Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  He did not heed her threat.

  “I have posted a strong guard about the manor,” he said. “Villiers brings his men into the stockade tomorrow. He will not sail until he has found the treasure. When he finds it we sail.”

  “And you will sell me to him?” she whispered. “In God’s name

  He fixed upon her a gloomy gaze from which all considerations but his own self-interest had been crowded out. She shrank before it, seeing in it the frantic cruelty that possessed the man in his mysterious fear.

  “You will do as I command,” he said presently, with no more human feeling in his voice than there is in the ring of flint on steel. And turning, he left the chamber. Blinded by a sudden rush of horror, Francoise fell fainting beside the couch where Tina lay.

  Chapter 4: A Black Drum Droning

  Francoise never knew how long she lay crushed and senseless. She was first aware of Tina’s arms about her and the sobbing of the child in her ear. Mechanically she straightened herself and drew the girl into her arms. She sat there, dry-eyed, staring unseeingly at the flickering candle. There was no sound in the castle. The singing of the buccaneers on the strand had ceased. Dully she reviewed her problem.

  Clearly, the story of the mysterious black man had driven Henri mad and it was to escape this man that he meant to abandon the settlement and flee with Villiers. That much was obvious. Equally obvious was the fact that he was ready to sacrifice her for that opportunity to escape. In the blackness which surrounded her, she saw no glint of light. The serving men were dull or callous brutes, their women stupid and apathetic. They would neither dare nor care to help her. She was utterly helpless.

  Tina lifted her tear-stained face as if listening to the prompting of some inner voice. The child’s understanding of Francoise’s inmost thoughts was almost uncanny, as was her recognition of the inexorable drive of Fate and the only alternative left them.

  “We must go, my Lady!” she whispered. “Villiers shall not have you. Let us go far away into the forest. We shall go until we can go no further, and then we shall lie down and die together.”

  The tragic strength that is the last refuge of the weak entered Francoise’s soul. It was the only escape from the shadows that had been closing in upon her since that day when they fled from France.

  “We shall go, child.”

  She rose and was fumbling for a cloak, when an exclamation from Tina brought her about. The child was on her feet, a finger pressed to her lips, her eyes wide and bright with sudden terror.

  “What is it, Tina?” Francoise whispered, seized by a nameless dread.

  “Someone outside in the hall,” whispered Tina, clutching her arm convulsively. “He stopped at our door, and then went on down the hall.”

  “Your ears are keener than mine,” murmured Francoise. “But there’s nothing strange in that. It was the Count, perchance, or Gallot.”

  She moved to open the door, but Tina threw her arms about her neck, and Francoise could feel the wild beating of her heart.

  “Do not open the door, my Lady! I am afraid! Some evil thing is near!”

  Impressed, Francoise reached a hand toward the metal disk that masked a tiny peep-hole in the door.

  “He is coming back!” shivered the girl. “I hear him.”

  Francoise heard something too -a stealthy pad which she realized, with a chill of fear, was not the step of anyone she knew. Nor was it the tread of Villiers, or any booted man. But who could it be? None slept upstairs besides herself, Tina, the Count, and Gallot.

  With a quick motion she extinguished the candle so it would not shine through the hole in the door, and pushed aside the metal disk. Staring through she sensed rather than saw a dim bulk moving past her door, but she could make nothing of its shape except that it was manlike. But a blind unreasoning terror froze her tongue to her palate.

  The figure passed on to the stairhead, where it was limned momentarily against the faint glow that came up from below — a vague, monstrous image, black against the red-then it was gone down the stair. She crouched in the darkness, awaiting some outcry to announce that the soldiers on guard had sighted the intruder. But the fort remained silent; somewhere a wind wailed shrilly. That was all.

  Francoise’s hands were moist with perspiration as she groped to relight the candle. She did not know just what there had been about that black figure etched against the red glow of the fireplace below that had roused such horror in her soul. But she knew she had seen something sinister and grisly beyond comprehension, and that the sight had robbed her of all her new-found resolution. She was demoralized.

