Mr Corbett's Ghost (15 page)

He was in an extraordinarily good humour and seemed
to draw strength from the very air. He could not stop himself from grinning and his breathing sounded like laughter.

Was he mad, then? Hard to say. If compassion, kindness, and humanity are the qualities of sanity, then Bartleman was mad, for he possessed none of them. And, being mad, he had the strength of ten.

‘Justice!' he shouted. ‘In the name of justice and to the memory of poor Nick Kemp! Heave away, there!'

The unhappy captain stood upon the bulwark below the mainyard. The rope he himself had ordered was fastened round his own neck.

‘Heave away!' repeated Bartleman, with a touch of peevishness that the captain wasn't swinging and kicking directly.

But the convicts who'd been awarded the office still failed to heave. Their attention was elsewhere. It was upon a hatch.

Bartleman scowled: terrible sight. But even so the hatch took more attention. Now the crew stared at it; now the passengers rose from their knees. Miss Warboys lifted her head from her hands, and the captain turned, quite forgetful of the strangling rope.

What was there about the hatch that diminished Bartleman? It was moving. It rose . . . and fell . . . then rose again. Monstrous effort from beneath. It groaned, wood against wood, but heavy as stone on stone. It began to slide . . . further and further. Then the deck tilted generously—and the hatch was gone!

A groan of amazement filled the air. A frightful sight was emerging. Slowly and painfully, with much grimacing . . .

Battered about the head, filthy, bleeding, hands and fingers of no more consequence than ragged gloves, even with four feet of chain still hanging to one ankle, rose up Nicholas Kemp.

‘Well, sonny!' shouted Bartleman savagely. ‘Come back from the dead, have you?'

‘Yes,' answered Nicholas. ‘I left something behind.'

‘Indeed you did?'

‘Indeed I did. I left you, Bartleman. I've come back to fetch you.'

By the terror in which he was beheld, it was plain that many thought—for some moments—that Nick Kemp was indeed dead and returned. His emerging was uncanny and his aspect changed as if by passage through the grave. There was almost a supernatural sternness in his eyes, as if he had become the representative of all the meek, the foolish, the obliging, and the gentle whose name and whose cause had ever been taken in vain. In every heart save one, his aspect struck an old familiar chord.

But not in Bartleman's.
He
was never so deceived. Rather was he violently angry at this . . . this spectre at his feast.

‘So you want a word with me, sonny?'

Of a sudden, something like his old fears clutched at Nicholas's heart. The embezzler, though squat and with a seemingly short reach, was a compact of venomous deftness and power. He lacked doubt; he lacked gentleness—which two qualities Nicholas owned in full measure.

Confused, Nicholas stared about him. In patches still, the sun was blinding and hurt his eyes. He gazed along the quarter-deck. He saw Miss Warboys who returned his gaze with a smile that, by reason of its very frailty, seemed at that moment to be the strongest thing on earth. It gave him heart, even though, at that moment, heart was not what he chiefly needed. A pistol would have been more to the purpose.

Bartleman had come down. Bartleman was standing three yards off, legs apart, nodding and grinning.

‘Can't say I'm not polite, sonny. That word you wanted. I've come to collect it.'

Gently, he swung his knife.

Nicholas began to move. The embezzler watched with interest. The childish simpleton moved somewhat more deftly than he'd have supposed . . . considering he'd to drag his four feet of chain and wrenched-out bolt behind him. Pitiful fellow . . . pitiful . . .

A curious lightness seemed to possess Nicholas. Most likely, this was following on his heavy struggle below. The chain seemed no more than gossamer and followed on like a shadow.

Thus it was almost without interest that he saw the passengers and crew watching him with hope and pity. While the convicts, of a sudden, seemed to him no more fierce or purposeful than sheep on a hillside, watching without understanding while a wolf and a dog were about to fight for their lives. For a moment this thought oppressed him dangerously; then he saw Miss Warboys and at once understood that he had no business to lack interest.

‘I'm a-waiting, sonny. I'm a-waiting for you, lad.'

With dismay, Nicholas realized what he was about. It was as if the terrible Bartleman had ordered him . . . for he was circling helplessly—even as the Marshalsea man had done before him.

Wildly, he halted. Bartleman smiled—and took two paces towards him.

‘Sorry—but I'm in a trifle of a hurry, sonny.'

Again, Nicholas began to move. Bartleman watched him round. The distance between them was fatally shrunk.

What advantage now in the light of the day? The monsters of the dark had taught him nothing—save the weight and power of iron. And what had he learnt from the dark itself? Nothing—save that the sun was blinding bright.

Where was the sun now? Still over the poop. It had not fallen from the sky. Amazing. It shone with appalling brilliance on Bartleman's face whenever he faced aft, turning his eyes to spots of fire.

But now, with a quickening heart, Nicholas made a discovery no more than a trifle, a feather almost, that came floating down to weight the scales in which his life was cradled. What was this trifle, then? A hurrying in the embezzler's movements whenever he faced aft, and briefly, hereafter, an uncertain slowing down. It was as if he had seen a second Nicholas Kemp, loitering after the first. Then he'd recover himself and resume his relentless watch. Till he faced the sun again . . .

The sun was blinding him, printing false images on his eye! Now, with increasing speed, Nicholas moved about Bartleman—save whenever he passed the poop. And then he dragged almost to a halt.

Implacably, Bartleman kept pace. Even glared monstrously into the very eye of heaven when it was on him . . . so strong of purpose was this man. But his very strength was his weakness—even as Nick Kemp's weakness was now his strength, his heart being neither in his boots nor in his mouth but on the poop-deck with Miss Warboys and out of his present keeping.

Bartleman began to falter—then straightened again. He grinned and followed—with horribly inflamed eyes—followed the image of a Nick Kemp that the sun had burned upon his brain.

