Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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Mr. Compton rose and looked carefully out into the office. There was no
one near. He then returned, locked the door, and drawing his chair close
to Brandon, began, in a low voice:

"You have your secrets and I have mine. I don't wish to know yours, but
my own I am going to tell to you, not merely for the sake of sympathy,
but rather for the sake of your assistance. I am going to tell you who I
am, and why I came out here.

"My name is not Compton. It is Henry Lawton. All my early life was
passed at York. There I married, had a son, and lived happily for years
--in fact, during the childhood of my boy.

"It was that boy of mine, Edgar, that led to all my troubles. I suppose
we indulged him too much. It was natural. He was our only child, and so
we ruined him. He got beyond our control at last and used to run about
the streets of York. I did what I could to save him, but it was too
late.

"He went on from bad to worse, until at last he got in with a set of
miscreants who were among the worst in the country. My God! to think how
my boy, once a sweet child, could have fallen so low. But he was weak,
and easily led, and so he went on from bad to worse.

"I can not bear to go into particulars," said the old man, after a long
pause. "I will come at once to point. My poor, wretched boy got in with
these miscreants, as I was telling you, and I did not see him from one
month's end to another. At last a great burglary took place. Three were
arrested. Among these two were old offenders, hardened in vice, the one
named Briggs, the other Crocker; the third was my unhappy boy."

The old man was silent for some time.

"I do not think, after all, that he was guilty: but Briggs turned King's
Evidence, and Crocker and my son were condemned to transportation. There
was no help.

"I sold out all I had in the world, and in compliance with the
entreaties of my poor wife, who nearly went mad with grief, I came out
here. I changed my name to Compton. My boy's term was for three years. I
began a business out here, and as my boy behaved well he was able to get
permission to hire out as a servant. I took him nominally as my servant,
for no one knew that he was my son, and so we had him with us again.

"I hoped that the bitter lesson which he had learned would prove
beneficial, but I did not know the strength of evil inclinations. As
long as his term of imprisonment lasted he was content and behaved well;
but at last, when the three years were up, he began to grow restive.
Crocker was freed at about the same time and my boy fell again under his
evil influence. This lasted for about a year, when, at last, one morning
a letter was brought me from him stating that he had gone to India. My
poor wife was again nearly distracted. She thought of nothing but her
boy. She made me take her and go in search of him again. So we went to
India. After a long search I found him there, as I had feared, in
connection with his old, vicious associates. True, they had changed
their names, and were trying to pass for honest men. Crocker called
himself Clark, and Briggs called himself Potts."

"Potts," cried Brandon.

"Yes," said the other, who was too absorbed in his own thoughts to
notice the surprise of Brandon. "He was in the employ of Colonel
Despard, at Calcutta, and enjoyed much of his confidence."

"What year was this?" asked Brandon.

"1825," replied Mr. Compton. "Crocker," he continued, "was acting as a
sort of shipping agent, and my son was his clerk. Of course, my first
efforts were directed toward detaching my son from these scoundrels. I
did all that I could. I offered to give him half of my property, and
finally all, if he would only leave them forever and come back. The
wretched boy refused. He did not appear to be altogether bad, but he had
a weak nature, and could not get rid of the influence of these men.

"I staid in India for a year and a half, until I found at last that
there was no hope. I could find nothing to do there, and if I remained I
would have to starve or go out to service. This I could not think of
doing. So I prepared to come back here. But my wife refused to leave her
son. She was resolved, she said, to stay by him till the last. I tried
to dissuade her, but could not move her. I told her that I could not be
a domestic. She said that she could do even that for the sake of her
boy. And she went off at once and got a situation as nurse with the same
Colonel Despard with whom Briggs, or, as he called himself, Potts, was
staying."

"What was the Christian name of this Potts?" asked Brandon, calmly.

"John--John Potts."

Brandon said nothing further, and Compton resumed.

"Thus my wife actually left me. I could not stay and be a slave. So I
made her promise to write me, and told her that I would send her as much
money as I could. She clung to me half broken-hearted as I left her. Our
parting was a bitter one--bitter enough: but I would rather break my
heart with grief than be a servant. Besides, she knew that whenever she
came back my heart was open to receive her.

"I came back to my lonely life out here and lived for nearly two years.
At last, in September 1828, a mail arrived from India bringing a letter
from my wife and Indian papers. The news which they brought well-nigh
drove me mad."

