Chapter XIII
CAPTAIN JACK AND REDGILL MISCALCULATE THEIR FORCES—THE RECOGNITION—THE RESCUE—BOB BERTRAM’S ESCAPE.
Captain Jack and his half-dozen companions were so thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with their ill-success in and around Darlington, that they made up their minds to depart for London forthwith, and seek no other adventures.
Their disabled companion shared the horse of Faulkner, and as they journeyed slowly along to the nearest public-house, the whole party were loud in cursing their late bad luck.
“Who the devil could have been that youngster who assailed us so furiously?” said Captain Jack, with an angry oath. “I tried to wing him several times, but always missed.”
“Yes, hang him, but he took d—d good care he didn’t miss me” old Bates growled; “he knocked the pistol out of my hand as clean as a whistle, and just at the moment, too, when I was going to pop at him.”
“As to handling a sword,” said Captain Jack, “he seems the very devil at that game.”
“I thought that I could do a little in that line,” said Faulkner, “but, lor’ bless yer, he gave me an awful dig in the left arm, and if it hadn’t been for a stroke of good luck I should have been killed, for he was just on the point of having a full cut at me, when I ducked my head, and—”
“Yes, and that stroke cut down a thick branch much tougher than your head or neck,” said Bates. “I saw it, so cut it, for I had enough on it.”
While thus speaking of their inglorious exploit, Jack’s party arrived at the roadside inn, where, it will be remembered, Wildfire Ned had left Bob Bertram and Tim.
Believing what the landlord had said to them, namely, that Ned Warbeck had only ridden back to the Hall for something he had forgotten, Bob and Tim waited patiently for his return.
When least they expected it, however, and greatly to the surprise of both, Captain Jack and his rough companions entered the inn, and, with their old style, swaggered about and talked and cursed very loudly.
Tim, by instinct, knew who they were, and trembled.
He slunk into the dark corner still farther, so as not to be perceived, but Bob Bertram remained cool and collected.
Captain Jack called for various refreshments, and, together with a companion or two, were very busy in binding up the cuts and wounds of those who were hurt.
“You seem to have fallen into rough hands, gentlemen,” said Bob, civilly.
“Well, and what if we have,” Bates growled; “is that anything to do wi’ you? Who are you?”
“Keep your temper, Bates,” said Captain Jack; “let’s have no more quarrelling to-night. The young man didn’t mean any harm.”
“Quite true, gentlemen, quite true; we are two of the civilest fellows as ever was,” Tim began.
“And who asked you to speak?” Bates growled, in such a wicked manner as made Tim stop on the instant.
“Misfortune follows misfortune,” sighed Tim to himself; “it is out of the frying-pan into the fire. When will all these strange ups and downs cease?”
“The truth is, young man,” said Captain Jack to Bob Bertram, after he had bandaged his comrades’ wounds, “the truth is as you say, we have fallen into rough hands to-night—very rough hands indeed. Did you ever hear of a person hereabouts called Bob Bertram?”
“Yes, I think I have,” said Bob, coolly. “What of that?”
“Well, it’s all through him that we’ve got all these cuts and wounds.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes,” said Captain Jack, inventing lies as he went on; “we are officers of the crown, and were sent to escort this Bob Bertram to London, but he escaped just in time. We got scent of where he was hiding, and overtook the carriage in which he was escaping. Like brave men and good officers, we attacked it, but just as we were on the point of securing the rascal, out pounces a score of villains upon us from a wood. After a desperate encounter we killed and wounded a great many, but were at last compelled to fly, for the whole village was at our heels.”
“Indeed!” said Bob, in wonder; “but are you sure that the person in the carriage really was Bob Bertram?”
“Not a doubt of it!” said Captain Jack, pleased with his well-told string of lies.
During this conversation, and while Jack was dilating at great length upon the bravery of himself and comrades, a stranger entered the room and took a seat on the dark side of the fire-place.
Bob and Tim exchanged quick looks at one another on the stranger’s entrance.
It was not Wildfire Ned.
Who, then, could it be?
It was Phillip Redgill.
The place where he sat was shaded from the firelight so completely that he had a good view of each person’s countenance, but yet no one saw his own.
“You are mistaken, my friend,” said Redgill, at the conclusion of Captain Jack’s remarks, “you are mistaken; the murderer, Bob Bertram, was not in the carriage at all.”
“No!”
“Who dare dispute our word?”
“Who told you so?” said Bates, Faulkner, and Captain Jack in a breath, and in tones of annoyance.
“I did!” said Redgill, rising, “the murderer was not near the spot.”
“Not near the place?”
“No! he was sitting quietly in the parlour of a roadside inn during the whole of the fight.”
“Prove it.”
“Do you want to make us all out liars, then?”
“I can prove it!” said Redgill, all the time speaking in a forced voice, quite unnatural to him; “and if you put me to the test, I can tell you where the murderer is now at this present moment.”
“Ha!”
“Where?”
“There’s a good reward offered, tell us at once,” said Captain Jack and others.
“You have not to look far for him,” said Redgill, with a triumphant laugh.
Bob Bertram’s blood now ran cold.
“I am betrayed,” he thought, “and must fight my way out of this.”
“And who told you?” said Bates.
“A youth called Ned Warbeck. I met him on the road: he has been to this inn once to-night, has he not landlord?”
“I believe he has,” was the innkeeper’s answer.
“But where is this Bob Bertram, then?” said Captain Jack impatiently.
“There!” said Redgill, pointing to where Bob Bertram sat. “I know him, so does the landlord, and so does that thin-legged groom in the corner.”
But they held their peace.
“Scoundrel!” said Bob Bertram, rising instantly. “Scoundrel!” he said, and fired at the informer.
Redgill anticipated something of this sort, and dodged so cleverly that the shot missed its aim.
In a second, Bob Bertram was surrounded by Captain Jack’s party.
He fought most manfully to get loose from his assailants, but they were too numerous for him.
Besides that, his confinement and anxiety for the past few days had weakened him very much, so that he did not at the moment possess one-third of his ordinary strength.
Old Bates was the first who dared to assail Bob, but a well-directed blow, clean from the shoulder, knocked the red-nosed rascal off his legs.
Right manfully did Bob fight, but it was all to no purpose.
He was bound with cords; resistance was hopeless and useless.
He cast a look at Redgill—a glance that was filled with venom and scorn.
“Villain!” he said. “We have met before, bloodthirsty scoundrel! Do you remember the night of my father’s murder, red-handed knave? You shall not always triumph; my day will come.”
“What does the rogue say?” Redgill remarked, coolly.
“Oh, never mind him, sir,” said Captain Jack, recognizing in Redgill the young man who had escaped from the carriage and given him the purse of gold, “never mind him, sir; he’s only raving. All your great criminals rave and rant when officers lay their hands upon ’em; it’s quite natural, just like pigs when they’re going to be killed—they always squeal most then. Lor, bless yer, sir, we’ve had lots of criminals in hand in our time, ain’t we, Bates?”
“I believe yer,” said that worthy.
Turning to Bob, who was bound now with cords he said, “What d’yer mean by calling this ’ere gentleman names for, eh? Why, we knows him well,” said Bates, in allusion to Redgill.
“If you do,” said Bob, “take care of him; he is the man who murdered my father, not me; his name is Bolton.”
“Quite mistaken,” said Captain Jack; “his name ain’t nothing of the sort—it is Mr. Phillip Redgill.”
“Quite true,” said Phillip, with a smile of contempt. “And, now that I have assisted you in recapturing this vile murderer, I will mount and journey to London.”
“Quite right.”
“Many thanks, my noble captain.”
“A pleasant journey.”
“Don’t forget our appointment,” said Redgill to Jack. “I suppose he is——”
“Dead as a herring,” whispered Captain Jack. “I shot the old ’un through the head, but we couldn’t do much with the young ’un, though, so had to hook it.”
“Young ’un?” said Redgill, in surprise. “What young ’un do you allude to?”
“Why, that young Wildfire devil as came galloping and pistolling and slashing among us single-handed.”
“Who could it have been?” said Redgill. “Was he near my size?”
“No, less than you; not near so strong; but, lor bless yer, he’s as active as a cat, and rode a splendid mare he called Starlight.”
“Starlight?” said Redgill. “There is but one mare of that name around Darlington, and that one belongs to——”
“Wildfire Ned,” said young Warbeck, entering at the moment.
Redgill turned pale as death, and averted his face.
Tim and Bob Bertram were overjoyed at this unlooked for arrival.
Captain Jack and his party were thunderstruck.
“The devil!”
“’Tis he!”
“The very one I spoke of.”
“Edward Warbeck, gentlemen, at your service,” said Wildfire Ned, bowing.
“Cut the brat in two!” said old Bates, with his eyes glaring in anger like two live coals. “Cut the brat in two.”
“Blow out his brains—the bastard!” said Phillip Redgill, feeling safe among so many friends. “Blow out the bastard’s brains!” he said, in a hissing tone.
“Down with him!”
“Spare him not!”
“H-o-l-d!” said Wildfire Ned, in a loud tone, and waving his hand in command. “H-o-l-d! I say! The first man that stirs shall fall by my sword.”
These words were said in such a clear, ringing tone, and with an air of such cool defiance that Captain Jack and his followers were astounded.
Without a word of apology, Wildfire Ned cut the rope that bound Bob Bertram, and then said to Captain Jack—
“You are the leader of this party?”
“I am,” was the gruff reply. “How dare you interfere with our prisoner, then? We are officers of justice.”
“_In_justice, you should have said,” Ned coolly replied, laughing, “and if you are not all hung within a week you owe it to my clemency.”
“To you?” said Bates, with a curling lip.
“Yes, to me, old man; nay, don’t growl so. I fear you not, you cannot bite any one. Think yourself very lucky that I do not punish your insolence on the spot.”
Ned’s manner was so firm, cool, and brave, that it seemed to act like a spell on all present, for no one moved from where they stood or sat, but looked on with surprise and curiosity at what then took place.
Walking up to Redgill, Ned said, calmly, but in tones which all could hear—
“We have met again.”
“We have,” was the hoarse response of the dark villain, as he curled his lip in demon-like scorn.
“You called me bastard,” said Wildfire Ned, in a tone of fiery anger, “this is my answer!”
So speaking, he slapped Redgill in the face, and then spat upon him.
“Hollo! what’s all this?”
“He’s struck our friend.”
“Knock the brat down,” said one and another.
“Keep your places,” said Ned, with a look of scorn; “the first man of you that dare interfere in this quarrel shall in less than a minute lie at my feet a bleeding corpse!”
Throwing off his cloak, he stood before Phillip Redgill, sword in hand.
“Come on!” said he, “I told you we should meet again; draw, I tell you, draw villain, or I will slay you where you stand, Phillip Redgill!”
“He shall not fight!” said Captain Jack; “but, if you will kick up a shindy, and insist upon blood-letting, why, then, I will accommodate you.”
“Yes, and I!”
“And I!”
“Wait, then,” said Ned. “Trust me, you shall all have your turn, but I will commence with this one first. Phillip Redgill, draw!”
He did so, but with an air of great reluctance.
Ned stood upon his guard.
On the instant, however, and before he was aware of any treachery, Redgill fired at him.
The ball grazed Ned’s cheek.
“Cowardly hound!” he cried, and rushed on his foe with the fury of a fiend.
In an instant, the whole place was in an uproar.
Bob Bertram, Tim, and the landlord were surrounded by Captain Jack’s followers, and a deadly encounter took place.
The clash of swords, the report of fire-arms, and the shouts and cries of all in the house, awoke wild echoes in the silent night.
To add to the confusion all the lights were overturned and extinguished.
At the first opportunity Master Tim crept under the table out of harm’s way.
But Bob, the publican, and Wildfire Ned, pushed their antagonists so fiercely that in less than ten minutes Phillip Redgill was carried out into the yard bleeding and pale.
Captain Jack and his men were thoroughly beaten, but they continued the fight outside the house, on the spacious green in front of the doorway.
Here in the moonlight was seen the flash of swords, and heard the deep guttural curses of the antagonists.
“We must get out of this at all cost,” said Captain Jack to Faulkner; “all our chaps are wounded; we must beat a retreat once. Get our horses, Faulkner.”
Captain Jack vaulted upon one animal, Faulkner did so upon another.
Just when about to start off, they were surprised to see a horseman approaching at a terrific gallop.
In his arms he held a lovely female, whose snow-white garments were streaming in the wind.
It was Colonel Blood with Ellen Harmer!
In about five minutes Captain Jack and Faulkner were seized with horror at what they then saw.
Colonel Blood’s carriage, with its skeleton coachman and footman, and with weird-wild skeleton forms inside, dashed past the inn door in pursuit, waving their bony arms and shrieking most hideously.
This strange, unearthly spectacle seemed to fill all with horror.
Even Wildfire Ned desisted from the combat and gazed steadfastly upon the grim cortége as it passed the inn.
Suddenly a piercing and uncommon cry was uttered by Phillip Redgill as he turned his eyes towards the vehicle.
The coach stopped.
In an instant the skeleton descended from the box.
Those inside alighted with great expedition, and, weapon in hand, advanced towards the inn door.
Wildfire Ned was astonished, but not dismayed.
He bit his lip, and his eyes flashed fire.
Without a word of warning the Skeleton rushed upon him.
Captain Jack and Faulkner spurred their horses away from the spot as speedily as possible.
They did not stay a single moment longer to witness what took place.
They only thought of their own safety, and galloped off as if they had suddenly confronted so many devils.
One of the Skeleton Crew secured Redgill as he lay bleeding under a tree in the garden, and conveyed him to the coach.
Tim did not much relish any fresh encounter whatever.
Inspired with curiosity, and a keen desire to lay hands upon anything which the coach contained, he went up to the door, and peeped in.
The suppliant cries of those inside affected Tim’s heart, and he loosed them from their bondage by cutting the cords with which they had been bound.
This he did, but only on condition of their promising to help his master, which the liberated coachman and footman swore most solemnly to do.
When they stepped out of the carriage, however, they breathed very hard for a moment or two, and, seeing the fight going on all around them, took to their heels like lamplighters, nor even turned their heads.
Up the road they ran, as nimbly as rabbits, until, breathless, and almost on the point of bursting a blood-vessel, they fell headlong into a marshy pool, and lay there without attempting to move.
Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram, and the plucky innkeeper, however, had, up to this time, been busily engaged with their grim opponents.
The publican had closed with one of them, and, in fast embrace, were then wrestling on the ground.
Bob Bertram used his sword with both hands, and, much to his delight, cut off the arm of one and leg of another.
Judge of his astonishment and horror, however, when each of those grim worthies picked up his severed limb, and hobbled off towards the coach, perhaps there to reset them, for all he knew, since they never returned to the combat again.
Ned, however, with his back to a tree, contended with two at once.
With his good sword he hit right and left, first at one and then at another.
But it seemed as if to no purpose, for as often as they were cleaved to the earth, they rose again, as nimbly as if they were made of india-rubber and springs combined.
“There’s only one vulnerable part with these devils, I’m told,” said Ned to himself, “and that is to fairly pierce them between the eyes and nose.”
With well-directed thrusts Wildfire Ned attempted this feat repeatedly, but failed, and his efforts were rewarded by loud derisive laughter by his enemies.
At last he succeeded.
With a wild, ear-piercing shriek, a grim monster fell to the earth, and his marrowless bones crashed together with an unearthly sound.
“That’s one of them,” said Ned, in high glee, but, before he could utter another word, he saw approaching, right and left, a whole company of skeletons marching in great haste to the spot.
“We shall all be massacred,” said the innkeeper, in horror; “the whole band are out to-night.”
“Fall back, lads; fall back,” said Wildfire Ned; “get into the house again, and let us bar the doors.”
This was quickly done, and greatly to Master Tim’s annoyance, for he was now shut out.
With the nimbleness of a cat he climbed up the water pipe into a chamber window.
He could not get in very well, and hung outside for some moments, dangling just above the heads of the Skeleton Crew below.
Ned pulled him in, however, and warded off several vicious blows aimed at Tim, which, had they struck him, must have killed him on the spot.
“We are safe now for a time,” said the innkeeper, bravely; “but I fear they will burn us out. We shall be roasted alive.”
Tim heard this remark, and was seized with a wild frenzy.
He threw chairs and crockery out upon the heads of those below, who, now very numerous, were clamouring at and endeavouring to burst in the door.
“Set fire to the house,” said Death-wing, who had now arrived. “Set fire to the house at once; they will soon cry for quarter, but give them none; as they rush out, kill them on the spot. We’ll soon make them surrender.”
“Never,” said Wildfire Ned, at an open window. “Never!”
In a few moments, however, the house and stables were set fire to, and the Skeleton Crew, sure of consuming their foes, danced round and round in wild, unearthly joy.
“Oh! heaven protect us!” the innkeeper gasped. “We shall all be blown up.”
“What!” said Ned, never for a moment losing either coolness or courage.
“Blown up, Mr. Warbeck,” said the host. “I have a hundred pounds of powder in a cellar which is situated a few yards before the front door.”
“One hundred pounds of powder?” said Bob.
“Yes.”
“How came it here?”
“Lieutenant Garnet and a party of sailors found it on the beach not many weeks ago. It was destined for the Skeleton Crew, but Lieutenant Garnet placed it here, saying he would call and remove it soon.”
“That’s just the thing we want,” said Ned, in high glee.
In a few moments, Bob and Wildfire Ned descended into the cellar described, and, after putting a slow match to the barrel, firmly closed the cellar-door, and returned again to the room above.
Ned threw a rope out of window as if about to escape.
This was noticed by those below, who hailed Ned’s appearance at the window with derisive cheers as they brandished their weapons, and flung about their long white arms in a ghostly dance.
“The fire is doing its work,” said Death-wing, in high glee. “We’ll have revenge on the publican, he has always been an enemy of our crew, and a friend to Garnet. Look out, they will be burnt out like rats in less than five minutes. Stand by, every one of you, ready to receive them as they jump out of the window. Let them fall on the points of your sword.”
When least they expected it, however, the powder exploded!
The earth about ten yards in front of the main doorway suddenly upheaved.
An awful rush of fire succeeded.
Many of the skeletons were blown into the air.
This concussion was very great, and for a moment the house trembled as if it would crumble into dust.
It did not, however.
All in the house who had not laid themselves down on their faces were thrown off their legs.
The windows were smashed.
The doors flew open as if by magic.
“Now’s our time,” said Ned, and, followed by the innkeeper, Bob Bertram, and Tim, rushed out sword in hand.
By the light of the burning dwelling and stables the fight was continued, and now more desperately than ever.
Tim, in his hurry to rush out and get away, stumbled into the deep hole made by the explosion.
He had scarcely reached the bottom, however, when one of Death-wing’s band seized him, and almost squeezed him to death.
Tim was now bound to fight or die, and as he much preferred the former condition of the two, he kicked and bit and fought like a tiger, each one of them rolling over one another by turns, and almost burying themselves in the loose earth.
Wildfire Ned sought out Death-wing, but nowhere could that remorseless chief be found.
He called upon him to stand forth and engage in deadly combat, but there was no response to this bold challenge.
When least expected, however, and when in the fulness of his vigorous onslaught upon the grim gang, he, Wildfire Ned, was seized by some one from behind!
A thrill of horror ran through his whole frame.
Death-wing, with a loud shout of triumph, cried out,—
“Victory! victory! Ned Warbeck is our prisoner!”
“Liar!” Ned growled, and with a mighty effort released himself from Death-wing’s grasp.
They now stood face to face.
That moment to each was momentous in the extreme.
Each one was nerving himself up for the final struggle.
Loud shouts now burst out upon Ned’s delighted ears.
With an irresistible rush, cutlass in hand, Lieutenant Garnet, with a brave band of blue jackets, dashed upon the scene.
With a wild, joyous shout, such as British tars alone know how to give, Garnet’s men pressed their way into the thickest of the fight.
The combat now was a grand sight indeed.
The night had turned to inky darkness.
Not a star was visible.
In the foreground was the mixed assemblage of fierce combatants.
Blue jackets of the sailors mixed with the white, skeleton forms which danced hither and thither like ghosts in the darkness.
All the background was brilliantly lighted up by the blazing tavern, and conflagration of numerous stables.
