Chapter III: The Ghost of Captain Brand (1)

_Being a Narrative of Certain Extraordinary Adventures that Befell Barnaby True, Esquire, of the Town of New York, in the Year 1753._

I

It is not so easy to tell why discredit should be cast upon a man because of something his grandfather may have done amiss, but the world, which is never over-nice in its discrimination as to where to lay the blame, is often pleased to make the innocent suffer instead of the guilty.

Barnaby True was a good, honest boy, as boys go, but yet was he not ever allowed altogether to forget that his grandfather had been that very famous pirate, Captain William Brand, who, after so many marvellous adventures (if one may believe the catchpenny stories and ballads that were writ about him), was murdered in Jamaica by Captain John Malyoe, the commander of his own consort, the _Adventure_ galley.

It hath never been denied, that ever I heard, that up to the time of Captain Brand's being commissioned against the South Sea pirates, he had always been esteemed as honest, reputable a sea-captain as could be. When he started out upon that adventure it was with a ship, the _Royal Sovereign_, fitted out by some of the most decent merchants of New York. Governor Van Dam himself had subscribed to the adventure, and himself had signed Captain Brand's commission. So, if the unfortunate man went astray, he must have had great temptation to do so; many others behaving no better when the opportunity offered in these far-away seas, when so many rich purchases might very easily be taken and no one the wiser.

To be sure those stories and ballads made our captain to be a most wicked, profane wretch; and if he were, why God knows he suffered and paid for it, for he laid his bones in Jamaica, and never saw his home or his wife or his daughter after he had sailed away on the _Royal Sovereign_ on that long, misfortunate voyage, leaving his family behind him in New York to the care of strangers.

At the time when Captain Brand so met his fate in Port Royal Harbor he had increased his flotilla to two vessels--the _Royal Sovereign_ (which was the vessel that had been fitted out for him in New York, a fine brigantine and a good sailer), and the _Adventure_ galley, which he had captured somewhere in the South Seas. This latter vessel he placed in command of a certain John Malyoe whom he had picked up no one knows where--a young man of very good family in England, who had turned red-handed pirate. This man, who took no more thought of a human life than he would of a broom straw, was he who afterwards murdered Captain Brand, as you shall presently hear.

With these two vessels, the _Royal Sovereign_ and the _Adventure_, Captain Brand and Captain Malyoe swept the Mozambique Channel as clear as a boatswain's whistle, and after three years of piracy, having gained a great booty of gold and silver and pearls, sailed straight for the Americas, making first the island of Jamaica and the harbor of Port Royal, where they dropped anchor to wait for news from home.

But by this time the authorities had been so stirred up against our pirates that it became necessary for them to hide their booty until such time as they might make their peace with the Admiralty Courts at home. So one night Captain Brand and Captain Malyoe, with two others of the pirates, went ashore with two great chests of treasure, which they buried somewhere on the banks of the Cobra River near the place where the old Spanish fort had stood.

What happened after the treasure was thus buried no one may tell. 'Twas said that Captain Brand and Captain Malyoe fell a-quarrelling and that the upshot of the matter was that Captain Malyoe shot Captain Brand through the head, and that the pirate who was with him served Captain Brand's companion after the same fashion with a pistol bullet through the body.

After that the two murderers returned to their vessel, the _Adventure_ galley, and sailed away, carrying the bloody secret of the buried treasure with them.

But this double murder of Captain Brand and his companion happened, you are to understand, some twenty years before the time of this story, and while our hero was but one year old. So now to our present history.

It is a great pity that any one should have a grandfather who ended his days in such a sort as this; but it was no fault of Barnaby True's, nor could he have done anything to prevent it, seeing he was not even born into the world at the time that his grandfather turned pirate, and that he was only one year old when Captain Brand so met his death on the Cobra River. Nevertheless, the boys with whom he went to school never tired of calling him "Pirate," and would sometimes sing for his benefit that famous catchpenny ballad beginning thus:

"Oh! my name was Captain Brand, A-sailing, And a-sailing; Oh! my name was Captain Brand, A-sailing free. Oh! my name was Captain Brand, And I sinned by sea and land, For I broke God's just command, A-sailing free."

'Twas a vile thing to sing at the grandson of so unfortunate a man, and oftentimes Barnaby True would double up his little fists and would fight his tormentors at great odds, and would sometimes go back home with a bloody nose or a bruised eye to have his poor mother cry over him and grieve for him.

Not that his days were all of teasing and torment, either; for if his comrades did sometimes treat him so, why then there were other times when he and they were as great friends as could be, and used to go a-swimming together in the most amicable fashion where there was a bit of sandy strand below the little bluff along the East River above Fort George.

