# The Dark Frigate/Chapter 13

CHAPTER XIII
A BIRD TO BE LIMED
A lad being called into council by such a man as Tom Jordan might well think himself a fine fellow, and rare enough were lads whom Tom Jordan would thus have summoned. But although Philip Marsham, it seemed, had taken the Old One’s eye and won his heart long before on the little hill beside the road, when Phil had drawn the wind from Martin’s sails, and although it had not escaped Tom Jordan that Phil’s hand moved easily toward his weapon, the old proverb has it ‘‘a man that flattereth his neighbor, spreadeth a net for his steps”; and ‘‘he that whistleth merrily, spreadeth his nets cunningly and hunteth after his prey greedily.”
So, ‘‘Come, boatswain, and lend us thy wits,” cried Tom. ‘‘Four heads shall provide more wisdom than three.’’ And with that, he clapped Phil on the back and drew him into the cabin where Jacob and the mate sat deep in talk of the night’s adventures.
‘‘A hawk, when she is first dressed and ready to fly,” said Jacob, ‘‘is sharp set and hath a great will upon her. If the falconer do not then follow it, she will be dulled for ever after. So, master, a man! Yea, and a ship.”
"A great will, sayest thou?” quoth the Old One, and his voice revealed his sullen anger. ‘‘Why then, in God’s name, did ye not rake them with a broadside or twain?’’ With which he turned on Harry Malcolm, thus to include him in the charge.
​“For one thing,” replied Malcolm, and testily, for ill temper prevailed both aft and forward, ‘‘we gave the gunners no firing to learn them their guns. For another thing, the powder failed us. For yet another, since you say what you say, and be cursed for it, ’t were a mad, foolish notion to run afoul a strange ship, for we have but a half the company we need to work a ship and fight. And finally, to cap our woeful proverbs, we know what we know — yea,” and he shot a dark glance from under bent brows, “we know what we know; there be those who come toward us with their feet, but go from us with their hearts.” His voice, as always, was light and quick, but there was a rumble in it, such as one may sometimes hear in a dog’s throat.
As the three men looked first at one and then at another, there came to Boatswain Marsham, sitting as it were outside their circle, the uneasy throbbing of their suspicion.
“Of the powder,” said Jacob coolly, “I have taken a little from each barrel.’’ He laid on the table seven packages wrapped in leaves from an old book. Regarding closely the notes he had written on each package, he opened them one by one and placed them in a row.
“This,” said he, ‘‘is from the barrel that good Harry Malcolm served out to the men and that doubtless this man Candle hath used from in old days. It hath lost its strength by long lying. Press it with thy fingers and thou shalt feel it soft to the touch. Here upon this white sheet of paper I lay four corns of this powder. This other powder” — and he chose a second package — "is from a barrel new opened. Press it and thou shalt see how firm and hard is each corn. And this, too, is firm and of a fair azure, And so, also, this. But this ​— ” and he first put his eyes close to the notes on each remaining packet, then held them far off, for his sight, although good at a great distance, made out with difficulty things near at hand, ‘‘this is from a barrel that hath lost its strength by moisture; and this hath a fault I shall tell you of.”
Taking a pinch of each, as he spoke, he had laid the corns, each some three fingers distant from the next, in a circle on the paper. He then struck tinder, and lighting a match made of twisted cords of tow boiled in strong lye-ashes and saltpetre, he held it over a corn of the good powder. There was a flash and puff, and the ring of powder was gone. The corns of good powder had fired speedily and left only a chalky whiteness in their place, nor had they burned the paper or given off smoke; but the corns of poor powder had burned slowly, and some had scorched the paper and some had given forth smoke.
The Old One softly swore. ‘‘And have we, then,” asked he, ‘‘but three barrels of good powder?”
“Nay, there are more than three. This last is weak because they have neglected to turn the barrels upside down, so the petre has settled from top to bottom, as is its way. We shall find the bottom as strong as the top is weak, and by turning the barrel we shall renew its strength evenly.”
“As for the powder that hath spoiled by long lying,” cried Philip Marsham, ‘‘I will undertake to make it as good as new.”
“Do you, boatswain, mind your sails and cordage,” said old Jacob, with a wry smile. “An you wish to grind it in the mortar, that you may; but it is I who will measure the petre. Nay, I will make you, if you ​wish it for a wonder to show friends, a powder of any colour you please — white, red, blue, or green.”
