Randall Parrish - Gordon Craig

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GORDON CRAIG

Soldier of Fortune

by

RANDALL PARRISH

Author of "My Lady of the North," "My Lady of the
South," "Keith of the Border," "When Wilderness Was King."

With Four Illustrations in Color by Alonzo Kimball

[Frontispiece: I clasped the straying hand and drew her to me.]

A. L. Burt Company
Publishers ---------- New York
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1912
Published October, 1912
Copyrighted in Great Britain

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE FIRST STEP
II THE CASE OF PHILIP HENLEY
III I ACCEPT THE OFFER
IV AN ESCAPE FROM ARREST
V BEGINNING ACQUAINTANCE
VI WE OPEN CONFIDENCES
VII THE WOMAN'S STORY
VIII FACING THE PROBLEM
IX WE COMPLETE ARRANGEMENTS
X AT THE PLANTATION
XI A PLEASANT WELCOME
XII THE DEAD MAN
XIII I GET INTO THE GAME
XIV THE CONFESSION
XV THE DECISION
XVI COMPELLING SPEECH
XVII CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
XVIII BEGINNING EXPLORATION
XIX A CHAMBER OF HORROR
XX TAKEN PRISONER
XXI ON BOARD THE SEA GULL
XXII I CHANGE FRONT
XXIII THE SECRET OF THE VOYAGE
XXIV I JOIN THE SEA GULL
XXV THE FREEDOM OF THE DECK
XXVI THE NEW PERIL
XXVII THE TABLES TURNED
XXVIII THE CREOLE'S STORY
XXIX UNDER WAY
XXX WE MAKE THE EFFORT
XXXI THE OPEN BOAT
XXXII A TALK IN THE NIGHT
XXXIII WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER
XXXIV THE REVENUE CUTTER
XXXV THE DECK OF THE SEA GULL
XXXVI IN POSSESSION
XXXVII A HOMEWARD VOYAGE

ILLUSTRATIONS

I clasped the straying hand and drew her to me . . _Frontispiece_

I read it over slowly, but it appeared innocent enough

He gasped a bit, rubbing his bruised wrist

"Give me back those papers"

GORDON CRAIG

SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

CHAPTER I

THE FIRST STEP

I had placed the lumber inside the yard as directed, and was already
rehitching the traces, when the man crossed the street slowly,
switching his light cane carelessly in the air. I had noticed him
before standing there in the doorway of the drug store, my attention
attracted by the fashionable cut of his clothes, and the manner in
which he watched me work. Now, as he rounded the heads of the mules, I
straightened up, observing him more closely. He was forty or
forty-five, heavily built, with a rather pasty-white face, a large
nose, eyes unusually deep set, and a closely clipped mustache beginning
to gray. His dress was correct to a button, and there was a pleasant
look to the mouth which served to mitigate the otherwise hard
expression of countenance. As I faced him in some surprise he looked
me fairly in the eyes.

"Been at this job long?" he asked easily.

"Three days," I replied unhesitatingly, drawing the reins through my
hands.

"Like it?"

"Well, I 've had worse and better," with a laugh. "I prefer this to my
last one."

"What was that?"

"Ridin' blind baggage."

It was his turn to laugh, and he did so.

"I thought I was not mistaken," he said at last, sobering. "You are
the same lad the train hands put off the Atlantic Express at Vernon a
week ago."

I nodded, beginning to suspect him of being a fly-cop who had spotted
me for a pull.

"I never noticed the name of the burg," I returned. "Why? were you
there?"

"Yes, I came in on the same train. Just caught a glimpse of your face
in the light of the brakeman's lantern. How did you get here?"

"Freight, two hours later."

"You 're not a bum, or you would n't be working."

I put one foot on the wheel, but he touched me on the sleeve with his
cane.

"Wait a minute," and there was more animation in the tone. "I may have
something better for you than this lumber wagon. I 'm right, ain't I,
in guessing you 're no regular bum?"

"I 've bummed it most of the way from Frisco; I had to. I was homesick
for the East, and lost my transportation."

"Your what?"

"Transportation; I was discharged at the Presidio."

"Oh, I see," smiling again, and tapping the wheel with his stick; "the
army--foreign service?"

"The Philippines three years; invalided home."

"By God, you don't look it," his eyes on me. "Never saw a more perfect
animal. Fever?"

