Fair Blows the Wind (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  She stood beside me and we watched the sailors, tightening up all that might have come loose, preparing for what was to come.

  “Did you live in Lima?” I asked.

  “In the mountains and at the sea, and then in Cuzco. Only at the last was I in Lima. There was much that was different. I remember the bullfights, and I remember once there was a new viceroy or some official and they decorated all the balconies with greenery. We went to a play given by the Society of Jesus entitled The Prince of Fez.

  “There were many duels, for there was much talk of honor. And scarcely a week went by when someone was not killed, or so it seemed to me.

  “My mother died when I was eleven and my father was killed….It was said to have been done by thieves but I did not believe so. I believe he was killed by assassins, for my mother had told him much and they thought to find among his papers what he would not tell them.”

  “And they did not?”

  She smiled triumphantly. “They did not. There were papers and maps also. I hid them.”

  “They may have been found since.”

  “They will never find them. The house where we lived was very old. My mother had once lived there with her grandmother, who was the daughter of a brother to the Inca. She showed me a secret place.”

  We went below and Conchita served us breakfast. Silliman Turley came aft, but would not listen to moving aft with us. “I’ve a good bunk for’ard an’ I like it there. What about that Leckenbie? You think he’s through?”

  “No.” I was sure about that. “He’s not through.”

  What would he do? Would he dare an attack under cover of the storm? How badly hurt was the pinnace? She did not seem too badly damaged, but if she were damaged beyond repair he would have a double reason for attacking us. He would need a ship.

  What had become of Don Diego? And where was Don Manuel’s ship, which was expected at any moment? Had the hurricane destroyed it? Or was it lying up in safety somewhere down the coast?

  Rafe Leckenbie knew of that ship, too, and would be watching for it. Nor could either of us escape from the haven we had chosen until the storm abated. To try to get out now would expose us to all the dangers of a lee shore. Outside of our cove the shore stretched away to the northwestward before curving around to the south, low, sandy shores so far as I could see or remember, and a deathtrap for any kind of sailing craft in this weather. Like it or not we were bound here together until the storm blew itself out.

  Dabney came down from the deck once more as we were finishing our breakfast. He listened to my thoughts about Leckenbie and agreed. “The rain is easing off, and as soon as it does so I shall have all the guns charged and ready.”

  “Leckenbie will try for surprise,” I said, “using a frontal attack only as a last resort. He’s devilish shrewd, and a daring man.”

  “We will be ready,” Dabney assured me.

  Toward nightfall the wind began to die down, blowing in fitful gusts, but the sea remained heavy. Dabney had retired to rest, leaving his mate in command. MacCrae was a Scot and a solid man. Now twenty-six, he had been fourteen years at sea and had sailed with Hawkins and Frobisher before coming to the Good Catherine.

  He was a tall, lean, no-nonsense sort of man who kept a tight ship, liked most men, and trusted none of them too far. “We’ve a good lot aboard here,” he told me, “and they sail with us because they like it. Most of the crew have been with us three to four voyages now.

  “Captain Dabney lets them carry a bit of trade on their own account, so each makes a bit on the side. Nobody does his own trading. The captain does that. But they can carry up to ten pounds each in goods aboard here. As mate and sailing master I can carry up to fifty pounds, and I do. Translated into goods, that will make a tidy profit for the voyage. So we’ve all an interest in it.”

  Alone, I paced the deck, looking off toward the inlet from which the pinnace would probably come. Now I avoided Guadalupe, as I was restless and irritable, knowing attack might come at any moment. If we were caught unawares not one of us would survive. The quality of mercy could not be expected of Rafe Leckenbie.

  How had Tosti ever become entangled with him? He had been a decent young man of no particular talent, much knowledge, and a desire to have something and be somebody without any clear notion of how that was to come about. He had sat waiting for the pot of gold to fall into his lap, forever talking of inheriting money, of finding treasure, of somehow coming into wealth without doing anything to bring it about. I had liked him, and he had been friendly when I had no friends, yet Leckenbie may have offered an easy road to all he wanted.

