Part 18

The queer visitor showed no resentment, but smiled in an amiable sort of fashion and rubbed a large, red welt just above his right ear. Never a word did he say, although the twain plied him with questions. His demeanor was as friendly as if they had done him some signal service.

“If you can’t talk, maybe ye can walk,” gustily shouted O’Shea. “We will clap ye under hatches for to-night and investigate by daylight. We have caught an odd fish this time, Johnny.”

“Prod him into the wood-shed and lock him up,” grumbled the other. “He’s plumb twistified in his mental works, and I can’t make head or tail of him.”

At a beckoning gesture the prisoner meekly tried to get on his feet, but he had been shorn of his strength and he fell twice before O’Shea and Johnny Kent grasped him by the arms and steered him in the path that led to the cottage. He stumbled along like a drunken man and had to be half-dragged over the low step at the wood-shed door. Calling himself a soft-hearted old fool, the engineer bustled into the house and dragged forth a spare mattress. O’Shea obtained a lamp in the kitchen, also cold water and a towel to bathe the hurt that his hickory weapon had inflicted.

The red-haired man sat forlornly upon the mattress, leaning against the coal-bin, his hands clasped over his knees. He had the dumb, wistful look of a beaten dog, and his eyes, remarkably blue of color, followed Captain O’Shea with no ill-will, but like one who recognized his master. It was clear enough that he was to be dealt with as a man with a disordered mind, and it was unmanly to hold him accountable for his arson and violence. Attacked unawares in the darkness, there had been provocation for his bestial outbreak, and it was to be concluded that his usual mood was harmless, excepting a fatal fondness for playing with fire.

“I have a strong notion that he is a seafarin’ man,” said O’Shea, as he gave the captive a stiff drink of whiskey from the bottle kept in the hall cupboard. “Maybe this will buck him up and set his tongue going. That’s a sailor’s belt he has on, Johnny. And he has the look of it.”

The engineer had put his spectacles on his nose and was examining the litter of small objects he had fished out of the man’s pockets. One of them was like a leather thong thickened in the middle, and he cried excitedly:

“You’re right, Cap’n Mike. Here’s a sailor’s palm--a sea thimble, and the cuss has mended his clothes with it. See the patch on his shirt, and he has stitched the holes in his shoes with bits of tarred twine.”

“He called me shipmate when he asked for a chew, but many a landlubber uses the word and I did not lay much store by it.”

“It’s only twenty miles to the Maine coast,” said Johnny Kent, “and he may have wandered inland from one of the ports.”

“I have a hunch that he didn’t come out of a coasting schooner. The beggar has sailed deep water in his time. I wonder if he is hungry. Better introduce him to some grub. He is rounding to, but he has about as much conversation in him as an oyster.”

The engineer rummaged in the kitchen and brought out a plate of biscuits, cold bacon, potatoes, and pickles, which the red-haired man ate with an avidity that betokened starvation. The sight moved Johnny Kent almost to tears. The last spark of his animosity was quenched. There was no more awful fate than to be separated from three square meals per day.

“We’ll swab the dirt off him and shuck those ragged, rotten clothes before we batten him down for the night,” said Johnny. “I can’t leave a sailor in this fix, even if he is flighty in the main-top and has tried to smoke out the whole darn neighborhood.”

While he departed in search of a shift of raiment, Captain O’Shea removed the man’s shirt. At the first tug it tore and came away in his hands. The prisoner had remained sitting in the same posture, but now he moved and lazily stretched his length upon the mattress, lying on his stomach, his face pillowed against his arm. His hunger satisfied, the desire of sleep had overtaken him, and his heavy breathing told O’Shea that the extraordinary guest had carried his riddle to dreamland.

Johnny Kent had taken the lamp into the house, and the lantern which had been left standing on the floor cast a long, dusky shadow athwart the recumbent figure. The shipmaster stood looking down at the massive shoulders and knotted, hairy arms of the stranger when his attention was fixed by something which caused him to stare as though startled and fascinated and perplexed. The man’s broad back bore some kind of a design, an uncouth, sprawling pattern such as no artist in tattooing could ever have traced to please a sailor’s fancy.

It was a huge disfigurement composed of bold lines and angles which stood out in black projection against the white skin. Even in the dim light, Captain O’Shea could discern that these rude markings had been done with a purpose, that they composed themselves into a symbol of some sort. They looked as if they had been laid on with a brush, in broad, sweeping strokes which ran the width of the back, and all the way down to the waist. The man could not have made them himself. They were mysterious, sinister.

O’Shea was neither timid nor apt to be caught off his guard, but his pulse fluttered and his mouth felt dry. He was in the presence of something wholly beyond his ken, baffling his experience. This red-haired derelict, whose wits had forsaken him, brought a message hostile, alien, and remote. Presently O’Shea bethought himself of the lantern and made for it with nervous haste. Holding it close to the back of the sleeping man, he stared with horrified attention and pitying wrath that a human being should have been so maltreated.

The great symbol or design had been slashed in the flesh with strokes of a sword or knife. The edges of the scars stood out in rough ridges. Into the wounds had been rubbed India-ink or some like substance which the process of healing held indelibly fixed. The pattern thus made permanent and conspicuous was that of a character of the Chinese or Japanese language.

Johnny Kent came out of the kitchen and beckoned him. The engineer stood open-mouthed and gazed down at the tremendous ideograph that had been so brutally hacked in human flesh. O’Shea had nothing to say. What was there to say? The thing was there. It spoke for itself. What it meant was an enigma which neither man could in the smallest degree attempt to unravel. When Johnny Kent spoke it was only to voice the obvious fact or two that required no explanation.

“He was chopped and branded proper, wasn’t he, Cap’n Mike? And it was done for some devilish purpose. I’ve knocked about most of the ports in the Orient, but I never heard of anything like this.”

“They made a document of him, Johnny. ’Tis Chinese workmanship, I’m thinking. How could a man live through a thing like that? For the love of heaven, look at those scars! They are as wide as me thumb, and some of them are better than a foot long. And they stand out so black and wicked that it gives me the creeps.”

“It means something, Cap’n Mike. And it’s up to us to find the answer. One of them Chinese characters may tell a whole lot. Their heathen fashion of slingin’ a pen is more like drawin’ pictures. A few lines and a couple of wriggles all bunched up together and it tells the story.”

“And what is this story, Johnny? Answer me that.”

“You can search me. It’s almighty queer business to happen on my peaceful farm in the State o’ Maine.”

“Let the poor beggar rest here till morning and then we will consider him some more. I guess we don’t want to turn him over to the constable, Johnny.”

“Not till we try our hand at translatin’ him. I wish I had a Chinese dictionary. Say, Cap’n Mike, you’re as welcome as the flowers in spring, but as soon as you set foot on my farm things begin to happen. Trouble is a step-brother of yours. It’s like harborin’ a stormy petrel.”

“’Tis not fair to blackguard me,” laughed O’Shea. “You and your neighbors can sleep easy in your beds for I have caught the bogie-man.”

“I wish I knew what it is you’ve caught,” sighed the engineer.

O’Shea bent over the sleeping man in order to raise his head and slip underneath it a rolled blanket to serve as a pillow. His fingers chanced to detect on the top of the skull a curious depression or groove over which the red hair was rumpled in a sort of cow-lick. Examination convinced him that this was the result of some violent blow which had fairly dented the bony structure and pressed it down upon the brain.

“That is where he got it,” said O’Shea. “And ’tis what made a lunatic of him.”

“It looks like they tried to kill him with an axe but he was too tough for ’em, Cap’n Mike. No wonder that crack you gave him over the ear didn’t bother him much.”

“And whoever it was that put their mark on his back was the same party who caved in his lid or I’m a liar,” was the conclusion of Michael O’Shea.

II

The only inmate of the cottage who slept soundly was the vagabond in the wood-shed. His guardians stood watch and watch as a matter of habit, but the early morning found them both astir and drinking mugs of coffee very hot and strong. Their guest had not moved from his outstretched position on the mattress. He slumbered like a man drugged or utterly exhausted. O’Shea had spread a blanket over his naked back and shoulders partly for warmth, but another motive also prompted him. He wished to hide the cruel disfigurement. It seemed unfeeling to expose it.

Now by daylight he moved on tiptoe to the mattress and twitched the blanket aside. O’Shea had lived among hard men and fought his way through battering circumstances in which physical brutality still survived to uphold the rude old traditions of the sea. But this sight made him wince and shiver, and he did not like to look at it. Covering it with the blanket he fell to wondering, with an intensity of interest that gripped him more and more strongly, what tragedy was concealed behind the curtain of this luckless man’s past.

Johnny Kent had agreed that he must be harbored in the cottage for the present. Their surmise that he was a seafarer made it seem a duty to befriend him by all means in their power. To spread the tidings in the village that the pyromaniac had been caught would arouse a storm of anger and resentment. Amid much clamor and disorder he would be handcuffed and tied with ropes and triumphantly lugged to the county jail. The farmers were in no mood to condone his misdeeds on the score of mental irresponsibility. On the other hand, kindly treatment and association with those accustomed to follow the sea might awaken his dormant intelligence and prompt him to reveal something of his shrouded history.

“It’s an awkward proposition,” sighed Johnny Kent, “but we’ll have to work it out somehow. Of course I’m sorry for the poor lunatic that has been man-handled so abominably, and so long as we don’t give him matches to play with I guess he’s safe to have around. But how can I keep him hid from my neighbors? They’re as gossipy and curious as a hogshead of cats.”

“I mean to find out who branded him and why,” was the vehement assertion of Captain O’Shea.

Shortly after this the stalwart waif in the wood-shed awakened and his captors were pleased to note that he was still tractable. Indeed, he greeted them with his confiding, good-natured grin and sat pulling on his shoes. To their words of greeting, however, he made no reply. Apparently the plaintive request for a chew of tobacco had been the end of his conversation.

“He used up all the language in his system,” commented O’Shea. “Maybe he will not burst into speech again unless I hit him another crack over the ear.”

Johnny Kent filled a tub with water and indicated the clean clothes which he had left on the chair. The derelict nodded gratefully and the others withdrew.

“It wouldn’t do to trust him with a razor, Cap’n Mike,” said the engineer.

“Pooh! Fetch me the tackle and I will shave him meself. It will make him look saner anyhow and I want to see what he is like.”

The guest seemed delighted with this thoughtful attention and submitted to a dose of lather with all the good grace in the world. Bathed, shaved, clad in one of Johnny Kent’s white suits, he was astonishingly transformed. A strapping big man he was, and he held himself with the easy poise of one whose muscles had been trained by hard work on rolling decks. Strolling into the kitchen, he passed through it and entered the other rooms, his guardians following to see what he might do.

At sight of the scrubbed floors, the polished brasswork, the barometer on the wall, and the simple furnishings so like the cabin of a ship, his blue eyes showed a flicker of interest and he paused and absently shoved an inkstand back from the shelf of a desk lest it slide off. The trick was so significant of his calling that O’Shea needed no more proof. A tin box filled with matches caught his glance and he instantly made for them. His demeanor was furtive and cunning. He had become a different man in a twinkling.

Johnny Kent jumped for him and O’Shea was at his elbow ready for a tussle. But he permitted the matches to be taken from him without resistance, and forgot all about them in fingering the spliced hammock ropes on the porch. A gesture from O’Shea and he returned to the kitchen and took the chair assigned him for breakfast. The prudent engineer kept an eye on the knife and fork which the stranger used with the manners rather of the cabin than the forecastle. O’Shea studied the rugged, honest features of this red-headed mystery and earnestly expounded various theories that wandered into blind alleys and led nowhere at all. The only conjecture which seemed to hang together was that, in some way or another, the man’s propensity for setting fires harked back to the time and scene of the terrible blow over the head which had benumbed his memory and jarred his wits. Before this disaster overtook him he must have been a fellow ready and courageous, able to hold his own in the rough-and-tumble world.

“What shall we call him? It’ll be handy to give him some kind of a name,” suggested Johnny Kent.

“He reminds me of Big Bill Maguire, that was mate of the _Sea Bird_ bark, and fell through a hatch and broke his neck when he came aboard drunk at Valparaiso. He was a rare seaman when sober.”

“Let’s call him Bill Maguire, then, Cap’n Mike. He likes us and I guess he intends to sign on with us and hang around.”

“Why don’t you try setting him to work, Johnny? He would make a jewel of a hired man.”

“Yes. On a fire-proof farm that was insured for all the underwriters would stand for,” dubiously returned the engineer. “I can’t watch him every minute.”

Captain Michael O’Shea banged the table with his fist and decisively exclaimed:

“’Tis in my mind to visit you a day or two longer, Johnny. Curiosity is fair consuming me. I can see the ugly, wicked marks on this poor beggar’s back whenever I shut me eyes. It haunts me like a nightmare that is too monstrous to talk about.”

“I’d give a thousand dollars to fathom it,” roared Johnny Kent. “And Bill Maguire just sits across the table and grins like a wooden figger-head.”

“I suppose ye have no Chinamen in your village,” ventured O’Shea.

“Nary a Chink. I’ll bet the children never saw one.”

“And where could we find the nearest one, Johnny? ’Tis our business to dig up a cock-eyed lad that will impart to us the meaning of the message that was carved into the back of Bill Maguire. Nor will I know an easy minute till we have the information.”

Johnny pondered a little and then spoke up with sudden hopefulness:

“Once in a while I’m so sagacious that I surprise myself. The Chinese ambassador spends his summers on the coast at Poplar Cove. It’s no more than an hour from here by train. He’s a fat, sociable old party, so they tell me. And where could you find a better man to solve the riddle of Bill Maguire?”

“You score a bull’s-eye,” cried O’Shea. “And he will have secretaries and such, and we will let them all have a try at it.”

“But how will you show ’em Bill’s back? Draw it on paper, or get a photograph made?”

“Nonsense! Bill will take his back along with us. We will produce the original human document.”