There was a clump of wide beech-trees at that place, with a fine shade and a place to lay their clothes while they swam about, splashing with their naked white bodies in the water. At these times Master Barnaby would bawl as lustily and laugh as loud as though his grandfather had been the most honest ship-chandler in the town, instead of a bloody-handed pirate who had been murdered in his sins.

Ah! It is a fine thing to look back to the days when one was a boy! Barnaby may remember how, often, when he and his companions were paddling so in the water, the soldiers off duty would come up from the fort and would maybe join them in the water, others, perhaps, standing in their red coats on the shore, looking on and smoking their pipes of tobacco.

Then there were other times when maybe the very next day after our hero had fought with great valor with his fellows he would go a-rambling with them up the Bouwerie Road with the utmost friendliness; perhaps to help them steal cherries from some old Dutch farmer, forgetting in such an adventure what a thief his own grandfather had been.

But to resume our story.

When Barnaby True was between sixteen and seventeen years old he was taken into employment in the counting-house of his stepfather, Mr. Roger Hartright, the well-known West Indian merchant, a most respectable man and one of the kindest and best of friends that anybody could have in the world.

This good gentleman had courted the favor of Barnaby's mother for a long time before he had married her. Indeed, he had so courted her before she had ever thought of marrying Jonathan True. But he not venturing to ask her in marriage, and she being a brisk, handsome woman, she chose the man who spoke out his mind, and so left the silent lover out in the cold. But so soon as she was a widow and free again, Mr. Hartright resumed his wooing, and so used to come down every Tuesday and Friday evening to sit and talk with her. Among Barnaby True's earliest memories was a recollection of the good, kind gentleman sitting in old Captain Brand's double-nailed arm-chair, the sunlight shining across his knees, over which he had spread a great red silk handkerchief, while he sipped a dish of tea with a dash of rum in it. He kept up this habit of visiting the Widow True for a long time before he could fetch himself to the point of asking anything more particular of her, and so Barnaby was nigh fourteen years old before Mr. Hartright married her, and so became our hero's dear and honored foster-father.

It was the kindness of this good man that not only found a place for Barnaby in the counting-house, but advanced him so fast that, against our hero was twenty-one years old, he had made four voyages as supercargo to the West Indies in Mr. Hartright's ship, the _Belle Helen_, and soon after he was twenty-one undertook a fifth.

Nor was it in any such subordinate position as mere supercargo that he sailed upon these adventures, but rather as the confidential agent of Mr. Hartright, who, having no likelihood of children of his own, was jealous to advance our hero to a position of trust and responsibility in the counting-house, and so would have him know all the particulars of the business and become more intimately acquainted with the correspondents and agents throughout those parts of the West Indies where the affairs of the house were most active. He would give to Barnaby the best sort of letters of introduction, so that the correspondents of Mr. Hartright throughout those parts, seeing how that gentleman had adopted our hero's interests as his own, were always at considerable pains to be very polite and obliging in showing every attention to him.

Especially among these gentlemen throughout the West Indies may be mentioned Mr. Ambrose Greenfield, a merchant of excellent standing who lived at Kingston, Jamaica. This gentleman was very particular to do all that he could to make our hero's stay in these parts as agreeable and pleasant to him as might be. Mr. Greenfield is here spoken of with a greater degree of particularity than others who might as well be remarked upon, because, as the reader shall presently discover for himself, it was through the offices of this good friend that our hero first became acquainted, not only with that lady who afterwards figured with such conspicuousness in his affairs, but also with a man who, though graced with a title, was perhaps the greatest villain who ever escaped a just fate upon the gallows.

So much for the history of Barnaby True up to the beginning of this story, without which you shall hardly be able to understand the purport of those most extraordinary adventures that afterwards befell him, nor the logic of their consequence after they had occurred.

II

Upon the occasion of our hero's fifth voyage into the West Indies he made a stay of some six or eight weeks at Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, and it was at that time that the first of those extraordinary adventures befell him, concerning which this narrative has to relate.

It was Barnaby's habit, when staying at Kingston, to take lodging with a very decent, respectable widow, by name Mrs. Anne Bolles, who, with three extremely agreeable and pleasant daughters, kept a very clean and well-served house for the accommodation of strangers visiting that island.

One morning as he sat sipping his coffee, clad only in loose cotton drawers and a jacket of the same material, and with slippers upon his feet (as is the custom in that country, where every one endeavors to keep as cool as may be), Miss Eliza, the youngest of the three daughters--a brisk, handsome miss of sixteen or seventeen--came tripping into the room and handed him a sealed letter, which she declared a stranger had just left at the door, departing incontinently so soon as he had eased himself of that commission. You may conceive of Barnaby's astonishment when he opened the note and read the remarkable words that here follow:

"_Mr. Barnaby True._

"Sir,--Though you don't know me, I know you, and I tell you this: if you will be at Pratt's Ordinary on Friday next at eight o'clock in the evening, and will accompany the man who shall say to you, '_The Royal Sovereign is come in_' you shall learn of something the most to your advantage that ever befell you. Sir, keep this note and give it to him who shall address those words to you, so to certify that you are the man he seeks. Sir, this is the most important thing that can concern you, so you will please say nothing to nobody about it."