  The waters of the cove darkened, the heavy seas abated somewhat, although I believed the tail of the hurricane had still to pass over us. Occasionally stars were glimpsed through the clouds, and the wind had died down although surf could still be heard booming on the Atlantic shore, beyond Cape Lookout.

  A gull swung by heading in toward the shore. I went up on the poop, which offered a better vantage point for observing the cove, but all was dark and still. The few stars had disappeared under clouds.

  MacCrae came to my side. “You know the man Leckenbie, Dabney says. Is he as bad as they say?”

  “Worse. He will stop at nothing, has no regard for people and never did. He is a man who is totally evil because he is totally selfish. Men follow him because he leads them and because of hope of gain or fear. He will use people and discard or kill them without wasting an instant. He is also the finest swordsman I have ever met.”

  “You fought him once?”

  “And was nearly killed. That was long ago and I have learned a lot. I hope I have learned enough.”

  Again I went below. Dabney was up, his chocolate on the table before him. Guadalupe was there also, tired but awake.

  “All is well on deck?” Dabney had papers before him, and was engaged in some problem of navigation.

  “So far,” I said. “He is at least making us lose sleep.”

  “Which is probably a part of his plan,” Dabney commented calmly. “Being the man you say he is, he will no doubt choose a moment when we least expect an attack. I am sure he knows just what we are doing.”

  “You mean he has spies here?”

  “He needs no spies. He knows we expect an attack, so we must be forever on guard. On the contrary, he expects no attack and he will choose the time. His men can rest, relax, and await the proper moment. That is why I now have but three men on deck. The others are resting.”

  “But if he should come upon us now?”

  “We would have ample warning. How can a boat approach us without our knowing?”

  Nonetheless, I was worried. Yet the hot chocolate tasted good as did the scones. “You live well, Captain,” I commented.

  “Why not? My life is aboard ship. I see no reason for a Spartan existence. One needs the comforts, and I can have them nowhere else.”

  Suddenly a man appeared in the door. “The pinnace, Captain. She has just come from the inlet, but is not heading toward us.”

  “Thank you, Samuel. Now alert the men, but have them stay at their posts. See they are served a round of rum. I shall be on deck shortly.” He refilled our cups and his.

  “You are complacent, Captain.”

  “Not complacent. Confident. I trust in my ship and my men. Whatever Leckenbie is doing at this moment is not important. He is not planning a direct attack on my ship with his pinnace. His is the smaller vessel with fewer guns, and your Rafe Leckenbie is not a reckless man. He will not see his vessel destroyed until he has another.

  “What he is doing now is a feint, perhaps, or he is getting in position for a later attack. For that, one man can watch him as easily as a dozen. We must simply hold ourselves ready. He has the advantage of the attack and the choice of time and place.”

  He put his cup down. “You have recently been to France, Captain? Did you by any chance meet Montaigne? The man of the essays?”

  “I did not. As you know, I was wi
th the Spanish forces, who were waging war against Henry of Navarre. We were defeated and I was taken prisoner. I do know that Montaigne is no longer mayor of Bordeaux. Not since the plague. He has been, I heard, mediating between Henry of Navarre and Henry III.”

  “King Henry freed you, you say? And spoke to you in person?”

  “He did. I believe,” I hesitated, choosing my words with care, “that he knew something of my family.”

  “Ah? Interesting! Most interesting, Captain! Did you know that you also had a mutual friend?”

  My expression must have been blank, for he smiled again. “You do make the right friends, Captain Chantry. The helpful ones. I refer to Jacob Binns.”

  He looked so smug that I was irritated. “I do indeed know Jacob Binns,” I replied. “He seems to have acquaintances everywhere, though when we met I thought him but a simple fisherman.”

  “No doubt. He has been many things in his time, many things.” He paused, listening to some movement on deck. He was aware, I believed, of every creak of timber, every scurry of footstep, every lap of water and strain of rigging aboard his vessel. “If you do not know, Captain Chantry, I must explain. In his own way, Jacob Binns is an extremely important man. There is in the world a secret group, a society, if you will, of men of similar experience and ideas. It is old, older than any other, older than even any religion we now know. It is a society that crosses all boundaries, all lands, and all seas. Its numbers are few but they are everywhere.

