Captain Blood (Penguin Classics)

by Rafael Sabatini

  He was blaming himself now for not having observed certain things before, or, at least, for not having studied them more closely, and he was busily connecting them with more recent observations made that very day.

  He had observed, for instance, that Blood’s ship was named the Arabella, and he knew that Arabella was Miss Bishop’s name. And he had observed all the odd particulars of the meeting of Captain Blood and Miss Bishop, and the curious change that meeting had wrought in each.

  The lady had been monstrously uncivil to the Captain. It was a very foolish attitude for a lady in her circumstances to adopt towards a man in Blood’s; and his lordship could not imagine Miss Bishop as normally foolish. Yet, in spite of her rudeness, in spite of the fact that she was the niece of a man whom Blood must regard as his enemy, Miss Bishop and his lordship had been shown the utmost consideration aboard the Captain’s ship. A cabin had been placed at the disposal of each, to which their scanty remaining belongings and Miss Bishop’s woman had been duly transferred. They were given the freedom of the great cabin, and they had sat down to table with Pitt, the master, and Wolverstone, who was Blood’s lieutenant, both of whom had shown them the utmost courtesy. Also there was the fact that Blood, himself, had kept almost studiously from intruding upon them.

  His lordship’s mind went swiftly but carefully down these avenues of thought, observing and connecting. Having exhausted them, he decided to seek additional information from Miss Bishop. For this he must wait until Pitt and Wolverstone should have withdrawn. He was hardly made to wait so long, for as Pitt rose from table to follow Wolverstone, who had already departed, Miss Bishop detained him with a question:

  “Mr. Pitt,” she asked, “were you not one of those who escaped from Barbados with Captain Blood?”

  “I was. I, too, was one of your uncle’s slaves.”

  “And you have been with Captain Blood ever since?”

  “His shipmaster always, ma’am.”

  She nodded. She was very calm and self-contained; but his lordship observed that she was unusually pale, though considering what she had that day undergone this afforded no matter for wonder.

  “Did you ever sail with a Frenchman named Cahusac?”

  “Cahusac?” Pitt laughed. The name evoked a ridiculous memory. “Aye. He was with us at Maracaybo.”

  “And another Frenchman named Levasseur?”

  His lordship marveled at her memory of these names.

  “Aye. Cahusac was Levasseur’s lieutenant, until he died.”

  “Until who died?”

  “Levasseur. He was killed on one of the Virgin Islands two years ago.”

  There was a pause. Then, in an even quieter voice than before, Miss Bishop asked:

  “Who killed him?”

  Pitt answered readily. There was no reason why he should not, though he began to find the catechism intriguing.

  “Captain Blood killed him.”

  “Why?”

  Pitt hesitated. It was not a tale for a maid’s ears.

  “They quarreled,” he said shortly.

  “Was it about a . . . a lady?” Miss Bishop relentlessly pursued him.

  “You might put it that way.”

  “What was the lady’s name?”

  Pitt’s eyebrows went up; still he answered.

  “Miss d’Ogeron. She was the daughter of the Governor of Tortuga. She had gone off with this fellow Levasseur, and . . . and Peter delivered her out of his dirty clutches. He was a black-hearted scoundrel, and deserved what Peter gave him.”

  “I see. And . . . and yet Captain Blood has not married her?”

  “Not yet,” laughed Pitt, who knew the utter groundlessness of the common gossip in Tortuga which pronounced Mdlle. d’Ogeron the Captain’s future wife.

  Miss Bishop nodded in silence, and Jeremy Pitt turned to depart, relieved that the catechism was ended. He paused in the doorway to impart a piece of information.

  “Maybe it’ll comfort you to know that the Captain has altered our course for your benefit. It’s his intention to put you both ashore on the coast of Jamaica, as near Port Royal as we dare venture. We’ve gone about, and if this wind holds ye’ll soon be home again, mistress.”

  “Vastly obliging of him,” drawled his lordship, seeing that Miss Bishop made no shift to answer. Somber-eyed she sat, staring into vacancy.

  “Indeed, ye may say so,” Pitt agreed. “He’s taking risks that few would take in his place. But that’s always been his way.”

