Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series

“Did she speak to you?” asked John Tanerton.

“Yes, sir. Leastways she made just a remark—‘What, that fire out again?’ she said. That was all, sir.”

“Go on,” sharply cried Sir Dace.

“About ten minutes later, I was at the front-door, letting out the water-rate—who is sure to call, as my missis told him, at the most ill-convenient time—when Miss Verena came softly down the stairs with her bonnet and mantle on. I felt surprised. ‘Don’t shut me in, Maria, when I want to go out,’ she said to me in a laughing sort of way, and I pulled the door back and begged her pardon. That was all, sir.”

“How was she dressed?” asked Coralie.

“I couldn’t say,” answered the girl; “except that her clothes were dark. Her black veil was down over her face; I noticed that; and she had a little carpet-bag in her hand.”

So there we were, no wiser than before. Verena had taken flight, and it was impossible to say whither.

They were for running all over the world. The Squire would have started forthwith, and taken the top of the Monument to begin with. John Tanerton, departing on his search to find Pym’s lodgings, found we all meant to attend him, including Ozias.

“Better let me go alone,” said Jack. “I am Pym’s master at sea, and can perhaps exercise some little authority on shore. Johnny Ludlow can go with me.”

“And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame Tussaud’s,” put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than otherwise. “They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud’s: it is a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under shelter.”

There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off to see the kings and queens.

“Drive like the wind,” said Jack to the cabman. “No. 23, Ship Street, Tower Hill.”

“I thought you did not know his number,” I said, as we went skimming over the stones.

“I do not know Pym’s: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct me to Pym’s.”

Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. “Does Ferrar come from Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?”

“It is the same,” said Jack. “I have heard his history. One of his especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow.”

“How strange!—strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well? Is he a good sailor?”

“First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago.”

How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the frog, who had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he was.

Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs windows.

No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour.

You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light.

It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into—I had almost said—that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was writing, looked up, and saw his captain.

“Oh, sir, is it you?” he said, rising. “I beg your pardon.”

“Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?”

Mark smiled—the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. “I had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience.”

“To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?”

“Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir.”

“Have you forgotten me, Mark?” I asked, as he took up his cap to come with us.

An instant’s uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light.

“No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow. But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see here.”

In the moment’s impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then, remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it back quickly. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, with the same honest flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar.

“How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?” I asked, as we went down the street.

“Quite well, thank you, sir. My old father is hearty yet, and my brother and sister are both married. I went down to see them last week, and stayed a day or two.”

The greatest change in Ferrar lay in his diction. He spoke as we spoke. Associating now with men of education, he had taken care to catch up their tone and accent; and he was ever, afloat or ashore, striving to improve himself.

Ferrar opened Pym’s door without knocking, dived down the step, for the houses were precisely similar, and entered the parlour. He and Pym occupied the same apartments in each house: the parlour and the little bed-room behind it.

The parlour was in darkness, save for what light came into it from the street gas-lamp, for these shutters were not closed. Ferrar went into the passage and shouted out for the landlady, Mrs. Richenough. I thought it an odd name.

She came in from the kitchen at the end of the passage, carrying a candle. A neat little woman with grey hair and a puckered face; the sleeves of her brown gown were rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a check apron.

“Mr. Pym, sir?” she said, in answer to Ferrar. “He dressed hisself and went out when he’d swallowed down his tea. He always do go out, sir, the minute he’s swallowed it.”

“Do you expect him back to-night?” questioned Jack.

“Why yes, sir, I suppose so,” she answered, “he mostly comes in about eleven.”

“Has any young lady been here this evening, ma’am?” blandly continued Jack. “With Mr. Pym?—or to inquire for him?”

Mrs. Richenough resented the question. “A young lady!” she repeated, raising her voice. “Well, I’m sure! what next?”

“Take care: it is our captain who speaks to you,” whispered Ferrar in her ear; and the old woman dropped a curtsy to Jack. Captains are captains with the old landladies in Ship Street.

“Mr. Pym’s sister—or cousin,” amended Jack.

“And it’s humbly asking pardon of you, sir. I’m sure I took it to mean one of them fly-away girls that would like to be running after our young officers continual. No, sir; no young lady has been here for Mr. Pym, or with him.”

“We can wait a little while to see whether he comes in, I presume, ma’am,” said Jack.

Intimating that Mr. Pym’s captain was welcome to wait the whole night if he pleased, Mrs. Richenough lighted the lamp that stood on the table, shut the shutters, and made Jack another curtsy as she withdrew.

“Do you wish me to remain, sir?” asked Mark.

“Not at all,” was the captain’s answer. “There will be a good deal to do to-morrow, Mr. Ferrar: mind you are not late in getting on board.”

“No fear, sir,” replied Ferrar.

