will be for to-night instead,” he said, with more assurance than he felt, “if I have to bleed the Governor to death. Be ready as last night.”
“But if there are questions meanwhile?” bleated Nuttall. He was a thin, pale, small-featured, man with weak eyes that now blinked desperately.
“Answer as best you can. Use your wits, man. I can stay no longer.” And Peter went off to the apothecary for his pretexted drugs.
Within an hour of his going came an officer of the Secretary’s to Nuttall’s miserable hovel. The seller of the boat had—as by law required since the coming of the rebels-convict—duly reported the sale at the Secretary’s office, so that he might obtain the reimbursement of the ten-pound surety into which every keeper of a small boat was compelled to enter. The Secretary’s office postponed this reimbursement until it should have obtained confirmation of the transaction.
“We are informed that you have bought a wherry from Mr. Robert Farrell,” said the officer.
“That is so,” said Nuttall, who conceived that for him this was the end of the world.
“You are in no haste, it seems, to declare the same at the Secretary’s office.” The emissary had a proper bureaucratic haughtiness.
Nuttall’s weak eyes blinked at a redoubled rate.
“To... to declare it?”
“Ye know it’s the law.”
“I... I didn’t, may it please you.”
“But it’s in the proclamation published last January.”
“I... I can’t read, sir. I... I didn’t know.”
“Faugh!” The messenger withered him with his disdain.
“Well, now you’re informed. See to it that you are at the Secretary’s office before noon with the ten pounds surety into which you are obliged to enter.”
The pompous officer departed, leaving Nuttall in a cold perspiration despite the heat of the morning. He was thankful that the fellow had not asked the question he most dreaded, which was how he, a debtor, should come by the money to buy a wherry. But this he knew was only a respite. The question would presently be asked of a certainty, and then hell would open for him. He cursed the hour in which he had been such a fool as to listen to Peter Blood’s chatter of escape. He thought it very likely that the whole plot would be discovered, and that he would probably be hanged, or at least branded and sold into slavery like those other damned rebels-convict, with whom he had been so mad as to associate himself. If only he had the ten pounds for this infernal surety, which until this moment had never entered into their calculations, it was possible that the thing might be done quickly and questions postponed until later. As the Secretary’s messenger had overlooked the fact that he was a debtor, so might the others at the Secretary’s office, at least for a day or two; and in that time he would, he hoped, be beyond the reach of their questions. But in the meantime what was to be done about this money? And it was to be found before noon!
Nuttall snatched up his hat, and went out in quest of Peter Blood. But where look for him? Wandering aimlessly up the irregular, unpaved street, he ventured to enquire of one or two if they had seen Dr. Blood that morning. He affected to be feeling none so well, and indeed his appearance bore out the deception. None could give him information; and since Blood had never told him of Whacker’s share in this business, he walked in his unhappy ignorance past the door of the one man in Barbados who would eagerly have saved him in this extremity.
Finally he determined to go up to Colonel Bishop’s plantation. Probably Blood would be there. If he were not, Nuttall would find Pitt, and leave a message with him. He was acquainted with Pitt and knew of Pitt’s share in this business. His pretext for seeking Blood must still be that he needed medical assistance.
And at the same time that he set out, insensitive in his anxiety to the broiling heat, to climb the heights to the north of the town, Blood was setting out from Government House at last, having so far eased the Governor’s condition as to be permitted to depart. Being mounted, he would, but for an unexpected delay, have reached the stockade ahead of Nuttall, in which case several unhappy events might have been averted. The unexpected delay was occasioned by Miss Arabella Bishop.
They met at the gate of the luxuriant garden of Government House, and Miss Bishop, herself mounted, stared to see Peter Blood on horseback. It happened that he was in good spirits. The fact that the Governor’s condition had so far improved as to restore him his freedom of movement had sufficed to remove the depression under which he had been labouring for the past twelve hours and more. In its rebound the mercury of his mood had shot higher far than present circumstances warranted. He was disposed to be optimistic. What had failed last night would certainly not fail again to-night. What was a day, after all? The Secretary’s office might be troublesome, but not really troublesome for another twenty-four hours at least; and by then they would be well away.
This joyous confidence of his was his first misfortune. The next was that his good spirits were also shared by Miss Bishop, and that she bore no rancour. The two things conjoined to make the delay that in its consequences was so deplorable.
“Good-morning, sir,” she hailed him pleasantly. “It’s close upon a month since last I saw you.”
“Twenty-one days to the hour,” said he. “I’ve counted them.”
“I vow I was beginning to believe you dead.”
“I have to thank you for the wreath.”
“The wreath?”
“To deck my grave,” he explained.
“Must you ever be rallying?” she wondered, and looked at him gravely, remembering that it was his rallying on the last occasion had driven her away in dudgeon.
“A man must sometimes laugh at himself or go mad,” said he. “Few realize it. That is why there are so many madmen in the world.”
“You may laugh at yourself all you will, sir. But sometimes I think you laugh at me, which is not civil.”
“Then, faith, you’re wrong. I laugh only at the comic, and you are not comic at all.”
“What am I, then?” she asked him, laughing.
A moment he pondered her, so fair and fresh to behold, so entirely maidenly and yet so entirely frank and unabashed.
“You are,” he said, “the niece of the man who owns me his slave.” But he spoke lightly. So lightly that she was encouraged to insistence.
“Nay, sir, that is an evasion. You shall answer me truthfully this morning.”
“Truthfully? To answer you at all is a labour. But to answer truthfully! Oh, well, now, I should say of you that he’ll be lucky who counts you his friend.” It was in his mind to add more. But he left it there.
“That’s mighty civil,” said she. “You’ve a nice taste in compliments, Mr. Blood. Another in your place....”
“Faith, now, don’t I know what another would have said? Don’t I know my fellow-man at all?”
“Sometimes I think you do, and sometimes I think you don’t. Anyway, you don’t know your fellow-woman. There was that affair of the Spaniards.”
“Will ye never forget it?”
“Never.”
“Bad cess to your memory. Is there no good in me at all that you could be dwelling on instead?”
“Oh, several things.”
“For instance, now?” He was almost eager.
“You speak excellent Spanish.”
“Is that all?” He sank back into dismay.
“Where did you learn it? Have you been in Spain?”
“That I have. I was