Such was the wording of the note which was writ in as cramped and villanous handwriting as our hero ever beheld, and which, excepting his own name, was without address, and which possessed no superscription whatever.

The first emotion that stirred Barnaby True was one of extreme and profound astonishment; the second thought that came into his mind was that maybe some witty fellow--of whom he knew a good many in that place, and wild, mad rakes they were as ever the world beheld--was attempting to play off a smart, witty jest upon him. Indeed, Miss Eliza Bolles, who was of a lively, mischievous temper, was not herself above playing such a prank should the occasion offer. With this thought in his mind Barnaby inquired of her with a good deal of particularity concerning the appearance and condition of the man who had left the note, to all of which Miss replied with so straight a face and so candid an air that he could no longer suspect her of being concerned in any trick against him, and so eased his mind of any such suspicion. The bearer of the note, she informed him, was a tall, lean man, with a red neckerchief tied around his neck and with copper buckles to his shoes, and he had the appearance of a sailor-man, having a great queue of red hair hanging down his back. But, Lord! what was such a description as that in a busy seaport town full of scores of men to fit such a likeness? Accordingly, our hero put the note away into his wallet, determining to show it to his good friend Mr. Greenfield that evening, and to ask his advice upon it.

This he did, and that gentleman's opinion was the same as his: to wit, that some wag was minded to play off a hoax upon him, and that the matter of the letter was all nothing but smoke.

III

Nevertheless, though Barnaby was thus confirmed in his opinion as to the nature of the communication he had received, he yet determined in his own mind that he would see the business through to the end and so be at Pratt's Ordinary, as the note demanded, upon the day and at the time appointed therein.

Pratt's Ordinary was at that time a very fine and famous place of its sort, with good tobacco and the best rum in the West Indies, and had a garden behind it that, sloping down to the harbor front, was planted pretty thick with palms and ferns, grouped into clusters with flowers and plants. Here were a number of tables, some in little grottos, like our Vauxhall in New York, with red and blue and white paper lanterns hung among the foliage. Thither gentlemen and ladies used sometimes to go of an evening to sit and drink lime-juice and sugar and water (and sometimes a taste of something stronger), and to look out across the water at the shipping and so to enjoy the cool of the day.

Thither, accordingly, our hero went a little before the time appointed in the note, and, passing directly through the Ordinary and to the garden beyond, chose a table at the lower end and close to the water's edge, where he could not readily be seen by any one coming into the place, and yet where he could easily view whoever should approach. Then, ordering some rum and water and a pipe of tobacco, he composed himself to watch for the arrival of those witty fellows whom he suspected would presently come thither to see the end of their prank and to enjoy his confusion.

The spot was pleasant enough, for the land breeze, blowing strong and cool, set the leaves of the palm-tree above his head to rattling and clattering continually against the darkness of the sky, where, the moon then being half full, they shone every now and then like blades of steel. The waves, also, were splashing up against the little landing-place at the foot of the garden, sounding mightily pleasant in the dusk of the evening, and sparkling all over the harbor where the moon caught the edges of the water. A great many vessels were lying at anchor in their ridings, with the dark, prodigious form of a man-of-war looming up above them in the moonlight.

There our hero sat for the best part of an hour, smoking his pipe of tobacco and sipping his rum and water, yet seeing nothing of those whom he suspected might presently come thither to laugh at him.

It was not far from half after the hour when a row-boat came suddenly out of the night and pulled up to the landing-place at the foot of the garden, and three or four men came ashore in the darkness. They landed very silently and walked up the garden pathway without saying a word, and, sitting down at an adjacent table, ordered rum and water and began drinking among themselves, speaking every now and then a word or two in a tongue that Barnaby did not well understand, but which, from certain phrases they let fall, he suspected to be Portuguese. Our hero paid no great attention to them, till by-and-by he became aware that they had fallen to whispering together and were regarding him very curiously. He felt himself growing very uneasy under this observation, which every moment grew more and more particular, and he was just beginning to suspect that this interest concerning himself might have somewhat more to do with him than mere idle curiosity, when one of the men, who was plainly the captain of the party, suddenly says to him, "How now, messmate; won't you come and have a drop of drink with us?"

At this address Barnaby instantly began to be aware that the affair he had come upon was indeed no jest, as he had supposed it to be, but that he had walked into what promised to be a very pretty adventure. Nevertheless, not wishing to be too hasty in his conclusions, he answered very civilly that he had drunk enough already, and that more would only heat his blood.