Wildfire Ned and Bob Bertram each took command of a party of sailors, and attacked Death-wing’s gang in every direction.
Death-wing mounted his coal black charger, and endeavoured to arouse his followers to greater efforts and more desperate acts of daring.
Ned and Bob Bertram followed the example.
Once on the back of Starlight, Ned felt more at home.
Everywhere he sought to confront Death-wing.
All his efforts were in vain.
The skeleton chief seemed to be ubiquitous.
Wherever he was seen at one moment he disappeared on the next.
Beaten back at all points, Death-wing and his followers gave way.
They gradually retreated towards a dangerous morass, and thence into a dense wood, whither it was deemed inadvisable to follow them.
Indeed, it seemed impossible to follow them, for they disappeared like myths, or Will-o’-the-Wisps, in the marshy bog.
When Lieutenant Garnet and his men were collected, it was found that many of them had been very dangerously wounded by the gang.
It must be confessed that on this occasion Death-wing had used all his generalship and courage.
But nothing could withstand Wildfire Ned Garnet, Bob Bertram, and the innkeeper.
Of Tim it behoves us to speak a little.
He got very roughly handled by his grim opponent, in the deep pit, but that was all. He extricated himself out of the hole.
He then mounted a tree, and, there perched, had an excellent view of the battle by the light of burning buildings.
He would shout out occasionally, “That’s it, Master Ned!”—“Give it to ’em, Bob!”—“Smash the rascals, my brave sailor boys!”—“Hurrah for Lieutenant Garnet!”—“Bravo, Wildfire Ned!”
But Tim became so noisy during the combat that he attracted the attention of Death-wing.
“Bring that fool down,” said Death-wing to one of his men, as he rode past the spot. “Bring that noisy fool out of the tree, and pitch him into the burning tavern!”
“What a civil devil,” thought Master Tim, and clambered up the tree still higher.
Death-wing’s orders, however, were obeyed.
A skeleton, with a long dagger between his teeth, clambered up the tree.
LOOK OUT FOR THE
BOY SAILOR;
OR,
LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.
A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in about 30 Numbers.
No. 2, with No. 1, and a LARGE ENGRAVING, GRATIS.
LOOK OUT FOR
SOMETHING NEW FOR THE BOYS!
=A LARGE ENGRAVING=
AND
=VARIOUS PRIZES, GRATIS=.
Full particulars in No. 6.
With a thick bough, which Tim had torn from the tree, he took deliberate aim, and dealt his enemy a tremendous thwack on the skull, when half-way up the tree, and knocked him down again.
This trick Master Tim had played several times with great success; but ere long two skeletons essayed to climb up after him.
For a few moments they amused themselves with firing at Tim with their pistols.
This was very pleasant sport for them, but quite the contrary to Tim, who jumped about as nimbly as a squirrel, and after many attempts successfully hid himself in the upper part of the trunk!
“I’m safe now,” thought he; but to his horror he heard his grim pursuers climbing up and probing the rotten trunk with their swords every yard as they ascended.
One of their sword-blades grazed Tim’s shin, and he quickly fell from his perch right to the bottom of the trunk, and some three feet below the surface of the earth.
For be it remarked the tree was an immense old cypress, which in all cases have hollow trunks.
The two skeletons searched and searched in vain.
They cut, and hacked the soft bark, and, wherever they found a knot-hole, plunged their long sword-blades into it, in hopes of transfixing the unlucky, and timorous groom.
But with a long-drawn sigh, Tim thanked his stars that he was now safe, and, as he turned his eyes upwards, he plainly saw the two skeletons looking down upon him.
But they did not perceive him.
They gave up the search, thinking that their intended victim had escaped by crawling out on to a large branch, and then dropping to the ground among the combatants on every side.
They left the tree; and Tim, all alone in his momentary glory, had serious misgivings as to how he should escape.
He could not get up again, for his own weight in his descent had forced him down, with a little squeezing, but it could not force him up again!
“I’m doomed!” groaned Tim, in his dismal incarceration; “and shall be stifled, or die of hunger here.”
His position, it must be confessed, was an unenviable one.
“I’m in a living tomb,” he groaned, and as the rats, mice, insects and other creeping things now began to nibble him in every part of the body, and with great industry, he shouted out with horror and positive pain.
Crouched up as he was, and sitting almost like a tailor upon his curled-up legs, he had no power to move.
Wherever he thrust forth his hand it came in contact with some slimy, creeping thing, which made the blood curdle in his veins.
To add to his misery, he now heard the voices of Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram and Lieutenant Garnet shouting to their followers in tones of triumph.
Next followed a rousing cheer from the lusty sailors as they left the spot in pursuit of their grim and stubborn enemies.
Tim shouted again and again with his utmost power.
But his voice died away, and was not heard in the noise and confusion which reigned on every side.
“I’m lost! I’m lost!” he cried, and gave way to despair.
All was now quiet around the old cypress tree.
Save the crackling of the burning dwellings and the sharp cries of many who were wounded, poor Tim heard nothing.
He resigned himself meekly and humbly to die.
“If I had only acted bravely,” he thought, “this misfortune wouldn’t have happened to me. But how could I help it? Wildfire Ned is a perfect devil, and don’t care any more for a sword-cut than I would for a flea-bite. This all comes of being a coward,” he groaned. “Curse the Skeleton rascals! D—n this tree which offered me protection! If I could only get out of this stifling hole, I’d give——”
“What! what would you give?” asked a solemn voice near to him.
Tim began to shiver in every limb.
“Was that a voice I heard?” he sighed. “No, it cannot be; it must have been all im——”
“Reality!” interrupted the voice.
For a moment the frightened prisoner dared not move.
“’Tis the devil,” he muttered.
Before he could utter another word Tim felt the earth moving from under him.
With a groan he endeavoured to cling to the inside of the tree.
The effort was vain.
When least expected he felt himself gradually going.
At last he suddenly fell into a cave some twenty feet below!
Chapter XIV
THE BRIDAL BALL—UNEXPECTED VISITORS—THE DREAD ALARM—THE MUFFLED PEAL OF BELLS.
Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram, Lieut. Garnet, and the brave old innkeeper, followed the Skeleton Band as far as they possibly could, but, as we have said, soon lost sight of their grim and bloodthirsty enemies.
The sailors, meanwhile, acting under Garnet’s orders, now returned to the burning tavern and exerted themselves with great courage and labour to extinguish the flames.
This they succeeded in doing to some great extent, and soon were joined by crowds from the village of Darlington, who had been attracted to the spot by the lurid glare in the sky.
The spirit-room of the tavern was saved, and all it contained, but little else.
Old Nettles, the landlord—for such was his right name—was too much overjoyed at vanquishing the Skeleton Crew to think much of his loss, particularly as Lieutenant Garnet had informed him that he would be recompensed by the king himself for all he had lost, and much more given to him besides, for so bravely fighting in the cause of law and order against Death-wing’s friends.
Full of joy, and not caring a button for his wounds, he helped to gather up all the stock which had been saved, and, amid loud applause, distributed ales, wines, and spirits in abundance to all comers.
The sailors were in their glory, and drank health and long life to Nettles, landlord of the “Grapes,” in many a flowing tankard, and many a brimming glass sparkling with good old Jamaica rum, as they merrily squatted on the green grass smoking their pipes.
Among others who had hurried to the scene of conflict, with his servants well armed (but who by accident arrived too late), was young Lord Walton, from the Abbey, some five miles away.
The old marquis, his father, had a large party of lords and ladies assembled at the Abbey that night to celebrate the marriage of his only daughter, Lady Julia.
Lord Walton, the son, however, did not remain a moment in the ball-room when it was whispered to him that the Skeleton Crew were abroad.
Unknown to any one, he gathered together a band of trusty servants and hurried forth to lend his aid.
But if he arrived too late, he greatly admired the courage and daring of those who had so long contended with the Crew; and in token of his admiration invited Lieutenant Garnet, Wildfire Ned, and Bob Bertram to pass the rest of the night at the Abbey, and partake of the hospitality there, and join in the merry marriage dance.
This just suited the three heroes, and with little pressing they accepted the invitation, particularly as this was the last night which Wildfire Ned intended to pass on shore.
He was to join Lieutenant Garnet’s ship on the morrow, for on the spot the brave sailor offered Ned a commission as midshipman, which he readily accepted.
Away then they sped across the country and soon reached Walton Abbey, when the soft crash of music, and the gliding of graceful figures past the many windows, proclaimed that the marriage festivity was at its height.
When the truth was told about Wildfire Ned and the others, and of their gallantry in dispersing the Skeleton Crew, every one was amazed, and fair dames smiled on Ned as he gaily whirled in the dreamy mazes of the dance.
But soon a change came o’er the festive scene.
The bells of the village church, with muffled peals, suddenly broke forth upon the night with a discordant funereal clang.
The dance was stopped.
All looked amazed.
Young Lord Walton entreated all to be calm, and meanwhile with an old and trusty servant went to the entrance hall to ascertain the cause of a sudden noise heard there.
The doors were flung open.
There stood before him a grim sight.
Death-wing, among his mounted band, with torch and link in hand, all in a blaze of lurid light, in a hoarse voice, demanded admittance to the ball.
For a moment the young lord remained motionless.
He could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyesight.
He had often heard of the Skeleton Crew before, but had never seen anything of them.
Until that night he looked upon that band as a myth, believed in only by the dull and ignorant rustics around him.
Had not the story come from the lips of young Warbeck and Lieutenant Garnet, who had more than once encountered those grim creatures, he would have still believed that they were all imaginary creatures.
But here was proof positive of their existence.
The hair of the old servant who accompanied the young lord to the hall door stood up with fright as he looked out upon the ghastly gang before him, and his knees began to tremble.
“Who and what are ye?” asked the young lord, in firm and determined tones.
“Death-wing and his crew,” was the hoarse response.
“What want ye here, at this hour of the night?”
“Open wide the door,” said a chorus of Skeletons.
“Stand back,” said young Walton, as he drew his sword, and flourished it; “the first of ye that stirs shall perish!”
A coarse laugh was the only response.
In a second Death-wing, with a heavy blow, knocked young Walton senseless to the floor.
The old butler fell flat upon his face with horror in the entrance hall.
Before they entered the Skeleton Crew threw their torches in a heap upon the ground, and walked boldly into the hall.
Some few of them remained behind to mind the horses.
All was now darkness.
On the first landing Death-wing halted, and directed his men to enter the rooms to the right and left.
One of these rooms was at that moment being prepared for the bridal supper, and many servants were engaged in laying out the tables with costly plate.
Two or three Skeletons entered.
The servants gave a loud shout of terror, and vanished through an opposite door.
They made their way at a terrific pace towards the ball-room.
“What means all this commotion?” said the marquis.
“Where is my son?” demanded the marchioness.
“My brother, has aught happened to him?” said the trembling bride.
Before any explanation could be given one of the doors opened, and in rushed several of the Skeleton Crew.
On the instant they were confronted by Wildfire Ned, Lieutenant Garnet, and Bob, and most of the gentlemen present, who whipped out their swords, and darted at the grim intruders.
Some of the ladies fainted.
One or two old gentlemen jumped on the window-sills out of danger.
Others tried to escape.
But, as they rushed in one direction out of harm’s way, other doors opened and different parties of the Skeleton Crew came into view.
All was a scene of terror and confusion.
It seemed to the affrighted assembly as if the dead had risen from their graves.
The combat was fierce and fiery.
The bridegroom was one of the first to fall in the melee.
Lady Julia ran forward to assist him.
On the instant, however, and unperceived by the many, Death-wing advanced with hasty strides, seized the bride, and carried her from the room.
This was the sole object of Death-wing in making his visit.
When it was accomplished he darted down stairs, with the fair one fainting in his arms, and mounted his horse.
A shrill cry he gave, which was recognised by all his followers, as he mounted his strong horse, and galloped away.
His band understood the manœuvre, and as quickly as they could, fought their way towards the entrance-hall, leaped upon their horses, and flew away like the wind, with wild shouts of triumph.
“Pursue! pursue!” shouted Ned, fierce with anger.
His advice was followed on the instant.
Horses were called for; but the terrified servants were loth to come forth from their hiding-places to answer the summons.
They had madly rushed to all manner of places for concealment.
Some had made their way to the top of the mansion, and there concealed themselves behind chimney-pots, and even in the deep rain gutters.
One or two had actually climbed up chimneys, and were almost smothered in soot.
“Anywhere! anywhere!” was the cry among them.
Somewhere or anywhere to hide, so as to be out of sight and reach of Death-wing’s awful band.
More than one had locked themselves into pantries, among the plates, dishes, and so forth, and great was the crash of valuable earthenware.
No one among the whole household seemed to care what they did or what they broke, so that they could get out of the way.
A fat footman who had rushed to the coal-cupboard, found it occupied by another corpulent servant, who had managed to squeeze himself in there.
Dirty as he was, he darted into the beautiful bridal chamber, turned down the bed-clothes, and tumbled in boots and all!
With this state of confusion reigning, therefore, it was impossible for Wildfire Ned, Garnet, or any one else, to get their horses quick enough to pursue the villains with any chance of success.
Bob Bertram was foremost at the stables.
There were more than twenty horses there, besides his own, and those of his friends.
He ran hither and thither, busy with hands and voice, and ere long a party of gentlemen started in hot pursuit, led on by Wildfire Ned, who, with loud shouts, dashed spurs into Starlight, and was foremost of them all.
XV. IN WHICH SOME OF THE VILLAGERS ARE MADE SANDWICHES OF
The village of Walton, near to the abbey, never forgot that memorable night on which Lady Julia, a newly-made bride, was carried off by the chief of the Skeleton Crew, and her young husband cruelly killed.
It was an event which shocked the most hardened.
During the day, the whole village, and its surroundings had been making holiday in honor of Lady Julia’s nuptials, and everything had passed off with the greatest satisfaction to every one.
But few persons were astir, and these consisted of the village clerk, the butcher, the druggist, the post-master, and a few other notabilities, who were warming their legs round the tavern fire, and indulging in all manner of stories, both wild and strange, until long after the church clock had struck the hour of twelve.
The parson’s clerk was just in the middle of a ghost-story; his hearers, with open mouths, and staring eyes, listened in wrapt attention.
The wind sighed down the chimney most dolefully, and the clerk began to look very nervous and shaky.
He had just got to that part of his tale where the ghost appears upon the scene, when the village bells in a discordant peal clanged out upon the silent night.
Every one in the parlor of the “Black Bull” was startled.
For a moment they looked at each other, and then towards the door, as if expecting that the ghost so often mentioned in the story would really step in among them.
They listened again and breathed very hard.
Still they heard the dismal clanging of the village bells.
“Who is that?”
“What can that mean?”
“How comes this?” said one and all.
“Don’t thee hear it?”
“Why, in course we do.”
“What can it mean?”
“Oh, it’s some o’ the drunken ringers as have got into the steeple, and want to frighten us,” said the courageous butcher.
“Then, let us go and stop ’em,” said the clerk. “Who’ll go wi’ me?”
“I will.”
“And so will I,” several replied at once.
They left the cosy parlour, and, lanterns in hand, proceeded through the village, armed with thick, stout cudgels, bent on giving the drunken bell-ringers a sound thrashing for thus disturbing the silence of the night.
It would have been bad enough, the worthies thought, if the ringers had pealed out merrily; but, instead of that, as we have said, it was a muffled funeral peal which issued from the old tower.
Besides the clerk and his friends, there were numerous others, who left their warm beds intent upon finding out the cause of all this strange and startling disturbance.
Straightway this valiant band of villagers proceeded towards the church, and could plainly see lights in the belfry, and the reflection of persons against the windows and through the lattice-work.
Mr. Clerk led the way up the narrow winding stairs of stone, and, if it must be confessed, swearing the while most lustily against the “impudent varlets” who thus disturbed the peace.
He had not gone far up the stairs when the ringing ceased.
All lights were suddenly extinguished in the belfry.
This was a good sign, the clerk thought, and grasped his thick stick with vigour.
With a loud shout, he and the others rushed into the ringers’ room, lanterns in hand.
At that moment the bells, this time unmuffled, gave out a most horrible, clanging sound.
The clerk started back in fright towards the door, and hastily turned on his light.
He and the rest groaned most dolefully, for, there, standing before them, were eight Skeletons, each with a rope in his hand, and, while pulling away most vigorously, grinned most diabolically at the intruders.
The clerk and his friends would have given all the money in Walton to have been a mile or more away.
But there they were, unable to stir, wriggling and writhing, and knowing not which way to retreat, or what to do.
“Oh! mercy on us,” said the clerk, almost distilled to a jelly. “Why, it’s some of the Skeleton Crew; they have changed from a funeral to a joy peal.”
“What can all this horrid thing mean?” said another.
“Mean? Ha! ha!” gruffly laughed one of the skeletons, in a voice that made the entrapped villagers quake again. “Mean, eh? Why, it means that we are so glad to see you, that’s all. We wanted some amusement.”
“What can these monsters mean or intend to do?” sighed the clerk, who much wished to get away if he could.
“Mean? intend?” repeated the horrible voice again. “Why, it means that we intend to celebrate Lady Julia’s marriage with our great chief, Death-wing, and will do honour to the event by hanging every mother’s son of you!”
Dismal groans were now heard on all sides.
Some began to gasp from fear.
Others fell to praying.
But the Skeleton Bell-ringers were as good as their word, as we shall see.
They stopped pealing the bells, and glared most hideously at their intended victims.
“So you came here with stout cudgels in your hands, did you, and intended to give us all a good sound thrashing, I dare say?”
“Not me.”
“Nor me.”
“I hadn’t the remotest idea of any such thing, most august and ghostly strangers,” chimed in the terrified clerk, as his legs almost gave way from under him.
“As we know you are lying, parson’s man as you are, why, you might as well come forward first. We intend to make an example of.”
The poor clerk was dragged out from among his fellows.
Two of the skeletons pulled down the heaviest bell, and much of its slack rope was coiled on the floor.
They held it down.
“That bell is too heavy to swing up one,” said the chief. “Take the apothecary, and make a ‘sandwich’ of him and the lying clerk.”
Much to the astonishment of all present, the clerk and the apothecary were placed back to back.
The slack rope of the great bell was twisted and tied round their bodies, and fastened into a knot.
At a given signal the two skeletons who held down the great bell let go the rope.
Up went the two unfortunate devils, shouting at the top of their voices, and dangling in mid-air, like a couple of spiders on a single thread of web.
In like manner all the rest were “sandwiched,” as it was called.
Each rope was wound round the bodies of two at least.
And there they hung, to the infinite amusement of their tormentors, writhing and groaning, their own weight drawing down the bells from time to time, and making the most horrible and discordant noises.
Satisfied with this pleasant handiwork, the Skeleton Bell-ringers left the belfry; and the worthy villagers, fighting like cats tied on a clothes line, pulling each other about, and dancing a most painful hornpipe between the ceiling and floor to the inharmonious jangling of the bells, were left all alone in their glory.
Chapter XVI
PHILLIP REDGILL IS FOUND TO BE NOT SO CLEVER AS HE CONSIDERED HIMSELF.
Phillip Redgill next appears on the scene of our story in his father’s offices.
His father was very rich, and had extensive dealings with ships and valuable merchandize in the City of London.
He was a widower of nearly sixty summers, and had no child but Phillip.
This youth had been well educated, and was allowed an ample income to live on.
But he looked upon commerce as something degrading, and felt ashamed to own among the gay gallants of the town that he was anything less than a person of noble blood.
His propensities for gambling had well nigh ruined his father more than once.
But the fond old parent had overlooked his son’s misdemeanours very frequently.
At last it was discovered that Phillip had so far forgotten himself as to forge his father’s name to certain heavy bills, and squandered the money on gay persons of the town.
From that time forth a great coldness existed between father and son, and Phillip was told for the last time that he must make his annual allowance suffice for his pleasures, and that should he again so disgrace the time-honoured name of Redgill, he would take the consequences, for the law should be enforced, which in those days was “death for forgery.”
Phillip, however, had become so accustomed to high life about town, that he looked upon his father’s conduct as something very cruel, and resolved to rob him all he could rather than be lowered in the estimation of his “lordly” acquaintances.
A libertine soon brings many a good and rich parent to ruin.