  “Jacob Binns is an envoy, a messenger or communicator between members. No doubt he or someone close to him knew who you were and where you were.”

  I did not like the mystery of it, nor the feeling that forces might be pulling at me over which I had no control, even though they be friendly. Yet, Binns had been a good friend to me.

  Suddenly a man was down from the deck. “Captain? The pinnace is heading for the entrance. I think she is going to sea.”

  Dabney got to his feet at once. “I think she is not.” He turned to me. “Shall we go on deck, Chantry? The attack is about to come.”

  Instantly I was on my feet. Guadalupe started to rise too, but my hand pressed her down. “Stay…it will be safer, and I want not to worry about you in what happens.”

  The clouds were low and gray still. The sea was ruffled with whitecaps but the swell had lessened. We lay scarcely a hundred yards offshore as the cove was not a large one, but the pinnace had skirted its far rim in reaching the entrance. All eyes were upon her.

  Suddenly, she seemed to change course toward us, then her bow swung away again. Puzzled, I looked at Dabney. “What is he about? Is he going to sea? Is he going to attack? Is he—?”

  Guadalupe screamed.

  Spinning around, I was in time to see them coming over the rail, dripping wet, cutlasses in hand. While all our attention had been taken by the seemingly erratic maneuvers of the pinnace, the attackers had swum out from shore. Over the rail they came, some with cutlasses or knives in their teeth to allow both hands for climbing. They spilled onto our lower deck, in a mass.

  They swarmed over the rail ready for attack, and they found the deck was empty!

  The Captain and I faced them from the top of the ladders leading from the poop deck.

  On the deck below there was only Guadalupe, standing in the doorway of the passage leading to the main cabin, which was under the poop deck.

  The attackers halted momentarily, Rafe Leckenbie among them, caught off guard by the empty deck where they had expected enemies. Cutlasses lowered, they stared about them, and at that moment, Captain Dabney fired his pistol.

  He shot into the mass of attackers, and a man fell, but instantly on the shot the ship’s crew rushed from under the fo’c’stle and from the cabins aft.

  Taken from both sides, the surprise of Leckenbie’s men was total. They were doubly shocked, first at the empty deck, and then at the attack.

  Leaping to the deck, I took a cut at a brawny pirate with a hairy chest and a ring in his one ear. The cut only scratched him and he lunged at me but I thrust low and hard and he impaled himself on my sword. For a moment we were face to face, then I jammed my palm under his chin and shoved him back off my sword.

  Rafe Leckenbie stood waiting, smiling. He saluted me with his blade. “It has been a long time since first we met, Tatton Chantry!”

  “But worth the waiting, Rafe,” I said. “Do you wish to die now?”

  He laughed, a great laugh, a fine laugh. “Die? Me? I have just begun to live!”

  We crossed blades. His skill, I perceived at once, had grown with time. There was fighting about us, but we ignored it. This was our moment, and I was remembering that awful night on the high moors when he had come so close to killing me.

  He fenced coolly, skillfully. He was a man with greed only for power, a man born to dominate—or die in the attempt. If he had one love, this was it. This crossing of blades, the art of the sword. And he was a man created to fight.

  For all his great size and strength, he moved with the speed and ease of a dancer, on his toes, poised, smooth. For every move of mine, he had an answer. I felt he was toying with me, and yet…

  “Ah!” he said, as I parried his blade. “You have learned!”

  He feinted for my head and attempted a flank cut. I parried and thrust to the right cheek. He parried the blow easily, again attempted a head thrust and then to the chest. Again I parried and my point tore his sleeve near the shoulder, but touched no flesh.