"Well," says the stranger, "I may be mistook, but I believe you are Mr. Barnaby True."

"You are right, sir, and that is my name," acknowledged Barnaby. "But still I cannot guess how that may concern you, nor why it should be a reason for my drinking with you." "That I will presently tell you," says the stranger, very composedly. "Your name concerns me because I was sent here to tell Mr. Barnaby True that '_the Royal Sovereign is come in_.'"

To be sure our hero's heart jumped into his throat at those words. His pulse began beating at a tremendous rate, for here, indeed, was an adventure suddenly opening to him such as a man may read about in a book, but which he may hardly expect to befall him in the real happenings of his life. Had he been a wiser and an older man he might have declined the whole business, instead of walking blindly into that of which he could see neither the beginning nor the ending; but being barely one-and-twenty years of age, and possessing a sanguine temper and an adventurous disposition that would have carried him into almost anything that possessed a smack of uncertainty or danger, he contrived to say, in a pretty easy tone (though God knows how it was put on for the occasion):

"Well, if that be so, and if the _Royal Sovereign_ is indeed come in, why, then, I'll join you, since you are so kind as to ask me." Therewith he arose and went across to the other table, carrying his pipe with him, and sat down and began smoking, with all the appearance of ease he could command upon the occasion.

At this the other burst out a-laughing. "Indeed," says he, "you are a cool blade, and a chip of the old block. But harkee, young gentleman," and here he fell serious again. "This is too weighty a business to chance any mistake in a name. I believe that you are, as you say, Mr. Barnaby True; but, nevertheless, to make perfectly sure, I must ask you first to show me a note that you have about you and which you are instructed to show to me."

"Very well," said Barnaby; "I have it here safe and sound, and you shall see it." And thereupon and without more ado he drew out his wallet, opened it, and handed the other the mysterious note which he had kept carefully by him ever since he had received it. His interlocutor took the paper, and drawing to him the candle, burning there for the convenience of those who would smoke tobacco, began immediately reading it.

This gave Barnaby True a moment or two to look at him. He was a tall, lean man with a red handkerchief tied around his neck, with a queue of red hair hanging down his back, and with copper buckles on his shoes, so that Barnaby True could not but suspect that he was the very same man who had given the note to Miss Eliza Bolles at the door of his lodging-house.

"'Tis all right and straight and as it should be," the other said, after he had so examined the note. "And now that the paper is read" (suiting his action to his words), "I'll just burn it for safety's sake."

And so he did, twisting it up and setting it to the flame of the candle. "And now," he said, continuing his address, "I'll tell you what I am here for. I was sent to ask if you're man enough to take your life in your hands and to go with me in that boat down yonder at the foot of the garden. Say 'Yes,' and we'll start away without wasting more time, for the devil is ashore here at Jamaica--though you don't know what that means--and if he gets ahead of us, why then we may whistle for what we are after, for all the good 'twill do us. Say 'No,' and I go away, and I promise you you shall never be troubled more in this sort of a way. So now speak up plain, young gentleman, and tell us what is your wish in this business, and whether you will adventure any further or no."

If our hero hesitated it was not for long, and when he spoke up it was with a voice as steady as could be.

"To be sure I'm man enough to go with you," says he; "and if you mean me any harm I can look out for myself; and if I can't, then here is something can look out for me." And therewith he lifted up the flap of his pocket and showed the butt of a pistol he had fetched with him when he had set out from his lodging-house that evening.

At this the other burst out a-laughing for a second time. "Come," says he; "you are indeed of right mettle, and I like your spirit. All the same, no one in all the world means you less ill than I, and so, if you have to use that barker, 'twill not be upon us who are your friends, but only upon one who is more wicked than the devil himself. So now if you are prepared and have made up your mind and are determined to see this affair through to the end, 'tis time for us to be away." Whereupon, our hero indicating his acquiescence, his interlocutor and the others (who had not spoken a single word for all this time), rose together from the table, and the stranger having paid the scores of all, they went down together to the boat that lay plainly awaiting their coming at the bottom of the garden.

Thus coming to it, our hero could see that it was a large yawl-boat manned by half a score of black men for rowers, and that there were two lanterns in the stern-sheets, and three or four shovels.

The man who had conducted the conversation with Barnaby True for all this time, and who was, as has been said, plainly the captain of the expedition, stepped immediately down into the boat; our hero followed, and the others followed after him; and instantly they were seated the boat shoved off and the black men began pulling straight out into the harbor, and so, at some distance away, around under the stern of the man-of-war.