But old Redgill was a man of firm purpose; when he once had made up his mind to anything, and although he did not tell any one of his intentions, he frequently informed Phillip privately that his conduct was bringing sorrows and misery on his old age, and that if he did not reform he would disinherit him.
All this Phillip Redgill looked upon as a good joke, and set his wits to work to get money as best he could by hook or by crook, so as to still keep up the reputation he had already gained among the gayest of the gay, as “Reckless Redgill.”
One of the first things which Phillip did when he found it no longer possible to “screw” money out of his rich old parent, was to form the acquaintance of the notorious Death-wing, chief of the Skeleton Crew.
Old Redgill had two ships on their way from the Indies, laden with gold, spices, and silks.
In consideration of receiving half of the cargo, Death-wing and his infamous crew resolved to waylay these two ships and attack them when about fifty miles from the Land’s End.
This was done.
The crew of both ships were murdered in cold blood.
The vessels were run into a snug inlet on the West coast of England, near to where Death-wing’s caves and store-houses were situated.
Phillip received but one-fifth of the spoil, instead of one-half.
But he was much too wise to say anything about his disappointment and annoyance.
This system of villany was repeated more than once, but as his father’s ships did not arrive in port except at intervals of many months, Phillip often found his money running short, and without any visible means of replenishing his exhausted purse.
In his father’s offices he had often heard of old Farmer Bertram’s indebtedness, and of how much money was still due on the mortgages at Four Ash Farm.
Mr. Harry Bolton, he also knew, was his father’s travelling collector, and was about to start on his usual journey.
As we have seen, Phillip forestalled Bolton’s visit to Four Ash farm, and by impersonating Bolton, obtained an interview with old Bertram and murdered him.
Young Redgill was a cool-handed villain, and knew not what remorse was.
Bloodshed to him was quite a usual thing.
He was not a brave young man by any means, as Wildfire Ned often proved.
But it was whispered by those who knew him best that when returning from wine parties he would have no scruple in picking a quarrel with any inoffensive citizen he might fall across, and feel no regret at drawing his sword and wounding any one who was unarmed.
Many a simple shopkeeper and unsuspecting night watchman had been “pinked” by “Reckless Redgill,” and no one was any the wiser.
But, like all great rogues and rascals, Phillip was very careful, very careful indeed, in picking quarrels, or drawing his “toasting fork,” upon any one who was at all likely or able to resent it blow for blow.
He had up to the present time run along in his career of crime undetected and unsuspected.
But all things have an end.
And so it was with Phillip.
From petty thefts in his father’s offices he gradually and swiftly descended to greater villanies, until at last, as we have seen, even coolly-planned murder did not shock or retard him in his life of crime.
Like an apple, he was only getting sufficiently ripe to fall into the hands of justice, and, as will be seen in due course of time, he met with his proper deserts.
Weak and pale, Phillip sat in his father’s counting-house, in which were busily engaged dozens of industrious clerks.
He had sauntered through the offices with a supercilious air, and to those who politely bade him “good morrow” he only returned a contemptuous look, as if they were so much dirt, and beneath his notice.
As usual, he was elegantly dressed, and a servant assisted him into his father’s private office, where he lounged in a capacious chair, and toyed with a pet spaniel.
Old Redgill had been informed of his son’s wound, but up to the present time knew nothing as to what had occasioned it, for Phillip did not, in truth, in his own words, “he would not condescend” to live in his father’s house, but kept up a small but elegant “establishment” of his own, where wine parties, card playing, and magnificent suppers were the order of the night.
After a time old Redgill, the famous East India merchant, entered, and the father and son spoke of many things.
“But you have never told me how you got that sword thrust, Phillip,” said the father, in a very anxious tone. “I suppose you and some gay spark fell out on the road and had a pass or two at some roadside inn? I know your proud spirit, my son, and your headstrong valour.”
Phillip smiled faintly in a patronizing way, as if “a pass or two” with gay sparks was an every-day occurrence, although his own heart told him that he was one of the greatest cowards and villains unhung.
“No, sir,” was the calm reply, “the whole affair occurred in this manner. When I left Darlington Hall with old Sir Richard Warbeck, our carriage was attacked by a band of highwaymen.”
“I see, I see,” said the fond father, in great glee, “and in beating them off you got wounded?”
“Not that exactly; let me tell the story. Old Sir Richard escaped through the assistance of some gallant gentleman unknown to him or myself, and he travelled on alone, for after fighting with the vagabonds, and after I had wounded several of them, they took me prisoner.”
“Took you prisoner, eh? What a mercy you escaped at all! You surprise me.”
“It will surprise you more to hear what I’ve got to tell. These ruffians conducted me to a roadside den, some house of call of theirs, and who should I discover but Ned Warbeck among them.”
“Ned Warbeck? Impossible!”
“No, it is a fact seeing him there; and knowing what a young rascal he is I accused him of having set on the villains to rob and murder his uncle so as to fall heir to part of the estate.”
“Oh, the young scoundrel! And so you think he did so?”
“Think!” said Phillip, with a curling lip. “I am sure of it, for who but he could have known of his uncle’s intended journey?”
“I see, I see,—go on: this adventure is intensely exciting. And what happened?”
“He knew that I was in the power of his friends, and the young villain became very defiant. He drew his sword, and would have rushed upon me unarmed as I was.”
“Cowardly, cowardly boy!” said the father.
“But, when least expected, I whipped a weapon out of the scabbard of one present, and went at him.”
“Good! excellent! What then?”
“At the first thrust I disarmed him, and the young villain cried for mercy. I granted it, but when least expected, the whole gang dashed at me, furious that their young chief—”
“Chief! you do not mean, then, that Ned Warbeck has joined a band of robbers, and been made their captain?”
“I do, though, just as you say. They rushed at me with savage oaths. I retreated to the door, fighting as I went, and reached my horse. Just as I was about to escape, young Warbeck dashed out upon me, and gave me a sly thrust.”
“Oh, the young imp of the devil!” groaned old Redgill, “just to think of his cunning and roguery; to leave his uncle’s home to be captain of a band of highwaymen! Why, the young varlet will shortly grace a gibbet.”
“Not a doubt of it, and I shall never rest content until I see it come to pass.”
While father and son were thus conversing, one of the clerks entered and announced a stranger.
“Who, and what kind of person is he?”
“An officer of the Crown, sir; a tall man with a black patch over his eye.”
“An officer of the Crown,” thought Phillip, and his face turned crimson.
“What can he want here?” the old merchant asked.
“I know not, sir; but he is a swaggering kind of person, and is now walking up and down the stone passage entrance-hall, clanking his sword in a very fierce and valiant manner.”
“Did he give any name?” Phillip asked, in an uneasy manner.
“No, Mr. Phillip.”
“Admit him,” said the old man, impatiently. “What can any officer of the Crown want with us, I wonder?”
“I know not,” his son answered; “but, as it may be a matter of secresy, I will retire.”
“Nay, do not, my son; stay with me.”
Phillip, however, rose from his chair with difficulty, and proceeded towards the door.
At that moment it was opened.
Captain Jack stalked in.
For a moment he was staggered at seeing Phillip Redgill, and opened his eyes very wide.
Phillip put his finger to his lips slyly.
Captain Jack coughed significantly, and said not a word.
Phillip now altered his mind, and sat in a chair.
“Your business, sir!” said the old merchant, impatiently.
“My name first, and business afterwards, is the style, I think!” said Captain Jack, doffing his hat, and stroking his chin.
Without invitation he squatted down in a chair, and stretched out his immense long legs to the utmost.
Seeing a decanter of wine on the table, he helped himself to a large tumbler-full, and tossed it off, saying,
“Ah! who wouldn’t be an East India merchant to have such sack as that? Ah! d—nd fine stuff for a dusty day.”
“Your name, sir?” the old merchant inquired impatiently.
“My name! eh? Ah! just so,” he replied indifferently, and with much composure pouring out another glass of wine. “My name, sir, is Captain Jack, and yours is Mr. Redgill, I think; here’s health to you, old boy!”
“And your business, here?” said the merchant, amazed at the coolness of his vulgar visitor.
“My business! eh? Well, if you want to know, I’m one of the most active, zealous, and valiant officers the Crown can boast; and as to catching rogues, vagabonds, and cut-throats, there isn’t my equal in all the kingdom. I’ve only got one fault, and that is, I love the bottle.”
“All this has nothing to do with me, sir!” said the old merchant, getting red in the face with anger. “Your business here, I demand again?”
“Don’t get frothy, my old friend!” said Captain Jack, “I’m coming to that now.”
“And what is it, pray?”
“I’ll just tell you,” said Captain Jack, “but as we don’t want any intruders, I may as well lock the door.”
He rose and did so, and put the key in his pocket.
Phillip was now apprehensive of danger, and turned deadly pale.
His father began to stutter out something, but could not speak plainly.
“I have come here on a very important bit of business,” said Captain Jack, “and like an honest man, as I am, don’t want to hurt the tender feelings of any one.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the old merchant.
“Well, there has been murder committed, that’s all,” said Captain Jack, with a low chuckle.
“Murder!” gasped the old merchant, retreating a step or two in surprise and horror.
“Murder!” echoed Phillip, with a well-feigned look of astonishment.
“Yes, murder, gentlemen, that’s all.”
“And what have I to do with such a foul charge?” asked the merchant, indignantly.
“You haven’t; but—there—are—certain—parties—not—a—very—great—way—from—here—as—have,” said Captain Jack, very carelessly in the direction where Phillip sat.
Young Redgill felt the blood run coldly to his heart as he heard these words.
But he spoke not.
“Some one in this house?” asked the merchant, astonished.
“Yes, in this very house, and no other. Not only murder, mind you, but robbery,” said Captain Jack, very coolly. “And a pretty good haul the chap made of it, so I hear. He bagged lots of gold coin. Do you know old Bertram, of Four Ash Farm?”
“I do; he is my creditor to a large amount, and has to pay me heavy arrears on a mortgage I hold of him. I expect him in town every day.”
“You may expect a long time, then, for he’s the chap which was robbed and murdered.”
“Impossible!” said the old merchant, turning white. “What a horrid affair! And have they found out who did it?”
“Not exactly,” said Captain Jack; “but—I—think—I—can—find—out—afore—long,” he answered, slowly and ominously. “I’m coming to that point now. Have you a travelling collector in your house of the name of Bolton?”
“Bolton? Yes.”
“Of course you have, father,” said Phillip, eagerly. “Surely he couldn’t have been such a wretch as to——”
“Steady, my friends, steady,” said Captain Jack, coolly. “Don’t be in any flurry, either of ye, but answer me. Did he call at old Bertram’s? Did you order him to call there, and collect your debt?”
“Yes you did, father. I heard you tell him to do so in my hearing, when last I saw you.”
“I know I did, my son; but when you had gone I altered my mind, and sent Bolton in quite a different direction. He was not within fifty miles of Four Ash Farm, I’ll swear; that is, unless he went there unknown to me, and contrary to my orders.”
A heavy sigh escaped from Phillip’s lips, and he felt a cold sweat upon his guilty brow, as he said,
“I know you told him; but if you countermanded the order, of course that’s a different thing. It’s an awful charge to be accused of is murder.”
“Yes, ain’t it?” said Captain Jack, with a wicked grin playing around his large mouth. “And robbery, too. Have neither of ye heard of it afore? Not a syllable?”
“Never dreamed of such an abominable affair,” said Phillip.
“Lor! how strange! and just to think as how this job has been in my hands more than a fortnight, and all the country knows it; but is this Mr. Bolton in your offices now?”
“He is.”
“Then let us have a squint at him. Order him in here, for I’ve got an exact description of the party who called at the farm-house; he was disguised.”
The door was unlocked, and in a few moments young Mr. Bolton appeared.
As he crossed the threshold, with a light step and pleasant smile, he suddenly caught the serious gaze of his master and young Redgill.
“You sent for me, sir,” he began; but turned all manner of colours when he confronted his old master’s black looks.
“What is all this?” he asked.
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Bolton,” Phillip Redgill began, “that you are suspected of a most foul——”
“Not so fast,” said Captain Jack, interrupting. “I understand my own business best and want no assistance from any one.”
“Look you here, young man,” he began, addressing Mr. Bolton, “one of your master’s customers and old friends have been murdered, and you are one of the suspected parties.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; and all I’ve got to say is that I have got a warrant for your apprehension as being concerned in it, and you must come with me.”
“Arrested on the charge of murder?” Bolton gasped, and he staggered towards the door, past Phillip Redgill, whose countenance wore a malicious smile of triumph.
The news stunned the young man, and he would have rushed away from the spot.
At that moment, however, Mr. Faulkner and another unprepossessing, ugly-looking member of the “Bakers’ dozen” appeared at the door, and politely collared the astonished youth.
He was borne away to prison more dead than alive.
But before Captain Jack left the private office he helped himself to another glass of wine, and, as he went out, whispered to Phillip,
“Can’t I see you some time to-night?”
“Where?” answered Phillip, in a faint voice.
“At the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ over the water.”
“What time?”
“At twelve.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Mind you do,” said Captain Jack, with an ominous wink, and stalked out of the office in a swaggering manner.
“What did the officer say to you, Phillip?” the anxious father asked.
“He simply said that the case, as it at present stands, looks very awkward for Mr. Bolton.”
“Oh, is that all? Yet, methinks he is an unmannerly officer. Did you notice how he winked and blinked at you while he spoke?”
“No; did he?”
“Yes; and had I not known you well, I should have supposed you knew and had dealings with him at some time.”
Phillip attempted to smile, as he said,
“Oh, that is nothing; winking their eyes and stroking their noses is only a habit these officers have got. But,” he sighed to himself, “I am in their clutches! but will soon rid myself of the bloodhounds. He must visit me to-night. I cannot if I would go there to his den of thieves. I know the place well, and would not trust myself among the ragamuffins who meet there, no, not for a thousand pieces of gold. Curse the hour I ever met them. I am tracked and dogged. These fellows shall be removed from my path—they must be.”
XVII. THE NUBIAN SLAVE AND ELLEN HARMER
It must be confessed that no man living ever felt less remorse for crime of any kind than did Colonel Blood.
He had been in several wars, and was a rough-handed, cold-hearted villain.
But with all his knavery, he possessed a sort of gentlemanly bearing that admitted him into almost any society of the loose-living period in which he lived, namely, that of the lascivious Charles the Second, whom people are wont to call “the merry monarch.”
John Blood had ridden some twenty miles or more; he hired a light and fast four-wheeled vehicle, in order to reach London all the sooner.
Ellen Harmer, almost distracted at thus being forcibly borne away from her father’s home, wept and bewailed her cruel fate.
But, had she shed tears of gore, they would have had no effect upon the mind or conscience of her rude, rough-handed captor.
In order to quiet the beautiful Ellen, he administered to her a glass of wine, in which he had placed a noxious drug.
This had the effect of producing sound sleep; nor was she aware of whither the fast-going vehicle was going.
All she knew was, that when she awoke on the following morning, she found herself in a sumptuously-decorated chamber.
Around her were furniture and articles of beautiful design, and evidently of great price.
She rushed out of bed towards the window in great surprise.
It was barred.
But she could see below her splendid gardens, with fountains playing.
Fruit trees and flowers met her astonished gaze on every hand.
All was silent.
“Am I dreaming?” she thought. “Has all that I have passed through been nought but a cruel excruciating nightmare?”
Beside a splendid mirror, in which she could see herself from head to foot, she perceived a massive bell-pull, with fine bullion tassel.
This she mechanically touched.
A soft, sweet sound responded to her touch, like the harmonious tinkling of a silver bell.
The more she looked about her the more she was astonished and confounded at the brilliance, beauty and elegance of all things.
She heard no one approach, but turning suddenly beheld a tall servant, splendidly attired, but his face and bare arms were as black as ebony.
Ellen started.
The servant bowed lowly and smiled.
“Where am I?” the startled girl inquired, with a flushed face and flashing eyes. “Who has brought me hither, and for what?”
The tall Nubian smiled again.
He bowed more lowly than ever, but spoke not.
He motioned to her that he was both deaf and dumb.
“Set me at liberty!” gasped the captive girl, for the first time realizing her true position, “set me free; I cannot breath the atmosphere of this gilded prison. Oh! let me once more flee to my poor old father, or my heart will break!”
So speaking, she sank on her knees before the tall Nubian, and burst into tears.
For a moment the black gazed at the beautiful young creature, and his eyes rolled in wild delight.
He lifted her up from her prostrate position on the floor, and kissed her snowy hand with every token of affection.
This act surprised and startled Ellen more than ever, for the strange intruder was a fierce, tall man, and one who seemed to possess, when he willed it, both the strength of a lion, or the gentleness of a lamb.
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But with all his ferocious exterior there was a something in his smile both tender and re-assuring.
He placed a finger on his lips, and led her gently towards the window.
He next, and with great air of mystery and caution, pulled out of his silk doublet a small ivory tablet.
He partly wrote upon it these words:—
“You are a stranger to me, and, rough as I look, I love you, love you dearly.”
Ellen’s eyes darted fiery anger at him as she shunned the smiling black.
He took no notice of her seeming repugnance, but smiled, and in the act showed his rows of shining teeth.
He rubbed out the words he had written, and quickly pencilled these others:—
“Do you wish me to be a friend or foe, fair one?”
“A friend,” said Ellen, trembling.
He placed before her the tablet again, and she read—
“I will be a friend to you, and a true one, on a single condition.”
The girl’s blood almost curdled in her veins as she read what he had hastily scribbled, for she now trembled for her honour and chastity.
“Name your condition,” she gasped.
“Can you, will you keep a secret?” he wrote.
“I will,” she answered.
“On your life and honour?” he wrote again.
“Yes, on my life and honour,” she answered, firmly, for a moment feeling re-assured by his change of manner.
He now wrote on the tablet.
“I am the slave of Colonel Blood; they call me Sinbad, and am supposed even by my master to be both deaf and dumb; but I am not.”
“Not deaf and dumb?” she answered. “Then you knew the sounds of the bell I rang?”
“I heard it,” he whispered, “and knew its meaning.”
“My meaning?” she asked.
“Yes; and my master’s also, for he left word with his confidential valet that directly you rang he should be summoned.”
“For what purpose?”
“That I will afterwards explain. I knew that you had been abducted, and that when you had fully recovered from the drugs administered to you last night on the way hither you would ring the chamber bell.
“This bell I watched,” said the Nubian, “and muffled it in order that I might know when you had awoke from slumber, and forewarn you of all that is to happen to you this day.”
“Happen?” said Ellen.
“Yes, maiden; look not surprised, you are not the first fair victim who has fallen into the treacherous fangs of my master, Colonel Blood.”
“For what purpose, then, was I brought hither? I have never harmed any one. What crime am I guilty of?”
“Your beauty is your only crime,” the Nubian whispered. “He has brought you hither as a fair one who may be dishonoured, and, thereafter, for a time pander to the lusts of the king, his master.”
“Impossible!” Ellen gasped.
“Nay, ’tis true; but, remember, I have fore-warned you, and if you do but keep your promise I will be your friend; in helping you I seek my own revenge. I cannot tell you the horrid indignity which I have suffered at my master’s hands, but you may perhaps at some time learn it. In case you should need it, take this dagger; conceal it in your fair bosom. But, hark! I hear some one approaching!”
As quick as thought the Nubian crawled beneath the bed and listened.
’Twas Colonel Blood who stood at the door!
XVIII. IN WHICH CAPTAIN JACK MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CALL AT MIDNIGHT
Phillip Redgill was by far too weak from his recent wound to keep his appointment with Captain Jack at the “Cat and Bagpipes” over the water, and therefore remained at home in his own snug apartments, surrounded as he was by every luxury and convenience.
Richly attired gentlemen of gallant appearance called during the day to inquire after his health and condition.
At night also many of them dropped in to have a chat, and crack a bottle of wine with the invalid.
Masque balls, marriages, elopements, and the latest court scandal were the topics of conversation with Redgill and his friends.
The rattle of the dice-box, and shuffling of cards were the order of the evening among these gay revellers.
Gayest of the gay, and loudest among them all, was Phillip Redgill, who, propped up with pillows on a luxurious sofa, joined the gamblers, and puffed a cigar with as much coolness as if nothing were the matter with him.
The hours flew by, and Phillip neglected his appointment with Captain Jack.
