We know you are armed. But one movement to your pistol and it will be your last. Come, sir. Move quickly. We mean you no personal harm, but we want that money." Mr. Montrose moved entirely from the shelter of the box with his arms raised. He looked at Joseph, the perfect example of the very young and confused man confronted with imminent violence. But he saw something else. Joseph's face had become hollow, like a skull, and inhumanly dangerous, and his small blue eyes had flattened. The lieutenant was not so perceptive. "What of the cargo?" asked Mr. Montrose. The lieutenant, as he was young, could not resist grinning maliciously. "You will not pass the patrols," he said. "We will, sir, take the clearances with us as well as the money." "Colonel Braithwaite," said Mr. Montrose. It was evident that he was delaying in the hope the captain would appear, and reinforcements, and the lieutenant knew this at once. He laughed shortly. "Do not try to forestall me, please, Mr. Montrose. The colonel leaves for Philadelphia tomorrow. He has been transferred. The cases, sir," he said to Joseph. "The colonel will become impatient." But the diversion had been enough. The lieutenant had hardly spoken when Joseph rapidly drew and fired his pistol. He had directed the weapon not at the body of the young soldier but precisely at his right thigh. He had fired with total deadliness and care, with not a single tremor or hesitancy, or even a thought. Before the lieutenant had begun his shocked crumpling to the floor Joseph had swung on the civilians with their rifles and Mr. Montrose had found his pistol. It was evident, in an instant, that the men were aghast at the attack on their leader, that they had expected no resistance, and that they were not prepared to fight to the death. They turned as one man and fled into the night with their rifles. One even dropped his weapon in his flight. It struck the floor of the wharf at the instant the lieutenant dropped, his pistol flying from his hand and clanging and bouncing on the wood.
Chapter 20
Joseph's shot had raised thunderous and bounding echoes in the cavernous depths of the wharf, and the men at the top of the ramp had halted, looking back over their shoulders. They saw at once what had happened and they raced their vehicle into the ship and scattered like mice, shouting. Captain Oglethorpe suddenly appeared on the ramp, and then he ran down it into the wharf, a black and avenging figure. He reached Mr. Montrose, and he exclaimed, "Clair! Are you hurt?" "No, no, not in the least, Edmund," said Mr. Montrose and frowned slightly at the other man. "We were attacked by this gentleman here," and he indicated the fallen soldier with a delicate movement of his foot, "and Mr. Francis heroically disposed of him at once. A perfect shot. We were about to be robbed of our funds. Worse, we were about to be robbed of our clearances. Mr. Francis's intuitions were only too true." He turned to Joseph, smiling calmly. Joseph still held his pistol. He stood over the groaning and bleeding and writhing lieutenant in silent menace. The swaying lantern light showed the soldier's white and sweating face, distorted with pain, and the blood that ran from his injured leg, and it showed his terror. His large blue eyes swiftly roved from face to , face. He expected instant death, but he did not speak. Captain Oglethorpe moved to Joseph's side. His face showed no anger or viciousness, but only interest. He said to Joseph, "Finish him off. We have no time to waste, I see." A few men were cautiously filtering back into the wharf from the clip; per, but they stood warily at a distance, watching and listening intently. Mr. Montrose pursed his lips and considered the groaning soldier. He : said at last, "No. There are some questions to which I need the answers. Besides to kill him and leave him here would be, I am afraid, rather difficult to explain on our return, and now indeed we have no time to waste. The patrols may have already been alerted by the other robbers who ac, companied our brave military friend. Take him into the ship, Edmund, and stanch his bleeding so he will not die before he has given us some necessary information." The soldier lay, still writhing, but silent now. The sweat glistened on i his face. He gritted his teeth. Death had passed him by, temporarily. But ; he could still feel its coldness in his flesh. The captain looked at his distant men, whistled to them and waved his I arm, and they came at once. He gave them their orders. They looked down j incredulously at the soldier but made no comment. They lifted him, and suddenly shrieked with agony, but they were indifferent and hurried ith him to the ship. The three men on the wharf watched them go in silence. Joseph still held his pistol, and occasionally he glanced swiftly at the doors of the wharf. "Let me congratulate you, Mr. Francis," said Mr. Montrose. "I could not even detect a movement on your part before you fired." He looked at Joseph consideringly and with a faint smile. "I take it that you did not atend to kill him?" "No," said Joseph. "May I ask why not?" Joseph's face still retained its hollow gauntness, but he drew a deep rbreath. "I have no objection to killing, if it is necessary. I did not believe lit necessary in this instance." But Mr. Montrose, still smiling faintly, did not entirely believe him. He said, "A most remarkable shot. I could not have done half so well, nor could you, Edmund. It was admirable." The captain was dissatisfied. "We could have killed him here, taken his body aboard and then dropped him into the sea. What information can you expect from him?" Mr. Montrose said, "He called me by name. He mentioned Braithwaite, and the search of our rooms for the money. This was well-planned-by our friend. It was to be his last coup, for he is being transferred. Moreover, I suspect he did not love us, and plotted to betray us as well as rob us. No doubt he hoped we would be captured by the patrol or killed by them, beyond the harbor." The captain nodded reluctantly. "That could well happen, without the clearances. We could, however, if captured, involve Braithwaite in our confessions." "Be sure he had thought of that, and that is why I need to question our captive." Joseph was thinking. He had, himself, felt the presence of death. He said, "I do not think that even if we had kept the clearances we would have sailed. That man intended to kill us after robbing us, so that we could not embroil the colonel."
