Three

THE BLACK SPOT

About noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little higher, and he seemed both weak and excited.

"Jim," he said, "you're the only one here that's worth anything; and you know I've been always good to you. Never a month but I've given you a silver fourpenny for yourself. And now, you see, I'm pretty low, and deserted by all; and Jim, you'll bring me one little glass of rum, now, won't you, boy?"

"But the doctor--" I began.

"Doctors are all useless. That doctor is a fool, I tell you. If I don't have a drop of rum, Jim, I shall go mad. I shall begin seeing things. I've seen Flint in that corner there as plain as print. I'll give you a golden pound for one glass, Jim."

"I want none of your money," said I, "but what you owe my father. I'll get you one glass, and no more."

When I brought it to him, he seized it hastily, and drank it off.

"Yes," said he, "that's better. And now, boy, did that doctor say how long I was to lie here?"

"A week at least," said I.

"Thunder!" he cried. "A week! I can't do that: they'd have the black spot on me by then. They are going about planning things against me. Fools, who couldn't keep what they got and want to steal what's another's. Is that the way for seamen to behave? But I'm a saving fellow: I never wasted good money, nor lost it. But I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid of them."

As he was thus speaking, he had risen from the bed with great difficulty, holding on to my shoulder so tight that it almost made me cry out. Then he paused.

"That doctor's done me," he murmured. "My ears are singing. Lay me back."

Before I could do much to help him, he had fallen back again to his former place, where he lay for a time silent.

"Jim," he said at last, "you saw that seaman today?"

"Black Dog?" I asked.

"Ah! Black Dog," said he. "He's a bad one; but there are worse that sent him. Now, if I can't get away, anyhow, and they hand me the black spot, remember this. It's my old sea-chest they're after. You get on a horse and go to that cursed doctor, and tell him to bring all his men and he'll catch them, catch all old Flint's crew at the Benbow Inn, man and boy, all of them that are left. I was old Flint's first officer, and I'm the only one that knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay dying. But you won't tell anyone unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again, or a seaman with one leg, Jim—him above all."

"But what is the black spot, Captain?" I asked.

"That's a call. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep your weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll go equal shares with you, I will."

He talked a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I had given him the powder which the doctor had sent, he fell into a heavy sleep, and I left him.

My poor father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on one side. Our natural grief, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on all the time, kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less to be afraid of him.

He got downstairs next morning, and had his meals as usual, though he ate a little and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply of rum, for he helped himself out of the barrel, looking black and blowing through his nose, and no one dared to prevent him. On the night before the funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was dreadful in that house of mourning to hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song.

The captain remained very weak. He climbed up and down stairs, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea air. His temper was worse than ever. He had an alarming way now, when he was drinking, of drawing his sword and laying it bare before him on the table. He seemed to take less notice of other people now, and to be shut up in his own thoughts.

So things passed until the day after the funeral. About three o'clock of a cold, misty, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing slowly near along the road. He was blind, for he felt before him with a stick, and had a covering over his eyes and nose; and he was bent as if with age or weakness. He wore a huge ragged sea coat. I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a little distance from the inn, and, raising his voice in an odd way, half singing, half speaking, addressed the air in front of him:

"Will any kind friend tell a poor blind man, who has lost the precious sight of his eyes in defending his native country, in what part of this country he may now be?"

"You are at the Benbow Inn, Black Hill Bay, my good man," said I.

"I hear a voice," said he, "—a young voice. Will you give me your hand, my kind young friend, and lead me in?"

I held out my hand, and the terrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature seized it in a moment in an iron hand. I was so much alarmed that I struggled to draw my hand away, but the blind man pulled me close up to him.

"Now, boy," he said, "take me in to the captain."

"Sir," said I, "I dare not."

"Oh," he laughed, "that's it! Take me in straight, or I'll break your arm."

And he gave it, as he spoke, a pull that made me cry out.

"Sir," said I, "it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he used to be. He sits with a drawn sword. Another gentleman ... "

"Come, now, march," said he; and I never heard a voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It frightened me more than the pain; and I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and towards the sitting-room, where our sick old captain was sitting, foolish with rum. The blind man kept close to me, holding me in one iron hand, and leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. "Lead me straight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for you, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this"; and with that he bent my arm round so that I nearly fainted. Between this and that, I was so utterly terror-struck of the blind man that I forgot my terror of the captain, and, as I opened the sitting-room door, cried out the words he had ordered in a shaking voice.

The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him. The look on his face was not so much of terror as of sickness unto death. He made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough force left in his body.

"Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the blind man. "If I can't see, I can hear a finger move. Business is business. Hold out your right hand. Boy, take his right arm, and bring his right hand near to my right."

We both obeyed him, and I saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the captain's hand, which closed upon it instantly.

"And now that's done," said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and quickly slipped out of the room and into the road: and I could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.

It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our senses; but at last, and about at the same moment, I let go of his arm, which I was still holding. He drew in his hand and looked quickly into it.

"Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours. We'll do them yet"; and he sprang to his feet.

Even as he did so, he put his hand to his throat, stood unsteadily for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face down to the floor.

I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was useless. The captain was dead.