we admitted that we did not understand.
“i’ve heard of this black bennett,” i said in surprise, “but who is he? tell us.”
“who is he?” growled seal, knitting his shaggy brows darkly. “who is he? why, he’s about the worst swab i’ve ever met—and that’s saying a good deal!”
“but what is there against him?” i demanded anxiously.
“almost everything short of murder. christmas! i didn’t know that he was mixed up in this affair. you will have to be cute, doctor, for if black bennett’s one of ’em you can bet your boots that the crowd ain’t particular good company.”
“well,” i said, “i’d like to get a glance at this very interesting person.” and, rising, i opened the door and passed through into the bar on the pretext of obtaining some matches.
the man, who was seated on the edge of the beery table smoking a briar and drinking a tankard of ale, gave me the impression of an idle lounger. he was above the average height, with a round, red face, grey hair and beard, and dressed in what appeared to me to be a ready-made suit of dark tweed. his straw hat was browned by the sun and much the worse for wear. as i entered he glanced at me quickly with his keen dark eyes; then, turning as though he did not recognize me, he lifted his glass and took a deep drink.
in the fellow’s appearance there was certainly little to recommend him. i did not like his eyes. his round, ruddy face would have passed as that of an easy-going, contented man, had it not been for the hard, cruel expression when he had glanced at me. i noticed his hands. one held his pipe and the other rested upon the edge of the table. he carried it three parts doubled up, with the nails pointing in towards the palm, while on his knuckles were old scars. these signs told me at once that he was a sailor, although there was nothing nautical about his dress. the drawn-up hand betrayed constant rope-hauling, and the scars were those of old salt cracks which the water had made on his hands in his early days at sea.
having obtained the matches i rejoined my companions, whereupon reilly slipped out through the stable yard and was absent only a minute or two. when he returned he said to us in a low voice, “yes; that’s the man who struck miss bristowe. i’d recognize him among a million.” and at that moment we heard the man wish the landlady “good-day” and depart.
then, at my suggestion, reilly related to seal all that he had witnessed on that memorable night at kilburn.
“you think that bennett killed the poor fellow?” the skipper said, between long reflective puffs at his cigar.
“i certainly believe he is the murderer,” was the other’s reply. “but at present we can charge them with nothing. we have no tangible evidence of a crime.”
“the girl—what’s her name—could tell you sufficient to gaol the lot of ’em,” was job seal’s rejoinder. “she knows all about it. the dead man was her lover without a doubt.”
“i could recognize the victim if i saw his photograph,” reilly declared. “i’ll never forget that ghastly white face till my dying day.”
“i wonder where they disposed of the body?” i queried. “we must keep our eyes on the papers for any discovery. if they left it at a cloak-room it must be found sooner or later.”
what reilly had related gave the skipper of the thrush evident satisfaction.
“you’ve got the best side o’ them swabs, mr. reilly, if you’re only careful. they’re in ignorance of what you’ve seen. excellent! all you do now is to wait; but in the meantime be very careful that these men don’t get the better of you.”
“i can’t imagine how the mysterious man could have given us that warning,” i remarked, afterwards explaining to seal the words that the madman had written: “beware of black bennett!”
“ah!” exclaimed the skipper, “there’s no tellin’ what old mister mystery knows. he’s a son of davy jones himself, i really believe.”
“you hold the old fellow in superstitious dread, captain,” i laughed.
“well,” responded the skipper bluntly, “the old fire-eater with his rusty sword may be a couple of hundred years old, for all we know.”
“but what can he possibly know about this man bennett?”
“what can he know? why, what other people know—what i know. i sailed with him once, and it was a lively trip, i can tell you,” growled the old skipper, sucking his teeth, a habit of his when any recollection of the past was unpleasant.
“i’m anxious to know all about him,” i said. “tell us the story, captain.”
“well, it’s nigh twenty years ago now since i first made the acquaintance of black bennett. i was sailing in the brig maria martin, of liverpool, in those days, and one night while we were lying at naples an english sailor was shipped, while drunk, as a forecastle hand. he turned out to be bennett. we were bound for the cape of good hope, but long before we reached gib. our new hand had turned the craft topsy-turvy. he wouldn’t work, notwithstanding the strong language of the first mate—and he could swear a brick wall down—and for days and days he only lay in his bunk smoking like a philosopher. i was sent to clear him out, and he sprang at me like a tiger. there was a tussle, and—well, i needn’t describe the rounds we had, except to say that my reach proved a bit too long for him, and he lay insensible for an hour. that was the beginning of bad blood between us; he never liked me afterwards. when he came to he called a meeting of the men, and in an hour the whole bloomin’ crew were in mutiny. the skipper, chief mate, and myself armed ourselves, and expected some shooting, for they were about six to one, so the struggle wasn’t very fair. this continued until we were off the west coast of africa, when bennett, as leader of the mutineers, proved himself a perfect fiend.