"No, bolo wound; got caught in the brush, and then lay out in a swamp
all night, till our fellows got up."

He looked at his watch, and I climbed into my seat. "See here, I have
n't time to talk now, but I believe you are the very fellow I am
looking for. If you want an easier job than this," waving a gloved
hand toward the pile of lumber, "come and see me and we 'll talk it
over." He took a card out of a morocco case, and wrote a line on it.
"Come to that address at nine o'clock tonight."

I took the bit of pasteboard as he handed it up.

"All right, sir, I 'll be there on time."

"Come to the side door," he added swiftly, lowering his voice, "the one
on the south. Give three raps. By the way, what is your name?"

"Gordon Craig," I answered without pausing to think. His eyes twinkled
shrewdly.

"Ever been known by any other?"

"I enlisted under another; I ran away from home, and was not of age."

"Oh, I see; well, that makes no difference to me. Don't forget, Craig,
the side door at nine."

I glanced back as we turned the corner; he was still standing at the
edge of the walk, tapping the concrete with his cane. Out of sight I
looked curiously at the card. It was the advertisement of a clothing
house, and on the back was written "P. B. Neale, 108 Chestnut Street."

The mules walked the half dozen blocks back to the lumber yard, while
my mind reviewed this conversation. There was a bit of mystery to it
which had fascination, because of a vague promise of adventure.
Evidently this man Neale had need of a stranger to help him out in some
scheme, and had picked me by chance as being the right party. Well, if
the pay was good, and the purpose not criminal, I had no objections to
the spice of danger. Indeed, that was what I loved in life, my heart
throbbing eagerly in anticipation. I was young, full-blooded, strong,
willing enough to take desperate chances for sufficient reward. There
was a suspicion in my mind that all was not straight--Neale's
questions, and the private signals to be given at a side door left that
impression--yet I could only wait and learn, and besides, my conscience
was not overly delicate. I had lived among a rough, reckless set, had
experienced enough of the seamy side of life to be somewhat careless.
I would take the chance, at least, in hope of escape from this routine.

All the rest of the day, for this meeting had occurred early in the
afternoon, I labored quietly, loading and unloading lumber, my muscles
aching from a species of toil to which I had not yet become accustomed,
my mind active in imagination over the possibilities of this new
employment. I was not obliged to live this sort of life, but the
uneasy spirit of adventure held me. My father, from whom I had not
heard a word in two years, was a prominent manufacturer in a New
England village. The early death of my mother had left me to his care
when I was but ten years old, and we failed to understand each other,
drifting apart, until a final quarrel had sent me adrift. No doubt
this was more my fault than his, although he was so deeply immersed in
business that he failed utterly to understand the restless soul of a
boy. I was in my junior year at Princeton, when the final break came,
over an innocent youthful escapade, and, in my pride, I never even
returned home to explain, but disappeared, drifting inevitably into the
underworld, because of lack of training for anything better. This all
occurred four years previous, three of which had been passed in the
ranks, yet even now I was stubbornly resolved not to return
unsuccessful. Perhaps in this new adventure I should discover the key
with which to unlock the door of fortune.

I possessed a fairly decent suit of clothes, now pressed and cleaned
after the rough trip from the coast, and dressed as carefully as
possible in the dingy room of my boarding house. A glance into the
cracked mirror convinced me, that, however I might have otherwise
suffered from the years of hardship, I had not deteriorated physically.
My face was bronzed by the sun, my muscles like iron, my eyes clear,
every movement of my body evidencing strength, my features lean and
clean cut under a head of closely trimmed hair. Satisfied with the
inspection, confident of myself, I slipped the card in my pocket, and
went out. It was still daylight, but there was a long walk before me.
Chestnut Street was across the river, in the more aristocratic section.
I had hauled lumber there the first day of my work, and recalled its
characteristics--long rows of stone-front houses, with an occasional
residence standing alone, set well back from the street. It was dark
enough when I got there, and began seeking the number. I followed the
block twice in uncertainty, so many of the houses were dark, but
finally located the one I believed must be 108. It was slightly back
from the street, a large stone mansion, surrounded by a low coping of
brick and with no light showing anywhere. I was obliged to mount the
front steps before I could assure myself this was the place. The
street was deserted, except for two men talking under the electric
light at the corner, and the only sound arose from the passing of a
surface car a block away. The silence and loneliness got upon my
nerves, but, without yielding, I followed the narrow cement walk around
the corner of the house. Here it was dark in the shadow of the wall,
yet one window on the first floor exhibited a faint glow at the edge of
a closely drawn curtain. Encouraged slightly by this proof that the
house was indeed occupied, I felt my way forward until I came to some
stone steps, and a door. I rapped on the wood three times, my nerves
tingling from excitement. There was a moment's delay, so that I lifted
my hand again, and then the door opened silently. Within was like the
black mouth of a cave, and I involuntarily took a step backward.

