“King William?” quoth Blood, and he was conscious that Pitt and Dyke, who were behind him, now came edging nearer, sharing his own wonder. “And who may be King William, and of what may he be King?”
“What’s that?” In a wonder greater than his own, Lord Willoughby stared back at him. At last: “I am alluding to His Majesty King William III — William of Orange — who, with Queen Mary, has been ruling England for two months and more.”
There was a moment’s silence, until Blood realized what he was being told.
“D’ye mean, sir, that they’ve roused themselves at home, and kicked out that scoundrel James and his gang of ruffians?”
Admiral van der Kuylen nudged his lordship, a humourous twinkle in his blue eyes.
“His bolitics are fery sound, I dink,” he growled.
His lordship’s smile brought lines like gashes into his leathery cheeks. “‘Slife! hadn’t you heard? Where the devil have you been at all?”
“Out of touch with the world for the last three months,” said Blood.
“Stab me! You must have been. And in that three months the world has undergone some changes.” Briefly he added an account of them. King James was fled to France, and living under the protection of King Louis, wherefore, and for other reasons, England had joined the league against her, and was now at war with France. That was how it happened that the Dutch Admiral’s flagship had been attacked by M. de Rivarol’s fleet that morning, from which it clearly followed that in his voyage from Cartagena, the Frenchman must have spoken some ship that gave him the news.
After that, with renewed assurances that aboard his ship they should be honourably entreated, Captain Blood led the Governor-General and the Admiral to his cabin, what time the work of rescue went on. The news he had received had set Blood’s mind in a turmoil. If King James was dethroned and banished, there was an end to his own outlawry for his alleged share in an earlier attempt to drive out that tyrant. It became possible for him to return home and take up his life again at the point where it was so unfortunately interrupted four years ago. He was dazzled by the prospect so abruptly opened out to him. The thing so filled his mind, moved him so deeply, that he must afford it expression. In doing so, he revealed of himself more than he knew or intended to the astute little gentleman who watched him so keenly the while.
“Go home, if you will,” said his lordship, when Blood paused. “You may be sure that none will harass you on the score of your piracy, considering what it was that drove you to it. But why be in haste? We have heard of you, to be sure, and we know of what you are capable upon the seas. Here is a great chance for you, since you declare yourself sick of piracy. Should you choose to serve King William out here during this war, your knowledge of the West Indies should render you a very valuable servant to His Majesty’s Government, which you would not find ungrateful. You should consider it. Damme, sir, I repeat: it is a great chance you are given.
“That your lordship gives me,” Blood amended, “I am very grateful. But at the moment, I confess, I can consider nothing but this great news. It alters the shape of the world. I must accustom myself to view it as it now is, before I can determine my own place in it.”
Pitt came in to report that the work of rescue was at an end, and the men picked up — some forty-five in all — safe aboard the two buccaneer ships. He asked for orders. Blood rose.
“I am negligent of your lordship’s concerns in my consideration of my own. You’ll be wishing me to land you at Port Royal.”
“At Port Royal?” The little man squirmed wrathfully on his seat. Wrathfully and at length he informed Blood that they had put into Port Royal last evening to find its Deputy-Governor absent. “He had gone on some wild-goose chase to Tortuga after buccaneers, taking the whole of the fleet with him.”
Blood stared in surprise a moment; then yielded to laughter.
“He went, I suppose, before news reached him of the change of government at home, and the war with France?”
“He did not,” snapped Willoughby. “He was informed of both, and also of my coming before he set out.”
“Oh, impossible!”
“So I should have thought. But I have the information from a Major Mallard whom I found in Port Royal, apparently governing in this fool’s absence.”
“But is he mad, to leave his post at such a time?” Blood was amazed.
“Taking the whole fleet with him, pray remember, and leaving the place open to French attack. That is the sort of Deputy-Governor that the late Government thought fit to appoint: an epitome of its misrule, damme! He leaves Port Royal unguarded save by a ramshackle fort that can be reduced to rubble in an hour. Stab me! It’s unbelievable!”
