“You scum! You dirty pirate! You man of honour!” Captain Blood apostrophized his prisoner.
But Don Diego looked up at him and laughed.
“You underrated me.” He spoke English, so that all might hear. “I tell you that I was not fear death, and I show you that I was not fear it. You no understand. You just an English dog.”
“Irish, if you please,” Captain Blood corrected him. “And your parole, you tyke of Spain?”
“You think I give my parole to leave you sons of filth with this beautiful Spanish ship, to go make war upon other Spaniards! Ha!” Don Diego laughed in his throat. “You fool! You can kill me. Pish! It is very well. I die with my work well done. In less than an hour you will be the prisoners of Spain, and the Cinco Llagas will go belong to Spain again.”
Captain Blood regarded him steadily out of a face which, if impassive, had paled under its deep tan. About the prisoner, clamant, infuriated, ferocious, the rebels-convict surged, almost literally “athirst for his blood.”
“Wait,” Captain Blood imperiously commanded, and turning on his heel, he went aside to the rail. As he stood there deep in thought, he was joined by Hagthorpe, Wolverstone, and Ogle the gunner. In silence they stared with him across the water at that other ship. She had veered a point away from the wind, and was running now on a line that must in the end converge with that of the Cinco Llagas.
“In less than half-an-hour,” said Blood presently, “we shall have her athwart our hawse, sweeping our decks with her guns.”
“We can fight,” said the one-eyed giant with an oath.
“Fight!” sneered Blood. “Undermanned as we are, mustering a bare twenty men, in what case are we to fight? No, there would be only one way. To persuade her that all is well aboard, that we are Spaniards, so that she may leave us to continue on our course.”
“And how is that possible?” Hagthorpe asked.
“It isn’t possible,” said Blood. “If it....” And then he broke off, and stood musing, his eyes upon the green water. Ogle, with a bent for sarcasm, interposed a suggestion bitterly.
“We might send Don Diego de Espinosa in a boat manned by his Spaniards to assure his brother the Admiral that we are all loyal subjects of his Catholic Majesty.”
The Captain swung round, and for an instant looked as if he would have struck the gunner. Then his expression changed: the light of inspiration Was in his glance.
“Bedad! ye’ve said it. He doesn’t fear death, this damned pirate; but his son may take a different view. Filial piety’s mighty strong in Spain.” He swung on his heel abruptly, and strode back to the knot of men about his prisoner. “Here!” he shouted to them. “Bring him below.” And he led the way down to the waist, and thence by the booby hatch to the gloom of the ‘tween-decks, where the air was rank with the smell of tar and spun yarn. Going aft he threw open the door of the spacious wardroom, and went in followed by a dozen of the hands with the pinioned Spaniard. Every man aboard would have followed him but for his sharp command to some of them to remain on deck with Hagthorpe.
In the ward-room the three stern chasers were in position, loaded, their muzzles thrusting through the open ports, precisely as the Spanish gunners had left them.
“Here, Ogle, is work for you,” said Blood, and as the burly gunner came thrusting forward through the little throng of gaping men, Blood pointed to the middle chaser; “Have that gun hauled back,” he ordered.
When this was done, Blood beckoned those who held Don Diego.
“Lash him across the mouth of it,” he bade them, and whilst, assisted by another two, they made haste to obey, he turned to the others. “To the roundhouse, some of you, and fetch the Spanish prisoners. And you, Dyke, go up and bid them set the flag of Spain aloft.”
Don Diego, with his body stretched in an arc across the cannon’s mouth, legs and arms lashed to the carriage on either side of it, eyeballs rolling in his head, glared maniacally at Captain Blood. A man may not fear to die, and yet be appalled by the form in which death comes to him.
From frothing lips he hurled blasphemies and insults at his tormentor.
“Foul barbarian! Inhuman savage! Accursed heretic! Will it not content you to kill me in some Christian fashion?” Captain Blood vouchsafed him a malignant smile, before he turned to meet the fifteen manacled Spanish prisoners, who were thrust into his presence.
