Читать книгу Black'erchief Dick - Margery Allingham - Страница 9

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“MARRY! Fortune favours her lovers! Greetings, Master French. Damn my knife! there is not another on the Island I would rather see than thee at this moment.”

Black’erchief Dick stepped out of the open rowboat which had conveyed him from the Coldlight and gave a small white hand to Big French, who assisted him on to the board pathway which was laid over the soft mud.

“Greetings to you, Captain,” said the young man, and then added slowly, “you’re somewhat before your time, ain’t you?”

Black’erchief Dick broke into a storm of curses.

“Ay,” he said at last, “ay, too early for the tide and so forsooth compelled—I, Dick Delfazio, compelled, mark you—to put in at this God-forsaken corner”—he took in the marshland with a comprehensive wave of a graceful arm, and continued sneering—“which is as flat and empty as a new-washed platter.”

The big man at his side smiled.

“Nay, prithee, Captain,” he said, “’tis none so bad.”

The Spaniard turned to him fiercely, but Big French went on quietly: “If you be a wanting to stay the brig here for the next tide,” he said, “best to take her up the Pyfleet round to the back o’ the Ship—plenty o’ water up there,” he added.

Black’erchief Dick shrugged his shoulders.

“The Pyfleet?” he said. “Surely that is Captain Fen de Witt’s haven? I would not take advantage of his hiding-place.”

The smile on the big man’s face vanished.

“Lord, Captain!” he said quickly, “you cannot leave the brig in open channel all the night. The Preventative folk may not be very spry hereabouts, but they ain’t all dead yet—no, not by a long way they ain’t.”

The Spaniard replied with another shrug.

“As you wish,” he said, and then with a smile, his teeth flashing in the dusk, he added: “But that I need thee to-night, Master Hercules, I would not so easily have yielded.”

Big French flushed but he spoke quietly.

“Ah, and what will you be wanting to-night, Captain?” he said.

“Passage in thy cart to the Victory, friend,” replied the Spaniard.

“Oh!” Big French spoke dubiously. “Why do you not rest at the Ship?” he enquired.

“The Ship?” the thin lips curled in contempt. “Dick Delfazio stay at a wayside tavern? This moon hath made thee mad, friend French.”

Big French sighed involuntarily and the Spaniard laughed.

“A wench?” he asked.

“Nay,” the blood suffused the young man’s handsome face and he spoke shortly.

“Well, take me to the Victory,” repeated the Spaniard.

An anxious snuff sounded at his elbow as he spoke. He turned quickly just in time to seize Habakkuk Coot by the neck of his guernsey.

“You evil-smelling son of a rat,” he began slowly, giving the little man a shake at every word, “get thee back to the brig and tell Blueneck I would speak to him.”

With the final word he jerked the wretch off the board pathway and watched him flounder in the deep oozing mud.

“Haste thee, dog,” he said, touching him lightly with the blade of his knife.

Habakkuk screamed and floundered on for the rowboat, where he was hauled in by several of his comrades. The boat then pushed off for the brig.

“You have a wonderful way with your crew, Captain,” said French, looking after the boat.

“Ay, of a truth,” the Spaniard laughed. “Cannot Dick Delfazio rule a pack of mangy dogs?”

French looked at him narrowly, and then took up the conversation where he had left it.

“The Ship is no wayside tavern,” he said. “The folk be simple but the liquor good and the wenches pretty, and they are waiting for you to come—the maids in their best caps, and the canary warming on the hearth.”

Dick looked at him for a moment.

“Master French,” he said, keeping his glittering eyes on the other’s face. “Master French, ’tis strange that thou should’st be in this part of the Island so ready for my coming, Master French,” he added, his voice assuming the soft caressing quality for which it was so remarkable. “Dare I suppose that it was not to meet me that thou camest to the East? That it was to the Ship thou camest, eh, Master French?”

Once again the big man blushed to his ears but he laughed.

“Ay, Captain,” he said, “you are right there. ’Twas not to meet you I came to the East. Prithee tell your men to take the brig down the Pyfleet and come with me to the Ship.”

The Spaniard laughed strangely.

“Friend French,” he said, “are thy horses lame?”

The young man looked at him for a moment before he spoke.

“Ay,” he said at last. “Wonderful lame.”

Black’erchief Dick threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“Thou art a brave man, French,” he said, but continued quickly: “There is such a lameness as can be cured to-morrow for a trip to Tiptree, eh, friend?”

“Ah!” said the big man, nodding his head sagely, “’tis a wonderful strange lameness that they have.”

Dick nodded.