  He went out, leaving his lordship pensive, those dreamy blue eyes of his intently studying Miss Bishop’s face for all their dreaminess; his mind increasingly uneasy. At length Miss Bishop looked at him, and spoke.

  “Your Cahusac told you no more than the truth, it seems.”

  “I perceived that you were testing it,” said his lordship. “I am wondering precisely why.”

  Receiving no answer, he continued to observe her silently, his long, tapering fingers toying with a ringlet of the golden periwig in which his long face was set.

  Miss Bishop sat bemused, her brows knit, her brooding glance seeming to study the fine Spanish point that edged the tablecloth. At last his lordship broke the silence.

  “He amazes me, this man,” said he, in his slow, languid voice that never seemed to change its level. “That he should alter his course for us is in itself matter for wonder; but that he should take a risk on our behalf—that he should venture into Jamaica waters . . . It amazes me, as I have said.”

  Miss Bishop raised her eyes, and looked at him. She appeared to be very thoughtful. Then her lip flickered curiously, almost scornfully, it seemed to him. Her slender fingers drummed the table.

  “What is still more amazing is that he does not hold us to ransom,” said she at last.

  “It’s what you deserve.”

  “Oh, and why, if you please?”

  “For speaking to him as you did.”

  “I usually call things by their names.”

  “Do you? Stab me! I shouldn’t boast of it. It argues either extreme youth or extreme foolishness.” His lordship, you see, belonged to my Lord Sunderland’s school of philosophy. He added after a moment: “So does the display of ingratitude.”

  A faint color stirred in her cheeks. “Your lordship is evidently aggrieved with me. I am disconsolate. I hope your lordship’s grievance is sounder than your views of life. It is news to me that ingratitude is a fault only to be found in the young and the foolish.”

  “I didn’t say so, ma’am.” There was a tartness in his tone evoked by the tartness she had used. “If you would do me the honor to listen, you would not misapprehend me. For if unlike you I do not always say precisely what I think, at least I say precisely what I wish to convey. To be ungrateful may be human; but to display it is childish.”

  “I . . . I don’t think I understand.” Her brows were knit. “How have I been ungrateful and to whom?”

  “To whom? To Captain Blood. Didn’t he come to our rescue?”

  “Did he?” Her manner was frigid. “I wasn’t aware that he knew of our presence aboard the Milagrosa.”

  His lordship permitted himself the slightest gesture of impatience.

  “You are probably aware that he delivered us,” said he. “And living as you have done in these savage places of the world, you can hardly fail to be aware of what is known even in England: that this fellow Blood strictly confines himself to making war upon the Spaniards. So that to call him thief and pirate as you did was to overstate the case against him at a time when it would have been more prudent to have understated it.”

  “Prudence?” Her voice was scornful. “What have I to do with prudence?”

  “Nothing—as I perceive it. But, at least, study generosity. I tell you frankly, ma’am, that in Blood’s place I should never have been so nice. Sink me! When you consider what he has suffered at the hands of his fellow-countrymen, you may marvel with me that he should trouble to discriminate between Spanish and English. To be sold into sla
very! Ugh!” His lordship shuddered. “And to a damned colonial planter!” He checked abruptly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bishop. For the moment . . .”

  “You were carried away by your heat in defense of this . . . sea-robber.” Miss Bishop’s scorn was almost fierce.

  His lordship stared at her again. Then he half-closed his large, pale eyes, and tilted his head a little. “I wonder why you hate him so,” he said softly.

  He saw the sudden scarlet flame upon her cheeks, the heavy frown that descended upon her brow. He had made her very angry, he judged. But there was no explosion. She recovered.

  “Hate him? Lord! What a thought! I don’t regard the fellow at all.”

  “Then ye should, ma’am.” His lordship spoke his thought frankly. “He’s worth regarding. He’d be an acquisition to the King’s navy—a man that can do the things he did this morning. His service under de Ruyter wasn’t wasted on him. That was a great seaman, and—blister me!—the pupil’s worthy the master if I am a judge of anything. I doubt if the Royal Navy can show his equal. To thrust himself deliberately between those two, at pointblank range, and so turn the tables on them! It asks courage, resource, and invention. And we land-lubbers were not the only ones he tricked by his maneuver. That Spanish Admiral never guessed the intent until it was too late and Blood held him in check. A great man, Miss Bishop. A man worth regarding.”

