Free A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes Page A

one in my hold?”
    â€œStores...” mumbled the stranger.
    Marpole up to now had lain growling in his bunk like a dog in its kennel. Now for the first time realizing that something serious was afoot he flung himself out and made for the companion-way. The little silent fair man tripped him up, and he fell against the table.
    â€œYou had much better stay here, yes?” said the big man. “My fellows shall keep a tally, you shall be paid in full for everything we take.”
    The eyes of the marine coal-merchant gleamed momentarily:
    â€œYou’ll have to pay for this outrage to a pretty tune!” he growled.
    â€œI will pay you,” said the stranger, with a sudden magnificence in his voice, “at the very least five thousand pounds!”
    Marpole stared in astonishment.
    â€œI will write you an order on the Columbian government for that amount,” the other went on.
    Marpole thumped the table, almost speechless:
    â€œD’you think I believe that cock-and-bull story?” he thundered.
    Captain Jonsen made no protest.
    â€œDo you realize that you are technically guilty of
piracy
, making a forced requisition on a British ship like this, even if you pay every farthing?”
    Still Jonsen made no reply: though the bored expression of his mate was lit up for a moment by a smile.
    â€œYou’ll pay me in
cash
!” Marpole concluded. Then he went off on a fresh tack: “Though how the devil you got on board without being called beats me!—Where’s my mate?”
    Jonsen began in a toneless voice, as if by rote: “I will write you an order for five thousand pounds: three thousand for the stores, and two thousand you will give me in money.”
    â€œWe know you’ve got specie on board,” interjected the little fair mate, speaking for the first time.
    â€œOur information is certain!” declared Jonsen.
    Marpole at last went white and began to sweat. It took even Fear an extraordinarily long time to penetrate his thick skull. But he denied that he had any treasure on board.
    â€œIs that your answer?” said Jonsen. He drew a heavy pistol from his side pocket. “If you do not tell us the truth, your life shall pay the forfeit.” His voice was peculiarly gentle, and mechanical, as if he did not attach much meaning to what he said. “Do not expect mercy, for this is my profession, and in it I am inured to blood.”
    A frightful squawking from the deck above told Marpole that his chickens were being moved to new quarters.
    In an agony of feeling Marpole told him that he had a wife and children, who would be left destitute if his life was taken.
    Jonsen, with rather a perplexed look on his face, put the gun back in his pocket, and the two of them began to search for themselves, at the same time stripping the saloon and cabins of everything they contained: firearms, wearing apparel, the bedclothes, and even (as Marpole with a rare touch of accuracy mentioned in his report) the bell-pulls.
    Overhead there was a continuous bumping: the rolling of casks, cases, etc.
    â€œRemember,” Jonsen went on over his shoulder while he searched, “money cannot recall life, nor in the least avail you when you are dead. If you regard your life in the least, at once acquaint me with the hiding-place, and your life shall be safe.”
    Marpole’s only reply was again to invoke the thought of his wife and children (he was, as a matter of fact, a widower: and his only relative, a niece, would be the better off by his death to the tune of some ten thousand pounds).
    But this reiteration seemed to give the mate an idea: and he began to talk to his chief rapidly in a language Marpole had never even heard. For a moment a curious glint came into Jonsen’s eye: but soon he was chuckling in the sentimentalest manner, and rubbing his hands.
    The mate went on deck to prepare things.
    Marpole had no inkling of what was afoot.