Morning broke fair, and seemingly the wind, which had freshened, was defending its two charges by driving the clouds from a threatening course. Throughout the day Vytal saw no more of Eleanor Dare. In the evening he returned to the Admiral with a heavy heart and thoughts intent on the elucidation of the mystery, until, on passing a window of the room of state, he saw beneath a hanging lamp of Italian workmanship a face that so startled him as to command his whole interest and attention. It was the face of Sir Walter St. Magil. Vytal looked again, to prove his first glance correct, and then stood for a moment in doubt before entering. But the next words made him, against his will, a listener by the command of duty. Stepping to a vantage-point in adequate darkness, from which he could survey the whole cabin and hear the sentences of his late antagonist, he waited; for an oath from Ferdinando, followed quickly by a cautioning gesture from St. Magil, betrayed the covert importance of their conversation.
“It is against the first duty of a sailing-master,” declared Simon, frowning and toying nervously with the upturned corners of a chart, or map, that lay before him on the table; “I mislike the suggestion strongly.” At this St. Magil’s face, scarred upon the left cheek, from the dagger which Vytal had flung at him, and blighted yet more evilly by the indrawn eye, grew scornful and supercilious.
“Oh, an you are so faint-hearted,” he returned, “we must bide our time. ’Twill matter little in the end to us, but to you, now,” and he leaned forward across the table impressively, “it will matter more. ’Twere well, though, to discuss the thing in Spanish; even the arras hath ears.”
“Matter to me, Sir Walter—how so?” queried the master, conforming with the other’s suggestion regarding their speech. But Vytal fortunately understood the foreign tongue, thanks to many a campaign against the Spaniards.
St. Magil hesitated and looked away with a calculating air, then, smiling, replied lightly, “Well, say to the tune of a thousand crowns.”
Ferdinando’s small eyes glistened like a rat’s. “On your word, Sir Walter?”
“On my word, Simon, a thousand crowns if the boat arrives not in Virginia.” There was emphasis on the condition.
“’Tis done, then.”
“At an exorbitant price,” added St. Magil. “But we pay it willingly. To-night, then”—his voice sank so low as to be almost inaudible to Vytal at the open window—“to-night, then, we leave them behind. The fly-boat’s pilot, another of my beneficiaries, will play havoc with her steerage-gear. This is their chart, which I procured. The plan has been well arranged. ’Tis for you to clap on sail and leave them.”
“Mary save me!” exclaimed Ferdinando, shuddering. “I fear they will perish.”
“Nay, good Simon, this Bay of Portugal holds many ships, some of which will doubtless succor the fly-boat.”
“Or, being Spaniards, sink her!”
“Yes, there is that chance, I allow. I have told the pilot, in case of attack, to surrender, proclaim himself my servant, and so save the rest from death.”
“And so,” whispered Ferdinando, “deliver them to a bondage worse than death.”
St. Magil shrugged his shoulders. “It is but a choice of evils,” he avowed. “In Virginia they would fare yet worse. With them to strengthen it the colony would resist our men from St. Augustine, whereas now I look for a quick surrender. There will be no fight.”
“We lead our countrymen into a trap, Sir Walter, God forgive us!”
“Our countrymen!” ejaculated St. Magil. “I took you for a Spaniard, Ferdinando.”
“By parentage only,” responded the master. “But you are an English knight.”
“Ay, English,” allowed St. Magil, gnawing his mustache with a row of yellow teeth, “and I would save the English from their worst enemies. I mean not Spaniards, but themselves.” He rose from the table, and, stretching his arms abroad, yawned aloud.
“A thousand crowns,” muttered Ferdinando, “or say five hundred, the other half being laid aside for masses for my soul.”
St. Magil laughed sleepily. “It might pay,” he drawled, “to turn priest, if all else failed,” with which he leaned forward on the table, being in truth overcome by fatigue, and, with his face between his outstretched arms, was soon breathing heavily.
Ferdinando left the cabin.
Vytal, eluding him, entered it. The room was a long one, considering the size of the ship. Its walls, hung with arras, creaked occasionally as the vessel pitched and rolled, but the creaking, muffled by the heavy hangings, sounded ghostly and added to the gloom which the wavering lamp in no way dispelled.
Vytal stood over St. Magil, his lank, stern figure seeming like the form of Death in Death’s own room. His dark, olive cheeks were pallid and drawn, his hand tensely gripping the hilt of his rapier, the so-called “bodkin.” And his eyes, cast down on the sleeper, held disdain mingled with their fury.
But Vytal only gazed and gazed at the treacherous soldier beneath him, until at last, withdrawing his gaunt hand from the rapier-hilt, he held it with open palm above the other’s shoulder, as though, by awakening his enemy, to throw away his own advantage that both might meet on even terms. But his eye fell on the crude chart which Ferdinando had been examining. Silently he folded it and concealed it inside the breast of his doublet. Then, as if with an actual physical effort, he turned and left the apartment.
The fly-boat, now cast off from the Admiral, slowly fell astern, until her light seemed no more than a will-o’-the-wisp and she a shadow piloted thereby in whimsical manner. The sea fretted under a stiffening breeze, and not a star shone. The Admiral, although careening drunkenly, made good progress, for, obedient to shouted commands of Ferdinando, her crew were flinging aloft an unwonted spread of sail.
On deck Vytal met Hugh Rouse, whom he questioned tersely concerning the whereabouts of Roger Prat.
“He is in the forecastle, captain, with King Lud, the bear.”
“Fetch him, Hugh. Quick!” And the giant, with darkening brow, hastened forward. In a moment he had returned with his companion.
