The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Thus the three, reunited, rode back into Udjde. If Patrick Spence thought that he was done with intrigue, however, he was far wrong, for Mulai Ali, though wounded and hidden away by the old governor, was not dead at all.

  CHAPTER X

  “He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it!”

  Pasha Ripperda sat in the justice hall of the kasbah and enjoyed his triumph. With the death of Mulai Ali, the one external danger that menaced him was gone. This thin man with the haunted eye was the supreme ruler of western Africa; the combined Barbary armies and fleets obeyed his orders—Egypt was in alliance with him.

  Inwardly, gout rioted in his blood. As he sat and gave orders and heard reports, agony twisted him. Around him were his famous renegades, bitter, cruel men, devoted to him. And they could not save him from the devils that dwelt in his blood.

  Messengers were dispatched to the sherif with news of Mulai Ali’s death—though the body had not been found—and Ripperda ordered a litter made ready that night, for he was returning swiftly to the army.

  Dr. Shaw, Patrick Spence, and Mistress Betty entered the hall.

  Though the effort made his face livid, Ripperda arose and tendered the girl the pitiful ghost of that bow whose courtly grace had once been famous from Vienna to Madrid. Then he staggered and fell back among the cushions.

  In the eyes of the girl lay pity. Dr. Shaw, after one cold bow, stood gazing at the man with no evidence of feeling. The shrewd doctor was sensible that he faced an enemy.

  Ripperda began to speak in English, and suddenly the inner man shone forth. That tongue of Ripperda’s had done incredible feats, and had not lost its cunning. He ignored Shaw for the moment and addressed the girl, whose story he had learned from Spence on the road.

  “You have naught to fear under my protection, mistress,” he concluded with that wan and haunted smile of his. “I shall take you to the coast and place you aboard he first Christian ship available; I have promised the same to Captain Spence. And, lady, I have heard much regarding your skill with the stars. I would talk with you later in the day regarding these augurs of destiny. This gentlemen, I take it, is the famous Dr. Shaw, of Algiers?”

  Shaw bowed again, assenting dryly. Ripperda eyed him, smiled, assumed a blunt frankness.

  “What say you—shall we consign the past to oblivion, sir? I know in whose company you have journeyed; but as our Spanish proverb say, ‘The dead have no friends.’ How say you?”

  Shaw chuckled.

  “It is also said that a living dog is better than a dead lion. I pay you my compliments for your generosity, admit my culpability, and pray your grace.”

  Ripperda, generous enough in victory, uttered a frank laugh.

  “Greatness knows how to punish and how to forgive. I pardon you and welcome you, for your erudition is famed. I pray that you will join me for the noon meal; meantime, your late quarters are again at your disposal.”

  With a brief bow Shaw accepted the dismissal. The three were conducted to the quarters so recently vacated, and there, with the girl’s permission, the two men lighted pipes and talked. Spence told what had happened to him, and how he had flung the leather box into the river and joined Ripperda.

  “Ripperda was friendly enough,” he concluded. “He knew all about our friendship with Mulai Ali, bore no grudge, and welcomed me. A most amazing man!”

  “Very!” said Shaw dryly. “Before Ceuta, he had two Spanish spies impaled on the same stake one day, which amazed even the Moors! Mistake not, Patrick; we play with fire.”

  Spence shrugged.

  “Mistress Betty,” he said, “your predictions to Mulai Ali scarce jibe with the fate that has befallen him! How explain you this discrepancy?”

  “I explain nothing, Mr. Spence,” she said. “I am more interested in knowing what is to become of us. Will Ripperda keep his promises, think you?”

  “He takes us to the coast tonight,” answered Spence. “Yes, it—it—”

  As he spoke he had glanced through the window, which overlooked the courtyard. His voice died away. Suddenly he turned, darted to the door, flung it open. In the doorway stood one of Ripperda’s bodyguard, pistol on arm. The man, a Frenchman, did not budge.

  “No one is permitted to leave,” he said, and grinned. “By order of the pasha.”

  Spence slammed the door again. “Down there—Gholam Mahmoud, talking with the soldiers! The presence of that man bodes us ill.”

  Dr. Shaw started.

