The girl was luxuriously submitting to the skilful attentions of Pascherette; her wealth of lustrous hair enveloped her like a veil, rendering almost superfluous the filmy silken robe she had donned. But at sight of Milo all her feline contentment fled, and she thrust the maid from her and stood up to receive his report.
“A ship?” she flashed.
“Two, Sultana. The men make ready now.”
“The men? Dolt! Did I not tell thee to keep such news for me?”
“They saw the small vessel while I was beyond the Tongue. They have not seen the ship I saw, nor have I told them. It is a great ship, lady; theirs is but a small, poor thing.”
“I will see it.” Dolores suddenly remembered the maid, whose presence she had ignored. Pascherette stood apart, a small, fairylike French octoroon, dainty as a golden thistledown; her full red lips were parted in eager inquisitiveness, and her slim, small body leaned forward, as if to catch every word; but at sight of her Dolores burst into knowing merriment, for the girl’s eyes told her story. They were fastened in intense, burning adoration, not on the mistress but on Milo, the giant slave.
“La-la, chit!” Dolores cried; “keep thy black eyes from my property.” But more weighty matters than a maid’s fluttering bosom demanded her attention, and she commanded sharply: “Milo, summon the men to the council hall at once. Let none be absent. Go swiftly!” Milo went, and Dolores flashed around on Pascherette again: “And thou, hussy, take this clinging frippery from me and give me my tunic. And, mark me, girl, thy eyes and ears belong to me. Thy tongue, too. Let that tongue utter one word of what those eyes see, those ears hear, and it shall be plucked from thy pretty mouth with hot pincers. Remember!”
Dolores put on her tunic and swept out to steal a long look at the white schooner before entering the hall.
Into the council hall the pirates came trooping, tarry, wet, soiled with the estuary mud as they were, and stood in a milling mob awaiting speech from Dolores, who entered from the rear and scanned their faces closely. Shuffling feet and whistling breath would not be stilled, even in her presence, for their appetites were already whetted for a victim, and the fumes of the previous night’s debauch lingered. They glared at the girl and cursed impatiently.
“Hear!” commanded Dolores with an imperious gesture, and every sound was muffled, not stilled. “Hear, my brave jackals! For long ye have hungered for employment fit for the royal corsairs ye are. Now the meal is to hand.” The hall reverberated with the clamor that went up. Cutlases scraped from their scabbards and swished aloft; bold Spotted Dog snatched out his great horse-pistol and blazed into the floor, filling the place with acrid smoke and noise. Dolores’s eyes flashed angrily; she governed her fury, and went on when the uproar subsided: “Your boats are ready?”
“Ready and rotting wi’ idleness!” roared Hanglip.
“And ye purpose wasting powder and shot on some paltry craft of the islands! Wait, my brave lads, I have better game at hand!”
Now the crowd was hushed in earnest, for none of them saw more than a frolic coming from such a small craft as the schooner. The girl went on to tell them of the big ship that Milo had seen, and she painted it a rich West Indiaman, loaded to the hatches with rum and powder, gold and jewels, delicate meats and—with emphasis which she carefully cloaked yet made vivid—dainty ladies, no doubt.
“Take ye the sloop, then,” she commanded, “and bring me no tale of failure. Ten miles southwest from the bluff she lies becalmed. Let no man return without tribute for me. Go now!”
With a whoop the evil ruffians tumbled out, hurling themselves pell-mell down to the shore, and splashing out to the boats. Their sloop, a long, beamy Cayman-built craft, of eighty tons and twelve murderous guns that were cast for a king’s ship, could be handled by four men or a hundred. She carried fifty men now, and she sped out of the estuary before the faint breeze with a velocity that spelled certain doom for any square-rigged ship she ever lifted over the horizon.
Dolores watched them go with inscrutable face; then commanded Milo to attend her in the great chamber. Pascherette, not yet over her fright, hovered tremblingly near, and her mistress dismissed her with a pacifying pat on the head, flinging, at the same time, a string of pearls around her neck that brought mingled gratitude, greed, and conceit into her sparkling eyes.
“How stands the schooner now?” Dolores asked when the girl had gone.