"This you, Craig?"

"Yes," I answered, half recognizing the cautious voice.

"All right then--come in. There is nothing to fear, the floor is
level."

I stepped within, seeing nothing of the man, and the door was closed
behind me. The sharp click of the latch convinced me it was secured by
a spring lock.

"Turn on the light," said the voice at my side sharply. Instantly an
electric bulb glowed dazzling overhead, and I blinked, about half
blinded by the sudden change.

CHAPTER II

THE CASE OF PHILIP HENLEY

It was a rather narrow hallway and, with the exception of a thick
carpet underfoot, unfurnished. Neale, appearing somewhat more slender
in evening clothes, smiled at me genially, showing a gold-crowned tooth.

"Did not chance to hear your motor," he said easily, taking a cigarette
case from his vest pocket. "You are a little late; what was it, tire
trouble?"

"I came afoot," I answered, not overly-cordial. "It was farther across
town than I supposed."

"Well, you 're here, and that is the main point. Have a cigarette.
No?" as I shook my head. "All right, there are cigars in the room
yonder--the second door to your left."

I entered where he indicated. It was a spacious apartment, evidently a
library from the book-shelves along the walls, and the great writing
table in the center. The high ceiling, and restful wall decorations
were emphasized by all the furnishings, the soft rug, into which the
feet sank noiselessly, the numerous leather-upholstered chairs, the
luxurious couch, and the divan filling the bay-window. The only light
was under a shaded globe on the central table, leaving the main
apartment in shadows, but the windows had their heavy curtains closely
drawn. The sole occupant was a man in evening dress, seated in a
high-backed leather chair, facing the entrance, a small stand beside
him, containing a half-filled glass, and an open box of cigars. Smoke
circled above his head, his eyes upon me as I entered. With an
indolent wave of one hand he seemingly invited me to take a vacant
chair to the right, while Neale remained standing near the door.

This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not
guess his age. His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined,
smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a
mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes,
surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature. They looked to be
black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost
that of insanity, in their intense stare. Even as he lounged back amid
the chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his
hand, holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength. He must have
stared at me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse,
before he resumed smoking.

"He will do very well, Neale," he decided, with a glance across at the
other. "Possibly a trifle young."

"He has roughed it," returned the other reassuringly, "and that means
more than years."

The first man laughed rather unpleasantly, and emptied his glass.

"So I have discovered. Have a cigar, or a drink, Craig?"

"I will smoke."

He passed me the box, watching me while I lighted the perfecto, Neale
crossing to the divan.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"I thought about that. What part of the country do you hail from?" and
I noticed now a faint Southern accent in the drawl of his voice.

"New England."

"Ever been south?"

"Only as far as St. Louis. I was at Jefferson Barracks."

"Neale said you were in the army--full enlistment?"

"Yes; discharged as corporal."

"Ah; what regiment?"

"Third Cavalry."

His black eyes swept across toward Neale, his fingers drumming
nervously on the leather arm of the chair.

"Exactly; then your service was in Oregon and the Philippines. Tramped
some since, I understand--broke?"

"No," shortly, not greatly enjoying his style of questioning. "I 've
got three dollars."

"A magnificent sum," chuckling. "However, the point is, you would be
glad of a job that paid well, and would n't mind if there was a bit of
excitement connected with it--hey?"

"What is your idea of paying well?"

"Expenses liberally figured," he replied slowly, "and ten thousand
dollars for a year's work, if done right."

I half rose to my feet in surprise, believing he was making sport, but
the fellow never moved or smiled.

