Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  There in slanting golden light of the new-risen sun stood a breathless, wild-eyed man and a steaming horse. Smothered in dust and grime, his clothes in disarray, the left sleeve of his doublet hanging in rags, this young man opened his lips to speak, yet for a long moment remained speechless.

  In that moment Mr. Blood recognized him for the young shipmaster, Jeremiah Pitt, the nephew of the maiden ladies opposite, one who had been drawn by the general enthusiasm into the vortex of that rebellion. The street was rousing, awakened by the sailor’s noisy advent; doors were opening, and lattices were being unlatched for the protrusion of anxious, inquisitive heads.

  “Take your time, now,” said Mr. Blood. “I never knew speed made by overhaste.”

  But the wild-eyed lad paid no heed to the admonition. He plunged, headlong, into speech, gasping, breathless.

  “It is Lord Gildoy,” he panted. “He is sore wounded... at Oglethorpe’s Farm by the river. I bore him thither... and... and he sent me for you. Come away! Come away!”

  He would have clutched the doctor, and haled him forth by force in bedgown and slippers as he was. But the doctor eluded that too eager hand.

  “To be sure, I’ll come,” said he. He was distressed. Gildoy had been a very friendly, generous patron to him since his settling in these parts. And Mr. Blood was eager enough to do what he now could to discharge the debt, grieved that the occasion should have arisen, and in such a manner — for he knew quite well that the rash young nobleman had been an active agent of the Duke’s. “To be sure, I’ll come. But first give me leave to get some clothes and other things that I may need.”

  “There’s no time to lose.”

  “Be easy now. I’ll lose none. I tell ye again, ye’ll go quickest by going leisurely. Come in... take a chair...” He threw open the door of a parlour.

  Young Pitt waved aside the invitation.

  “I’ll wait here. Make haste, in God’s name.” Mr. Blood went off to dress and to fetch a case of instruments.

  Questions concerning the precise nature of Lord Gildoy’s hurt could wait until they were on their way. Whilst he pulled on his boots, he gave Mrs. Barlow instructions for the day, which included the matter of a dinner he was not destined to eat.

  When at last he went forth again, Mrs. Barlow clucking after him like a disgruntled fowl, he found young Pitt smothered in a crowd of scared, half-dressed townsfolk — mostly women — who had come hastening for news of how the battle had sped. The news he gave them was to be read in the lamentations with which they disturbed the morning air.

  At sight of the doctor, dressed and booted, the case of instruments tucked under his arm, the messenger disengaged himself from those who pressed about, shook off his weariness and the two tearful aunts that clung most closely, and seizing the bridle of his horse, he climbed to the saddle.

  “Come along, sir,” he cried. “Mount behind me.”

  Mr. Blood, without wasting words, did as he was bidden. Pitt touched the horse with his spur. The little crowd gave way, and thus, upon the crupper of that doubly-laden horse, clinging to the belt of his companion, Peter Blood set out upon his Odyssey. For this Pitt, in whom he beheld no more than the messenger of a wounded rebel gentleman, was indeed the very messenger of Fate.

  CHAPTER II. KIRKE’S DRAGOONS

  Oglethorpe’s farm stood a mile or so to the south of Bridgewater on the right bank of the river. It was a straggling Tudor building showing grey above the ivy that clothed its lower parts. Approaching it now, through the fragrant orchards amid which it seemed to drowse in Arcadian peace beside the waters of the Parrett, sparkling in the morning sunlight, Mr. Blood might have had a difficulty in believing it part of a world tormented by strife and bloodshed.

  On the bridge, as they had been riding out of Bridgewater, they had met a vanguard of fugitives from the field of battle, weary, broken men, many of them wounded, all of them terror-stricken, staggering in speedless haste with the last remnants of their strength into the shelter which it was their vain illusion the town would afford them. Eyes glazed with lassitude and fear looked up piteously out of haggard faces at Mr. Blood and his companion as they rode forth; hoarse voices cried a warning that merciless pursuit was not far behind. Undeterred, however, young Pitt rode amain along the dusty road by which these poor fugitives from that swift rout on Sedgemoor came flocking in ever-increasing numbers. Presently he swung aside, and quitting the road took to a pathway that crossed the dewy meadowlands. Even here they met odd groups of these human derelicts, who were scattering in all directions, looking fearfully behind them as they came through the long grass, expecting at every moment to see the red coats of the dragoons.

  But as Pitt’s direction was a southward one, bringing them ever nearer to Feversham’s headquarters, they were presently clear of that human flotsam and jetsam of the battle, and riding through the peaceful orchards heavy with the ripening fruit that was soon to make its annual yield of cider.

  At last they alighted on the kidney stones of the courtyard, and Baynes, the master, of the homestead, grave of countenance and flustered of manner, gave them welcome.

  In the spacious, stone-flagged hall, the doctor found Lord Gildoy — a very tall and dark young gentleman, prominent of chin and nose — stretched on a cane day-bed under one of the tall mullioned windows, in the care of Mrs. Baynes and her comely daughter. His cheeks were leaden-hued, his eyes closed, and from his blue lips came with each laboured breath a faint, moaning noise.

  Mr. Blood stood for a moment silently considering his patient. He deplored that a youth with such bright hopes in life as Lord Gildoy’s should have risked all, perhaps existence itself, to forward the ambition of a worthless adventurer. Because he had liked and honoured this brave lad he paid his case the tribute of a sigh. Then he knelt to his task, ripped away doublet and underwear to lay bare his lordship’s mangled side, and called for water and linen and what else he needed for his work.

  He was still intent upon it a half-hour later when the dragoons invaded the homestead. The clatter of hooves and hoarse shouts that heralded their approach disturbed him not at all. For one thing, he was not easily disturbed; for another, his task absorbed him. But his lordship, who had now recovered consciousness, showed considerable alarm, and the battle-stained Jeremy Pitt sped to cover in a clothes-press. Baynes was uneasy, and his wife and daughter trembled. Mr. Blood reassured them.

  “Why, what’s to fear?” he said. “It’s a Christian country, this, and Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who harbour them.” He still had, you see, illusions about Christians. He held a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his lordship’s lips. “Give your mind peace, my lord. The worst is done.”

  And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall — a round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace about the breast of his coat.

  Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.

  The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He announced his authority to the yeoman.

  “I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons. What rebels do you harbour?”

  The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed itself in his trembling voice.

  “I... I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman....”

  “I can see for myself.” The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed, and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.

  “No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned rebel, and that’s enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons. “Out with him, my lads.”

  Mr. Blood got between the day-be
d and the troopers.

  “In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be moved without peril to his life.”

  Captain Hobart was amused.

  “Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him? There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”

  “You’re hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am. We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”

  The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.

  “Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.

  “My name is Blood, sir — Peter Blood, at your service.”

  “Aye — aye! Codso! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”

  If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.

  “I was.”

  “Then I remember you — five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”

  “That is so. I knew your colonel.”

  “Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”

  “This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”

  “A doctor — you?” Scorn of that lie — as he conceived it — rang in the heavy, hectoring voice.

  “Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.

  “Don’t fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”

  Mr. Blood’s smile annoyed him.

  “I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.”

  The Captain sneered. “Which you reached by way of Lyme Regis in the following of your bastard Duke.”

  It was Mr. Blood’s turn to sneer. “If your wit were as big as your voice, my dear, it’s the great man you’d be by this.”

  For a moment the dragoon was speechless. The colour deepened in his face.

  “You may find me great enough to hang you.”

  “Faith, yes. Ye’ve the look and the manners of a hangman. But if you practise your trade on my patient here, you may be putting a rope round your own neck. He’s not the kind you may string up and no questions asked. He has the right to trial, and the right to trial by his peers.”

  “By his peers?”

  The Captain was taken aback by these three words, which Mr. Blood had stressed.

  “Sure, now, any but a fool or a savage would have asked his name before ordering him to the gallows. The gentleman is my Lord Gildoy.”

  And then his lordship spoke for himself, in a weak voice.

  “I make no concealment of my association with the Duke of Monmouth. I’ll take the consequences. But, if you please, I’ll take them after trial — by my peers, as the doctor has said.”

  The feeble voice ceased, and was followed by a moment’s silence. As is common in many blustering men, there was a deal of timidity deep down in Hobart. The announcement of his lordship’s rank had touched those depths. A servile upstart, he stood in awe of titles. And he stood in awe of his colonel. Percy Kirke was not lenient with blunderers.

  By a gesture he checked his men. He must consider. Mr. Blood, observing his pause, added further matter for his consideration.

  “Ye’ll be remembering, Captain, that Lord Gildoy will have friends and relatives on the Tory side, who’ll have something to say to Colonel Kirke if his lordship should be handled like a common felon. You’ll go warily, Captain, or, as I’ve said, it’s a halter for your neck ye’ll be weaving this morning.”

  Captain Hobart swept the warning aside with a bluster of contempt, but he acted upon it none the less. “Take up the day-bed,” said he, “and convey him on that to Bridgewater. Lodge him in the gaol until I take order about him.”

  “He may not survive the journey,” Blood remonstrated. “He’s in no case to be moved.”

  “So much the worse for him. My affair is to round up rebels.” He confirmed his order by a gesture. Two of his men took up the day-bed, and swung to depart with it.

  Gildoy made a feeble effort to put forth a hand towards Mr. Blood. “Sir,” he said, “you leave me in your debt. If I live I shall study how to discharge it.”

  Mr. Blood bowed for answer; then to the men: “Bear him steadily,” he commanded. “His life depends on it.”

  As his lordship was carried out, the Captain became brisk. He turned upon the yeoman.

  “What other cursed rebels do you harbour?”

  “None other, sir. His lordship....”

  “We’ve dealt with his lordship for the present. We’ll deal with you in a moment when we’ve searched your house. And, by God, if you’ve lied to me....” He broke off, snarling, to give an order. Four of his dragoons went out. In a moment they were heard moving noisily in the adjacent room. Meanwhile, the Captain was questing about the hall, sounding the wainscoting with the butt of a pistol.

  Mr. Blood saw no profit to himself in lingering.

  “By your leave, it’s a very good day I’ll be wishing you,” said he.

  “By my leave, you’ll remain awhile,” the Captain ordered him.

  Mr. Blood shrugged, and sat down. “You’re tiresome,” he said. “I wonder your colonel hasn’t discovered it yet.”

  But the Captain did not heed him. He was stooping to pick up a soiled and dusty hat in which there was pinned a little bunch of oak leaves. It had been lying near the clothes-press in which the unfortunate Pitt had taken refuge. The Captain smiled malevolently. His eyes raked the room, resting first sardonically on the yeoman, then on the two women in the background, and finally on Mr. Blood, who sat with one leg thrown over the other in an attitude of indifference that was far from reflecting his mind.

  Then the Captain stepped to the press, and pulled open one of the wings of its massive oaken door. He took the huddled inmate by the collar of his doublet, and lugged him out into the open.

  “And who the devil’s this?” quoth he. “Another nobleman?”

  Mr. Blood had a vision of those gallows of which Captain Hobart had spoken, and of this unfortunate young shipmaster going to adorn one of them, strung up without trial, in the place of the other victim of whom the Captain had been cheated. On the spot he invented not only a title but a whole family for the young rebel.

  “Faith, ye’ve said it, Captain. This is Viscount Pitt, first cousin to Sir Thomas Vernon, who’s married to that slut Moll Kirke, sister to your own colonel, and sometime lady in waiting upon King James’s queen.”

  Both the Captain and his prisoner gasped. But whereas thereafter young Pitt discreetly held his peace, the Captain rapped out a nasty oath. He considered his prisoner again.

  “He’s lying, is he not?” he demanded, seizing the lad by the shoulder, and glaring into his face. “He’s rallying rue, by God!”

  “If ye believe that,” said Blood, “hang him, and see what happens to you.”

  The dragoon glared at the doctor and then at his prisoner. “Pah!” He thrust the lad into the hands of his men. “Fetch him along to Bridgewater. And make fast that fellow also,” he pointed to Baynes. “We’ll show him what it means to harbour and comfort rebels.”

  There was a moment of confusion. Baynes struggled in the grip of the troopers, protesting vehemently. The terrified women screamed until silenced by a greater terror. The Captain strode across to them. He took the girl by the shoulders. She was a pretty, golden-headed creature, with soft blue eyes that looked up entreatingly, piteously into the face of the dragoon. He leered upon her, his e
yes aglow, took her chin in his hand, and set her shuddering by his brutal kiss.

  “It’s an earnest,” he said, smiling grimly. “Let that quiet you, little rebel, till I’ve done with these rogues.”

  And he swung away again, leaving her faint and trembling in the arms of her anguished mother. His men stood, grinning, awaiting orders, the two prisoners now fast pinioned.

  “Take them away. Let Cornet Drake have charge of them.” His smouldering eye again sought the cowering girl. “I’ll stay awhile — to search out this place. There may be other rebels hidden here.” As an afterthought, he added: “And take this fellow with you.” He pointed to Mr. Blood. “Bestir!”

  Mr. Blood started out of his musings. He had been considering that in his case of instruments there was a lancet with which he might perform on Captain Hobart a beneficial operation. Beneficial, that is, to humanity. In any case, the dragoon was obviously plethoric and would be the better for a blood-letting. The difficulty lay in making the opportunity. He was beginning to wonder if he could lure the Captain aside with some tale of hidden treasure, when this untimely interruption set a term to that interesting speculation.

  He sought to temporize.

  “Faith it will suit me very well,” said he. “For Bridgewater is my destination, and but that ye detained me I’d have been on my way thither now.”

  “Your destination there will be the gaol.”

  “Ah, bah! Ye’re surely joking!”

  “There’s a gallows for you if you prefer it. It’s merely a question of now or later.”

  Rude hands seized Mr. Blood, and that precious lancet was in the case on the table out of reach. He twisted out of the grip of the dragoons, for he was strong and agile, but they closed with him again immediately, and bore him down. Pinning him to the ground, they tied his wrists behind his back, then roughly pulled him to his feet again.