Of the three who leaned over the packets of powder, old Jacob was the only one who bore with even temper the sad reverse of the night before; for master and mate glared at each other in such wrath as had thrown a shadow over every soul in the ship.
Some had waked with aching heads, for which they had their own folly to thank; some were like men who dream they have got a great treasure but wake to find pebblestones or worse under the pillow: since the Porcupine ketch had yielded them no gold and had stung them instead with her quills. In all truth the ship was by the ears, for in extremities your sea sharks are uncertain friends, as a touch of foul weather will manifest to any man’s satisfaction.
“Knough of this,” said the Old One, and he pushed aside the packets and folded his arms. ‘‘We lose time. There is a thief amongst us.”
"A thief, you say?” And the hot red of anger burned its way across the boatswain’s face, for the three had turned and looked hard at him.
The Old One and Harry Malcolm then exchanged quick glances, and Jacob shut his small mouth tight and knotted his brows.
“Well,” cried Phil, ‘‘would you charge me with theft?”
“Some one,” said the Old One, lingering over each word, “hath wrought a clever plot against us.”
"Say on, say on!”
“He is a man, I make no doubt, whose buttons are breaking with venom.”
There was heavy silence in the cabin. Jacob, pursing ​his lips and knotting his brows, looked from one of them to another, and Phil, vaguely on the defensive, drew back and gave them a gaze as steady as they sent.
“He is doubtless a very cunning rascal,’’ Harry Malcolm put in, “who hath cut his cloth by his wits; but he is making a suit that will throttle him by its narrowness about the neck.”
The master and mate once more exchanged glances and the Old One then smiled lightly, as if again there were sunlight rippling over dark water.
“Nay, Philip, we think no ill of thee. But do thou have care to thy company. A foul trick hath been done with a mind to render us helpless at sea, so that we must crawl to the nearest land, where some base dunghill spirit is doubtless of a mind to leave our company. But we have resources; yea, and of thee, Philip, we think no ill.”
Despite their fair words, though, they were watching Philip Marsham like three old tomcats watching a sparrow, and he, being no fool, knew the reason why.
Three hard faces they showed: the one, handsome in a devilish way and keen; the second, unassuming, yet deeply astute and marked by a deeper rooted, if less frank, selfishness; the third, older, wiser, more self-centred.
The eyes of master and mate were coldly cruel; but old Jacob was too intent on his own thoughts to be cruel save by indifference.
All that day Jacob squatted on the deck and toiled with tools and wood. From the wood he chose certain long pieces, fine-grained and straight and dry and free from knots, and certain shorter and broader pieces that were suited to his purpose, and bade the carpenter ​plane them smooth. He laid out scales, working with a small square and a pair of compasses, and engraved them with utmost care. He wrought brass into curious shapes by a plan he made, and from morning till night he kept at the task, frowning and ciphering and sitting deep in thought. He called for charcoal and a mortar, and beat the charcoal to a fine powder and tempered it with linseed oil. This he rubbed into the wood he had shaped to his liking, and watched it a long while, now and again touching it to try it; then with oil from a phial he had found in a chest in the great cabin he rubbed the wood clean, and there were left in the wood, set off neatly in black, the gradations and figures he had so exactly etched.
Taking his work into the great cabin, he toiled on by lanthorn light until a late hour, and there through the open door men as they passed might see him hunched over the table with his medley of tools about him. But when at last he leaned back and drew a long breath of relief, very serious and very wise, his work was done, and curiously and deftly contrived it was.
On the table before him there lay a cross-staff, a noc- turnal and a Gunter’s scale, “with which,” said he, to the Old One, who sat opposite him quietly taking to- bacco and sipping wine, “and with what instruments the thief hath left us, a man can navigate a ship where he will.”
Examining closely the nocturnal, which was intri- cately carved and engraved, the Old One muttered, as if ignoring Jacob’s words, ‘‘I will yet lime that bird.”
“Though he be never so mad a callant, I misdoubt he will put his head into a noose,” said Jacob in his thick, serious voice.
​“Be he the one we think or not the one we think, I will set him such a trap,” said the Old One, “as will take the cunningest fox that ever doubled on the hounds.” And the thin face smiled in a way that was not pleasant to see.