Compton buried his face in his hands and remained silent for some time.

"You couldn't have been more than a child at that time, but perhaps you
may have heard of the mysterious murder of Colonel Despard?"

He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but the latter gave no sign.

[Illustration: "THERE'S SOME MYSTERY ABOUT IT WHICH I CAN'T FATHOM."]

"Perhaps not," he continued--"no: you were too young, of course. Well,
it was in the _Vishnu_, a brig in which the Colonel had embarked
for Manilla. The brig was laden with hogshead staves and box shooks, and
the Colonel went there partly for his health, partly on business, taking
with him his valet Potts."

"What became of his family?" interrupted Brandon.

"He had a son in England at school. His wife had died not long before
this at one of the hill stations, where she had gone for her health.
Grief may have had something to do with the Colonel's voyage, for he was
very much attached to his wife.

"Mails used only to come at long intervals in those days and this one
brought the account not only of the Colonel's fate, but of the trial at
Manilla and the execution of the man that was condemned.

"It was a very mysterious case. In the month of July a boat arrived at
Manilla which carried the crew and one passenger from the brig
_Vishnu_. One of the men, a Malay named Uracao, was in irons, and
he was immediately given up to the authorities."

"Who were the others?"

"Potts, as he called himself, the Colonel's valet, Clark, three Lascars,
and the Captain, an Italian named Cigole. Information was at once laid
against the Malay. Potts was the chief witness. He said that he slept in
the cabin while the Colonel slept in an inner state-room; that one
morning early he was roused by a frightful shriek and saw Uracao rushing
from the Colonel's state-room. He sprang up, chased him, and caught him
just as he was about to leap overboard. His creese covered with blood
was in his hand. The Colonel, when they went to look at him, had his
throat cut from ear to ear. Clark swore that he was steering the vessel
and saw Potts catch Uracao, and helped to hold him. The Captain, Cigole,
swore that he was waked by the noise, and rushed out in time to see
this. Clark had gone as mate of the vessel. Of the Lascars, two had been
down below, but one was on deck and swore to have seen the same. On this
testimony Uracao was condemned and executed."

"How did they happen to leave the brig?"

"They said that a great storm came up about three days' sail from
Manilla, the vessel sprang a leak, and they had to take to the boat.
Their testimony was very clear indeed, and there were no contradictions;
but in spite of all this it was felt to be a very mysterious case, and
even the exhibition of the Malay creese, carefully covered with the
stains of blood, did not altogether dispel this feeling."

"Have you got the papers yet, or are there any in Sydney that contain an
account of this affair?"

"I have kept them all. You may read the whole case if you care about
it."

"I should like to, very much," said Brandon, with great calmness.

"When I heard of this before the mail was opened I felt an agony of fear
lest my miserable boy might be implicated in some way. To my immense
relief his name did not occur at all."

"You got a letter from your wife?" said Brandon, interrogatively.

"Yes," said the old man, with a sigh. "The last that I ever received
from her. Here it is." And, saying this, he opened his pocket-book and
took out a letter, worn and faded, and blackened by frequent readings.

Brandon took it respectfully, and read the following:

"CALCUTTA, August 15, 1828.

"MY DEAREST HENRY,--By the papers that I send you, you will see what has
occurred. Our dear Edgar is well, indeed better than usual, and I would
feel much cheered if it were not for the sad fate of the poor Colonel.
This is the last letter that you will ever receive from me. I am going
to leave this country never to return, and do not yet know where I will
go. Wherever I go I will be with my darling Edgar. Do not worry about me
or about him. It will be better for you to try and forget all about us,
since we are from this time the same as dead to you. Good-by forever, my
dearest husband; it shall be my daily prayer that God may bless you.

"Your affectionate wife, MARY."

Brandon read this in silence, and handed it back.

"A strange letter," said Compton mournfully. "At first it gave a bitter
pang to think of my Mary thus giving me up forever, so coldly, and for
no reason: but afterward I began to understand why she wrote this.

"My belief is, that these villains kept my son in their clutches for
some good reason, and that they had some equally good reason for keeping
her. There's some mystery about it which I can't fathom. Perhaps she
knew too much about the Colonel's affairs to be allowed to go free. They
might have detained her by working upon her love for her son, or simply
by terrifying her. She was always a timid soul, poor Mary. That letter
is not her composition: there is not a word there that sounds like her,
and they no doubt told her what to write, or wrote out something, and
made her copy it.

