The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 30
CHAPTER XXX
FIVE PACES NORTH
One request the stranger made of Sally before he left, that Linda might stay with her until next morning when Pierre the boatman expected to start on the return voyage to the port. Even if more respectably run than in her stepfather's devious régime, the Café of Many Tongues would yield a living, and she could not stay in the house on the mountain with him. So, after a farewell to Linda, gentle and considerate but not at all the one her heart longed for, the young Frenchman started towards his lonely lodgings, with the big Alexandre, who returned a half-hour later with her few belongings.
What the girl called Linda suffered through Larone's decision, only Sally guessed, seeing her hands like twin white moths flutter after his vanishing figure, then clench tightly as if she could so choke back the tears. It was several moments before she heard her new friend calling. She followed silently to the beach, where the golden and orange banners of a great fire were waving royally in a prankish breeze. And she made only a dumb show of eating, sitting as far apart from the others as she could without seeming ungracious, and never uttering a word.
The fish which that indefatigable Jack-of-all trades, Spanish Dick, had caught, was sizzling in the pan, flanked with appetizing brown slabs of bacon, when Ben returned.
Even in later years he never would admit as much, but I have always had a feeling that he did not like that cavern any more than Sally. It must have been awesome, for it was already growing late when he climbed over the sea-wall, and rather dark. Still, in the warmth of the fire and her welcome, he hailed her cheerily enough:
"It's an N and it means—"
"Five paces North," she finished for him.
"Five yards, or rods, or something or other, North, but how did you guess?"
"Someone told me just now."
"Someone told you."
"Yes, guess."
"Not Spanish Dick again."
"No—it was a stranger. And, oh, Ben it was the man I saw in the haunted house up yonder."
"What's his name? Who is he?"
"Charles Larone. I asked him several questions—all I could decently—and yet, come to think of it, he didn't tell much about himself. He's had a lot of trouble in his life."
"I thought he didn't tell you much about himself."
"He didn't. I did know he lost his mother, that beautiful old lady who died on the island. I could guess the rest. He was very handsome, and I did like him so much."
If, instead of two-stepping in a Salthaven parlour, Stella had been there, she would have declared that Sally was trying to "get a rise out of the fellow." This accusation would have been unjust in this particular instance, and Ben should have realized from her frank confidence that her interest in the stranger was only natural and not sentimental enough then to arouse any jealousy—or was it?
Anyway, he was young and a lover, and he had just been brushing up against skeletons and ominous birds in that unholy cavern, so he grew more sarcastic still, not a normal vein for one of his robust and tolerant nature.
"Handsome, huh, and you feel so sorry for him, and you like him so much!"
The girl appeared delighted with this, and indulged in light-hearted singing and spasmodic bursts of merriment, all through the evening meal—only—she devoted her attention to young Jack Beam and Linda, quite ignoring Ben except to ask once or twice with an overcordial smile:
"Mr. Boltwood, will you be so good as to pass the pepper-box" or
"Mr. Boltwood, may I trouble you for the salt," etc., etc.
The accent on the words was tantalizing, and a sort of challenge in itself. And Ben looked bewildered, not knowing how to trump such a feminine lead.
The meal over, they busied themselves with clearing up the dishes, and making preparations for the night.
While the rest were sleeping, breathing lightly or heavily as the case might be, Sally raised the flap of her tent and stole out into the thick grass.
The moon, still the one solitary wanderer, was an hour above the horizon. A faint suggestion of haze surrounded its perfect outline, like the soft fumes of a copper furnace when the fires are low. And yet it was very beautiful and so clear that, as she gazed at it steadily, she could almost distinguish the relief of the great shadow continents upon its bright silver surface.
It was then that they came along the shore—the five figures, now clearly silhouetted against the sand, now more vaguely outlined against the indigo of the ocean which, as she sat there, seemed to swell to meet the lighter sky, speckless save for those stars—whether gold or silver she could not decide—and for that glorious moon over her shoulder. Then as she looked back at it—yes—she was sure of it now—there appeared, in the haze over the summit, with the moon, six others, like her shadows, if shadows are ever cast in palest white, floating ghostily near the main planet, like sundogs around the sun.
She closed her eyes to rub them clear, opened them—the apparitions—if such they were—were gone.
A little from fright, and more from caution, the girl knelt in the long grass as the five figures advanced by the rising tide.
Their gaits were eloquent of their characters, the tall man with the rolled-up canvas, moving with easy though calculated steps, the burly figure with the bulky shoulders and the suspicious crouch, stepping with feet wide apart. The slighter one at his right walked with the spring of youth, but swaggered a little, the hat tilted on one side. Bringing up the rear, the short bowlegged man trudged along, behind the others, pausing now and then for replenishment from a solid, dark object in his hip pocket. The fifth was equipped with petticoats, rippled by the evening breeze. She was hatless and zigzagged nervously, jerking her head this way and that, with quick, curious motions. Far out on the cape they stole, and bent over to examine the yawning holes which punctured the surface around the sentinel palm.
Now, two others followed them, stealthily, from the camp. The sturdy one of medium height was Ben, she knew, the heavier, slowly moving one, the Captain.
Earlier in the evening she might have been offended with the boy, but even in this slender maiden with the spiritual eyes lurked the sleeping tigress instinct. It awoke now that she saw him walking into danger.
A gruff challenge sounded on the night air. Ben had met his enemy at last. His level, watching gaze was bent, not on MacAllister, but on the bruiser and the jaunty young man. She recoiled a little—it was the first time she had seen Phil Huntington since Spanish Dick came to the church with the message, that eventful night.
The other man must be the one who had hit Ben so foully from behind on the Salthaven sands, the time he had told her about. For his own sake, she had begged him to forget that. But she knew men—and he was most certainly a man. They were so funny, so hard to manage in some things. They always insisted on revenge, on fighting things out. It was silly. Didn't do anybody any good at all—not at all. But if he would be so crazy-headed, she must look out for him.
She summoned the still-sleeping sailors, and then drew nearer, with beating heart, hoping in some way, she didn't just know how, to prevent that imminent conflict. Phil was "scrappy" enough and that other awful man was just spoiling for a fight—you could tell that by the ugly way he curved that shoulder and the way he swung his hands.
Her senses sharpened by her fear, she could distinguish what they were saying now—the Captain's caution: "Go easy, Ben, remember Sally's here"; the answer, "She's asleep, she won't know—I'm going to settle that little thing right here and now."
Now it was the cool, suave voice of the tall man:
"Good evening, gentlemen."
"Howdyedo." Ben slurred the greeting sarcastically and rudely. "What's the big idea? Sneaking around like a crew of oyster-pirates?"
He seldom lost his temper. It was generally pretty even. That was just the reason why she was frightened now that she saw it was thoroughly aroused, though still under some control.
Phil was saying with cool impudence:
"Why if it isn't Ben Boltwood! How are you Ben? Put her there, old top."
"Get out you—." Sally thought he called Phil by the name of the malodorous animal which all women shrink from, and oddly there recurred to her that old piece of advice by the uxorious king who never took any himself: "Evil Communications corrupt good manners." My! but her boy's were horrid that night. He was in bad company, sure enough.
"I'll tend to you after I've settled things with your thug friend here."
But she grew frightened when Pete at this uncomplimentary allusion detached himself from the group, sank into an even lower defensive crouch, thrusting forward his thick jaw insultingly and invitingly.
"If ye're looking for trouble, gents, we're glad to accommodate yer!"
But the Captain, essaying the thankless rôle of peacemaker, stepped in between them.
"Don't be a fool, Ben," he said a little roughly, then aloud:
"I don't know who you are, but you've got a right to stroll around this island as long as your intentions are all right. What are they?"