Mr. Montrose considered this, then inclined his head. "That is probably true, Mr. Francis. He wished the clearances not so we would be captured by the patrol out of the harbor but just so there would be no evidence against our gallant colonel. It is well he had no trained soldiers with him, but only ruffians from the gutters of the city whom he could bribe. Had he shot one of us the others would have had the courage, then, to shoot me, and Edmund, but your amazing action, Mr. Francis, startled and frightened them and drove them to panic. Moreover, they had seen their leader fall, and without a leader such animals become mindless. It is well that the soldier was young and could not resist wasting time in baiting us. Otherwise we should now be dead." In the meantime the final boxes and crates had disappeared with tremendous speed into the clipper. The wharf stood empty, the light was uncertain, and everywhere there were booming echoes. The three men walked quickly towards the ship. "We sail at once," said Edmund Oglethorpe. "We dare not wait until midnight." He looked with friendly curiosity at Joseph, and with some admiration. "I am honored, sir," he said, "to have you aboard my ship, for above all things I like brave men." He put his hand briefly on Joseph's shoulder. "I am grateful that you saved the life of Mr. Montrose, even more than my life." Mr. Montrose smiled affectionately at the captain. "The soldier knew that when he fired at us it would draw your attention, if you were not a lady on the wharf, and that would have been the end of you also, Edmund. Still, it was an audacious and courageous thing for him to do, though he had probably watched and waited until we were alone. He was iinore brave, in this instance, than I suspect he would be on the battlefield. Ijjut then, money is a great inspirer." "On our return, we shall find the colonel," said the captain, as they all walked up the wet and greasy ramp to the deck. He spoke with casualness land almost indifferently. "Certainly," said Mr. Montrose. Joseph felt a chill touch on the back of Ibis neck. Mr. Montrose continued: "Men like the colonel are not often found on the battlefield. They are much too clever and adroit, so he will of die in battle." Captain Oglethorpe laughed. "But he will surely die, just the same." iioseph saw the flash of his white teeth in the semidarkness. Joseph's cabin was small and austere but blessedly warm. One polished orthole stood over the narrow bunk with its clean brown blankets and riped cotton pillow. A lantern swayed gently from the immaculate varnished ceiling, and there was a chair and a low chest. The freshness of sea lir and the aromatic odor of wax and soap filled the cabin. Joseph removed phis coat and hung it on the wooden wall and placed his few belongings fin the chest, and then, for the first time, he trembled. He was disgusted with himself. He had shot a murderer, who had intended to kill him. Why, then, this girlish quivering? He had slept in Mr. Healey's office rooms with a gun in his hand, twice a month, for years, with the full intention of wounding or killing any robber who intruded. He had practiced to kill. Yet, at the supreme moment his resolve to kill had wavered and he had shot down the soldier instead. Had he thought it not necessary to kill? Was he feckless, a milksop, after all? As a child he had anted to kill the English and had daydreamed about it. He had wanted kill those who had truly murdered his mother. What was wrong with now? If he were on a battlefield he would kill without a second bought. He had been taught: "Never raise a gun unless you intend to at, and never shoot unless you intend to kill." He had failed. But still, in spite of his trembling and his self-disgust, he was glad he ad not murdered the soldier. This thought increased his revulsion against Mmself. He rubbed his hands over his face and shivered as he had shivered the wharf. The next time, he thought, I won't hesitate a single minute. I might have cost us all our lives by my prudishness. He sat on the edge of the bunk and wondered dismally if he had lost favor with Mr. Montrose and if he had the one mistake which must be his last, but which would always be remembered against him. Still, Mr. Montrose had not seemed angry. However, he remained an enigma to Joseph, a more impenetrable enigma than ever. I will soon know, Joseph said glumly to himself. He heard a great flapping far above him, the shouts of men, and then a sliding and swaying, and he knew that the ship was leaving the dock. He knelt on his bunk and looked through the glass. The ship was retreating with almost silent speed through the black water, and anchored masts and other vessels began to flow back. Now the clipper creaked and bowed and rolled a little, and there was the soft sighing of timbers under strain, and a splashing along the sleek hull. She was a fine ship, proud and fast, and Joseph felt he could feel her soul, intrepid and confident. He suddenly remembered the Irish Queen, and he recalled that as a child he had thought of her as an old but brave woman, tired, and