Book of Pirates - Howard Pyle (short novels to read txt) 📗

“How about that five hundred pounds, Hiram?” said he. “I gave ye a month to raise it and the month ain’t quite up yet, but I’m goin’ to leave this here place day after to-morrow—by next day at the furd’st—and I want the money that’s mine.”

“I paid it to Squire Hall to-day and he has it fer ye,” said Hiram, dully.

Levi laid down his knife and fork with a clatter. “Squire Hall!” said he, “what’s Squire Hall got to do with it? Squire Hall didn’t have the use of that money. It was you had it and you have got to pay it back to me, and if you don’t do it, by G–-, I’ll have the law on you, sure as you’re born.”

“Squire Hall’s trustee—I ain’t your trustee,” said Hiram, in the same dull voice.

“I don’t know nothing about trustees,” said Levi, “or anything about lawyer business, either. What I want to know is, are you going to pay me my money or no?”

“No,” said Hiram, “I ain’t—Squire Hall’ll pay ye; you go to him.”

Levi West’s face grew purple red. He pushed back, his chair grating harshly. “You—bloody land pirate!” he said, grinding his teeth together. “I see through your tricks. You’re up to cheating me out of my money. You know very well that Squire Hall is down on me, hard and bitter— writin’ his–-reports to Philadelphia and doing all he can to stir up everybody agin me and to bring the bluejackets down on me. I see through your tricks as clear as glass, but ye shatn’t trick me. I’ll have my money if there’s law in the land—ye bloody, unnatural thief ye, who’d go agin our dead father’s will!”

Then—if the roof had fallen in upon him, Levi West could not have been more amazed—Hiram suddenly strode forward, and, leaning half across the table with his fists clenched, fairly glared into Levi’s eyes. His face, dull, stupid, wooden, was now fairly convulsed with passion. The great veins stood out upon his temples like knotted whipcords, and when he spoke his voice was more a breathless snarl than the voice of a Christian man.

“Ye’ll have the law, will ye?” said he. “Ye’ll—have the law, will ye? You’re afeared to go to law—Levi West—you try th’ law—and see how ye like it. Who ‘re you to call me thief—ye bloody, murderin’ villain ye! You’re the thief—Levi West—you come here and stole my daddy from me ye did. You make me ruin—myself to pay what oughter to been mine then—ye ye steal the gal I was courtin’, to boot.” He stopped and his lips rithed for words to say. “I know ye,” said he, grinding his teeth. “I know ye! And only for what my daddy made me promise I’d a-had you up to the magistrate’s before this.”

Then, pointing with quivering finger: “There’s the door—you see it! Go out that there door and don’t never come into it again—if ye do—or if ye ever come where I can lay eyes on ye again—by th’ Holy Holy I’ll hale ye up to the Squire’s office and tell all I know and all I’ve seen. Oh, I’ll give ye your belly-fill of law if—ye want th’ law! Git out of the house, I say!”

As Hiram spoke Levi seemed to shrink together. His face changed from its copper color to a dull, waxy yellow. When the other ended he answered never a word. But he pushed back his chair, rose, put on his hat and, with a furtive, sidelong look, left the house, without stopping to finish the supper which he had begun. He never entered Hiram White’s door again.

Hiram had driven out the evil spirit from his home, but the mischief that it had brewed was done and could not be undone. The next day it was known that Sally Martin had run away from home, and that she had run away with Levi West. Old Billy Martin had been in town in the morning with his rifle, hunting for Levi and threatening if he caught him to have his life for leading his daughter astray.

And, as the evil spirit had left Hiram’s house, so had another and a greater evil spirit quitted its harborage. It was heard from Indian River in a few days more that Blueskin had quitted the inlet and had sailed away to the southeast; and it was reported, by those who seemed to know, that he had finally quitted those parts.

It was well for himself that Blueskin left when he did, for not three days after he sailed away the Scorpion sloop-of-war dropped anchor in Lewes harbor. The New York agent of the unfortunate packet and a government commissioner had also come aboard the Scorpion.

Without loss of time, the officer in command instituted a keen and searching examination that brought to light some singularly curious facts. It was found that a very friendly understanding must have existed for some time between the pirates and the people of Indian River, for, in the houses throughout that section, many things—some of considerable value—that had been taken by the pirates from the packet, were discovered and seized by the commissioner. Valuables of a suspicious nature had found their way even into the houses of Lewes itself.

The whole neighborhood seemed to have become more or less tainted by the presence of the pirates.

Even poor Hiram White did not escape the suspicions of having had dealings with them. Of course the examiners were not slow in discovering that Levi West had been deeply concerned with Blueskin’s doings.

Old Dinah and black Bob were examined, and not only did the story of Levi’s two visitors come to light, but also the fact that Hiram was present and with them while they were in the house disposing of the captured goods to their agent.