"And now," said Compton, after another long pause, "I have got to the
end of my story. I know nothing more about them. I have lived here ever
since, at first despairing, but of late more resigned to my lot. Yet
still if I have one desire in life it is to get some trace of these dear
ones whom I still love as tenderly as ever. You, my dear boy, with your
ability may conjecture some way. Besides, you will perhaps be traveling
more or less, and may be able to hear of their fate. This is the
condition that I make. I implore you by your pity for a heart-broken
father to do as I say and help me. Half! why, I would give all that I
have if I could get them back again."

Brandon shuddered perceptibly at the words "heart-broken father;" but he
quickly recovered himself. He took Compton's hand and pressed it warmly.

"Dear friend, I will make no objection to any thing, and I promise you
that all my best efforts shall he directed toward finding them out."

"Tell them to come to me, that I am rich, and can make them happy."

"I'll make them go to you if they are alive," said Brandon.

"God bless you!" ejaculated the old man, fervently.

Brandon spent the greater part of that day in making business
arrangements, and in reading the papers which Compton had preserved
containing an account of the Despard murder.

It was late at night before he returned to his hotel. As he went into
the hall he saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging attitude reading
the Sydney _News_.

He was a thin, small-sized man, with a foreign air, and quick, restless
manner. His features were small, a heavy beard and mustache covered his
face, his brow was low, and his eyes black and twinkling. A sharp,
furtive glance which he gave at Brandon attracted the attention of the
latter, for there was something in the glance that meant more than idle
curiosity.

Even in the midst of his cares Brandon's curiosity was excited. He
walked with assumed indifference up to the desk as though looking for
the key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his eye ranged down the
column of names till it rested on the last one.

"_Pietro Cigole_."

--Cigole! the name brought singular associations. Had this man still any
connection with Potts? The words of his father's letter rushed into his
mind--"His arm may reach even to the antipodes to strike you. Be on your
guard. Watch every one. He has some dark plan against you."

With these thoughts in his mind Brandon went up to his room.

CHAPTER III.

"A MAN OVERBOARD!"

In so small a town as Sydney then was Brandon could hope to learn all
that could be learned about Cigole. By casual inquiries he learned that
the Italian had come out in the _Rival_, and had given out that he
was agent for a London house in the wool business. He had bought up a
considerable quantity which he was preparing to ship.

Brandon could not help feeling that there was some ruse about this. Yet
he thought, on the other hand, why should he flaunt his name so boldly
before the world? If he is in reality following me why should he not
drop his name? But then, again, why should he? Perhaps he thinks that I
can not possibly know any thing about his name. Why should I? I was a
child when Despard was murdered. It may be merely a similarity of names.

Brandon from time to time had opportunities of hearing more about
Cigole, yet always the man seemed absorbed in business.

He wondered to himself whether he had better confide his suspicions to
Mr. Compton or not. Yet why should he? The old man would become excited,
and feel all sorts of wild hopes about discovering his wife and son.
Could it be possible that the Italian after so many years could now
afford any clew whatever? Certainly it was not very probable.

On the whole Brandon thought that this man, whoever he was or whatever
his purpose might be, would be encountered best by himself singly. If
Mr. Compton took part he would at once awaken Cigole's fears by his
clumsiness.

Brandon felt quite certain that Mr. Compton would not know any thing
about Cigole's presence in Sydney unless he himself told him. For the
old man was so filled with trouble at the loss of his partner that he
could think of nothing else, and all his thoughts were taken up with
closing up the concern so as to send forward remittances of money to
London as soon as possible. Mr. Compton had arranged for him to draw
L2000 on his arrival at London, and three months afterward L3000-L10,000
would be remitted during the following year.