The lingering smile faded from Blood’s face. “Is Rivarol aware of this?” he cried sharply.
It was the Dutch Admiral who answered him. “Vould he go dere if he were not? M. de Rivarol he take some of our men prisoners. Berhabs dey dell him. Berhabs he make dem tell. Id is a great obbordunidy.”
His lordship snarled like a mountain-cat. “That rascal Bishop shall answer for it with his head if there’s any mischief done through this desertion of his post. What if it were deliberate, eh? What if he is more knave than fool? What if this is his way of serving King James, from whom he held his office?”
Captain Blood was generous. “Hardly so much. It was just vindictiveness that urged him. It’s myself he’s hunting at Tortuga, my lord. But, I’m thinking that while he’s about it, I’d best be looking after Jamaica for King William.” He laughed, with more mirth than he had used in the last two months.
“Set a course for Port Royal, Jeremy, and make all speed. We’ll be level yet with M. de Rivarol, and wipe off some other scores at the same time.”
Both Lord Willoughby and the Admiral were on their feet.
“But you are not equal to it, damme!” cried his lordship. “Any one of the Frenchman’s three ships is a match for both yours, my man.”
“In guns — aye,” said Blood, and he smiled. “But there’s more than guns that matter in these affairs. If your lordship would like to see an action fought at sea as an action should be fought, this is your opportunity.”
Both stared at him. “But the odds!” his lordship insisted.
“Id is imbossible,” said van der Kuylen, shaking his great head. “Seamanship is imbordand. Bud guns is guns.”
“If I can’t defeat him, I can sink my own ships in the channel, and block him in until Bishop gets back from his wild-goose chase with his squadron, or until your own fleet turns up.”
“And what good will that be, pray?” demanded Willoughby.
“I’ll be after telling you. Rivarol is a fool to take this chance, considering what he’s got aboard. He carried in his hold the treasure plundered from Cartagena, amounting to forty million livres.” They jumped at the mention of that colossal sum. “He has gone into Port Royal with it. Whether he defeats me or not, he doesn’t come out of Port Royal with it again, and sooner or later that treasure shall find its way into King William’s coffers, after, say, one fifth share shall have been paid to my buccaneers. Is that agreed, Lord Willoughby?”
His lordship stood up, and shaking back the cloud of lace from his wrist, held out a delicate white hand.
“Captain Blood, I discover greatness in you,” said he.
“Sure it’s your lordship has the fine sight to perceive it,” laughed the Captain.
“Yes, yes! Bud how vill you do id?” growled van der Kuylen.
“Come on deck, and it’s a demonstration I’ll be giving you before the day’s much older.”
CHAPTER XXX. THE LAST FIGHT OF THE ARABELLA
“VHY do you vait, my friend?” growled van der Kuylen.
“Aye — in God’s name!” snapped Willoughby.
It was the afternoon of that same day, and the two buccaneer ships rocked gently with idly flapping sails under the lee of the long spit of land forming the great natural harbour of Port Royal, and less than a mile from
the straits leading into it, which the fort commanded. It was two hours and more since they had brought up thereabouts, having crept thither unobserved by the city and by M. de Rivarol’s ships, and all the time the air had been aquiver with the roar of guns from sea and land, announcing that battle was joined between the French and the defenders of Port Royal. That long, inactive waiting was straining the nerves of both Lord Willoughby and van der Kuylen.
“You said you vould show us zome vine dings. Vhere are dese vine dings?”
Blood faced them, smiling confidently. He was arrayed for battle, in back-and-breast of black steel. “I’ll not be trying your patience much longer. Indeed, I notice already a slackening in the fire. But it’s this way, now: there’s nothing at all to be gained by precipitancy, and a deal to be gained by delaying, as I shall show you, I hope.”
Lord Willoughby eyed him suspiciously. “Ye think that in the meantime Bishop may come back or Admiral van der Kuylen’s fleet appear?”
“Sure, now, I’m thinking nothing of the kind. What I’m thinking is that in this engagement with the fort M. de Rivarol, who’s a lubberly fellow, as I’ve reason to know, will be taking some damage that may make the odds a trifle more even. Sure, it’ll be time enough to go forward when the fort has shot its bolt.”