determined, though longing for death or a safe harbor. This clipper disliked harbors. Joseph smiled reluctantly at his fancifulness, even though he knew that seamen believed that their beloved ships had a being of their own apart from the crew, apart from their owners. It had been long years since he had last seen the sea and had last been upon a ship, and had last smelled the odors of salt water and tar and rope and wet wood and canvas. All at once he was sharp with memory, and for a few seconds his recollections overwhelmed him. He compelled himself to look at his smooth, well-kept hands-though they still bore old calluses-and at his fine respectable clothing, and at his handmade boots of gleaming leather, and at his broad cravat with the discreet pearl pin and his cambric shirt. He felt his hair, smooth and no longer ragged. He stood up and went to the chest and looked at his belongings in it, and at the pocketbook which contained a handsome sum of money. He felt at his lean middle for the delicate gold chain which spanned it, and he took out his gold repeater watch and held it to his ear and made it chime its frail fairy notes. It was only half-past eleven, he thought. Now a resolute glow came to him. He was not rich. But he would be rich within the year! He clenched his fist. No more than a year. Mr. Montrose sat with Captain Oglethorpe in the latter's warm cabin, and they sipped brandy. "The news, Edmund," said Mr. Montrose. "I know you must go on deck almost immediately. But I must have the news." "I sent a brave and trustworthy man up near Richmond," said the captain. His smiling lips smiled wider. "To our home, Kentville." Mr. Montrose considered him. "That brave and trustworthy man was you, dear Edmund." "Come to think of it, it was," said Edmund, with a vast air of surprise. "After all, I did not want to endanger one of my men, and I wanted no garbled accounts."
"You might have been caught, and killed, as a spy or something." "I? Dear Clair! Who am I, but a humble returning seaman, a wanderer, no-account and shiftless man, one who has drifted? One who had only , returned from foreign parts recently and had heard only rumors of this war, and just wanted to see his kin again." "A likely story," said Mr. Montrose. "But you are such a rascal that you probably could deceive General Sherman, himself. I take it you encountered no great difficulties with patrols or bands of Union soldiers, or military occupants?" "A mite," said the captain. "It was a little chancy a few times, and it took longer than I expected. But I have been a seaman since I was twenty, as you know, and weather does not disturb me, and sleeping in burned houses and abandoned barns, or even in the open, is nothing to an experienced seaman. I haven't forgotten how to ride a horse, and there were horses here and there-" "Which you stole," said Mr. Montrose. The captain looked hurt. "To whom do those horses belong? To us or the damned Yankees who really stole them? God damn me if I don't hate them!" "Did you have to kill very many?" The captain looked bashful, and grinned. "A few," he admitted. "But what's a Yankee? I did it only when necessary-and when I needed ammunition, or a fresh horse. Your Dad said many times to me, when I was . only an ornery young 'un, that a gentleman kills only when he is compelled to do so, and he told you that, too, and I have a great respect for your Dad, even if you never had. After all, he was my uncle, and my own Pa had died when I was small, and he took care of Mama and me and Sent me to school, and if he talked too damned much and too piously all the time he had his virtues." "A true Southern gentleman," said Mr. Montrose. "I know." The captain looked pained. "You never had any respect for anybody, , Clair. Not even for your dainty Mama. You were always a rogue, and you fcave the audacity to call me a rascal. At least I honored my elders and (didn't mock them to their faces, as you did. And I went to church with fl them, of a Sunday, which you refused to do since you were a shaver of five. There was always something a little flighty about you." Mr. Montrose nodded. "There's nothing to choose between us, Edmund. We have the same pirate blood, inherited through our saintly Mamas. And what ladies they were! I used to wonder if Mama ever shat. ll am sure Daddy believed she did not. But, the news, Edmund, the news." The captain refilled his glass. The ship was gathering speed and the ; lantern on the ceiling swayed. "Luane," said Edmund, "never received i any of your letters except the first two." "Daddy confiscated them.' "No," said Edmund. "It was your Mama. All for Luane's good, certainly. It distresses me to remember that you loved your Mama even less than you did your Daddy, and she such a fragile and lovely lady who never raised her voice not even to a slave. No, it was Mama, I regret to confess." Mr. Montrose's feline face changed. He leaned forward. "You have seen Luane? Quick, you must tell me!" The captain stared at him then said abruptly, "The Yanks burned down the house, where we both were born, and where your father was born. They burned the fields and the cotton. They drove off the cattle. What they could not take they destroyed-everything. Gardens, hen houses, horses, barns. There's only a chimney or two left, Clair. They burned down everything but the slave quarters. Now even the slaves are gone." Mr. Montrose's eyes glowed like the eyes of a great cat. "Luane?" "Luane stayed. She hid your mother in the woods and when the Yankees went off she brought her into the slave quarters." "Did they hurt Luane?" "No. That's a right smart wench, Clair. They never found her. She hid with your mother-for a whole week. She knew what the Yankees did to the slave women, and how they shot the bucks and even the pickaninnies after they drank up your Dad's wine and whiskey. I heard the same stories all over Virginia. Can you imagine a Southerner shooting helpless folks, even black ones?" "Yes, of course," said Mr. Montrose. "Not as readily as a Yankee, however." He sipped brandy. "You saw Luane." "Yes. I hollered when I got there, and looked around. Sounded like I was calling the hogs. A mite distressed, you could say. And Luane came out of the slave quarters, and she recognized me and ran to me and shouted out, 'Master Clair! Tell me about Master Clair!' She was fitten to be tied, almost out of her mind. She took me by the arms and shook me and screamed your name over and over. I got right bothered by her hollering, wondering if Yankees were still around, and if you and I hadn't played with her when we were young 'uns together I might have fetched her one, just to shut her up. It was surely Luane, and she doesn't look a day over twenty, and she in her thirties at that." He shook his head. "A fine wench, still, with those big gray eyes of hers, and a skin like new cream and a mouth-I used to think when I was a stripling-like a dark rose. I would dream at night of bedding her myself, but you got there first, Clair, and she only thirteen. I had dreams of murdering you," and the captain laughed and shook his head again. "Trouble was, your Dad was against white folks messing around with their slaves. He kept slaves, but to give him his due he never abused them, and respected them as human beings with those inalienable rights he was always quoting from the Declaration of Independence, though that proclamation somehow didn't mean he believed in freeing the slaves, or felt it had anything to do with the darkies. Contradictory. No mind, Clair. You will remember that when your Dad found out about you and Luane he carried on as if Luane was his precious only daughter and you a dirty ravisher who should be horse-whipped and hanged. Kind of a simple fellow, your Dad. Luane was only a slave wench, and you were his only son. He almost had a seizure." Mr. Montrose smiled unpleasantly. "Perhaps he remembered that Luane was his second cousin, daughter of his cousin, Will, who didn't hold anything against anyone who messed around with the darkies." "Well, Cousin Will, your cousin Will, not mine, was purely white trash, Clair. Shiftless, no-account bastard. Never had anything but a grubby little farm, and not a slave to call his own. He had no right bedding down with Luane's Mammy, who was owned by your Dad. But he was a right handsome man, Cousin Will, and Luane has his eyes, and his nose, and her Mammy was a pretty wench, herself, a high-yeller as they call them. Luane could pass as white, anywhere." "I suppose that is a compliment," said Mr. Montrose. "I reckon it is, Clair, and don't you talk Yankee talk to me. I am a : Southern gentleman, sir," and the captain laughed. "Well, I shut up ; Luane's mouth and so I got the news. Now, you must think kindly of your i Dad. Before your son was born your Dad freed Luane, so her child was i»freeborn, and not a freedman. And now this will make you, I hope, feel ; even more kindly about your Dad. He loves that grandson of his. He put j him in his will. Luane told me." "I don't even know his name," said Mr. Montrose. The captain threw back his head and laughed a high and whinnying jrkugh. "He gave your son his own name, by God! Charles!" Mr. Montrose stared with numb incredulity and the captain laughed am and slapped his knees. "Clair," he said, "trouble with you that you are a very complex man »nd so how can anyone as stupid as a complex man understand the simple- ainded, like your Dad? You think just about everybody has subtle oughts and such, and is complicated himself. But your Dad's as simple clean crick water and never had a thought in his head. Why, I knew hat when I was six years old. But then I'm not a man of intellect like you, -lair. I could see things right out, but you were always looking for signif- ant shadows and finding your own foolishness instead. Though you in't think it was foolishness. You thought you were smart." Mr. Montrose rubbed his fingers through his thick hair. The captain I'said, grinning wider than ever, "Your boy looks like Luane, though he's elk headed like you. Of course, everybody knew he was yours, but nobody ever dared to laugh at your Dad, except you. Not one of his friends would have dared even to smile behind his