CHAPTER XIII
A BROKEN SWORD
Ariadne had been happy for five days beyond the time she had expected to be-five days beyond the one when her husband selected those men out of Lewis Granger's house to go forth and serve the King. For Geoffrey, still looking about in likely quarters, while sending also a press-gang ashore under the command of an old grey-haired lieutenant who had never found promotion-a man old enough to be Geoffrey's father-and still another gang under the command of his master-at-arms, had been enabled to thus long delay his departure. But now-now-the time had come to part; he had the full complement of men their Lordships had directed him to procure, and from their Lordships also had come a message by an Admiralty tender, bidding him sail for the fleets at once.
Wherefore poor Ariadne, tearful and woebegone, was now superintending the preparations necessary for quitting the Mignonne, while Geoffrey was intent on comforting her in every way in his power.
"Yet, cheer up, dear heart," he said again and again to her. "Remember, 'tis not for long at present. Once I have delivered these men into the ships requiring them (and some are no farther off than the Nore), then back I come to seek for more. We shall not fight Conflans yet; he advances not in spite of all his threats to invade us. So, heart up, mine own; in a week the Mignonne will be anchored here once more, and thou on board with thy fond husband."
"But a week, Geoff-a week! Alas! to me it seems an eternity. And then to think of what is to follow. And they say that that corsair, Thurot, is at the mouth of the river. If that should be so!"
"I hope it may. If I could but seize him now, what a feather in my cap 'twould be. He is a brave sea-dog, although he is a Frenchman."
"I shall be distracted during thy absence. I know not what to do. Oh, Geoff, what is to become of me!"
"You are to stay in the lodgings, my dear one," her husband said, "which we have chosen over there;" and he nodded his head towards the shore. "They are sweet and clean, and you can observe our anchorage. Therefore, you will see the Mignonne sail. Also," he added, with a happy thought, "you will see her return. Think on that."
Ariadne did think on it in the hours after he had left her, her husband going on board at midnight in preparation for his departure at dawn. Think on it-ay! indeed she did-as also on his last kiss pressed to her lips before he left, and of many, many others he had given her as the hours flew by and evening turned into night. She thought on it each time she crept from her bed to the window of the lodgings he had taken for her, to see if yet the daybreak was at hand (though she knew well enough that it could not come for still some hours); if yet the ship that held her husband, her lover, was making ready to depart. And always by her side stood Anne, who had been bidden to come and sleep with Ariadne on this the first night of her desolation since she had been married; Anne, who had long since determined never to part from her mistress again.
She had done it once when-in the exuberance of her youthful spirits, and proud of the possession of a good voice, which she knew how to manage in the bravura style, as well as a considerable facility for dancing in a manner fitted to obtain popular applause-she had left her home at Fanshawe Manor to earn her own living in London as a public performer. But, alas! what had been the result? Her little sister who had gone with her as companion, after both had pleaded long and frequently to her mistress and their mother for permission to do so, had encountered ruin at the hands of a scoundrel, and death as the result of her shame; while, for herself, what had happened? What! A life destroyed through her impetuous determination to exact a terrible atonement from the villain who had done her sister to death; an existence destroyed and rendered barren, loveless, and blank, through her tempestuous desire for vengeance.
She had left her mistress once; now she vowed often that never would she do it again. Never again.
"I have indeed made myself an Iphigenia, as Sir Geoffrey calls me," she would say to Ariadne during the passage of those eight months, "by wandering from your and mother's side; but, no more. Henceforth I stay with you, if you will let me."
And the two girls, who had never been parted since they were children, except for that year of a wild life on Anne's part in London: the two girls, of whom one had now become a happy wife, and the other a wife loathing and despising the man whom she had trepanned into marrying her-the man on whom, if chance came in her way, she would exercise still further vengeance-had kissed and embraced each other, and vowed that they would always remain together. For, although Anne called Ariadne her mistress, and was spoken of as the latter's maid and servant, they had from infancy been always more like sisters than aught else, and had grown up together loving each other fondly, while Anne's three extra years of age had made her like the elder and graver sister.
Now, together and alone-since Mrs. Pottle had departed some day or two before to Fanshawe Manor, to which they were to follow later, when the Mignonne would have sailed on her final cruise to join the fleet and take part in fighting France-they watched for the dawn to come; watched knowing that, with it, the lights on the frigate's masts would be put out, the sails be bent, and then-then-Ariadne would be desolate.