“Aye, aye!” The sharp approval came like a cough from the little Governor-General. “I perceive your object, and I believe ye’re entirely right. Ye have the qualities of a great commander, Captain Blood. I beg your pardon for having misunderstood you.”
“And that’s very handsome of your lordship. Ye see, I have some experience of this kind of action, and whilst I’ll take any risk that I must, I’ll take none that I needn’t. But....” He broke off to listen. “Aye, I was right. The fire’s slackening. It’ll mean the end of Mallard’s resistance in the fort. Ho there, Jeremy!”
He leaned on the carved rail and issued orders crisply. The bo’sun’s pipe shrilled out, and in a moment the ship that had seemed to slumber there, awoke to life. Came the padding of feet along the decks, the creaking of blocks and the hoisting of sail. The helm was put over hard, and in a moment they were moving, the Elizabeth following, ever in obedience to the signals from the Arabella, whilst Ogle the gunner, whom he had summoned, was receiving Blood’s final instructions before plunging down to his station on the main deck.
Within a quarter of an hour they had rounded the head, and stood in to the harbour mouth, within saker shot of Rivarol’s three ships, to which they now abruptly disclosed themselves.
Where the fort had stood they now beheld a smoking rubbish heap, and the victorious Frenchman with the lily standard trailing from his mastheads was sweeping forward to snatch the rich prize whose defences he had shattered.
Blood scanned the French ships, and chuckled. The Victorieuse and the Medusa appeared to have taken no more than a few scars; but the third ship, the Baleine, listing heavily to larboard so as to keep the great gash in her starboard well above water, was out of account.
“You see!” he cried to van der Kuylen, and without waiting for the Dutchman’s approving grunt, he shouted an order: “Helm, hard-a-port!”
The sight of that great red ship with her gilt beak-head and open ports swinging broadside on must have given check to Rivarol’s soaring exultation. Yet before he could move to give an order, before he could well resolve what order to give, a volcano of fire and metal burst upon him from the buccaneers, and his decks were swept by the murderous scythe of the broadside. The Arabella held to her course, giving place to the Elizabeth, which, following closely, executed the same manoeuver. And then whilst still the Frenchmen were confused, panic-stricken by an attack that took them so utterly by surprise, the Arabella had gone about, and was returning in her tracks, presenting now her larboard guns, and loosing her second broadside in the wake of the first. Came yet another broadside from the Elizabeth and then the Arabella’s trumpeter sent a call across the water, which Hagthorpe perfectly understood.
“On, now, Jeremy!” cried Blood. “Straight into them before they recover their wits. Stand by, there! Prepare to board! Hayton ... the grapnels! And pass the word to the gunner in the prow to fire as fast as he can load.”
He discarded his feathered hat, and covered himself with a steel head-piece, which a negro lad brought him. He meant to lead this boarding-party in person. Briskly he explained himself to his two guests. “Boarding is our only chance here. We are too heavily outgunned.”
Of this the fullest demonstration followed quickly. The Frenchmen having recovered their wits at last, both ships swung broadside on, and concentrating upon the Arabella as the nearer and heavier and therefore more immediately dangerous of their two opponents, volleyed upon her jointly at almost the same moment.
Unlike the buccaneers, who had fired high to cripple their enemies above decks, the French fifed low to smash the hull of their assailant. The Arabella rocked and staggered under that terrific hammering, although Pitt kept her headed towards the French so that she should offer the narrowest target. For a moment she seemed to hesitate, then she plunged forward again, her beak-head in splinters, her forecastle smashed, and a gaping hole forward, that was only just above the water-line. Indeed, to make her safe from bilging, Blood ordered a prompt jettisoning of the forward guns, anchors, and water-casks and whatever else was moveable.