Approaching, they had heard Don Diego’s outcries; at close quarters now they beheld with horror-stricken eyes his plight. From amongst them a comely, olive-skinned stripling, distinguished in bearing and apparel from his companions, started forward with an anguished cry of “Father!”
Writhing in the arms that made haste to seize and hold him, he called upon heaven and hell to avert this horror, and lastly, addressed to Captain Blood an appeal for mercy that was at once fierce and piteous. Considering him, Captain Blood thought with satisfaction that he displayed the proper degree of filial piety.
He afterwards confessed that for a moment he was in danger of weakening, that for a moment his mind rebelled against the pitiless thing it had planned. But to correct the sentiment he evoked a memory of what these Spaniards had performed in Bridgetown. Again he saw the white face of that child Mary Traill as she fled in horror before the jeering ruffian whom he had slain, and other things even more unspeakable seen on that dreadful evening rose now before the eyes of his memory to stiffen his faltering purpose. The Spaniards had shown themselves without mercy or sentiment or decency of any kind; stuffed with religion, they were without a spark of that Christianity, the Symbol of which was mounted on the mainmast of the approaching ship. A moment ago this cruel, vicious Don Diego had insulted the Almighty by his assumption that He kept a specially benevolent watch over the destinies of Catholic Spain. Don Diego should be taught his error.
Recovering the cynicism in which he had approached his task, the cynicism essential to its proper performance, he commanded Ogle to kindle a match and remove the leaden apron from the touch-hole of the gun that bore Don Diego. Then, as the younger Espinosa broke into fresh intercessions mingled with imprecations, he wheeled upon him sharply.
“Peace!” he snapped. “Peace, and listen! It is no part of my intention to blow your father to hell as he deserves, or indeed to take his life at all.”
Having surprised the lad into silence by that promise — a promise surprising enough in all the circumstances — he proceeded to explain his aims in that faultless and elegant Castilian of which he was fortunately master — as fortunately for Don Diego as for himself.
“It is your father’s treachery that has brought us into this plight and deliberately into risk of capture and death aboard that ship of Spain. Just as your father recognized his brother’s flagship, so will his brother have recognized the Cinco Llagas. So far, then, all is well. But presently the Encarnacion will be sufficiently close to perceive that here all is not as it should be. Sooner or later, she must guess or discover what is wrong, and then she will open fire or lay us board and board. Now, we are in no case to fight, as your father knew when he ran us into this trap. But fight we will, if we are driven to it. We make no tame surrender to the ferocity of Spain.”
He laid his hand on the breech of the gun that bore Don Diego.
“Understand this clearly: to the first shot from the Encarnacion this gun will fire the answer. I make myself clear, I hope?”
White-faced and trembling, young Espinosa stared into the pitiless blue eyes that so steadily regarded him.
“If it is clear?” he faltered, breaking the utter silence in which all were standing. “But, name of God, how should it be clear? How should I understand? Can you avert the fight? If you know a way, and if I, or these, can help you to it — if that is what you mean — in Heaven’s name let me hear it.”
“A fight would be averted if Don Diego de Espinosa were to go aboard his brother’s ship, and by his presence and assurances inform the Admiral that all is well with the Cinco Llagas, that she is indeed still a ship o
f Spain as her flag now announces. But of course Don Diego cannot go in person, because he is... otherwise engaged. He has a slight touch of fever — shall we say? — that detains him in his cabin. But you, his son, may convey all this and some other matters together with his homage to your uncle. You shall go in a boat manned by six of these Spanish prisoners, and I — a distinguished Spaniard delivered from captivity in Barbados by your recent raid — will accompany you to keep you in countenance. If I return alive, and without accident of any kind to hinder our free sailing hence, Don Diego shall have his life, as shall every one of you. But if there is the least misadventure, be it from treachery or ill-fortune — I care not which — the battle, as I have had the honour to explain, will be opened on our side by this gun, and your father will be the first victim of the conflict.”