  Miss Bishop was moved to sarcasm.

  “You should use your influence with my Lord Sunderland to have the King offer him a commission.”

  His lordship laughed softly. “Faith, it’s done already. I have his commission in my pocket.” And he increased her amazement by a brief exposition of the circumstances. In that amazement he left her, and went in quest of Blood. But he was still intrigued. If she were a little less uncompromising in her attitude towards Blood, his lordship would have been happier.

  He found the Captain pacing the quarter-deck, a man mentally exhausted from wrestling with the Devil, although of this particular occupation his lordship could have no possible suspicion. With the amiable familiarity he used, Lord Julian slipped an arm through one of the Captain’s, and fell into step beside him.

  “What’s this?” snapped Blood, whose mood was fierce and raw. His lordship was not disturbed.

  “I desire, sir, that we be friends,” said he suavely.

  “That’s mighty condescending of you!”

  Lord Julian ignored the obvious sarcasm.

  “It’s an odd coincidence that we should have been brought together in this fashion, considering that I came out to the Indies especially to seek you.”

  “Ye’re not by any means the first to do that,” the other scoffed. “But they’ve mainly been Spaniards, and they hadn’t your luck.”

  “You misapprehend me completely,” said Lord Julian. And on that he proceeded to explain himself and his mission.

  When he had done, Captain Blood, who until that moment had stood still under the spell of his astonishment, disengaged his arm from his lordship’s, and stood squarely before him.

  “Ye’re my guest aboard this ship,” said he, “and I still have some notion of decent behavior left me from other days, thief and pirate though I may be. So I’ll not be telling you what I think of you for daring to bring me this offer, or of my Lord Sunderland—since he’s your kinsman—for having the impudence to send it. But it does not surprise me at all that one who is a minister of James Stuart’s should conceive that every man is to be seduced by bribes into betraying those who trust him.” He flung out an arm in the direction of the waist, whence came the half-melancholy chant of the lounging buccaneers. “Again you misapprehend me,” cried Lord Julian, between concern and indignation. “That is not intended. Your followers will be included in your commission.”

  “And d’ye think they’ll go with me to hunt their brethren—the Brethren of the Coast? On my soul, Lord Julian, it is yourself does the misapprehending. Are there not even notions of honor left in England? Oh, and there’s more to it than that, even. D’ye think I could take a commission of King James’s? I tell you I wouldn’t be soiling my hands with it—thief and pirate’s hands though they be. Thief and pirate is what you heard Miss Bishop call me today—a thing of scorn, an outcast. And who made me that? Who made me thief and pirate?”

  “If you were a rebel . . . ?” his lordship was beginning.

  “Ye must know that I was no such thing—no rebel at all. It wasn’t even pretended. If it were, I could forgive them. But not even that cloak could they cast upon their foulness. Oh, no; there was no mistake. I was convicted for what I did, neither more nor less. That bloody vampire Jeffreys—bad cess to him!—sentenced me to death, and his worthy master James Stuart afterwards sent me into slavery, because I had performed an act of mercy; because compassionately and without thought for creed or politics I had sought to relieve the sufferings of a fellow-creature; because I had dressed the wounds of a man who was convicted of treason. That was all my offense. You’ll find it in the records. And for that I was sold into slavery: because by the law of England, as administered by James Stuart in violation of the laws of God, who harbors or comforts a rebel is himself adjudged guilty of rebellion. D’ye dream, man, what it is to be a slave?”

  He checked suddenly at the very height of his passion. A moment he paused, then cast it from him as if it had been a cloak. His voice sank again. He uttered a little laugh of weariness and contempt.

  “But there! I grow hot for nothing at all. I explain myself, I think, and God knows, it is not my custom. I am grateful to you, Lord Julian, for your kindly intentions. I am so. But ye’ll understand, perhaps. Ye look as if ye might.”