When he occasionally thought of his promise, he only smiled as he reflected,
“That long-legged devil recognised me. Well, chance makes us acquainted with queer people sometimes; that comes of getting into scrapes upon the road. I suppose he wants to borrow some money of me, that’s all. Well, well, he’s an ugly-looking rascal, though, and I like not his looks. I’ll give that worthy a call to-morrow; I can’t meet him to-night; if I were to take a sedan chair all that distance it would re-open this cursed wound that Wildfire Ned gave me; d—m him!”
During the night, other arrivals were announced, both lords and ladies of doubtful standing in society, brilliant in silks and paint.
Music, light laughter, jokes, wit, and repartee, echoed through Phillip’s pleasant suite of rooms.
Languishing smiles, whispered words, eloquent winks, nods, and pressure of the hand, passed and repassed from one to another.
Some sang, others danced; here was a boisterous wine party, and there a gossiping set.
The hours flew by, nor did any one give heed to thought or care.
Midnight chimed from the church towers.
The half hour tolled.
But the merry makers took no notice of the flight of time.
One o’clock struck.
A loud knock was heard at the door.
A servant opened it.
Captain Jack stood there, accompanied by several friends.
They were comparatively well-dressed; but slightly the worse for liquor.
“Who are you, gentlemen?” the servant asked.
“We are——” Captain Jack began.
“No we ain’t,” replied Faulkner.
“Yes we are,” said the captain, hiccupping.
“What, sirs?” asked the servant again.
“Why, gentlemen, to be sure,” said Captain Jack, leaning against the door-post.
“I perceive that,” the servant replied; “but I fear me, sirs, you are somewhat the worse for liquor, and have missed your way, and called at the wrong mansion.”
“No, dam’me, if I have!” said Captain Jack. “How dare you say that I am the worse for liquor, knave?”
“I had better shut the door, gentlemen,” the servant said.
“And if you do, I’ll brain you,” said Faulkner, with an oath.
“Go and inform your master that I am here,” said Captain Jack. “If he can’t keep his appointment, why, then, I’ll keep mine, for I have made up my mind long ago to visit him.”
“Yes, and tell him that we are here,” said Faulkner, “and desire to see him.”
“Who shall I say, sir?” the puzzled servant answered.
“Oh, say anything.”
“Tell him that my Lord Smash and friends have called,” said Captain Jack, laughing. “That’s as good a name as any.”
“Just so,” another replied. “Do you hear, varlet, announce Lord Smash and friends immediately.”
Before the astonished servant could recover his breath, Captain Jack and party pushed their way into the hall, and almost terrified out of his life, he bawled out, the parlor door in hand,
“Ladies and gentlemen—Lord Smash and friends.”
XIX. MASTER TIM GETS INTO THE HANDS OF SMUGGLERS
The position of poor Tim, it must be confessed, was anything but pleasant.
He had fallen into the depths below, but how, he could not tell.
All he recollected, when he recovered consciousness, was, that he had fallen into a miserably dark and loathsome place, and not knowing how or which way to move.
“Oh, lord!” he sighed. “Here’s a fix to be in. I’d give a thousand gold pieces if I were only out of it.”
“Would you?” said a distant voice. “Ha! ha! but, then, you see, you ain’t going to get out of it, my lad.”
“Who are you?” said Tim, trying to pluck up all the courage he possibly could. “Don’t you know I’ve got a dagger left?”
“Yes, I dare say you have,” the voice replied. “But, if you had a dozen daggers, or a whole arsenal at your back, they would do you no good here.”
At the same moment Tim felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and his limbs began to tremble.
“What’s your name, you shivering hound?” said the gruff voice, with a chuckle.
“Tim, sir, if you please.”
“Tim what?”
“Tim Anything—Tim Nothing. I never had but one name; ’tis only rich folks as can afford to have two.”
“Come, come, no larking with me,” said the gruff voice. “Speak honestly, or I’ll brain you.”
“You’re very kind and obliging, I dare say,” said Tim, with chattering jaws. “But, upon my word, I have only one name, and that is Tim.”
“You’re much different, then, to a young chap as we lately collared, and is now in our custody, for he boasts of four names.”
“You don’t say so?”
“But, I do, though; you shall make his acquaintance shortly—you’ll make excellent comrades. Our hanging days are only once a month now, so you may as well make up your mind to ‘swing’ when he does.”
“Thank’ee,” said Tim, gloomily; “you are very kind—very kind, indeed. But, if it’s all the same to you, sir, whoever are you? I’d rather be swung up the next month after him with the four names.”
The unknown laughed gruffly until he made the cavern echo again with his boisterous merriment.
“When were you born?” he asked.
“I wasn’t born at all,” said Tim, innocently.
“Not born at all? Why, the rascal is making fun of me.”
“’Pon my word I ain’t,” said Tim. “I wasn’t born at all; leastways, not as I knows on, for old Sir Richard Warbeck found me in his stables one morning bright and early, and in them there stables I’ve been all my life since.”
“Sir Richard Warbeck, eh?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I should think I do,” said the unknown; “and a nice old fellow he is, too. He has two adopted nephews, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, young Wildfire Ned, and Charley Warbeck, who’s in the East India House in London.”
“Just so.”
“And what brought you up that cypress tree?”
“Why, you see, Master Ned and I attacked the Skeleton Crew, and, as they were too many for us, I hooked it up the tree out of the way, and fell through the hollow trunk, and——”
“Found yourself here, eh? Just so. But who told you there was any secret way into this cavern through that tree?”
“No one.”
“You lie, knave!”
“On my word, no living soul told me.”
“Not old Nettles, the landlord of the public-house?”
“No, he never breathed a word; but fought with the Skeleton Crew like a warrior.”
“That’s just what you should have done, and then I wouldn’t have made up my mind to hang you, as I may do yet. Are you sure that old Nettles never said a word?”
“I’m positive, and will swear it!”
“’Tis well, for if he had done so I should be under the necessity of cutting his throat to-night so as to stop his mouth.”
“What a bloodthirsty villain!” thought Tim.
“As you will, perhaps, be a dead man shortly, and as dead men don’t tell any tales, I don’t mind letting you know a thing or two as to who and what old Nettles is.”
“What is he?”
“Why, a tavern-keeper; and something more at times,” said the unknown. “You have taken notice, of course, what a fine stock of wines, spirits, tobacco, and other things he has?”
“Yes,” said Tim, “it has been the talk of the whole country wide, as long as I can remember.”
“Quite true; but he owes all his prosperity to me, young man,” said the gruff voice. “I could have blown him and his house up into the air many a time if I had thought proper. If he had divulged anything about our secret I would do so even now.”
Tim groaned.
“This place where you are now in is a cave,” said the voice; “a smuggler’s cave, mind you.”
“Oh, lors!”
“And I am chief of the gang. From this spot there is a long, dry passage, which runs out into the beach at low tide.”
“Is the mouth of the cavern filled with water, then, at high tide?”
“Yes, nearly so; but there is sufficient room for an eight-oared boat to float in if the rowers duck their heads.”
“How jolly convenient,” said Tim, who now began to like the chattiness of his unknown captor.
“At night time we go out of the cavern in our long boats, and meet ships which are creeping close to shore; sometimes they are friends who come from France or Spain with smuggled goods, and sometimes they are strange craft. If they be friends we unload the vessel, and run up our boats into the cave again, then the vessel stands off shore until the next night, and so on until we have emptied her; but if she is not a friendly craft we act according to circumstances. Sometimes we seize her goods, if we are very short, and the articles are of any value; they can never find us out.”
“But did you never fall across any of the king’s cruisers?” said Tim.
“Yes, many a time; but, lor’ bless yer simple heart, we don’t mind them, you know.”
“Don’t you, though?”
“No, not in the least.”
“But they carry long guns, and might——”
“Exactly; but that ain’t nothing when you are used to it.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Tim, with a sigh. “A ten pound cannon shot playing nine pins with your legs ain’t nothing when you get used to it; but getting used to it is the thing,” said Tim, very slowly and solemnly; “but I shouldn’t—never.”
“Yes you would.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Lor, man! a broken arm, or a leg or two knocked off, don’t make much difference to any of our gang.”
“Nor a broken head either, I should think,” Tim said to himself, doubtingly.
“We’ve got a famous cook, a bit of a tailor, a good doctor, a gunsmith, and other chaps in our band, so we manage to make a pleasant life of it.”
“I shouldn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you might fall foul of such a man as Lieut. Garnet and his crew some day; and if you did——”
“And if we did, what then? We should have to fight hard, that’s all.”
“That’s all, eh?” thought Tim; “but that’s a little more than I should care about.”
“Why, a fight once in a while is the life and soul of a bold smuggler. You have no notion how it gives one an appetite.”
“I should think that a ten-pound cannon shot in one’s stomach would be a trifle more than even a smuggler could digest,” said Tim; “but, as you very wisely remarked once before, there’s no telling when one gets used to it.”
“Just so, my brave lad,” said the smuggler chief, laughing. “I like to hear you talk in that light-hearted way, for it convinces me that, after all, you’ve got some good stuff in you, and that your heart is of old British oak.... Our boats are going out to-night; we expect a schooner off the shore from France about midnight, just after the moon sets. I’ll take you with me; and, to try you—unless you wish to be hung as a useless knave among us—I’ll give you the honour of mounting the stranger’s decks first.”
“First!” gasped Tim. “The first man to board the stranger’s decks! Why, she might be a revenue cruiser or a well-armed stranger.”
“That’s what she really is, a well-armed stranger, nothing else. She must come within gun-shot of us, for she’s obliged to round the headland in order to get into port.”
“In that case, sir,” said Tim, “if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t dare to have the impudence to take the place of honour, and be first to scale the stranger’s sides—it’s too much honour to confer on such a poor good-for-nothing as I am. I would much prefer to be last, if anything.”
The smuggler chief laughed out loudly, saying, “You’re a droll devil, Tim, and no fool, I can very well see; but come this way, I will introduce you to my comrades.”
So speaking, he tumbled over head, and fastened the trap through which Tim had fallen into the cave.
“See, Tim,” said the smuggler chief, as he entered a second cave in which dimly burned a horn lantern, “do you see this?” he said, pointing to a trap-door in the ceiling.
“Yes, I do,” said Tim, scrutinizing for the first time his tall, gaunt, rough-handed companion, and not much liking the looks of his black eyes, shaggy hair and beard, clothed, as he was, in red flannel and an immense pair of water-boots that reached above the knees, at the same time not forgetting to cast his eyes on two pistols and a cutlass that hung in his broad black belt.
“Well,” said the chief, “that trap-door leads into the old tavern. Nettle sells all our goods for us, and a pretty penny he gets by it. He’s very rich, but a good-hearted old cock as ever lived. He’s got a very pretty daughter, too, they call Katie; and if you join us, and prove yourself a brave fellow, as I know you are, why I’ll introduce you; and when you’re tired of smuggling, you can settle down, like many an old sinner does after he’s made heaps of money, and lead a quiet respectable life.”
“You’re very kind,” said Tim, with his head bewildered with all the chieftain said.
From one cavern they passed to another, some of which were artfully ventilated and lighted by holes in the rocks over head.
At last they reached a very large apartment, which had been formed ages ago by the action of the sea, and cut just as cleverly as if done with a chisel.
Round a long table sat smoking and drinking twenty or more rough, hardy-looking fellows, who were card-playing, throwing dice, sleeping, snoring, and the like.
All of them hastily rose as the chief entered, and Tim was introduced to the company in words which conveyed the idea that the stranger would become a valuable member of the band.
Smoking and drinking continued, and soon Master Tim found himself the centre of attraction, and as he was, of course, expected to be a very brave fellow, he favoured the company with a long string of lies, in which he narrated his several encounters with the Skeleton Crew, and against whom he had displayed prodigies of valour.
The chief, however, left the company, and wended his way through the dark caverns towards his own particular abode.
He found standing at his door a special messenger.
“That you, Dolphin?” said the chief. “So soon returned?”
“Yes, worthy Sea-hawk,” was the reply. “And I bring most important news.”
“From whom?”
“The Skeleton Crew and Wildfire Ned—it needs instant attention.”
“It shall be attended to at once. Come this way.”
The Smuggler Chief and his trusty messenger entered the apartment together.
XX. CAPTAIN JACK PLAYS A TRUMP CARD—THE GAY COMPANY SURPRISED
As we have narrated in a previous chapter, Captain Jack and his friends insisted upon thrusting themselves uninvited upon the gay and fashionable company assembled in Phillip Redgill’s elegantly furnished suite of rooms.
“Lord Smash and friends,” said the astonished domestic, announcing the stranger in a loud voice.
“Lord who?” said Phillip, in astonishment, as he turned his eyes, and beheld Captain Jack before him.
For a moment he knew not what to do or say.
The thought struck him that they had actually found out all about old Bertram’s murder, and were come to arrest him.
Cold sweat poured from his brow.
His heart felt chilly, and his sight grew dim.
But when Captain Jack, with a broad smile on his ugly face, shook Phillip by the hand, and said, “All serene, old fellow,” Redgill felt great relief, as he said to the company with a forced smile,
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your notice an eccentric friend of mine, who rejoices in the extraordinary title of Lord Smash. These gentlemen, also his companions, are friends of mine, every one; at least, they have proved themselves such, for I owe my life to their bravery and valour.”
“Indeed!” said all, in surprise. “Men who would risk their own lives for the sake of another must be friends indeed.”
“I quite agree with you there, ladies and gentlemen. I invited them to call upon me at their pleasure, and although they have come at an unlooked-for moment, I am none the less pleased.”
“Certainly not,” chorused many, “certainly not; but how did the affair happen?”
“This, then, accounts for your painful wound, Redgill?” several gallants said.
“Just so,” said Phillip, glad at the happy turn the whole affair had now taken, and particularly pleased that the true character of the intruders had not leaked out.
Upon the instant, and with ready invention, Phillip Redgill concocted an imaginary story, in which he did not fail to laud his own valour, and that of the new arrivals, all of which was agreed to in side-winks by Captain Jack and Faulkner, who, from time to time, drank heartily, and swore roundly that all the company heard was strictly true.
“But now I come to look at your eccentric friend more closely,” said a gallant, tapping his snuff-box, and speaking in a whisper, “the more he reminds me of one of the crown officers, called Captain Jack.”
This he said with a knowing wink to Phillip, who frowned.
Captain Jack heard the observation, and approached the speaker, and whispered in his ear,
“And now I come to look at you, my friend, the more I find you exactly correspond to a young gentleman as Captain Jack has been on the look-out for on the charge of forgery.”
The gallant blushed deeply, took a pinch of snuff, and bowed himself away.
“Not so fast, my friend,” said Captain Jack to him, as he whispered again. “You are in very snug quarters at present, and I don’t wish to disturb you; but if you know how to keep a still tongue in your head, while here in the company, so do I. You understand; is it a bargain?”
“I fear, my eccentric friend, that you have made a slight mistake,” said the elegantly-attired young gentleman, with a curling lip. “I know you not.”
“I have made no mistake,” was the whispered answer; “I can, you know, when I like, swear black’s white. But let me ask, do you know a certain person in the India House, a gay young spark about town, named Charles Warbeck?” said Captain Jack, winking.
The stranger tried to smile, but could not.
It was Ned Warbeck’s elder brother!
He turned deadly pale, cast a quick glance at Phillip Redgill, and joined the card-players again.
But, though he attempted to be merry and careless, care sat upon his brow, and he sighed to himself,
“I am innocent, but still suspicion is strong against me. Whoever it was that forged Sir Richard’s signature to that bill was no friend of mine.”
And he could not help thinking, as he sat in that gay and merry throng,
“It was an unlucky day I ever made the acquaintance of you, Phillip Redgill. Still, the end is not yet.”
Captain Jack’s companions made themselves very much at home, in a rough, off-handed manner.
They were adepts at dice and cards, and, although they began to gamble on no capital whatever, they none of them were long ere they had won large sums from those present.
This happened not so much through fair as foul play, and downright roguery.
However, as long as their cheating tricks were not discovered, or even suspected, they continued the play, and, together with fine wines, spirits, cigars, and the like, they seemed to be enjoying themselves very much, nor did they for a moment know the true reason why Captain Jack had called there that night.
This, however, was soon explained.
The first opportunity that offered, Captain Jack sought Phillip Redgill’s side, and began a whispered conversation,
“You did not call at the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ as you promised.”
“No,” said Redgill, “I was too unwell.”
“Perhaps the company didn’t suit you?”
“True; I must confess it wouldn’t look well for a person of my standing to be seen in the company of thieves, vagabonds, and the like.”
“Of course not; I forgot all about that.”
“Besides, my wound is painful at present.”
“Of course it is; it was on account of that I came here myself, in order to save you a long journey.”
“Why did you bring all those fellows with you?”
“In case I might need them,” said Captain Jack, grinning.
“Need them? I do not understand you,” said Redgill, turning red.
“But you may do so after a time.”
“Indeed! and what may be your business here, I should like to know? I do not allow persons of your standing to intrude upon me,” said Phillip, with a curling lip.
“Indeed! Lor how amazingly proud you’re getting,” Captain Jack answered, with a sneer, and tossing off a glass of wine. “I thought we should meet as friends.”
“Sir, I do not understand you,” said Phillip, trying to shake off his rough companion, much like a sparrow frets and struggles when in the talons of a hawk. “In truth, your room is much better than your company.”
“I dare say; that’s what a good many say. But, then, you see, the Crown can’t get along without such as me and my friends.”
“The Crown, sir? And what have I to do with you or the Crown, I should like to know? You wish to insinuate something; but, as a man about town, I know too much of you fellows.”
“Ha! ha! how clever you are. Lor, who’d a thought it?”
“Thought it? Thought what?”
“Why, that young Bolton is in prison,” said Captain Jack, with a smile.
“Serve him right, then, if he is guilty of that foul deed of which you accuse him.”
“Yes, now you come to think on it, it was a foul and bloody affair, wasn’t it?”
“Most horrible.”
“And, just to think as how the old man didn’t offend even a mouse, and to be cruelly butchered for the sake of a few hundred pounds, and his son clapped in gaol as an accomplice in the deed! He must have been an artful chap as planned that affair.”
“Yes, truly, he must, and an heartless villain also,” said Phillip. “But why do you stare at me so?”
“Nothing. I was only going to ask you a question,” said Captain Jack, stroking his chin in deep thought.
“What is it?”
“Your father is very rich?”
“Yes; what of that?”
“And has many ships?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes he insures cargoes?”
“And lives also for those who wish.”
“Exactly,” said Jack. “And if you were going abroad, how much would you insure your life for?”
“That depends. Are you going abroad?”
“Perhaps so.”
“I should insure myself even for the benefit of my friends, if nothing else, in that case, and I should take good care it was for a good round sum also.”
“That shows your wisdom, Mr. Redgill. But how much do you consider yourself worth?”
“Well, you and I are different persons entirely,” said Phillip, with a careless sneer. “But I should insure myself for at least £5,000.”
“A very nice sum, indeed. Well, the other question I was going to ask is this: Will you make me a present of that sum?”
“Me make you a present of £5,000? Why, the man is mad.”
“Not quite; just the contrary,” said Jack, smiling.
“What do you mean?”
“Mean?” said Jack. “Listen; in a whisper, mind; would you rather swing on a gibbet, or give the sum I name?”
Phillip turned deadly pale, as he stuttered,
“What can you mean?”
“Oh, only this; we have been looking after that murder case of old Bertram, and if you give us that sum, why, we won’t find out the right party, that’s all. You understand?” said Captain Jack, with a knowing wink.
“Has it come to this?” said Phillip, after a pause, and, as he thought, unheard.
“Nothing shorter, my lad; it were a clever job, you know, and by mere accident we found out all about it.”
“You want that sum from me, say you?”
“Yes, and nothing less.”
“Do your band know of this?”
“Not a word.”
“On your oath?”
“Yes.”
“And will Bolton suffer?”
“Why not? suspicion is against him. He had better swing than you; besides, we must have somebody to hang over the job or the judges will think us worthless and useless. For the honour of our craft we must hang or transport somebody, you know, innocent or guilty, it matters little.”
Phillip felt as if a serpent were gnawing at his heart, as he listened to Captain Jack’s words.
For some moments neither Phillip nor Captain Jack spoke.