Sally felt relieved to have Captain Harve there. It was always good to have him around when there was trouble. He always seemed to be in command of himself as well as of his men. But, after all, it didn't work tonight.
"What the hell business 'av you got, buttin' in here," growled the man with the scar. She was near enough to see it now. It glowed peculiarly, she thought, and hatefully, even in the moonlight.
"Just because I tell you to get off," retorted Ben, circling around the barrier of the Captain's body and within a pace of the other's surly face. "Do you remember me?"
"No, s'elp me, I never seen yer ugly mug before."
"Take another look. But that's so, you only saw my back before."
The bruiser leered mockingly. He seemed to enjoy this hugely.
"Pretty, ain't yer? I'd spoil it for yer if it wasn't for yer old granpop there. It might break his heart to see his little grandson hurted. Better beat it, sonny, while the goin's good."
Then Sally heard three things all at once,—the harsh cry of Carlotta—she recognized the dancer now—calling: "For Gawd's sake, stop 'em, Mac, the big guy's gotta gun"; the cool voice of the leader, who before had seemed utterly indifferent, cutting the night air: "Don't be a damn fool, Pete, they're not looking for trouble"; and the more telling comment of Ben's arm—yes, she could have sworn she heard the impact on the bone and gristle of Pete's forehead, flush on the scar.
The hairy forearm countered. On the stomach. It hurt too. Ben grunted angrily, then rushed him. Pete's footwork was slow and heavy, and the boy caught him again on the scar. The white mark changed to angry red, but the bruiser got one back, an ugly one, on the mouth this time. Ben turned his head swiftly. He was spitting blood.
"Stop them," shrieked Sally, then looked around. Jack Beam, Benson, Yeo, and the gypsy, had joined the group, forestalling any foul play.
The fighters clinched and struggled over the smooth place to the north of the palm. Three neat ones, right, left, and right again, Ben got to the ribs, and Pete clinched, crouching still lower in agony like a wounded bear. Recovering in the infighting, he curved his fist viciously around to the kidney—again—and again. As they lurched, panting and writhing, in a gleam of the moonlight, the girl saw her lover's face. It was distorted with pain.
They broke, and Ben hooked an uppercut to the centre of the chin, snapping it up so sharply it seemed as if the neck must crack. He had come back! He was fighting gloriously! Two more on the mouth and one on the heart. Pete backed, spewing forth crimson slather, and tumbled into the ditch.
At the brink Ben waited, his heart pounding, chest heaving, fists lowered a little but ready. Phil leaped for him and MacAllister and Old Man Veldmann flanked the Captain.
But the gun which Carlotta had seen was out. Its muzzle, coldly blue in the moonlight, swung in an ominous arc, covering the cursing old sinner and MacAllister's face, which was white, as usual, but did not flinch an inch.
"Avast, ye blackguards!" The Captain's own blood was up now. "This fight's to be on the square."
MacAllister glanced around. The three sailors surrounded him, itching for an active share in the excitement.
"A quick draw for a man of your age, Captain," replied the imperturbable one.
"Never mind my age, better look to your man," retorted the valorous skipper.
"You're right, let them get it out of their system. Do 'em good. You don't mind my changing this for a cigarette?"
He pocketed his gun, and sifted the grains into the paper, humorously eyeing the fallen gladiator.
"We're not throwing the towel in yet, Pete."
The latter was dragging himself over the sandy parapet, bloody foam bubbling from his mouth and nostrils, two streams, dark-red—almost black in the night—trickling down until they were caught in the hairy chest, and a big, puffed-out, blue-black mass, which ring-followers call a "mouse," over his left eye, contrasting oddly with the fiery scar.
Ben stepped back to let him get his footing.
