Captain Blood, Rafael Sabatini [book reader for pc .TXT] 📗

having spoken; closed it tightly. He had a great gift of caution, especially in matters that he did not understand. That this was the Arabella he could no longer doubt. That being so, he must think before he spoke. What the devil should the Arabella be doing here, when he had left her in Jamaica? And was Captain Blood aboard and in command, or had the remainder of her hands made off with her, leaving the Captain in Port Royal?

Dyke repeated his question. This time Wolverstone answered him.

“Ye’ve two eyes to see with, and ye ask me, who’s only got one, what it is ye see!”

“But I see the Arabella.”

“Of course, since there she rides. What else was you expecting?”

“Expecting?” Dyke stared at him, open-mouthed. “Was you expecting to find the Arabella here?”

Wolverstone looked him over in contempt, then laughed and spoke loud enough to be heard by all around him. “Of course. What else?” And he laughed again, a laugh that seemed to Dyke to be calling him a fool. On that Wolverstone turned to give his attention to the operation of anchoring.

Anon when ashore he was beset by questioning buccaneers, it was from their very questions that he gathered exactly how matters stood, and perceived that either from lack of courage or other motive Blood, himself, had refused to render any account of his doings since the Arabella had separated from her sister ships. Wolverstone congratulated himself upon the discretion he had used with Dyke.

“The Captain was ever a modest man,” he explained to Hagthorpe and those others who came crowding round him. “It’s not his way to be sounding his own praises. Why, it was like this. We fell in with old Don Miguel, and when we’d scuttled him we took aboard a London pimp sent out by the Secretary of State to offer the Captain the King’s commission if so be him’d quit piracy and be o’ good behaviour. The Captain damned his soul to hell for answer. And then we fell in wi’ the Jamaica fleet and that grey old devil Bishop in command, and there was a sure end to Captain Blood and to every mother’s son of us all. So I goes to him, and ‘accept this poxy commission,’ says I; ‘turn King’s man and save your neck and ours.’ He took me at my word, and the London pimp gave him the King’s commission on the spot, and Bishop all but choked hisself with rage when he was told of it. But happened it had, and he was forced to swallow it. We were King’s men all, and so into Port Royal we sailed along o’ Bishop. But Bishop didn’t trust us. He knew too much. But for his lordship, the fellow from London, he’d ha’ hanged the Captain, King’s commission and all. Blood would ha’ slipped out o’ Port Royal again that same night. But that hound Bishop had passed the word, and the fort kept a sharp lookout. In the end, though it took a fortnight, Blood bubbled him. He sent me and most o’ the men off in a frigate that I bought for the voyage. His game - as he’d secretly told me - was to follow and give chase. Whether that’s the game he played or not I can’t tell ye; but here he is afore me as I’d expected he would be.”

There was a great historian lost in Wolverstone. He had the right imagination that knows just how far it is safe to stray from the truth and just how far to colour it so as to change its shape for his own purposes.

Having delivered himself of his decoction of fact and falsehood, and thereby added one more to the exploits of Peter Blood, he enquired where the Captain might be found. Being informed that he kept his ship, Wolverstone stepped into a boat and went aboard, to report himself, as he put it.

In the great cabin of the Arabella he found Peter Blood alone and very far gone in drink - a condition in which no man ever before remembered to have seen him. As Wolverstone came in, the Captain raised bloodshot eyes to consider him. A moment they sharpened in their gaze as he brought his visitor into focus. Then he laughed, a loose, idiot laugh, that yet somehow was half a sneer.

“Ah! The Old Wolf!” said he. “Got here at last, eh? And whatcher gonnerdo wi’ me, eh?” He hiccoughed resoundingly, and sagged back loosely in his chair.

Old Wolverstone stared at him in sombre silence. He had looked with untroubled eye upon many a hell of devilment in his time, but the sight of Captain Blood in this condition filled him with sudden grief. To express it he loosed an oath. It was his only expression for emotion of all kinds. Then he rolled forward, and dropped into a chair at the table, facing the Captain.

“My God, Peter, what’s this?”

“Rum,” said Peter. “Rum, from Jamaica.” He pushed bottle and glass towards Wolverstone.

Wolverstone disregarded them.

“I’m asking you what ails you?” he bawled.

“Rum,” said Captain Blood again, and smiled. “Jus’ rum. I answer all your queshons. Why donjerr answer mine? Whatcher gonerdo wi’ me?”

“I’ve done it,” said Wolverstone. “Thank God, ye had the sense to hold your tongue till I came. Are ye sober enough to understand me?”

“Drunk or sober, allus ‘derstand you.”

“Then listen.” And out came the tale that Wolverstone had told. The Captain steadied himself to grasp it.

“It’ll do as well asertruth,” said he when Wolverstone had finished. “And… oh, no marrer! Much obliged to ye, Old Wolf - faithful Old Wolf! But was it worthertrouble? I’m norrer pirate now; never a pirate again. ‘S finished’” He banged the table, his eyes suddenly fierce.