  The fighting around us ceased, but neither of us noticed nor moved except toward each other. He attacked suddenly, coming in fast with a style I had never encountered before, a whole series of thrusts and cuts, baffling in their speed and unexpectedness. It needed all my skill to escape them. His point, needle sharp, touched my thigh. I parried his next blow and with a quick riposte, drew blood from his cheek. For an instant his eyes flamed with anger, then it was gone.

  “You are good!” he said. “Very good!”

  Yet I was not to be misled. That he flattered me to lead me into taking unnecessary chances I was sure, yet I fenced cautiously, studying his methods, yet careful not to take anything for granted, for he was a shrewd blade and meant to kill me. He was very sure of himself, fencing with the absolute confidence of a man who had never been bested with a blade. Several times he lunged, yet each time I managed to deflect his blade. Steadily I retreated, circled a little, but fell back. He was constantly upon me, and time and again I had the narrowest of escapes. Once he nicked my shoulder, then he grazed my cheek, drawing blood. He smiled at that. On the instant I moved, grazing his blade and with the slightest flexing of the wrist pressing it out of line, then instantly lunging. My point went two inches into the latissimus muscle, reached by a thrust that went between arm and body.

  Recovering instantly, I pressed the attack. Blood stained his shirt and ran down his side. And now his coolness was gone. He had been hurt; I had actually drawn blood. In a fury he came at me and for several wild minutes I was hard put to defend myself.

  As he came on fast, I circled and stepped in a spot of blood. I slipped. Instantly he was upon me, his sword lifted for a killing thrust.

  As he stabbed downward I threw myself at his legs, and he staggered back. Coming up fast, I grasped his sword arm and pressed him back.

  He laughed, and deliberately began to force his arm down. The strength of the man was prodigious. He was laughing at me now, laughing with a terrible rage as he forced my arm down and down, bringing his blade closer and closer to my throat. Yet the years had done much for me, and I was no longer the boy he had fought that first time. The long months of fencing with Fergus MacAskill, the climbing in the mountainous crags of the Hebrides, and the years in the wars, all had conspired to make me a different man.

  Suddenly I began to shove back. Harder and harder I pressed and my arm ceased to move downward. His blade stayed firm and then inexorably I was pushing him back.

  He could not believe it. Nothing in his li
fe of continual triumph had prepared him for what was happening now. My strength was not only equal to his, but was surpassing it. His arm went back, and suddenly he sprang away, jerking his wrist from my grip and striking out with a wild slash that ripped wide my shirt and left a bloody gash across my stomach.

  Swiftly he pressed his attack. He thrust hard and I felt the point of his blade in my side. Another twist of the blade and he had cut my cheek. He was a fighting fury now, filled with hatred of the threat I presented to him.

  Nothing I could do seemed to stop him. He came on, pushing hard. Suddenly I gave way, and he came in, closing the distance. My next lunge took him by surprise. I risked all…but the blade caught him coming in and thrust deep.

  For a moment he stared, unbelieving. Then he leaped back. For an instant he swayed, drenched now along his lower side and leg with the red blood of his wound.

  He lifted his sword, threw it in the air and caught the blade, then threw it like a spear!

  Yet my blade lifted and caught his, throwing it aside. I went at him then, standing close to the rail, and he stood, braced to meet me, no weapon in his hands. Then his left hand went behind his back to his belt and came from under his jerkin with a knife, a sword-breaker such as Fergus had carried!

  I feinted, and he moved to catch my blade but I swept it down and then up, ripping the inside seam of his breeches and cutting half through his wide leather belt.

  Blood was pooling beneath him. He crouched, teeth bared in anger. Then suddenly like a flash he turned and threw himself over the rail and into the water!

  Leaning over the rail, I saw blood on the water. His body had gone down, his blood mixing with the bubbles of the sea.

  The pinnace had stopped not fifty yards off. Our guns were bearing on her; our men stood with lighted matches ready for a broadside.

  The pinnace held still, and for an instant I believed they might chance it.

  Long I stared at the water, yet I saw no further sign of Rafe Leckenbie. He had gone down, bleeding profusely, into the depths. Then, as if impelled by his disappearance, the pinnace began slowly to back off.