Not a word was spoken after they had thus left the shore, and they might all have been so many spirits for the silence of the party. Barnaby True was too full of his own thoughts to talk (and serious enough thoughts they were by this time, with crimps to trepan a man at every turn, and press-gangs to carry him off so that he might never be heard of again). As for the others, they did not seem to choose to say anything now that they had been fairly embarked upon their enterprise, and so the crew pulled away for the best part of an hour, the leader of the expedition directing the course of the boat straight across the harbor, as though towards the mouth of the Cobra River. Indeed, this was their destination, as Barnaby could after a while see for himself, by the low point of land with a great, long row of cocoanut-palms growing upon it (the appearance of which he knew very well), which by-and-by began to loom up from the dimness of the moonlight. As they approached the river they found the tide was running very violently, so that it gurgled and rippled alongside the boat as the crew of black men pulled strongly against it. Thus rowing slowly against the stream they came around what appeared to be either a point of land or an islet covered with a thick growth of mangrove-trees; though still no one spoke a single word as to their destination, or what was the business they had in hand.

The night, now that they had come close to the shore, appeared to be full of the noises of running tide-water, and the air was heavy with the smell of mud and marsh. And over all was the whiteness of the moonlight, with a few stars pricking out here and there in the sky; and everything was so strange and mysterious and so different from anything that he had experienced before that Barnaby could not divest himself of the feeling that it was all a dream from which at any moment he might awaken. As for the town and the Ordinary he had quitted such a short time before, so different were they from this present experience, it was as though they might have concerned another life than that which he was then enjoying.

Meantime, the rowers bending to the oars, the boat drew slowly around into the open water once more. As it did so the leader of the expedition of a sudden called out in a loud, commanding voice, whereat the black men instantly ceased rowing and lay on their oars, the boat drifting onward into the night.

At the same moment of time our hero became aware of another boat coming down the river towards where they lay. This other boat, approaching thus strangely through the darkness, was full of men, some of them armed; for even in the distance Barnaby could not but observe that the light of the moon glimmered now and then as upon the barrels of muskets or pistols. This threw him into a good deal of disquietude of mind, for whether they or this boat were friends or enemies, or as to what was to happen next, he was altogether in the dark.

Upon this point, however, he was not left very long in doubt, for the oarsmen of the approaching boat continuing to row steadily onward till they had come pretty close to Barnaby and his companions, a man who sat in the stern suddenly stood up, and as they passed by shook a cane at Barnaby's companion with a most threatening and angry gesture. At the same moment, the moonlight shining full upon him, Barnaby could see him as plain as daylight--a large, stout gentleman with a round red face, and clad in a fine, laced coat of red cloth. In the stern of the boat near by him was a box or chest about the bigness of a middle-sized travelling-trunk, but covered all over with cakes of sand and dirt. In the act of passing, the gentleman, still standing, pointed at this chest with his cane--an elegant gold-headed staff--and roared out in a loud voice: "Are you come after this, Abram Dowling? Then come and take it." And thereat, as he sat down again, burst out a-laughing as though what he had said was the wittiest jest conceivable.

Either because he respected the armed men in the other boat, or else for some reason best known to himself, the Captain of our hero's expedition did not immediately reply, but sat as still as any stone. But at last, the other boat having drifted pretty far away, he suddenly found words to shout out after it: "Very well, Jack Malyoe! Very well, Jack Malyoe! You've got the better of us once more. But next time is the third, and then it'll be our turn, even if William Brand must come back from the grave to settle with you himself."

But to this my fine gentleman in t'other boat made no reply except to burst out once more into a great fit of laughter.

There was, however, still another man in the stern of the enemy's boat--a villanous, lean man with lantern-jaws, and the top of his head as bald as an apple. He held in his hand a great pistol, which he flourished about him, crying out to the gentleman beside him, "Do but give me the word, your honor, and I'll put another bullet through the son of a sea cook." But the other forbade him, and therewith the boat presently melted away into the darkness of the night and was gone.

This happened all in a few seconds, so that before our hero understood what was passing he found the boat in which he still sat drifting silently in the moonlight (for no one spoke for awhile) and the oars of the other boat sounding farther and farther away into the distance.

By-and-by says one of those in Barnaby's boat, in Spanish, "Where shall you go now?"

At this the leader of the expedition appeared suddenly to come back to himself and to find his tongue again. "Go?" he roared out. "Go to the devil! Go? Go where you choose! Go? Go back again--that's where well go!" And therewith he fell a-cursing and swearing, frothing at the lips as though he had gone clean crazy, while the black men, bending once more to their oars, rowed back again across the harbor as fast as ever they could lay oars to the water.