“Give full heed,” commanded Vytal, glancing sharply about to make sure he was unheard by others. “There is a plot afoot to desert the fly-boat. That plot at all hazards must not be disclosed. We should lose by immediate accusation, as we know not who are loyal. My plan is this: I shall jump into the sea; you two then give outcry as if a man by accident had fallen overboard. Ferdinando will of necessity heave to. In the mean time, as though distracted, fire a piece and blow on trumpets, as the sailing rule demands. Thus the fly-boat will have time to come up to us, and then—but leave that to me.” He turned to one and the other to make certain of their comprehension, and found it. They were accustomed, these two men, to their captain’s succinct commands in moments of emergency. But Roger Prat stepped forward with an expression indicative of disobedience. “Nay, captain,” he said, with a broad grin, “I am the hogshead and will float; ’tis better so. Under your favor, I go myself. The outcry being thine, will have more effect.” And before Vytal could hinder him, the short, grotesque fellow, winking and wagging his head at Rouse, flung himself, with a loud cry, into the sea.
In three minutes the ship was in an uproar. Men ran hither and thither, fore and aft, in a confusion of useless endeavor. The women, startled by the commotion, gathered for the most part amidships near the main-mast, while others, among whom were the first to learn the cause of the excitement, sought the high, castellated stern, from which they might look off with straining eyes, intent on catching sight of Roger Prat, who had already gained a widespread popularity. Hugh Rouse, at a word from Vytal, went quickly to the master’s mate, then at the helm, and informed him of the occurrence. Without hesitation, the mate and his assistants put the helm hard down, throwing the vessel into the wind. For an instant she stood poised, a breathless creature, her sails flapping, and then, minding her rudder still further, started back over her course. In the mean time, Rouse, who had hurried forward, gained the poop, and, waving a torch he had procured from one of the sailors, shouted with the full power of his lusty lungs to the crew of the fly-boat.
“Fool,” cried a voice behind him, “there is no need of that!” Turning, he saw St. Magil peering out across the water.
But the two ships were now rapidly approaching each other. Seeing this, Rouse desisted and turned to St. Magil with an agitated air, concealing suspicion fairly well, considering his honest, open countenance and utter incapacity for strategy. In this the darkness aided him. “I know not what to do,” he declared. “It is my friend who hath fallen overboard.” He held the torch high for an instant, so that its fitful glare fell upon St. Magil’s face, and then, instinctively realizing that it might betray the look of hate and distrust in his own eyes, he flung it far out into the water. There was this about Hugh Rouse which is rare in men of slow wit: he recognized his disadvantage. “I thought, Sir Walter, that you were in London.”
“So I was,” returned the sinister knight, “a few days ago,” and, suppressing an oath—for the fly-boat, having been alarmed by a flourish of trumpets, was now within hailing distance—he hurried away to seek Simon Ferdinando.
But Vytal had forestalled him. Immediately after Prat’s prompt action, he himself had gone quickly to the master. “The unfortunate man,” he said, “is one of my followers. With your permission, Ferdinando, I go to his rescue myself. The least we can do is to lower the ship’s boat.”
Simon, evading his glance, looked hesitatingly at the choppy sea. “I mislike risking several lives,” he muttered, as though to himself, with feigned prudence, “for one man.”
“I will go, then, alone,” avowed Vytal, quietly, “or with one other. Here, Rouse,” and he turned to his lieutenant, who had joined him. “We go to Roger’s assistance.” But still he looked at Ferdinando, as if deferring to the master by awaiting his assent. Simon, finding no plausible excuse for further delay, and fearing to arouse the other’s suspicions, made a pretence of ready acquiescence amounting almost to eagerness.
As Vytal turned away he found himself face to face with Marlowe. “I go with you,” said the poet.
Vytal nodded. “Quick, then!” And in another instant they had started out in the small boat upon their errand of rescue.
The sea, running higher and higher, tossed about the stanch little craft like a cockle-shell, but the brawny arms of the three rowers, holding her stem to the waves, managed to urge her slowly forward. The fly-boat now lay alongside the Admiral, almost within rope-throw, and both vessels hung as close as could be in the wind, their bowsprits bobbing tipsily, their canvas half empty and rattling.
The rowers strained their eyes and hallooed loudly, but there was no sight of the missing man nor any sound in answer save the flap, flap of the great square sails, the rush of the wind, the crash of the spray from broken foam-crests, and shouts from the swaying decks.
The rowers, now under the Admiral’s stern, were pointing the nose of their sea-toy toward the fly-boat. “Roger hath perished,” said Hugh, hoarsely. “God save his brave soul!”
And then, in weird contrast to the grave words, there came to the ears of the three men a laugh and an incoherent call out of the near darkness. It was as though the blade of Hugh’s oar had spoken. In amazement the men ceased rowing and gazed toward the black stern, from whose invisible water-line the sound had undoubtedly come. All steerage of the cock-boat being momentarily neglected, she swung round until a wave, catching her abeam, with all but disastrous results, washed her yet nearer to the grim hull. “Have a care!” cried the voice; “hold off!” And the rowers saw a dark thing bobbing up and down close to the ship. In another moment a man, grasping the end of a long rope in his hand, was clambering, with the aid of his comrades, into the small boat. “Did ye not see,” he said, immediately assisting at one of the oars, “that I grabbed a hawser as I jumped? ’Twas made fast, thank the Lord, somewhere amidships, and here have I been dangling out behind as comfortable as can be—” but his words belied him, for, even with the assertion on his lips, his last remaining strength failed suddenly, and the inimitable Roger Prat fell back senseless.
“To the fly-boat—quick!” said Vytal.