“his first move was to send one of the apprentices secretly to the skipper’s cabin for the ship’s papers, and having obtained them he weighted them with a lump of iron and, after exhibiting them to the captain, calmly pitched the lot overboard. our skipper almost went mad. he danced with rage like a bear at a show, all the hands laughing at him. well, after that the mutineers took possession of the craft, clapped us all three in our cabins, and then broached the rum and other spirits we had aboard. sails were reefed, and we lay to for nearly a week while the whole crew were roaring drunk. then a little bad weather sobered them, and they ran in shore. within sight of land a boat was lowered, into which they placed us, tossing some of our belongings after us, and then sent us adrift. fortunately they had given us a pair of oars, and we rowed ashore. it was a tropical country, we found, and as we beached the boat we saw that the brig had altered her course, and was steering straight out across the atlantic. the natives proved friendly, and after some wanderings in the forests we were guided by a black boy to the english settlement of cape coast castle. before the governor we related our experiences, and after some weeks were sent home to london.
“that was my first acquaintance with black bennett, the most brutal of all skippers.”
“and what became of the maria martin?”
“she was found about three years afterwards aground and abandoned a few miles south of rio. according to the report to the board of trade there were evidences that black bennett and his men had run her as a pirate, making havoc with the brazilian coasting trade, but as nothing was seen of him in england the authorities were powerless. next he was heard of in new york, where he shipped under an assumed name on a german steamer bound for sydney. the german skipper was pleased at shipping a whole crowd of tough english sailors, but before he had got half-way across the atlantic he had a very rude awakening. the new hands were none other than black bennett and his men, and they made fine sport of that hamburg steamer. there was some powder-play that time, and more than one on both sides went to davy jones. but in the end bennett took command, set the germans adrift near mauritius, and then, steering back to buenos ayres, they unshipped the cargo and eventually sold it. afterwards bennett and his crew steamed away to australia, and there became engaged in the kanaka labour trade—a kind of genteel slave-trade. five years ago, when my owners made leghorn a final port of discharge on account of the cheapness of italian hands and the fact that they don’t get drunk, bennett tried to ship with me, intending, no doubt, to play his tricks with the thrush. fortunately i recognized him, told mr. carmichael, the british consul, and the result was that he made himself scarce out of leghorn pretty quickly. oh, yes,” added seal, “black bennett is an ingenious rogue, i can tell you.”
“but i thought piracy was dead in these days,” i remarked.
“so it is. but it wasn’t fifteen years ago. they didn’t wear cutlasses and overhaul ships, but they knew a trick worth two of that. they seized the ship on which they sailed, repainted her, altered her appearance, gave her a new name and port, and eventually sold her to some foreigner. they, however, sailed under the black flag all the same.”
“but what do you think bennett’s game is now?” asked reilly.
“to get the better of you in this search. he’s evidently aware of the existence of the italian’s treasure, and intends to have it. all i warn you of is that he’s a treacherous friend and a formidable enemy.”
“but if you assist us, captain, we need have no fear,” i remarked.
“there’s bad blood between us, doctor,” he answered dubiously. “if we met, something might happen,” he added meaningly.
“but haven’t we sufficient evidence to place before the police?” i suggested.
“how can you prove it?” he asked, settling himself seriously. “i could, of course, prove the seizing of the maria martin twenty years ago, but even then the case might fall through. besides, we have no time to lose just now in the work we’ve undertaken. again,” he added, “if we were arrested, he would most certainly declare that you were searching after treasure, and the jew who owns the manor house would at once put a stop to your little game, while the treasury would keep a pretty watchful eye on you for treasure-trove. no, doctor, we must hold our tongues for the present, and pretend to know absolutely nothing.”
“but purvis? have you ever heard his name?”
“no. i expect, however, he’s one of the gang. perhaps old mister mystery has had something to do with the piratical crew at one time or another. that would account for his mind wandering back to black bennett.”
this theory seemed a sound one. it was evident that the old-man-of-the-sea entertained no very good feeling towards the man of whom he had warned us. the mystery was, however, how purvis, bennett, and the rest had obtained knowledge of the italian’s hoard.
the only way i could account for it was the deep and curious interest which that rather superior seaman, harding, had taken in the documents before he had left the thrush. i had not forgotten the apparently easy manner in which he had read off the old documents, nor his insolence towards me when i remonstrated with him.
i saw, too, that seal, the intrepid skipper, the deep-voiced man whom nothing daunted, had been seized by a curious and incomprehensible anxiety now that he recognized who was our rival in this exciting search.
i felt sure that he had not told us all he knew concerning the red-faced man who was watching our movements so closely.
why was he concealing the truth from us?