"Sit down, man. This is no pipe dream, and I mean it. In fact, I am
willing to hand you half of the money down. That 's all right, Neale,"
he added as the other made a gesture of dissent. "I know my business,
and enough about men to judge Craig here for that amount. That we are
in earnest we have got to assure him someway, and money talks best.
See here, Craig," and he leaned forward, peering into my face, "you
look to me like the right man for what we want done; you are young,
strong, sufficiently intelligent, and a natural fighter. All right, I
'm sporting man enough to bet five thousand on your making good. If
you fail it will be worse for you, that's all. I 'm not a good man to
double-cross, see! All you have got to do to earn your money is obey
orders strictly, and keep your tongue still. Do you get that?"

I nodded, waiting to learn more.

"It may require a year, but more likely much less time. That makes no
difference--it will be ten thousand for you just the same," his voice
had grown crisp and sharp. "What do you say?"

"That the proposition looks good, only I should like to know a little
more clearly what I am expected to do."

"A bit squeamish, hey! got a troublesome conscience?"

"Not particularly--but there is a limit."

He slowly lit a fresh cigar, studying the expression of my face in the
light, as though deciding upon a course of action. Neale moved
uneasily, but made no attempt to break the silence. Finally, with a
more noticeable drawl in his voice, the man in the armchair began his
explanation.

"Very good; we 'll come down to facts. It will not take long. In the
first place my name is Vail--Justus C. Vail. That may tell you who I
am?"

I shook my head negatively.

"No; well, I am a lawyer of some reputation in this State, and my
entire interest in this affair is that of legal adviser to Mr. Neale.
With this in mind I will state briefly the peculiar circumstances
wherein you are involved." He checked the points off carefully with
one hand, occasionally glancing at a slip of paper lying on the table
as though to refresh his memory. I listened intently, watching his
face, and dimly conscious of Neale's restlessness. "Here is the case
as submitted to me: Judge Philo Henley, formerly of the United States
Circuit Court, retired at sixty-four and settled upon a large
plantation near Carrollton, Alabama. His wife died soon after, and, a
week or so ago, the Judge also departed this life, leaving an estate
valued in excess of five hundred thousand dollars. Philo Henley and
wife had but one child, now a young man of twenty-five years, named
Philip. As a boy he was wild and unmanageable, and, finally, when
about twenty years old, some prank occurred of so serious a nature that
the lad ran away. He came North, and was unheard-of for some time,
living under an assumed name. Later some slight correspondence ensued
between father and son, and the boy was granted a regular allowance.
The father was a very eccentric man, harsh and unforgiving, and, while
giving the boy money, never extended an invitation to return home.
Consequently Philip remained in the North, and led his own life. He
became dissipated, and a rounder, and drifted into evil associations.
Finally, about six months ago, he married a girl in this city, not of
wealthy family, but of respectable antecedents. Her home, we
understand, was in Spokane, and she had an engagement on the stage when
she first met Henley. He married her under his assumed name and they
began housekeeping in a flat on the north side."

He paused in his recital, took a drink, his eyes turning toward Neale;
then resumed in the same level voice:

"The Judge learned of this marriage in some way, and began to insist
that the son return home with his wife. Circumstances prevented,
however, and the visit was deferred. Meanwhile, becoming more
eccentric as he grew older, the father discharged all his old servants,
and lived the life of a recluse. When he died suddenly, and almost
alone, he left a will, probably drawn up soon after he learned of his
son's wedding, leaving his property to Philip, providing the young man
returned, with his wife, to live upon the estate within six months;
otherwise the entire estate should be divided among certain named
charities. Three administrators were named, of whom Neale here was
one."

I glanced back at the man referred to; he was leaning forward, his
elbow on his knees, and, catching my eyes, drew a legal-looking paper
from his pocket.

"Here is a copy of the will," he said, "if Craig cares to examine it."

"Not now," I replied. "Let me hear the entire story first."

Vail leaned back in his chair, a cigar between his lips.

"The administrators," he went on, as though uninterrupted, and
repeating a set speech, "endeavored to locate young Henley, but failed.
Then Mr. Neale was sent here to make a personal search. He came to me
for aid, and legal advice. Finally we found the flat where the young
couple had lived. It was deserted, and we learned from neighbors that
they had quarreled, and the wife left him. We have been unable to
discover her whereabouts. She did not return to, or communicate with,
her own people in the West, or with any former friends in this city.
She simply disappeared, and we have some reason to believe committed
suicide. The body of a young woman, fitting her general description,
was taken from the river, and buried without identification."