The cockle-shell was now but a dancing shadow, only a little darker than the sea to those who looked down on it from the Admiral’s stern far above. Yet in the eyes of one man, at least, that riotous black spot was a thing by all means to be avoided. “Simon, it is the solution of our problem. That man you say is John Vytal, and, I add, the most cursed mischief-maker under heaven. Had I known they were coming, he and his slavish crew, we might have been driven to no such pass.” The speaker lowered his voice and went on as he had begun, in the Spanish language. “But the chance is ours—yours.”
“How mine?” The question issued with a shivering sound from the other’s teeth.
“Let me see. One thousand crowns,” returned St. Magil, still leaning over the bulwark to gaze down like an evil buzzard on the bobbing shadow beneath him, “and another thousand—and, if it must be, yet another thousand.” He turned, smiling, to note the effect of his offer. “All this if you leave that insignificant cock-boat behind us, and it comes not safe to Virginia.”
“It is impossible.”
“Wherefore?”
“Captain Vytal is one of the governor’s assistants. The desertion will be reported, and I, Sir Walter, answerable to the lords of her Majesty’s most honorable privy council.”
“Most honorable idiots!” exclaimed the other. “’Tis easily explained. They are lost—we have waited—we cannot find them—where are they? I see no sign whatever of the boat,” and, smiling yet more blandly, he turned his back to the bulwark. “It is as simple as that—just turn your back.”
“Before God, I will not!” and Simon started away, as if he would end the matter there and then.
“You find no difficulty in forsaking the fly-boat,” sneered St. Magil.
“Nay, for that at least can live. But this plaything must surely perish if deserted in so rough a sea.”
“No, Simon, it will gain the fly-boat.”
Ferdinando returned to the bulwark and looked down once more at the object of their discussion. He could see it battling now against great odds, for the shadow made no headway in any direction and both ships were slowly leaving it in their wake.
“Keep your purse. I’ll not play the assassin for you or any other man,” and again the master would have left. But he heard a quick step behind him, and turned suddenly. A slender gleam crossed his sight, and he felt himself pressed back against the bulwark. The menacing glimmer seemed to get into his eyes and into his soul, bringing terror to both.
“For two thousand, then,” he said, hoarsely, “’tis done.”
“Thank you, my good Simon. Thank you, and all this for turning your back.”
There was a double meaning in the words, and Ferdinando shuddered at thought of it.
“We will go now and give orders to the mate,” said St. Magil—“together.”
CHAPTER IV
Eleanor Dare stood alone near the bulwark of the fly-boat, her thoughts shapeless, until at last a dark object, also without form, rose and fell on the water within range of her unseeing vision. Slowly her consciousness grew more acute, and the thing became real to her. Slowly it took shape and became a boat, a ship’s cock-boat, contending with all its little bravery against the waves. She heard, with an increasing heed to them, the shouts of men from the deck of the Admiral, and noticed for the first time that the governor’s ship, having stood back upon her course, was now abreast of the fly-boat. But soon her eyes, with a renewed attention to the realities of her surroundings, saw the Admiral stand away again to the westward. She perceived with surprise that, considering the gale, the larger vessel carried an unwarrantable spread of canvas; and realized, not without alarm, that the fly-boat, if thus outsailed for many hours, must soon be left astern far beyond the regulation distance. And as to the small boat: was its present plight merely the unfortunate result of an attempt to bring some message from one ship to the other, or was it the outcome of a fell design on the part of Ferdinando? This last suspicion in Eleanor’s mind was not without foundation, for she had already entertained misgivings.
Suddenly a yet graver fear came to her. For the fly-boat’s pilot, who at first had luffed his vessel up into the wind, imitating the example of the Admiral’s master, now sent her plunging ahead again, paying no heed to the rowers, who struggled vainly in the fly-boat’s wake. Realizing this, Eleanor, at last fully aware of the small boat’s predicament, and alive to the demands of the moment, hurried aft to remonstrate with the helmsman. She was not certain that the pilot’s intentions were treacherous, nor that the cock-boat had been seen. Furthermore, being ignorant of the rowers’ identities, she supposed them to be but mariners of the Admiral’s crew. But they were men elevated for the moment to a position of supreme importance by mortal danger, the leveller of all degrees.
With good policy, on her way aft, Eleanor gave the alarm to all she passed, and thus brought many with her to the pilot. The latter, a burly seaman, whose unkempt red hair and beard swathed his pock-marked face like a flaming rag, showed much astonishment at seeing a number of his passengers, led by a woman, excitedly running toward him, as fast as might be, considering the lurch and reel of the clumsy ship.
“There is a small boat astern of us,” said Eleanor, arriving first at the helm. “Ferdinando must have forgotten her. There hath been some mistake.”
The pilot turned, with a grunt of incredulity, and glanced off in the direction of her outstretched hand. “I see naught,” he returned, gruffly. “’Tis an illusion of the sight.”
But at that instant a voice came after them over the water from the darkness far astern. They heard but a feeble note, an inarticulate sound, yet the voice of Hugh Rouse, stentorian and resonant, had flung out the incoherent cry from his great lungs in full power, to beat its way against the wind. With constantly failing strength it overtook the ship and died a mere whisper on eager ears. But there could be no mistake; a score of men had heard. For an instant the pilot hesitated and glanced at the little company furtively under his fiery beetle-brows. Then, with a hoarse command to his crew, he shoved the helm hard down, and once more turned the fly-boat into a stupid, tentative thing, hanging in the wind, drowsily expectant and poised in awkward fashion, like a fat woman on tiptoe looking for her child.