“There cannot be a doubt now but that this knave has discovered all about old Bertram’s murder; and yet for a price he will screen the guilty, and have the innocent to suffer. What a scoundrel this fellow is! Yes, ’tis true: from little things, thieves and rogues take to greater ones, until, at last, the gallows is their fate. I little thought it would come to this.”
For some time he shaded his face with his snow-white hand, in deep thought.
But at last he aroused himself, and even attempted to be gay, as he said,
“You wish to borrow that sum for a short time, eh?”
“Yes,” said the captain, smiling; “I wish to borrow it, if you like to call it so, and will return it,” he added, very ominously, “whenever you like to demand it. You understand?”
“But I have not such a sum at command. You do not want it all at once, I suppose?”
“No; a few hundreds to commence with, and the other by instalments will suit me; I’m not very particular with friends.”
“But how am I to get this large amount together?” said Phillip. “If my father is rich I am not.”
“Oh, you can get it easily enough. I dare say you have written your father’s signature before now.”
“What!” said Phillip, reddening.
“Nothing. I was only thinking,” said the captain, carelessly.
“Would that I could give the rascal a bullet through the heart on the quiet,” said Phillip, as he bit his lip until it became white again; “but I’ll be even with him yet.”
The arrangement was agreed to between them; but Captain Jack could see revenge sparkling in the young man’s eyes, as he handed over a large sum of money to the knave.
In a short time Captain Jack and his friends retired, and shortly afterwards it was discovered that they had been not only remarkably successful in dice and cards, but that several snuff-boxes and watches were missing.
“Who shall I victimise to get this large sum?” thought Phillip. “This fellow will not be joked with.”
And as he pondered long and silently he whispered to himself—
“It is a matter of life or death with me; it must be attended to, and at once; but who shall be my dupe? From whom can I get the money, by fair means or foul? It is no use trying to get a farthing from my father beyond the yearly allowance I am entitled to, and I have forged his name once too often to think of doing so again, for the last time I did so he threatened to disinherit me. Besides, if such a transaction were to reach the ears of old Sir Richard Warbeck, I doubt not he would scratch my name out of his will, and not leave me a farthing.”
“But stay,” he mused. “That good-natured simpleton, Charley Warbeck, will answer my purpose; he often goes out and collects large sums. Suppose I were to steal the amount I want from him. Aye, that’s it; it shall be done. I will kill two birds with one stone. I hate these two Warbecks, both Charley and Ned. I detest the very name of Ned,” said he, writhing with his wound. “I know how it shall be done; I will get Charley disgraced, and then old Sir Richard will disown him. Aye, that’s it.”
Thus the villain thought; and yet, as he bade Charley good-night, Redgill smiled, and shook him by the hand as cordially as if he were the truest and best friend in the world.
“How innocent he is,” thought Phillip, when left alone, “and how handsome, too! Well, never mind; I care not who suffers so I do not. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
And, as he thought of his intended plans against Charley, he grinned like a hyena.
“To-morrow shall decide it,” he said, and smiled at the thought of the pit he would dig into which young Warbeck should fall.
XXI. THE WOLF AND THE LAMB—A SCOUNDREL OF THE FIRST WATER
Unluckily for himself, it was an evil day when Charley Warbeck first made the acquaintance of Phillip Redgill.
Phillip, as all knew, was a great don about town, and maintained a handsome suite of rooms, to which the gayest of the gay resorted.
His father was a very wealthy man, so all the world said; a great ship owner, and “a merchant prince of the good city of London.”
To be patronized by the son of such a person poor Charley considered “a very fine thing.”
“Wasn’t Phillip Redgill one of the sparks of fashion? Did not fair dames (of doubtful virtue, perhaps) smile bewitchingly upon him? Was he not nodded to by this lord and that one? Could he not handle a sword with almost any man?” said Charley, and many others. “And was it not a ‘great thing,’ therefore, to be known to, and to be hand and glove with such a person when I am only a chief clerk in the India House, and nought to depend upon but my own advancement and old Sir Richard’s generosity?”
Yes, this was all true; but Charley Warbeck little dreamed of what a cool, conscienceless villain Phillip was, and how he gained the money he sported with so lavishly “about town,” as it was called.
It was true that Sir Richard Warbeck’s signature had been forged to a valuable bill, but how it was done no one could tell.
Suspicion had fallen upon Charley, and, in truth, he did sign his uncle’s name to the bill in question, but was unconscious of having done so, and was guiltless.
This singular affair, the first link in Charley’s after misery, but not the first in Phillip’s chain of crimes by any means, occurred in this manner.
After Charley had been some time intimate (as they should be, Phillip said, on the score of relationship) young Redgill gave a party at his lodgings, to which Charley was invited.
During the evening Phillip wrote a note to Sir Richard Warbeck, and folded it in a neat wrapper, after the manner of those days when envelopes were unknown.
“Here, Charley,” said he, “direct this for me.”
Charley, who had been drugged by Phillip, directed the note to Sir Richard Warbeck, and nothing more.
“That will do,” said Phillip, and he took up the note in a careless manner, while Charley dropped off to sleep. “That will do excellently. If old Sir Richard had written the direction himself it couldn’t have been a better facsimile of his own handwriting, for there are not any two persons under the sun who write so much alike as the old knight and Charley. Bravo! it was a clever trick of mine; an excellent thought, by Jove!”
As he said this, chuckling, he took off the covering of the letter, which proved to be nothing else than a promissory note for a thousand pounds!
“All I wanted was this signature,” said Phillip, in high glee. “How neatly I got it, too! I’ll get it discounted among the Jews to-morrow; it can never be traced to me again.”
The bill was passed among the Jews, and Phillip got the money.
In time it became due, when the trick was discovered, and Sir Richard refused to pay.
Officers had the case in hand.
It came to Charley’s ears, and although Sir Richard never breathed a suspicion of what he thought, Captain Jack long suspected him, but could not obtain any positive proof to convict him, unless, as he often did, enter the witness-box and complete his chain of evidence by deliberate false swearing.
Though many persons laughed at the loss which the Jews suffered in the transaction, the final bill-holder, a long-bearded English Israelite, Moss, by name, swore solemnly never to let the matter rest; nor did Captain Jack ever lose sight of Charles Warbeck, despite his respectable position and the powerful Sir Richard.
* * * * *
The very next day after Captain Jack’s visit to Phillip’s apartments, Charles Warbeck was sent out to collect various large sums on account of the India House, of which old Sir Richard was one of the managing directors.
He was watched and dogged throughout the whole of the day by a spy employed by Phillip, and the news was brought to him that Charles had then in his possession a large sum, which, as usual, he was to account for that same evening.
But on his way back to the India House, Phillip Redgill met him, and, in a careless manner, said he was very short of cash, and begged of Charley to loan him fifty pounds, until the end of the week, as he was going to a masque ball that night.
Charley had not any such sum, but promised to see what he could do by borrowing, and would see Phillip that night.
This was agreed to.
But ere they parted, wine was called for, and the hours flew by rapidly.
Quicker than he imagined the time passed at which he was expected at the India House, and, after cursing his bad luck, he drank again and again with Redgill, until at last he became very much the worse for liquor, and had to be carried to his lodgings by two chairmen, yet all the while, and through all his drunkenness, taking great care of the bundle of notes, which he had secreted in his breast, next to his skin, for fear of theft or accident.
It was now nine o’clock at night, and the two chairmen, being paid, left the young man at his own door.
With all his ingenuity he was unable to use his night-key, and stood fumbling at the door a considerable time, and swearing not a little.
Charles was in a fog. The keyhole seemed to be removed from its accustomed place for he could not find it from the unsteady motion of his hand; the latch-key dropped many, many times, and it was doubtful how long he might have remained there, shivering in the cold, had not the oft apostrophized and obstinate key fallen into the area, and raised his anger to the highest pitch.
“I’ll bring some one down to the door,” said he, and commenced knocking at it with great vigour and noise.
In a few moments Dame Worthington, the good old gentlewoman his landlady, appeared at the door attired in undress, and could scarcely recognise her lodger ere that unsteady gentleman, who, swaying to and fro, but holding the area railings, stumbled into the passage and tumbled over the astonished housekeeper, who, gasping and groaning, could scarcely be extricated by a female servant, who, candle in hand, rushed to the rescue, and bore off her mistress to the back parlour bed-room.
Charley tumbled upstairs as noisily as a young elephant might be expected to do, knocking down the flowers and flower-stand on the landing, the globe of gold fish on the window-sill, and raised the whole house by his laughter, swearing, and heavy tread.
“Just to think of that young man serving me so!” said Dame Worthington, when sufficiently recovered from her state of collapse to articulate coherently. “Just to think of him who’s been more than a mother, to knock over my flowers and the gold fish, to tumble over me in the passage and go to sleep lying in my room, without word of apology, in a state of senselessness; laughing with the lodgers on the stairs, and to go to bed with Mistress Haylark in a delicate state of health on the landing! Oh, Mary, Mary! that I should have lived to see him with my own eyes in bed in the parlour, laughing, making fun, and tumbling over me before you and Mistress Haylark’s daughter, which is old enough to be his mother! Deary me, Mary, my dear, deary me! Such is the way, my dear, that the black bottle in the cupboard which lodgers marked ‘poison’ operates at the dead of night upon a poor defenceless housekeeper and widow who’s been quiet and kind to him in the passage, but not old enough or forgetful enough to disremember the young man in her night-clothes named Warbeck, who has lost her lawful consoler, which smells, on the top shelf behind the pickles, for ten long years, like gin!”
It is difficult to imagine, perhaps, the dreadful state of feeling in which the garrulous dame found herself after the consolations of her lawful consoler which smells—on the top shelf behind the pickles, for ten long years—like gin; but of this we are fully assured, that when Charles Warbeck had had a pleasant nap in his cosy room, and concluded a long consultation with the water-pitcher, he discovered, unmistakably, that several hundred fairies, or demons rather, were busily engaged at wood-chopping under the canopy of his cranium, and threatening every moment to split his invaluable head into halves.
Pale, penitent, and full of pious intentions for the future, Charley Warbeck lay on the sofa before his fire, buried in thought.
The church clock struck the hour of eleven, and, as he heard it, he sighed,
“What a fool I have been to-day in not taking that packet of notes to the India House. I shake like a leaf, and I know not why; and haunted by every imaginable terror. I cannot gaze firmly at any one; the sound of every voice seems like a demon bawling in my ears, and every step that approaches appears to be that of some officer ready to tap me on the shoulder, and march me off to prison. I’d give anything in the world to have had this cursed money delivered to-day, and should not have dreamed of such a thing as to absent myself, but for Redgill. He has continually bored me to lend him money and lend him money, until my own poverty almost tempted me to steal. D—n the money!” said Warbeck, in a rage, slamming the packet of notes upon the table, and tossing about in his chair. “It burns my very pocket, and my brain even seems on fire since I’ve had that wine.”
For some time young Warbeck sat looking at the notes, and would willingly have gone to the India House then, but it was too late.
While thus reflecting the door noiselessly opened, and Redgill entered the chamber!
Approaching the table he was much surprised at Charley’s absence of mind in not awaking from his reverie, but was pleased to see the bank package lying on the table.
Pretending not to have observed anything of the sort, he slapped his friend familiarly on the back, who, awaking to his senses, seized the package in much haste and confusion, and placed it, as he supposed, unseen, beneath the cushions of the sofa.
Redgill, cold as ice, perfectly collected, and fully resolved in purpose, observed his friend’s perturbation and confusion, but smiled good-humouredly, and conversed with animation.
“Any money on hand to-night, Charley, my boy, eh? You promised, you know. I thought I’d call, and see if you had got the £50.”
“Money!” said Charley, with affected surprise, gazing with much earnestness at his friend smoking; “money? No! How should I have any? I never have any, you know; I’m not like you fellows with rich daddies, who can give ’em a check occasionally. I wish I had, my boy, but I haven’t got a penny. Sorry I disappointed you, Phillip; I imagined I could borrow it for you, but couldn’t.”
Conversation was continued between the friends, but on the part of young Warbeck with much difficulty, for his unnatural excitement almost choked utterance.
During a pause in their conversation a single knock was heard at his door!
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Full of wild imaginings, Charley opened it, and old Sir Richard, one of the directors of the India House, walked across the room, and without ceremony took a seat on the sofa beside the fire, but without speaking a word.
Pulling off his gloves very slowly and solemnly, he bowed to Phillip, and said, with a frown—
“Would you be kind enough, Phillip, to allow me a few moments’ private conversation with Charles, on very important business, indeed, I can assure you—very—on India House matters, Mr. Redgill, which admits of no delay. Thank you.”
Finding he was out of place at that moment, Phillip bowed in a hurried manner, looked for his handkerchief and gloves, which were thrown about the sofa pillows, and left the room with a flushed face.
“Charles,” at length Sir Richard began, looking the young man sternly in the face, “what am I to understand by your unaccountable conduct?”
A solemn pause.
“Good heavens!” mentally ejaculated Charley, “I am discovered, disgraced, and punished, and all so soon!”
Overcome with emotion, he hung his head in shame and perspired unnaturally at every pore.
“What am I to think of you, sir? Is this the reward of all my labour, anxiety, money, and solicitude? Have I not educated you, taken you by the hand, and lifted you up step by step to what you are, eh? And do you now, when I expect to see all my labours rewarded, turn round upon me, and disgrace me?”
“Spare me! Sir Richard! spare me, for heaven’s sake! My heart is bursting, and my brain is all on fire,” said Charles, mournfully, averting his head from the old man’s gaze.
“There are very few things which occur in the India House or out of it which do not quickly reach my ears, Charles. I only heard of it just now, sir, and must confess I felt shocked. Good Dame Worthington told me.”
“Dame Worthington?” said Charley, astonished. “How could she have known it?”
“Yes, Dame Worthington knew it? Why, of course she does, and every one in the house! Isn’t it the talk of the whole neighbourhood?”
The young man’s agony was painful, and his face became more haggard in a few moments from mental suffering than age could have effected during a course of years.
“What do you think they will do with me, Sir Richard? I shall plead guilty, and save unnecessary trouble and expense.”
“Guilty? Yes, I think so, when so many were witness to it; and your sentence will be to reform, keep early hours, leave wine parties alone and gambling, and beg the old dame’s pardon for swearing at her to-night.”
Had he been shot Charley could not have been more suddenly startled.
Starting to his feet, and looking wildly about him, he comprehended all—Sir Richard knew nothing of his having the bills; and, with a heavy sigh, which then escaped him, there was lifted an insupportable weight of doubt and pain from his soul, and he breathed more freely and rapidly as one who has been running fast, or carrying a heavy load.
Infinitely relieved, the young man even attempted to smile at the unexpected and fortunate turn his imaginings had taken, and, with as much self-command as he could bring to bear upon the conversation, laughed, and begged Sir Richard’s pardon for his wild life of late, and inebriety that night, when the kind old dame was knocked over in the passage, and his own nose had come into violent contact with the stairs.
When Sir Richard had departed, in good humour with the repentant youth, Charley drew the sofa nearer to the fire, and began to congratulate himself upon escaping an anticipated suspicion.
“I was sure, he knew all about it,” thought Charles; “and felt as if I was suspended between heaven and earth! Oh! what a relief it was. It is the first, and I will take care it shall be the last time I ever act so carelessly again, as sure as I live! If professional thieves suffer only half what I have done since evening, and for no crime whatever, I am sure they would never follow their trade very long. Let me see—I placed the package under the sofa mattress; if either had seen it lying on my table, I should have blown my brains out! But where is it? Gone!” said he, in astonishment, as he examined in every place, “gone! Who could have taken it? No one knew it to be there. Gone it is, undoubtedly. I have searched everywhere, but it can’t be found. Good Heavens! What shall I do? Which of them could have taken it? No, no, neither of them could have seen or felt it; it must be here!”
Charles searched in every imaginable nook and corner, but could not discover the missing roll of bills.
He had placed it under the sofa mattress, he was confident, and unknown to either of his visitors.
Whither or how it had disappeared was a marvel.
Distracted with countless thoughts and emotions, he put on his cloak, and, late as it then was, left the apartment, walking aimlessly up and down first one street and then another, until he found himself opposite the theatre, with its blazing links, oil-lamps, and variously-coloured lanterns.
More from habit than design, Charles passed its portals, and soon found himself among a crowd of gay acquaintances.
“Seen Redgill?” asked he of one and another, until, tired with waiting, he was about to depart, when both met at the door!
“Did you see a small paper packet lying about my room, near the sofa, to-night?” asked Charles, carelessly.
“A small paper packet? No. Why, have you lost one? What was it like?”
“Well, it didn’t look like anything particularly, but it was, you know, very much like one of our bank packets. It was a packet of long envelopes and other papers.”
“Bank packets, eh? No, my boy, I didn’t see it; I was too much taken up with thinking of money matters. If you remember, you said you hadn’t a penny, and I was racking my brain to devise means for borrowing some, for there is a grand bal masque on here to-night. Is it very valuable? You look vexed—perplexed. What’s the matter, Charley, my boy? If I can help you out of the scrape command me, you know——”
“Well, the fact is, Phillip, the package I speak of, which so much resembles a bank package, contained something very valuable, more valuable than my life, in fact. Without I recover it my existence is henceforth a blank and worthless. I am dishonoured!”
“Don’t say ‘dishonoured,’ my boy; that is impossible; you could never do anything which would reflect dishonour on yourself or your many acquaintance. Cheer up; you may find it to-morrow. If it is a hundred or two you want, you can have it in a day or two from me even.”
Charles went home almost mad.
“Lucky thing I called at Warbeck’s apartments to-night,” said Redgill, to himself, as soon as Charles had left him. “What brought that money on his table? Methinks I smell a very large-sized mouse,” said he, with a fiendish smile, drinking wine at a small wine-shop near the theatre. “I managed to abstract it rather neatly, I must confess; his head wasn’t turned more than a minute—and it contains £2,000. What care I if the fool is ruined? I only wish it were Ned Warbeck instead; how my heart would leap with joy—the young viper!”
Chapter XXII
FEARFUL ENCOUNTER BETWEEN THE SKELETON CREW AND THE SMUGGLERS.
“Well, Dolphin, and what news of this new wonder, Wildfire Ned?” asked the Smuggler Chief. “He has joined Lieutenant Garnet, say you?”
“He has.”
“And what does he intend to do?”
“He swears to exterminate the Skeleton Crew.”
“So much the better for us, then,” laughed the Smuggler Chief. “If young Ned Warbeck can only rid the seas of such monsters as they are, then there may be some chance of honest folks, like ourselves, getting along a bit farther than we have done of late,” said the Chief, with a dry grin.
“Just so, Sea-hawk,” the Dolphin replied; “if he can manage to rid us of such grim devils as they are, all well and good; for, you see, we don’t stand much of a chance with them, for they have played the very devil with us smugglers of late years. And as to Death-wing, I don’t think there is any hope of getting him out of the way, for he seems to be made of cast iron.”
“I only hope this young dare-devil, Ned Warbeck, will only let us alone, though,” said the Chief, “because you know he might turn his attention this way after doing the first job.”
“That’s just what he is going to do.”
“You don’t mean that?”
“I do, though. I found out all his plans, as well as his instructions.”
“Indeed!—how?”
“You remember what I said about the marriage at Walton Abbey, and of Death-wing running away with the young bride?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Garnet and Wildfire Ned, accompanied by Bob Bertram, and others, started in pursuit.”
“Did they overtake the Crew?”
“That you will quickly hear.”
“For some time, Wildfire Ned and Garnet continued the chase over hedge and ditch; but they went at such a terrific pace, that in less than half an hour they had distanced all who followed them, save Bob Bertram.
“But still they could not make out or trace the route taken by Death-wing.
“In about an hour, however, they perceived some of the band in the distance.
“With swords drawn, they shouted in defiance, and made at them.
“But the Skeleton rascals declined the combat.
“The chase then continued.
“But, as before, they lost sight of them, for the last trick was only a ride to gain time in order that Death-wing and his fair captive might get off clear.”
“Clever, artful devils,” said the Chief, with a gruff laugh; “and did they get off clear?” he asked.
“They did. Wildfire Ned rode like a madman in every direction after them. But it was all to no purpose. They escaped, and Death-wing and his crew made their way to the sea-shore, and got safely on board their Phantom ship before Garnet or Wildfire Ned could overtake them.”