And he left us waiting.

III

The dwellings in Ship Street, Tower Hill, may be regarded as desirable residences by the young merchant-seamen whose vessels are lying in the neighbouring clocks, but they certainly do not possess much attraction for the general eye.

Seated in Edward Pym’s parlour, the features of the room gradually impressed themselves upon my mind, and they remain there still. They would have remained, I think, without the dreadful tragedy that was so soon to take place in it. It was weary work waiting. Captain Tanerton, tired with his long and busy day, was nodding asleep in the opposite chair, and I had nothing to do but look about me.

It was a small room, rather shabby, the paper of a greenish cast, the faded carpet originally red: and the bedroom behind, as much as could be seen of it through the half-open door, looked smaller and poorer. The chairs were horsehair, the small table in the middle had a purple cloth on it, on which stood the lamp, that the landlady had just lighted. A carved ivory ornament, representing a procession of priests and singers, probably a present to Mrs. Richenough from some merchant-captain, stood under a glass shade on a bracket against the wall; the mantelpiece was garnished with a looking-glass and some china shepherds and shepherdesses. A monkey-jacket of Pym’s lay across the back of a chair; some books and his small desk were on the chiffonier. In the rooms above, as we learnt later, lodged a friend of Pym’s, one Alfred Saxby, who was looking out for a third mate’s berth.

At last Pym came in. Uncommonly surprised he seemed to see us sitting there, but not at all put out: he thought the captain had come down on some business connected with the ship. Jack quietly opened the ball; saying what he had to say.

“Yes, sir. I do know where Miss Verena Fontaine is, but I decline to say,” was Pym’s answer when he had listened.

“No, sir, nothing will induce me to say,” he added to further remonstrance, “and you cannot compel me. I am under your authority at sea, Captain Tanerton, but I am not on shore—and not at all in regard to my private affairs. Miss Verena Fontaine is under the protection of friends, and that is quite enough.”

Enough or not enough, this was the utmost we could get from him. His captain talked, and he talked, each of them in a civilly-cold way; but nothing more satisfactory came of it. Pym wound up by saying the young lady was his cousin, and he could take care of her without being interfered with.

“Do you trust him, Johnny Ludlow?” asked Jack, as we came away.

“I don’t trust him on the whole; not a bit of it. But he seems to speak truth in saying she is with friends.”

And, as the days went on, bringing no tidings of Verena, Sir Dace Fontaine grew angry as a raging tiger.

When a ship is going out of dock, she is more coquettish than a beauty in her teens. Not in herself, but in her movements. Advertised to sail to-day, you will be told she’ll not start until to-morrow; and when to-morrow comes the departure will be put off until the next day, perhaps to the next week.

Thus it was with the Rose of Delhi. From some uncompromising exigencies, whether connected with the cargo, the crew, the brokers, or any other of the unknown mysteries pertaining to ships, the day that was to have witnessed her departure—Thursday—did not witness it. The brokers, Freeman and Co., let it transpire on board that she would go out of dock the next morning. About mid-day Captain Tanerton presented himself at their office in Eastcheap.

“I shall not sail to-morrow—with your permission,” said he to Mr. James Freeman.

“Yes, you will—if she’s ready,” returned the broker. “Gould says she will be.”

“Gould may think so; I do not. But, whether she be ready or not, Mr. Freeman, I don’t intend to take her out to-morrow.”

The words might be decisive words, but the captain’s tone was genial as he spoke them, and his frank, pleasant smile sat on his face. Mr. Freeman looked at him. They valued Captain Tanerton as they perhaps valued no other master in their employ, these brothers Freeman; but James had a temper that was especially happy in contradiction.

“I suppose you’d like to say that you won’t go out on a Friday!”

“That’s just it,” said Jack.

“You are superstitious, Captain Tanerton,” mocked the broker.

“I am not,” answered Jack. “But I sail with those who are. Sailors are more foolish on this point than you can imagine: and I believe—I believe in my conscience—that ships, sailing on a Friday, have come to grief through their crew losing heart. No matter what impediment is met with—bad weather, accidents, what not—the men say at once it’s of no use, we sailed on a Friday. They lose their spirit, and their energy with it; and I say, Mr. Freeman, that vessels have been lost through this, which might have otherwise been saved. I will not go out of dock to-morrow; and I refuse to do it in your interest as much as in my own.”

“Oh, bother,” was all James Freeman rejoined. “You’ll have to go if she’s ready.”

But the words made an impression. James Freeman knew what sailors were nearly as well as Jack knew: and he could not help recalling to memory that beautiful ship of Freeman Brothers, the Lily of Japan. The Lily had been lost only six months ago; and those of her crew, who were saved, religiously stuck to it that the calamity was brought about through having sailed on a Friday.