At last, the dayspring was at hand. Towards the east, beneath the dark blue and windswept heavens, they saw the primrose hue coming; soon they knew that there would appear a brighter, more vivid yellow, and then the sun, and with that sun, departure. Already poor Ariadne could see, even without the perspective glass which Geoffrey had left behind for her use, that all was excitement and bustle aboard the ship. For by now the pipes were sounding, they could hear the hawsers coming on board, and the men singing too; and then Ariadne, her hand clutching Anne's arm, saw the outer jib loosed to the light south-westerly breeze which was blowing from where London lay.
"Oh, Anne!" she whispered, "it is the first time he has left me since we were wed. The first time, and now he is going. Look at those hateful sails, and-oh! how can they sing?"
"Be brave," said Anne, whose husband was not going away to sea; Anne, who, had he been doing so, would certainly have felt no regret; "heart up, you are a sailor's wife."
But that did not comfort the girl, who watched now, without understanding, everything taking place; for-although she knew not the meaning of fore and main top-gallant sails and spankers, nor anything of mainsails, nor mainroyals and mizzen top-gallants, nor staysails and jibs-she could see that the Mignonne was moving, going down the river towards where the sea was, with on it, perhaps, the great French fleet and also the dreaded Thurot who was reported to be lurking near.
"He sees me!" she cried; "he sees me! Oh, God! he waves a handkerchief from-what is it? – the waist! He sees me-ah! Anne-Anne-look-oh!" she cried, "the ship is passing round that point. Oh! Anne, she is gone."
"Heart up," again said Anne, comforting, yet still resolute. "'Tis but for a week. He will come back, my dear."
Then she led the girl to her bed, and, getting into it herself, took her in her arms and caressed and soothed her.
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, not more than a mile off from where the two women were, Lewis Granger was himself preparing to begin a new day. It was necessary that here, he who in London had rarely left his bed until the morning was almost gone, should rise early, for he had much business to attend to besides that of trafficking in what he termed his "cattle" business, such as supplying all kinds of vessels with flour and meat and provisions of every sort. He was not actually the owner of this concern which he conducted, but, instead, only the superintendent or manager of it for a very wealthy man whom he had known when he was himself a gentleman-a wealthy man who, having lost his former superintendent and meeting Granger by accident about the time of Bufton's marriage, suggested that, as the latter said his circumstances were low, he should take the position.
"You have been a sailor yourself, you know; you are also an Essex man," this person remarked, as they sat in a coffee-house; "therefore you understand something about the requisites of the sea. And you may make some money. There is, of course, a good percentage, and, in absolute fact, you can grow well-to-do." After which he explained to Granger what his occupation would be.
Whereon he, knowing that, henceforth, even the beggarly keeping which he had received from the man who had once ruined him was certain to come to an end after the latter had been tricked into marrying Anne Pottle, took the position. It would at least be food, he told himself.
And now he was indeed growing well-to-do; in those eight months which had gone by since the day he had parted from Bufton he had been making money fast, both for himself and his master; making money by ways which once he would have scorned and have reviled himself for-by crimping and kidnapping, by hocus-pocussing men and making them drunk, by inducing simpletons to believe they were going to freedom and wealth in Delaware and Virginia and Massachusetts, or in Jamaica or Barbadoes, when in truth they were going to slavery, and as often as not to death. But also helping to fit out ships which, calling on the West African coast, should purchase from one successful tribe of negroes the prisoners they had taken from another they had defeated, and, transporting those who lived-the dead, as well as the sickly ones, being flung over to the sharks-should sell them also into slavery.
He was growing well-to-do, was putting by money, even while he stifled his conscience as to the way in which it was acquired; almost he had begun to forget that he, a gentleman, a King's sailor, with no worse faults originally than those of dissipation and a love for gambling, had been ruined, degraded, disgraced by a scheming scoundrel. And, also, almost was he forgetting that he had sworn to have an awful vengeance on this scoundrel, this man who had deprived him of the woman he loved and had caused her to cast him off. He came nigh to forgetting that his mother died of a broken heart-a heart broken by his ruin and disgrace.
"Ay," he said to himself, as now he dressed in preparation for his day's work, "ay! I had almost forgotten. Almost! And then he must needs find his way here, as full of evil as before. And the bait took-he swallowed it greedily. Anne's sister-I-my mother-the woman I worshipped, are not enough. He is a cormorant of cruelty, and seeks still more victims. Well-there shall be more. His craft and devilish subtlety shall find another. Yet how-how-how is it to be done? I must think."
It was still early, not yet seven o'clock, but because of evil habits which he had contracted of late years, and which he could not now break off, much as he endeavoured to do so, he went to a side table where, taking up a dram bottle-a thing always to his hand now-he drank from it.
"It nerves me," he muttered. "It will serve me till it kills me at the last. And it clears my mind. Others it makes drunk, but me it fortifies-at present!"