They put Barnaby True ashore below the old custom-house, but so bewildered and amazed by all that had happened, and by what he had seen, and by the names he had heard spoken, that he was only half conscious of the familiar things among which he suddenly found himself transported. The moonlight and the night appeared to have taken upon them a new and singular aspect, and he walked up the street towards his lodging like one drunk or in a dream. For you must remember that "John Malyoe" was the captain of the _Adventure_ galley--he who had shot Barnaby's own grandfather--and "Abram Dowling," I must tell you, had been the gunner of the _Royal Sovereign_--he who had been shot at the same time that Captain Brand met his tragical end. And yet these names he had heard spoken--the one from one boat, and the other from the other, so that he could not but wonder what sort of beings they were among whom he had fallen.

As to that box covered all over with mud, he could only offer a conjecture as to what it contained and as to what the finding of it signified.

But of this our hero said nothing to any one, nor did he tell any one what he suspected, for, though he was so young in years, he possessed a continent disposition inherited from his father (who had been one of ten children born to a poor but worthy Presbyterian minister of Bluefield, Connecticut), so it was that not even to his good friend Mr. Greenfield did Barnaby say a word as to what had happened to him, going about his business the next day as though nothing of moment had occurred.

But he was not destined yet to be done with those beings among whom he had fallen that night; for that which he supposed to be the ending of the whole affair was only the beginning of further adventures that were soon to befall him.

IV

Mr. Greenfield lived in a fine brick house just outside of the town, on the Mona Road. His family consisted of a wife and two daughters-- handsome, lively young ladies with very fine, bright teeth that shone whenever they laughed, and with a-plenty to say for themselves. To this pleasant house Barnaby True was often asked to a family dinner, after which he and his good kind host would maybe sit upon the veranda, looking out towards the mountain, smoking their cigarros while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon the guitar and sang.

A day or two before the _Belle Helen_ sailed from Kingston, upon her return voyage to New York, Mr. Greenfield stopped Barnaby True as he was passing through the office, and begged him to come to dinner that night. (For within the tropics, you are to know, they breakfast at eleven o'clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at mid-day, as we do in more temperate latitudes). "I would," says Mr. Greenfield, "have you meet Sir John Malyoe and Miss Marjorie, who are to be your chief passengers for New York, and for whom the state cabin and the two state-rooms are to be fitted as here ordered"--showing a letter--"for Sir John hath arranged," says Mr. Greenfield, "for the Captain's own state-room."

Then, not being aware of Barnaby True's history, nor that Captain Brand was his grandfather, the good gentleman--calling Sir John "Jack" Malyoe--goes on to tell our hero what a famous pirate he had been, and how it was he who had shot Captain Brand over t'other side of the harbor twenty years before. "Yes," says he, "'tis the same Jack Malyoe, though grown into repute and importance now, as who would not who hath had the good-fortune to fall heir to a baronetcy and a landed estate?"

And so it befell that same night that Barnaby True once again beheld the man who had murdered his own grandfather, meeting him this time face to face.

That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him closer, it seemed to him that he had never seen a countenance more distasteful to him in all his life. Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good enough nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out from his face and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always a-smarting. His lips were thick and purple-red, and his cheeks mottled here and there with little clots of veins.

When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat to such a degree that it made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. So, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips a-sticking out, it appeared to Barnaby True he had never beheld a countenance that pleased him so little.

But if Sir John Malyoe suited our hero's taste so ill, the granddaughter was in the same degree pleasing to him. She had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair--though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion--and the bluest eyes that ever he beheld in all of his life. A sweet, timid creature, who appeared not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to that great beast, her grandfather, for leave to do so, for she would shrink and shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a glance upon her. When she did pluck up sufficient courage to say anything, it was in so low a voice that Barnaby was obliged to bend his head to hear her; and when she smiled she would as like as not catch herself short and look up as though to see if she did amiss to be cheerful.

As for Sir John, he sat at dinner and gobbled and ate and drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word of civility either to Mr. Greenfield or to Mrs. Greenfield or to Barnaby True; but wearing all the while a dull, sullen air, as though he would say, "Your damned victuals and drink are no better than they should be, but, such as they are, I must eat 'em or eat nothing."

It was only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses off in a corner together that Barnaby heard her talk with any degree of ease. Then, to be sure, her tongue became loose enough, and she prattled away at a great rate; though hardly above her breath. Then of a sudden her grand-father called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was time to go, upon which she stopped short in what she was saying and jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though he were going to strike her with that gold-headed cane of his that he always carried with him.

Barnaby True and Mr. Greenfield both went out to see the two into their coach, where Sir John's man stood holding the lantern. And who should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head who had offered to shoot the Captain of Barnaby's expedition out on the harbor that night! For one of the circles of light shining up into his face, Barnaby True knew him the moment he clapped eyes upon him. Though he could not have recognized our hero, he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so much as touched his hat either to him or to Mr. Greenfield; but as soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach, banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver, and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time favoring both Barnaby and the old gentleman.

