dangerously swinging round in a water-space that was hardly adequate,
all but crashed into the masonry of the quay. As it was, the helmsman’s
skillful steering did not avoid the staggering scraping from the wall.
“What re they doing? Good God! are they mad?” cried out the Harbourmaster, and his question was echoed from the crowd.
- 69 -
That there was method in their madness became at once apparent, and
with sails already unfurled again she was standing far away to sea.
The Harbourmaster came puffing up to the end of the jetty and,
making a funnel with his hands, bawled out, “Santa Maria, what is
wrong?”
But since no one on board the Santa Maria called back, Doctor Syn
vouchsafed a suggestion:
“It almost seems as though they had seen some dreadful phantom who
frightened them away.”
“I never saw a ship do that before,” replied the Harbourmaster.
“Right to the mouth of Port, her cargoes eagerly waited for, then of a
sudden, round, at great risk to the ship and all upon her, and off to
sea. Look, she is sailing resolutely, as though all Hell were after
her. I think, good Senor, you are in the right of it and this is devil’s
business.”
As he hurried away to write down in his harbour log of the
extraordinary occurrence, Doctor Syn turned to Esnada and smiled. But
the smile was very grim.
“I am glad there was no kill today, for I think this is the method of
torture to employ. He was obviously afraid. The poor, fly fox! Well, I
have covered his cover at Iffley, and I’ve covered his cover here. He
will not dare to go on breaking harbourage like this. He must put into
some port, and from that port he must sail. We must get a system of
spying on him, my good Esnada, and make it so perfect that should we
miss him at one port, we must find whither he has sailed, and post by
road or faster vessel to arrive there first.”
With the help of the Harbourmaster, Esnada was enabled to get in
touch with agents in the differe nt ports of the Peninsula, so that in a
little the movements of the Santa Maria were known to Syn before she
made them. No sooner was her destination known, but the Doctor would
set off to await his
arrival. But Nicholas was cautious. He was also very m uch afraid. The
certainty of seeing that mysterious elegant figure in black for ever
standing before him upon the end of every harbourage he sought got on
his nerves. As he could not run away each time, as he had done at San
Sebastian, he would never anchor save in mid-water. He set a guard to
watch his enemy continually, with the strictest-orders that on no
account was he to be allowed to board ship.
Nicholas himself could never go ashore, for even in the dead of
night, although the figure of Syn might disappear for an hour or so, he
knew that it would reappear again without a warning. And, as Syn
guessed, Imogene was just as frightened as Nicholas, and their horror
communicated itself to the crew, who, whenever they landed either on
pleasure bent or for business connected with the ship, avoided contact
with the figure, never lingering in case it might address them. There
mere fact that it never seemed to notice them filled these fellows with
superstitious dread, and the hardest dogs amongst them would cross
themselves devoutly as they hurried by.
And this went on and on, until the Santa Maria disappeared. She was
due to arrive at her port of lading, and, as usual, Syn was there. But
this time he waited in vain. He then traveled back the longest road
through Spain right from Cadiz, the port in question, to rejoin Esnada
in the north. There, month after month went by, and to all inquiries the
various agents’ answer was: “No news of the Santa Maria.” After a year
the agents answered finally, “She is posted amongst the Lost” But this
Syn resolutely refused to believe. He told Esnada that is was only a
question of waiting, and that sooner or later he would surely hit upon
some clue as to the whereabouts of his enemy.
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In the meantime, Syn set himself to study languages. He added
Portuguese to his Spanish, and polished up his French.
“And I shall add to these as time allows,” he said, “for wherever the
rascal may have hidden, when I shall reappear to him it will be useful
if I can speak the language.”
Esnada and his daughter humoured him, but they were glad of the way
things had fallen, for they were fond of the Doctor, and had missed him
badly when he had been traveling from port to port. And then at last
news came.
It was the Ha rbourmaster who brought it in the shape of a sailor. A
native of San Sebastian, he had just returned home from the Americas.
He had been a member of the Santa Maria’s crew for a long time, but had
left her in Charleston when she was put up for sale. Th e owners had
bought a shallower craft to trade up -river.
Oh yes, indeed, the owner’s wife was with him. She had a child, too-a boy—and by this time doubtless had another. The husband, Black Nick,
was for ever dragging her around with him,
baby or no. The sailor went on to speak of Black Nick’s bad habits:
drinking and the worst brutality. When Syn gave him three guineas for
his story, he was back again next day, with details he had not thought
on.
Esnada warned the Doctor not to pay more heed or money, for he
thought the rascal had realized that they had no god regard for his
Black Nick, and so, by further blackening his character, he thought to
purse more guineas.
“Besides,” he added, “tis months and months since he set eyes on your
enemy, who may be anywhere by now.”
This did little good in swerving Doctor Syn. He was determined to
follow his destiny, and that was clearly pointing to America.
“It is so vast a continent,” objected Esnada.
“All the more room to follow him about in,” laughed Syn. “And ‘tis
something to know what continent he is in.”
A few days later, writing to Tony Cobtree on the subject, he ended
with:
“And so I go to America. It is the only thing I can do. Perhaps I
am called to convert the Red Indians —who knows? Or perhaps they will
convert me. Well, I know whose scalp I hunt. Life in England, despite
your father’s entreaties couched with yours and your dear wife’s, I
fear, would be to me unbearable at present. It may be long before I see
you, but I cannot think that I have walked by last on Dymchurch Wall.”
A month later, having taken a sorrowful farewell of his Spanish
friends, he crossed into Portugal and sailed from Lisbon on the
Intention, a cargo vessel bound for the port of Boston in Massachusetts.
Chapter 11
Pirates
The Intention was not a fast-sailing ship, but Syn was in no haste.
It pleased him to think that his following would be slow but relentless.
Yes, dead slow if needs be, but always deathly sure. It was this that
counteracted his boredom of that ship for the company was not congenial
to a man of his parts. The Captain, a New Englander, was the poorest
sort of man, maudlin in his cups, and miserable out of them. Religious,
too, according to his lights, which taught him that when anything went
wrong and usually by his own incompetence, all he had to say was, “It is
the Lord’s Will,” and the blame was shifted to the Diety. Certainly his
gloom of manner did not cheer the