Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “That,” said Count Aranda softly, “is to pay me a poor compliment. Fortunately your statement was made as that of one man of honour to another, and not as that of an accused to a magistrate.”

  “Your Excellency means?”

  “Just that. It is fortunate that it was addressed to me, for you could not expect an examining magistrate to believe you as implicitly, or to take the view that your action in the matter was the only action possible in all the circumstances. The rest is a matter for the alcalde, and it is no part of my duties to assist him in his functions. I am not a policeman.”

  “Your Excellency!” Casanova passed from terror to amazement. “How can I thank you?”

  “You will be careful, sir, to do nothing of the kind,” said the Minister sharply. “Besides, I cannot altogether forgive the terms of this letter of yours. Amongst other things you speak of my country as abominable, and you imply that it is uncivilized. I cannot overlook so much. I must ask you to leave Madrid within twenty-four hours, and Spain within a week. I shall inform the alcalde of this, and instruct him to see that no obstacle is placed in the way of your departure.”

  This time Casanova showed himself sufficiently a man of wit to submit in thankfulness to that decree of banishment.

  THE DUEL ON THE BEACH

  WHEN Major Sands left Barbados after the death of the governor, Sir John Harradine, he had every reason to congratulate himself that the fortune which he had gone overseas to seek was at last within his reach. For homing with him on the fine ship Centaur was the late governor’s daughter, sole heiress to the considerable wealth which Sir John had amassed during his term of office. Major Sands, if no longer in the first flush of youth, was a very personable fellow of a ripe experience, and of dainty Miss Priscilla Harradine’s regard for him he found gratifying evidence in her dependent attitude. The long voyage before them with its constant association must afford him opportunities of contriving that the lady and her fortune should be contracted to him by the time they reached Plymouth.

  The advent of Monsieur de Bernis, who came aboard at Antigua to make a third passenger on the Centaur, supplied the first check to the major’s confidence. A tall, swarthy fellow this De Bernis, who dressed with a sombre richness scarcely suitable to the tropics and bore a startling resemblance to his sardonic majesty King Charles II. Nor was the resemblance merely superficial. He had something of the Merry Monarch’s bantering spirit and ready laughter, and something, too, of his majesty’s insatiable gallantry. At least, so, to his infinite vexation, Major Sands surmised from the attentions which the gentleman without loss of time devoted to Miss Priscilla.

  In private Major Sands desired the lady to observe that there was something rather raffish about this Frenchman; he pointed out the lack of dignity, the excessive freedom with which he bore himself not merely toward the master but also toward the men; and he invited her to conclude that despite his finery, his half-caste servant and the particle in his name, Monsieur de Bernis was a fellow of no birth and probably an adventurer without fortune. An argument of some acrimony resulted, and the end of it was a coolness on the lady’s part which went to increase the anxieties of the gallant major.

  He sought comfort in the reflection that Monsieur de Bernis was travelling with them no further than Guadeloupe. Once left behind on that French settlement, he would be quickly forgotten. They were making, however, no such speed toward Guadeloupe as the major desired. The wind seemed to have entered into this conspiracy to exasperate him, and the fine yellow ship crept imperceptibly, if she crept at all, over the smooth, jade-green waters of the Caribbean Sea. The heat in this windlessness was overpowering. It drove them below, to the fairly spacious coach, where, with windows wide open to the stern gallery, they lounged through hours that would have been dreary to Miss Priscilla but for the liveliness with which Monsieur de Bernis applied himself to beguiling them. He had produced a guitar from his baggage, and sang to them little songs of his native Provence and queerly moving Spanish airs set in the minor key, of the kind that were freely composed in Malaga. Rendered by his mellow baritone voice they had power to leave Miss Priscilla with stinging eyes and an ache at the heart; and even the major was moved patronisingly to admit that Monsieur de Bernis had a prodigious fine gift of song.

  SOMETIMES they would be joined by Bransome, the master, a burly Devonian, red and freckled, who seldom wore more than a shirt and a pair of short calico drawers, but who never allowed any man to forget that he commanded aboard the Centaur. His presence would bring the talk round to seafaring matters, for he had no other topic, and it was in the course of these talks that Monsieur de Bernis’ extraordinarily intimate acquaintance with the Caribbean was revealed.