“I’ll come and talk to you again when there’s less rum in your wits,” said Wolverstone, rising. “Meanwhile ye’ll please to remember the tale I’ve told, and say nothing that’ll make me out a liar. They all believes me, even the men as sailed wi’ me from Port Royal. I’ve made ‘em. If they thought as how you’d taken the King’s commission in earnest, and for the purpose o’ doing as Morgan did, ye guess what would follow.”

“Hell would follow,” said the Captain. “An’ tha’s all I’m fit for.”

“Ye’re maudlin,” Wolverstone growled. “We’ll talk again to-morrow.”

They did; but to little purpose, either that day or on any day thereafter while the rains - which set in that night - endured. Soon the shrewd Wolverstone discovered that rum was not what ailed Blood. Rum was in itself an effect, and not by any means the cause of the Captain’s listless apathy. There was a canker eating at his heart, and the Old Wolf knew enough to make a shrewd guess of its nature. He cursed all things that daggled petticoats, and, knowing his world, waited for the sickness to pass.

But it did not pass. When Blood was not dicing or drinking in the taverns of Tortuga, keeping company that in his saner days he had loathed, he was shut up in his cabin aboard the Arabella, alone and uncommunicative. His friends at Government House, bewildered at this change in him, sought to reclaim him. Mademoiselle d’Ogeron, particularly distressed, sent him almost daily invitations, to few of which he responded.

Later, as the rainy season approached its end, he was sought by his captains with proposals of remunerative raids on Spanish settlements. But to all he manifested an indifference which, as the weeks passed and the weather became settled, begot first impatience and then exasperation.

Christian, who commanded the Clotho, came storming to him one day, upbraiding him for his inaction, and demanding that he should take order about what was to do.

“Go to the devil!” Blood said, when he had heard him out. Christian departed fuming, and on the morrow the Clotho weighed anchor and sailed away, setting an example of desertion from which the loyalty of Blood’s other captains would soon be unable to restrain their men.

Sometimes Blood asked himself why had he come back to Tortuga at all. Held fast in bondage by the thought of Arabella and her scorn of him for a thief and a pirate, he had sworn that he had done with buccaneering. Why, then, was he here? That question he would answer with another: Where else was he to go? Neither backward nor forward could he move, it seemed.

He was degenerating visibly, under the eyes of all. He had entirely lost the almost foppish concern for his appearance, and was grown careless and slovenly in his dress. He allowed a black beard to grow on cheeks that had ever been so carefully shaven; and the long, thick black hair, once so sedulously curled, hung now in a lank, untidy mane about a face that was changing from its vigorous swarthiness to an unhealthy sallow, whilst the blue eyes, that had been so vivid and compelling, were now dull and lacklustre.

Wolverstone, the only one who held the clue to this degeneration, ventured once - and once only - to beard him frankly about it.

“Lord, Peter! Is there never to be no end to this?” the giant had growled. “Will you spend your days moping and swilling ‘cause a white-faced ninny in Port Royal’ll have none o’ ye? ‘Sblood and ‘ounds! If ye wants the wench, why the plague doesn’t ye go and fetch her?”

The blue eyes glared at him from under the jet-black eyebrows, and something of their old fire began to kindle in them. But Wolverstone went on heedlessly.

“I’ll be nice wi’ a wench as long as niceness be the key to her favour. But sink me now if I’d rot myself in rum on account of anything that wears a petticoat. That’s not the Old Wolf’s way. If there’s no other expedition’ll tempt you, why not Port Royal? What a plague do it matter if it is an English settlement? It’s commanded by Colonel Bishop, and there’s no lack of rascals in your company’d follow you to hell if it meant getting Colonel Bishop by the throat. It could be done, I tell you. We’ve but to spy the chance when the Jamaica fleet is away. There’s enough plunder in the town to tempt the lads, and there’s the wench for you. Shall I sound them on ‘t?”

Blood was on his feet, his eyes blazing, his livid face distorted. “Ye’ll leave my cabin this minute, so ye will, or, by Heaven, it’s your corpse’ll be carried out of it. Ye mangy hound, d’ye dare come to me with such proposals?”

He fell to cursing his faithful officer with a virulence the like of which he had never yet been known to use. And Wolverstone, in terror before that fury, went out without another word. The subject was not raised again, and Captain Blood was left to his idle abstraction.

But at last, as his buccaneers were growing desperate, something happened, brought about by the Captain’s friend M. d’Ogeron. One sunny morning the Governor of Tortuga came aboard the Arabella, accompanied by a chubby little gentleman, amiable of countenance, amiable and self-sufficient of manner.

“My Captain,” M. d’Ogeron delivered himself, “I bring you M. de Cussy, the Governor of French Hispaniola, who desires a word with you.”

Out of consideration for his friend, Captain Blood pulled the pipe from his mouth, shook some of the rum out of his wits, and rose and made a leg to M. de Cussy.

“Serviteur!” said he.

M. de Cussy returned the bow and accepted a seat on the locker under the stem windows.

“You have a good force here under your command, my Captain,” said he.

“Some eight hundred men.”

“And I understand they grow restive in idleness.”

“They may go to