“Well, and what next?”
“Wildfire Ned and Bob Bertram made the best of their way to Garnet’s ship, the ‘Diamond,’ and went on board. The ship set sail immediately in search of the Skeleton Crew, and every man on board swore to be revenged.”
“If they fall in with Death-wing, then, we may expect to hear of some stirring news,” said the chief. “If they conquer Death-wing, or he conquer them, it’s all the same to us, you know, Dolphin.”
“True,” replied the messenger; “but I would much rather hear they had made short work of the Skeleton Crew, for we can generally manage to escape the revenue-cruisers, but it would puzzle the very devil to get out of the way of these grim and ghastly wretches,” said the Dolphin.
“So far we agree,” said the grim Chief. “But now to business. Have you found out anything more about that vessel you wrote to me about?”
“What, that ship which we have long expected from the East Indies?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I have; she is now in the offing; and, if the wind rises, we may expect her abreast of this place by midnight.”
“Good. Did you hear how many men she carries?”
“Only fifteen.”
“That ain’t too many; so far, so good; but about her guns, Dolphin, that’s the question; I heard she had four.”
“But I know better; she hasn’t got a single one.”
“Not one?”
“No; not even a pop-gun on board.”
“What’s her name, say you?”
“The ‘Sea Spray.’”
“Then she will prove an easy prize?”
“No doubt of it.”
“What’s her cargo?”
“Silks, spices, and gold dust.”
“Hem,” said Sea-hawk, “then we must prepare for her. Tell the night-watch to have a bright look-out, and get all the boats ready. How is the weather?”
“It looks as if we should have a dense fog to-night.”
“So much the better, then,” said the Smuggler Chief. “There’s nothing half so nice as a thick fog when one wants to come up to a craft unseen. Get all the boats ready, and let them be moored outside the cave for instant service.”
These orders were obeyed.
During the day great preparations were made to board and capture the long-expected East Indiaman, and a look-out man was perched high upon the rocks outside, with telescope in hand, watching the distant movements of the “Sea Spray” as she lay becalmed in the far distance, her sails lazily flapping in the foggy atmosphere.
As night approached the wind freshened, and all was wild excitement and merriment among the smugglers, who looked forward to the capture of the vessel with impatient joy.
Master Tim saw all the warlike preparations going on, and felt very uneasy.
The sight of pistols and knives, cutlasses, boarding pikes, and the like, struck terror to his soul.
But he dared not show it, or express any thought about the danger all were about to encounter.
He even tried to smile and look merry.
But it was all sham.
Poor Tim could be as brave as any one as far as words went, but when it came to blows and hard knocks he wished himself a thousand miles away.
Some of the smugglers provided Tim with plenty of arms.
“As I must go,” thought Tim, “and as there is no getting away from these villanous, black-looking band of smugglers, I might as well arm myself to the teeth; the more weapons I have the greater chance I have for my life.”
With this thought uppermost in his mind, Master Tim put on an immense pair of water-boots that reached above the knee; and although he could scarcely walk in them, on account of their weight and clumsiness, he never said a word.
“For,” thought Tim, “it won’t do to let these devils think I am afraid, after all the hard lies I have told ’em to-day; besides, if they thought I wanted to get away, they’d scrag me on the instant.”
Next he put on an immense waist-belt, and stuck into it half-a-dozen pistols, all double-shotted.
Besides these, he thrust into his belt a heavy cutlass, a dagger, and a long knife.
Not satisfied with all these warlike preparations, he seized a heavy blunderbuss, and filled up to the muzzle with powder and shot.
This he slung on his back, and walked up and down the cave, thinking—
“It’s very nasty, dangerous work, attacking ships; if this one Sea-hawk is going to capture to-night had been well-armed and manned by a stout crew, I shouldn’t a’ thought of rigging myself this way; I should a’ fallen on to their decks, like a dead man, and let the smugglers fight it out their own way, and then joined the victors; but if the ship is unarmed, and there is much gold on board, I want to throw dust into Sea-hawk’s eyes, and get as much as possible for my share; and then, when I have got the gold-dust, I shall hook it, for I know the way now into old Nettle’s place up through that trap-door.”
Tim tried to look very fierce, and smoked a pipe to keep down his fearful feelings.
But he looked like a walking arsenal more than anything else, and could scarcely move with the immense weight girt about him.
From time to time as night closed in, word was passed from the watchers outside that the “Sea Spray” was gradually approaching.
When first he heard this report, Tim pretended to be overjoyed, and very anxious to encounter the stranger and show the smuggler band what a courageous fellow he was.
But when Sea-hawk at last gave the order for all his men to make ready to start out on the expedition, Tim’s heart began to flutter and to beat very loudly.
He took a good draught of rum, however, and, as well as he could, got into the boat.
When all had assembled at the mouth of the cave, Sea-hawk called the six boats’ crew together and gave them his final instructions.
Three of the boats with muffled oars, under the Dolphin’s command, was to go on some little distance ahead, and creep through the dense fog unseen, so as to attack the stranger on the windward side.
Sea-hawk, with the other three boats, would follow, and at the same time assail the “Sea Spray” on the leeward side.
At a given signal the boats put off towards the doomed ship, which had been suddenly becalmed opposite the smugglers’ cave.
It could just be seen through the thick fog, and Sea-hawk was delighted with the prospect of its speedy capture.
“We’ll make short work of it,” said the chief to Tim, in a jolly tone.
“I believe you,” Tim replied, in a soft voice, with a ghastly attempt at a smile.
Onwards the boats’ crews rowed in dead silence.
In a short time they came within full view of the dark sides of the vessel, as, like an ominous object, it loomed out through the dense mists.
The first three boats had got round to the other side of the vessel, and were waiting for Sea-hawk’s signal.
This was soon given.
With a loud shout the smugglers’ boats pulled towards the vessel.
“Let one man remain with each boat,” said the chief, “while all the rest board the craft.”
“I’ll do that,” said Tim, eagerly.
“No you won’t,” said the chief; “you are to be the first man to board the ship. Here we are; up you go,” said Sea-hawk, shoving Tim up the ship’s side with so much violence that Tim fell over the bulwarks.
Tim was awfully scared, for he expected to be shot or stabbed the instant he reached the deck.
Judge of his happiness, then, when he discovered there was not a single soul on deck.
Perceiving this, and before any of his comrades could clamber up, he began cutting, and slashing, and swearing at imaginary foes, stamping his feet, and hacking at old empty barrels, with such a vengeance and so much noise as to make every one believe that he was at the moment performing prodigies of valour.
“Die! down! surrender, villains!” he roared.
And the more he shouted, the more he cut and hacked right and left, without meeting with a foe, except a cow and a few sheep on board, which he slaughtered unmercifully in a few seconds.
When the smugglers leaped upon the deck, they were astonished at not meeting with or finding any opposition.
Tim was puffing and blowing, as if wearied and exhausted with his terrific efforts, and pointed to the hatchway, shouting,
“I have beaten the villains ten to one; they are down the hatchway; down after them, my bold boys, down after them!”
Perceiving blood on his sword, the smugglers believed what he said, and therefore rushed down into the hold of the ship, sword in hand, bent on slaughter.
Tim was immensely tickled that he had earned the reputation for valour so cheaply, and thanked his stars Sea-hawk believed him.
While Tim was alone on the deck, however, he suddenly heard unearthly shouts, screams, oaths, and the like, proceed from the hold of the ship.
“What’s all that?” thought Tim, trembling in every limb. “I wonder if they have found out any one. I didn’t see any of the crew.”
He was not left long in suspense.
There issued from the hold, the cabin, and the forecastle of the ship a band of skeletons, sword in hand.
Tim, at the first sight of them, fell on his knees, and then slipped into an empty water-barrel that was near by.
From this place he could perceive all that passed.
The Smuggler Chief had been deceived; and so had Dolphin.
But how and by whom neither of them could tell.
Instead of boarding the East Indiaman, they found themselves on the decks of the Phantom Ship!
The confusion, uproar, and clanging of arms that now ensued were dreadful.
Sea-hawk, Dolphin, and the rest of the bold smugglers, fought like demons.
“To the boats! to the boats!” shouted Sea-hawk above the din of battle.
All his men endeavoured to fight their way back again to the boats as directed by the chief.
But their retreat was cut off.
The Skeleton Crew, infuriated against their old enemies, the smugglers, fought with desperation.
Pistol-shots scattered about the decks like hail-stones, and Tim, unfortunate as ever, had the misery to find that more than one stray bullet struck the cask in which he was hiding, and grazed his body and legs; but beyond a few scratches he escaped unhurt.
Sea-Hawk, as brave as a lion, fought long and desperately with the grim crew; but many of his men were dying and wounded around him.
“To the boats! to the boats!” he again shouted.
Many of his followers did not need this second warning; but leaped over the sides of the vessel, and plunged into the sea in wild despair.
On every part of the ship did the Skeleton Crew swarm like bees.
Up the rigging they climbed like monkeys, making the most hideous noises.
Death-wing, with his black banner on high, and with an immense cutlass in hand, seemed to mow down Sea-hawk’s men; and in less than fifteen minutes from the time the action commenced, the Phantom Ship was cleared of all its intruders save the dead and dying.
The smugglers, entrapped as they had been, fought like bears; but nothing could withstand Death-wing and his grisly band.
And ere Sea-hawk and his boats pushed off from the vessel, two cannons, loaded up to the muzzle with grape and canister shot, were fired after them, and the missiles of death swept the waters around the Phantom Ship with a hissing and fatal sound.
XXIII. NED’S FIRST BATTLE—THE SHIP ON FIRE
After the action, the first thing the Skeleton Crew did was to examine the bodies of the dead and dying.
Some were cast overboard immediately; but those whose wounds gave some hope of recovery, were, for the moment, more mercifully dealt with.
For they were reserved for after tortures!
Tim was in an unfortunate position.
He was neither dead nor wounded.
But from the passing remarks of the Skeleton Crew, he almost wished that he had been dead, for he trembled to think what tortures and unearthly agony they intended to make all such as he was, undergo.
“What an unlucky devil I am,” sighed Tim. “I no sooner get out of one trouble than I fall into another; it’s out of the frying pan into the fire with me always. I wonder what star I was born under, for there’s no good fortune ever befalls me. Heigho! just hear those grim monsters talking. Why, the smugglers were gentlemen, compared to such fiendish devils as these.”
Tim crouched still more closely in his hiding-place.
“How many dead men have the smugglers left behind?” asked Death-wing, when they had all been counted and thrown overboard.
“Over a dozen,” was the reply.
“Good,” said Death-wing, with a chuckle.
“Just hear him,” groaned Tim. “I do believe, if there had only been three dozen he’d jump for joy. Oh! horrors upon horrors accumulate.”
“How many wounded?”
“We have found six.”
“Only half a dozen, that is not a great number,” said Death-wing; “there ought to be three or four dozen, at least.”
“Yes, so there would have been, Death-wing; but those who were slightly wounded jumped into the water, or into their boats, at the hazard of drowning or breaking their necks, rather than remain in our hands.”
“Ha!” said the grim chief. “They know us of old.”
“Hark! how the villain sighs,” said poor Tim. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t got tears in his eyes over it because they wouldn’t stay behind to be skinned alive, poor devils.”
“I wish we had but one sound man among the six prisoners,” said Death-wing. “I should like to make an example of him on the spot.”
“Oh-h!” groaned Tim, “I’m in for it this time; they’ll cut me limb from limb; but it’s better to die here like a rat in this barrel than to get into their hands.”
Tim, up to the present moment had not dared to poke his long nose out of his hiding-place, yet, out of curiosity, he now did, so as to see what they were about to do with their wounded prisoners.
The moment his head appeared, one of the crew with a loud shout of joy jumped towards him and seized him by the scurf of the neck.
In a second the poor fellow was dragged out of the hogshead, and pulled along the deck towards where Death-wing stood.
“What, another of ’em,” said the grim chief, with a loud laugh of mockery, “and armed to the teeth, I perceive! This must be one of the head leaders, I think; disarm him.”
In the twinkling of an eye, Tim’s blunderbuss, pistols, dagger, knife and cutlass were taken from him, and he knelt before the chief, trembling and quaking.
Around him danced several dozen skeletons in wild joy, snapping their fingers and making the most horrible noises.
“I think I have seen this rascal’s face before,” said Death-wing, with an oath.
“So do I.”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Are you not one of my worst enemy’s followers,—Wildfire Ned?”
“Me? lor’ bless you, no,” said Tim, “I never heard of his name afore in all my life.”
“Liar!” said one, giving him a slap that made his jaws ache again.
“Liar!” another one remarked, kicking him vigorously from behind; “didn’t we get up a tree after you, and you escaped?”
“Yet now I come to look at the rogue more closely, the more I am convinced he is one of young Warbeck’s followers,” said Death-wing, “and as such, he must—”
“Die!” said all, in a solemn chorus.
When the verdict was made known, the whole of the Skeleton Crew commenced dancing around him in a wild unearthly fashion, and as each came near him, they gave the luckless fellow a kick or a blow, until he was black and blue.
“Bind him hand and foot,” said the grim chief; “this rascal has many secrets to reveal about Wildfire Ned, and Sea-hawk’s gang; we must extract them all from him, or cut him joint from joint.”
“Bind him hand and foot, and tie him to the main-mast!”
This was done.
All the crew, save one, all the while stood round the victim, while Death-wing began to question him.
So silent were the crew upon extracting from him every item about Wildfire Ned, that they took but little notice of the intense fog which now enveloped the ship, or where it was drifting to.
“The first question I shall ask you,” Death-wing began, “is, do you know where Wildfire Ned is? if you do not confess, your arms shall be—”
At that instant, a loud booming noise was heard, and not far off either.
Every one rose to his feet.
In a second after an eighteen-pound cannon shot came crushing through the bulwarks!
“Treachery!” Death-wing cried.
Bang! crash! were the sounds repeated.
“Every one to his post!”
Whiz—bang! came another shot, and almost frightened off all the hair from Tim’s head, as he stood tied to the mast, and unable to move.
“Who are they? Can you make them out?” shouted out Death-wing to his crew.
“A frigate is bearing down to windward of us.”
“Steer the ‘Phantom’ in towards the shore! Double shot your guns! ’Tis the ‘Diamond’—I can make her out through the fog. Fire away! Never surrender! Up with the black flag!”
The fight now became hot and desperate.
Cannons flashed and roared, but still the frigate did not approach any nearer.
In truth, she could not do so.
They were too near land, and the “Phantom” was of a much lighter draught, and could draw less water.
Hence it was that Death-wing had the advantage of his enemy, for he now neared the land, and seemed bent upon stranding his vessel and escaping rather than surrender.
But he was much mistaken.
Although it was the “Diamond” frigate he was fighting, he little dreamt what was in store for his crew.
Although now the shots of the frigate took but little effect from the increasing distance, Death-wing was surrounded with dangers.
Lieutenant Garnet with one boat, Wildfire Ned with another, were pulling through the fog at a desperate rate towards the “Phantom” to cut it out from grounding, and were followed by Bob Bertram in a third, all of which were crowded with brave blue-jackets.
When least expected, Death-wing heard the gallant shouts of his fearless foes.
“Let every one arm to the teeth!” he said.
“Stand ready to resist boarders!”
Another loud shout was given by the blue-jackets as they pulled towards the vessel.
“Pour broadsides of grape into them!” said Death-wing.
In a second the boats bumped against the ship’s sides and were made fast.
“They are upon us!” said Death-wing, brandishing his sword.
In a second the gallant tars swarmed on to the ship’s decks.
The first to spring among the Skeleton Crew was Wildfire Ned.
With a loud shout he dashed at Death-wing and cleaved him to the deck!
Wildfire Ned was quickly followed by Lieutenant Garnet, who, at the head of his brave boat’s crew, cut their way up on to the decks.
And close at his heels followed Bob Bertram, supported by a strong body.
The fighting was now dreadful on all sides.
Wherever Wildfire Ned dashed he left behind him dozens of victims.
Tim was in great danger, both from friend and foe.
Glancing shots, and accidental strokes from swords and cutlasses came very near him.
By continual shouting he attracted the attention of Bob Bertram, who immediately cut the ropes and set him free.
Tim took advantage of his liberty to conceal himself as best he could under the bulwarks.
But he amused himself very greatly by pounding on the skull of one of Death-wing’s band, who had been literally smashed to atoms by Wildfire Ned’s blows.
The Skeleton Crew, finding that their vessel must now be stranded, and no hope remained of saving her, determined to blow her up.
“Fire the magazine!” roared Death-wing, high above the din of battle. “Blow Wildfire Ned and his followers to atoms!”
“Ha! ha! so you are getting something for yourself this time, eh?” said Tim, as he recognized Death-wing’s voice; “but you don’t catch me staying here if there’s anything of that sort going to take place.”
So saying, Master Tim crawled over the vessel’s side, and got into one of the boats, and lay there very snugly out of harm’s way.
Wildfire Ned, however, had a terrible task before him.
He wanted to find the missing bride.
He searched through the cabin.
But no trace of her could be found.
Not to be foiled he looked everywhere.
“Blow up the magazine!” roared Death-wing again.
As he spoke, a terrible thought crossed Ned’s mind,
“Perhaps the fiends have placed the young bride there!”
The thought was almost too horrible.
With desperation and vengeance in his face, Wildfire Ned leaped into the hold below, sword in hand.
Led by instinct, but why he knew not, Ned rushed madly to the stern of the vessel.
In the lower hold he perceived a long fusee burning.
There remained but two or three inches of it.
In a few seconds it would reach the powder.
“’Tis for life or death,” said Ned.
With a fearful leap he descended into the lower hold.
All was pitch-darkness around him.
Save the bright red fusee spluttering and burning not a glimmer of light could be seen.
He groped his way along the bottom of the ship.
But when least he expected it, he was grasped by a skeleton hand!
With an oath, Wildfire Ned drew his dirk.
A terrible conflict ensued.
One minute more, and the magazine would explode.
“We shall die together, young Warbeck!” said the skeleton.
And now began a duel which never had equal before.
In that dark hold they struggled for mastery.
It was a terrific struggle.
At last, with a mighty effort, Wildfire Ned snatched up a small hatchet which his foe had let fall.
With one fearful blow he crushed in the skull of his grim enemy.
With a loud shout and laugh of triumph Wildfire Ned ran towards the deadly fusee.
The sparks were even then sputtering near to some waste powder.
In a second more all would be lost.
He fell upon the fusee!
He quenched its flame carefully in his hand.
Next instant, with a mighty blow of the axe, he smashed in the magazine door.
With a cry of joy, Ned saw before him the stolen bride!
She was tied unto several powder barrels!
This was Death-wing’s especial order!
Ned cut the cords which bound her, and let in a torrent of sea-water into the powder and swamped the magazine.
The bride was insensible.
He took her in his arms and hurried to the hatchway.
Then a fearful cry was heard from above.
“I defy you!” roared the terrible voice of Death-wing. “In one moment more the ship will be blown in the air. Ha! ha! the powder magazine is open! the fusee is burning. Away, my men, away to your rendezvous on shore! One moment more and Lord Walton’s sister will be a black and charred mass—vengeance against Wildfire Ned! eternal enmity is between us!”
“The ship is on fire!” Ned heard Garnet shouting. “Where is young Warbeck?—the ship is on fire in two places!”
“Help! help!” cried Ned, from the bottom of the lower hold.
His voice was heard from above.
“Help! help!”
In a moment, Garnet and Bob Bertram, with a few others, threw down the end of a long rope to Ned.
Young Warbeck tied it round his body.
Clasping the unconscious maiden in his arms, he was being drawn out of the hold, when the flames burst out all around him.
“Quick! quick! or we shall perish,” said Ned. “Those Skeleton fiends have fired their vessel in several places.”
“Pull away, lads, pull away!” shouted Garnet.
The flames increased every second.
And yet with all the efforts of the seamen, Ned could not get higher than the lower hold.
The rope had caught in some bolt or block below!
Here was a perilous position.
The flames were now almost all around him.
He hung suspended between life and death.
In a second more the forked flames would catch the maiden’s dress.
Bob Bertram, without a word, slipped down the rope, and disentangled it.