Such were Sir John Malyoe and his man, and the ill opinion our hero conceived of them was only confirmed by further observation.

The next day Sir John Malyoe's travelling-cases began to come aboard the _Belle Helen_, and in the afternoon that same lean, villanous man-servant comes skipping across the gangplank as nimble as a goat, with two black men behind him lugging a great sea-chest. "What!" he cries out, "and so you is the supercargo, is you? Why, to be sure, I thought you was more account when I saw you last night a-sitting talking with his honor like his equal. Well, no matter," says he, "'tis something to have a brisk, genteel young fellow for a supercargo. So come, my hearty, lend a hand and help me set his honor's cabin to rights."

What a speech was this to endure from such a fellow! What with our hero's distaste for the villain, and what with such odious familiarity, you may guess into what temper so impudent an address must have cast him. Says he, "You'll find the steward in yonder, and he'll show you the cabin Sir John is to occupy." Therewith he turned and walked away with prodigious dignity, leaving the other standing where he was.

As he went below to his own state-room he could not but see, out of the tail of his eye, that the fellow was still standing where he had left him, regarding him with a most evil, malevolent countenance, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had an enemy aboard for that voyage who was not very likely to forgive or forget what he must regard as so mortifying a slight as that which Barnaby had put upon him.

The next day Sir John Malyoe himself came aboard, accompanied by his granddaughter, and followed by his man, and he followed again by four black men, who carried among them two trunks, not large in size, but vastly heavy in weight. Towards these two trunks Sir John and his follower devoted the utmost solicitude and care to see that they were properly carried into the cabin he was to occupy. Barnaby True was standing in the saloon as they passed close by him; but though Sir John looked hard at him and straight in the face, he never so much as spoke a single word to our hero, or showed by a look or a sign that he had ever met him before. At this the serving-man, who saw it all with eyes as quick as a cat's, fell to grinning and chuckling to see Barnaby in his turn so slighted.

The young lady, who also saw it, blushed as red as fire, and thereupon delivered a courtesy to poor Barnaby, with a most sweet and gracious affability.

There were, besides Sir John and the young lady, but two other passengers who upon this occasion took the voyage to New York: the Reverend Simon Styles, master of a flourishing academy at Spanish Town, and his wife. This was a good, worthy couple of an extremely quiet disposition, saying little or nothing, but contented to sit in the great cabin by the hour together reading in some book or other. So, what with the retiring humor of the worthy pair, and what with Sir John Malyoe's fancy for staying all the time shut up in his own cabin with those two trunks he held so precious, it fell upon Barnaby True in great part to show that attention to the young lady that the circumstances demanded. This he did with a great deal of satisfaction to himself--as any one may suppose who considers a spirited young man of one-and-twenty years of age and a sweet and beautiful young miss of seventeen or eighteen thrown thus together day after day for above two weeks.

Accordingly, the weather being very fair and the ship driving freely along before a fine breeze, and they having no other occupation than to sit talking together all day, gazing at the blue sea and the bright sky overhead, it is not difficult to conceive of what was to befall.

But oh, those days when a man is young and, whether wisely or no, fallen into such a transport of passion as poor Barnaby True suffered at that time! How often during that voyage did our hero lie awake in his berth at night, tossing this way and that without finding any refreshment of sleep--perhaps all because her hand had touched his, or because she had spoken some word to him that had possessed him with a ravishing disquietude?

All this might not have befallen him had Sir John Malyoe looked after his granddaughter instead of locking himself up day and night in his own cabin, scarce venturing out except to devour his food or maybe to take two or three turns across the deck before returning again to the care of those chests he appeared to hold so much more precious than his own flesh and blood.

Nor was it to be supposed that Barnaby would take the pains to consider what was to become of it all, for what young man so situated as he but would be perfectly content to live so agreeably in a fool's paradise, satisfying himself by assigning the whole affair to the future to take care of itself. Accordingly, our hero endeavored, and with pretty good success, to put away from him whatever doubts might arise in his own mind concerning what he was about, satisfying himself with making his conversation as agreeable to his companion as it lay in his power to do.

So the affair continued until the end of the whole business came with a suddenness that promised for a time to cast our hero into the utmost depths of humiliation and despair.

At that time the _Belle Helen_ was, according to Captain Manly's reckoning, computed that day at noon, bearing about five-and-fifty leagues northeast-by-east off the harbor of Charleston, in South Carolina.

Nor was our hero likely to forget for many years afterwards even the smallest circumstance of that occasion. He may remember that it was a mightily sweet, balmy evening, the sun not having set above half an hour before, and the sky still suffused with a good deal of brightness, the air being extremely soft and mild. He may remember with the utmost nicety how they were leaning over the rail of the vessel looking out towards the westward, she fallen mightily quiet as though occupied with very serious thoughts.