Brandon had come to the conclusion to tell Mr. Compton about Cigole
before he left, so that if the man remained in the country he might be
bribed or otherwise induced to tell what he knew; yet thinking it
possible that Cigole had designed to return in the same ship with him,
he waited to see how things would turn out. As he could not help
associating Cigole in his mind with Potts, so he thought that whichever
way he turned this man would try to follow him. His anticipations proved
correct. He had taken passage in the ship _Java_, and two days
before the vessel left he learned that Cigole had taken his passage in
her also, having put on board a considerable quantity of wool. On the
whole Brandon felt gratified to hear this, for the close association of
a long sea voyage would give him opportunities to test this man, and
probe him to the bottom. The thought of danger arising to himself did
not enter his mind. He believed that Cigole meant mischief, but had too
much confidence in his own powers to fear it.

On the 5th of August the ship _Java_ was ready, and Mr. Compton
stood on the quarterdeck to bid good-by to Brandon.

"God bless you, dear boy! You will find the money coming promptly, and
Smithers & Co.'s house is one of the strongest in London. I have brought
you a parting gift," said he, in a low voice. He drew from his pocket a
pistol, which in those days was less known than now--indeed, this was
the first of its kind which had reached Australia, and Mr. Compton had
paid a fabulous price for it. "Here," said he, "take this to remember me
by. They call it a revolver. Here is a box of patent cartridges that go
with it. It is from me to you. And mind," he continued, while there came
over his face a vengeful look which Brandon had never seen there before
--"mind, if ever you see John Potts, give him one of those patent
cartridges, and tell him it is the last gift of a broken-hearted
father."

Brandon's face turned ghastly, and his lips seemed to freeze into a
smile of deadly meaning.

"God bless you." cried Compton, "I see by your face that you will do it.
Good-by."

He wrung Brandon's hand hard and left the ship.

About six feet away stood Cigole, looking over the stern and smoking a
cigar. He was near enough to hear what had been said, but he did not
appear to have heard it. Throwing his cigar into the water, he plunged
his hands into his pockets, and began whistling a lively air.

"Aha, Capitano," said he, in a foreign accent, "I have brought my wool
off at last."

Brandon paced the deck silently yet watchfully.

The good ship _Java_ went out with a fine breeze, which continued
for some days, until at last nothing could be seen but the wide ocean.
In those few days Brandon had settled himself comfortably on board, and
had learned pretty well the kind of life which he would have to lead for
the next six months or so. The captain was a quiet, amiable sort of a
person, without much force of character; the mate was more energetic and
somewhat passionate; the crew consisted of the average order of men.
There was no chance, certainly, for one of those conspiracies such as
Mr. Compton had hinted at as having taken place on the _Vishnu_;
for in his account of that affair he evidently believed that Uracao had
been made a scape-goat for the sins of the others.

Brandon was soon on the best of terms with the officers of the ship. As
to Cigole it was different. The fact of their being the only passengers
on board might of itself have been a sufficient cause to draw them
together; but Brandon found it difficult to pass beyond the extremest
limits of formal intercourse. Brandon himself considered that his
purposes would be best served by close association with this man; he
hoped that in the course of such association he might draw something
from Cigole. But Cigole baffled him constantly. He was as polite and
courteous as all Italians are; he had an abundance of remarks all ready
about the state of the weather, the prospects of the voyage, or the
health of the seamen; but beyond these topics it was difficult to induce
him to go. Brandon stifled the resentment which he felt toward this man,
in his efforts to break down the barriers of formality which he kept up,
and sought to draw him out on the subject of the wool trade. Yet here he
was baffled. Cigole always took up the air of a man who was speaking to
a rival in business, and pretended to be very cautious and guarded in
his remarks about wool, as though he feared that Brandon would interfere
with his prospects. This sort of thing was kept up with such great
delicacy of management on Cigole's part that Brandon himself would have
been completely deceived, and would have come to consider him as nothing
more than a speculator in wool, had it not been for a certain deep
instinct within him, which made him regard this man as one who was
actuated by something far deeper than mere regards for a successful
speculation.

Cigole managed to baffle the most dextrous efforts and the most delicate
contrivances of Brandon. He would acknowledge that he was an Italian,
and had been in all parts of Italy, but carefully refrained from telling
where he was born. He asserted that this was the first time that he had
been in the Eastern seas. He remarked once, casually, that Cigole was a
very common name among Italians. He said that he had no acquaintances at
all in England, and was only going there now because he heard that there
was a good market for wool. At another time he spoke as though much of
his life had been passed in Marseilles, and hinted that he was a partner
of a commercial house there.