  “The man in black—Ripperda’s confidential agent! H-m! I see it all now. He has heard of Barbarroja’s death. He is down there, questioning the renegades, looking for that leather box—ha, Patrick! Did Ripperda’s men see you throw the box in the river?”

  “Aye, most likely.” Spence stood at the window, watching the ominous figure below. “They said naught of it, however. Perchance they saw it done.”

  A hammering at the door. Spence opened to admit a hulking Dutchman, the leader of Ripperda’s bodyguard. He made a smirking bow.

  “The pasha wishes to see the lady and talk about the stars.”

  Mistress Betty rose, calm and self-contained. She looked at Spence, and smiled.

  “Do not fear for me, friends, for I think that Ripperda will keep his promise, and I may be able to help you. Farewell for the present!”

  She left the room, the two men looking after her, helpless. Of those twain, one was destined to see her no more in life.

  Mistress Betty entered the hall of justice, but was detained at the door. A tall figure in black passed her and strode rapidly to the side of Ripperda, to whom he spoke, low-voiced.

  “Spence tried to destroy it, but I can recover it in a day or two. If I succeed will you give me this English girl for my harem?”

  Ripperda’s face was overspread with a mortal pallor from the anguish in his veins.

  “Her and a dozen more like her,” he said hoarsely. “A million curses on that Spence! Go, and fail me not. I shall await your report at Adjerud. The girl belongs to you.”

  Gholam Mahmoud circled the seat and vanished through a hidden door. Mistress Betty was brought forward, curtsied, and waited. Ripperda forced a mechanical smile to his lips.

  “Mistress, plead not for your companions!” he said gently. “They have deceived me basely—”

  “They are my friends,” said the girl. “I cannot but ask your clemency for Mr. Spence and—”

  Ripperda made a hasty, maddened gesture. His eyes flamed savagely.

  “Very well, very well! Spence shall live; I will carry him to Adjerud and sell him as a slave. But Shaw—say no word of him, I warn you. Oh, how that man smiled at me! And in his heart he knew the box was gone, that I was defeated, unable to keep my promises—”

  A spasm of rage came upon him. He writhed among his cushions, then with an effort got himself in hand.

  “My horoscope!” he exclaimed. “Cast it. Fear not, gentle lady; you are under my protection and shall go safe to England. You have the word of Ripperda. So, while we journey north, do you cast my horoscope, for I think you will tell the truth about things.”

  So the man lied. Mistress Betty, sensing the lie from his very protests, went a shade whiter. There was no fear in her answer, however.

  “My lord, I am no wizard. To diagram the stars aright cannot be done in an hour or a day; I have no books to help me. Give me certain information, and in a week it shall be done.”

  “A week!” repeated Ripperda. “Well, have your way. I shall have two women slaves given you, and new quarters here. We leave an hour before the sunset prayer. I shall send a scribe to you at once, let him write down what information you desire for the horoscope, and I will send it to you in an hour. Until night, rest, for we must travel fast.”

  So Mistress Betty went to her prison, and saw her friends no more.

  An hour before sunset Ripperda and his cavalcade departed. In the courtyard was riding and mounting, a horse litter wa
s ready for Ripperda, another for Mistress Betty. Spence and Dr Shaw, disarmed and bound, were dragged forth beside Ripperda’s litter. From his curtained cushions, Ripperda glared out like some venomous reptile at Shaw.

  “Smile on, fool!” said Ripperda acidly. “When the stake has pierced into your vitals and death is led before your eyes, remember Ripperda. Ho, there, amel!”

  The old governor came forward obsequiously. Ripperda pointed to Dr. Shaw.

  “When the muezzin cries for morning prayer, set this man upon a stake at the western gate. When he is dead, send his head to me in salt, that I may see whether he still smiled in death. Place the other man on a horse—forward, in the name of Allah!”

  Spence was tied into a high saddle. To him pierced the voice of Shaw.

  “Farewell, Patrick! God watch over you.”

  “And you,” returned Spence in a choked voice. He looked back once, but Shaw had already been dragged away.

  Through the city street, to the north gate, and then out in the sweet sunset through the olive groves and the fields of green alfalfa, passed the cavalcade, and on to the winding road that led north over the horizon to the sea. The sea! How the thought of it pierced Spence at this moment!