A loud shout from above rewarded his valor and daring.
“Quick! quick!” faintly cried Ned, now almost suffocated with smoke. “Quick, quick! I am choking! Quick, Bob, or all is lost!”
With the energy of despair the sailors pulled away at the rope.
Yet all the time they had to fight against the vile Skeleton Crew, who every moment were trying to cut the rope.
Some were up the rigging, firing down on the brave men.
Others plunged overboard, and swam away towards the shore.
All was a scene of intense excitement.
Yet, with a tremendous effort, Wildfire Ned kept himself alive amid the dense smoke and flames around him.
With a ringing cheer he reached the deck.
“Saved! saved!” said Ned, and almost fell from sheer weakness!
But at that moment a low, rumbling noise like distant thunder caught the ears of all!
It was the sound of a mighty torrent of water rushing into the ship’s hold.
“The ship is scuttled! Away! away!” cried many voices.
In a moment more the ship trembled from stem to stern.
In a second she broke into halves!
Chapter XXIV
IN WHICH PHILLIP REDGILL IS FORCED TO RAISE THE WIND TO PAY HIS DEBTS TO CAPT. JACK, AND IN WHICH THE READER BEHOLDS THE PHANTOM LEGS, AND IS INTRODUCED TO THE SKELETON BARBER.
Notwithstanding his robbery of Charley Warbeck, Phillip Redgill had not near enough of money wherewith to pay the heavy debt Capt. Jack had against him.
Which way to turn he knew not.
“I must do ‘something,’ or I shall swing on a gibbet in less than a month’s time.
“Oh, there’s no earthly hope of raising the wind ‘out of him,’” thought Phillip, in regard to his father, “and I know not how to manage the matter. Let me see!” and he went on with his calculations very rapidly. “How strange it is that those who borrow will seldom lend in return! Among all my acquaintance I know of none who at all seem inclined to accommodate me. They entertain no doubt of my honesty, so they say; but as to lending a fellow a thousand or two, that is out of the question. Well, I must either post up the money or swing and lose the four hundred already gained. I have three clear days yet. I’ll have a glass of brandy and think awhile.”
The brandy and a good French dinner wonderfully enlightened Mr. Phillip’s faculties, for he had but just pulled off his coat for a comfortable snooze ere a bright thought flashed across his mind.
“Why didn’t I think of it before? Why, there’s old Sir Andrew, the money-lender and insurance broker! Just the man, by Jupiter! If he fails, why then I’m done. I’ll go to him at once.”
Old Sir Andrew was one of those “very smart” men, an insurance office president, who had sprung from nothing, but had become possessed of very large means, acquired rapidly, and none could imagine how.
A constant church attendant, and economical in his donations to “charities,” he was generally considered to be one of the pillars of his church, and a particular strong man on ’Change, whenever he deigned to visit that extensive gambling salon.
From the number of persons who had constantly visited his offices in times past, it was shrewdly imagined he had done a considerable amount of very close “shaving” in bill discounting, and, perhaps, was not over scrupulous, or troubled with many qualms of conscience in financial transactions.
This was the individual to whom Phillip applied in his emergency.
“Again?” asked Sir Andrew, when he recognized his visitor; “come again, so soon? Why, dear me, Phillip, what can the matter be? Take a seat. Oh, that’s it, eh? want £5,000 for a week! Phew! young man, you talk as if pounds could be picked up in the street. Why, bless you, I haven’t got such a sum by me; besides, you owe me £10,000 already, for which you have given nothing but promissory notes, with interest, on the death of your father, and that event looks as distant as ever, judging by his ruddy countenance and activity on ’Change the other day. Your father is speculating very extensively of late; but no one knows, in these squally times, how speculations may turn out. Things are not what they used to be, Mr. Phillip; every man with two or three hundreds in his pocket, gambles in stock now, and, if things continue as they have been going on for the past six months, I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear of our banks closing, and to go ‘popping’ off all round us like fire crackers. It can’t be done, sir; I have been unwise in lending you money at all, perhaps, on such precarious terms; and really, if I were to speak the truth, Mr. Phillip, a little less of horse-racing, wine parties, ‘ladies’ in satin, and so forth, would greatly improve you, both morally and physically. But young men will be young men, you know,” added old Sir Andrew, with a peculiar look which gave the lie to all his affected modesty and sanctity. “Why not try the Jews? Your worthy father’s name is good, you know,” added the money-lender, with a grin; “but I suppose you have written his name instead of your own sufficiently often, perhaps, eh? Ha! ha! Well, well, don’t fret and bite your nails. You wish he was in heaven, you meant to say. Well, I hope we shall all get there one of these days, but it is very tight times on ’Change, I can assure you. Why, a young man like you should have ingenuity enough, I think, to raise such an amount as that, without much trouble! There are plenty of men who would jump at the chance of obliging you, Phillip; particularly as you will be very rich one of these days. Ha! ha!”
Despite the utmost importunity, old Sir Andrew was inexorable, and smiled at the disappointment, rage, and revenge, which evidently flashed from the young man’s eyes; for, although he begged for favours which were not granted, and loathed the very person from whom he had expected to receive them, yet he dared not give vent to his almost suffocating fury, for old Sir Andrew, mild-spoken, and perfectly at ease, held forged papers in his possession, which hung over Phillip’s head as the sword of Damocles.
“I wish I could poison the old miser,” muttered the youth, walking back towards his apartments in high dudgeon. “I’ll make a ‘smash’ somewhere before the week is out, if I swing for it.”
He must have cash from somewhere, he thought, so determined to do that which many “very smart” men had the reputation for having done during life—namely, to get money by any adroit means that should escape detection and proof, or, at most, only injure his “name”—for your greatest rogues, after all, he thought, are usually the greatest “sticklers” for so-called “honour” and “reputation.”
“What’s the difference if you are not found out?” he muttered. “Who can point out to one honest man? The true secret of success is to get all you can, and keep all you get. How many can say the foundation of their prosperity was laid in undisputed honesty?
“How would the best of us fare if justice was fairly meted out to all?
“‘Go as close to the gaol as you please; but don’t go in!’ is the maxim in our times. Rich men’s knavery consigns them to the ease and luxuriance of a palace. Poor men, for the same, may rot in dungeons. ‘Do whatever you please, but don’t get found out,’ is the practical philosophy of the day. Those who succeed, retire upon large fortunes, and are austere bigots and pillars of hypocrisy; those who fail, are cuffed and kicked, and never stop rolling until they roll into the grave.”
Thus mused Mr. Phillip Redgill, bent on fresh crime.
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Chapter XXV
PHILLIP REDGILL CONTINUES TO PLAY HIS GAME OF VILLANY—HE DETERMINES TO MARRY AN HEIRESS—THE DISCOVERY OF FALSE NOTES IN THE MONEY-SAFE AT THE INDIA HOUSE—CHARLEY’S REMORSE AND CONFESSION—“LET NOT THE INNOCENT SUFFER FOR THE GUILTY.”
One would have thought that such ill success in his system of villany in thus becoming the slave of Captain Jack would have been a very practical, as it certainly was a very expensive lesson to young Redgill, seeing that he had agreed to pay the great thief-taker five thousand pounds for his silence. Yet, instead of cooling, it only seemed to irritate Phillip, and to such a degree, that he was not sober one day for a whole week after his interview with the renowned thief-taker; but, nevertheless, bore up under his losses with the airs of an honest millionaire.
His father was rich, every one said, and had ships at sea, which, laden with teas and silks, were on their way from China.
“The old man won’t be nice to a thousand or two when they arrive. Why, old Sir Andrew’s office has insured them for five hundred thousand pounds, so their cargoes must be worth a trifle! Go a-head, father! make all the cash you can—I’ll manage to spend it for you when you drop off the books.”
It was certainly true that Mr. Redgill, senior, had extensive dealings on ’Change, for in the single item of two ships homeward bound he held insurance policies for not less, as we have said, than five hundred thousand pounds.
“What a good thing it would be if young Redgill could manage to marry my only daughter, Fanny! I’d see if it can’t be done,” thought the miserly old Sir Andrew. “It would be a capital match! But I see a great many fond parents have the same idea in regard to their daughters, judging from the endless invitations to balls, &c., Phillip is continually receiving. He’ll be a fine ‘catch’ for some one. I’ll see what can be done in that matter, and consult with ‘my lady.’”
Old Sir Andrew’s consultation with “his lady” was so far successful that Phillip and Fanny were soon on most excellent terms; but as she was “anything but a beauty,” even when assisted by paints, flowers, silks, and false hair, many gallants about town, of inquisitive turn of mind, were unable to imagine the reasons which had determined so good-looking a young man as Phillip Redgill to pay such strict court to her.
The truth was that Phillip wanted “money,” and was greatly embarrassed.
He even desired the match, hoping thus to draw heavily both on her father and his own!
But, although he pressed his suit with much ardour, the intended marriage was always postponed at Redgill, senior’s, request.
But if Mr. Phillip Redgill could withstand his losses and disappointments in his career of crime with so much equanimity of temper, and even propose to himself matrimony as a solace for all his losses, it was not so with Charley Warbeck.
When that young gentleman, full of repentance, had calmly reflected upon his perilous situation, he was filled with alarm, and trembled for the fate which must surely overtake him.
He attended the India House as usual, but day by day he became more deathly pale.
His limbs seemed to have lost all strength, and he moved to and fro with unsteady gait and aching heart.
As often as he approached the huge iron safe where, in a moment of madness, he had cleverly placed a packet of false notes in lieu of those he had lost, in order to lull suspicion for a time, he became dizzy from excitement, and could scarcely stand.
Remorse and shame were punishing him more fearfully than actual imprisonment could have done.
When the day arrived upon which the India House usually issued a statement of their affairs, he was in a high fever, and, despite all remonstrance from his good old landlady, Dame Worthington, and old Sir Richard Warbeck, he persisted in going to the India House as usual, and even counterfeited gaiety.
The accounts soon showed a large deficit, and a buzz of astonishment was heard among all the clerks.
The directors of the India House seemed undisturbed, nor did they betray any token of great concern.
They smiled as blandly as before, and even joked with the terrified clerks, who were unable to speak, for all of them were implicated in suspicion, and none could imagine on whose head should rightly fall the actual guilt.
Each was distrustful of the other.
Towards the close of business hours Charley became really ill, but as he had been unwell for several days previous, no remark was passed upon his going home earlier than usual.
Excitement caused fever, and the latter superinduced lightness and flightiness of the mind.
In truth he was not now sane.
When he entered the house, Dame Worthington gazed upon him for a few moments, and then burst into tears.
He was unable to walk upstairs, hence the good old dame led him into the snug parlor, and put him to bed there upon the couch, and sent for medical assistance.
The whole house was astonished at the sudden and dangerous change in the young man, and when Clara Haylark heard of it, she rushed downstairs in great haste, and proffered her services in any way in which they might prove useful—for Clara had a lurking suspicion that her curls and captivating ways might have had a little something to do with Charley’s sudden indisposition.
At least she intimated as much to her mother, in answer to a query; for she solemnly sighed, turned up her eyes with eloquent meaning, and said, “Poor Charles! I’m sure he cannot blame me, mother dear!” and covered her face—the little hypocrite—with a lace-edged handkerchief!
For several days Charles remained half demented and in high fever.
Dame Worthington, for reasons to be hereafter made known—and good ones, too—was crazed with care, and scarcely left him for one moment, either by night or day, but carefully watched his bedside with more than maternal care.
Mistress Haylark, the fair Clara’s mother, also was loud in her advice, and concocted various little palatable dishes and drinks, which Clara, in her curls, and with a serio-comic voice and gesture, administered to the patient with great grace of manner and captivating attitude.
She would read to him, and tell him stories, Dame Worthington always being present, sitting in her chair at a distance, in the shadows of the room, rocking herself in thought, and gazing with a look of care and anxiety upon her “poor, sick boy,” and when Charles was able to move about again, Clara would invariably go to the harp and play a few soft, plaintive airs, which soothed her patient, and won his affection more deeply than the index of his eyes had ever before betrayed to the gay and light-hearted Clara.
At the close of an afternoon spent in this manner, and his courage being greatly stimulated by a glass of brandy prescribed by the doctor, Charley said, “Oblige me, Clara, by singing that beautiful air again.”
His accents seemed so earnest that, as Clara complied, her voice and fingers trembled with unusual excitement.
At the close of the piece, no one being nigh, Charles approached her, and without a gesture of warning, kissed her!
She rose as if shot, looked at him inquiringly for a moment, burst into tears, and left the room!
No one could imagine why Clara absented herself from the parlour for several days following, and not even her mother—although, from the soft and mysterious conversations held by Mistress Haylark and Dame Worthington upon the landings, and in the passages, on several occasions, it was apparent that womanly sagacity had intuitively suggested the real facts to their minds, although they only smiled and nodded and winked in that peculiar manner known to mothers and very elderly persons.
Sir Richard Warbeck, it may be taken for granted, was not remiss in visiting his protegé, but evinced the greatest anxiety for his health and speedy recovery.
His visits were daily, and he always brought some trifle which might be grateful to a sick palate; but Mistress Haylark—that aged thermometer of passing events—always noticed that Dame Worthington always was in unusual spirits upon his coming, but suddenly depressed whenever he departed.
There was “something mysterious” between them, Mistress Haylark thought, but what it was it seemed impossible to divine.
As Clara seemed to be constantly in high spirits, and delighted always in company with the good-looking Charley, Mistress Haylark began to assume airs of great matronly dignity, and, if the truth must be told, confessed that she began to feel older and older every day, and that “her sole thought was concerning the future happiness of her darling beautiful daughter.”
Mesdames Haylark and Worthington became almost inseparable and extremely confidential, and on one occasion, when Mistress Haylark complained of a pain in her stomach and would have gone upstairs for “a thimbleful” of ginger wine, Dame Worthington vehemently protested, and forthwith introduced her old family specific from “the top shelf, behind the pickles,” forty drops of which, slightly diluted with water, effectually relieved all pain, and threw them both into such high spirits, that they continued discussing family and household affairs and secrets, until long after the church clocks had chimed the hour of midnight.
But while Charley is recovering, under the combined effects of love, philosophy, and kind treatment, the Directors of the India House have been assiduous in their endeavours to trace out the true depositor of the packet of counterfeit bank notes.
They went to work very quietly and coolly, but despite their own, and the hawk-eyed exertions of clever detectives—Captain Jack among the rest—they were wholly unable to fasten solid suspicion upon any one of their employées.
An anonymous note, evidently written in a counterfeit hand, and signed “R,” startled them.
Charley was the person pointed at by the unknown correspondent; but Sir Richard Warbeck and others who were consulted would not believe the insinuation, and the matter seemed to drop indefinitely.
Charley, being fully recovered in body, returned to the India House as usual, and was received with tokens of much respect by all the directors.
He attempted to appear gay; but all his endeavours were vain.
He was not the same person he had been, and could not look any one fairly in the face without evident effort.
There was a worm at his heart gnawing deeply, daily and hourly.
From being a gay, light-hearted youth, of fresh colour and dashing manner, as he had always been before he knew Phillip Redgill, he now appeared like a person of age, on whose shoulders a heavy weight was pressing.
Some thought it might arise from an unfortunate disappointment in love affairs; but these hints he parried with a faint smile, and attempted to joke in his old manner.
One morning a young, bright-faced clerk was called into the Directors’ Council Room, and returned therefrom looking very pale, and with large tears standing in his eyes.
“Good day, Charley,” said he to Warbeck, with much emotion. “I’m going; they don’t want me any longer. I’ve done nothing wrong, you know; they lay no charge against me, yet I feel certain that they have formed wrong suspicions against me, on account of the unfortunate packet of counterfeit notes that was substituted for good ones in the safe a month or two ago. Good day, my boy; this will break my poor old mother’s heart. She has no one to depend upon but me. I am lost, ruined, disgraced!”
The youth leaned upon the counter, shading his face, and tears flowed from him fast and hot.
His breast heaved convulsively, and he would have fallen from weakness but that Charles placed him in a chair, and gazed upon his guileless face long and intently.
Charley’s features wore a ghastly smile.
His lips became bloodless and blue, and quivered with emotion as he attempted to speak.
He could not speak, however, for his voice faltered, and the words stuck in his throat.
Loosening his cravat to avoid a sense of strangulation, to which of late he had become sometimes subject, he seized the youth by the arm with an iron grip, and striding towards the Directors’ Council Room.
“Come with me,” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, hollow-toned voice, “come with me! You shall not suffer for the deeds of others! Gentlemen,” he began when he had shut the door and stood before the Board of Directors, “gentlemen, I wish to say a few words before this young man leaves the India House. I wish to inform you——”
He caught the eye of old Sir Richard Warbeck gazing intently at him, and his courage failed him.
Summoning all his energy, with a great effort he approached to lean upon the council-table, and, casting his eyes upon the ground, continued, amid a solemn silence,
“I wish to inform you that I alone am answerable for the charge brought against, or supposed to exist, against this young man. I lost the money, and replaced the amount with a packet of false notes—no one else. I acknowledge it was my intention to have confessed it all on the following day. I have never had or spent a single penny of the amount, but lost it all by some unaccountable means the same evening on which I neglected to return to the India House. Prosecute me, and I will suffer cheerfully; anything is better than the hellish remorse which I have already suffered. But do not—do not, I beg of you, harbour suspicions against this sinless youth, on whose labour and reputation a poor widowed mother depends for bread!”
Charley Warbeck sank into a chair, and wept like a child.
The Board of Directors were astonished at such an unexpected disclosure from one of their favourite and much-trusted clerks, and sat for many minutes in mute surprise and profound reflection.
Chapter XXVI
THE PHANTOM LEGS—PHILLIP REDGILL CONTINUES HIS CAREER OF VILLANY—HIS FRIEND CAPTAIN JACK—YOUNG REDGILL’S MOTIVES FOR MARRYING—THE SUDDEN DEATH OF HIS FATHER—WHO CAUSED IT?—CHARLEY WARBECK IN PRISON—HE IS VISITED BY HIS FALSE FRIEND PHILLIP.
The sudden disclosure so much appalled Sir Richard Warbeck that he hung his head, and was unconscious when Charles was led away by two burly, rough-looking men.
His first impulse was to rush to Dame Worthington’s, and seek for him there; but on arriving, of course, found him not at home.
His agitation and tears filled the poor, fond old woman with alarm, for, from what she could gather she imagined that Charles had been taken violently ill, or, what was far worse, perhaps had died!
When Sir Richard had explained everything to her, she screamed, and sank into a fit; and Mistress Haylark, dashing into the apartment, stood almost petrified to find him supporting her in his arms, and addressing her with words of endearment.
Clara was the next one to appear upon the scene, and, in her curl-papers, struck several melo-dramatic attitudes, and gracefully sank into the arm-chair, where she gave vent to a volley of ejaculations, and relieved her young feelings in a genuine flood of tears.
* * * * *
Phillip Redgill, when informed of the affair, was consulting his intended father-in-law regarding his prospective marriage with Fanny, and heard the news with indifference, or at most with a great display of affected surprise.
“Don’t say so! Charley, eh? Ah! he always was fond of fast living! That’s what comes of going beyond one’s means. I have learned that long ago. Poor fellow! confessed it, eh? Well, he was an ass and no mistake. His prospects are gone, and no mistake. Not half-a-dozen Sir Richard Warbecks will ever re-instate him again. But about our business, Sir Andrew. As I was saying, I am devilish short, upon my word; haven’t a coin in the world, and the ‘old man’ refuses to come up; I have asked him. I shall be rich, as you know, one of these days. Now these two young Warbecks are out of the way, old Sir Richard is sure to make me his heir.”
“Ah, it is a great pity! So much comes of living beyond one’s means. What would you have done, Phillip, if I were to have let those prettily executed pieces of paper signed by you in your father’s name have gone floating about, eh?” said old Sir Andrew, grinning.