Cigole never made any advances, and never even met half-way those which
Brandon made. He was never off his guard for one instant. Polite,
smiling, furtive, never looking Brandon fairly in the face, he usually
spoke with a profusion of bows, gestures, and commonplaces, adopting, in
fact, that part which is always at once both the easiest and the safest
to play--the non-committal, pure and perfect.

It was cunning, but low cunning after all, and Brandon perceived that,
for one who had some purpose to accomplish, with but a common soul to
sustain him, this was the most ordinary way to do it. A villain of
profounder cunning or of larger spirit would have pursued a different
path. He would have conversed freely and with apparent unreserve; he
would have yielded to all friendly advances, and made them himself; he
would have shown the highest art by concealing art, in accordance with
the hackneyed proverb, "Ars est celare artem."

Brandon despised him as an ordinary villain, and hardly thought it worth
his while to take any particular notice of him, except to watch him in a
general way. But Cigole, on the contrary, was very different. His eyes,
which never met those of Brandon fairly, were constantly watching him.
When moving about the quarter-deck or when sitting in the cabin he
usually had the air of a man who was pretending to be intent on
something else, but in reality watching Brandon's acts or listening to
his words. To any other man the knowledge of this would have been in the
highest degree irksome. But to Brandon it was gratifying, since it
confirmed his suspicions. He saw this man, whose constant efforts were
directed toward not committing himself by word, doing that very thing by
his attitude, his gesture, and the furtive glance of his eye. Brandon,
too, had his part, but it was infinitely greater than that of Cigole,
and the purpose that now animated his life was unintelligible to this
man who watched him. But Cigole's whole soul was apparent to Brandon;
and by his small arts, his low cunning, his sly observation, and many
other peculiarities, he exhibited that which is seen in its perfection
in the ordinary spy of despotic countries, such as used to abound most
in Rome and Naples in the good old days.

For the common spy of Europe may deceive the English or American
traveler; but the Frenchman, the German, the Spaniard, or the Italian,
always recognizes him.

So Brandon's superior penetration discovered the true character of
Cigole.

He believed that this man was the same Cigole who had figured in the
affair of the _Vishnu_; that he had been sent out by Potts to do
some injury to himself, and that he was capable of any crime. Yet he
could not see how he could do any thing. He certainly could not incite
the simple-minded captain and the honest mate to conspiracy. He was too
great a coward to attempt any violence. So Brandon concluded that he had
simply come to watch him so as to learn his character, and carry back to
Potts all the knowledge that he might gain.

This was his conclusion after a close association of one month with
Cigole. Yet he made up his mind not to lose sight of this man. To him he
appeared only an agent in villainy, and therefore unworthy of vengeance;
yet he might be made use of as an aid in that vengeance. He therefore
wished to have a clew by which he might afterward find him.

"You and I," said he one day, in conversation, "are both in the same
trade. If I ever get to England I may wish some time to see you. Where
can I find you?"

Cigole looked in twenty different directions, and hesitated for some
time.

"Well," said he at last, "I do not think that you will wish to see me--"
and he hesitated; "but," he resumed, with an evil smile, "if you should
by any possibility wish to do so, you can find out where I am by
inquiring of Giovanni Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street, London."

"Perhaps I may not wish to," said Brandon, coolly, "and perhaps I may.
At any rate, if I do, I will remember to inquire of Giovanni Cavallo, 16
Red Lion Street, London."

He spoke with deep emphasis on the address. Cigole looked uncomfortable,
as though he had at last made the mistake which he dreaded, and had
committed himself.

So the time passed.

After the first few days the weather had become quite stormy. Strong
head-winds, accompanied often by very heavy rains, had to be
encountered. In spite of this the ship had a very good passage
northward, and met with no particular obstacle until her course was
turned toward the Indian Ocean. Then all the winds were dead against
her, and for weeks a succession of long tacks far to the north and to
the south brought her but a short distance onward. Every day made the
wind more violent and the storm worse. And now the season of the equinox
was approaching, when the monsoons change, and all the winds that sweep
over these seas alter their courses. For weeks before and after this
season the winds are all unsettled, and it seems as if the elements were
let loose. From the first week in September this became manifest, and
every day brought them face to face with sterner difficulties. Twice
before the captain had been to Australia; and for years he had been in
the China trade; so that he knew these seas well; but he said that he
had never known the equinoctial storms begin so early, and rage with
such violence.

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