  Himself tightly bound, destined to slavery, poor Shaw, impaled at the gate of Udjde, Mistress Betty, clenched in the grip of Ripperda and trusting to his treacherous word, and all these in the turn of a single day!

  “A long score, Gholam Mahmoud,” muttered Spence thickly. “This is your doing, somehow—a long score to settle—”

  So the sun sank from sight, and the day was done.

  CHAPTER XI

  “Fortuna—transmutat nicertos honores.”

  The little town of Adjerud, at the mouth of the Tafna River, was enjoying a brief heyday of prosperity. Upon an eminence behind the village was camped the great Pasha Ripperda with his personal troops; he kept the roads busy with messengers to the camps at Oran in the east and Ceuta in the west. He had been here a week, and illness held him fast.

  Below the village, and by the deposition of fate camped between Ripperda and the shore, were a thousand wild Berber horse men, come from Morocco to join the armies. Ripperda was holding them here, uncertain as yet where they were most needed.

  In the tiny port lay two ships. One was a small brigantine of Tetuan, Ripperda’s personal ship, manned by renegades like himself. On this ship, said rumor, were kept great treasures; Pasha Ripperda never knew when he was to be sent a wandering once more. The other ship was a battered hulk, brought in by a Salee rover to be repaired. Great crowds thronged the beach to watch her. She had come from a far country, and under her stern were the strange words, “Boston Lass.”

  Aboard her were a score or more infidel captives hard at work. Each night they were brought ashore and kept guarded in a fishing shed on the beach. Among them was Patrick Spence, turned over to the fate of a slave, working under the lash with his fellow American seamen.

  In a separate tent adjoining that of Ripperda remained Mistress Betty and her two slave women. She was closely guarded, for her own sake; when she left the tent, it was usually at night. From her women she knew of Spence’s fate, and knew that her own would be no better.

  Upon the evening of Friday, “the day of the congregation,” she was summoned to the tent of Ripperda. He sat propped among pillows, his swathed feet upon two stools. His harried features bore such a blaze of exultation that she knew instantly some great thing had happened. Messengers had come from Oran by land, and from Ceuta by sea.

  “Good evening, lady,” said Ripperda courteously. “Is not the horoscope finished?”

  “At this time tomorrow night I will present it to you,” responded the girl quietly.

  “Ah! And does it tell of success or failure?”

  “Only one failure have I seen so far, my lord, and that is death. But there are evil influences in the south, and I fear tomorrow may tell another story.”

  “Know you what has chanced today?” Ripperda gave a vibrant laugh. “Hear, then! The fleet and army of Algiers have joined my forces before Oran. A victory has been won at Ceuta. The Sultan of Egypt has joined me. And last—read this, which just came from Oran, from the hand of Admiral Perez himself!”

  He extended a paper, a letter in Spanish. The girl read:

  I write you hastily, during battle. The enemy attacked us and are trapped. Before me are the heads of the governor general, Marquis de Santa Cruz; the Marquis de Valdecagnas, Colonel Pinel, and a hundred officers of the Walloon and other regiments. In the name of Allah, who gives victory. Thy friend,

  Perez.

  “Now,” cried Ripperda proudly, “let us see if your horoscope forecasts what must happen! The Spaniard driven from Africa—and what then? Finish your labors, fair lady!”

  “Tomorrow night they shall be finished, my lord. And forget not your promise to me!”

  “I renew the promise—you shall have one of the captured Spanish ships at Oran, to go whither you will!”

  The girl left the tent trembling, for she feared the man and his purposes. For a space she stood gazing over the camp-crowded shore below, and the little bay where the ship lights glimmered. Sadness was upon her, the load of despair grew more hopeless each hour. All her hopes had crashed down.

  Now she was aware that a dark-clad Moor approached the man who guarded her. They talked softly, there was the chink of money, then the Moor came forward and addressed her in Spanish:

  “Señorita, I come from Udjde. I have a letter for you, another for Captain Spence.”

  Mistress Betty started violently. She took the paper extended to her.

  “He is among the slaves yonder,” she said, despairing. “You cannot reach him.”

  The Moor laughed quietly.

