Part 15

"I was supercargo," said Tom Horn. "And all the rich goods in the hold were in my care. Captain Hollister urged me to go, but I would not."

"Captain Hollister," said Anthony. "Was he not once master of the _Sea Mew_?"

"Yes," said Tom Horn. "Another good ship lost at sea." He looked at Anthony, silent for a moment, and Anthony looked at him. And the silence was filled with things that were not said. And then the man went on: "I saw them sail away in their little boats, and I sat on the deck and wondered what was in store for me. I was a full year in that hulk," said Tom Horn, "drinking the stinking water in the casks, and eating the wretched salt food; and in that time I drifted into still seas and saw strange sights. Once in the quiet of the night, with the sea having no motion, and a full moon hanging above, I saw a great reptile-like thing clamber up over the bow and slip along the deck; amidships it went over the side, and I heard it splash as it went into the water. It left a slimy track, as a monstrous snail might do," said Tom Horn; "and from that time I was afraid. I wanted the sight of land; I wanted the sight of people; I did not want to feel that on all the still seas, under that wide, white moon, I was the only creature with a soul given by God."

"Yes," said Anthony, "I understand."

Just then the door of Charles's room opened, and a long gangling man came out. He nodded and smiled at sight of Anthony. His teeth were large, with wide spaces between them; and from these, the outstanding ears and the pale watchful eyes, Anthony knew he had to do with Rehoboam Bulfinch.

"Good day," said Rehoboam, to Anthony, eagerly. "Good day, sir. It is excellent spring weather, is it not?" He nodded and smiled again, and moved toward the street door. "I have just been having a few words with your uncle. A splendid man. A really wonderful person. It's a pleasure to talk with him."

When the man had gone, Anthony stood for a moment, quite still; then he opened the door of his uncle's room and looked in. Charles sat in the corner of his sofa. He did not turn as the door opened; his eyes were fixed and full of fright; his face was white; his whole body seemed shrunken. Startled, Anthony halted, retreated, closed the door.

"It came unexpectedly," said Tom Horn. "It came out of the quiet sea, and left a trail of slime across the deck. And after that I was afraid."

"I don't wonder," said Anthony. "I don't wonder, indeed."

XXII

The end of April saw Anthony draw to the end of his long search among the ledgers. A heap of them lay in his lodgings; and written into the notes which he carried about in his pockets were many curious facts. And in those days the frown between his eyes was fixed, and he went about with lips tightly shut.

"Within a week," he told his uncle, "I shall have done; and then I'll want a long talk with you."

Charles smiled. It was not the quick, vital smile Anthony had come to know, and there was not the snap of the eyes, nor the flash of sound, white teeth.

"Very well," said Charles. "But I'm sure I'll not be able to follow you; for I've never permitted the books to trouble me greatly. However, Weir may be your man for that," with a nod toward that gentleman, who was present. "He has a talent for obscure things."

"If he will contrive to give me his attention when the time comes, I shall be pleased," said Anthony. Then he cocked his eye at them, for both had amused looks and neither seemed to hold the matter as very weighty. "No doubt," said he, "as you see the thing, its promise is a dull one."

"Old ledgers are not like old wine," said Captain Weir. "And while they may be, in a manner, useful, still I can't hope that age has given them any sparkle."

"I'll promise that the items I'll offer will cut into your interest like a flash." He tapped his breast-pocket. "Give me a few more facts like these," he said, "and then a talk with you will mortar them together. After that, who can say what astonishments are in store for us all?"

Charles had a puzzled look as Anthony went out of the room, and his hands, grown thin and white, picked at the tapestry that covered the sofa.

"He's like his grandfather, indeed," said he. "A purpose grows fixed with him, and nothing can turn him from it." There was a pause, and then he asked: "What has he come upon in the books, do you think, that has so taken his attention?"

"It would puzzle me to say," replied Captain Weir. "But, then, a pair of quick eyes and an insistent, inquiring mind have often turned up a vital fact in mold deader than Rufus Stevens' Sons' old ledgers."

Charles lay back in his sofa and studied Weir for a moment, his hands still picking at the tapestry.

"You've never felt much beholden to youth," said Charles to Weir, "and your expressed thoughts on its aspirations and vagaries and proneness to make much of little have always worn a cutting edge. But I've never seen, in your manner or tone, that you've thought Anthony a fool."

"The man who takes him for a fool," said Captain Weir, with a wry smile, "will quickly learn to alter his opinion." There was a pause; the captain looked through the window into the sun-lit street, his brows were thickened and heavy over his cold eyes. "As to the books," he added, "if your nephew says he's come at something in them, it's safe to say he has; and, if he says he means to astonish us, in my opinion we'd do well to prepare for something unusual."

That night, as Christopher Dent sat in his laboratory, his big spectacles on his nose, a candle beside him and the usual bulky black-letter volume in his hands, Anthony came in. The young man sat down in a chair and lighted his long-stemmed clay; and the little apothecary talked of the problems that rise up in one's daily path and make life, if not a vexation, at least an uncertainty.

"It is the time of year for dandelions and other soft, early herbs," said Christopher. "The sun has been gentle; the earth is mellow and seems full of gifts; but the plants are late. It may be the winter we've gone through has had much to do with it, for the frost was deep-setting, indeed."

"It was," agreed Anthony.

"Here is a book," said Christopher, "written by a man of sound parts, and in a day when learning was a thing to arrest the attention." His fingers traced the lines of deep black, which made their rigorous way across the yellowed page. "He tells much of the seasons, and of the mysteries and chemistries of the soil. He sees not a deal of difference between the vegetable and the animal; they are both produced from seeds, and are endowed with much the same functions; the element they take in is changed into forms which give growth and virtue, and the power to resist enemies."

