Mr Corbett's Ghost (11 page)

Whether the Marshalsea man came on at once, or whether he was helped by Bartleman, was hard to say. There was too much of deftness and speed in the embezzler's movements to be sure. The Marshalsea man lumbered past him with a distressing grunt.

Such was his strength and determination, that he got as far as Nicholas and even managed to seize hold of the offending pipe before the neat hole in his side let out the last of his life's blood. Bartleman had done for him as he passed.

‘I told you to be quick about it,' said Bartleman, wiping his knife on his sleeve. ‘Now you'll never hear that word he wanted.'

But Nicholas had already heard it, breathed out on the man's escaping soul.

‘You stinking little fool—' he'd sighed.

This incident, which, while it lasted, seemed to cast a queer glare of its own, ended rapidly in furtive, grunting shadows.

Bartleman, who was possessed of unusual strength, lifted the ragged dead man (whose name had been Dorman or Gorman—no one knew for certain) and bundled him up to a gun port.

Two men hastened to assist—but there was no need. The Marshalsea man was gone horrible quick, and the splash of him followed briefly on—a yard, maybe, aft of the portage that had served for a graveside.

No word of this abrupt and fearful diminishing reached the upper deck. What with the continual flying out of all manner of rubbish, and the intolerable confusion in the convicts' hold, the loss of a soul could not possibly have been known save by peachment. And there was no man there who'd peach on Bartleman.

There was something shrewdly devilish about the embezzler, something quick and to the point that made the notion of informing on him a dream to turn a man's blood to ice.

But there was also admiration. Transportable crimes being, by and large, piddling matters of vagrancy, sneak-thieving, perjury, and the fag-ends of coining, murder flew up like a scarlet banner, and Bartleman stood suddenly forth as a prince of felons, a Captain in the army of sin.

This admiration showed itself chiefly in a general eagerness to refer private quarrels to the embezzler for his just decision. He had shown himself a man quick to take up arms for the oppressed and the weak; and it was wonderful how many discovered themselves to be weak and oppressed when there was a champion in sight.

It was generally agreed that the dead man had asked for what he had got and no blame could be attached to his obliger. The cause had been virtuous, and the execution without malice and commendably prompt.

Nicholas Kemp regarded his strange protector with the most remarkable mixture of feelings ever stirred into a mortal soul. The chief of these was terror, with a seasoning of awe, some pride, a pinch of conceit at having been chosen, a dash of honest bewilderment as to why, and, small but strong, a twist of guilt that a man had died on his account.

This last he could not rid himself of, and the taste of it—together with the Marshalsea man's last words which had been more pitying than bitter—lingered long. Then, little by little, his thoughts changed back into dreams, and his dreams were, as ever, the old wistful memories of the sweet but far-off ladies to each of whom he had given his heart. Truly, never was the nature of a transported felon as blindly gentle as Nicholas Kemp's.

On the fourth day out—the convicts seeming quiet and genteel—the captain ordered all leg-irons to be removed and stored in a compartment directly aft. He was well pleased to afford this touch of humanity, and considered himself blessed with a peaceable cargo. Most marvellously,
the quarrelsome parties in the dark of the lower gun deck were subdued. He put it down to the motion of the sea which, to him, was as gentle as the rocking of a crib.

He did not know that, from many snapping beasts, the convicts had been compounded into one, a corporate monster with a host of hands and a single heart.

Bartleman the embezzler of money had advanced himself. He had become an embezzler of souls.

THE CAPTAIN OF
the
Phoenix
was a merciful man. On Wednesday, January the twenty-eighth, in the morning, the convicts from the lower gun deck were suffered to come up on a portion of the main-deck, between the forecastle and a roped barrier midway to the mainmast. For three days now, they had been out of irons and as quiet and decent as mice. There was no reason to suppose they'd take more advantage of the open air than God had intended: viz. to breathe it peaceably and keep in health.

None the less, the Captain confided his humane intention to his paying passengers the night before and promised stern precautions against the molesting of young females—of whom three were amiable and one was charming, a Miss Caroline Warboys.

‘Even so,' he went on, glancing sharpishly to Miss Warboys, ‘I would be obliged if you would maintain a discreet distance from the barrier. Please to remember there are many pickpockets among my convicts; some are most likely diseased—and all of 'em whiff like nine o'clock! So I begs of you, gentlemen and chiefly you soft ladies, don't let your milky kindness get the better of your good sense.'

Here he looked particularly hard at Miss Warboys who glanced down as if innocent that her pert prettiness had turned the heads of the ship's crew so far about that they scarce knew larboard from starboard. So plentiful was her milky kindness that she could not forbear from flashing her smiles at any gentleman in range of them. (It was said that, on a clear day, her smile could rake the ship from stem to stern.)

The morning proved handsome though cold. A brisk breeze blew across the deck, swelling out the mainsail in its larboard cheek like a giant's toothache. But the sea was easy and the
Phoenix
scissored away, turning the waters back from her bows in high silver folds, while behind, her busy stern made lace of it.

At ten o'clock the captain glanced approvingly to the shrouds, where six of his sailors were fixed with muskets levelled down on the space the convicts were to occupy. Miss Warboys also looked up and smiled—thereby causing one of the sailors to slip and nearly hang himself in an effort to strike a more remarkable attitude.

‘Open up that hatch!' called the captain.

‘Open up that bleeding hatch!' repeated the boatswain. ‘Open it up and let them poor stinking felons out!' Then—‘Godalmighty what a nose-full!'

This last as the hatch was slid back and the air grew hazy with the rising heat.

One by one, the convicts came up. They were dark and filthy. They shrank from the wind; sought to hide their heads in their scanty coats till they looked like a congregation of hunchbacks. They scowled blackly against the sunlight which was harsh and strange to them.

One by one they continued to come, till the space allotted was almost filled. At last no more of them came. The boatswain had counted eighty-one. He shrugged his shoulders. Two and eighty there should have been, but he was not confident enough in his arithmetic to remark on it. Two must have come up together, he decided . . . and went about his business, leaving the gaping passengers to be fascinated, shocked, and entertained by the sight of the felons taking the air.

Little by little, as they grew accustomed to the light, the convicts' frowns diminished; and, as the wind's edge blunted to them, they began to hold up their heads like a
field of shaggy blossoms, much blasted by foul weather yet hopeful of the sun.

The passengers, who had shrunk back at the first emerging, now plucked up their courage, plucked out their pocket handkerchiefs (which they held to their noses) and moved nearer the barrier. And the convicts jostled and grinned and tossed them strong pleasantries for the joy of making the ladies blush.

One man in particular was doing remarkably well at this sport, scarleting cheeks like a field of poppies with language as ripe as old fish . . .

‘Enough of that!' snapped a squat, square-faced convict who seemed to escape jostling more easily than most. He moved forward and now, with broad, powerful hands, pushed two surprised female passengers farther off the ropes—as if for their own benefit.

The foul-mouthed one looked sharply round, then stopped like he'd been cut off with a knife.

‘Sorry, Mr Bartleman, sir. 'Twas only a game . . . sorry, sir—'

Miss Warboys flashed one of her pertest smiles at this squat convict who seemed to be exceptional. But, either he missed it entirely, or he was cased in stouter armour than ever she'd come upon before. Rather the sailors in the shrouds, the captain on the quarter-deck, and the general furnishing of the ship itself seemed to take him more than Miss Warboys' brightest smile.

It had not been altogether wasted, however. Someone else had been hit. A friend, follower, or acquaintance of this squat convict. A young—a pitifully young—man with a week-old beard that fringed his pleasant face like gooseberry fluff.

He caught her eye, paled, seemed to tremble—then went most gratifyingly red. He smiled hopefully—and she, being kind, smiled back.

Had there not been so close a press, she'd have been further pleased to see his knees shaking with excitement.

Unlikely as was the time and the place, Nicholas Kemp's chief weakness had found him out once more. A pretty face had so bewitched him that, had the sun been a pendant, he'd have stolen it for Miss Warboys and let the world go hang in the dark.

Being female (and Miss Warboys was as female a lass as ever tipped a hoop), she was the lass for him. Even the terrible Bartleman straightway took a second place in his thoughts, and all things seemed temporary till he should see her more.

During that evening and night his situation among the convicts—which, on account of Bartleman's friendship, stood high—helped him make some improvements to his appearance. He obtained the interest of a one-time barber who'd kept some tools of his trade.

Bartleman looked on indulgently while Nicholas's hair was being trimmed and his face scraped over.

‘I take it it's for the doxy with the roving eye,' he said with contemptuous good humour.

Nicholas nodded (‘Nearly lorst an ear, mister,' muttered the barber, twitching with fright.)

‘She's a sharp pennyworth, sonny. Too sharp for you.'

‘What d'you mean?' asked Nicholas, peevish and offended on Miss Warboys' behalf. Though he feared Bartleman to the bottom of his soul, his chief weakness gave him a certain strength; which strength his three kind friends had sometimes remarked on. To the barber's surprise, the meek Master Kemp had the foolhardiness to frown at the murderous embezzler.

But more surprising still, Bartleman only grinned and ruffled Nick's hair almost apologetically.

‘No offence, sonny. No call for fury. Save it for the red-haired pussy. 'Twill impress her no end. But then what?' He chuckled. ‘Shall you offer her your heart? Hm!
She's made of shrewder stuff than that! I'm afraid you'll have to do better. Tell you what—offer her this alongside of your heart . . . and then maybe you've got a chance! Here—take it, son! It's going begging!'

The extraordinary Bartleman was holding out a brooch—a charming golden key, set with garnet and pearl.

‘Not worth a king's ransom, maybe—but doxies come a bit cheaper, you know. Take it, I say!'

Helplessly, Nicholas reached up—for there was suddenly a glitter of anger in Bartleman's eyes. Was it that the brooch meant more to him than he was willing to say, and under no circumstances would he endure a refusal of it? Nicholas took the brooch—and pricked himself lightly on its pin. Vaguely, he felt he'd taken a deposit on his soul.

The next day proved wild and blowy and not at all prosperous for courting. The convicts only staggered up on deck to be rid of the formidable clanking of their leg-irons which strained at their securings behind the bulkhead: a loud and fearful sound that seemed to beat inside their very heads.

Of passengers, only the hardiest were visible. Miss Warboys was not among
them
. But her absence served only to increase Nicholas's fondness and diminish his doubts concerning the brooch. He was now in the second stage of love at first sight, which commonly took the form, with him, of advertising his heart on walls, trees, and doors. Which aching part of him he engraved on the deckboards, with the pin of Bartleman's brooch.

So it was on the Friday, then, with the weather fair and the sea taking a high polish from the sun, that Nicholas Kemp caught Miss Warboys' eye for the second time.

Still in genial mood, Bartleman had eased his young friend's passage to the rope. Here Nicholas stood for close
on twenty minutes while the passengers came out of the poop to consider the morning. Then he was rewarded.

Last of all, and as demure as was possible, in scarlet cloak and yellow wind-bonnet, came Miss Warboys, tripping neatly down the companionway with a glint of silken ankles and a general air of curtsying to the world for its attention.

‘Trollop!' remarked one of the female passengers; but Miss Warboys did not choose to hear.

Instead, she glanced up to the shrouds—where the watchful sailors hung—to the poop where the captain walked with his officers, to the great foresail upon which the vague shadow of the main topsail lay like the ghost of a first intention, to the sky—to the sea—to their hazy joining; in short, she looked everywhere but to the young convict whose eyes ate up the distance between him and her.

And
then
her eyes lighted on him—and lighted
in
him such a fire that its glow reached clean across the chilly deck till her cheeks rosied over like wine on a napkin.

‘Well might she blush!' remarked another female passenger. ‘The brassy minx!'

But though scarce fifteen yards separated Miss Warboys from Nicholas Kemp, so disparate were their situations that it might have been fifteen miles . . . or five hundred, even . . .

In vain the young man stared—with eyes grown huge with longing. Miss Warboys could but smile (albeit wistfully, for the young convict moved her more than she had bargained for) and gently shook her head. There could be no commerce between a lady and a convict save by looking.