Strange Yesterday (11 page)

“My hands are clean of women's blood.”

“Do you fancy hanging from a yardarm?”

“There is still time,” John Preswick put in.

10

L
EAVING
them, John Preswick went to his cabin. While John Preswick was not a man given to a great deal of thought or reflection, his execution of those ideas he conceived was quick and decisive. In one way or another, he disposed of what lay between himself and his end.

Now he went to his cabin and opened the chest that he kept his arms in. There were the two double-barreled pistols, one of which he had used the preceding night. They were both loaded, but he saw again to the charges. Carefully he examined them; then he opened his coat and thrust them into his belt, one on either side of him. He also took out of the chest a powder horn, emptying a handful of the gray stuff into a little oilskin tobacco-pouch, which he laced tight and thrust into a side pocket. Then he lifted out a box of lead pellets, chose a dozen, and dropped them into the pocket that held the powder. Before he left the cabin he looked about him, thinking that perhaps he had overlooked something.

Outside, he walked quietly along the passageway to the door of Mr. Cortlandt's cabin. But it was locked, and he could not chance the noise that would ensue in ripping off the bolt. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned up the companionway. On deck, what he had anticipated had occurred. The breeze was quite gone.

All four officers were now on deck; arms were being distributed to the crew; men were buckling cutlasses to them and hefting pikes, others were dumping overboard cargo, water, shot, kindling, everything that could be spared, in a mad effort to raise the vessel in the water.

John Preswick approached Mr. Cortlandt, who was eying the carronades with a speculative eye.

“I would not,” said John Preswick, “throw over the guns. I would tow while there is still a chance, and, perhaps, kedge. They are not yet in range, even of long eighteens. They have no twenty-fours in their bow or they would have used them.”

“I was going to tow—in just a moment. They have not yet lowered their boats.”

“Do it now.”

“Yes. But first the girl. We cannot chance her any longer.”

“Now listen to me,” said John Preswick. “Beside the gold, that girl is the only thing of any value left on this ship. It is still entirely possible that we will slip them when the night falls. But you are right. We should take no chances. Put me in one of the towing boats with the girl. I will hold her until all hope is gone; then I will cut her throat.”

There was a lurking suspicion in Mr. Cortlandt's eyes as he replied: “We need you here—if it should come to a fight.”

John Preswick laughed scornfully, speaking with the knowledge that here was no time for mincing words: “Are you mad that you speak of fight with a frigate of half-a-hundred guns! It is enough that we have given them a pretty chase—would you have them blow us from the water in splinters! I tell you this, that if there is no war between England and America, they can do no more than impress a dozen of our men—unless they find the girl. Then there will be a noose about all our necks!”

“And if there is war—even now?”

“We are none the worse in either case. If we strike, they cannot but treat us honorably.”

“And our cannon?”

“Must a ship in the Mediterranean trade explain her defense? Has England made the seas that secure? I tell you this is the only way!”

But Mr. Mitchell said: “It is a new thing for Mr. Ridge to be anxious for a distance between himself and the fight—if there should be one.”

A thin smile upon his lips, John Preswick faced the three officers. “Tell me,” he said: “is there a man among you with courage to kill a woman?”

“Take the girl and the boat and be damned!” cried Captain Cortlandt. “I have eyes, and I have ears, and I am by no means a fool. Murder is murder, and now if you would have your jest, go. But Mr. Mitchell will go with you—to see that you do this thing, which you are so anxious for.”

“You mistrust me! Do years mean nothing?”

“I trust no man—now!”

So it came about that both the first and the third officers of the brig
Angel
quitted the ship for places in the same towing boat, Mr. Cortlandt consenting, in the heat of the chase, to an arrangement he could not, in a saner or less suspicious moment, have fostered. The boats were lowered; the lines were cast off and made fast; and they tightened and groaned beneath the pull of the oars. In John Preswick's boat, there were six men, drawing upon three sets of oars. He crouched in the prow, facing them, and calling the time, while, with the girl by his side, Mr. Mitchell sat in the stern seat. The breeze had died away altogether, and the sea rose and fell broadly in the smooth calm. The sails hung limp; the song of the rigging had wavered into nothingness.

The frigate had, by this time, thrown out all of her boats and was kedging in addition with a light anchor. She had more than twice the number of boats of the brig, which could not spare a craft to carry a kedging line, if Mr. Cortlandt had approved of it; which he emphatically did not. He considered it a waste of a good towing boat, no more.

Seeing that the British vessel had added another anchor line and was walking in with her kedging ropes alternately, John Preswick made quick calculations, assured that the distance was slowly but surely closing up. It was only a matter of minutes before the frigate slid into range and opened with its long bow guns. Two well-placed shots would bring the
Angel
about, while half a dozen more in the rigging would cause it to draw in the towing boats and strike. If ever he was to act, it must be now; but he stared ahead of him, as blankly as ever, steadily calling time to the oarsmen, marking it with short, calculated movements of his hand.

There was the girl, sitting at the side of the first mate, who was impotent in a place where he did not belong, who cursed the captain, not only for trusting, but for mistrusting, John Preswick. She, Inez Preswick, sat there, gazing ahead of her, while Mr. Mitchell twisted himself entirely about that he might mark the progress of the pursuing vessel and call orders to the other towing boats. Among them all, the tense John Preswick, the straining, gasping men at the oars, the excited, shouting Mr. Mitchell, she alone was calm, mercilessly calm, scorning to look about or to shield herself from the sheets of spray that showered over the boat as they bit, with the full force of half a dozen oars, into each new swell. Her frock was wet and plastered to her, her dark hair crusted with salt foam; but she took no notice of it, as she took no notice of John Preswick, into whose face she was staring.

He thought to himself, John Preswick, that she was very beautiful there; he thought to himself that she was worth having over the lives of seven people. But to John Preswick death was a means to an end, and he had come to where he was by achieving his ends.

The frigate lashed out with one of its bow-chasers, sending up a fountain of foam under the stern of the
Angel
, striking so close that the ball danced from the water against the planks of the vessel, from which it rebounded without apparent harm. There was a puff of smoke as the other bow gun loosed its charge.

A blue bit of bunting flickered out on the jib boom, and Mr. Mitchell, recognizing the signal decided upon, turned to John Preswick. In that curiously gentle voice of his, he said: “You wondered whether I had the courage to kill a woman—whom you loved.” As he unsheathed his knife, the girl glanced at it, smiled, and shrugged slightly.

John Preswick thought to himself: “If I die, I shall not begrudge dying for you. You are quite a wonderful creature.”

And then, from beneath his coat, he drew two double-barreled pistols; and, aiming with the one in his left hand, for he was left-handed, he shot Mr. Mitchell through the heart, crinkling his lips into a wry smile as he did so, thinking of a time when Mr. Mitchell had beaten him in the hold of this same brig
Angel.

The shot sped true; Mr. Mitchell looked bewildered; a questioning, hurt expression came into his face, and the knife clattered from his nerveless fingers to the bottom of the boat. All of his limbs twitching, he tottered to his feet, paused upright for a moment, his mouth open, and then toppled over into the sea, almost causing the boat to ship water with his awkward fall. The girl sat as she was, her face all horror; the rowers continued to pull to the rising and falling cadence of John Preswick's voice. It had happened too quickly for them to grasp. Forms crowded the bow rail of the
Angel
, and Mr. Cortlandt screamed something that could not be heard above the thunder of the brig's stern longs, replying futilely to the now continuous pounding of the frigate's bow-chasers.

Those oarsmen who took it into their heads to look behind them, saw a grim Mr. Ridge crouching with two heavy guns in his hands, one of which was still smoking. They continued to row.

To the girl, John Preswick said: “Pick up that knife and cut the line!” He repeated his command, snapping out the words one by one; and the girl, moving as one in a dream, obeyed him. She bent, took up the knife, and began to saw at the line. When it parted, the boat leaped away with a speed that made its former pace seem stationary.

It had been no more than a score of yards from the brig. When the men upon the
Angel
saw the girl cut through the line, a roar of anger went up from their throats. More than a dozen of them had gathered at the bow at the shot. They were armed with muskets and pistols, and, as the small boat leaped away, they loosed their arms in a haphazard volley, more from rage than with any premeditated intent to kill. But they were men long used to the managing of small arms, and as instinctively as they shot, they aimed.

The girl fell forward, sliding from her seat into a little pile before and beneath it. One of the men at the stern set of oars received a bullet in his head and sat where he was, while the oar passed from his hand to the water; another clutched at his breast, rose up, tripped upon the seat beneath him, and went over the side. One at the feet of John Preswick fell against him, blood spouting from his throat. The range was short; the carnage was thorough; but John Preswick stood unhurt.

A strange numbness fastened upon John Preswick's heart as he saw the girl fall. He could not have said clearly what he felt; but it might well have been expressed by a single word, finis. With that, it was over—all was over. He saw a thin stream of blood trickling from beneath the girl's hair.

Yet he called to the men to row. The boat was leaping out of range, and that in spite of the fact that three of the rowers were dead. He cried to them to row. The two pistols in his hands, he stood at the prow, his face dark and grim, his eyes filled with pain, calling to them to row—to row.

He could not leave his place, for the moment he put his back to the three men in the boat, they would be upon him. Knowing they sensed what was passing through his mind, he could only stand there, wedged into the prow, and cover them with pistols, while from the man at his feet blood spilled forth in a steady, welling stream. The man at his feet was not yet dead; in the next few minutes he died; but John Preswick stood unaware of it. He could only see the girl, who was twisted into a small and curious bundle.

Behind them, the brig had struck, and her colors trickled down from the masthead. The booming of the frigate's guns had ceased; from where they were, it seemed that the brig was already beneath her bowsprit. The boat was out of range.

Then John Preswick saw that they were turning in a circle which would, in time, bring them back to the two ships they had left, for the remaining man in the forward seat was rowing powerfully and blindly, overbalancing the boat with his single oar. He was a small Italian whom they called Sarco.

Reaching out, John Preswick thrust the pistol against the skin of his neck. “Get up!” he said.

The Italian let go of his oar and stood up, trembling from the pressure of the pistol against his spine.

“Go over the side and swim back to the ship,” John Preswick said slowly and coldly. When the other two oarsmen looked about, he waved them back to their work with the other pistol.

“But I cannot swim that far, Mr. Ridge.”

“I said, Go over the side!”

“But it is murder! I cannot swim for even half of that distance!”

“I will count three; then I will shoot.”

“But I am an innocent man! I am a young man! I want to live! I want—!”

“One!”

With a scream, the Italian was over the side and struggling through the water. Driven by the single pair of oars, the boat swirled on. The frigate and the brig were together, and already small. And John Preswick stood in the bow and called time to the strokes until the men sobbed aloud in their exhaustion. A little limp pile, the girl lay, unmoving, blood clotted upon her hair.

Now both the ships were dwindling to the horizon; John Preswick directed his course to the east, never letting up in the beat of his voice to their strokes. The men were soaked with foam and perspiration, but they dared not pause with the two grim pistols looking into their backs.

With a quick movement, he crossed between them, stepped over the girl, and sat in the stern seat. He reached down a hand to touch her, but, noticing how the oarsmen slackened, straightened up abruptly. “Row!” he cried. “God damn you, row!”

Dusk was at hand. It was not afternoon when they had started away from the brig, and now the sun was setting. And in that time the men at the oars had not paused in their terrific pace. It was more than flesh and blood could stand.

But John Preswick shouted: “Row!—row until you drop! Row until your hearts break! Stop for an instant, and I swear I'll kill the two of you!”

Surely it was more than flesh and blood could stand. With a last burst of strength, one of the seamen leaped to his feet, swinging the oar above his head. John Preswick shot him in the face. The other screamed like a madman, screamed again, and leaped over the side. They had been rowing for seven hours.