By this time the rowboat had once more come to the plank across the mud. Blueneck, a shadowy figure in the darkness, stepped out and came toward them.

Dick gave his orders briefly.

“Take the brig up the Pyfleet,” he said. “Any of these fellows will pilot thee,” he added, pointing to the group of Mersea men on the wall. Then as an afterthought, “and bring five kegs from the hold to me at the Ship Tavern.”

A certain amount of enthusiasm among the volunteer pilots was noticeable after this last remark, and Blueneck smiled as he replied, “Ay, ay, Cap’n.”

Black’erchief Dick and his friend Big French, the smuggler’s carter, turned, climbed the wall, and walked together down the lonely road to the Ship Tavern without speaking.

“Marry!” said Dick, stopping after they had walked for some five minutes, his hand feeling for his knife. “What’s that?”

Big French stopped also and, standing side by side in the middle of the road, they listened intently. Apparently just behind the hedge on their right a human voice, deep and throaty, said clearly, “Rum—rum—rum—rum,” the sound trailing off weirdly on the last word.

The Spaniard crossed himself, but his hand was steady.

“Is’t a spirit?” he said.

“Nay,” Big French’s voice came stifled from his mouth.

The Spaniard drew his knife. “Then I’ll have at it,” he said.

Once again the stifled monosyllable broke from the younger man’s lips.

Black’erchief Dick looked at his guide quickly. By the faint light of the winter moon he saw the man’s face was distorted strangely—once again the ghostly voice behind the hedge said distinctly, “Rum—rum—ru——.”

“Ho! ho! ho!” roared French, his laughter suddenly breaking forth. “Peace, Mother Swayle,” he shouted, “by our lakin! you had us well-nigh feared with your greeting.”

The Spaniard sheathed his knife.

“If ’tis a friend of thine, Master French,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “’tis of no offence to me. Though by my faith,” he added, as a dark figure in flowing garments bounded over the hedge and stood by the roadside, “’tis strange company you keep.”

The tall gaunt woman addressed as Mother Swayle shrank back into the hedge.

“Who is it with thee, Big French?” she said in her deep, tired voice.

“Black’erchief Dick, new landed by the wall,” said French.

“Ah! I know naught of him—Peace, good swine—farewell, Rum!”

There was a note of finality in the last word and Big French started to walk on. “Rum,” he said over his shoulder, and added to Dick in an undertone, “’Tis only a poor crone—peace to her—her wit’s diseased.”

“Oh!” the Spaniard felt the pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver dollar. “Here, mother of sin,” he said as he tossed it to her, “buy thyself rum withal. Almsgiving is a noble virtue,” he added piously to French as they prepared to walk on. Hardly had the words left his lips when his silver dollar hit him on the back of the head with considerable force.

“May you burn, you mange-struck ronyon,” the deep voice grew shrill in its intensity. “All men are villains and you are a king among them.”

With a foreign oath the Spaniard turned about.

“Rum—rum—r-u-m,” the voice faded away and they heard the patter of feet down the road.

Black’erchief Dick laughed sharply.

“It is well for Mother Swayle that she lives in the East,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Were she in the West she would take my bounty, if not——” He laughed unpleasantly.

Big French looked at him anxiously, uncertain how the fiery Spaniard had taken the old woman’s vagaries.

“The old one was ducked as a witch in the merrymaking at the Restoring of the King,” he said at last. “She was not quite drowned,” he continued, “so the folk—wenches mostly—look up to her and as I said, Captain, her wit’s diseased.”

Dick shrugged his silken-coated shoulders.

“’Tis no matter,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Big French sighed in relief and they walked on in silence for a minute or so. They were now some four hundred yards from the Ship. The high building with its great thatch showed a dark outline against the cold starlight, but all the uncurtained lower windows showed the warm glow within and from the partly open door the sound of singing came out to them on the cold breeze.

The two unconsciously hastened their steps. When they reached the gate of the courtyard the words of the song could be heard clearly above the noise of laughter and banging of pewter.

“Pretty Poll she loved a sailor”

Gilbot’s voice was piping a little in advance of the rest.

“And well she loved he, But he sailed to the mouth Of a stream in the South And was losht in the rolling sea. And was losht in the rolling sea.”

Dick straightened his lace ruffles at his throat.

“The dogs seem merry,” he observed as he kicked open the door and stepped into the candle-lit kitchen of the Ship.

All eyes were immediately turned on him, and he stood perfectly still for some seconds enjoying to the full the impression he was making.