  “Aye, we knew that ere I left. My master, the governor, has word daily by pigeon. I am told to bid you hope, and despair not. Adios!”

  Crushing the note in her hand the girl turned to her own tent. In a fever of eagerness, she dismissed her slaves and bent above the lamp. She opened the paper and read:

  If this reaches you, know that Mulai Ali is alive and well and will be proclaimed sherif ere this reaches you. Make what use of the news you can—he is already marching on Fez, but we keep it secret. The bearer will rescue you and Spence, if possible, and bears full powers from Mulai Ali to act for him. God keep you, sweet mistress!

  Thos. Shaw.

  Tears brimmed the girl’s eyes. Rescue! Good Dr. Shaw alive and well. Mulai Ali alive!

  Whether she could be plucked from Ripperda’s hand was a large query. Spence was another matter; she felt sure that Mulai Ali’s emissary would rescue him. That Moor must have many friends, men of Ali’s party, enemies of the pasha. Was Shaw preparing some deadly blow against Ripperda, here in this place? Undoubtedly!

  Exultation burned in the girl’s eyes as she turned to the horoscope.

  “Mulai Ali wins!” she murmured, her eyes wide in rapt thought. “Though Ripperda slay me for it I shall drive home one blow to his face—such a blow as he shall rue bitterly! The man means to play me false, break his promise; I read it in his eyes. Well, then, here is a weapon that shall strike home to him!”

  She seized quill and ink horn, and fell to work.

  The following day was quiet. Ripperda looked hourly for fresh dispatches from Oran, but none came. His gout was worse; in her tent, Mistress Betty could hear the deep groans from his quarters. Only his renegades were encamped here on the hill, for he would trust no others.

  Late in the afternoon, from her tent, the girl saw the arrival of a dozen horsemen from the south. Their leader wore a black burnoose, and at sight of him the girl shrank. Gholam Mahmoud! What new evil did his presence foretell? Had the man come to warn Ripperda?

  The girl’s fears might have been both lightened and increased had she followed Gholam Mahmoud into Ripperda’s tent. He swaggered in, saluted Ripperda, and laid down a bundle.

  “You have it there?” Ripperda started up, e
agerly.

  “Aye,” said Gholam Mahmoud. “As I thought, Captain Spence flung it into the river. Well, here it is! Being sewn in canvas, it has probably suffered little damage. It is unopened.”

  Ripperda seized on the bundle with trembling fingers, ripped away the canvas, took a knife and cut the stiffened leather around the lock. Opening the box he found a number of small packages wrapped in oiled silk. A long breath of relief came from him, and he relaxed amid his cushions. Gholam Mahmoud regarded him with sardonic gaze.

  “And my reward?”

  “Ah!” Ripperda started. “Wait until tonight. The girl is casting my horoscope. Remain, hear the reading of it—and take her. Are you content?”

  “It is well, master. I shall go and rest until night.”

  The heel of the afternoon passed into sunset. As the daylight waned, the sail of a fast little sloop was seen speeding up the harbor toward the village.

  It was now that Ripperda sent for Mistress Betty.

  Starry-eyed she entered the tent, holding against the bosom of her white robe the scroll which was to foretell the doom of Pasha Ripperda. He sat among the cushions, smiling that weary smile of his. To one side sat Gholam Mahmoud, puffing at a water pipe; save for them, and the guard at the door, the pavilion was empty.

  “The labor is done?” Ripperda’s tone was silky. “And did you obey my request?”

  “I did,” said the girl. “My lord, your entire fate is written here.”

  “Then read it, read it!” Ripperda’s interest quickened. “Tell first of the things I most want to know—the issue of my undertakings! I can study the whole horoscope later. Does everything go well?”

  “Not so, my lord.”

  The girl’s tone was grave; the gaze that she bent upon Ripperda was steady.

  “If you desire flattery, I might give it; but what I have written here is the truth.”

  Ripperda leaned back, a dry smile upon his lips.

  “Let us know the worst, mistress! When shall the infidel be driven from Africa?”

  “Never.” Mistress Betty unrolled the paper and read. “Your star has waned, my lord. The war against Spain is doomed to failure—nay, has already failed! Mulai Ali is alive and has been proclaimed sherif. You yourself have not a fortnight longer to enjoy life—”