  The candle flared up, limning Tina’s white face in the grow.

  “It was the black man!” whispered Tina. “I know! My blood turned cold just as it did when I saw him on the beach! Shall we go and tell the Count?”

  Francoise shook her head. She did not wish a repetition of what had occurred at Tina’s first mention of the black invader. At any event, she dared not venture into that darkened hallway. She knew men were patrolling the stockade, and were stationed outside the manor house. How the stranger had got into the fort she could not guess. It smacked of the diabolical. But she began to have a strong intuition that the creature was no longer within the fortress; that he had departed as mysteriously as he had come.

  “We dare not go into the forest!” shuddered Tina. “He will be lurking there...”

  Francoise did not ask the girl how she knew the black man would be in the forest; it was the logical hiding place for any evil thing, man or devil. And she knew Tina was right. They dared not leave the fort now. Her determination which had not faltered at the prospect of certain death, gave way at the thought of traversing those gloomy woods with that black shambling creature at large among them. Helplessly she sat down and covered her face with her hands.

  Finally, Tina slept, whimpering occasionally in her sleep. Tears gleamed on her long lashes. She moved her smarting body restlessly. ‘Toward dawn, Francoise was aware that the atmosphere had become stifling. She heard a low rumble of thunder off to seaward. Extinguishing the candle, which had burned to its socket, she went to a window whence she could see both the ocean and a belt of the forest.

  The fog had disappeared, but out to sea a dusky mass was rising from the horizon. From it lightning flickered and low thunder growled. Then an answering rumble came from the black woods. Startled, she turned and stared at the forest. A rhythmic pulsing reached her ears-a droning reverberation that was not the thumping of an Indian drum.

  “The drum!” sobbed Tina, spasmodically opening and closing her fingers in her sleep. “The black man-beating on a black drum — in the black woods! Oh, save us!”

  Francoise shuddered. Along the eastern horizon ran a thin white line that presaged dawn. But that black cloud on the western rim expanded swiftly. She watched in surprise, for storms were practically unknown on that coast at that time of year, and she had never seen such a cloud.

  It came pouring up over the world-rim in great boiling masses of fire-veined blackness. It rolled and billowed with the wind in its belly. Its thundering made the air vibrate. And another sound mingled awesomely with the thunder-the voice of the wind, that raced before its coming. The inky horizon was torn and convulsed in the lightning flashes; far at sea she saw the white-capped waves racing before the wind. She heard its droning roar, rising in volume as it swept shoreward. But as yet no wind stirred on the land. The air was hot, breathless. Somewhere below her a shutter slammed, and a woman’s voice was lifted, shrill with alarm. But the manor still slumbered.

  She still heard that mysterious drum droning, and her flesh crawled. The forest was a black rampart her sight could not penetrate, but she visualized a hideous black figure squatting under black branches and smiting incessantly on a drum gripped between its knees. But why?

  She shook off her ghoulish conviction and looked seaward as a blaze of lightning split the sky. Outlined against the glare she saw the masts of Villiers’ ship, the tents on the
beach, the sandy ridges of the south point and the rocky cliffs of the north point. Louder and louder rose the roar of the wind, and now the manor was awake. Feet came pounding up the stair, and Villiers’ voice yelled, edged with fright.

  Doors slammed and Henri answered him, shouting to make himself heard.

  “Why didn’t you warn me of a storm from the west?” howled the buccaneer. “If the anchors don’t hold she’ll drive on the rocks!”

  “A storm never came from the west before at this time of year!” shrieked Henri, rushing from his chamber in his night shirt, his face white and his hair standing on end. “This is the work of-” His words were drowned as he raced up the ladder that led to the lookout tower, followed by the swearing buccaneer.

  Francoise crouched at her window, awed and deafened. The wind drowned all other sound-all except that maddening droning which rose now like a chant of triumph. It roared inshore, driving before it a foaming league long crest of white — and then all hell was loosed on that coast. Rain swept the beaches in driving torrents. The wind hit like a thunder-clap, making the timbers of the fort quiver. The surf roared over the sands, drowning the coals of the seamen’s fires. In the lightning glare Francoise saw, through the curtain of the slashing rain, the tents of the buccaneers ripped to ribbons and washed away, saw the men themselves staggering toward the fort, beaten almost to the sands by the fury of torrent and blast.