  Once when this drew surprise from Major Sands, Monsieur de Bernis’ explanation was readily and startlingly forthcoming.

  “My faith! How else should it be? Did I not sail these waters for six years with Morgan?”

  The major’s prominent blue eyes became more prominent and fishlike. “With Morgan?” he exclaimed. “D’ye mean Henry Morgan?”

  Monsieur de Bernis, lounging on the cushioned locker under the stern ports, assented easily. “Sir Henry Morgan. Yes. Him that is now governor of Jamaica.”

  “And ye sailed with him?” There was horror in the question.

  “But yes. And marched across Darien with him. At Panama it was I who commanded the French contingent of his forces.”

  Captain Bransome smacked his thigh.

  “I’ve been wondering where I heard your name afore. Now I mind me.”

  “Then — then—” The major hesitated. He looked at Miss Priscilla, so slim and virginal and golden, her blue eyes turned in admiring wonder upon the long-limbed, graceful Frenchman. He looked at Captain Bransome, and saw the smiling interest on his ruddy-bearded face. They could not have understood, he thought; and on the thought he exploded.

  “Gadslife! Ye’re just a damned pirate then. And ye make a boast of it?”

  “Boast!” Momentarily Monsieur de Bernis frowned. Then he displayed in a broad smile the strong white teeth under his little black moustache. His was an engaging smile that lighted up the habitual weariness of a face too deeply lined for one still young.

  “Ah, no. I state. I never boast, I hope. A vulgarity that.” He spoke a fluent nimble English, and was given to short, sharp sentences. “And never a pirate. Ah, no. A filibuster, please. A buccaneer.”

  The major curled his heavy lip. “And the difference?”

  “The difference? Oh, but all the difference in the world.”

  Captain Bransome advanced the explanation which Monsieur de Bernis disdained to offer. The buccaneers had a sort of charter behind them. They were encouraged by the governments of both England and France, because they kept in check the rapacity of Spain, confining their raids to Spanish ships and Spanish settlements.

  But the major desired that Miss Priscilla should think otherwise; no doubt he thought otherwise himself. “They’re just thieving scoundrels, whatever they call themselves. ‘A rose by any other name...’ as the line runs in the play. You take me.”

  But Monsieur de Bernis merely laughed. “By my faith, that is almost treason, major. For your King does not share your so sensitive honesty. Else he had not given the accolade to Sir Henry Morgan and made him deputy-governor of Jamaica.”

  The major grew hot. “That was but so as to set a thief to catch a thief, so as to clear the seas of these pestilent buccaneers. And, thank God, it’s been done.”

  “Ye give thanks too soon,” the captain objected. “Tom Leach and his men are still afloat.”

  “That is not a buccaneer,” said Monsieur de Bernis. “That is just a nasty pirate.”

  “Like you, he sailed with Morgan,” said the major with malice.

  “And soon Morgan will sail him into Execution Dock. Five hundred pounds are offered for the head of this scoundrel Leach.”

  “God send the money be soon earned,” prayed Captain Bransome. “Such a cutth
roat has never been loose on the Caribbean since Montbars the Exterminator. An inhuman beast, without honour and without pity.” And he fell to relating horrors of Leach’s performance until De Bernis checked him by a wave of one of his long graceful hands. “You nauseate mademoiselle.”

  Thus made aware of her pallor, Bransome begged her pardon, then ended with a renewal of his prayer: “God send the seas may soon be clear of that filthy wolf.”

  The prayer, however, was not answered soon enough to profit Captain Bransome and the yellow ship he sailed. For the dread encounter followed on the morrow.

  The wind had sprung up that night, and by dawn they were listing to a breeze from the southwest. It swept the ship refreshingly and revived spirits that had been drooping in the heat, particularly the major’s, who saw a prospect of Guadeloupe being reached next day.

  Going on deck some two hours after daybreak, Monsieur de Bernis found the captain standing at the break of the poop levelling a telescope at a ship that was some three miles off on the weather quarter. He offered the glass to De Bernis. His expression was perturbed.

  “What should ye say she is?”

  Through the telescope Monsieur de Bernis surveyed the tall black hull and the mountain of bulging canvas above. He scanned the beakhead carved in the shape of a swan, and counted the gun ports revealed by the course she was steering.

  HIS long dark eyes were solemn when they met the Captain’s uneasy stare.

  “I think you’ve guessed. She’s Tom Leach’s ship. The Black Swan.”

  “Ye’re certain?”

  “As certain as that she’s steering to cross your course. What will you do? Fight or run?”

  “How can I run? She has twice my canvas.”

  “How can you fight? She has twice your armament. She carries forty guns.”

  “With his back to the wall, what else is there for a man?”

  Bransome was grim. In the waist some of the hands were gathered, idly surveying the great black ship without suspicion yet of her identity.

  De Bernis resumed his study of her through the telescope. “She’s been overlong at sea. Her bottom’s foul. Her sailing’s laboured.” He lowered the glass again. “In your place, captain, I should go about. You’d beat up against the wind more nimbly. At present she has the weather gauge of you.”

  Undecided, Bransome turned and surveyed the hazy coastline on his starboard quarter. “If I were to run for Dominica?” he wondered. “It’s less than twenty miles away.”

  “But it’s down wind. And down wind she’ll outsail you for all her foulness.”

  Bransome was obstinate. He ordered the helm to be put down. With a sudden plunge the Centaur luffed alee, then came even on her keel.

  With a sudden plunge the Centaur luffed alee, then came even on her keel.

  Almost at once the other vessel was seen to swing in pursuit, thus proclaiming her object. Alarm spread through the crew of the Centaur.

  Monsieur de Bernis became brisk and authoritative.

  “Best send the hands to their stations, and prepare for action. It will not be long in coming.”

  In the scurry that followed, he preserved his calm. His mind was devoted entirely to the measures to be taken and excluded concern for the issue. Rightly attributing this to the instinct of the experienced fighting seaman, Captain Bransome was glad to avail himself of the Frenchman’s offer to go below and take command on the gun deck.

  “Give me the chance of planting a broadside,” was De Bernis’ parting recommendation. “No matter the risk. Who gambles must set a stake upon the board. We stake all upon a lucky shot or two between wind and water. Give me the chance of it. The rest will be my affair.”

  Below, naked to the waist, with a meagre gun crew of six to obey him, De Bernis made ready. But he would have been better employed on deck where a fighting seaman was required to handle the Centaur. Captain Bransome, from lack not of courage but of experience and of trust in himself in an emergency demanding great tactical skill, was intent only upon running. In his down-wind course he was so rapidly overhauled by the pursuing pirate that within an hour the Black Swan was not more than half a mile astern.

  From below the pirate’s beakhead the watchers on the Centaur suddenly beheld a white cloud of smoke; an instant later came the boom of a gun, and a shower of spray was flung up by a round shot, taking the water fifty yards to leeward. From the Black Swan’s maintruck fluttered signals to heave to.

  Monsieur de Bernis hurled an ineffective defiance from the Centaur’s stern chasers. The din alarmed Miss Priscilla and Major Sands in their respective cabins. It brought them half clad and fully scared to the deck to seek the reason. As they reached it a second shot from the Black Swan — a charge of langrel — swept through the Centaur’s shrouds. In a tangle of rigging a couple of spars came crashing to the deck.

  MISS PRISCILLA screamed and clutched the pallid major, who brave enough ashore was daunted by his sense of helplessness on an element foreign to him.

  Bransome in a bellow ordered them below. Below they went, to sit in the great cabin and await events, the major manfully striving to quiet the alarm of Miss Priscilla by assurances in which he had no faith.

  More gunfire followed, with thuddings, rattlings, stamp of feet over their heads and shudderings of the deck beneath them. Last and most terrifying of all their experiences, a grimy, half-naked figure with a close-cropped black head came clambering over the rail of the stern gallery.

  The major sprang for his sword before recognising Monsieur de Bernis. With the agility of an acrobat the Frenchman had clambered from the wardroom ports below, daringly taking this shortest way to reach his own cabin. His aspect was terrifying, his face and hands and naked torso befouled by sweat and powder. His voice was harsh in angry scorn.

  “The fight is fought. The lubberly Bransome waited to go about until his rigging was too crippled to let him attempt it. I never had a chance with the guns, save those so useless popguns in the stern. Leach is saving gunpowder because he wants the ship. That’s plain. He’s going to board her.”

  Thus they were left to surmise the part which the momentarily forgotten Frenchman had played in the action.

  Miss Priscilla assuming that her last resource lay in the help of heaven, fell on her knees to pray. The major looked on helplessly and foolishly fierce. Fortunately Monsieur de Bernis displayed neither fear nor helplessness. “Compose yourself, mademoiselle. It may be that you are in no danger. It may be. I can do things sometimes. Have faith in me. A little faith.”

  He flung away on that into his own quarters, leaving Miss Priscilla to question the major. The major was reluctant to admit or even to suppose that the Frenchman was anything but vainly boastful. He made, however, vague talk to comfort her. From what they had heard as lately as last night of the ways of Tom Leach, he could only pray for a swift death. He thought that it was very likely to be his portion. But beholding Miss Priscilla so sweet and lovely, he feared for her the worse fate of being allowed to live, and the reflection added yet a horror to his overburdened mind.

  He was still offering cheerlessly vague words of comfort when Monsieur de Bernis reappeared, cleansed of his grime and restored to his normal courtly habit. He had resumed his black periwig and had donned a dark violet doublet that was handsomely laced with silver. He was booted, armed with a long rapier, and he carried a pair of pistols slung before him, after the fashion of the buccaneers, in the ends of a stole that was of fine purple leather stiff with silver bullion.

  They stared at him in wonder. That he should have been at such pains with his toilet was surprising enough; but his imperturbable calm at such a moment was more surprising still.

  As he advanced the deck under their feet shuddered to a crashing impact, accompanied by rending of timbers, the ringing clank of grapnels, snapping of spars, and the rattle of musketry.

  Monsieur de Bernis gripped the table to steady himself. The major hurtled to his knees, whilst Miss Priscilla, flung across the cabi
n, found refuge in the Frenchman’s arms.

  “Save me!” she gasped. “Save me!”

  The man’s tight lips softened into a smile. One of his long shapely hands stroked the little golden head that lay against his breast, and it may be that the firm calm touch of him soothed her more than his actual words.

  “I hope to do so. It may well be possible.”

  The major, gathering himself up, glared at him. “What can you do?”

  “We shall see. But it must be that you obey me. Contradict nothing that I may say, or you will destroy us all.”

  Overhead there was a rolling thunder of feet across the deck. Shouts, screams, pistol shots and musketry fire made up the hideous din of battle.

  “It will not last,” said Monsieur de Bernis. “Leach has four hundred men; the Centaur no more than twenty. You will obey me? It is important.”

  Miss Priscilla clung yet more closely in her panic.

  “Yes, yes. Whatever you may say.”

  Gloomily the major added his own promise when De Bernis pressed him. He had scarcely uttered it when the cabin was noisily invaded by half a score of ruffians, half-naked, bearded, their heads gaudily swathed. They came with weapons in their hands, murder in their eyes and foulness on their lips.

  There was a hideous view halloo at sight of the girl so white and dainty in a gown of shimmering green taffeta. It was toward her that they were advancing when De Bernis, calm to the point of being contemptuous, interposed himself. His hands were on the butts of the pistols in his stole; but the fact that he did not trouble to draw them lent him an added authority.

  “Hold! Come no farther in here. I am de Bernis. Fetch your Tom Leach.”

  WHETHER because they knew the name of this man who once had sailed with Morgan, or whether because his manner alone gave them pause, they stood arrested, at gaze. Thus for a dozen silent heartbeats. Then, as they were beginning to mutter, Tom Leach himself came thrusting through them, a man of middle height, whose body and movements held something of the lithe strength of the panther. He was breeched in red, and his blood-smeared shirt hung open from neck to waist, the sleeves rolled high to display muscles that were like whipcord. Black curls clustered about a low, animal brow; his nose, a thin, cruel beak, was set close between a pair of quick-moving eyes that were almost black. Instead of the cutlass more generally favoured on these occasions by such men, Leach was armed with a rapier, a weapon with which to his abiding pride he was accounted of a deadly skill.