lodged in the river's gullet as this one seems to be, and there's a month or more of bad weather still to come, why fret and get in a state of mind?"

But this submissive state did not appeal to Anthony; he resented the easy air of the counting-room under defeat; so he thought hard about the matter during the day, and for most of the night; and the next morning found him in the public room of a tavern on Second Street where he heard Corkery was lodged. The mate sat before the tavern fire chipping bits of tobacco from a dark cake, with which to charge his pipe, and greeted Anthony with a nod; the young man drew a stool up to the fire and sat warming his hands at the blaze.

"They tell me," said Anthony, "that you are of this port and know the river and bay very well."

"Why," said Corkery, as he carefully chipped away at the tobacco, "I was a boy aboard a sloop that sailed between here and Bristol, carrying bricks; then I shipped on the New Castle packets. Yes, I can claim to know the river and bay quite well."

"How did you come up to the city?" asked Anthony.

"By sledge," replied the mate.

"In what state are the roads?"

"Filled with snow, but packed hard. The sledge I came up on carried a good weight of freight as well."

"Are there many sledges in the neighborhood of New Castle, and could one engage the use of them?"

"The farmers and traders could muster a deal of them," said Corkery, "and, I suppose, would put them out for hire with little dispute."

Anthony smiled at the fire; and then he began questioning the man about the position of the ship, and the condition of the ice about her. The replies being satisfactory, the young man went into the bar and spoke to the landlord.

"I want a span of good-stepping horses," he said. "Also I want a sleigh and a driver who knows the roads as far south as New Castle."

The landlord was a Scot, a hard-featured, scrubby man with the manner of one whom the world had failed to convince.

"There's many a team," said he, "and like enough there's many a sleigh. And I've spoken to many a man who knows the very roads you have in mind. But where are they now? is the question, and could they be engaged if found?" He frowned and looked doubtful. "But you might try Churchman in Cobbler's Place," said he.

Churchman was located; he was the exact opposite of the Scot; he took life as a pleasant experience, and seemed to have the fullest confidence in everything.

"I have just the span you want, and exactly the sleigh," said he. "But the driver is another matter. Couldn't you drive yourself? Your way is as plain as a-b-c."

Anthony had traveled the roads with Christopher Dent as far as the Delaware line, on more occasions than one, and he felt sure that he'd manage to keep to the way. So he gave his orders and went back to the counting-room. Charles had not yet arrived, for it was still a fairly early hour. However, Captain Weir was there; he stood with his back to the fire, his hands behind him, and greeted Anthony pleasantly.

"You are still going on with the books, I suppose," said he, after a space.

"Yes," said Anthony.

"Mind you don't overdo it; too much candle-light is a bad thing. But with all this attention you must be making progress."

"Yes," said the young man, "things are becoming plainer to me, I think." He took up a poker and shoved a billet, which was throwing a thin spiral of smoke into the room, back into the fireplace. "Though, I must admit, there are some I don't understand."

"To be sure," said Weir. "That is to be expected. But, perhaps, I could help you?"

But Anthony shook his head.

"Not yet," said he. "For I haven't made up my mind about the matters, except to think them curious, and to note that they stand out singularly."

"Books are kept for a firm's information," said Weir; "but, speaking for myself, I get little out of them. After a little they are a kind of a maze, and often mislead me."

"So far, I can't complain of that. But, as I've said, I've come upon an odd flavor here and there in the ledgers; it's made me curious, and I hope to come upon the reason for the oddness further on."

Here Charles came in, cheery and rosy from the nip of the cold.

"I have made arrangements to go to New Castle to-day," said Anthony.

Charles threw his cloak to a porter, and looked at his nephew in surprise.

"Why?" he asked.

"To look at the roads, to get the position of the ship, and study the chances of getting the cargo up to the city."

Charles laughed good-humoredly.

"Well, thank God, you've got an active mind," said he. "But here's a thing, I'm afraid, that's bigger than you think for."

"That can't be told until the conditions are known to a certainty," said Anthony. "If the roads are as I have been assured they are, and sledges are to be had, I can bring the important details of the _Stark's_ cargo into the warehouse in ten days' time."

Charles looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Weir.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Weir. "I've never heard of it being done under these conditions; but, then," and he nodded his head, his eye fixed thoughtfully upon Anthony, "we have here a young man who has led trains through the wilderness, and across the deserts. So, under any human circumstances, from New Castle to the city should be no impossible task."

"Well," said Charles to Anthony, "if you have the mind to try the thing, there it is for you."

An hour later, while the horses were being put to the sleigh in Cobbler's Place, Anthony told Churchman what he had in mind. The optimist rose freshly to the idea, his eyes snapping.

"The only thing against you is a sudden change in the weather great enough to soften the roads," said he. Then he scanned the patch of sky that could be seen between the walls of the court and seemed to taste of the quality of the wind. "And there's not much chance of that," said he. "This cold wind will keep things hard as iron for weeks to come."