The Ship’s company was used to the simple finery of Captain Fen de Witt and his men, and most of them had been to the western end of the Island and had seen strangers who had come, it was whispered, from London itself, but Dick’s magnificence was wholly new to most of them, while even those who had seen him before were surprised at the contrast which his glistening figure made with the sombre background of the Ship kitchen’s smoke-blackened walls.

Hal stood staring at him as long as any of the others, and Mistress Sue let the rum she was drawing fill up one of the great pewter tankards and spill over on to the stones before she noticed it, so intently did she look at the stranger in the doorway.

Gilbot alone took no notice of the visitor. He sat happily in his place by the fireside, his head thrown back a little and his eyes closed, beating time to imaginary singing with his empty pot.

Joe Pullen was the first to speak. He had just entered by a side door and apparently was entirely unimpressed by the Spaniard or any one else.

“Evening,” he remarked, as he walked over to the most comfortable seat in the chimney-corner and sat down. “Evening to you too, sir,” he said, noticing Dick for the first time—and then he added, peering out of the fireplace, “Mistress Sue, a rum if you please.”

Black’erchief Dick, noting that the spell was broken, swaggered forward into the firelight.

“Greeting, friends,” he said courteously, and then after looking round curiously his eyes rested on Gilbot. “Is this mine host?” he asked.

Gilbot’s eyes opened slowly and his jaw dropped as he saw for the first time the splendidly garbed figure.

“Eh?” he said at last. “Washt?” He tried to rise but gave it up as an impossibility, his brow clouded, and he turned his tankard upside down on his knee.

Dick stood looking at him, a slight smile hovering round his mouth and twitching the sides of his big Jewish nose.

Gilbot’s face cleared as suddenly as it had clouded.

“Ashk Hal,” he said triumphantly, and leaning back once more he closed his eyes.

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.

“You mistress?” he said, turning to Sue who dropped a curtsey. “Can I have a bedchamber here this night?”

Sue replied that all was ready for him, and Dick, having assured himself that everything was to his liking, put his hand into his pocket and drawing out a handful of gold and silver coins tossed them lightly on the table.

“Drinks all round, I pray you, mistress,” he said.

There was a slight stir among the company, and the Spaniard was regarded with still more respect.

Sue stood looking at the coins, her hands on her hips. “’Tis much too much,” she murmured.

Black’erchief Dick laughed.

“Marry! Then, mistress, ’twill do for the next lot. I pray thee haste, my throat is parched,” he said.

Sue, her eyes round with admiration, curtseyed again and ran to the inner door.

“Anny, lass, come hither I prithee,” she called, and then hastened to obey the Spaniard.

Anny stepped in unnoticed a moment or two later, and busied herself with the tankards.

Dick was sitting with his back toward her and she did not see him.

“Here, lass,” said Sue, seeing her, “the foreigner would drink sack—wilt get it for him?”

There was not much call for Canary sack at the Ship, so Anny was some minutes finding and tapping a cask. When she returned from the cellar, a flagon in her hand, the talk had become more animated and one or two lively spirits had started a song, but above the noise a voice penetrating although musical was saying loudly, “Marry, Master French, do you never drink aught but rum in the East that a gentleman is kept waiting ten minutes for a cup of sack?”

French’s deep tones replied slowly:

“Nay, Captain, very little else but rum; sack be only for gentlefolk.”

Anny hastened forward.

“Here’s for you, sir,” she said briskly, and then stopped, awe-struck before the Spaniard, dazzled by his appearance.

Black’erchief Dick stretched out a white jewelled hand for the tankard without looking at the girl.

“Thank thee, mistress,” he said carelessly, lifting it to his lips.

Still Anny did not move and Hal Grame, looking up from the rum keg which he was tapping, cursed the Spaniard’s clothes with that honest venom which is only known to youth.

“Ah, a good draught!” The Spaniard put down the pot and touched his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“Mistress, another by your leave,” he said suddenly. Then his gaze, too, became fixed, his dark eyes taking in every detail of her face.

“God’s Fool!” he exclaimed. “Mistress, you are wondrous fair.”

Anny blushed and, her senses returning to her, she curtseyed and taking up the empty tankard tripped off with a gentle—“As you wish,” as she went.

Black’erchief Dick stared after her for a second or two before he turned to French.

“By my faith, Master French, you have no poor skill in choosing a wench,” he said.

Big French laughed and reddened.

“Oh!” he said carelessly. “’Tis not she but the other I would have favour from.”

The Spaniard darted a look of misbelief at his big companion, but he said nothing, for Anny had returned and was standing before him, a brimming tankard in her hand.

Black’erchief Dick took the wine and set it by untasted, but retained the brown hand which was even smaller than his own and held it firmly.

