Rackham, assisted by the Major, was wrapping a long sash round and round his left forearm to serve him as a shield. This done, he accepted the Major’s rapier, and with it the hurried words of advice which his second bestowed on him.
‘Be easy, now, Jack,’ said the Major for perhaps the twentieth time that day. ‘Let him spend his force showing off to his jackals, and watch for a chance.’
It was lame enough counsel, but it reminded Rackham, whose intent had been to allow his temper to guide his sword hand, that he had best go cautiously to work. He nodded, rubbed dirt on his sword hand, and strode forward to face his antagonist.
Le Bouche saluted and slid forward, sinuous as a snake, to the attack. The slim, glittering blades clashed together, La Bouche feinted at his opponent’s throat, and as Rackham’s guard came up, the Frenchman extended himself in a quick lunge. To his surprise, it was parried neatly with the forte of the blade, and La Bouche slipped back out of danger before the Englishman had time to riposte.
But that quick parry had not been lost on Major Penner. It had been speedy – very speedy for a man of Rackham’s build, and the Major took heart. He reminded himself that his principal was an experienced man of his hands, a seasoned practitioner of hand-to-hand fighting. Perhaps he had been wrong to despair.
La Bouche, more cautiously now, came again to the attack, whirling his point in a circle, feeling his opponent out and watching for an opening. Rackham, circling with him, allowed the Frenchman to force the pace, watching his eyes and keeping his point level with the other’s waist. Their feet scuffing quickly on the hard earth, they fenced warily, and gradually the smile returned to La Bouche’s lips.
He leaped to the attack, his foot stamping, made a double feint, to the stomach and the throat, and with his enemy’s blade wavering in wide parade, lunged to take him in the arm. With a despairing swing, like a butcher with a cleaver, Rackham diverted the Frenchman’s point, but as La Bouche followed the line of his lunge the bowls of the swords clashed together, and a sudden wrench of La Bouche’s wrist sent the Englishman’s sword clattering to the ground a dozen paces away.
An involuntary yell from the crowd greeted that sudden disarming; to be followed almost instantly by silence as La Bouche, his evil face agrin, turned to dispose of his weaponless antagonist. Rackham, his chest heaving with exertion, sweat pouring down his face, watched as the Frenchman, his point raised, advanced to dispatch him. There was no escape; if he turned to run La Bouche’s sword would pierce his back in the same moment; if he stayed and faced him death would come with equal certainty. La Bouche made a sudden thrust at his face, and instinctively Rackham leaped back, but it was only a feint. La Bouche stepped back, lowering his point, and mocked him.
‘Will you not come for your sword, big Jean? See, it is here.’ And the ruffian indicated the fallen rapier at his feet.
A woman’s voice, husky and vibrant, spoke from the crowd at Rackham’s back.
‘Make an end, Pierre. It’s over warm for such excitement.’ And a ripple of laughter greeted her words.
But the callous mockery of that voice was La Bouche’s undoing, for it transformed Rackham’s helplessness into violent anger. He tensed for a spring, and in the same moment La Bouche struck. His point ripped out, but even as it did so the Englishman pivoted on his heel and the blade, tearing through his shirt, ploughed a deep furrow along his ribs and driven on by the force of La Bouche’s thrust, spent itself on air. La Bouche stumbled, and was in the act of recovering when Rackham’s fist crashed against his temple and sent him headlong.
A great shout went up from the spectators, and Rackham, bounding forward, snatched up his sword. La Bouche was on his feet in an instant to meet the Englishman’s assault: one mighty back-hand sweep he parried, but he was rattled, and as Rackham’s arm went up for another stroke La Bouche lost his head and lunged wildly at his opponent’s unguarded front. His point never went home. Rackham swept the blade aside with his left hand, leaving the Frenchman extended and helpless, and before La Bouche could even attempt a recovery Rackham, now inside his guard, had run him through the body. La Bouche’s rapier fell from his hand, his mouth opened horribly, and as the sword was withdrawn he collapsed, coughing and retching. For a few seconds Rackham stood looking down at him, then he turned on his heel and walked back to Major Penner.
There was a moment’s dead silence, and then the voice of the crowd broke out in noisy confusion. Penner, having shaken Rackham’s hand and mastered his delight, went over to join the little group surrounding the fallen Frenchman. La Bouche’s face was deadly grey but there was no blood at his lips, and a brief examination enabled the Major to ascertain that the wound was not mortal.