back. A right brave gentleman, your Dad, and he'd have killed a mocker. Besides, he is proud of the boy. More than he was ever proud of you, at that. Charles was his kin. He looks like a Devereaux, and Luane has Devereaux blood, too. Those folks are prouder than the Devil, himself." Mr. Montrose was silent. His elegant features expressed nothing. The captain refilled his cousin's glass, shaking his head as at a huge joke which only he could appreciate. "Luane told me about those two letters she had from you. You didn't know she had been freed. You sent her money. Now, how the hell did you think a darkie pregnant wench, though she looks white, only thirteen-fourteen years old, could run away from her home, and she a slave, and get up North? I tell you, Clair, you intellectual men are right feeble-minded most of the time. True, you weren't even nineteen, yourself, but you should have known better." "I wrote her we could be married up North," said Mr. Montrose. "And Luane's got better sense than you have, Clair." When Mr. Montrose said nothing, the captain went on: "Yes, Luane's got sense. You're a Southerner born. She knew you'd remember that, some day, and that she had been a slave, with nigger blood. You'd remember you're a Devereaux." "And Luane has Devereaux blood." The captain smiled triumphantly. "Now there, you surely showed yourself, Clair. You used to laugh at the Devereaux, but they're right in you in spite of everything. Luane knew all about you. She still does. If I didn't know what I know about her I'd swear up and down that she was a lady- born, a high-born lady. There's another thing: She was always devoted to your Ma, especially after the baby was born. You never appreciated your Ma, either. Lady of principles, like your Dad, and better even than a Devereaux in spite of the pirate in the ancestry. Brought up Luane almost like her own kin, though she never showed her true feelings. Only Luane knew." The captain looked at Mr. Montrose thoughtfully. He also glanced at his watch. "Clair, I'll make it short. Your Ma died, in the slave quarters, with Luane caring for her like a loving daughter, two months ago. Luane wouldn't leave her, not for a minute. And when your Ma was dead Luane dug her grave for her, at the end of what was once the gardens, and wrapped her in one of her own shawls, and mourned her like a daughter." He paused. "Aunt Elinor was a lady, a fine lady, like her sister, my Mama, even if she wasn't any smarter than your Dad. You never could forgive fools, Clair, and yet fools often have dignity." "What of Luane? How is she living?" "She's still living in the slave quarters. I gave her money. I brought four hundred dollars with me. I told her you sent it. I said you wanted her to come North, any way she could, and join you. That girl said, Tell Master Clair that here's my country and here's my people, and I will never leave them. But I send him my love, and when this war is over I pray he'll come home and live on his own land again.' And she's setting up a garden, and is right thankful for the money and she'll buy a cow or two and horses. You owe me four hundred damn Yankee dollars." Mr. Montrose rubbed his forehead and bent his head and stared at the floor. "Where is my son?" he asked. The captain laughed even louder than before. "Your Dad, Clair, is a colonel in the Army of the Confederacy, and where the hell he is now I don't know. But he took your son with him as his personal aide, and I reckon no one in that man's army knows that the boy has any nigger blood in him at all. Luane told him, but I hear he told her, his own Ma, that it was of no account and that God didn't look at a man's color but only at his soul. Luane's right smart and knows better, and I reckon she thinks your boy is as big a fool as his granddad, and don't have any more sense." He stood up. "That Luane's a lady, and a proud lady, and has a high spirit, and she's waiting for you, which 1 don't think is very clever of her." He put his hand on Mr. Montrose's shoulder and shook him as if rallying him. "This goddam war won't last forever, Clair. Go back to your own land and your own people. Go back to Luane." "I can never marry her in Virginia," said Mr. Montrose as if to himself. "Hell, what's marrying? The wench is waiting for you. If I had a wench like that waiting for me, damned if I wouldn't go to her even through the whole damned Union Army. I thought I told you: Luane's proud, too. After all, she's a Devereaux even if from the wrong side of the blankets." He pushed Mr. Montrose's shoulder. "Now, what do we do with the bastard in the brig?" Mr. Montrose stood up. He looked absent and a little dazed. He said, after a moment, "I will talk with him now. And I want young Francis with me. He's been blooded, as my Dad used to say, after he pushed a ^Weeding foxtail in my face. I want him to hear what is said." *: He looked at his cousin. "Thank you, Edmund. That is all I can say. ; Thank you." And he held out his hand. He smiled. "You're only an Ogle- «thorpe, but I reckon I admire you." "Go to hell," said the captain, and laughed his high laugh.