So it's possible that he never saw the rush that was made upon him when he faced the poop for the last time. He must have heard it—heard the four feet of chain and wrenched-off bolt clink and bang and dance across the deck; but he moved awry. Seemed to plunge, knife deftly glittering, towards a simpleton made of air. And, meeting no resistance, he began to fall—

‘A word!' he cried. ‘Best be—'

Then he gave a grunt, such as an ox or a pig might give when its day is done. His fall was finished. He would fall no more, nor would he ever rise.

Like an avenging lash, the iron bolt and chain from Nicholas's ankle had whirled through the air and struck him in the neck. Amazed, the young man turned to look for his enemy. But Bartleman was dead. His neck had been broken like a discarded pipe . . .

The mutiny was ended. The heart and mind of the corporate beast lay ruined before its eyes. For a moment, a profound dismay seized the convicts, then this was changed to wonderment—and then to a strange relief as they saw the ragged and frail young man stare with a kind of startled sadness at what he'd done.

There was a brief and confused notion of offering him the vacant leadership . . . for they were none of them Bartleman, But it was plain that he would not have it. Content he might be to take the fruits of victory—he did not want the tree. Such power as was, of necessity, momentarily his, he used to restore the captain to his office and all else to theirs. True, a few men grumbled, a few men looked askance, a few men even loitered on a violent hope. But there was none of them who'd damn himself to try to catch the universal ear. They were—when all was said and done—more gentlemen of ill fortune than men of ill will. And now a storm of cheerfulness burst over the ship and the shadow of damnation was blown to the winds. The paying passengers dipped into their hearts and gave three cheers for Nicholas Kemp; likewise, the crew. Then, when the echoes had died, the convicts begged leave to try their voices, too. And their cheers were longest and loudest of all, for they knew, better than any, what was demanded of a man to outface the murderous Mr Bartleman.

But what of the hero now? He had been led up upon the quarter-deck where, despite the powerful smells that came off him, his back was thumped and his hand was wrung and every man counted himself honoured to honour him. He stared at the multitude of faces and heard the multitude of voices as if in a dream. Then he covered his face with his hands . . . and when he took them away, it was plainly seen that he was weeping.

‘For God's sake, why?' shouted the captain, thumping him again and again on the back, as if to give him something to cry about. ‘A prize! A prize! A cash prize, Master Kemp! That's what you'll get!'

Indeed, the captain seemed to have got cash, prizes, and Master Kemp on the brain and showed every sign of staying so demented till his mania should come true. He was inclined to hop and dance about a good deal, often twisting his head abruptly—as if to reassure himself the rope was gone. Then he would scrutinize the shadows—now shrunk, for the sun was high—nod and gaze upward to the yards, the fitful sails, the topmasts and the pennants. On which he'd beam and wipe his brow, as if he'd been auditing his blessings and found himself to be in credit . . . when his mania would assert itself again and he'd insist: ‘Ten thousand pound, I shouldn't wonder! Value of the ship! And more! A cash prize, Master Kemp! God save you!'

Then he bethought himself further. ‘And your freedom as well! I promise! Think of it—freedom and a cash prize, my boy!'

In vain, the bewildered young man tried to think of it; but his mind had a mind of its own. Either he'd lost his wits (as the captain suspected) or he could not help thinking of other things.

Suddenly, there was a touch on his arm whose very lightness, in contrast to past powerful honourings, arrested him. He turned. Beside him stood Miss Warboys.

His knees shook, his heart beat fast and, under the bruises and filth, a blush overspread his face. She smiled somewhat timidly at him, and a female passenger said: ‘Ah!'

Wonderingly, he looked down on his battlefield, then back to the lady. Was
she
the cause of his victory? Was it no more than this red-haired young woman whose reddened eyes winked and shone with an ocean of soft tears?

No
more
than? Was it not enough then? Was there anybody on board the
Phoenix
that day who doubted that it was enough? For where else can lie the strength of the gentle and the meek save in love?

‘A favour, Captain,' murmured Nicholas uncertainly. ‘Might I beg a favour, sir?'

‘A favour?' declared the captain, astonished to the world. ‘He begs a favour? Freedom and a cash prize, my boy! Don't you understand? It's all yours!' (He paused to glance reassuringly into the shadows.) ‘All right—what's the favour, then? Out with it! A hundred pounds in advance? Ha-ha! We can manage. It's yours!'

Suddenly, he observed Nicholas's arm clasping Miss Warboys about the waist. He smiled; he beamed; he began to laugh and rub his hands together.

‘Me Bible!' he cried. ‘Me Good Book! I knew there'd be a use for it. I take it you want me to exercise me office, Master Kemp?'

Vigorously, Nicholas Kemp nodded. Out of all proportion to the circumstance in hand was his relief that he'd been spared making his own proposal.

She made a charming bride—there on the quarter-deck. It was on the very next morning, which was Sunday, February the first. Two bridesmaids had Caroline Warboys—which was more than she had dreamed of when she set sail. And the tears shed by the female passengers were enough to have floated a longboat.

‘Ain't she a picture?' sobbed one. ‘The sweet and happy darling!'

In March of the year 1750, the
Phoenix
(now on her last voyage), sailed into the Potomac River in Virginia, with a cargo of hinges for pine furniture, muslins, silks, and thirty convicted felons.

Among these latter were three young men of good families who had been sentenced—at Lewes Assizes—to seven years' transportation for being in possession of stolen property.

On the quay-side they drew a great deal of attention to themselves by loudly protesting that they'd been ill-used, unjustly sentenced, and that money would be coming from England to purchase their bonds.

They continued in this manner for some time, arrogantly ignoring the auctioning of their bonds as if birth and breeding took precedence over Law and Fate.