“She drifts slowly, Sultana. There is little wind. Yet she ever comes nearer.”
“Milo, that is my ship!” breathed Dolores fervidly. “I have jewels and silken trash, the richest in my store, which my father told me were taken from such a vessel. A yacht, he called that craft. ’Tis sailed for pleasure; trade never soils the holds of such craft; men who sail such a vessel as that which now hovers near us are of the kind from which comes such as that!” Once more she indicated the “Laughing Cavalier,” and now her form and face were filled with surging ambition strengthened with ardent hope.
“How goes our sloop?” she asked abruptly.
“Swiftly, but with the dying breath of the wind. By noon she will be swinging idly, Sultana.”
“Who of the boldest rascals remain with us?”
“The noisiest dogs have gone. Sancho remains, for Stumpy cracked his head last night in a brawl. The others here are but cattle!” The giant uttered the words with bitter scorn.
“Then, at noon, Milo, we move to secure my ship!” Dolores cried with gleaming eyes. “Set slaves to move out the false Point and anchor it a cable-length off the true. I will have a plan then to lure the schooner on. We must not let her escape, Milo!”
“Pardon, lady, I know a way!”
“And that?”
“I will swim to the schooner and command them to thy presence.”
Dolores smiled whimsically, for she was too wise to be ignorant of the fact that such men as were in that schooner must first be caught before they might be commanded. Yet the giant’s plan suggested another to her.
“Hear my plan,” she said. “That chit—Pascherette—she’s a dainty minx! Does she swim?”
“Like a conger, Sultana!” Milo’s face lighted warmly, and Dolores shrewdly guessed then that the petite octoroon’s regard for the giant was not altogether unrequited.
“Then carry her abreast of the vessel, quickly, and bid her swim out to it. Let her use some of the cunning that is in her pretty little head, and make them wonder what else our island has to offer in dainties. Then, ere evening, I shall have work for thee that shall complete what Pascherette begins. Command the minx to bring forth all her fascinations and allurements. Nay, friend, have no fear for thy sweetheart. I warrant thee she can care for herself, if she will. Go! It is my command!”
Milo departed, and Dolores went out to the Grove, climbed nimbly to the cliff-top, and sat down to watch. She had a clear view of the schooner now winging lazily along three miles away and a mile off shore; the shore, from the point where her rascals were even now towing out a great mass of interlaced trees and foliage planted upon stout logs to form a false point, right along to abreast of the schooner, lay immediately beneath her eye; the blue sea glittered and flashed under the hot sun, unruffled by wind, and only bursting into a long line of creamy foam, where it licked the golden sands. The tall palms nodded languorously, their deep green heads faintly chafing like sleeping crickets; the tinkle of the sands came up to her ears like tiny bells.
Dolores followed with her eyes two swiftly moving figures on the shore path, hidden from the ocean by a mass of verdure, and she smiled cryptically. The giant Milo strode on his way like the embodiment of force; at his side tripped Pascherette, her glossy black crown barely reaching above his waist, her tiny hand hidden completely in his great fist. And she kept her bright eyes raised to his great height all the while, satisfied that her little feet should trip, perhaps, if only her eyes tripped not from his face.
Presently they stopped, and Dolores stood up alertly. There was but a moment’s delay, while P
ascherette bound her hair more securely; then, with a flirting hand-wave, the little octoroon darted from Milo, wriggled through the bushes, and ran lightly down to the sea. In another moment her small, black head was moving rapidly toward the schooner, her golden skin flashing warmly in the sun as her arms swept over and over in an adept stroke that carried her forward with the speed of a fish.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PARTY FROM THE YACHT.
The schooner yacht Feu Follette swam sluggishly along shore, her lofty canvas flapping in the faint air. On her spotless quarter-deck, Rupert Venner, wealthy idler and owner of the vessel, lounged in a deck-chair a picture of the utter finality of boredom. His guests, Craik Tomlin and John Pearse, made perfunctory pretense of admiring the lovely coast scenery along the port hand; but their air was that of men surfeited with sights, tired of the languorous calm, blasé of life.
The schooner’s appointments typified money in abundance. From forecastle capstan to binnacle she glowed and glittered with massive brass and ornate gilding; along the waist six burnished-bronze cannon stood on heavily carved carriages, lashings and breechings as white as a shark’s tooth; over the quarter-deck double awnings gave ample clearance to the swing of the main boom—the outer of dazzling white canvas, the inner of richest, striped silk-and-cotton mixture. The open doors of the deckhouse companion revealed an interior of ivory paneling touched with gold, and hung with heavy velvet punkahs. The walls were embellished with exactly the right number of art gems to establish the artistic perception of the owner and to whet the expectation for more yet unseen. But, with all this, the Feu Follette housed a discontented master and discontented guests.
“Oh, for a breeze!” grumbled Pearse, breaking in on the frowning silence. “How much longer are we to drift around these stagnant seas, Venner?”
“The very next slant of wind shall wing us homeward,” replied Venner dreamily. “I, too, am sick of the cruise and its deadly monotony.”
Again silence, marred only by creak of gear and flap of idle sails. The schooner barely moved now, though the western sky held promise of a breeze later on. Then came a cry from one of the negro crew forward, and its tenor stirred the party into mild interest.
“De debbil, ef ’tain’t one o’ dem marmaids! Oh, Cæsar!”
A ripple of panting laughter alongside brought Venner and his guests to the rail in haste, and gone to the windless heavens was their ennui. A gleaming, gold-tinted creature, a miniature model of Aphrodite surely, arose from the blue sea and climbed nimbly into the main channels and thence to the deck, where little pools of water dripped from the radiant figure. She shook her small head saucily, and heavy masses of raven-wing hair tumbled about her, provokingly cloaking the charms so boldly outlined by her single saturated tunic of fine silk.
“Who in paradise may you be?” ejaculated Venner, while his friends stared with unconscious rudeness.
“I? I am Pascherette!” laughed the small vision, and her black eyes sparkled impudently.
“Pascherette!” echoed Tomlin, bewildered. “Does Jamaica hold such beauties?” He awkwardly brought forward a deck-chair, while Pearse stood by in speechless amazement. Venner, as better became the host, ordered a steward to bring a wrap for the astounding visitor, but the girl laughed provokingly and declined both.
“It is not for such as I, fine gentlemen,” she said, and her sharp eyes were roving busily about the schooner, appraising values like a veritable pirate. “Keep thy courtesies for better than I.”
“Better than you, girl?” Venner’s tone was incredulous. He was taking mental stock of the priceless pearls about Pascherette’s dainty throat. “To be found here?”
“If not here, where shall ye find such a one as my mistress?” Pascherette retorted saucily.
“Your mistress?”
“Without doubt. I am but a slave, my lady is the queen, Dolores.”
“A queen—a white woman?” stammered Venner.
“Oh, Venner, let us look into this!” exclaimed Pearse with unconcealed curiosity.
“Just what we have prayed for!” Tomlin supplemented eagerly. “Anchor, Venner, like a good fellow. A jaunt ashore will brace us all up.”
“Nonsense!” objected the owner, albeit with a good trace of inquisitiveness himself. “The breeze will come by evening; and who knows what this coast harbors? A bad name sticks to this shore.”
Pascherette had wandered forward, and between sly glances aft and keen scrutiny shoreward, she flung seductive smiles broadcast at the grinning crew, prattling prettily to officer and man alike, as if she were indeed a stranger to the ways of shipboard. While she made her rounds the party aft entered into a warm dispute; their curiosity was whetted, but not sufficiently in Venner’s case, to whom the safety of the yacht was paramount just then. They wrangled for half an hour, and the schooner drifted on until she was within a mile or so of the outflung false Point. Then they were again startled out of their self-possession—this time by a cry from the girl who leaned over the bulwarks a picture of ardent admiration for something in the water.
Double awnings and snowy hammock-cloths restricted the view shoreward from the quarter-deck chairs, and surprise as deep as that which greeted the girl surged through the disputing three at a great splashing over the side, accompanied by the boom of a voice that must come from a powerful, free-breathing chest.
“Room for Milo, servant of Dolores!” the hail rang out, and by the same means as Pascherette had used, up climbed Milo, to stand motionless before the white men, an astounding and awe-inspiring shape.
“Another slave of the mysterious queen?” demanded Venner, when recovered from his astonishment. “It gets interesting, gentlemen. And what is your errand, Goliath?” he inquired of Milo.
“I know no Goliath. I am Milo. I come to summon ye to the presence of my queen,” returned the giant with as much unconcern as if he were inviting the pirates to a barbecue.
A titter of amusement passed over the three yachtsmen. It was tinged with resentment, though, and only curiosity, aroused by shock upon shock, prevented an angry rejoinder to Milo’s speech that could only have ended one way: in physical damage to three idle gentlemen of wealth and pleasure.
“A summons, hey?” scoffed Tomlin. “Your queen values her rank, I think.” A dangerous gleam crept into Milo’s eyes, and Pearse detected it in time. “Venner,” he said quietly, “you cannot let this adventure pass. Here’s every element of sport held up to us. Let us obey this command, and get at least a thrill out of this humdrum cruise.”
Venner was thinking of many things, and his mind needed little making up. He had never lost sight of those pearls of Pascherette’s; his eye could not be deceived; they were priceless. And Pearse had not failed to notice the green jade skull-charm that depended from Milo’s columnar neck, a jade skull with pearls for teeth like the altar brooch of Dolores. And Tomlin, for all his expressed scorn, was tingling with ardent desire for such piquant beauty and vivacity as Pascherette’s. If such a creature were the slave, then what could the mistress be? He assumed a more complaisant attitude, and added his vote: “A good way of passing away this odious calm spell, Venner. Let us go.”
“Where is this great queen, my Colossus?” Venner asked.
“I will lead thee to her presence,” replied Milo. “Thy boat will take us there in a few moments. Further on, beyond that point, the ship may lie safely in the haven.”
Venner called his sailing master, and together they examined the chart. It showed a sand-bar stretching off the point, a deep-water channel, narrow but accessible, close to.
“You can work into that anchorage?” asked Venner.
“Yes, sir, if the air don’t die away altogether. It seems good ground by the chart.”
“Then carry the schooner in and bring up. Call away my cutter, and”—in an undertone—”keep a good watch, Peters, this is an evil coast.”
* * * *
The shrill pipes reverberated under the awnings, and sailors, neat and tr
im in white uniforms that contrasted beautifully with their dark skins, ran to man the graceful white cutter. Pascherette sat in the stern-sheets, cuddled up like a pretty kitten on a crimson silk cushion, and Milo stood erect, as firm as if on solid ground, between passengers and rowers as the boat sped shoreward. As the two craft separated the schooner stood out in veritable beauty, an exquisite thing of gold and ivory, pearl and rose. Venner’s eyes lighted with pride at sight of her. Even a long, eventless cruise had not killed the artist in him. He touched Milo softly on the thigh and said with a smile:
“Has your queen anything like that, my friend?”
Milo cast a disdainful glance at the yacht, abruptly turned away again, and replied shortly: “That is nothing.”
“Nothing!” said Venner. “Then where have you seen daintier work of men’s hands and brains?”
“Thou shall see. Thy ship is a petty thing.”
“Now, by Heaven, Venner, he has you there!” laughed Tomlin, never ceasing for a moment from ogling Pascherette, who purred with contentment and smiled slyly at the frown that came to Milo’s face.
“Oh, yes, a poor thing!” laughed Pascherette, hugging her knees and rippling over with amusement. “My mistress is a great queen. These”—touching her pearls—”thy rigging could be formed of such, if my queen willed.”
“And in the house of such a great queen, my girl, are doubtless other things of beauty and worth?” put in Venner with growing sarcasm.
“As witness this pretty wench!” smiled Tomlin, striving to fix the girl’s capricious attention, which persisted in flying ever to Milo.
“Patience,” returned Milo. “Do ye know of anything of untold worth—my queen has that which will buy it? Have ye seen a thing of peerless beauty—in my queen’s house are many of its peers! Patience!”
No word more would the giant utter. Like a bronze statue he stood erect, guiding the cutter to a small landing with a silent gesture. And as the boat swept alongside and the yachtsmen began to experience the thrill of near expectancy, Pearse caught sight of a knot of men loitering on the nearby slopes, and their appearance startled him.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 81
