Captain Blood, Rafael Sabatini [e manga reader TXT] 📗

following morning, a full hour before the time appointed for sailing, when a canoe brought up alongside La Foudre, and a half-caste Indian stepped out of her and went up the ladder. He was clad in drawers of hairy, untanned hide, and a red blanket served him for a cloak. He was the bearer of a folded scrap of paper for Captain Levasseur.

The Captain unfolded the letter, sadly soiled and crumpled by contact with the half-caste’s person. Its contents may be roughly translated thus:

“My well-beloved⁠—I am in the Dutch brig Jongvrouw, which is about to sail. Resolved to separate us forever, my cruel father is sending me to Europe in my brother’s charge. I implore you, come to my rescue. Deliver me, my well-beloved hero!⁠—Your desolated Madeleine, who loves you.”

The well-beloved hero was moved to the soul of him by that passionate appeal. His scowling glance swept the bay for the Dutch brig, which he knew had been due to sail for Amsterdam with a cargo of hides and tobacco.

She was nowhere to be seen among the shipping in that narrow, rockbound harbour. He roared out the question in his mind.

In answer the half-caste pointed out beyond the frothing surf that marked the position of the reef constituting one of the stronghold’s main defences. Away beyond it, a mile or so distant, a sail was standing out to sea. “There she go,” he said.

“There!” The Frenchman gazed and stared, his face growing white. The man’s wicked temper awoke, and turned to vent itself upon the messenger. “And where have you been that you come here only now with this? Answer me!”

The half-caste shrank terrified before his fury. His explanation, if he had one, was paralyzed by fear. Levasseur took him by the throat, shook him twice, snarling the while, then hurled him into the scuppers. The man’s head struck the gunwale as he fell, and he lay there, quite still, a trickle of blood issuing from his mouth.

Levasseur dashed one hand against the other, as if dusting them.

“Heave that muck overboard,” he ordered some of those who stood idling in the waist. “Then up anchor, and let us after the Dutchman.”

“Steady, Captain. What’s that?” There was a restraining hand upon his shoulder, and the broad face of his lieutenant Cahusac, a burly, callous Breton scoundrel, was stolidly confronting him.

Levasseur made clear his purpose with a deal of unnecessary obscenity.

Cahusac shook his head. “A Dutch brig!” said he. “Impossible! We should never be allowed.”

“And who the devil will deny us?” Levasseur was between amazement and fury.

“For one thing, there’s your own crew will be none too willing. For another there’s Captain Blood.”

“I care nothing for Captain Blood⁠ ⁠…”

“But it is necessary that you should. He has the power, the weight of metal and of men, and if I know him at all he’ll sink us before he’ll suffer interference with the Dutch. He has his own views of privateering, this Captain Blood, as I warned you.”

“Ah!” said Levasseur, showing his teeth. But his eyes, riveted upon that distant sail, were gloomily thoughtful. Not for long. The imagination and resource which Captain Blood had detected in the fellow soon suggested a course.

Cursing in his soul, and even before the anchor was weighed, the association into which he had entered, he was already studying ways of evasion. What Cahusac implied was true: Blood would never suffer violence to be done in his presence to a Dutchman; but it might be done in his absence; and, being done, Blood must perforce condone it, since it would then be too late to protest.

Within the hour the Arabella and La Foudre were beating out to sea together. Without understanding the change of plan involved, Captain Blood, nevertheless, accepted it, and weighed anchor before the appointed time upon perceiving his associate to do so.

All day the Dutch brig was in sight, though by evening she had dwindled to the merest speck on the northern horizon. The course prescribed for Blood and Levasseur lay eastward along the northern shores of Hispaniola. To that course the Arabella continued to hold steadily throughout the night. When day broke again, she was alone. La Foudre under cover of the darkness had struck away to the northeast with every rag of canvas on her yards.

Cahusac had attempted yet again to protest against this.

“The devil take you!” Levasseur had answered him. “A ship’s a ship, be she Dutch or Spanish, and ships are our present need. That will suffice for the men.”

His lieutenant said no more. But from his glimpse of the letter, knowing that a girl and not a ship was his captain’s real objective, he gloomily shook his head as he rolled away on his bowed legs to give the necessary orders.

Dawn found La Foudre close on the Dutchman’s heels, not a mile astern, and the sight of her very evidently flustered the Jongvrouw. No doubt mademoiselle’s brother recognizing Levasseur’s ship would be responsible for the Dutch uneasiness. They saw the Jongvrouw crowding canvas in a futile endeavour to outsail them, whereupon they stood off to starboard and raced on until they were in a position whence they could send a warning shot across her bow. The Jongvrouw veered, showed them her rudder, and opened fire with her stern chasers. The small shot went whistling through La Foudre’s shrouds with some slight damage to her canvas. Followed a brief running fight in the course of which the Dutchman let fly a broadside.

Five minutes after that they were board and board, the Jongvrouw held tight in the clutches of La Foudre’s grapnels, and the buccaneers pouring noisily into her waist.

The Dutchman’s master, purple in the face, stood forward to beard the pirate, followed closely by an elegant, pale-faced young gentleman in whom Levasseur recognized his brother-in-law elect.

“Captain Levasseur, this is an outrage for which you shall be made to answer. What do you seek aboard my ship?”

“At first I