‘The more’s the pity,’ he observed, as he rose from the Frenchman’s side. ‘He’s a dirty hound who would have been better on the road to hell this minute.’
‘You dare to mock the dying?’ La Bouche’s lieutenant, a squat, barrel-chested ruffian, rounded on the Major.
‘I wish I had the opportunity,’ sighed Penner. ‘But he’s far from dying. It’s a high thrust in the chest’ – he indicated the crimson gash of the wound half-hidden by the thick black hair on La Bouche’s breast – ‘and no one ever died of one of those. Not,’ he added hopefully, ‘unless ye intend to let him bleed to death.’
Grumbling and cursing, they nevertheless made shift to staunch their captain’s bleeding while the Major rejoined Rackham who sat, pale and breathing heavily, on a bench against the tavern wall.
‘You’re not unscratched yourself,’ said Penner, kneeling at his principal’s side and making examination of the bloody groove which La Bouche’s rapier had cut in his ribs. ‘Another inch to the left there and it’s yourself would be lying on the sand yonder. And, blast me, what ails your hand?’ He swore in disgust at the sight of the crimson stain spreading through the sash which the pirate had swathed on his forearm. ‘The graceful art of sword-play! You’ll have taken this when you beat his blade aside with your hand. And not the wit to realise that in so turning a point you must touch the blade for an instant only, for fear it has a cutting edge.’
‘Talk less and bind it for me,’ said Rackham shortly. He lay back, his black head resting against the plaster of the wall, his face grimed with sand and sweat. Reaction had set in, and he was finding it an effort to talk. The Major, having stripped away the bloody sash and sponged the wound, bound a linen cloth tightly about it, remonstrating as he did so, like a mother with an injured child.
‘It’s thankful we should be you’ve taken no worse hurt. I was a fool to have let matters go so far. When he disarmed you that time – my God!’ The Major shuddered. ‘I thought ye were done, and so you would have been, but that ye have the fiend’s own luck and a surprising nimbleness on your feet. But, there now, all’s well that ends well, as the poet says.’
At that moment they were interrupted by a woman’s voice calling them from the roadway, and at the sound of it Rackham spun round so violently that he nearly upset the Major. For it was the voice which had urged La Bouche to run him through when he stood disarmed; the voice which had made him forget his fear in a mad surge of fury, and the recollection of its mockery reawoke his anger against the speaker.
‘Major Penner! A moment, Major, if you please.’
The Major, turning with Rackham, swept off his hat and made a clumsy bow towards a carriage which stood at the roadside. He muttered an excuse to Rackham and lumbered towards it.
6. ANNE BONNEY
The woman in the carriage was tall, and quite the most vivid-looking creature Rackham had ever seen. Her hair, beneath a broad-brimmed bonnet, was glossy dark red, and hung to shoulders which in spite of the heat were covered only by a flimsy muslin scarf. Her high-waisted green gown was cut very low on her magnificent bosom, which was bare of ornament; her face was long, with a prominent nose and chin, her brows heavy and dark, and her lips, which were heavily painted, were broad and full, with an odd quirk at the corners that gave her an expre
ssion at once wanton and cynical. Massive earrings touched her shoulders, there was a tight choker of black silk round her neck, and the bare forearm which lay along the edge of the carriage was heavily bangled and be-ringed.
‘In God’s name, Penner, what was the meaning of that moon madness?’ She waved a jewelled hand in Rackham’s direction. ‘D’ye value the hide of your friend so cheap that you’ll offer him as meat for a bully-swordsman’s chopping?’
‘Why, ma’am, I—’ Penner shuffled and stammered. ‘I was opposed to it, d’ye see – from the outset, but—’
‘If that was your opposition, God save us from your encouragement,’ observed the woman languidly. She turned her heavy-lidded eyes on Rackham. ‘For one who has so narrowly cheated the chaplain your champion is mighty glum,’ she observed. ‘He has a name, I suppose?’
‘Hah, yes,’ said Penner. ‘My manners are all to pieces, I think. Permit me, ma’am, to present my friend and brother officer, Captain Rackham – Captain John Rackham.’ He made a vague gesture of introduction. ‘John – er, Captain, – Mistress Bonney.’
