Nautilus Part 5

CHAPTER VI.

MR. BILL HEN.

Mr. Bill Hen Pike had come to have a good long gossip. It was some time since a schooner had come up the river, for the ice-shipping had not yet begun, and he was fairly thirsting for maritime intelligence. He desired to know the tonnage of the "Nautilus," her age, where she was built, and by whom; her original cost, and what sums had been expended in repairs since she had been in the Skipper's possession; how many trips she had made, to what ports, and with what cargoes; the weather that had been encountered on each and every trip. These things and many more of like import did the Skipper unfold, sitting at ease on the cabin table, while Mr. Bill Hen tilted the only chair in rhythmic content. His hat was tilted, too; his broad red face shone with pleasure; the world was a good place to him, full of information.

At last the questions came to an end; it seemed a pity, but there was really nothing left to ask, since it appeared that the Skipper was unmarried and had no relations. But now the Skipper's own turn had come, and quietly, with just enough show of interest to be polite, he began the return game. "You have been at sea a large part of your life, Senor Pike?"

"Oh, yes! yes! I'm well used to the sea. That is--off and on, you know, off and on. I was mate on a coasting schooner, saw a good deal that way, you know; like the sea first-rate, but my wife, she won't hear to my going off nowadays, and there's the farm to 'tend to, stock and hay, var'ous things, var'ous things; all about it, my sea-going days are over, yes, yes! Pleasant place, though, pleasant place, though the strength going out of my legs makes it troublesome by times, yes, yes!

Been in these parts before, you said? Oh, no! said you hadn't; beg your pardon! Pleasant part of the country! good soil, good neighbours."

"Fine country, I should suppose!" said the Skipper; "and as you say, sir, the persons agreeable for knowledge. You know the boy whom I hear called John, with the old gentleman who collects sh.e.l.ls?"

"Oh! ho!" said Mr. Bill Hen, delighted to find a fresh subject of interest. "Deacon Sc.r.a.per, yes, yes! well named, sir, Deacon Sc.r.a.per is, well named, you see! Very close man, pizeon close they do say. Lived here all his life, Deacon Sc.r.a.per has, and made a fortune. Sc.r.a.ped it, some say, out of folks as weren't so well off as he, but I don't know.

Keen after sh.e.l.ls, the old gentleman, yes, yes! like liquor to him, I've heard say. Never a man to drink or what you might call royster, no way of the world but just that; but get him off to Boston, or any place where there were sh.e.l.ls to be bought, and he'd come home fairly drunk with 'em, his trunk busting out and all his money gone. Seems cur'ous, too, for such an old rip as Dym Sc.r.a.per, _to_ care for such things; but we're made sing'lar,--one one way, and 'nother one t'other. That's so, I reckon, in your part of the world as well as hereabouts?"

The Skipper bowed his head gravely. "The nature of humans is without doubt the same in many lands," he said. "The little boy whom I hear called John,--he is of near blood to this old gentleman, yes?"

But here Mr. Bill Hen grew redder in the face, which was a difficult feat, and smote the cabin table.

"Burning shame it is about that youngster!" he declared. "Burning shame, if ever there was one in this mortal world. How some folks can set by and see things going on _as_ they're going on, beats me, and le' me say I'm hard to beat. That child, sir, is an orphan; got no father nor mother, let alone grandf'ther or grandm'ther, in the land of the living.

His father was some kind of a natural, I guess, or else he hadn't known Deacon Sc.r.a.per by sight or hearing; but when he dies what does he do but leave that old--old--beetle-bug guardeen of that child, case of his mother dyin'. Well, if I'd ha' had children, I might leave 'em to a fox for guardeen, or I might leave 'em to a horned pout, whichever I was a mind to, but I wouldn't leave 'em to Dym Sc.r.a.per, and you can chalk that up on the door any ways you like." The good man paused, and puffed and snorted for some minutes in silence. The Skipper waited, his dark face quietly attentive, his eyes very bright.

"Near blood?" Mr. Bill Hen broke out again, with another blow on the table. "No, he aint so dretful near blood, if you come to that. Near as the child's got, though, seemin'ly. His father, Johnny's father, was son to Freeborn Sc.r.a.per, the Deacon's twin brother. Twins they was, though no more alike than pork and peas. Them two, and Zen.o.by, the sister, who married off with a furriner and was never heerd of again; but she ain't in the story, though some say she was her father's favourite, and that Dym gave her no peace, after Freeborn left, till he got rid of her. All about it, Freeborn went West young, and spent his days there; lived comfortable, and left means when he died. Dym Sc.r.a.per, he went out to the funeral, and run it, we heerd, Freeborn's wife being dead and his son weakly; anyway, he brung back them two silver coffin-plates that hangs in the parlour to his house. Next thing we knew--good while after, y' understand, but first thing _we_ knew, here to the village--the son was dead, too; Mahlon his name was, and had been weakly all his days.

