The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “Here, Milo, is fresh fare of trouble. Hast brought my own flag?”

  “Here, Sultana,” replied Milo, taking a carefully folded silken banner from a pocket in his leathern tunic.

  “Hoist it, then, at the main! Perhaps Hanglip and Caliban, Stumpy and the rest of my brave jackals, will forego their expected meal at sight of it. And send forth a shout for slaves; this vessel must be cleansed and her people’s wounds attended to.”

  Up at the schooner’s lofty main-truck the Sultana’s private flag fluttered out; the mark and sign of Dolores’s ownership. And while three anxious yachtsmen on the cliff-top waited for her return, a hundred and twenty hungry and thirsty baffled ruffians on the sloop cursed her vehemently in their hoarse, dry throats.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  DOLORES DELIVERS JUDGMENT.

  On the level sward before the village the three yachtsmen paced back and forth in an ecstasy of apprehension. Pascherette had left them, after playing them like fish with her own charms and a hinted promise of Dolores’s favors as bait; and the moment they were alone Venner shook off the spell in a resurging determination to attend to the safety of his vessel in person.

  “Follow me, Pearse; come Tomlin!” he said. “We are three mad fools to stand here while these pirates loot and wreck the Feu Follette!”

  Tomlin shuddered as he started to follow. Pearse kept silence, but did not hesitate. But they had not stepped ten paces before they realized fully the completeness of their helplessness, for Venner, first to attempt the path down, was brought to a halt by a musket leveled at his breast, the musketeer showing only his head and shoulders above the cliff edge. And as Tomlin and Pearse came up, they, too, were abruptly halted in like manner; and a grinning Carib motioned each back with an unspoken command which was none the less inexorable.

  They returned to their first positions, and resumed their nervous walk, condemning themselves as utter idiots for venturing unarmed into such a nest of vipers at the urge of curiosity, novelty, feminine attraction, greed—whatever their motives had been. And here Dolores came upon them, while all about them swarmed the disgruntled pirates from the sloop, and those of the mutineers whose abject fears warned them to take whatever punishment their queen chose to mete out rather than to escape only to be brought back to endure penalties immeasurably more terrible.

  Yellow Rufe and Sancho were not minded to stay, however; they had vanished; and Dolores’s keen eyes noted this the moment she surveyed the scene. She walked swiftly to the door of the council hall, turned to face the mob, and lifted an arm for attention. Then fell a hush full of anxiety or terror, according to the degree of culpability in the consciousness of her audience.

  “Summon every creature in the village,” she cried, “and let no man or woman dare to leave this place until ye hear my thoughts concerning this day’s work!”

  Men scattered eagerly through the huts, calling by name all who were not present in the crowd, and presently more of the community came out, their faces mostly reflecting the terror that was in their souls; for none might ever foretell the moods of their queen. Inscrutable as night, her eyes were like pools of violet shadow wherein lurked promise or threat of unimaginable things; every line of her face and form was a line of a riddle that could prove in the solution either magnificent generosity, fearless justice, or implacable vengeance: like the lightning, Dolores struck where she willed, and in what fashion she chose; it was useless to attempt avoidance.

  Venner and his friends looked on curiously, a feeling akin to awe pervading them at the increasing evidence before their eyes of the power wielded by this splendid fury, they had yet to know. When all were present, except those whose activities on the schooner had already procured them a passport to another world, Dolores swept the crowd with a penetrating glance and called for Milo, who appeared from the rear of the council hall laden with chains and bilboes which he cast down at her feet. Then the angry impatience of the disappointed sloop’s crew proved too intense, and Caliban bounded to the front, squealing shrilly:

  “The fiend may take you with your irons! Shall we, men who followed Red Jabez through a sea of blood, cower to a woman of such soft mettle? Dolores, queen or woman or wench, it is for you, not us, to explain. Lads—” he shrieked, flashing about and haranguing his companions—”back me in this. We will know why the sloop lacked powder; why today’s work has brought no reward!”

  The deformed little demon stepped back to the crowd, and paced to and fro with feverish gestures, scowling blackly at every turn that brought him face to face with Dolores. The packed mob milled and murmured, some afraid, many of Caliban’s mind yet not daring to openly support him. Venner and his friends sensed the thrill of it, for their brief experience of the pirate queen left them in slight doubt as to the outcome of Caliban’s speech. Dolores herself stood motionless for a full minute after the hunchback ceased his defiance, and under her lowered, heavily lashed eyelids the dark eyes seemed to slumber; only in her lips was any trace of the alertness that governed her brain, and those scarlet petals, which seemed to have been plucked from a love flower in the garden of passion, slowly, almost imperceptibly parted, until the dazzling teeth gleamed through in a smile that none might yet determine whether soft or terrible. And as the seconds heaped suspense upon suspense, the overbold Caliban was seized with a choking fear that he was to pay the price. Then Dolores spoke, slowly, quietly, almost soothingly; and those of her hardened ruffians who thought they knew her best hung on her words in shivery uncertainty.

  “For those bold words, Caliban, my father had stripped thy poisonous skin from thy putrid flesh. Yesterday thy queen might not have proved more merciful. Yet do I know how thy disappointment chafes thy brave soul, and because of that thy rash speech goes unpunished.” The hush intensified, for the leniency of Dolores was little less to be feared than her fury. A smile of ineffable radiance broke over her beautiful face, and she extended her right hand and said, still in the same slow, even voice: “Come, Caliban. Thou art worthy of my mercy. Kneel, that I may know thy heart is right.”

  Now the suspense reached its climax. Somewhere behind those softly spoken words surely lurked some awful, cunningly cloaked threat. Caliban went white, ghastly; his brave tongue stuck to his palate, and the thin lips slavered with growing panic.

  “Come, Caliban!”

  The girl’s command was uttered no louder, her expression was unchanged; in her glorious eyes gleamed no trace of anything other than benign forgiveness; she remained motionless as before, with her rounded arm and shapely hand extended in a manner that revealed their every perfection.

  “Come, Caliban!”

  Again the words fell from her smiling lips, and now the quivering hunchback obeyed, drawn irresistibly by her magnetism, sick with dread of the stroke he in common with all his mates expected to fall.

  “Kneel! See, I give thee my hand to kiss,” Dolores said, and smiled upon the cowering wretch with a tender brilliance that sent a tremendous flutter through the hearts of the three yachtsmen.

  Caliban knelt and took the proffered hand, then at her word he stood before her, scarcely certain yet that his head was solidly established on his shoulders. She motioned him to stand on one side of her, then, aglow with warm color, she addressed the puzzled throng:

  “My bold sea tigers, the ship that escaped thy sloop is but one ship. The seas are full of such. Yet, until today, how many have ye been forced to let go because of thy poor equipment in craft? Thy sloop, how small, how old—yet what rich prey escaped thy guns since the Red Chief’s swift brig laid her bones here? None! Yet ye complain because I prevented thee destroying the beautiful schooner the gods have this day sent to us!”

  Now the purport of her speech struck home; the seemingly soft-brained weakness that had forbidden the rape and pillage of the schooner stood in part explained. And as the light filtered through thick skulls and shone upon all but atrophied brains, a deep muttering swelled into the embryo of a throaty cheer that needed but one look
of encouragement from Dolores to spring into noisy life. As for Venner, his expression was reflected in Tomlin, and both in Pearse; and awakening or resurrected, fear was the keynote of all.

  “The vampire means to suck us dry after all!” whispered Venner hoarsely. His friends could only squeeze his arm in mute sympathy. They harbored no doubts at all.

  Dolores went on:

  “With such a vessel as this”—pointing to the schooner—”that Indiaman today had never shown heels. And more, how think ye my store is replenished? Dost think I tap the rock for wine? Does Milo crush the granite and bring forth meat for thy hungry bellies? Are my treasures kept at high tide by snatching the colors from the sunset? Fools!” she cried, and for a moment passion conquered her calm. “In that schooner are wines that will make thy hot blood living flame; meats that will put teeth into the throats of the toothless; treasures fit for thy queen’s treasury. And more to thy hand, my brave jackals, those pretty pieces of ordnance, which the sun even now paints with liquid gold, will outrange the guns of a king’s ship.” Pausing, she bent upon the murmuring crew a look of blazing majesty; then concluded with a vibrant demand: “Now dost know why thy queen withheld thy senseless hands from witless destruction?”

  Her question was scarcely heard before the answer came. From a hundred rusty throats pealed a huzzah that rolled out over the sea and sent the sea-birds squawking with fright to more peaceful surroundings.

  “Dolores! Dolores! That’s a queen for the tribe of Jolly Roger!” howled Hanglip, and tumult rang again.

  The girl raised her hand, and silence fell once more.

  “Hear my judgment upon such of ye as are not of thy mind,” she cried, and now the smile had gone; her eyes flashed and the words fell red-hot from her scornful lips.

  “I demand no tales from thy mouths. Hiding among these woods Yellow Rufe and Sancho, he of the one eye and the mutilated hand, think to ward off my vengeance. By meridian tomorrow I command those traitors to be brought to me. Fail in this, and ye shall see that Dolores can be terrible, too.”

  The crowd took this as a dismissal, and broke into parties to scour the woods. Only slaves and women remained, and Pascherette ran to her mistress’s side and whispered, with a sidelong look of coquettish allurement at Venner and his friends.

  “Something about to happen!” Venner whispered, hoping that it might prove something in recompense for his day of stress. Dolores cast a look of cool indifference toward them and told Milo:

  “Put these strangers in separate chambers, Milo. Iron them securely and look to it well. Thou art answerable for them.”

  No more. She took Pascherette and departed.

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE SULTANA DECIDES SEVERAL THINGS.

  There was a moment of cruel amazement for Venner and the others when Dolores had gone; then Milo, approaching with his irons and chains, awoke the captives to resistance.

  “No chains for me, by God!” shouted Venner, crouching to ward off the giant’s approach. “Tomlin, Pearse, break for the schooner! I’ll hold this savage. We shall perhaps fail; but by the powers of justice we’ll go down fighting on our own ship!”

  He sprang at Milo as he spoke, and his friends hesitated. Milo, without haste, without change of countenance, dropped his irons and reached Venner with great deliberate strides. And in that momentary hesitation Tomlin and Pearse were lost with their host; for the giant stretched out one tremendous arm, seized Venner by the slack breast of his shirt, and lifted him from the ground, flailing with both hands like some puny child in the grip of his nurse.

  Milo spoke no word. He gave no more attention to Venner’s futile blows than to the whispering of the sands of the shore. But bearing ever toward the other two men, now seemingly paralyzed out of all volition by the awful exhibition of strength, he reached out with his free hand and added Tomlin to his capture as he had taken Venner.

  Pearse might even now have made his bid for liberty; but he was no coward to desert his companions. He uttered a choking cry of mingled fear and defiance, and rushed in between his friends to swing a heavy blow with his fist fair upon the giant’s unprotected temple. Now Milo gave sign of interest. He laughed: a deep, rumbling, pleasant laugh of appreciation for the courage that prompted the blow; but he never blinked at the impact, nor did he attempt to avoid another blow that came swiftly. Simply putting forth a greater effort of muscle he swung his two captives apart, held them at arm’s length while the sinews of his mighty chest and beamlike arms writhed and rippled like snakes, and rushed upon Pearse with the terrible resistlessness of an avalanche. A shower of blows pounded his face and breast as he closed, then he laughed again; this time triumphantly; for Pearse was enfolded between Venner and Tomlin in a hug that spelled suffocation did he persist in his struggles.

  The swift conquest had taken but minutes; none but a few women of the camp had seen it; and they, well used to such scenes, simply chattered and smiled pityingly, not with pity for the men, but for the futility of their resistance. Milo, scarcely breathing above normal, called loudly: “Pascherette!” and gave his prisoners another quieting squeeze.

  Pascherette was with her mistress. She did not answer, and Milo called again: “Pascherette!”

  The other women drew near, and on many a wickedly fair face shone a light of hope that its wearer might serve in Pascherette’s place, no matter what the errand; for it was not the petite golden octoroon alone who had sighed for love of the giant.