The present question did not come to an issue. For, on the Friday morning, the Rose of Delhi was not ready for sea; would not be ready that day. On the Saturday morning she was not ready either; and it was finally decided that Monday should be the day of departure. On the Saturday afternoon Captain Tanerton ran down to Timberdale for four-and-twenty hours; Squire Todhetley, his visit to London over, travelling down by the same train.

Verena Fontaine had not yet turned up, and Sir Dace was nearly crazy. Not only was he angry at being thwarted, but one absorbing, special fear lay upon him—that she would come back a married woman. Pym was capable of any sin, he told the Squire and Coralie, even of buying the wedding-ring; and Verena was capable of letting it be put on her finger. “No, papa,” dissented Coralie in her equable manner, “Vera is too fond of money and of the good things money buys, to risk the loss of the best part of her fortune. She will not marry Pym until she is of age; be sure of that. When he has sailed she will come home safe and sound, and tell us where she has been.”

Captain Tanerton went down, I say, to Timberdale. He stayed at the Rectory with his wife and brother until the Sunday afternoon, and then returned to London. The Rose of Delhi was positively going out on Monday, so he had to be back—and, I may as well say here, that Jack, good-natured Jack, had invited me to go in her as far as Gravesend.

During that brief stay at Timberdale, Jack was not in his usual spirits. His wife, Alice, noticed it, and asked him whether anything was the matter. Not anything whatever, Jack readily answered. In truth there was not. At least, anything he could talk of. A weight lay on his spirits, and he could not account for it. The strong instinct, which had seemed to warn him against sailing with Pym again, had gradually left him since he knew that Pym was to sail, whether or not. In striving to make the best of it, he had thrown off the feeling: and the unaccountable depression that weighed him down could not arise from that cause. It was a strange thing altogether, this; one that never, in all his life, had he had any experience of; but it was not less strange than true.

Monday.—The Rose of Delhi lay in her place in the freshness of the sunny morning, making ready to go out of dock with the incoming tide. I went on board betimes: and I thought I had never been in such a bustling scene before. The sailors knew what they were about. I conclude, but to me it seemed all confusion. The captain I could not see anywhere; but his chief officer, Pym, seemed to be more busy than a certain common enemy of ours is said to be in a gale of wind.

“Is the captain not on board?” I asked of Mark Ferrar, as he was whisking past me on deck.

“Oh no, sir; not yet. The captain will not come on board till the last moment—if he does then.”

The words took me by surprise. “What do you mean, by saying ‘If he does then’?”

“He has so much to do, sir; he is at the office now, signing the bills of lading. If he can’t get done in time he will join at Gravesend when we take on some passengers. The captain is not wanted on board when we are going out of dock, Mr. Johnny,” added Ferrar, seeing my perplexed look. “The river-pilot takes the ship out.”

He pointed to the latter personage, just then making his appearance on deck. I wondered whether all river-pilots were like him. He was broad enough to make two ordinarily stout people; and his voice, from long continuous shouting, had become nothing less than a raven’s croak.

At the last moment, when the ship was getting away, and I had given the captain up, he came on board. How glad I was to see his handsome, kindly face!

“I’ve had a squeak for it, Johnny,” he laughed, as he shook my hand: “but I meant to go down with you if I could.”

Then came all the noise and stir of getting away: the croaking of the pilot alone distinguishable to my uninitiated ears. “Slack away the stern-line”—he called it starn. “Haul in head-rope.” “Here, carpenter, bear a hand, get the cork-fender over the quarter-gallery.” “What are you doing aft there?—why don’t you slack away that stern-line?” Every other moment it seemed to me that we were going to pitch into the craft in the pool, or they into us. However, we got on without mishap.

Captain Tanerton was crossing the ship, after holding a confab with the pilot, when a young man, whom he did not recognize, stepped aside out of his way, and touched his cap. The captain looked surprised, for the badge on the cap was the one worn by his own officers.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Mr. Saxby, if you please, sir.”

“Mr. Saxby! What do you do here?”

“Third mate, if you please, sir,” repeated the young man. “Your third mate, Mr. Jones, met with an accident yesterday; he broke his leg; and my friend, Pym, spoke of me to Mr. Gould.”

Captain Tanerton was not only surprised, but vexed. First, for the accident to Jones, who was a very decent young fellow; next, at his being superseded by a stranger, and a friend of Pym’s. He put a few questions, found the new man’s papers were in order, and so made the best of it.

“You will find me a good and considerate master, Mr. Saxby, if you do your duty with a will,” he said in a kind tone.

“I hope I shall, sir; I’ll try to,” answered the young man.

On we went swimmingly, in the wake of the tug-boat; but this desirable tranquillity was ere long destined to be marred.