Deacon Sc.r.a.per went out agin, and kinder sc.r.a.ped round, folks reckoned, 'peared to make of the young widder, and meeched up to her, and all.

Wal! And here this last year, if _she_ doesn't up and die! Sing'lar gift folks has for dying out in them parts; living so fur from the sea, I've always cal'lated. All about it, that old spider goes out the third time, and no coffin-plates this time, but he brings back the boy; and lo, ye!

he's made full guardeen over the child, and has him, body and soul.

"Now I aint a malicious man, no way of the world, Mister,--well, whatever your name is. But I tell you, that old weasel is laying for something ugly about that youngster. Some say he's applied to send him to the Reform School; good little boy as I'd want to see. I believe it's so. Don't tell me! He's got money, that child has, or land, and Dym Sc.r.a.per means to have it. The child's got no one in the world to look to, and folks about here are so skeered of Deacon Sc.r.a.per that they'll set by, I believe, and see a thing like that done before their eyes. I tell ye what, sir, I'm a church-member, and I don't want to say nothing but what's right and proper; but if there was a prophet anyways handy in these times (and a mighty good thing to have round, too), there'd be fire and brimstun called, down on Dym Sc.r.a.per, and the hull village would turn out to see him get it, too!"

"But you, sir!" said the Skipper, who had his knife out now, and was carving strange things on the table, as was his manner when moved. "You will not permit such a thing, a person of heart as you have the air to be? No, you will not permit that a thing enormous take place at your side?"

Mr. Bill Hen's face grew purple; he drew out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead, puffing painfully; there was a pause.

"Married man?" he said, at length. "No, beg your pardon, unmarried, I remember. Well, sir, you may know something of life, but there's a sight you don't know yet. See?"

Again there was silence, the Skipper gazing darkly at his carven runes, Mr. Bill Hen still puffing and wiping his brow.

"Yes, there's a sight you don't know about," he said again. "My wife, you see, she's a good woman, there's no better woman round; but she's masterful, sir, she's masterful, and I'm a man who's always led a quiet life and desire peace. And there's more behind; though why on the airth I'm telling you all this is more than I can tell!"

The last words came with a peevish outburst, and he hesitated, as if minded to say no more; but the Skipper raised his head, and the dark eyes sent out a compelling glance. The weaker man faltered, gave way, and resumed his speech.

"She's a masterful woman, I tell ye! She thinks Deacon Sc.r.a.per is a dangerous man, and there aint n.o.body here but what'll agree with her that far. Then--he--he's got a mortgage on my farm, same as he has on others,--plenty of others as is better clothed with means than ever I've been; and, all about it, my wife aint willing for us to make an enemy of the old man. That's where the land lays, and you can see for yourself.

Plenty in the village is fixed the same way; he's got power, that old grape-skin has, power over better men than he. We don't want to see that child put upon, but we aint no blood to him, and there aint anybody but feels that he himself aint just the one to interfere. That's the way my wife feels, and I,--well, there now! you're a stranger, and I may never set eyes on you again; but I take to you, somehow, and I don't mind telling you that I feel as mean as dirt whenever I think of that lamb in that old fox's den; mean as dirt I feel, and yet I aint got the s.p.u.n.k to--the strenth is gone out of my legs," he added, piteously, "these ten years back, and I think some of my sperrit went with it. That's where it is! I haint got the sperrit to stand up against 'em."

There was a long silence, and then the Skipper shut his knife with a click, and rose from the table, holding out his hand.

"You are a good man, Senor Pike," he said. "I think no worse of you, and am glad to make the acquaintance. With regard to this child, I shall remind you,"--here he shook his head with a backward gesture in which there was something at once proud and humble.--"I shall remind you that there are powers very high, more high than of prophets; and that G.o.d will do the works as seems Him good. I may have the honour to wait upon your distinguished lady at a future day; I think to be some days in this place, for purposes of selling my cargo, as well to take in wood and water. Never before in these parts, it is for me of interest to observe the place and people. You will take a lemonade that Franci brings? Hola, Franci! This is Senor Pike, Franci, at all times to be admitted to the schooner."