  “Pascherette is with the Sultana, Milo. Let me answer for her,” spoke out a dark beauty whose sparkling eyes held the craft and wisdom of a harpy.

  “I—” and “I—” came other voices, and the women gathered around. “What do you need, good Milo?”

  “Open three chambers behind the council hall. In each must be a fettering ring. Make speed. Go!”

  The women ran, and Milo made his capture more complete. Flinging the three men down, breathless and numbed from his grasp, he swiftly clapped leg-irons on them one after the other, then stood up, holding the long chains together in one huge fist until the women cried out that the chambers were ready.

  The bruised and subdued yachtsmen were placed in their separate cells, fettered to great iron rings, and left to cogitate over their probable fate. They were not even permitted the solace of intercourse; but as each grew more accustomed to the gloom inside, he discerned that it was no part of the plan to permit him to hunger or thirst, for a subtle gleam of ruby light shot into each small room from an unseen source, intensifying gradually and touched with its infernal radiance a small tabouret on which stood a silver flagon and a dish of the same metal containing meat.

  Milo went to the great chamber in the Cave of Terrible Things when the doors had closed on his prisoners, and presented himself to Dolores. He found Pascherette prostrate on the floor before the queen, whimpering and sobbing with terror. Over her Dolores stood like Wrath in person, her beautiful face distorted with passion, fire blazing in her eyes, her breast heaving tumultuously. In her hand she held a cat-o’-nine-tails—a dainty, vicious, splendid instrument of terror—formed of plaited human hair of as many shades as thongs, studded with nuggets of gold instead of lead—and none the less terrible for that—set in a cunningly carved handle of ivory. And as Milo entered, she held the whip aloft in a quivering hand, and cried to Pascherette:

  “Speak, or I flay thee, traitor! What wert telling the villain, Sancho?”

  Pascherette whined and cringed; she could not, or would not speak. The whip quivered, was about to fall on those dainty bare shoulders, when Milo, uttering a choking cry, flung himself forward and took the blow on his face. Dolores started back, a thing of fury, as Milo cast himself at her feet, his head on the ground, and said with submission:

  “Spare the child, Sultana. Let my back bear her penance. She is faithful to thee.”

  Dolores halted an instant between redoubled rage and mercy; then she flung down the whip with a hard laugh, seated herself in the great chair, and bade Mil
o and the girl rise and come to her.

  “Milo, thou’rt a fool!” she said. “Were thy brain as great as thy great heart the world might well be thine. I tell thee, child or no child, that chit is woman enough to have bound thee her slave. She is woman enough, too, to hold secret converse with my foes. Do thou speak to her now and learn for me what traffic she had with Sancho the morning after I took her as my handmaid. I give thee scant time; if I learn it not swiftly neither thou nor she shall leave this chamber alive!”

  With her giant beside her, Pascherette’s fears subsided in part. She peered up at him shyly and stepped closer to him, as if to seek actual shelter from the storm that threatened her; but her frightened, dependent demeanor was scarcely in accord with the new light that glinted in her sharp eyes when she dropped them from his face again. There was cunning and craft in them; the brazen assurance of a thief whose conviction is prevented by a lucky mishap.

  She spoke rapidly, for his ears only, and her face drooped in an access of confusion that, beautifully simulated, satisfied Milo and sent a warm thrill into his honest breast.

  “Pascherette says she only gave Sancho his answer,” Milo told Dolores. “He had demanded her for his mate.”

  “A pretty tale!” cried Dolores impatiently. “If that be all, why so fearful of telling me, girl? Why did Sancho, who well knows the price, join Rufe against me?”

  “I was afraid,” murmured Pascherette with a pretty shiver. She summoned a rosy blush to her piquant face and added in a still lower whisper: “Thy anger terrified me, Sultana. My tongue was tied. And Sancho did what he did in rage, in jealousy against Milo.”

  The giant drew himself more erect, and his face became transfigured. If in his great heart there remained any room after his devotion to his mistress, cunning little Pascherette occupied it all when she uttered the half-admission that Milo was her man. Dolores regarded the pair silently; her expression changed slowly from irritation to query; from unbelief to amusement, and after a moment’s reflection she smiled without softness and said: