XXIX
THE LEICESTER
By five o’clock that evening the brigantine Calypso was heading east-northeast at full sail, embracing the wind that, as is customary in those waters, blew from the east. In addition to her trusty crew and Master Tête-de-Fer, the first mate, whom my readers know by reputation if not by sight, the ship carried three passengers: Pierre Munier, Georges, and Sara. The old man paced the deck from mizzenmast to great mast and back again, Jacques at his side. The newlyweds sat together in the stern, holding hands. Sara gazed at the sky, and Georges gazed at Sara.
Without personal experience of the sort of dreadful situation the two lovers had just escaped, it would be impossible to imagine the sensations of supreme happiness and infinite joy they felt at finding themselves free on the immense ocean, sailing farther away at every moment from the country that had given them both life, it is true, but which, like a cruel mother, had alternated periodic persecution with habitual neglect. From time to time one of them would sigh so painfully as to make the other tremble; hearts long accustomed to torture do not regain trust in joy very quickly.
The truth was, though, that they were free. There was nothing above them but the blue vault of the sky; nothing below them but the emerald depths of the sea; and their swift ship was bearing them rapidly away from île de France, which had so nearly proved fatal to both of them.
Jacques and Pierre Munier conversed at length; Georges and Sara were all but silent, each murmuring the name of the other from time to time. Occasionally the father would pause to gaze at the lovers with an expression of indescribable contentment. The old man had suffered so much, and for so long, that he wondered if he would be able to bear such happiness.
Jacques, less sentimental by nature, also cast glances in the direction of the stern—but it was not the tender tableau I have just described that attracted his gaze. Rather, he looked over the heads of Georges and Sara at the open sea, gauging the distance between the Calypso and Port Louis. It was obvious that he did not quite share the general happiness, even that he was worried; he often dashed a hand across his brow, as if trying to chase away a storm cloud.
As for Tête-de-Fer, the first mate, he remained quietly stationed near the ship’s wheel, chatting with the pilot. The brave Breton could be fearsome if one of the crew proved reluctant to follow his orders, but he was otherwise very down-to-earth, always ready with a handshake and a kind word. The rest of the crew was cheerful and carefree once more, as they always were after a dangerous engagement or the perils of a storm. The men on duty stood on deck; the others were in the battery below.
Pierre Munier, distracted as he was by the pleasure of witnessing his younger son’s happiness, did not fail to notice his elder son’s disquiet. Several times he followed Jacques’s gaze, but saw nothing in that direction except a few immense clouds gathered around the setting sun. Perhaps the Calypso’s captain was worried about a storm, he thought.
“Does the weather seem threatening?” he inquired when Jacques cast one of his aforementioned worried glances toward the horizon.
Jacques shook his head. “No, no. If it were only a storm, the Calypso would be as threatened by that as she would by a mere seagull. Something altogether worse is menacing us, I’m afraid.”
Pierre Munier’s voice was worried. “What? I thought we were beyond danger as soon as we set foot on the Calypso.”
Jacques smiled. “Our chances are certainly better now than they were twelve hours ago, when we were hiding in the woods of Petite-Montagne waiting for Georges to finish making his confession in the Church of Saint-Sauveur! I don’t want to worry you, Father, but it is true—our heads aren’t completely safe on our shoulders just yet.” He raised his voice and shouted to no one in particular, “Aloft to the masthead!”
Three sailors jumped into action, and in a few seconds one of them was perched in the crow’s nest, the others returning to the deck.
“What is it that you fear, Jacques?” the old man persisted. “Do you think we will be pursued?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Father,” Jacques replied. “And this time you’ve touched upon a sensitive spot. There’s a frigate in Port Louis called the Leicester—an old acquaintance of mine. I’m afraid they will not let us escape without a little game of skittles—one we won’t be able to decline.”
“But—we must have a twenty-five- or thirty-mile head start at least,” protested Pierre Munier. “At this rate we shall soon be out of sight of the island altogether.”