Of a sudden she began, without any preface whatever, to speak to Barnaby about herself and her affairs, in a most confidential manner, such as she had never used to him before. She told him that she and her grandfather were going to New York that they might take passage thence to Boston, in Massachusetts, where they were to meet her cousin Captain Malyoe, who was stationed in garrison at that place. Continuing, she said that Captain Malyoe was the next heir to the Devonshire estate, and that she and he were to be married in the fall.

You may conceive into what a confusion of distress such a confession as this, delivered so suddenly, must have cast poor Barnaby. He could answer her not a single word, but stood staring in another direction than hers, endeavoring to compose himself into some equanimity of spirit. For indeed it was a sudden, terrible blow, and his breath came as hot and dry as ashes in his throat. Meanwhile the young lady went on to say, though in a mightily constrained voice, that she had liked him from the very first moment she had seen him, and had been very happy for these days she had passed in his society, and that she would always think of him as a dear friend who had been very kind to her, who had so little pleasure in her life.

At last Barnaby made shift to say, though in a hoarse and croaking voice, that Captain Malyoe must be a very happy man, and that if he were in Captain Malyoe's place he would be the happiest man in the world. Thereupon, having so found his voice, he went on to tell her, though in a prodigious confusion and perturbation of spirit, that he too loved her, and that what she had told him struck him to the heart, and made him the most miserable, unhappy wretch in the whole world.

She exhibited no anger at what he said, nor did she turn to look at him, but only replied, in a low voice, that he should not talk so, for that it could only be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that whether she would or no, she must do everything her grandfather bade her, he being indeed a terrible man.

To this poor Barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now the most miserable man in the world.

It was at this moment, so momentous to our hero, that some one who had been hiding unseen nigh them for all the while suddenly moved away, and Barnaby, in spite of the gathering darkness, could perceive that it was that villain man-servant of Sir John Malyoe's. Nor could he but know that the wretch must have overheard all that had been said.

As he looked he beheld this fellow go straight to the great cabin, where he disappeared with a cunning leer upon his face, so that our hero could not but be aware that the purpose of the eavesdropper must be to communicate all that he had overheard to his master. At this thought the last drop of bitterness was added to his trouble, for what could be more distressing to any man of honor than to possess the consciousness that such a wretch should have overheard so sacred a conversation as that which he had enjoyed with the young lady. She, upon her part, could not have been aware that the man had listened to what she had been saying, for she still continued leaning over the rail, and Barnaby remained standing by her side, without moving, but so distracted by a tumult of many passions that he knew not how or where to look.

After a pretty long time of this silence, the young lady looked up to see why her companion had not spoken for so great a while, and at that very moment Sir John Malyoe comes flinging out of the cabin without his hat, but carrying his gold-headed cane. He ran straight across the deck towards where Barnaby and the young lady stood, swinging his cane this way and that with a most furious and threatening countenance, while the informer, grinning like an ape, followed close at his heels. As Sir John approached them, he cried out in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard him, "You hussy!" (And all the time, you are to remember, he was swinging his cane as though he would have struck the young lady, who, upon her part, shrank back from him almost upon the deck as though to escape such a blow.) "You hussy! What do you do here, talking with a misbred Yankee supercargo not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe her feet upon, and you stand there and listen to his fool talk! Go to your room, you hussy"--only 'twas something worse he called her this time--"before I lay this cane across you!"

You may suppose into what fury such words as these, spoken in Barnaby's hearing, not to mention that vile slur set upon himself, must have cast our hero. To be sure he scarcely knew what he did, but he put his hand against Sir John Malyoe's breast and thrust him back most violently, crying out upon him at the same time for daring so to threaten a young lady, and that for a farthing he would wrench the stick out of his hand and throw it overboard.

A little farther and Sir John would have fallen flat upon the deck with the push Barnaby gave him. But he contrived, by catching hold of the rail, to save his balance. Whereupon, having recovered himself, he came running at our hero like a wild beast, whirling his cane about, and I do believe would have struck him (and God knows then what might have happened) had not his man-servant caught him and held him back.

"Keep back!" cried out our hero, still mighty hoarse. "Keep back! If you strike me with that stick I'll fling you overboard!"

By this time, what with the sound of loud voices and the stamping of feet, some of the crew and others aboard were hurrying up to the scene of action. At the same time Captain Manly and the first mate, Mr. Freesden, came running out of the cabin. As for our hero, having got set agoing, he was not to be stopped so easily.

"And who are you, anyhow," he cries, his voice mightily hoarse even in his own ears, "to threaten to strike me! You may be a bloody pirate, and you may shoot a man from behind, as you shot poor Captain Brand on the Cobra River, but you won't dare strike me face to face. I know who you are and what you are!"