On coming up from the state-room, as they called it, after regaling ourselves on a cold collation, the captain was pointing out to me something on shore, when one of the crew approached hastily, and touched his cap. I found it was the carpenter: a steady-looking man, who was fresh to the ship, having joined her half-an-hour before starting.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he began. “Might I ask you when this ship was pumped out last?”

“Why, she is never pumped out,” replied the captain.

“Well, sir,” returned the man, “it came into my head just now to sound her, and I find there’s two feet of water in the hold.”

“Nonsense,” said Jack: “you must be mistaken. Why, she has never made a cupful of water since she was built. We have to put water in her to keep her sweet.”

“Any way, sir, there’s two feet o’ water in her now.”

The captain looked at the man steadily for a moment, and then thought it might be as well to verify the assertion—or the contrary—himself, being a practical man. Taking the sounding-rod from the carpenter’s hand, he wiped it dry with an old bag lying near, and then proceeded to sound the well. Quite true: there were two feet of water. No time lost he. Ordering the carpenter to rig the pumps, he called all hands to man them.

For a quarter-of-an-hour, or twenty minutes, the pumps were worked without intermission; then the captain sounded, as before, doing it himself. There was no diminution of water—it stood at the same level as before pumping. Upon that, he and the carpenter went down into the hold, to listen along the ship’s sides, and discover, if they could, where the water was coming in. Five minutes later, Jack was on deck again, his face grave.

“It is coming in abreast of the main hatchway on the starboard side; we can hear it distinctly,” he said to the pilot. “I must order the ship back again: I think it right to do so.” And the broad pilot, who seemed a very taciturn pilot, made no demur to this, except a grunt. So the tug-boat was ordered to turn round and tow us back again.

“Where’s Mr. Pym?” cried the captain. “Mr. Pym!”

“Mr. Pym’s in the cabin, sir,” said the steward, who chanced to be passing.

“In the cabin!” echoed Jack, in an accent that seemed to imply the cabin was not Mr. Pym’s proper place just then. “Send him to me, if you please, steward.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the steward. But he did not obey with the readiness exacted on board ship. He hesitated, as if wanting to say something before turning away.

No Pym came. Jack grew impatient, and called out an order or two. Young Saxby came up, touching his cap, according to rule.

“Do you want me, sir?”

“I want Mr. Pym. He is below. Ask him to come to me instantly.”

It brought forth Pym. Jack’s head was turned away for a moment, and I saw what he did not. That Pym had a fiery face, and walked as if his limbs were slipping from under him.

“Oh, you are here at last, Mr. Pym—did you not receive my first message?” cried Jack, turning round. “The cargo must be broken out to find the place of leakage. See about it smartly: there’s no time to waste.”

Pym had caught hold of something at hand to enable him to stand steady. He had lost his wits, that was certain; for he stuttered out an answer to the effect that the cargo might be—hanged.

The captain saw his state then. Feeling a need of renovation possibly, after his morning’s exertions, Mr. Pym had been making free, a great deal too much so, with the bottled ale below, and had finished up with brandy-and-water.

The cargo might be hanged!

Captain Tanerton, his brow darkening, spoke a sharp, short, stern reprimand, and ordered Mr. Pym to his cabin.

What could have possessed Pym unless it might be the spirit that was in the brandy, nobody knew. He refused to obey, broke into open defiance, and gave Captain Tanerton sauce to his face.

“Take him below,” said the captain quietly, to those who were standing round. “Mr. Ferrar, you will lock Mr. Pym’s cabin-door, if you please, and bring me the key.”

This was done, and Mr. Pym encaged. He kicked at his cabin-door, and shook it; but he could not escape: he was a prisoner. He swore for a little while at the top of his voice; then he commenced some uproarious singing, and finally fell on his bed and went to sleep.

Hands were set to work to break out the cargo, which they piled on deck; and the source of the leakage was discovered. It seemed a slight thing, after all, to have caused so much commotion—nothing but an old treenail that had not been properly plugged-up. I said so to Ferrar.

“Ah, Mr. Johnny,” was Ferrar’s answering remark, his face and tone strangely serious, “slight as it may seem to you, it might have sunk us all this night, had we chanced to anchor off Gravesend.”

What with the pumps, that were kept at work, and the shifting of the cargo, and the hammering they made in stopping up the leak, we had enough to do this time. And about half-past three o’clock in the afternoon the brave ship, which had gone out so proudly with the tide, got back ignominiously with the end of it, and came to an anchor outside the graving-dock, there not being sufficient water to allow of her entering it. The damage was already three-parts repaired, and the ship would make her final start on the morrow.

“’Twas nothing but a good Providence could have put it into my head to sound the ship, sir,” remarked the carpenter, wiping his hot face, as he came on deck for something or other he needed. “But for that, we might none of us have seen the morning’s sun.”