He paused a moment. There was a hum of approval from his comrades, an anxious stirring among the Spanish prisoners. Young Espinosa stood before him, the colour ebbing and flowing in his cheeks. He waited for some direction from his father. But none came. Don Diego’s courage, it seemed, had sadly waned under that rude test. He hung limply in his fearful bonds, and was silent. Evidently he dared not encourage his son to defiance, and presumably was ashamed to urge him to yield. Thus, he left decision entirely with the youth.
“Come,” said Blood. “I have been clear enough, I think. What do you say?”
Don Esteban moistened his parched lips, and with the back of his hand mopped the anguish-sweat from his brow. His eyes gazed wildly a moment upon the shoulders of his father, as if beseeching guidance. But his father remained silent. Something like a sob escaped the boy.
“I... I accept,” he answered at last, and swung to the Spaniards. “And you — you will accept too,” he insisted passionately. “For Don Diego’s sake and for your own — for all our sakes. If you do not, this man will butcher us all without mercy.”
Since he yielded, and their leader himself counselled no resistance, why should they encompass their own destruction by a gesture of futile heroism? They answered without much hesitation that they would do as was required of them.
Blood turned, and advanced to Don Diego.
“I am sorry to inconvenience you in this fashion, but...” For a second he checked and frowned as his eyes intently observed the prisoner. Then, after that scarcely perceptible pause, he continued, “but I do not think that you have anything beyond this inconvenience to apprehend, and you may depend upon me to shorten it as far as possible.” Don Diego made him no answer.
Peter Blood waited a moment, observing him; then he bowed and stepped back.
CHAPTER XII. DON PEDRO SANGRE
The Cinco Llagas and the Encarnacion, after a proper exchange of signals, lay hove to within a quarter of a mile of each other, and across the intervening space of gently heaving, sunlit waters sped a boat from the former, manned by six Spanish seamen and bearing in her stern sheets Don Esteban de Espinosa and Captain Peter Blood.
She also bore two treasure-chests containing fifty thousand pieces of eight. Gold has at all times been considered the best of testimonies of good faith, and Blood was determined that in all respects appearances should be entirely on his side. His followers had accounted this a supererogation of pretence. But Blood’s will in the matter had prevailed. He carried further a bulky package addressed to a grande of Spain, heavily sealed with the arms of Espinosa — another piece of evidence hastily manufactured in the cabin of the Cinco Llagas — and he was spending these last moments in completing his instructions to his young companion.
Don Esteban expressed his last lingering uneasiness:
“But if you should betray yourself?” he cried.
“It will be unfortunate for everybody. I advised your father to say a prayer for our success. I depend upon you to help me more materially.”
“I will do my best. God knows I will do my best,” the boy protested.
Blood nodded thoughtfully, and no more was said until they bumped alongside the towering mass of the Encarnadon. Up the ladder went Don Esteban closely followed by Captain Blood. In the waist stood the Admiral himself to receive them, a handsome, self-sufficient man, very tall and stiff, a little older and greyer than Don Diego, whom he closely resembled. He was supported by four officers and a friar in the black and white habit of St. Dominic.
Don Miguel opened his arms to his nephew, whose lingering panic he mistook for pleasurable excitement, and having enfolded him to his bosom turned to greet Don Esteban’s companion.
Peter Blood bowed gracefully, entirely at his ease, so far as might be judged from appearances.
“I am,” he announced, making a literal translation of his name, “Don Pedro Sangre, an unfortunate gentleman of Leon, lately delivered from captivity by Don Esteban’s most gallant father.” And in a few words he sketched the imagined conditions of his capture by, and deliverance from, those accursed heretics who held the island of Barbados. “Benedicamus Domino,” said the friar to his tale.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in seculum,” replied Blood, the occasional papist, with lowered eyes.
The Admiral and his attending officers gave him a sympathetic hearing and a cordial welcome. Then came the dreaded question.
“But where is my brother? Why has he not come, himself, to greet me?”
It was young Espinosa who answered this:
“My father is afflicted at denying himself that honour and pleasure. But unfortunately, sir uncle, he is a little indisposed — oh, nothing grave; merely sufficient to make him keep his cabin. It is a little fever, the result of a slight wound taken in the recent raid upon Barbados, which resulted in this gentleman’s happy deliverance.”
