The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ with us all the way, just to make sure you’ve given us the right figgers. Savvy? Also you’re a handy man aboard. You’ll know the holding ground and save time in more ways than one. I’ll give you second mate’s job with full wages, the four hundred an’ the one you’ve got as earnest money. You’ll get a share of what we find, same as the rest. But you go all the way. If the island’s where you say it is, well an’ good. If it ain’t—well, you don’t come back. Splice that into your lifeline, my lad. I’ll read off them figgers to you. If you ain’t plumb certain they’re right, this is the time to alter ’em. Otherwise, we’ll get ’em out of you; if we have to keel-haul you once a day.” The emphasis Swenson laid upon his slowly spoken phrases was infinitely malign. Their effect was as bleak as the wind that blows across a polar ice-floe.

      “Suits me,” said Jim carelessly. “Only I’d like to get my hands on the four hundred. When I’ve got money coming to me it always seems like it was better off with me. But that’s all right. I’m not stuck on your methods, Hellfire Swenson, and, if I’m second mate, I’m not going to carry a belaying pin in my boot and back up every order with a wallop. Otherwise the berth suits me, and the share looks good. I made up my mind this afternoon it was no use bucking you. You’re liberal enough and I’d be a fool not to take ’em. Only—I’m no hell-driver. I’ll get the work out of my watch by my own methods.”

      Swenson, watching him keenly, as Jim did the other, carefully calculating the effect of ended resistance, plus a registered kick or two against Hellfire tactics, reached over and patted him on the back with a heavy hand.

      “You’ll do, matey,” he said. “Glad you’re sensible. This crew won’t have to be tickled with a rope’s end. They’re all partners, you see. We’ll go aboard in an hour, soon’s it’s dark. We go out tonight. Tide serves at midnight.”

      “Out of where?”

      Swenson winked. “Never you mind. I’ll give you your course when you take the desk. Don’t you bother about where we start from, sonny. It’s where we finish concerns you.”

      “All right. Turn me loose.”

      “Not altogether. I’ll cast you loose from the bed after I’ve ’cuffed you up. You’ll get liberty when we hit deep water, in case you change your mind about going along. You’re a smart lad, Lyman, but I’m a wise old turtle myself.” He took away the right handcuff and manacled Jim with the pair still on his left wrist. He cast off the ankle lashings and allowed Jim to get up off the bed and walk around the room, to look out of the window.

      The water was no longer visible but there were blinking lights showing through a slight mist. Then the intermittent flash of a lighthouse.

      “Hazin’ up a little,” volunteered Swenson. “Good weather for sayin’ a quiet good-by. There’s a dozen of us aboard knows the bay in our sleep. Have a cigar?”

      Jim took it, accepted the light and sat by the window smoking, elbows resting on the sill. The night gathered and the haze thickened. He wanted to find out the name of the place. Somehow he must make a getaway, and a plan, indefinite as the mist, was vaguely forming. To further it he should know where they were. Looking out did him no good so he turned and started talking to Swenson about the island. He gave him many details that he had not given Kitty Whiting; directions for getting through the reef, for example, bearings, and suggestions for anchorage that Swenson made note of with little nods of his head while he gradually grew more confidential, almost chummy. But if he ever tried to make mooring or work through the lagoon with those same directions, Jim could see his command piled on the coral. If Jim was along—but he did not intend to be. Still Swenson plainly imagined him as having accepted the situation and applauded his common sense—as viewed by Swenson. He insisted upon his sharing his own flask. Jim stuck his tongue in the neck of the bottle, corking it, when it was his turn. Swenson swigged deeply and grew almost jovial, though the stuff had small real effect upon him.

      At last a car came up the drive and hooted. Jim saw its lights before it sounded the horn.

      “Here’s our wagon,” he said. “Do I still have to wear these bracelets?”

      “Sure do, matey. We’re going by the back streets. No one’ll see you or know you. Take ’em off when we’re aboard an’ clear. Give you the run of the ship. You’re second mate. Bunk aft. Come on.”

      They went downstairs out through the garage to where a flivver wheezed and panted. The driver was a stolid individual who barely looked around but sat eating something out of a small bag. Swenson greeted him.

      “’Lo, Jakey. Have a little drink?”

      “No. Quit it.”

      “Chewin’ candy instead? Suit yourself. Git in, matey.” Swenson took seat at the back beside Jim and confidentially slid a hand under his arm. Jim abandoned a hope of getaway from the flivver. They chugged down side streets and roads where lights shone dimly in the foggy night, descending always. The smell of salt water came to them and Jim inhaled it as a desert horse snuffs the oasis. They reached a small creek, ran along its banks and stopped at a little wharf and boathouse, dimly seen, with a dull flare of orange showing in a window.

      “Here we are,” said Swenson. “Reckon the boys are on deck. All ashore, matey. You first.” Jim was directly back of the silent driver who now took the last piece of candy from his bag, screwed up the sack and flipped it from him. It fell on the running board and Jim retrieved it with his fettered hands, opened it swiftly and read the printed legend upon it by the headlights as he passed in front of the flivver. Fowler’s General Store, Wareham.

      Now he knew where he was and his heart quickened a beat as he dropped the bag and set foot upon it while Swenson followed, unsuspecting. The driver, sucking at his peppermint, noticed nothing.

      Wareham is on the Wareham River, head of Wareham County, Mass., emptying into the head of Buzzards Bay! And Jim knew Buzzards Bay! The light he had seen must be Wings Neck Light off Red Brook Harbor. To starboard, as they would run down toward Long Island Sound, there would come Sippican Harbor with Bird Island Light. Mattapoisett Harbor, Ram Island, Nasketucket Bay, West Island, New Bedford Harbor, Dumpling Rock Light opposite Woods Hole, the steamer connection for Nantucket. And, last of all, the Elizabeth Islands with the Cuttyhunk Light at the tip, a fixed white light that Jim knew well from early days. He had been born at New Bedford.

      He hid his exultation as, with Swenson’s grip on his arm, they advanced to the boathouse, and Swenson knocked on the door. Half a dozen men were playing cards by the light of a lantern. Bottles and glasses were on the rough table. It seemed that wherever Swenson ruled rum was still plentiful. Jim suspected him of pocketing profits on those quarts of rye that were trans-shipped from France—if Swenson had spoken the truth of the course. It was good enough whisky. The men were a sturdy lot, inclined to be secretive, if not surly. Jim knew their type, longshoremen of Nantucket Sound, seafood providers, lobstermen not averse to making a living at anything they might find afloat or upflung, smugglers at heart and by inheritance; good seamen, withal. They gazed at him with wooden faces that might have been carved out of walnut. None of them appeared to notice his handcuffs.

      “Mr. Lyman. Goin’ to be second mate,” announced Swenson briefly. The incongruity of a fettered officer raised no comment. They were used to unusual sights, thought Jim, or else such sights were usual. “How’s the tide?”

      “Turned ha’f hour ago. Runnin’ strong.”

      “Then we’ll git aboard.” The flivver driver had turned the car. Jim saw the lights wavering away through the mist and silently thanked the taciturn chauffeur for his candy habit. They made their СКАЧАТЬ