The engineer was inclined to object to this, but the edicts of Captain O’Shea were to be obeyed, and to argue was to waste words. The Perkins boy was summoned from the barn and instructed, by means of thundering intonations, to stand guard over the farm at peril of his life. He spent his nights at his own home and had missed the excitement of the capture of Bill Maguire, wherefore the secret was safely hid from his inquisitive eyes and ears. He gazed at the robust, silent stranger with rampant curiosity, but learned nothing beyond the fact that his employer proposed to be absent for the day with his two guests.

The young Perkins drove them to the railroad station in the two-seated democrat wagon, Johnny Kent sitting at his side and smothering his questions. The ticklish business of conveying Bill Maguire through the village was accomplished without the slightest mishap. He behaved with flawless dignity and seemed contented with the society of his escort. During the brief journey by train to Poplar Cove he slouched in his seat as if half-asleep until the railroad swung across a wide belt of salt marsh and turned in a northerly direction to follow the coast. There were glimpses of rocky headlands fringed with surf, of wooded inlets and white beaches, and now and then a patch of blue ocean and a far-distant sky-line.

The red-haired man from nowhere was mightily moved by the smell and sight of the sea. His heavy, listless manner vanished. His rugged face became more intelligent, more alert. It reflected tides of emotion, poignant and profound. It was painful to watch him as he scowled and chewed his lip or brushed away tears that came brimming to his eyes. It was evident that he struggled with memories and associations that came and fled like tormenting ghosts before he could lay hold of them. Again, for a moment, he broke the bonds of his dumbness, and loudly uttered the words:

“Make for the boat. Don’t mind me. The swine have done for me.”

To O’Shea and Johnny Kent the words were like a flash of lightning against the black background of night. They revealed the man for what he had been in his prime, in the full stature of heroic self-abnegation, thinking of others and not of himself even in the last extremity. They understood this kind of manhood. It squared with their own creed. Aglow with sympathy, they plied the derelict with eager questions, but he only muttered, wearily shook his head, and turned away to gaze at the sea.

At the Poplar Cove station they hired a carriage and were driven along the cliff road to the pretentious summer-place occupied by His Excellency Hao Su Ting and his silk-robed retinue. To escort a crazy sailor into the august presence of the distinguished diplomat, and demand a translation of the brand upon his naked back was an extraordinary performance, taking it by and large. However, the stout old engineer had no notion of hanging back. He had the fine quality of courage that is not afraid of ridicule.

As for Captain O’Shea, he was in a wicked temper, and it would fare ill with the man that laughed at him. His smouldering indignation at the barbarity inflicted upon the seaman had been just now kindled by the words which leaped so vividly out of the clouded past and were winged with so much significance. “Bill Maguire” had unflinchingly played the cards as the fates dealt them and had paid a price as bitter as death. The game was unfinished, the account had not been settled. At this moment O’Shea detested the entire Chinese race and would have gladly choked the ambassador in a bight of his own pigtail.

The trio walked slowly across the wide lawn and drew near to the rambling white house of a colonial design to which the Chinese dignitary had transferred his exotic household. It was for O’Shea to explain the fantastic errand and gain admittance, wherefore he prepared to dissemble his hostile emotions and make use of that tact and suavity which had carried him over many rough places.

Alas for his plan of campaign! It was overturned in a twinkling. The red-haired sailor followed obediently to the pillared portico which framed the entrance of the house. O’Shea rang the bell, and his quick ear detected the soft shuffle of felt-soled shoes. The door was swung open and there confronted them a Chinese servant in the dress of his country. At sight of the shaven head, the immobile, ivory-hued countenance, and the flowing garments of white and blue, the demented sailor became instantly enraged.

Snarling, he leaped forward with clinched fists and his face was black with hatred. The wary O’Shea was too quick for him and managed to thrust him to one side so that his rush collided with the casing of the door. The frightened servant squealed and scuttled back into the house. Instead of trying to pursue him, the red-haired man was taken with a violent fit of trembling, seemingly compounded of weakness and terror. Before O’Shea and Johnny Kent could collect their wits in this extremely awkward situation, he wheeled about, dashed between them, and made for the lawn as if the devil were at his heels.

O’Shea was after him like a shot, the engineer puffing along in the wake of the chase. The servant’s outcries had alarmed the household. Out of the front-door came spilling a surprising number of sleek attachés, secretaries, domestics, and what not. Behind them waddled at a gait more leisurely none other than His Excellency Hao Su Ting in all the gorgeous amplitude of his mandarin’s garb. In a chattering group they paused to watch poor Bill Maguire flee with tremendous strides in the direction of the roadway, the active figure of Captain O’Shea steadily gaining on him. Far in the rear labored the mighty bulk of Johnny Kent.