  And limned against the blue glare she saw Villiers’ ship, ripped loose from her moorings, driven headlong against the jagged cliffs that jutted up to receive her.

  Chapter 5: A Man from the Wilderness

  The storm had spent its fury, and the sun shone in a clear blue, rain-washed sky. At a small stream which wound among trees and bushes to join the sea, an Englishman bent to lave his hands and face. He performed his ablutions after the manner of his race, grunting and splashing like a buffalo. In the midst of these splashings he lifted his head suddenly, his tawny hair dripping and water running in rivulets over his brawny shoulders. All in one motion he was on his feet and facing inland, sword in hand.

  A man as big as himself was striding toward him over the sands, a cutlass in his hand and unmistakable purpose in his approach.

  The pirate paled, as recognition blazed in his eyes.

  “Satan!” he ejaculated unbelievingly. “You!”

  Oaths streamed from his lips as he heaved up his cutlass. The birds rose in flaming showers from the trees, frightened at the clang of steel. Blue sparks flew from the hacking blades, and the sand ground under the stamping boot heels. Then the clangor ended in a chopping crunch, and one man went to his knees with a choking gasp. The hilt escaped his hand, and he slid to the reddened sand. With a dying effort he fumbled at his girdle and drew something from it, tried to lift it to his mouth, and then stiffened convulsively and went limp.

  The conqueror bent and tore the stiffening fingers from the object they crumpled in their desperate grasp.

  Villiers and d’Chastillon stood on the beach, staring at the spars, shattered masts and broken timbers their men were gathering. So savagely had the storm hammered Villiers’ ship against the low cliffs that most of the salvage was match-wood. A short distance behind them stood Francoise, with one arm about Tina. The girl was pale and listless, apathetic to whatever Fate held in store for her. She listened to the conversation without interest. She was crushed by the realization that she was but a pawn in the game, however it was to be played out.

  Villiers cursed venomously, but Henri seemed dazed.

  “This is not the time of year for storms,” he muttered. “It was not chance that brought that storm out of the deep to splinter the ship in which I meant to escape. Escape? Nay, we are all trapped rats.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Villiers. “I’ve been unable to get any sense out of you since that flaxen-haired hussy upset you so last night with her wild tale of black men coming out of the sea. But I know that I’m not going to spend my life on this cursed coast. Ten of my men drowned with the ship, but I’ve got a hundred more. You’ve got nearly as many. There are tools in your fort and plenty of trees in yonder forest. We’ll build some kind of a craft that will carry us until we can take a ship from the Spaniards.”

  “It will take months,” muttered Henri.

  “Well, is there any better way in which we could employ our time? We’re here-and we’ll get away only by our own efforts. I hope that storm smashed Harston to bits! While we’re building our craft we’ll hunt for da Verrazano’s treasure.”

  “We will never complete your ship,” said Henri somberly.

  “You fear the Indians? We have men enough to defy them.”

  “I do not speak of red men. I speak of a black man.”

  Villiers turned on him angrily. “Will you talk sense? Who is this accursed black man?”

  “Accursed indeed,” said Henri, staring seaward. “Through fear of him I fled from France, hoping to drown my trail in the western ocean. But he has smelled me out in spite of all.”

  “If such a man came ashore he must be hiding in the woods,” growled Villiers. “We’ll rake the forest and hunt him out.”

  Henri laughed harshly.

  “Grope in the dark for a cobra with your naked hand!”

  Villiers cast him an uncertain look, obviously doubting his sanity.

  “Who is this man? Have done with ambiguity.”

  “A devil spawned on that coast of hell, the Slave Coast-”

  “Sail ho!” bawled the lookout on the north point.

  Villiers wheeled and his voice slashed the wind.

  “Do you know her?”

  “Aye!” the reply came back faintly. “It’s the War-Hawk!”

  “Harston!” raged Villiers. “The devil takes care of his own! How could he ride out that blow?” His voice rose to a yell that carried up and down the strand. “Back to the fort, you dogs!”

  Before the War-Hawk, somewhat battered in appearance, nosed around the point, the beach was bare of human life, the palisade bristling with helmets and scarf-bound heads. Villiers ground his teeth as a long-boat swung into the beach and Harston strode toward the fort alone.

  “Ahoy the fort!” The Englishman’s bull bellow carried clearly in the still morning. “I want to parley! The last time I advanced under a flag of truce I was fired upon! I want a promise that it won’t happen again.”

  “All right, I’ll give you my promise!” called Villiers sardonically.

  “Damn your promise, you French dog! I want d’Chastillon’s word.”

  A measure of dignity remained to the Count. There was an edge of authority to his voice as he answered: “Advance, but keep your men back. You will not be fired upon.”

  “That’s enough for me,” said Harston instantly. “Whatever a d’Chastillon’s sins, once his word is given, you can trust him.”

  He strode forward and halted under the gate, laughing at the hate-darkened visage Villiers thrust over at him.

  “Well, Guillaume,” he taunted, “you are a ship shorter than when last I saw you! But you French never were sailors.”

  “How did you save your ship, you Bristol gutterscum?” snarled the buccaneer.

  “There’s a cove some miles to the north protected by a high-ridged arm of land that broke the force of the gale,” answered Harston. “I lay behind it. My anchors dragged, but they held me off the shore.”

  Villiers scowled at Henri, who said nothing. The Count had not known of that cove. He had done little exploring of his domain, fear of the Indians keeping him and his men near the fort.

  “I’ve come to make a trade,” said Harston easily.

  “We’ve naught to trade with you save sword-strokes,” growled Villiers.

  “l think otherwise,” grinned Harston, thin-lipped. “You tipped your hand when you murdered Richardson, my first mate, and robbed him. Until this morning I supposed that d’Chastillon had da Verrazano’s treasure. But if either of you had it, you wouldn’t have
gone to the trouble of following me and killing my mate to get the map.”

  “The map!” ejaculated Villiers, stiffening.

  “Oh, don’t dissemble!” Harston laughed, but anger blazed blue in his eyes. “I know you have it. Indians don’t wear boots!”

  “But—” began Henri, nonplussed, but fell silent as Villiers nudged him.

  “What have you to trade?” Villiers demanded of Harston.

  “Let me come into the fort,” suggested the pirate. “We can talk there.”

  “Your men will stay where they are,” warned Villiers.

  “Aye. But don’t think you’ll seize me and hold me for a hostage!” He laughed grimly. “I want d’Chastillon’s word that I’ll be allowed to leave the fort alive and unhurt within the hour, whether we come to terms or not.”

  “You have my pledge,” answered the Count.

  “All right, then. Open that gate.”

  The gate opened and closed, the leaders vanished from sight, and the common men of both parties resumed their silent surveillance of each other.

  On the broad stair above the hall, Francoise and Tina crouched, ignored by the men below. Henri, Gallot, Villiers and Harston sat about the broad table. Except for them the hall was empty.

  Harston gulped wine and set the empty goblet on the table. The frankness suggested by his bluff countenance was belied by the lights of cruelty and treachery in his wide eyes. But he spoke bluntly enough.

  “We all want the treasure da Verrazano hid somewhere near this bay,” he said. “Each has something the others need. D’Chastillon has laborers, supplies, a stockade to shelter us from the savages. You, Villiers, have my map. I have a ship.”

  “If you had the map all these years,” said Villiers, “why didn’t you come after the loot sooner?”

  “I didn’t have it. It was Piriou who knifed the old miser in the dark and stole the map. But he had neither ship nor crew, and it took him more than a year to get them. When he did come after the loot, the Indians prevented his landing, and his men mutinied and made him sail back to the Main. One of them stole the map, and later sold it to me.”