"Pleased to meet you!" said Mr. Bill Hen.

"Servicio de Usted!" said Franci, who did not understand English except when he thought the speaker was likely to interest him; and they sat down to the lemonade.

CHAPTER VII.

THE CAPTIVE.

"Franci!" the Skipper called up the companion-way, when his visitor had taken his departure.

"Senor!" said Franci, putting his beautiful head over the rail.

"Bring me here the child, hear thou!"

"Si, Senor," said Franci. He went forward, and pulling aside a pile of canvas that lay carelessly heaped together in a corner of the deck, disclosed the boy John, curled up in a ball, with one monkey in his arms, and the other sitting on his shoulder.

"Here, you, Sir Schoolmaster, the Patron ask for you. I give you my hand to h.e.l.lup you up! I like to put a knife in you!" he added in Spanish, with an adorable smile.

"You'd get one into yourself before you had time!" said Rento, getting up from the spot where his length had been coiled, and speaking with a slow drawl that lent emphasis to the words. "You ever lay a hand on that boy, and it's the last you lay on anybody,--understand that?"

"Oh, yays!" said Franci, gently, as he pulled John out of the tangle of canvas and ropes. "But I am 'most killed all my life with looking at your ugly face, you old she monkey! A little more killing make not much difference to me."

Rento advanced toward him with uplifted hand, and the agile Spaniard slipped round the mast and disappeared.

"What was he saying?" asked John, vaguely feeling that something was wrong.

"Nothin', nothin' at all," Rento said, quietly. "He was givin' me some talk, that was all. It's all he has to give, seemin'ly; kind o' fool person he is, Franci; don't ye take no heed what he says. There, go 'long, youngster! the Skipper's lookin' for ye."

At this moment the Skipper's head appeared over the rail, and John became quite sure that he was awake. Dreams were so curious, sometimes, one never knew what would happen in them; and this whole matter of piracy had been so strange and unlooked for that all the while he had been hidden under the sail (where he had retreated by the Skipper's orders as soon as Mr. Bill Hen Pike appeared in the offing), he had been trying to persuade himself that he was asleep, and that the monkeys were dream-monkeys, very lively ones, and that by-and-by he would wake up once more and find himself in bed at Mr. Sc.r.a.per's.

But now there could be no more doubt! He could not dream Franci, nor the queer things he said; he could not dream Rento, with his kind, ugly face and drawling speech; least of all could he dream the Skipper, who was now looking at him with an amused smile.

Certainly, he did not look in the least like a pirate! In the first place, Malay pirates did not wear anything, except a kind of short petticoat, and something that flew in the air behind them as they ran.

For in the geography-book pictures a Malay was always running amuck, with a creese in his hand, and an expression of frantic rage on his countenance. How _could_ this be a Malay? Perhaps he might have been in fun! But John was not much used to fun, and it seemed hardly likely that so grave a person as the Skipper would play at pirate. On the whole, the little boy was sadly puzzled; and the Skipper's first words did not tend to allay his anxiety.

"Ha! my prisoner!" he said. "That you come here, sir, and sit down by me on the rail. The evening falls, and we will sit here and observe the fairness of the night. Remark that I put no chains on you, Colorado, as in the Malay seas we put them! You can swim, yes?"

John nodded. "I swam across the river last week," said he. "I was going to--" He meant to say, "to rescue some people from pirates," but now this did not seem polite; so he stopped short, but the Skipper took no notice.

"You swim? That is good!" he said. "But Sir Sc.r.a.per, he cannot swim, I think, my son, so for you there is no rescue, since Rento has pulled in the plank. Are you content, then, to be the captive of the 'Nautilus?'"

John looked up, still sorely puzzled; perhaps he was rather dull, this little boy John, about some things, though he was good at his books. At any rate, there could be no possible doubt of the kindness in the Skipper's face; perhaps he was in fun, after all; and, anyhow, where had he ever been so happy as here since the good mother died? So he answered with right good-will,--

"I like to stay here more than anywhere else in the world. If--if I didn't think Mr. Sc.r.a.per would be angry and frightened about me, and not know where I was, I should like to stay on board all my life."

"That is right!" said the Skipper, heartily. "That is the prisoner that I like to have. I am not a cruel pirate, as some; I like to make happy my captives. Franci, lemonade, on the after-deck here!" He spoke in Spanish, and Franci replied in the same language, with a faint voice expressive of acute suffering.