“Cast out the log!” Jacques cried. Three men hastened to perform this duty, closely watched by their captain. “How many knots?” he asked one of them after a few moments.
“Ten, sir.”
“Not bad for a close-hauled brigantine, eh? There is, perhaps, only one frigate in the whole English navy capable of going even half a knot faster in an hour. Unfortunately, that frigate happens to be the one following us. It looks as if the governor has taken it into his head to chase us.”
“Oh—if you are worried about Lord Murray coming after us, you need not be,” said Pierre Munier. “The governor and Georges were close friends.”
“I know it,” said Jacques. “But that did not protect Georges from a death sentence.”
“Lord Murray could not have acted otherwise without failing in his duty as governor.”
“Ah, but this time, Father, it is not only his duty that is at stake—it is his pride, as well. I have no doubt that he would have pardoned Georges if it had been in his power to do so. Indeed, it would have been a credit to him! But now his prisoner has escaped, and just when the governor believed him to be most securely held. Georges one-upped him, you see. Lord Murray will want his revenge.”
“Sail ahoy!” cried the crewman in the crow’s nest.
Jacques nodded at his father, then raised his head. “Where?” he called.
“Under the wind and coming toward us!” the sailor replied.
“How high?” the captain asked.
“Almost as high as the île des Tonneliers,” came the response.
“Can you tell where it is coming from?”
“Port Louis, I’d say!”
“There,” Jacques said to Pierre Munier, “you see? I told you we weren’t out of their clutches just yet.”
Georges and Sara approached them. “Is something wrong?” Sara inquired.
“Nothing; just that we are being pursued,” Georges answered for his brother.
“My God!” Sara cried. “Have you been restored to me so miraculously, only to be taken away again? No; it is impossible!”
Meanwhile Jacques drew out his spyglass and climbed to the top of the mainmast. He gazed attentively for a few moments in the direction the watchman had indicated; then, collapsing the instrument with the palm of his hand, he came down and, whistling, returned to his father’s side.
“Well?” Pierre Munier asked.
“It’s as I thought,” replied Jacques. “Our good friends the English are hot on our heels.” He looked at his watch. “Fortunately, though, it is only a couple of hours until nightfall, and the moon will not rise until around half past twelve.”
“Do you think we will be able to outrun them?” asked the old man anxiously.
“We’ll do our best, Father; count on it. I’m not a proud man; I see nothing to be gained by fighting when there are only injuries to be acquired. I’ll not put all my precautions to waste, hang it all!”
“What?” Georges exclaimed. “You, Jacques? The intrepid, undefeated captain—fleeing from the enemy?”
“My dear fellow,” said Jacques, “I will always run from the devil when his pockets are empty and his horns two inches longer than my own! It would be a different story if his pockets were full! Then I might risk something; now it isn’t worth it.”
“You realize,” warned Georges, “that they will say you are afraid.”
“And I will agree with them, by God! If we rub up against those fellows and they take us, it’
s all over for us. They’ll hang us all from the yardarm one by one as quick as you please. And if we take them, we’ll have no choice but to sink their ship, and them with it.”
“Sink them?” Georges exclaimed. “But why?”
“What else would we do with them? If they were black, we might sell them and make a tidy profit—but what can we do with a bunch of white sailors?”
“Jacques, my dear brother!” Sara put in. “Surely you would not wish to be responsible for the deaths of so many men!”
“Sister,” replied Jacques, “we will do what we can. When—if—the time comes, we will put you belowdecks, in a charming little room where you’ll be safe and unable to see any of what goes on. You can just imagine that nothing has happened.” He returned to the rail and looked in the direction of the pursuing ship. “There she is—you can just see her sails! Look, Father, do you see?”
“What; that white smudge on the waves? Surely it is a seagull, nothing more!”
“Not a seagull, Father—a thirty-six-gun frigate. But still a bird, for all that! An eagle, though; not a mere swallow!”
“Might it be only a merchant ship?” asked Pierre Munier, hopefully.
“No; a merchant ship would not lean into the wind like that.”
“But—we are leaning into the wind, are we not?”
“Oh,” said Jacques, “that is another matter entirely! We could not pass by Port Louis; it would be like casting ourselves into a den of wolves! We had to take the nearest route.”
“Can we increase our speed?” the old man asked.
“Not at the moment, Father. She’s going as fast as she can. When the wind is behind us we can let out the sails a bit more, and perhaps gain a knot or two. The Leicester will do the same, though, and she must gain a mile or so on us, I’m afraid. I know her well.”
“When do you think she will catch up?” Pierre Munier asked. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes; unless we can escape her during the night.”
“Do you think we can?”
“That is in the opposing captain’s hands.”
“And if they overtake us?” the old man persisted anxiously.
“Then, Father, we will have no choice but to board her. It would be hopeless to engage a ship such as the Leicester—if indeed it is she—in running combat. I would bet a hundred Negroes to ten that she outguns us by twelve cannons, at least—and she can run to île de France or île Bourbon, or to Rodrigues for repairs if she must. We have only the open sea. Land is our enemy. We need our wings more than anything else.”
“And if we board her?”
“Then the playing field becomes more level. We have howitzers—one of the privileges of being a pirate, you know; we grant them to ourselves, but they are not standard issue on a man-of-war. Also, fortunately, it is peacetime. The Leicester probably has a crew of no more than two hundred and seventy men. We have two hundred and sixty, so you see we are evenly matched, especially with such fine rascals as I command! Rest easy, Father! There is the dinner bell; please, do not let a little scrape like this ruin your appetite.”
Indeed, the clock had struck seven, and the dinner bell had rung at its customary hour. Georges took Sara’s arm and, with Pierre Munier following them, descended to the captain’s cabin, which had been transformed into a miniature banquet hall in honor of the newlyweds. Jacques remained on deck a little longer to give a few instructions to his lieutenant.
The interior of the ship was an extraordinary thing to see by any standard. Just as a besotted man lavishes his mistress with jewels and silks, so the Calypso’s captain had fitted her out in luxury befitting a sea nymph. Her mahogany staircases shone like glass, and her copper ornaments—polished three times every day—were as bright as gold. Even the ship’s weaponry—axes, cutlasses, and muskets—was so well maintained that it seemed more decorative than functional, ranged exquisitely on the decks and around the portholes where the cannons stretched their long bronze necks. Anyone would have thought it was the studio of a famous artist rather than the belowdecks of a ship.
The captain’s cabin was especially remarkable in its luxury. Jacques Munier was, as I have said, a man of sensuality, and though he could live quite spartanly when necessity demanded it, under ordinary circumstances he enjoyed voluptuous richness to the utmost. His quarters, which served as parlor, bedchamber, and dining room all at once, were a thing of true beauty.
Two wide couches stood at the port and starboard sides of the cabin, with cannons cleverly concealed beneath them and only visible from the outside. One of these couches served as a bed, and the other as a sofa. Between the windows there was a beautiful Venetian mirror, its Rococo frame ornately carved with figures of cherubs, flowers, and fruits. A silver lamp of superb Renaissance workmanship—no doubt taken from a Madonna’s rich altar somewhere—was suspended from the ceiling. The couches and inner walls were covered with magnificent Indian damask, its scarlet ground embroidered with flowers worked so exquisitely in gold thread that it seemed as if fairies had plied their needles to create them.
Jacques, with his customary gallantry, had given Georges and Sara the use of the cabin for their wedding night. But Sara, in view of the fact that their wedding ceremony had been interrupted by Georges’s rescue from the church, was not entirely convinced that they were legally married—and Georges promised that he would enter only during the day and find somewhere else to sleep at night until they knew for certain.
The four people gathered around the captain’s table that evening were flooded with a strange sort of happiness at finding themselves together when they had so recently despaired of ever seeing one another again. Savoring the present, loath to think of the future or the past, they lingered over dinner for two hours before going back up on deck.