“Mistress,” he said, and Anny thought she had never seen such bright merry eyes, “would you deem it an offence if I asked you your name?”

Anny smiled and curtseyed as she pulled away her hand.

“There be no more offence in asking my name than in holding my hand, sir,” she said. “’Tis Anny Farren, an you please so.”

“Anny, a good name and a simple,” said the Spaniard, choosing to ignore the first remark. “Now tell me, fair Anny,” he continued, “hast ever been told how beautiful thou art?”

The girl looked round. No one in the noisy company round the fire was listening to them and a gleam of mischief twinkled in her eyes before she dropped them as she turned again to the Spaniard.

“Nay, sir,” she said. “Neither has my mirror.”

“Then ’tis a right vile and lying thing, mistress,” said Dick, “for by my knife”—here he drew the slender thing from his chased silver belt and held it up to the light—“I never saw a comelier lass than thee.”

Anny looked at the knife curiously.

“’Tis a pretty weapon you have, sir,” she said innocently.

Dick laughed.

“Pretty!” he said. “Ah, fair Anny, I would not send the blood from those bright cheeks of thine by telling thee what this same dagger and this right hand have together accomplished.”

“Oh, never mind the wenches, Captain, let’s have the story,” said one of the group at the fire, the company’s attention having been drawn to the Spaniard on the appearance of the knife. Black’erchief Dick stood up.

“Sack for everyone,” he said grandiloquently as he threw another handful of coins on the tressled table. And then as the tankards were passed round, “To the fairest wench on the Island, Fair Anny of the Ship,” he said, lifting his tankard above his head.

The toast was given with a will. The Spaniard was in a fair way to win popularity.

“’Tis a fine gentleman, Hal,” whispered Anny to her sweetheart under cover of the general hub-bub.

“Ay, a deal too fine,” replied the boy, putting a pot down with such violence that all the others rattled and clinked against one another with the shock.

Anny laughed.

“Thou art very foolish, O Hal o’ mine,” she said softly.

“There be more tales to tell o’ this dagger than will suffice for one evening.”

The Spaniard’s voice was once more raised in a flaunting tone. “Let it be enough,” he continued, “to say that it hath some ninety lives to answer for.”

There was a general gasp at this information and a slow smile spread over Black’erchief Dick’s face as he noted their amazement.

“It will be wonderful old I reckon?” Joe Pullen put the question quietly, but as though he expected an answer in the affirmative.

“Nay,” the Spaniard smiled again, “’twas of my own killings I was talking,” he said.

“Oh!” Joe Pullen leant back and closed his eyes as though bored with the conversation.

This procedure seemed to irritate the Spaniard, for he said suddenly, “Look, friend, ’tis a fair weapon,” and he threw the glittering thing at the man in the high-backed seat with a seemingly careless jerk of the wrist. The dagger shot through the air, a streak of glistening steel, and fastened itself in the wood half an inch above Joe’s head.

Sue shrieked, but there was a murmur of admiration at the feat from the men looking on.

Lazily Joe Pullen sat up and wrenched the blade out of the soft wood; he studied the dagger carefully.

“Ah!” he said at last, an expression of polite interest on his face, “a wonderful fine throw that, sir,” and then added, the knife poised delicately between a clumsy thumb and forefinger, “I wonder now could I do that?” He raised his hand and appeared to be taking aim directly at the Spaniard’s head.

“And was losht in the rolling sea,”

murmured Gilbot, his head fell forward on his chest and his pot, slipping off his knee, fell clattering on the stones. The noise woke him, and he looked up just in time to see Pullen, knife in hand, standing in the middle of the room.

“Eh? eh?” the old man’s voice had the remnant of a note of authority in it. “Put down t’ knife, lad. Ain’t no good in knives.” His head fell forward on his chest again. “Why not shing happy shong?” he mumbled.

Joe grinned. “Ah,” he said slowly, “maybe the old’n’s right.” He handed the knife to the Spaniard who took it without a word. “I might have hit you—I ain’t a very good hand wi’ knives,” he said pleasantly.

The Spaniard smiled graciously. “Doubtless you will learn,” he said, his jauntiness returning, and then continuing, “Fair Mistress Anny, will you see these tapped?” and he pointed to five rum kegs which Blueneck, Habakkuk Coot, and one or two others of the Coldlight’s crew had just brought in. “Rum all round,” he said, “and the charge to me.”

By the time his last command had been obeyed, the company in the Ship was more noisy than before, and, answering to the call for a song, old Gilbot, having been assisted to his feet, leaned his back against the nearest ale barrel and quavered forth in a voice which evidently had once been very tuneful: