"If that vision would fail, you'll find a signed and notarized communication in the locked drawer of my secretary, to which you have the key. A signed copy is in the hands of the lawyer at Tavistock, another on deposit with Baring's Bank; still another has been posted to Captain Tyler, at Bath, in the Maine District of Massachusetts. All copies contain directions for its use; and a sum of money has been provided for expenses involved. Also, there is a private communication, with an enclosure, addressed to you, in the same drawer."
Alan's eyes slowly filled with tears, and he did not attempt to speak.
"Now ask Jim to step in—I wish to get his consent to the deposition I've asked you to witness—and remain in call."
Jim came in, and on my bidding him seat himself-his manner with me was generally that of a Yankee seaman before the mast with his captain—he did so. I brought out a paper I had written the night before.
"Whether one or both of us are alive or dead in June, 1821, we'll have done all we can to carry out Cap'n Phillips's orders."
" 'At's more 'an two years from now, twenty years in all. I reckon 'twill be settled long before 'at."
"If we're alive when that time comes, we'll go aboard the Dolly Madison—I think she'll have a different name—and set sail. If I'm dead, you'll go alone. If you're dead, I'll go alone. But I agree with you we may sail much before then—perhaps in a few days—if we're to sail at all."
"Cap'n, I believe it in my bones."
"That being the case, I've made my will. It makes provision for certain things we wanted carried out. It provides you with a home and a job on board the vessel for as long as she stays afloat or as you wish; and a living on any count. It sets up a fund of a hundred thousand American dollars for you to buy and free slaves—your old acquaintances and a few you can help. But there are millions of slaves in the Americas alone, and our money wouldn't be a drop in the bucket in trying to buy their freedom. Still, if used wisely, it can strike a good strong blow at slavery."
"How would 'at be, Cap'n?"
"In America and all over Europe tlie Quakers are fighting slavery. They're fighting it well, joining hands with other antislavery societies. So the remainder of our gold—the great bulk of it, including what this house and Elveshurst will bring—all except the special bequests and the ship—I've willed to them for that use. Does that suit you, Jim?"
"It couldn't suit me no better."
"The gold was never ours, except to use for Captain Phillips and our mates and what they stood for. If we live, we'll keep the ship for our own—I the master, you the cook—we're entitled to it in lieu of reasonable earning. But when we leave England to go home—in a few days, a few months, a little over two years at most—I want to make the same disposal of all the rest as in this will."
Jim's face grew strained, and I thought he might break down; instead he gave me a great, radiant smile.
"There ain't no harm in 'at, as 'em Arabs useter say."
"Jim, do you remember the morning we rode out after Tembu Emir?"
"When I forgit 'at, I won't be no breathin' man or no ha'nt neither."
"He tried to kill me, as was his right, and death came very close. There was no evil in him, nor in Tui whom I fought in the grass, even though the fires of hell shone in his eyes. In a few days death will come close again, this time at evil's bidding. I won't have a gun to use against him, or even a stone rolled into reach of my hand. The issue wall be very close; and you won't be able to save me as you did once—twice—before. But let's go forth in good cheer and high hope. Whatever happens, we won't go back into slavery."
"I'll be of good cheer and high hope, too, like when we went after Tembu. And if 'em mens kill you, wif me still alive—but 'at ain't no business I have wif you, Cap'n Whitman."
"Whom do you have it with?"
"'At business is wif my own soul, de soul of a black man, but a man right on, doin' de best he can."
I started to speak, but found I had nothing to say. Instead I called Alan and bade him collect two freemen employed in the house, to witness my will.
I was not made welcome at Celtburrow; neither was I rebuffed. The amenities were pointedly observed by Lord Tarlton, Dick, and Harvey Alford; we exchanged bows but never touched hands; we talked of dogs and horses, birds and guns, and they answered courteously my questions regarding the manor and the countryside, but no one laughed or spoke a light word. The air was like that of the meeting place of enemy commanders when, after a bitter war of attrition, an armistice had been proposed. Dick and Harvey no longer exchanged knowing glances. Rattling sleet came no more into Lord Tarlton's voice; his usual bluff speech remained stiffly polite. Only now and then the blue of eyes changed in tone and became frightening as he played with his cane.
Sophia's manner toward me was not so correct. More than once she caught her breath and turned color; and when Harvey spoke of walking up woodcock in the woods—a sport I should try soon—a desperate expression came into her face that I feared the rest would see. I was sure she would soon speak to me in private. Her chance came when she found me in the gun room, admiring gold, silver, and brass-mounted pieces of bygone days.
"What shall I call you, sir?" she asked, standing beside me and speaking in low tones.
"What you please."
"May I call you Homer? I can talk plainer if I do."
"That suits me well enough."
"Why have you come here? Is it true you want Eliza? Dick says you do, and if you can have her, you'll let us go."
"Do you believe it?"
"It's possible. She's beautiful and bright as a rainbow, and you've lived in Africa nearly twenty years and your face is like stone. I wouldn't blame you if it's true. It would be a human thing, while the rest you've done to us is inhuman. I hope it's true."
"If it lay in your hands, could I have her?"
"Yes—if then you'd let us go. In that way she would save us, though we're not worth saving—not one of us. She would find great happiness in that—paying all her debts of love—and be rid of us besides. Would she be happy with you? Why not? You'd love her, wouldn't you? How could you help it? And if you didn't—if she was unhappy— she'd leave you."
"Do you believe for one moment she might agree to it?"
"Ask her, not me. It's her right to tell you, not mine. But you see, Homer—that wouldn't settle anything. The decision won't lie with her any more than it hes with me. It lies with Papa—and with you."
"I don't understand that fully."
"You understood one night in a little mission house in Malta."
"I know what you refer to."
"Look at me."
Sophia drew up one corner of her lip in a strange and eerie imitation of Lord Tarlton's malign smile.
"Don't do that."
"I don't know what Papa has told her; whatever it is, she expects to do it. I think it was to accept your proposal. But did he mean it? Is it a trick to put you off guard while Pike rigs the guns?"
I glanced at the door in sudden alarm. It was thick and close-fitting and not amenable to eavesdropping. The window was closed, and I stopped to look at the mists blowing through the naked trees. Sophia stood close to my side. She was a daughter of the moors and of tragic destiny, and there was deathless beauty in her face. The fire crackled and the mystery of destiny came upon me swift and deep,
"Sophia, this is evil—deep, immeasurable evil."
"Don't I know it?"
"How did we get into it?"
"We fell into the pit."
"So did an elephant. He wore a great white brand on his side and had been sent into exile in the thorn to wait for me. I killed him, and he went home."
"Are you mad?"
"Yes, but I'll be made sane if the salt spray is flung into my face."