“Nay, nephew, nay,” Don Miguel protested with ironic repudiation. “I can have no knowledge of these things. I have the honour to represent upon the seas His Catholic Majesty, who is at peace with the King of England. Already you have told me more than it is good for me to know. I will endeavour to forget it, and I will ask you, sirs,” he added, glancing at his officers, “to forget it also.” But he winked into the twinkling eyes of Captain Blood; then added matter that at once extinguished that twinkle. “But since Diego cannot come to me, why, I will go across to him.”
For a moment Don Esteban’s face was a mask of pallid fear. Then Blood was speaking in a lowered, confidential voice that admirably blended suavity, impressiveness, and sly mockery.
“If you please, Don Miguel, but that is the very thing you must not do — the very thing Don Diego does not wish you to do. You must not see him until his wounds are healed. That is his own wish. That is the real reason why he is not here. For the truth is that his wounds are not so grave as to have prevented his coming. It was his consideration of himself and the false position in which you would be placed if you had direct word from him of what has happened. As your excellency has said, there is peace between His Catholic Majesty and the King of England, and your brother Don Diego....” He paused a moment. “I am sure that I need say no more. What you hear from us is no more than a mere rumour. Your excellency understands.”
His excellency frowned thoughtfully. “I understand... in part,” said he.
Captain Blood had a moment’s uneasiness. Did the Spaniard doubt his bona fides? Yet in dress and speech he knew himself to be impeccably Spanish, and was not Don Esteban there to confirm him? He swept on to afford further confirmation before the Admiral could say another word.
“And we have in the boat below two chests containing fifty thousand pieces of eight, which we are to deliver to your excellency.”
His excellency jumped; there was a sudden stir among his officers.
“They are the ransom extracted by Don Diego from the Governor of....”
“Not another word, in the name of Heaven!” cried the Admiral in alarm. “My brother wishes me to assume charge of this money, to carry it to Spain for him? Well, that is a family matter between my brother and myself. So, it can be done. But I must not know....” He broke off. “Hum! A glass
of Malaga in my cabin, if you please,” he invited them, “whilst the chests are being hauled aboard.”
He gave his orders touching the embarkation of these chests, then led the way to his regally appointed cabin, his four officers and the friar following by particular invitation.
Seated at table there, with the tawny wine before them, and the servant who had poured it withdrawn, Don Miguel laughed and stroked his pointed, grizzled beard.
“Virgen santisima! That brother of mine has a mind that thinks of everything. Left to myself, I might have committed a fine indiscretion by venturing aboard his ship at such a moment. I might have seen things which as Admiral of Spain it would be difficult for me to ignore.”
Both Esteban and Blood made haste to agree with him, and then Blood raised his glass, and drank to the glory of Spain and the damnation of the besotted James who occupied the throne of England. The latter part of his toast was at least sincere.
The Admiral laughed.
“Sir, sir, you need my brother here to curb your imprudences. You should remember that His Catholic Majesty and the King of England are very good friends. That is not a toast to propose in this cabin. But since it has been proposed, and by one who has such particular personal cause to hate these English hounds, why, we will honour it — but unofficially.”
They laughed, and drank the damnation of King James — quite unofficially, but the more fervently on that account. Then Don Esteban, uneasy on the score of his father, and remembering that the agony of Don Diego was being protracted with every moment that they left him in his dreadful position, rose and announced that they must be returning.
“My father,” he explained, “is in haste to reach San Domingo. He desired me to stay no longer than necessary to embrace you. If you will give us leave, then, sir uncle.”
In the circumstances “sir uncle” did not insist.
As they returned to the ship’s side, Blood’s eyes anxiously scanned the line of seamen leaning over the bulwarks in idle talk with the Spaniards in the cock-boat that waited at the ladder’s foot. But their manner showed him that there was no ground for his anxiety. The boat’s crew had been wisely reticent.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 387
