Rodman The Boatsteerer And Other Stories

“That does not matter to me, I–”

The surgeon stepped in front of the newcomer.

“But it shall matter to you, Mr. Jacob Bolger, Government storekeeper, jailer, overseer, or commissary’s runner, or whatever your position is. And I shall see that No. 267 suffers no molestation from you.”

“Who are you, sir, to threaten me? The Governor shall hear of this when we arrive at the settlement. A pretty thing that I should be talked to like this by the ship’s doctor!”

“By God, sir, I’ll give you something to talk about,” and the surgeon’s Welsh blood leapt to his face. Advancing to the break of the poop, he called—

“Sergeant Matthews!”

The one remaining non-commissioned officer of the diminished convict-guard at once appeared and saluted.

He was a solemn-faced, taciturn man, devoted to Clinton.

“Mr. Belton,” said the doctor, “in the serious illness of Lieutenant Clinton I now assume charge of the military guard and convicts on this ship, and as a first step to maintain proper discipline at such a critical time, I shall confine Mr. Bolger to his cabin. Sergeant, take him below and lock him in.”

Bolger collapsed at once. “I beg your pardon, doctor, for my hastiness. I did not know.... I was–”

The surgeon cut his apologies short. “Go to your cabin, sir. I shall not have you locked in, but, by heavens! if you attempt to go into Mr. Clinton’s cabin I’ll put you in irons, Government official though you are. I am well aware that your presence is particularly objectionable to Mrs. Clinton.”

With an evil look Bolger left them, and the surgeon, turning to Belton, said: “That settles him, anyway, for a time. He’s a thorough scoundrel, I believe. Mrs. Clinton has a positive horror of the man; yet the brute is continually pestering her with offers of his services. Now I must go below again to poor Clinton.”

In the dimly lighted cabin the young officer lay breathing heavily, and as the doctor softly entered he saw that the time was now very near. By her husband’s side sat Marion Clinton, her loosened wavy brown hair hiding from view her own face and the dying hand which she held pressed to her quivering lips. At her feet, on a soft cushion on the floor, lay her infant, with one thin waxen hand showing out from the light shawl that covered it; at the further end of the cabin stood a young, broad-shouldered man in grey convict garb. As the doctor entered he stood up and saluted.

The sound of the opening door made Clinton turn his face. “Is that you, Williams?” he said, in slow, laboured tones. “Marion, my girl, bear up. I know I am going, old fellow. Do what you can for her, Williams. The Governor will see to her returning to England, but it may be long before a ship leaves.... Marion!”

“Yes,” she answered brokenly.

“Is baby no better?”

“No,” she answered with a sob, as she raised her tear-stained face to Surgeon Williams, who shook his head. “There is no hope for her, Harry.”

His hand pressed hers gently. “God help you, dear! Only for that it would not be so hard to die now; and now I leave you quite alone.”

She stooped down and lifted the fragile infant, and Williams and No. 267 turned their faces away for awhile. Presently Clinton called the surgeon.

“Williams,” and his eyes looked wistfully into the doctor’s, “do what you can for her. There is something like a hundred guineas among my effects—that will help. Thank God, though, she will be a rich woman when my poor old father dies. I am the only son.”

The surgeon bent down and took his hand. “She shall never want a friend while I live, Clinton, never.”

A light of thankfulness flickered in Clinton’s eyes, and the pallid lips moved; and then as wife and friend, each holding a hand, waited for him to speak, there came the sound of a heavy sob. Convict 267 was kneeling and praying for the departing soul.

Slowly the minutes passed, the silence broken but by the creaking and straining of the ship as she rose and fell to the sea, and now and again the strange, mournful cry of some night-fishing penguin.

“Marion,” Clinton said at last, “I would like to speak to Adair before I die. He has been good to you and to me.”

Walking softly in his stockinged feet, Adair advanced close to the bed.

“Give me your hand, Adair. God bless you,” he whispered.

“And God bless you, sir, and all here,” answered the young Irishman in a husky, broken voice.

“Hush,” said the surgeon warningly, and his eyes sought those of the watching wife, with a meaning in them that needed no words. Quickly she passed her arm around Clinton, and let his head lie upon her shoulder. He sighed heavily and then lay still.

The surgeon touched the kneeling figure of Convict Adair on the arm, and together they walked softly out of the cabin.

“Come again in an hour, Adair,” said Dr. Williams; “you can help me best. We must bury him by daylight. Meanwhile you can get a little sleep.”

No. 267 clasped his hands tightly together as he looked at the doctor, and his lips worked and twitched convulsively. Then a wild beseeching look overspread his face. “For God’s sake don’t ask me!” he burst out. “I implore you as man to man to have pity on me. I cannot be here at daylight!”

“As you please,” answered Williams, with a surprised expression; and then as he went on deck he said to himself, “Some cursed, degrading Irish superstition, I suppose, about a death at sea.”

Slowly the hours crept on. No noise disturbed the watcher by her dead save the low voices of the watch on deck and the unknown sounds that one hears at night alone. Prisoner Adair was sitting in the main cabin within near call of Mrs. Clinton, and, with head upon his knees, seemed to slumber. Suddenly the loud clamour of five bells as the hour was struck made him start to his feet and look quickly about him with nervous apprehension. From the dead officer’s state-room a narrow line of light from beneath the door sent an oblique ray aslant the cabin floor and crossed the convict’s stockinged feet.

For a moment he hesitated; then tapped softly at the door. It opened, and the pale face of Marion Clinton met his as he stood before her cap in hand.

“Have you come to take”—the words died away in her throat with a sob.

“No,” he answered, “I have but come to ask you to let me say goodbye, and God keep and prosper you, madam. My time here is short, and you and your husband have made my bitter lot endurable.”

She gave him her hand. He clasped it reverently in his for a moment, and his face flushed a dusky red. Then he knelt and kissed her child’s little hand.

“Are you leaving the ship? Are we then in port or near it?” she asked.

He looked steadfastly at her for a moment, and then, pushing the door to behind him, lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Mrs. Clinton, your husband one day told me that he would aid me to regain my freedom. Will you do as much?”

“Yes,” she answered, trembling; “I will. I shall tell the Governor how you–”

He shook his head. “Not in that way, but now, now.”

“How can I help you now?” she asked wonder-ingly.

“Give me Mr. Clinton’s pistols. Before daylight four others and myself mean to escape from the ship. The guard are all too sick to prevent us even if we are discovered. There is a boat towing astern, lowered with the intention of sending it ashore to seek assistance. Water and provisions are in it. But we have no firearms, and if we land on the coast may meet with savages.”

Without a word she put her husband’s pistols in his hands, and then gave him all the ammunition she could find.

“Do not shed blood,” she began, when the convict clutched her arm. A sound as of some one moving came from the next cabin—the one occupied by Jacob Bolger—and a savage light came into Adair’s eyes as he stood and listened.

“He would give the alarm in a moment if he knew,” he muttered.

“Yes,” she answered; “he hates you, and I am terrified even to meet his glance.”

But Mr. Jacob Bolger made no further noise; he had heard quite enough, and at that moment was lying back in his bunk with an exultant smile, waiting for Adair to leave the cabin.

Then the convict, still crouching on the floor, held out his hand.