And the child went to her slowly with faltering steps. Tumbling over the ridges of water and picking herself up again, nothing daunted, the cock-boat came finally into view. In a few minutes the rowers were on the ship’s deck. Vytal, whose sinews were of steel, and Hugh Rouse, a great rock of hardihood, showed small fatigue, but Roger Prat, who had just recovered consciousness, leaned heavily against the bulwark, striving to force a jest through chattering teeth, while the water still dripped from his clothes.
Marlowe stood apart, seemingly all-forgetful of his exertion, his dark eyes intent on the face of Eleanor Dare.
Many torches, now, in the hands of inquisitive voyagers, were throwing lurid streaks of flame across the gloom. Their light fell full upon Eleanor, revealing to the poet a realization of his dream. In all the rich colors of his limitless fancy he had pictured her often to himself since the night of their flight from London Bridge. The picture now was corporate, and Fancy inadequate before the Real. The many proffers of assistance, the come and go of hasty figures, the general commotion and curiosity were lost to Marlowe’s heed.
At last, when the by-standers had separated, he approached her, and, speaking her name, bowed low. As though awaking from a deep reverie, she turned, and gradually recognition came into her eyes.
“Ah, Master Marlowe, it is you; I had not thought to see you again so soon.”
“How so, Mistress Dare; did I not tell you I might come?”
“Yes; now I remember you hinted that, if in the morning the wind blew west, you would follow it. The responsibility of decision was too great for you.”
“Perhaps; moreover, there is much wisdom, methinks, in leaving our destiny to the wind, for the human heart is no less fickle and wayward in its guidance of our steps, and following that, we blame ourselves, yet who would arraign the breeze as purposeless and false?”
She made no answer at first, but looked off across the stretch of water, now growing wider between them and the Admiral. “I trust,” she said at length, half to herself, “that we shall have no cause to complain against the breeze. ’Twas but last night I thought a storm menaced our advance. Ah, well, ’tis a hazardous voyage at best. I wonder that you, who were not forced to come, should court so many perils.”
“Not forced,” he said, lowering his voice; “what, then, is force? Ay, madam, ’tis force and the hazard bring me here. The very peril compels me.”
He sought to hold her glance, but could not, for again she was looking off to the larger ship.
“You consider the risk so grave, then?” she queried, with a troubled air.
“The gravest, madam,” he answered, a look of reckless pleasure crossing his face; “with glittering danger so woven through the warp and woof of future days as to seduce a man’s best wisdom and seem a golden fleece. We court the danger for the danger’s sake.” His words came as an undertone to her thoughts, disturbing, but not breaking, abstraction, until suddenly, as if with an impulse, he questioned her. “I would fain ask you, Mistress Dare, concerning your departure that night from Southwark, and your friend in the barge, a man—” he broke off, for he had put the question with no need of further inquiry.
“That is readily answered,” she replied, nevertheless, with hesitancy. “You see, I durst not return to Lambeth through the borough, and thus expose us both again to danger, although I knew that my father would entertain misgivings and grave fears for my safety. When you know him better you will recognize his deep solicitude for every person’s welfare; how much more, then, for his daughter’s?”
“Know him better!” exclaimed Marlowe, in surprise. “But I have never seen him.”
“Indeed, you must have met him. My father is the governor of this colony—Governor John White.”
“But—but you,” ejaculated the poet, in bewilderment, “are Mistress Dare.”
“Being the wife,” she declared, with an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice, “of Master Ananias Dare, one of my father’s twelve assistants. It was he who came in the barge that night on his way to join us at Lambeth, and, seeing me in such sorry plight, decided to retrace his way with me to London.”
“A wife!” and then Marlowe said a strange thing, as though wording a second thought that rushed to him on the heels of his first shock. “It will kill him.” He was speaking of another man even in that moment—thinking and speaking of another man. For the intensity of that other, the naked soul, the dominant will, the inexorable fatality were compelling, by sheer force, the homage of his immediate circle. It was simply the irresistible power of a great character at work. And there is no human influence so near omniscience.
She paid no heed to his low exclamation, but, with a few irrelevancies, left him.
He had but little time to seek the meaning of her abrupt departure, for at this moment Vytal joined him and tersely revealed the facts regarding the plot of St. Magil. The poet showed more surprise on hearing of St. Magil’s presence than on having his instinctive suspicions verified concerning Ferdinando’s treachery.
“Dost thou know the extent of this treason?” he asked.
“Nay, therein lies the rub. The pilot is doubtless far from clean-handed, and, for aught we know, several others among us, in greater or less degree, conspire to work our ruin.”
“Yes,” observed Marlowe, thoughtfully, “in St. Magil’s words, as you o’erheard them, I seem to hear the whisper of a wide conspiracy in which even the Spaniards of St. Augustine will play their part. But tell me, would not decisive action here and now defeat them more surely than cautious measures?”
“I think not,” replied the soldier, turning in the direction of approaching footsteps. “Who comes?”
“’Tis I, captain, a wet dog, at your service.”
“Get you below, Roger, for warmth, and a change of garments.”
“’Tis impossible, sir; such as I find adequate attire most difficult to borrow. Hast never seen me in a moderate doublet? The sight, they say, is worthy of a stage play. Moreover, the only warmth of interest now lies in the oven of Sheol, wherein, ’tis my ardent hope, Master Pilot will soon be roasting by your command.”
Vytal smiled. “Justice demands patience,” he said. “Do you, then, seek Hugh, bidding him go among the mariners with eyes and ears awake. And likewise make investigation for yourself. Find an you can the limits of the plot, map out its course, survey the field. Bring proofs. ’Tis better so.”
“Justice!” muttered Roger to himself, starting away—“’tis always justice!” Joining Rouse, he thrust his hand through the big soldier’s arm. “A stoup of liquor, Hugh, will loose my tongue, and fit it well for questions. ’Tis to be all questions now, and never an answer from our lips. Big lout, think’st thou it is in thee to hint a query and induce reply with never a trace of eagerness? Nay, but follow me, King Lud’s Lord Chancellor—Heaven preserve his forsaken Majesty—ay, sirrah, follow me, and praise good fortune for the chance. Be mute. Keep tongue between teeth, and thy great paw well within a league of sword-hilt.” And so the garrulous Prat ran on, after his usual important manner, until they had gained the forecastle.
In the mean time Vytal and Marlowe, near the main-mast, were striving, by discussion and induction, to obtain a more comprehensive grasp of the situation. The soldier had long suspected St. Magil of treasonable intrigues, the nature of which, however, was undiscoverable. In the Low Country camps for the last three years there had been rumors of treachery, with which Sir Walter’s name had been vaguely associated. Some had openly pronounced him a spy in the pay of Philip of Spain, while others had as firmly declared him loyal to Henry and Elizabeth.
“We are his match at least in sword-play,” observed Marlowe, finally. “’Twas proved conclusively upon the bridge.”
“We are his match,” returned Vytal, with a quiet confidence, “in all things.”
“I trust we may prove this, too,” said the poet, regarding his companion with marked admiration.
“We shall.”
It was now nearly midnight, and the wind left a long, rolling sea, in which the fly-boat lay wearily, like a landsman in a hammock, uncomfortably asleep. The decks were deserted save for the burly figure of the pilot at the helm, the two shadows near the main-mast, and a ghost-like sailor here and there on watch. The Admiral’s dim light had gone down over the horizon.
“Desolation,” muttered Marlowe. “All desolation. It seems as though the God—if God there be—were sleeping.”
“There is a God,” said Vytal, simply.
The poet smiled sceptically, and would have rejoined at some length, but a cloaked figure came to them out of the darkness. It was Eleanor Dare. Marlowe started back as though struck without warning, and turned to Vytal with a jealous look. But the glance of enmity passed as quickly as it came, leaving only deep affection and sympathy in the poet’s face. Instinctively he made as though to withdraw, and they, to his regret, offered no remonstrance. “You will find me,” he said, “with the steersman. It may be well to watch him closely.” And he left them.
“Captain Vytal,” began Eleanor, “you must act with all speed. Indeed, I know not but that even now I am too late.” Despite her ominous words, she was speaking coldly, with a calmness almost mechanical. “We are in the hands of traitors paid by Spain.”
“I know it well, Mistress Dare.”
“You know it?”
“Yes;” and he told her very briefly the facts within his knowledge.
“It is worse than that. St. Magil withheld the full truth from Ferdinando. There is a conspiracy afoot to land us on the coast of Portugal. Before morning some twenty men in Sir Walter’s pay will come upon the deck and overpower the mariners now here. I tell you, in order that you may summon as many soldiers hither from below, and save us.”
“I thank you,” he said, “but it cannot be.”
“Cannot be!”
“Nay, for we know not who is loyal. My men and I must meet the knaves alone.”
“Alone! God forgive me! It is the second time I place your life in peril.”
“On the contrary, the second time you make it worth the living. But how came this knowledge to your ears?”
She hesitated only for an instant, and then answered him, with an icy chill in her tone, “From my husband.”
“Your husband!” There was no tremor in the voice, but only a harsh finality, like the sound of a sword breaking. And for a moment, in which a lifetime seemed to drag itself ponderously by, there was utter silence.
“Take me to Master Dare,” said Vytal, at last, mechanically. “We shall do well to confer together concerning the matter.”
She looked up at him with wonder and surprise. “You would see him?” she asked, as though her ears had deceived her; then, with a new bitterness: “I fear you will gain but little by the interview. My husband is”—her voice sank lower, with a note of deep shame in it, the shame of a great pride wounded—“is not himself.” Then, turning, she led the way down to a large cabin in which the captain and the governor’s assistants were accustomed to hold conference pertaining to the colony and voyage. “He is there,” and she left Vytal at the cabin door.
CHAPTER V
Entering immediately, Vytal found the room empty save for one man who sat before a long table in a peculiar posture and apparently half asleep. A silver flagon stood before him, its brim covered by two almost feminine hands, whose fingers were intertwined and palms held downward, as though to conceal or guard the contents of the cup. His head was bent forward until one cheek rested on the back of his clasped hands, while the other showed a central flush on a background of white, delicate skin. The man’s eyes were not closed, but maintained their watch on the door with an evident effort, for the lids blinked drowsily as though soon they must succumb to sleep. The light of a three-branched candelabrum, flickering across the table, showed a face naturally fair, but marred by dissipation. The hair, light brown and of fine texture, hung down over a narrow forehead, and half concealed a well-formed ear. The eyes, always first to suffer from inebriety, showed but a trace of their lost brilliancy when the effort to keep awake was strongest. There was an aspect so pitiable in the man’s whole attitude that Vytal, his face softening, shrank back as though to proceed no further with his interview. But overcoming the first shock occasioned by so weak and forlorn a personality, the soldier went forward, with grim determination. “Is this Master Ananias Dare?” he demanded.
“Yes,” came the answer, falteringly, “Master Dare, at your service,” and the slim fellow, attempting to rise, swayed and fell back again into his chair. “Rough sea,” he muttered. “Great waves—mad boat.”
Vytal drew a chair to the table, and moving the candelabrum to one side, sat down opposite the drinker. “I come to inquire concerning a plot of which you have knowledge.”
The effect of this unexpected statement was curious. “Plot!” exclaimed Ananias—“plot!” and he laughed a thick, uncomfortable laugh. “Now I know the boat is certainly mad. Who said ‘plot’? Oh, who said ‘plot’?” His voice, wailing, sank almost to a whisper. “I cannot believe it. I really cannot believe such extraor’nary statements. Have a cup o’ wine; ’tis wine belies our fears. I thank thee, good wine—I thank thee for so great a courage. Oh, who said ‘plot’?” and, lurching forward, he pushed a great silver tankard toward Vytal.
“’Tis wine,” returned the soldier, fixing his gaze on the pitiful assistant, as though to force the words home with look as well as voice, “’tis wine brings danger. Another cup now, and mayhap you are fatally undone.” He wished to play upon the other’s cowardice, and turn, if he could, one weakness into strength to withstand another. The time was short in which to elicit the desired information, and the task not easy.
“Danger! there’s no danger to me!” declared Ananias, unexpectedly. “Oh nay; how strange—danger—none whatever! ’Tis not for this I drink so deep; ’tis my wife—induces the condition!” His head fell forward again to his hands, that now covered an empty cup. Quickly Vytal hid the half-full tankard beneath the table.
“’Tis she,” said Ananias, again looking up sleepily, “my cousin, my peculiar wife. Why did I marry her—oh, why?”
Vytal’s face grew tense, the veins on his forehead big like thongs.
“She is different,” pursued Dare—“so different! ’Twas the queen did it. I sued so long, so very long, while Mistress Eleanor White would have none of me. And then, one day, coming to me like a child—yes, like a child,” he repeated, weeping remorsefully, “she said: ‘If thou’lt rest content with friendship for a time, perchance in the coming days I’ll learn to love thee, cousin, but now I cannot. My father alone is in my heart.’ That was after the queen had talked with her in private, and before she knew of my love for these big flagons—mad flagons!” He grasped the cup between his hands as though to caress or crush it. “And I was so wild of love and jealousy that I said, ‘Yes; I swear to be no more than friend.’” He was retrospecting as if to himself, and paying no heed to the listener, whose struggle for the mastery of his own emotion had turned him for the time to stone.
“I was so wild of jealousy, for there was my Lord of Essex courting her—Oh, this boat—this boat—’tis, in troth, mad—its reel gets into my head—Ah, why did she marry me? ’Twas because the queen promised that her father should come to Virginia and be governor—her beloved father—instead of going to the Tower for some trivial offence. And she was kind to me, yet so cold that I durst not even touch her hand—but then I grew more brave with wine. Her little hand was mine despite remonstrance, the wine imparting courage to hold it fast. No bravery, say you, in wine? Ha, you know not.” But Vytal had risen, and the sword-hilt was a magnet to his hand. “Nay, you go too soon,” said Ananias, waving him back. “The plot I come to is of deeper import. I’ve been too garrulous—always so exceeding voluble, they say, with wine.” Once more, with a strenuous effort after self-command, Vytal turned back to the table, pallid as death.
“She’s different now—oh, sadly different—I think ’tis Master Marlowe, the poet, turns her head. I saw him with her, and she entranced. I’m no more to her than you. And she is most miserable. To-night she came and said: ‘The voyage is very dangerous. Oh, would we’d never come!’ ‘Yes,’ quoth I, ‘’tis even more dangerous than you think.’ ‘Oh,’ said she, with a scorn that’s hers alone, ‘you are drunk,’ but I assured her ‘No,’ and hid the cup like this beneath my hands. Oh, why do I care, why do I care when she sees the wine?” The maudlin remorse came into his voice again and into his watery eyes. “‘What mean you?’ she asked, ‘by more dangerous?’ ‘Oh, the pilot will run us into Portugal,’ said I. ‘How comical! And there’ll be twenty men on deck before the dawn to do it. ’Tis most extraor’nary!’”
At this Vytal started again to his feet. “Wilt swear it?” he demanded, fiercely. The drunkard leaned back and stared at him, seeming for the first time to strive for a sober moment.
“Nay.”
“How do you know it, then?”
The vague eyes blinked with a more definite consciousness than heretofore. “I heard them plotting.”
“And will not inform us on your oath. Then you jeopard your own safety, Master Dare. Silence now is culpable, treasonable.”
“Oh no, no—what a mad boat—rolling about so—I, treasonable; how strange! Then I’ll swear, an you will, ’twas the pilot.”
“You’ll swear?”
“Most certainly, I’ll swear.”
“Where are the twenty men? Do you know that?”
“Nay, how should I know?”
“Did you not overhear the pilot give directions? Think you they are in the forecastle?”
“No, not there—not by any means there.”
“In the hold, then, hiding?”
“Ay, that’s it. In the hold. Down in the dark hold—oh, ’tis most uncomfortable in the hold—what a mad boat—rocking so—always rocking. ’Sdein! Where’s the tankard?” Rising unsteadily, he looked about on the table in stupid surprise, then, sinking back again, missed his chair and fell heavily to the floor. “Ah, ’tis here, the wine—such brave wine!” and, crawling forward on his hands and knees, he sat down half under the table, holding the tankard to his lips. “Such courageous wine!”
Vytal went to the cabin door. “Heaven guard her,” he prayed, and hastened to the stern. Here he found the pilot and Marlowe. With a gesture, he drew the poet aside, and in a few words made known the truth.
“’Tis against great odds,” observed Marlowe, his eyes lighting up, “that we fight again together.”
“Nay,” declared Vytal, “there shall be no fight. Wherefore desecrate a rapier with so niggardly a foe?”
Marlowe smiled. “The bodkin would fain stitch only satin doublets,” he remarked. “How, then, will you defeat these hirelings?”
“Thus,” and leading the way to the forecastle, the soldier emitted a short, low whistle in one note. Soon Roger Prat stood before them.
“He comes like a devil from a stage-trap!” observed Marlowe, in astonishment.
Roger laughed proudly and bowed like a juggler after the performance of a cunning trick.
“Tell Hugh,” said Vytal, in a short whisper, “to overpower the pilot when again I whistle thus, and with a stout rope to make fast his arms; but first procure another helmsman you can trust. For your own part, go to the hatches above the hold. If the pilot gives outcry, and his crew strive to pass you, warn the first man whose head appears, and if he heed not the warning, run him through. They can come but singly. ’Tis within your power to withstand them all.”
“Of a verity, captain, well within it; but the work is tame. They stand no chance.”
“Mark you, no bloodshed if you can help it. And tell Hugh the same. At the sound of the whistle, then, some time before daybreak.”
“Thank you,” and Roger went his way.
“Wherefore does he thank you?” asked Marlowe.
“Oh, ’tis ever so; a thousand thanks when I give him work like this to do.” And for a moment the eyes of both followed Prat, whose rotund figure could be seen beneath the ship’s lanthorn. He was walking on tiptoe, which gave him a grotesque appearance, and the end of his long scabbard was just visible as he held it out behind him to prevent its chape from dragging on the deck. “A peculiar fellow,” remarked the poet, to whom all men were books demanding his perusal.
“A man!” said Vytal. And they waited for many minutes in silence.
“Let us make sure,” suggested Christopher, at last, “that the men are in their places.”
Vytal turned to him with a look of resentment, or, more accurately, an expression of wounded pride. “You know them not.”
“Yea, well. But plans miscarry.”
“I repeat, you know not the men;” with which, as though to deride the other then and there with proof of his absolute reliance, Vytal whistled the short note shriller and louder than before. Even as it died away there came a deep oath from the stern and a sound as of metal clanking on the deck. In another second there was a pistol-shot, then a desperate silence. “Let us hasten,” cried Marlowe, “to their assistance!”
“Nay, let us rather go and question the prisoner.”
This expression of confidence was fully repaid by the sight that met their eyes. For there on the deck, near the helm, flat on his back, lay the bulky pilot, so bound with a rope winding from head to foot that he could not move so much as a finger in remonstrance. As Vytal and Marlowe arrived on the scene, Hugh Rouse, smiling broadly, held a light over the prone figure as though to exhibit his handiwork. “A ceroon of rubbish,” he said. “Shall we cast him into the sea?”
“Nay, let him lie here.”
Vytal turned to the pilot’s substitute at the helm, who had come thither at the request of Roger Prat. “Loyal?” he queried, taking the lanthorn from Rouse and holding it high, so that the rays fell athwart the new steersman’s face.
“Ay, loyal; the fly-boat’s mate, sir, at your service.”
“What proof?”
“None, save this,” and leaning forward he whispered the name “Raleigh” in Vytal’s ear.
“Your own name?”
“Dyonis Harvie.”
“He speaks truth,” exclaimed Vytal, in an aside to Marlowe. “Sir Walter Raleigh made mention of the man.” Then turning to the mate again: “To Roanoke we go. Here is a copy of Ferdinando’s chart. You are master now. See you pilot us safe and sound to the good port we started for. Heed no contradictory orders. I am Captain John Vytal an you need proof of my authority.”
Harvie’s honest face lighted up on hearing this, his sunburned brow clearing with relief. “Sir Walter Raleigh bade me seek you, captain, in case of need. ’Tis well you come thus timely.”
Vytal turned back to the prisoner. “Have you aught ready in extenuation?”
The pilot’s eyes opened slowly while he looked up for an instant at his interrogator with sullen hate in every lineament of his mottled face. Then his eyes, blinking in the light, closed again, and his lips tightened to lock in reply.
Vytal turned away indifferently. “And now to Roger at the hatches; but do you, Hugh, stay here and guard the pilot,” whereupon he led the way toward the hold.
“’Tis strange,” observed the poet, “that we heard no sound from Roger Prat.” But Vytal, making no reply, went forward, without so much as quickening his pace.
Coming to the hatches, however, they found no one, only a deep murmur of voices greeting them from below.
“Ah,” said Marlowe, who could not suppress a small show of triumph on finding the other’s surpassing confidence seemingly misplaced, “I said ’twould be well to make sure your orders were fulfilled.” And then, as the gravity of the situation grew more apparent to him: “Forgive me; ’tis ill timed. I fear the good fellow has come to harm.”
But Vytal only laughed a short, easy laugh. “I repeat once more, you know not the man. Throw open the hatch. On guard!”
With only the delay of a second in which to unsheath his sword, Marlowe obeyed; and the dull murmur of voices grew louder as it rose unimpeded to the two above. But no one appeared in the hatchway.
“They lie in wait to entrap us,” opined the poet, and then, with a hand on Vytal’s arm: “Stay, I pray you! It means certain death!” For the soldier had stepped forward as though to descend.
Vytal smiled. “That night on the bridge you counted not the cost. Your impetuosity, methought, was gallant as could be. I go alone, then.”
“Nay, nay, I stand beside you. Know you not that Kyt Marlowe is two men—a dreaming idler and a firebrand as well? Cast the firebrand before you, an you will. ’Twill burn a path for you, I warrant,” and with that the poet, now all impulse, leaped toward the hatchway, brandishing his sword. But this time Vytal’s was the restraining hand.
“No; I but tried you. We are none of us to be caught in a stupid snare, if snare it be.” And bending over the hold, to Marlowe’s astonishment, he called for Roger Prat. Then, to the poet’s still greater amazement, Roger’s head appeared in the opening, and a fat finger beckoned Vytal still closer to the hatch.
“All’s well, but show no mistrust of them;” and then aloud, that the men below might hear him, “Ay, Captain Vytal, ’tis Roger and many others at your service, eager for the fray;” whereat, looking back down the ladder, Prat called to the men to follow him. In a moment a motley company, of perhaps twenty, were standing on the deck, ranged in a group behind their spokesman. There were soldiers here, armed with pikes and bearing for defence leathern targets on their arms. There were mariners, too, with dirks and pistols.
“We are ready, you see,” observed Roger, with a covert wink. “Ready and eager to defend the ship.”
“Brave men all,” said Vytal, masking his contempt with a look of gratitude. “I thank you. But it is too late. The rank treason is already thwarted, the pilot a captive, to whom justice shall be meted out in no small measure. You have lost the chance to fight, but your desire, believe me, shall not soon be forgotten.”
There was a double meaning in the last words that caused many an eye to seek the deck confusedly. “’Twill be well,” resumed Vytal, with a look at Prat, “to leave your arms here in case of another fell attempt to surprise us. Perchance you might not hear the alarm, and so your weapons, were they with you, would be lost to us. Here we can give them to the hands of those who hasten first to the defence. I bid you good-night.”
One by one the men, not without hesitation, laid down their arms. It was the only chance they had to prove their good faith, and Roger Prat, as though to vindicate his own position, unbuckled his great scabbard with much ado and laid it down beside the rest. Then the men turned upon their heels and dispersed sheepishly, Roger, to maintain his rôle, going with them to the forecastle.
“Now,” observed Vytal, turning to Marlowe, “you know my men at last.”
“But I do not understand—” began the poet.
“Nay, not the details. Nor I. He will explain later; see, he returns even now to do it,” and Roger Prat stood once more before them. He was holding his sides and shaking with silent laughter, after the repressing of which he told an extraordinary tale.
“I heard the whistle,” he said, “and stood on guard. Master Pilot, being bound, I now suppose, by Hugh, could give no outcry save one of much profanity. But then a pistol-shot rang out, and I started forward a pace with some alarm. No doubt it grazed Hugh’s elephantine ear. A stimulus—a mere stimulus! But as I started forward—and for that step, captain, you should put me in irons, I do assure you—as I started forward carelessly, the hatch was flung open, and, before I could turn, I was seized from behind. I thought Roger Prat was then no longer Roger Prat, but Jonah ready for the whale. Yet I struggled, and being, as you know, of some bulk and weight, succeeded in pushing my captor backward to the hatch. The next instant one of us tripped, and I found myself bounding downward along the ladder, at the bottom of which, thank Heaven, I lay down comfortably on the man who had fallen behind me. For him ’twas a less desirable descent.” And again Prat shook convulsively with laughter, his elbows out and hands pressed close against his sides. “And then,” he resumed, with an air of bravado, “I overcame the score.”
“Overcame the score!” exclaimed Marlowe.
“With wits, Master Poet. ‘’Slid!’ cried I. ‘Why treat a comrade thus? In the name of Sir Walter, ’tis most unreasonable.’ ‘Which mean ye?’ they cried. ‘There are two Sir Walters!’ ‘Sir Walter St. Magil, of course,’ said I. ‘Here I come from the Admiral to give ye aid, and find myself hurled headlong to the nether world. The pilot’s killed, the plan defeated, and now we are like to decorate the yard-arm. There’s forty men concealed on the orlop deck, awaiting us unkindly.’ At this ’twas all I could do to look mournful and keep from laughing outright, for the knaves fell back terror-struck and babbled their fears to one another. Then I hung my head as if in thought. ‘I have it!’ cried I, at last; ‘we’ll play the part of brave defenders. There’s one trusts me, for I gained his confidence at St. Magil’s suggestion. ’Tis Captain John Vytal, the devil’s own.’ (Oh, forgive me, sir, for those dastard words. Yet they added force to my parley.) ‘A ready-witted fellow,’ I heard one say, and ‘’Tis a chance,’ remarked another gull. Thus they assented, and we have twenty brave souls, Captain Vytal, new recruited. Hang them, I say. Hang the lot at sunrise, except one, and him you cannot. ’Tis the one I landed on in my descent. His neck is broke too soon and cheats the gallows. Forgive me for that—oh, forgive me for that. Ha, ’twas a comical proceeding.” And again the fit of merriment seized him, exhaustingly, so that at last, for very mirth, he sat down on the deck, laughing until it pained him and the tears rolled down his rubicund cheeks.
The laughter, being of the most contagious, irresistible kind, spread to Marlowe. “Thy mirth,” said the poet, “is like to an intrusive flea. It invades the inmost recesses of our risibility, and tickles us into laughter.”
The sun, just peering over the horizon, saw an unusual sight across the water. First, a man in the stern of a solitary ship bound like a bale of cloth and propped against the bulwark under the eye of a giant who yawned sleepily, and, stretching a pair of great arms abroad, spoke now and then in monosyllables to a robust seaman on duty at the helm; then, a corpulent soldier, shaking like an earthquake, and sitting on the deck amidships, his short legs wide apart; next, a face of sensitive poetic features not made for humor, but now submitting to it as though under protest, yet very heartily; and, lastly, the tall, stern figure of an evident leader, who stood near the others, but seemingly aloof in thought, being, for some reason, little moved by the gale of mirth.
The dawning light of the next day showed a picture widely different in conception.