Of all that he had endured, nothing seemed to cut poor Hiram so deeply and keenly as these unjust suspicions. They seemed to bring the last bitter pang, hardest of all to bear.

Levi had taken from him his father’s love; he had driven him, if not to ruin, at least perilously close to it. He had run away with the girl he loved, and now, through him, even Hiram’s good name was gone.

Neither did the suspicions against him remain passive; they became active.

Goldsmiths’ bills, to the amount of several thousand pounds, had been taken in the packet and Hiram was examined with an almost inquisitorial closeness and strictness as to whether he had or had not knowledge of their whereabouts.

Under his accumulated misfortunes, he grew not only more dull, more taciturn, than ever, but gloomy, moody, brooding as well. For hours he would sit staring straight before him into the fire, without moving so much as a hair.

One night—it was a bitterly cold night in February, with three inches of dry and gritty snow upon the ground—while Hiram sat thus brooding, there came, of a sudden, a soft tap upon the door.

Low and hesitating as it was, Hiram started violently at the sound. He sat for a while, looking from right to left. Then suddenly pushing back his chair, he arose, strode to the door, and flung it wide open,

It was Sally Martin.

Hiram stood for a while staring blankly at her. It was she who first spoke. “Won’t you let me come in, Hi?” said she. “I’m nigh starved with the cold and I’m fit to die, I’m so hungry. For God’s sake, let me come in.”

“Yes,” said Hiram, “I’ll let you come in, but why don’t you go home?”

The poor girl was shivering and chattering with the cold; now she began crying, wiping her eyes with the corner of a blanket in which her head and shoulders were wrapped. “I have been home, Hiram,” she said, “but dad, he shut the door in my face. He cursed me just awful, Hi—I wish I was dead!”

“You better come in,” said Hiram. “It’s no good standing out there in the cold.” He stood aside and the girl entered, swiftly, gratefully.

At Hiram’s bidding black Dinah presently set some food before Sally and she fell to eating ravenously, almost ferociously. Meantime, while she ate, Hiram stood with his back to the fire, looking at her face that face once so round and rosy, now thin, pinched, haggard.

“Are you sick, Sally?” said he presently.

“No,” said she, “but I’ve had pretty hard times since I left home, Hi.” The tears sprang to her eyes at the recollection of her troubles, but she only wiped them hastily away with the back of her hand, without stopping in her eating.

A long pause of dead silence followed. Dinah sat crouched together on a cricket at the other side of the hearth, listening with interest. Hiram did not seem to see her. “Did you go off with Levi?” said he at last, speaking abruptly. The girl looked up furtively under her brows. “You needn’t be afeared to tell,” he added.

“Yes,” said she at last, “I did go off with him, Hi.”

“Where’ve you been?”

At the question, she suddenly laid down her knife and fork.

“Don’t you ask me that, Hi,” said she, agitatedly, “I can’t tell you that. You don’t know Levi, Hiram; I darsn’t tell you anything he don’t want me to. If I told you where I been he’d hunt me out, no matter where I was, and kill me. If you only knew what I know about him, Hiram, you wouldn’t ask anything about him.”

Hiram stood looking broodingly at her for a long time; then at last he again spoke. “I thought a sight of you onc’t, Sally,” said he.

Sally did not answer immediately, but, after a while, she suddenly looked up. “Hiram,” said she, “if I tell ye something will you promise on your oath not to breathe a word to any living soul?” Hiram nodded. “Then I’ll tell you, but if Levi finds I’ve told he’ll murder me as sure as you’re standin’ there. Come nigher—I’ve got to whisper it.” He leaned forward close to her where she sat. She looked swiftly from right to left; then raising her lips she breathed into his ear: “I’m an honest woman, Hi. I was married to Levi West before I run away.”

The winter had passed, spring had passed, and summer had come. Whatever Hiram had felt, he had made no sign of suffering. Nevertheless, his lumpy face had begun to look flabby, his cheeks hollow, and his loose-jointed body shrunk more awkwardly together into its clothes. He was often awake at night, sometimes walking up and down his room until far into the small hours.

It was through such a wakeful spell as this that he entered into the greatest, the most terrible, happening of his life.

It was a sulphurously hot night in July. The air was like the breath of a furnace, and it was a hard matter to sleep with even the easiest mind and under the most favorable circumstances. The full moon shone in through the open window, laying a white square of light upon the floor, and Hiram, as he paced up and down, up and down, walked directly through it, his gaunt figure starting out at every turn into sudden brightness as he entered the straight line of misty light.

The clock in the kitchen whirred and rang out the hour of twelve, and Hiram stopped in his walk to count the strokes.

The last vibration died away into silence, and still he stood motionless, now listening with a new and sudden intentness, for, even as the clock rang the last stroke, he heard soft, heavy footsteps, moving slowly and cautiously along the pathway before the house and directly below the open window. A few seconds more