Their first action was to look out to sea where they had last seen the pursuing frigate. There was a short silence.
“The ship seems to have disappeared,” observed Pierre Munier, hopefully.
“No,” said Jacques. “Her sails are merely in shadow because the sun is setting. Look carefully in this direction, Father.”
“Ah!” said Pierre Munier. “I see her now.”
“Yes,” Georges agreed. “She has gained on us.”
“A mile or two nearer, I’d say,” mused Jacques. “Look, Georges—you can make out her lower sails now. She can’t be more than fifteen miles from us.”
The Calypso was, at this moment, just off the passe du Cap; they were heading away from the island now. The sun was sinking into a bed of clouds on the horizon, and night was falling with the rapidity peculiar to the tropical latitudes. Jacques beckoned his lieutenant, Ironhead, to his side. “Well, Master Tête-de-Fer!” he said. “What do you think of that ship?”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” said the lieutenant. “Surely you know more about it than I!”
“No matter; I’m asking for your opinion. Is she a merchant ship, do you think, or a man-of-war?”
Ironhead laughed heartily. “You must be joking, Captain! Why, there isn’t a merchant ship in the world, even in the East India Company, that could keep pace with the Calypso, let alone overtake her!”
“True; and this ship has not only kept pace; she has gained on us. How much distance do you estimate she has gained in, say, the last three hours?”
“Surely you have a better idea than I, Captain.”
“I want your opinion,” Jacques said again. “Two heads are better than one, as they say!”
“Well,” mused Ironhead, “it looks to me like she has gained about two miles.”
“Yes,” agreed Jacques. “Have you any idea who she is?”
“Surely you recognize her, sir.”
“Perhaps, but I would hate to be wrong.”
“You, wrong? Impossible!” said Tête-de-Fer, laughing again.
“No matter; tell me anyway.”
“She is the Leicester, by God,” said the lieutenant, without hesitation.
“What do you think she wants?
”
“She’s after the Calypso, no doubt about it. Has a bone to pick, I should say. If I recall correctly, we once cut her mizzenmast in half with a cannonball.”
“Quite right,” Jacques said, grinning. “I knew everything you’ve just told me, of course—but I’m glad to see that we are of the same mind. The guard is changing in five minutes; tell any crewmen who aren’t on duty to turn in for the night. They’ll need a good sleep to be ready for what is to come.”
“You don’t mean to try and lose her in the night, Captain?”
“Quiet, man!” Jacques bellowed. “We’ll speak of that later! Go, carry out my orders.”
The watch duly turned over five minutes later, and every crewman not required on deck disappeared below. Within ten minutes, the ship was silent—but no one really slept, though they tried valiantly to look as if they did, for the men were well aware that there was an enemy vessel in pursuit of the Calypso. Still, they trusted their captain completely, and they were not afraid.
The brigantine continued on its course—but the swells of the sea were growing larger, and she could not avoid losing speed. Georges, Sara, and Pierre Munier went below to get a bit of sleep; Jacques remained on deck, alone. Night had fallen, and the pursuing frigate was lost in the darkness. After half an hour Jacques summoned Ironhead once more, and the first mate sprang immediately to his side. “What is our position?” he asked the lieutenant.
“Just north of Coin-de-Mire.”
“Tell me, do you think you would be able to steer us between Coin-de-Mire and île Plate, without running aground to either side?”
Ironhead grinned. “With my eyes shut, sir.”
“Good! Prepare your men for the maneuver, then. We have no time to lose.”
“Aye, sir!” The lieutenant shouted a few orders, and the men leapt to their stations.
“Ready about!” bellowed Jacques after a moment of silence.
“All ready, sir!” Ironhead replied.
“Forward helm!” the captain cried. The whistle blew, and the brigantine hesitated for a moment, like a stallion in full gallop suddenly pulled up short; then, slowly, she turned, nosing into the brisk wind, large waves beating against her hull.
Georges Page 31