Meanwhile, the Frenchmen going about, gave the like reception to the Elizabeth. The Arabella, indifferently served by the wind, pressed forward to come to grips. But before she could accomplish her object, the Victorieuse had loaded her starboard guns again, and pounded her advancing enemy with a second broadside at close quarters. Amid the thunder of cannon, the rending of timbers, and the screams of maimed men, the half-necked Arabella plunged and reeled into the cloud of smoke that concealed her prey, and then from Hayton went up the cry that she was going down by the head.
Blood’s heart stood still. And then in that very moment of his despair, the blue and gold flank of the Victorieuse loomed through the smoke. But even as he caught that enheartening glimpse he perceived, too, how sluggish now was their advance, and how with every second it grew more sluggish. They must sink before they reached her.
Thus, with an oath, opined the Dutch Admiral, and from Lord Willoughby there was a word of blame for Blood’s seamanship in having risked all upon this gambler’s throw of boarding.
“There was no other chance!” cried Blood, in broken-hearted frenzy. “If ye say it was desperate and foolhardy, why, so it was; but the occasion and the means demanded nothing less. I fail within an ace of victory.”
But they had not yet completely failed. Hayton himself, and a score of sturdy rogues whom his whistle had summoned, were crouching for shelter amid the wreckage of the forecastle with grapnels ready. Within seven or eight yards of the Victorieuse, when their way seemed spent, and their forward deck already awash under the eyes of the jeering, cheering Frenchmen, those men leapt up and forward, and hurled their grapnels across the chasm. Of the four they flung, two reached the Frenchman’s decks, and fastened there. Swift as thought itself, was then the action of those sturdy, experienced buccaneers. Unhesitatingly all threw themselves upon the chain of one of those grapnels, neglecting the other, and heaved upon it with all their might to warp the ships together. Blood, watching from his own quarter-deck, sent out his voice in a clarion call:
“Musketeers to the prow!”
The musketeers, at their station at the waist, obeyed him with the speed of men who know that in obedience is the only hope of life. Fifty of them dashed forward instantly, and from the ruins of the forecastle they blazed over the heads of Hayton’s men, mowing down the French soldiers who, unable to dislodge the irons, firmly held where they had deeply bitten into the timbers of the Victorieuse, were themselves preparing to fire upon the grapnel crew.
Starboard to starboard the two ships swung against each other with a jarring thud. By then Blood was down in the waist, judging and acting with the hurricane speed th
e occasion demanded. Sail had been lowered by slashing away the ropes that held the yards. The advance guard of boarders, a hundred strong, was ordered to the poop, and his grapnel-men were posted, and prompt to obey his command at the very moment of impact. As a result, the foundering Arabella was literally kept afloat by the half-dozen grapnels that in an instant moored her firmly to the Victorieuse.
Willoughby and van der Kuylen on the poop had watched in breathless amazement the speed and precision with which Blood and his desperate crew had gone to work. And now he came racing up, his bugler sounding the charge, the main host of the buccaneers following him, whilst the vanguard, led by the gunner Ogle, who had been driven from his guns by water in the gun-deck, leapt shouting to the prow of the Victorieuse, to whose level the high poop of the water-logged Arabella had sunk. Led now by Blood himself, they launched themselves upon the French like hounds upon the stag they have brought to bay. After them went others, until all had gone, and none but Willoughby and the Dutchman were left to watch the fight from the quarter-deck of the abandoned Arabella.
For fully half-an-hour that battle raged aboard the Frenchman. Beginning in the prow, it surged through the forecastle to the waist, where it reached a climax of fury. The French resisted stubbornly, and they had the advantage of numbers to encourage them. But for all their stubborn valour, they ended by being pressed back and back across the decks that were dangerously canted to starboard by the pull of the water-logged Arabella. The buccaneers fought with the desperate fury of men who know that retreat is impossible, for there was no ship to which they could retreat, and here they must prevail and make the Victorieuse their own, or perish.
And their own they made her in the end, and at a cost of nearly half their numbers. Driven to the quarter-deck, the surviving defenders, urged on by the infuriated Rivarol, maintained awhile their desperate resistance. But in the end, Rivarol went down with a bullet in his head, and the French remnant, numbering scarcely a score of whole men, called for quarter.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 408