He did not drink again, however; did not pour down glass after glass-such an act as that was reserved for the nights when he stupefied himself regularly ere seeking that sleep which never came easily; instead, he put the bottle away, after standing regarding it fixedly.
"Strange," he muttered, "strange. Glastonbury is drinking himself to death at Ratisbon, they say, because he possesses Sophy, but not her love; I am drinking myself to death here because she loved me-perhaps loves me now-and I have lost her. Through him, that venomous snake; that reptile!"
An onlooker might almost have thought, could one have been present, that the wretched, broken man had taken his dram and was indulging in such thoughts with a view to strengthening himself in some resolve that he had made. Would have thought so could he, that observer, have seen Lewis Granger go to a cupboard next, and, plunging his hand in, draw forth a sword in its scabbard. A naval sword, the handle of which he grasped, bringing out from the sheath, as he did so, but half a blade-a blade broken short off halfway down. The onlooker might have thought so if he had seen the man turn up the scabbard now, and let the other half of the weapon fall out with a clang to the floor.
"I broke it," he whispered once more, and from his eyes the tears welled forth and rolled down his cheeks, "on that night, the night after I saw its point towards me when they led me back to the main cabin of the Warwick to learn my doom. That I was condemned! I broke it as my life was broken-my future-my all. Ruined by him."
Then he replaced the two pieces of the blade in the sheath and returned the latter to the cupboard, kissing the former ere he did so. "I loved you so," he whispered again, his lips trembling, "I hoped so much from you; that you would bring me honour and renown; make my mother proud that she had borne me, Sophy proud to be my wife. And now. Now!"
He closed the cupboard after thrusting the weapon back, and prepared to descend to his room below. Yet, by this time his mood had changed again; again he was the Lewis Granger of everyday life-sullen, evil-looking. And he wept no more. But instead, there was upon his face the sardonic expression most usual to it.
"Barry did believe yesterday-at last-not that I was innocent, but that I might by some strange chance be so. He did, he did! I saw it in his softer look, heard it in his gentler speech. And, for reward, I am about to send his fair young wife and Bufton's own wife to worse than death. I am about to do that!"
Whereon he laughed so loud and long at this thought that the crone preparing his breakfast below shook her head ominously and wondered if her master was beginning a fresh day with a fresh drinking bout.
CHAPTER XIV
BUFTON IS IMPLACABLE
The Nederland, the Dutch schooner-she was a two-topsail one-would have been out of the river some day or so ago-and would have slipped down past Woolwich and Tilbury and the Nore on one of these dark, moonless nights, and with no more lights showing than necessary, had it not been for three facts. One was that her master was not at all sure that the infernal captain of the Mignonne might not see fit at any moment to slip after her and make an inspection of what she contained, if he observed the slightest sign of her departing in a more or less mysterious manner-although the aforesaid person did not think Barry would dare to board her while she lay in the river, and was consequently under the protection of the colours she flew. Another reason was that "Mr. Lewis," who was a great help to the worthy master, had requested him not to hurry his departure more than was necessary, as the former considered he might be able to provide the latter with further suitable merchandise; while, also, there was still a third and more powerful reason behind the other two. This was that François Thurot, of Boulogne, who had been a licensed corsair, but was now a naval officer of the French King, was reported to be cruising outside in the Channel, and would be as likely as not to seize on any ship coming out of the Thames, no matter what flag she flew. For it was Thurot's system to attack anything he observed leaving English waters, on the plea that he mistrusted all vessels found in them (or quitting them) sailing under false colours, and if he discovered he was wrong, it was easy to allow them to proceed on their voyage. Nor; as a matter of fact, did he often find himself wrong, he being well served by his spies, especially by a despatch-boat he owned called the Faucon, and another called the Homard, nor would he have done so in this case.
For, in absolute fact (as any one, no matter whether it were Sir Geoffrey Barry or François Thurot, would soon have known, had they gone on board the schooner), though she might be called the Nederland at the present moment and might be sailing under the Dutch flag, she was nothing of the kind, but was instead the Amarynth of Plymouth, in Massachusetts, her captain being an Englishman, that is to say, a colonist.
None had, however, up to now, attempted to molest the ship in the Thames, since all connected with the navy were otherwise busily employed in preparing to resist the threatened attack of Conflans; and the master was now only waiting to hear from "Mr. Lewis" to depart. That is, to depart if he should also get the information that the dreaded Thurot was anywhere else than where he was at present reported to be. But, whether he got it or not, he would have to go ere long. For his "merchandise" was an eating and drinking cargo, and, consequently, an expensive one.
He stood on his poop on this present morning, after having seen the Mignonne glide down the river under a pretty full spread of canvas, and after having respectfully dipped his ensign; but now it was two hours later than that occurrence, and he was watching a shore-boat sailing out under a lugsail, and undoubtedly making for his ship. A shore-boat which he did not put himself to the trouble of hailing, or causing to be hailed, since he recognised its occupant and passenger as "Mr. Lewis."
"Good-morning, sir," he said, with due down East emphasis, as now the boat came alongside his schooner. "Good-morning, sir. I thought I should see you again before I up'd."
"Ay," said Granger, "I thought so too. I felt sure you wouldn't have up'd and gone away without seeing me. Don't you require my services any more?"
"Oh! well-why, yes. There's more room in the hold yet, you know. All the same, sir, I've got a cargo, and I may as well be getting along with it. Come into the saloon." Whereon he led the way to a cabin under the poop which he kept for his own private use. While, as he went, he asked, "Where is that Thurot?"
"You're safe enough from him," replied Granger, "if all accounts be true. They say he is at Gottenburg victualling. And there are too many of our ships of war about. The Mignonne went out, too, this morning."
"I saw her. I'll go out also-afore she comes back. A week I suppose, eh?"
"Indeed, it may not be so much. Barry, her captain, bade me have some more men ready for him by Sunday night, and this is Tuesday. That's not a week."
"I'll shift," said the master of the so-called Nederland; "I'll shift afore he comes back. I don't want him taking any of my children away from me. They're valyble."
"Do you want any more?" asked Granger, looking at the master over the glass which he now held in his hand, the Puritan colonist having produced liquid refreshment from a locker, "Could you avail yourself of two-or even one-more?"
"The trouble is a-making of 'em com-fort-able till I get 'em to sea. Then it is of no account. But if they aren't com-fort-able till we're away they might suspect. However, p'r'aps I could make shift with one or two. Dos't know any, friend Lewis?"
"I might do so. Perhaps, as you say, one or two. Yet," he said, after thinking a moment, "it could not be till Monday night."
"Till Monday night! Why! sir, that will never do. By then the captain will be back. And I am mortal afeard of him. If he boarded me," he said, sinking his voice to a husky whisper, "he'd find seventy on 'em below! Seventy thirties is over two thousand. Two thousand guineas' worth of stuff, male and female. A mort o' money."
"He will not board you. I know a way to prevent him. I will tell him that I can provide all he wants further and-and-well, the flag protects you. England will never quarrel with the Dutch; at this time-even now-the Government hopes they will join her against France."
"They eat a fearful deal," the Puritan said, with an eye cast down to the lower decks, "now. Later they won't eat so much. I must away-unless-unless I could be certain of getting something."
"You shall get something. I promise you. Only your men must fetch it. Send your quarter-boat ashore on Saturday night and, if there is nothing for her then, do so again on Sunday night; and I guarantee you something. Only, by Monday morning, by midnight of Sunday, you must be off and away."
"What will it be," the skipper asked, "a he or a she?"
"It might be either. But-this is good stuff that I shall send you. Listen. That which will come will not do so willingly; there is a family feud in this matter, such as has often been gratified before in similar ways. If it is a man, he may show fight, protest it is all a mistake, cry for help and make a disturbance; if it is a woman, she will weep and scream. Your ruf-your men must be prepared for a scuffle, as well as to silence all."
"Trust me," the skipper replied, with a loathsome wink. "If a female, we know how to stop all cries. If a man-ha! – so long as we don't kill him all is well. He will have the sea voyage to recover in. That's good for broken crowns to heal in."
"So, so. Now listen. The man you get-or both, if I can send two, but at least one-must be sold so that he finds no chance of ever returning to England. His family hate him; he is-well! no matter. What can you do?"
"I can go bail he never gets back. Only-only-thus! he will not be worth much to me. How can I pay you for what is no good, or very little?"
"The family pays me. I shall not want the 'usual' from you. And-if-when next you revisit us you can tell me that his relations are never likely to be troubled with him again, why-then-there will be something for you."
The New Englander thrust out a brawny freckled and sunburnt hand, and seized that of Granger, then he said-
"So be it. The family of this-this-'tis I suppose some flyblow-may be at ease. And-as you may send more than one-I will be very sure to treat all alike. I shall put into Charleston for the sale of some goods I have, and your men, or man, or woman shall be sold to a buyer from the French possessions. He will not let him, or them, ever return to England. All, or one. Is that it?"
"Ay, all or one," Granger said; "do that, and there will be no confusion." Though to himself he added, "There can be no confusion. There is no 'all.'"