“Oh, never mind all that, you know. I am an altered man now, you see. I am going to marry and settle shortly. I have sown all my wild oats, and shall prove an exemplary member of society, you know—a member of parliament, or something of that sort, see if I don’t. But how about the ships Eclipse and Racehorse? Didn’t my father insure them in your office? I thought so—for £500,000, I believe. Lord! they tell me they have splendid cargoes of silks and teas on board. The last we heard of them they were sailing in company and had put into Pernambuco for water and supplies. The ‘old man’ will make a pretty penny by that ‘spec.,’ see if he don’t, and then I may expect him to sign my marriage contract. But, in the meantime, good Sir Andrew, let me have a thousand or two—say £5,000; that ain’t much, you know. I want it for a special purpose. Come, open your heart for once, old fellow, you’ll be my father-in-law soon, I hope.”
Sir Andrew, the old usurer, did open his heart, and in view of the expected marriage between Phillip and Fanny, his only daughter, let the intended husband have the amount he required.
Phillip passed a few moments with his “intended,” in the garden, but left the house suddenly. But why did he leave his intended bride so hurriedly?
The reason was this:
While with one arm round Fanny’s waist he was poring soft nothings in the ear of his intended bride, and forgetful for the moment of all the villany and ruin he had committed in the world, the startled maiden screamed aloud in horror.
Phillip, drawing his sword, and, while supporting the fainting maid, turned suddenly, and, to his amazement, beheld within a few feet of him the “Phantom legs.”
The blood was frozen in his heart as he heard the ominous words,
“Phillip Redgill, I follow you forever.” (See cut in No. 6).
With superhuman exertion he conducted Sir Andrew’s daughter in a fainting state to the mansion again, and assured the affrighted maiden that what she had seen was all imagination. But, meanwhile, filled with terror at the memory of old Bertram’s murder, he left the house, trembling and pale, intent upon drowning his feelings in wine.
His steps were directed to a flash gambling-house where he lost considerably at cards; and, if the truth must be confessed, he spent the rest of the night at a house of bad repute, in company of Captain Jack and others, indulging in expensive wines and general debauchery.
Having spent most of his money, except what he had paid to Captain Jack, he visited Charles Warbeck in prison, and condoled with him in an off-handed manner, and at the same time mentally chuckling at his own superior tact, and cursing Charley’s simplicity, or, as he termed it, his “stupidity.”
“Why couldn’t he have kept it to himself; he could never be found out, the fool? Conscience be hanged! Whoever heard of such a thing in these days? Well, I’m all right, that’s all I care about, let every one look after themselves; a rogue is honest till found out. If a man betrays himself, so much the bigger fool he is, say I.”
Phillip’s visit of consolation was of short duration, and as he departed from the prison walls he mused,
“So my father refuses to sanction this marriage, for some time, and for ‘special reasons,’ does he? What can be his ‘special reasons?’ He says he’s ‘considerably involved, and wishes to see his way clear first;’ the same old tune! Fathers are always the same; he never did coincide with any ideas of mine, the old brute! Well, never mind, he can’t last long, that’s certain; and I don’t think it would take much trouble to put him out of the way, if all comes to all! Lord! what a fine time I should have then, eh? I don’t care about old Sir Andrew’s daughter, not a particle; she’s rich and that’s the main point now-a-days.”
With these thoughts Phillip visited his grey-haired father, whom he found sitting before his office fire, gazing at the glowing embers, and buried in deep thought.
“How the wind blows to-night, Phillip! how fearfully it blows! I wonder how the sea is to-night? Is it rough weather, think you? How is it, stormy say you? Does the telegraph say so? The ‘Racehorse’ and ‘Eclipse’ must be fairly in the channel, or near it by this time, what think you? I hope they’ll get through safely, Phillip; if they were to go——!”
“What then?” asked Phillip, laughingly; “your prospects are not centred solely in them, surely?”
“Ah, my son, you know nothing of business yet, I see. All my prospects are in those ships, and if anything befalls them, I am ru—!”
“Oh, the old story,” thought Phillip, and was so disgusted that he made his visit of very short duration, and, taking up his hat, left his father’s offices in profound disgust.
“These old fogies never will learn wisdom,” thought he. “As if the ships aren’t fully insured—what stuff! If the old driveller don’t come up to taw, I’ll soon put him out of the way, and no mistake. His tune has always been the same for the past five years—always on the point of bankruptcy, and yet always making no end of money! Well, well, I’m tired of it—he shan’t keep me like a beggar much longer, I know!” And he paced up and down the street for some time in profound reflection.
* * * * *
Mr. Redgill, senior, went to his offices on the following morning as hale and hearty as ever, and appeared on ’Change the same as he had already done for many years before.
Telegrams from different parts of the coast, both north and south, confirmed previous rumours that the severe gale of the past few days had been unusually destructive, and that many vessels were reported wrecked or stranded. Several fast-sailing ships, which arrived the same morning, reported having passed the “Racehorse” and “Eclipse” off the Irish coast, “all well.”
This news cheered the old man up so much that he consented to dine and go out with Phillip for an evening drive.
On the following morning newspapers detailed “the sad and unexpected death of the famous merchant, Mr. Redgill, who was thrown from his vehicle and drowned the previous evening, while riding with his only son, Phillip, the pair of horses having taken fright and ran away.”
The account added that “Mr. Redgill, jun., had a miraculous escape, but, with wonderful agility, he leaped from the conveyance and saved himself, the horses and carriage, with his father, having tumbled into the Thames, and were drowned!”
XXVII. OLD NETTLES IS SHAVED BY TWO OF THE SKELETON CREW
A barber’s has been often, and very wisely, called a “gossiping shop.”
If this is true of tonsorial establishments in town, it is particularly of such places in a village.
In a hamlet, or small town, the barber knows all the news, the latest joke, and the newest scandal.
There is nothing that he does not know, in fact.
No item ever escapes the “professor” who cuts your hair, or shaves you.
Thus thought old Nettles, the tavern-keeper, a few days after the eventful and dreadful conflict between Wildfire Ned and the Skeleton Crew, on the ocean.
For many miles around there were wild rumours of the ferocious battle which had taken place.
But no two persons had the same tale to tell.
Some said that Death-wing had killed young Ned Warbeck.
Others swore that Death-wing and most of his crew had been drowned.
But old Nettles knew differently.
Yes; but how?
Through the agency of Sea-Hawk and his smuggler band.
For when Sea-Hawk and his party had been decoyed on to, and afterwards beaten away from the Phantom Ship, they rowed rapidly to their cave again.
Later in the night, however, the sounds of distant fire-arms, and the booming of cannon over the ocean aroused their curiosity.
They took to their boats again, and sallied forth.
At a respectful distance from the scene of conflict, the Smuggler Chief had witnessed all, and was not slow to inform his old companion, Nettles, of the particulars.
When, therefore, Nettles went into the village-barber’s shop to get shaved, the tonsorial professor was very loquacious, and, at great length, told him all he had heard about the conflict.
“Don’t be such an ass, Mr. Barber,” said Nettles, waiting for his turn. “Don’t be such an ass as to tell such idle tales. I tell thee that Ned Warbeck or Wildfire Ned was not killed, nor brave Lieutenant Garnet either, for Ned rescued Lord Walton’s sister from the sinking ship, and she is now safe and sound at the abbey again.”
“Thee doesna’ mean that ’ere, Maister Nettles, does thee?” said the astonished barber.
“Yes; but I do though, and more nor that I did hear that the king has raised Wildfire Ned to the rank of a lieutenant in the navy, and has given him the command of a rakish, fast-sailing, ten-gun sloop of war, and that at this very moment he is cruising about on the bright look-out for this Skeleton Crew, what remains of ’em, and a pretty overhauling they’ll get, too, if Wildfire Ned should fall foul on ’em.”
“But they do say these skeletons are invincible, Maister Nettles,” the barber remarked, “and can’t be hurt by anything.”
“All stuff,” said Nettles, contemptuously. “I dare say they don’t like hard knocks no more than common folk, if the truth was known. I don’t fear none on ’em, if they did set fire to my tavern.”
“They say they be all charmed, maister?”
“So I’ve hearn; but don’t believe it. The Red Man of the Gibbet is worse than all on ’em.”
“How so?”
“Why he were one o’ the founders on ’em, and the story goes that he gets out of his gibbet at certain times, and plies his trade.”
“His trade! Why what does thee mean, Maister Nettles?”
“Mean! Why, didn’t thee hear; the Red Man o’ the Gibbet had been—once on a time—a barber.”
“A barber! Lor’ bless the man! thee can’t mean that.”
“I do, though. He were once a barber, and cut the throat of a nobleman for his money.”
“Awful!”
“Yes, and afore they caught him he joined the Skeleton Crew, but was afterwards gibbeted; but that didn’t seem to concern him much, for they say he can get out at certain times and seasons, and goes on the spree.”
“On the spree! What! a sperit goo on the spree, Maister Nettles?”
“So they say; but I can never believe it, nor will I until I sees it with my own eyes.”
The conversation of Nettles with the village barber so much interested the open-mouthed villagers, that many lounged into the little shop to hear it.
This arose from the fact that all felt greatly interested in listening to his narrative of the brave and heroic exploits of young Warbeck on sea and land, and especially interesting at the present time, since it was whispered that old Sir Richard Warbeck at the Hall was in deep grief through the sad disgrace which Charley, Ned’s elder brother, had fallen into lately in London.
The sudden disappearance of the miller’s daughter, the horrible murder of her rustic lover, the escape of Bob Bertram from prison, and the half strangulation of the sexton, parish clerk, and others in the belfry by the Skeleton Crew, all tended to heighten the interest of any remarks old Nettles might make.
This was more so when it was well known that the old tavern-keeper had actually fought a battle with the terrible Death-wing and his gang,
With staring eyes and open mouths, they listened to Nettles, who gratified his audience with most alarming stories of the Skeleton Crew, so much so as to make many of them tremble in their shoes.
It was now Nettles “turn” to be shaved.
He sat in the chair, and a small boy placed a napkin under his chin.
Yet all the while he was laughing at the villagers about their childish hobgoblin notions regarding the Skeleton Crew.
They in turn began to laugh also, until the shop re-echoed with their boisterous merriment.
When the barber’s boy, lather-box and brush in hand, had half “soaped” Mr. Nettles, he gave a sudden shout of alarm and dropped his utensils on the floor.
His hair stood on end with fright, and he trembled violently in every limb.
And well he might.
He cried for help.
But the barber and his audience rushed out of the shop yelling like lunatics at the sight they saw, leaving Nettles and the boy alone.
How it happened no one could imagine.
But while the valiant Nettles was discoursing about and jeering the many stories about Death-wing’s gang——
A skeleton appeared, razor in hand, and seized Nettles by the hair of his head!
Beside him, and grinning most horribly, stood the black spectre of the Red Man of the Gibbet, sharpening a razor on a strop attached to the wall (see Engraving in No. 7), and preparing to shave his enemy, old Nettles, the terrified tavern keeper.
More dead than alive, Nettles shook in every limb.
The barber’s boy collapsed all of a heap upon the floor, and was howling like a mad dog.
“Shave him!” said the black spectre, in sepulchral tones.
Nettles was almost melted into a jelly.
He was in the hands of his worst enemies.
What became of him we shall shortly see.
Chapter XVIII
PHILLIP REDGILL’S UNEXPECTED FORTUNE—HE IS ALONE IN THE WORLD—THE CORONER’S INQUEST OVER HIS FATHER—THE VERDICT—THE VILLAIN PURSUES HIS CAREER OF CRIME—SIR ANDREW’S DAUGHTER FANNY, AND WHAT SHE DID—THE PRANKS OF A KNAVE.
This event of his father’s death filled Phillip, apparently, with unbounded grief. He was so much afflicted that, at the coroner’s inquest, the body having been dragged for and recovered, he could scarcely articulate a word.
He averted his face from the corpse, and simply explained that “the mournful accident had happened by his father driving too close to the edge of the bridge; and the first intimation he had of danger was the sudden tilting of the vehicle and the falling of the horses, with his father, into the river.”
The verdict rendered by the coroner’s jury was “accidental drowning.”
The funeral of the much-respected deceased was attended by numbers of well-known merchants and brokers on ’Change, who condoled with Phillip upon his unexpected bereavement.
Old Sir Andrew appeared seated in the first coach as one of the chief mourners, and if the size of a white handkerchief was any index of the extent of his grief, Sir Andrew’s sorrow must have been of very extensive dimensions; for he held the said handkerchief to his face all the way to the cemetery and back, and sighed very often and emphatically.
He did not fail to preach a sermon on the way to Phillip, on the vanity of earthly things—the old hypocrite!—but that youth simply sighed hypocritically, and, if the truth must be told, felt extremely glad that his parent was laid in the grave.
“I know what old Sir Andrew’s about!” mused Phillip, as they rode home from the funeral; “he can’t fool me! he wants me to marry his daughter, eh? What an idea! I’m not fool enough to think of such a thing now—of course not! Marry her?—Such a weazened-faced old maid as she is? Not I, indeed! All the governor’s property is mine, now! I have no more use for old Sir Andrew and his money-grubbing lot. I’m rich enough without him, and will marry some dashing belle when my father’s affairs are arranged, and fool Sir Andrew—he’ll see if I don’t!”
The truth is that Phillip had all along desired a marriage with Sir Andrew’s daughter for the sake of money only; but now that he was master of his own actions, and inheritor of all his father’s wealth, he instantly conceived different ideas.
When young Redgill had returned from the funeral, he discovered that Jacob Sloman, Esq., the lawyer, had already arrived to read the will, and, among the uninvited, was old Moss, the Jew.
Alter light refreshment, the company adjourned to the large parlour, where Mr. Sloman was busily engaged in arranging his papers.
Sir Andrew, and a dozen other gentlemen present, intimate friends and relations of the deceased, were loud in their praises of the defunct, and nothing could be said that was too good in honour of his many inestimable qualities.
He was—
“A model father!”
“An exemplary Christian!”
“An honest and irreproachable merchant!”
“Upright citizen!”
“Ornament to commerce!” &c., first one and then another remarked, until at last, Phillip began to imagine, for the first time in his life, that his father must have been much more than an “ordinary” gentleman.
When the will was read all the relations were much surprised to discover that nothing had been left them, and that everything had been bequeathed unreservedly to his only son, “after the payment of all just and honest debts.”
Sir Andrew, although not related, appeared much disappointed, yet, concealing his chagrin at receiving no token of his profound friendship for deceased, gave vent to his feelings by giving long and fatherly advice to the heir.
In truth, Mr. Sloman had scarcely finished reading the will, ere every one found they had important business elsewhere which required their instant attention, and did not stay one moment longer than necessary, to pay any more compliments to the memory of the “exemplary Christian” and “model father,” whom they had so loudly praised before the last will and testament had been read.
For several weeks Phillip visited but little, and many observed that his grief must be “really genuine,” or he would have appeared in company long before.
Many members of polite society called at his residence and left their cards, and among them not a few intriguing ambitious mothers, who had rather suddenly discovered the vast importance of Mr. Phillip Redgill, and of the unbounded friendship which they had “always” entertained for that “interesting, good-looking” young man.
Sir Andrew, it must be confessed, was not behind any of the “polite” circle in frequently calling upon “his young friend,” and giving him fatherly advice.
Yet he could not help grimly smiling at the “insiduous attempts,” as he termed it, of the many inquisitive, and industrious matrons, who were continually inviting the young man to sojourn with them for a few days, in order to “drive away his deep-seated melancholy,” and “make love to their daughters,” perhaps might have been added.
At least, Sir Andrew imagined so, and did not fail to inform his wife and daughter, who threw up their hands and eyes in holy horror at the “worldliness and unscrupulousness of certain parties!”
The true reason for Phillip’s non-appearance in society arose, not so much from “genuine grief,” or “deep-rooted melancholy,” at what all termed “the sad and lamentable bereavement,” as from anxiety to ascertain the true state of his father’s affairs.
In truth, he so much chafed under his confinement in the old house, and seemed so tremulous, that he never visited his father’s apartments without a thrill of horrible excitement, and would often jump out of bed at night, as if suddenly alarmed by dreadful apparitions.
He daily imbibed large draughts of brandy, and this resort seemed to cheer him.
But the practice grew upon him hourly, so that the brandy lost much of its customary effect, and he accordingly drank deeply to sustain his drooping spirits.
Not being one of the executors himself, he knew but little of his father’s indebtedness; but when he questioned old Moss, the money-lending Jew, on one occasion, regarding that point, the old Israelite said that “he would plainly tell him,” and remarked very solemnly—
“When all debts are paid, your father’s estates are not worth one penny! He was generally considered to be worth more than he really was. He sustained many losses, and kept afloat on credit! If the ‘Racehorse’ and ‘Eclipse’ safely arrive, there will be a little something for you, perhaps, when the cargoes are sold; but if they do not, there will not be a penny to spare. But, worse than all, many of us creditors, Phillip, will have to bite our fingers!”
It is unnecessary to say that this piece of confidential information surprised the young man considerably.
But not so much as might have been expected; for, from a careful study of his father’s books, he had arrived at something like the same conclusion himself.
“Well, there’s no help for it,” thought he, drinking deeply of the brandy, “It will be a month, at least, before lawyer Sloman and the executors can present a balance sheet—I’ll marry Sir Andrew’s daughter, Fanny!”
Phillip’s first visit to Sir Andrew after the funeral was of the most interesting nature.
The mother, “my lady,” embraced him as a son.
Sir Andrew shook him cordially by the hand, and heartily welcomed him once more beneath his roof.
But both parents soon vacated the apartment in favor of their daughter, whose rustling silk could plainly be heard approaching upon the stairs.
The meeting between the affianced was solemn and tender.
Fanny struck a captivating attitude upon entering the room, tottered slightly towards the sofa, holding a handkerchief to conceal her tears!
Phillip rushed forward to break her fall, clasped her round the waist, kissed her with great gallantry, and, amid many ejaculations of “Phillip, dear!” and “Fanny, my beloved!” the couple passed several hours in delightful child’s play.
Fanny’s irresistible toilet, made up as it was for the most part of paints, flowers, false hair, puff combs, hoops, and silk, played so powerfully upon the sensitive and innocent heart of Phillip Redgill, that as he gazed upon her bewitchingly enamelled features—as her fair head leaned lovingly and confidingly upon his manly breast, he determined to allow of little delay in marrying.
And this resolution he whispered fondly into the not unwilling ear of his loved one, who blushed and sighed, and put her lace-worked handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared absorbed in deep emotion and crimson confusion.
When consulted upon this matter that same evening in his library, Sir Andrew sat in his easy chair with much affected state, and played with his watch-chain and keys in a smiling, self-complacent manner.
“I couldn’t entertain any such project for the present; at least, not for one year, out of respect to Mr. Redgill, senior’s, memory, by which time you will have fully wound up your affairs, and perhaps think more seriously upon the point, Phillip.”
The coldness and calculation of old Sir Andrew simply had the effect of redoubling the ardour of the lovers, who sighed and condoled together on the proverbial “cruelty of parents” with much melo-dramatic tenderness.
Fanny did not confess it to her lover, but told “mamma” in confidence that she thought three months would be sufficiently long to postpone the event.
“For, who knows what may happen, mamma dear? I can’t get such a chance as dear Phillip every day. He is young, handsome, rich, and much courted. Who knows what might happen in twelve months?”
Phillip, on the other hand, had his own motives for hastening the marriage, and sought every opportunity to visit and make love to his affianced.
His eloquence and importunities were so impressive that he found the fair Fanny daily yielding to his arguments.
And, knowing that she possessed a great vein of romance in her disposition, he played upon it so effectually that she finally consented to a clandestine marriage.
“We can easily procure a ‘licence’ and get married a few miles out in the country without the old folks knowing anything about it, and then we can avow the act whenever we see that your cruel father will relent.”
In accordance with this plan Phillip procured a marriage licence.
Fanny met him, and, after two hours’ ride, they alighted at a small country town, and were privately married.
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No one knew them there, so that information could not be sent to town.
Having spent the day very pleasantly together, the young couple returned in the evening, and when she arrived home Miss Fanny informed her anxious and loving parents that “she had been spending a very pleasant day with an old schoolmate.”
Phillip called that same evening some time after Fanny’s return home, and, hypocrite as he was, assumed all the manners of one who had casually “dropped in” for a customary evening chat.
As usual, the old people retired into the inner drawing-room to allow the lovers to converse with freedom, and Sir Andrew came to the conclusion, in consideration of the unusually late hour at which Phillip departed home, that “the young couple were getting to like each other daily more and more, and would make a most excellent couple.”