  Lord Julian stood still. He was deeply stricken by the other’s words, the passionate, eloquent outburst that in a few sharp, clear-cut strokes had so convincingly presented the man’s bitter case against humanity, his complete apologia and justification for all that could be laid to his charge. His lordship looked at that keen, intrepid face gleaming lividly in the light of the great poop lantern, and his own eyes were troubled. He was abashed.

  He fetched a heavy sigh. “A pity,” he said slowly. “Oh, blister me—a cursed pity!” He held out his hand, moved to it on a sudden generous impulse. “But no offense between us, Captain Blood.”

  “Oh, no offense. But . . . I’m a thief and a pirate.” He laughed without mirth, and, disregarding the proffered hand, swung on his heel.

  Lord Julian stood a moment, watching the tall figure as it moved away towards the taffrail. Then letting his arms fall helplessly to his sides in dejection, he departed.

  Just within the doorway of the alley leading to the cabin, he ran into Miss Bishop. Yet she had not been coming out, for her back was towards him, and she was moving in the same direction. He followed her, his mind too full of Captain Blood to be concerned just then with her movements.

  In the cabin he flung into a chair, and exploded, with a violence altogether foreign to his nature.

  “Damme if ever I met a man I liked better, or even a man I liked as well. Yet there’s nothing to be done with him.”

  “So I heard,” she admitted in a small voice. She was very white, and she kept her eyes upon her folded hands.

  He looked up in surprise, and then sat conning her with brooding glance. “I wonder, now,” he said presently, “if the mischief is of your working. Your words have rankled with him. He threw them at me again and again. He wouldn’t take the King’s commission; he wouldn’t take my hand even. What’s to be done with a fellow like that? He’ll end on a yardarm for all his luck. And the quixotic fool is running into danger at the present moment on our behalf.”

  “How?” she asked him with a sudden startled interest.

  “How? Have you forgotten that he’s sailing to Jamaica, and that Jamaica is the headquarters of the English fleet? True, your uncle commands it . . .”

  She leaned across the table to interrupt him, and he observed that her breathing had grown labored, that her eyes were d
ilating in alarm.

  “But there is no hope for him in that!” she cried. “Oh, don’t imagine it! He has no bitterer enemy in the world! My uncle is a hard, unforgiving man. I believe that it was nothing but the hope of taking and hanging Captain Blood that made my uncle leave his Barbados plantations to accept the deputy-governorship of Jamaica. Captain Blood doesn’t know that, of course . . .” She paused with a little gesture of helplessness.

  “I can’t think that it would make the least difference if he did,” said his lordship gravely. “A man who can forgive such an enemy as Don Miguel and take up this uncompromising attitude with me isn’t to be judged by ordinary rules. He’s chivalrous to the point of idiocy.”

  “And yet he has been what he has been and done what he has done in these last three years,” said she, but she said it sorrowfully now, without any of her earlier scorn.

  Lord Julian was sententious, as I gather that he often was. “Life can be infernally complex,” he sighed.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE SERVICE OF KING JAMES

  Miss Arabella Bishop was aroused very early on the following morning by the brazen voice of a bugle and the insistent clanging of a bell in the ship’s belfry. As she lay awake, idly watching the rippled green water that appeared to be streaming past the heavily glazed porthole, she became gradually aware of the sounds of swift, labored bustle—the clatter of many feet, the shouts of hoarse voices, and the persistent trundlings of heavy bodies in the ward-room immediately below the deck of the cabin. Conceiving these sounds to portend a more than normal activity, she sat up, pervaded by a vague alarm, and roused her still slumbering woman.

  In his cabin on the starboard side Lord Julian, disturbed by the same sounds, was already astir and hurriedly dressing. When presently he emerged under the break of the poop, he found himself staring up into a mountain of canvas. Every foot of sail that she could carry had been crowded to the Arabella’s yards, to catch the morning breeze. Ahead and on either side stretched the limitless expanse of ocean, sparkling golden in the sun, as yet no more than a half-disc of flame upon the horizon straight ahead.