"And the place?" the skipper said; "the place is-where? The same as before! In the Marshes, eh?"
"In the Marshes; that is it. Plaistow Level is best, this side of the creek. 'Tis bare and desolate even by day; at night not even a solitary gunner seeking for snipe is about. And-and-along the road that follows the river bank the stuff will come. Be ready with your boat and men on the night I warn you of. Thus you shall snare your bird."
"You will warn me, and it will most like be Sunday?"
"It will most like be Sunday. The hour you shall know. As well as how to distinguish your prize. And then you will away to Charleston. Be ready to sail at once with the cattle who are for the French colonies."
"Fear me not. I will be ready. Ere Monday morning comes we shall be out of the river."
They shook hands on this, the skipper filling the glasses once more, and so they parted, Granger dropping into the boat and being rowed ashore after having again promised to warn his confederate of the certain hour and day when his new victim might be expected.
"And," he repeated in a whisper, so that none of the crew who stood near should hear, "remember, this is a prize. You pay nothing for it; and if, when you return, you can give me good news for the family, you will have-well, I dare to say-fifty-a hundred guineas. Is't enough?"
"It is enough, I shall not fail."
In less than an hour Granger was once more back in his office attending to his master's business, checking accounts brought in to him by dealers and ships' furnishers; paying money and receiving it. But, ever and again, his eyes glanced at the clock which hung above the fireplace, while he muttered to himself, "He should be awake by now."
Bufton had been accommodated with a bed that night by his "friend," there being a spare room in the house, and now, since it was eleven o'clock, the latter went up to arouse him. He found him, however, leaving the apartment at that moment, and, after some banter as to the late hours he kept, Granger escorted him to the parlour, where he took his own meals and sat when not occupied in his office.
"Well!" he said, when some breakfast had been put before his guest, "Well! I have been about your business to-day-your great revenge; and-and all is arranged. Only I have one fear-that you will repent; that your heart will turn to kindness."
"Will it, think you?" said Bufton, with a cruel sneer. "Will it! Never fear. Yet tell me, what is it that is to be done?"
"They are to be inveigled, those two helpless women-they are very helpless, remember! – in some way to Plaistow Level. How that is to be done, you-we-must think over; then, once there, they will be seized upon by a boat's crew from the Nederland and carried on board. Being in the ship-well! you know the rest."
"But when? When, man? That cannot be done in a moment. We must have time wherein to inveigle them. When is it to be?"
"I have thought of that. Of how to give you time. Only, it must be done before the husband returns, and that is on Wednesday." (Surely Granger's memory was failing him!) "On Wednesday-to-morrow week. What say you, therefore, to Sunday night? By then, some scheme can be contrived to lure those two helpless women to their doom."
"Contrived! Contrived! Faith! my mind is not quite so quick as it was. Contrived! But how?"
"It may be done, perhaps. Yet, Bufton, think of what you condemn them to. Think, I say. To what is slavery, though not called by that name-to misery, despair. And both are young and both are fair. If they fall into the hands of unscrupulous planters, or of the French colonists in the South, then-then! – well! one is your wife, Bufton, while the other is an innocent gentlewoman, though your enemy's wife. Think on it."
If Lewis Granger was, indeed, trying to arouse some sentiment of humanity in Bufton's heart, he had taken the very worst way to do it; while, if he was but working on one of the worst sides of the man's nature-if, indeed, he was laying a spark to a train of fire already prepared-he had taken the surest way. For, now, with his most evil look upon his face, and with a glance that was revolting to Granger, he said-
"What in the devil's name care I what befalls them? Anne Pottle was merciless to me; let her die in the colonies, or go to the first Southern planter's arms that open to her. Either way it quits me of her. While for that other-that white-faced wife of the insolent sailor-well! he will have missed his heiress as much as I have done. And," he continued, chuckling, "if both of us lose our wives, maybe we can find others."
"You are implacable."
"I am implacable. Curse them all, have they not ruined me between them!"
"With Anne I could, perhaps, understand your desire; but with the other-she has not wronged you. And-you have a sword-there is another revenge open to you."
"Help me, or don't help me," Bufton cried, rapping his fist upon the table; "but curse your infernal preaching! Only, if you refuse, never now shall you have one farthing of that money at my mother's death. Never; never."
"I will help you once again. But this is for the last time. I have helped you too often, have ruined myself for you once. It is for the last time."
"Ay! for the last time. I swear it."
"So," said Granger inwardly to himself, "do I. For the last time."
After which they put their heads together as to how Ariadne and Anne were to be entrapped to Plaistow Marshes, and to the spot where the boat would be waiting to convey them to the schooner, and afterwards to slavery, or disgrace, or death.