"And young Henley?" I asked, as he paused.

"Henley," he continued gravely, "was at last located, under an assumed
name, as a prisoner in the Indiana penitentiary at Michigan City,
serving a sentence of fourteen years for forgery. He positively
refuses to identify himself as Philip Henley, and all our efforts to
gain him a pardon have failed."

"But what have I to do with all this?" I questioned, beginning to have
a faint glimmer of the truth.

"Wait, and I will explain fully. Don't interrupt until I am done.
Here was a peculiar situation. The administrators are all old personal
friends of the testator, anxious to have the estate retained in the
family. How could this be accomplished? Neale laid the case before
me. I can see but one feasible method--illegal, to be sure, and yet
justifiable under the circumstances. Someone must impersonate Philip
Henley long enough to permit the settlement of the estate."

I rose to my feet indignantly.

"And you thought I would consent? would be a party to this fraud?"

"Now, wait, Craig," as calmly as ever. "This is nothing to be ashamed
of, nor, so far as I can see, as a lawyer, does it involve danger. It
will make a man of Henley, reunite him with his wife if she still
lives, and give him standing in the world. Scattered about among
charities the Lord knows who it would benefit--a lot of beggars likely.
We are merely helping the boy to retain what is rightfully his. Don't
throw this chance away, hastily--ten thousand dollars is pretty good
pay for a couple of months' work."

I sank back into my chair undecided, yet caught by the glitter of the
promise. Why not? Surely, it would do no harm, and, if the
administrators were satisfied, what cause had I to object. They were
responsible, and, if they thought this the best course, I might just as
well take my profit. If not they would find someone else who would.

"But--but can that be done?" I asked hesitatingly.

Vail smiled, confident of my yielding.

"Easily," he assured. "Young Henley has been away five years; even
before that he was absent at school so much as to be practically
unknown except to the older servants. These have all been discharged,
and scattered. The wife is entirely unknown there. Anyone, bearing
ever so slight a resemblance, would pass muster. All you need do is
read the father's letters over, post yourself on a few details and take
possession. We will attend to all legal matters."

"Then you consider that I resemble Henley?"

"No," coolly, "not in any remarkable manner, but sufficient for our
purpose--age, size, general appearance answers very well; nose, eyes
and hair are alike, and general contour of the face is similar. There
is not likely to be any close scrutiny. Here is young Henley's
photograph."

He picked it up from among the papers, and handed it over to me. There
was a resemblance, recognizable now that my attention had been called
to it, certain features being remarkably similar, although the face in
the picture wore a hard, dissipated look utterly at variance with my
own. I glanced at the endorsement on the back.

"He was going to send this photograph to his father."

"Yes, but never did. Apparently there is no flaw in our plan."

CHAPTER III

I ACCEPT THE OFFER

I do not know how others might have looked upon such a proposition as
this, but it never occurred to me at the time to doubt the honesty of
Vail's statement, nor could I perceive any great wrong in the action so
calmly proposed. This was Philip Henley's property; his father
undoubtedly intended he should inherit it, and the poor devil was
utterly unable to comply with the terms of the will. The very fact
that he possessed sufficient pride to part with the inheritance rather
than openly reveal his disgrace, appealed strongly. That sort of
fellow must have a strain of manhood in him. If I could serve him,
save the property for him, at almost no danger to myself, and make a
tidy sum of money doing it, why shouldn't I consent? I saw no reason
for refusal. To be sure the method was not lawful, yet was advised by
a lawyer, and agreed to by the administrators. Besides, the keeping of
a few promiscuous charities out of such a gift did not seem especially
wrong--I knew nothing, cared nothing for their loss. They were but
names of no significance. Vail, watching the expression of my face in
the light, seemed to divine my thoughts.

"Evidently you are recovering your good sense," he remarked easily.
"There is no use acting like a fool in a matter of this kind. You are
lucky to fall into such a chance. You 'll act, I take it?"

"Yes," the word was out almost before I was aware of speaking.

"Sensible decision, my man," his face lighting up. "Now there is no
need of our meeting again, or being seen together. The more quiet we
can keep our plans, the better it will be for all concerned. Neale,
hand Craig your copy of the articles of administration, and of the
will."

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