Rackham, still resentful of this red-haired Amazon, gave a nod which was the merest apology for a bow. Covered with dust and sweat, he was conscious of the bedraggled figure he must present, and his indignation was not sufficient to make him forget his vanity.
But Mistress Bonney had no thought for his disarray. Her eyes widened at the mention of his name.
‘The pirate captain? He that fired on the Governor’s fleet and took a fortune in silver from the Spaniards?’
‘The same,’ said Major Penner, with the proud air of a master exhibiting a prize pupil. ‘And now turned privateer with me.’
Mistress Bonney’s grey eyes beneath those heavy black brows considered Rackham appreciatively. Her broad lips parted in a smile. ‘Faith, it’s an honour to meet so distinguished a captain. I had heard you took the pardon this morning. Doubtless you mean to lead a peaceful life ashore.’
She was laughing at him, and he flushed angrily. ‘You hear a deal, madam. But it’s not all gospel. If they tell you I fired on the King’s ships they lie: it was no work of mine but that of a half-drunk fool. Nor did I take any silver from the Spanish. That, too, was another’s work.’
‘Another half-drunk fool?’ she asked, smiling.
‘A cold sober traitor,’ he answered.
She pursed her lips, her eyes mocking him. ‘You keep sound company. And now you are in league with the bold Major. Well, he’s neither fool nor traitor, but for the rest he’s both drunk and sober, as the mood takes him. Am I right, Major?’
‘As always, ma’am,’ replied the Major gallantly. ‘And never more drunk than in the presence of beauty.’
‘A compliment, by God! Put it in verse, Major, and sing it beneath a window.’ She turned back to Rackham. ‘You, sir, who are a captain, and a pirate, and what not: where did you learn to use a sword so pitifully?’
‘Pitifully?’ Rackham stared, then laughed. ‘Ask La Bouche if my sword-play was pitiful.’
‘I’ve no need to ask. I’ve eyes in my head. You’re a very novice, man. La Bouche might have cut you to shreds.’
‘But he didn’t, ma’am, as ye’ll have observed,’ put in the Major hastily, as he saw Rackham’s brow growing dark. ‘Captain Rackham is not one of your foining rascals; a quick cut and a strong thrust is his way – and very effective, too.’
‘It may be. But he can thank God and his good luck that he has a whole skin still,’ said Mistress Bonney. ‘And where do you take him now?’
‘To my house,’ said the Major. ‘He has a scratch or two that will be the better of bathing and sleep.’
‘And what do you know of tending his scratches?’ she asked scornfully. Her lazy glance lingered again on Rackham. ‘You’d best let me see to him. Climb into the coach, both of you, and we’ll take him where he won’t be mishandled by some coal-heaver who calls himself a physician. For that’s the best he’d have from you, Penner.’
The Major looked uneasily at Rackham. ‘If you think it best—’ he began. Mistress Bonney waved him aside impatiently.
‘Be silent, man. It’s for Captain Rackham here to judge.’
Rackham met her bold stare and wondered. His first instinct was to tell this fantastic woman, with her harlot’s face and body and mannish tongue, to mind her own business and be gone. She was too bold; too forthright. He could have excused her that if she had been a tavern wench, but she was not. There were the signs of wealth about her, and her voice, for all its oaths and masculinity, was not uneducated. These things, taken with her heavy paint and challenging eyes, made her a queer paradox of a woman; instinct warned him that she was dangerous. But his hand and side were stinging most damnably, and his head throbbed. And so he made the decision which was to change the course of his life, with two words.
‘Thank you.’ He turned to the Major. ‘If Mistress Bonney has anything that will take the ache from these cuts, I’d be a fool to refuse.’
The Major nodded solemnly. He seemed vaguely unwilling, but Rackham was too tired to take notice of him.
They drove up the slight incline through the town, and then the coach wheeled to take the eastern coast road. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the vehicle, Rackham leaned back and allowed his tired body to relax. Soon they were passing through the cane-fields, with their gangs of black slaves working in the blazing sun. Somewhere one of them was chanting in a deep, strong voice, and Rackham closed his eyes and dozed to that slow, haunting melody.
The stopping of the coach shook him out of his half-sleep. They were through the cane-fields now, and were halted on a stretch of road which ran through a quiet palm-grove.
Major Penner had climbed out of the carriage, and looking about for explanation Rackham noticed a small drive winding between the palms to a white, green-shuttered house half-hidden among the trees. Penner was looking uneasy and fidgeting with his hat; he was, apparently, bidding good-bye to Mistress Bonney. Rackham could make nothing of this.
‘Is this your house?’ he asked her.
‘Not yet. I recollected I had a call to make on Mistress Roberts – hers is the house yonder – and Major Penner has gallantly offered to carry a message for me. It is vastly obliging of him. I don’t doubt that Fletcher Roberts will bid him to dinner.’
Her explanation was sounding oddly like a series of instructions; the Major could hardly have looked less gallant or obliging.
‘I shall look for you again, Major,’ she continued, and although she favoured him with her most gracious smile there was finality in her tone. ‘In the meantime have no fear for your charge.’ And before Rackham could speak the carriage was rolling off and Penner was left standing by the roadside.
Rackham half-turned in his seat to call the driver to halt, but the sudden movement brought a fiery wrench to the wound in his side, and he sank back, gasping with pain. Mistress Bonney, seeing him go suddenly pale, started forward in her seat, only to relax as he lifted his head angrily.
‘Why did you leave him there?’
Her generous red lips parted in a slow smile. ‘I have good reasons for what I do.’
‘It seems so.’ He frowned at her. ‘You’re over-masterful for a woman, mistress.’
She laughed at that. ‘It’s easy seen you’ve never called a woman wife, captain. Wait till you’re wed and you’ll know what mastery is.’ She leaned forward again and gently pressed him back into his seat, and he submitted, partly because he doubted his ability to resist, partly because he saw the folly of becoming over-excited.
Mistress Bonney stood up, and despite the rocking of the coach, changed seats gracefully and sat down beside him. Drawing a kerchief from her sleeve she gently wiped the perspiration from his face and brow, and he confessed to himself that her touch was vastly soothing.
‘There.’ She dropped the kerchief over the side of the coach and sat back from him. ‘A little cleaner, and a deal calmer. Give him a few hours’ sleep and a bite to eat and
he’ll be the man he was two hours ago. To set your mind at rest,’ she went on, ‘I’ll show you reasons why we should leave your fiery-faced friend as far behind as possible. One is that I’ve no mind to have the bungling oaf fussing round you, giving advice about your wounds and likely driving you into a fever. Oh, I’ve seen a man in these latitudes laid on his back for good with scratches no bigger than yours. You’d be thirsty – show me the man that isn’t – and the Major would be slipping in to soothe you with a pannikin of Jamaica, and then another and another, and by morning the cook would be able to roast mutton on your chest. So we leave the gallant Penner where he’ll do no harm.’ She broke off to find him gazing at her in astonishment. ‘What ails thee man?’
He shook his head. ‘I never saw a woman like you,’ he began. ‘You talk like a – like a … I never heard a woman to match it.’
‘Compliments fly like hail,’ she said composedly. ‘What you mean is I don’t talk like a lady – nor look like one. But since I’m not, it’s no odds. I talk as I’ve a mind, which you may find strange, but it’s how I was made. As for how I look, that, too, is how I was made, thank God.’ She fixed her grey eyes on him quizzically. ‘You could be gallant and say “Amen” surely?’
He looked at her for a moment in silence. ‘I could indeed,’ he said, and for an instant her lids flickered down over her eyes and her lips parted a trifle.
‘But why should you be so concerned for me?’ he went on. ‘Until an hour ago you had never seen me. What do my wounds matter to you? Penner could have seen to them. What’s your reason?’
She shrugged. ‘Does it seem so strange? If it does, then I’ll tell you gladly. I do it because there are too few tall fellows left in these islands who would stand up to a man who is a better swordsman and fight him with his own weapons. I don’t know the cause of your quarrel, nor do I ask. That is your affair. But the only thing I’ve learned to love and admire in this world is courage. It’s what I prize most highly in myself – more even than my body or my face. That’s reason enough for what I do.’ Then in a moment the grey eyes had resumed their customary languid mockery. ‘And if that were not reason enough I’ll add another. You must be saved and made well so that someone can teach you the art of weapons. You may be a rare hand with a cutlass, for aught I know, but with a small-sword …’
Captain in Calico Page 6