"Round two—" cursed the old man, thrusting before Pete's face a flask, from which, seeing his opponent scornfully waiting, the bruiser, spewing the bloody froth from his mouth, took a swift gulp. The taste of the whiskey, and his own swallowed blood, fired him a little, and he rushed like the wounded boar Sally had seen on the trail, straight towards the boy, bellowing blasphemies and obscenities.
The attack was savage. Sally couldn't understand how Ben escaped any of the blows from the great fists, smashing through the air and landing, many of them, with the force of those powerful machines that drove the piles in the mud around the Salthaven docks. She clenched and unclenched her own small hands, and bit her lips till little dark beads stood on them, then prayed with sobbing intakes of breath.
"Oh God! Oh God! Give him strength, give him strength. Save him!"
She rushed to Captain Brent, and clutched his arms with both her hands.
"Stop them. Oh Uncle Harve, why don't you stop them! You've got the gun. Shoot them. Do anything. Only save him for God's sake."
"They've got to fight it out. This is men's work, Sally. Sorry you had to see it. Don't be afraid—look at that!"
But she retreated from him in an agony of anger and fear.
"You're heartless—you're all alike—all b-b-b-brutes."
Pete's head was rocking with two furious swings from Ben's right—but again the boy had to give way. The mechanic was no quitter, and that whiskey was a fiery juice that had started the dynamo of his powerful frame to wild swift working.
Still she must look on—she could not keep away—so she stood, moaning piteously every once in a while, just on the outside of the circle of men that moved this way and that as the battlers swayed. Between the heads and shoulders of the ring, and the driving blows, she caught a glimpse of his face. It was covered with bruises and blood, like Pete's. Now the moon shone directly on it. She hardly knew those blue eyes, ablaze with a fire that was at once deadly and yet very cold. They sickened as a blow thudded above the heart.
Again his face was hidden in a clinch—all a snarl of straining bodies, rolling heads, heaving chests, and locking legs, and, now and then, short six-inch jabs that looked feeble because of the hindered leverage, yet each of which carried agony.
Why didn't they stop them! She hated that downward blow on the back of Ben's neck. If they must fight, why weren't they forced to fight fair?
They broke from the clinch. What was the matter? The whiskey driven tide of courage had ebbed from the fighter's heart. He stood rocking on his legs, now spread wide apart, a silly grin on his reddened mouth. His jaw hung limply.
The boy gathered himself together like a bundle of tightened springs. Straight and true, swift as a piston flashes when the engine speeds on at seventy miles an hour, the blow drove to the jaw. Pete rocked; swayed gently; his head sank on one side; the powerful knees sagged like a child's. In a flash the girl saw the boy measure the tottering figure. Once, in a paddock, she had seen a farmer strike a doomed steer with an axe. The first blow was not true. She remembered the thud. He lifted the axe a second time. It was like Ben's measuring glance. Again Ben's fist shot out, straight for the jaw with the silly grin, and the stricken fighter crumpled in a heap like the falling steer.
"No need of countin' this time," said Jack Beam.
His face, like the others gathered round under the murmuring palm, had a savage look. Even the good-natured dancer's was gazing in an unholy fascination at the victor's. Why were men like that—and women, too? Were they human beings after all? Even Uncle Harve—and Ben. She sobbed aloud. Then she saw the boy's bleeding face, his figure, relax. She sprang towards him, but he straightened and brushed her aside with that steel forearm. The lust of battle was still there.
"Now, Huntington, put up your dukes—if you're not all yellow."
That youth accepted the challenge, forcing an unconcern which he was far from feeling, but the Captain, Benson, and the gambler, stepped forward.
"Enough for tonight, young fellow," said the former, "I'm in command here."
The reaction came, and Ben staggered, as if he, too, would have fallen. Placing his arms over their shoulders, Jack Beam and the bosun helped him towards the camp.
A half-hour later, cold water and the flask revived the fallen gladiator sufficiently to make the journey back, and the evil crew retreated along the beach, very slowly, towards South harbour where lay the yacht.