Anthony drew at his pipe.

"Strength and power are not always given for protection," said he. "As often as not, they are meant for offense."

"That," said Christopher, "is never so when the regulations of nature are held to. Offense comes of brutality, and brutality is occasioned by an excess of life; nature never gives too much life, for she knows it to be dangerous. The finer aromatic plants, whose proper home is in dry, sandy soils, if transplanted to a moist, rich one, leap up, robustly; they attain to a thick bulk, a vigor not known before, and a rich oiliness of sap. But they lose their fragrance; their active principle is sacrificed to their increased vitality."

"If that's a saying of your scholar, I think he said truly," said Anthony.

"What is true of plants is also true of animals, of men, and of nations," pronounced Christopher. "Your horse, now, is an excellent servant and a steady friend. But feed him high and work him little and he's hard to control. Give a man riches, and he begins to fatten, if not in body, then in wits; and fat about the wits, as any doctor of the soul can tell you, is a dangerous thing, for it promotes the growth of self, which is the essence of that brutality of which I just now spoke."

From outside came the sharp _rat-tat-tat_ of a knocker.

"Visitors to my lodgers," said the little apothecary. There was the sound of feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of a door, and faint voices beyond the wall. "They have many, for people who mingle so little in the social life of the town."

"Men, mostly, I should say," said Anthony.

"Why, yes," said Christopher, "I think that's true, though I had not thought of it before."

"Foreign men, I think you have told me."

"French," said Christopher. "But, then, that is not strange, since they are French themselves."

"I wonder," said Anthony, "have you ever noticed a man go in and out who wore a black patch over his eye?"

"I have, more than once. But he is an American. Do you know," asked Christopher, with some pride, "that the much-spoken-of French minister, Citizen Genêt, has been here?"

"No," said Anthony, and put aside his pipe.

"It was not many days ago; almost as soon as he reached the city. My lodgers seem people of consequence."

Anthony was silent for a space; then he said:

"Have you taken note of any of their American visitors?"

"Yes, I've seen Mr. Tarrant a few times; and once, while he was there, a companion of his, who had not gone in, stepped into my place to be out of the cold. A strapping young man; and good-humored, too. I never saw any one so ready to laugh."

Then the little apothecary began talking of mademoiselle. Such a fine creature--oh, such a really wonderful young woman! There were so many kindly notes in her voice when she talked to one, and there was so much gentleness in her eyes.

"And she is beautiful," said Christopher. "I have stood and wondered at her, with not a word to say. And she is learned in the plants," with enthusiasm; "she knows the flowers of the roadsides and fields, both by name and by sight. Not our flowers, of course," regretfully, "but then in France they must have many that are rich in fine properties. She was but a child when her interest in nature began," said the little apothecary. "She'd ramble the fields and wade in the streams with her uncle, who was a botanist and who lived in very pleasant parts. Her telling me this made me think of you," said Christopher, "and of how you'd journey along with me all through the hot day, seeking coralroot in the woods, about the feet of the trees, and devil's-bit in the meadows, and spotted alder in the low, thick-grown places. She laughed a deal at some of your pranks and wished she had been with us."

"You did not tell her my name?" said Anthony.

"I did afterwards," said Christopher, and he fell to rubbing his smooth crown in a troubled way.

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing," said the little apothecary. "But, indeed, she spoke little more of anything after that; and then she went away."

Anthony sat in silence for a time, and Christopher watched his face with much concern. Then the sound of footsteps was once more heard on the stairs beyond the wall--voices, and a loud thumping that made the windows shake.

"It is a chest being brought down," said the apothecary, listening. "Can it be that they are going on a journey? No coaches start until early morning."

They heard the chest tumbled out through the door, and the crash of it, as it was thrown into a vehicle; there was much rapid talk and a woman's sobs.

"The father is going away," said Christopher; "and the daughter is in tears."

There were hurried good-byes in French, called out amid the rolling of wheels, the door shut, and footsteps went up the stairs. Anthony and the little apothecary looked at each other, for the steps were heavy and stumbling.

"That is the father," said Christopher. "I know his foot. It is the girl, then, who has gone away."

"It would seem so," said Anthony.

"And the chest and the tears at parting tell of a long journey," said the apothecary. "And it must be an urgent one, to be undertaken at this hour."

Anthony said little; it was almost eleven by the clock on the apothecary's wall, and he arose to go.

"You are in low spirits," said Christopher.

"My star is swinging downward, I fear," said Anthony, with the ghost of a smile. "But when it is at its lowest, Christopher, it will begin to curve upward."

"If you knew her better," said Christopher, his hand on Anthony's sleeve; "or if she knew you better--"

"She has shown plainly enough that she has no desire for that," said Anthony. "Good night."

"Good night," said Christopher Dent.

Anthony walked through Water to Sassafras Street, and as he turned away from the river he saw a group of men who stood silently in the shadow of a building. One of them moved toward him, as he appeared, and said in French:

"Citizen, pardon. We cannot find our ship. She is _Le Mousquet_; and we should be on board by now."

Anthony pointed to where three masts shot up above some low buildings and stood outlined against the copper sky.

"That," said he, "is the _Eclipse_. I have heard _Le Mousquet_ is anchored in the stream, opposite her."

"We thank you," said the man. "You are kind." There was a stir among the group. Anthony stepped back to let them pass; as he did so a blow fell upon his head and he staggered. Then they were upon him like cats; another blow and he was down; and after that he knew nothing.

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.