War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 12
A SPACE had been cleared on the brig's deck between the masts. Around it in a circle were gathered the vessel's crew—some fifty seamen, English for the most part, but many of them sunburned as dark as Spaniards. In the centre Captain Lance Falcon stood, his hand upon the hilt of his rapier, the point of which rested upon the deck in front of him. A little behind him stood Lachlan McDonald, pale but level-eyed and cool, in his right hand a rapier somewhat more slender than Lance Falcon's.
There was a silence broken only by the swish of the water, the creaking of rigging, the harsh cries of a few circling gulls. On every sun-tanned face in that crowding, eager circle was written a savage, joyous expectancy. Some were bare-headed, some wore scarves of red or blue or yellow upon their heads, all were bare-armed and bare-chested, many had hoops of gold in their ears. There was scarcely one that had not a long knife in his belt, and some wore cutlasses and carried pistols thrust through their sashes. Even in harbour, where their commander enforced upon them certain rigid rules of deportment, the men of Captain Falcon's crew were not pleasant-looking customers. When once they had gained the open sea they became in appearance and demeanour the seawolves that they were.
In that interval of silence Lachlan's black eyes swept round the circle of faces. He saw there what he might have seen in the faces of men gathered around a cockpit: no hint of mercy or compassion; only blood-lust flaming in hard, relentless eyes; the seething, passionate excitement of savage men about to witness that which their stern souls loved most to see. He expected nothing else, but his hand tightened upon his sword-hilt until the finger nails pressed deep into the flesh.
A mist swam before him. It cleared in an instant; but he no longer saw that fierce-eyed circle of ruthless, wolfish faces hungry for blood. He looked beyond them now and saw the blue sky, the bluer ocean, and the white gulls white as snow against the blue. The wind had dropped and the Atlantic was like a sleeping giant breathing gently. To the eastward a dense fog-bank lay upon the waters, a gray wall shutting off his view. He turned his head impatiently and looked to the west where he could still distinguish, low on the horizon, the purple line of woods that marked the coast.
Falcon raised his hand, although there was no need to command silence. He stood bareheaded and coatless, his arms bare to the elbows, his white shirt open at the throat; a tall, broad-shouldered, immensely powerful man, yet so perfectly proportioned that, for all its weight and bulk, his body had something of a tiger's grace. For a moment he held this pose; then in a deep booming voice he began to speak.
"Gentlemen of the brig Good Fortune," he said, "we have with us Mr. Lachlan McDonald of Charles Town. As some among you know, this is not his first visit to our hospitable vessel. It pleased him to favour us with his presence some nights ago, and upon that occasion he learned from me certain things which he is unfortunately not able to forget.
"I know that long-winded explanations are little to your taste. Suffice it, then, to say that, in consequence of this inconvenient knowledge that he has acquired, I am compelled to regard Mr. McDonald as an enemy and to deal with him as such. My poor imagination had hit upon no better scheme than the rude and simple plan of dropping him over the ship's side here in the open Atlantic. His genius and, I may add, his courage, have revealed a better way.
"We will fight, therefore, with the swords that we hold in our hands, within the circle of your sympathetic faces, no quarter asked or allowed. Fortunately the wind has lulled and the deck is fairly steady. I have given him the choice of the weapons on the brig, and he has found one that pleases his fancy. He has, it seems, some reputation with the rapier—a reputation not ill deserved, as he proved on this deck not many nights ago.
"It is altogether a happy solution of the problem, gentlemen, and I beg you give him credit for it. No honest-minded man can apply the detestable word murder to the outcome of a fair fight, man to man and steel to steel; and this fight will be fair. I appoint you, Diccon Drews, and you, Richard Ludlow, to act as Mr. McDonald's seconds, and I give you authority to split with your cutlasses the head of any cowardly dog who hampers him in the work he has to do.
"Unfortunately, the entertainment with which we are about to provide you will be brief. In a few minutes we shall run into the fog-bank yonder, and before that happens Mr. McDonald and I must make an end. One word, and I am done. When he has run me through and you have consigned my carcass to the fishes, you will see to it that Mr. McDonald is conveyed with all honour to Charles Town to receive the felicitations of his friends."
A roar of exultant merriment greeted this conclusion. It told Lachlan more clearly than words that not one man in all that ship's company entertained the slightest doubt as to the outcome. They knew Falcon. They had followed him for months, some of them perhaps for years, and it was plain that they considered him a master-swordsman.
Lachlan's lips tightened. Except Mr. O'Sullivan, his teacher, he had not yet met his equal with the rapier; but the world was wide, his corner of it was small. Knowing his own powers, he was nevertheless aware that he faced an antagonist whose experience was far greater than his. Yet his hand was steady as he placed himself on guard. Now, as always, the feel of the sword gave him courage.
Falcon had turned and was facing him, his weapon raised in salute. Lachlan, on guard, watched him closely—watched, waited—was struck with sudden wonder.
Gradually, yet swiftly, Falcon's countenance was undergoing an astonishing metamorphosis. The sneer was fading from his lips; the tan of his cheeks was deepening to a purplish-red; on his forehead the veins were swelling; into his eyes had crept a look of rapt, incredulous amazement.
He stood as though paralyzed, mouth open, eyes glaring; and those eyes looked past Lachlan, stared wildly, fixedly, as though they saw a ghost. In an instant Lachlan knew that this was no trick, no stratagem; yet, resisting the impulse to turn his head and glance behind him, he kept his own eyes fixed upon those of his adversary.
So for some seconds they stood, strangely rigid and immovable, like men suddenly frozen to stone. Then from some seaman in that part of the circle behind Falcon burst a hoarse cry:
"The Merry Amy! Black Lowther's ship!"
The spell was shattered. The circle of fierce faces, which a moment ago had awaited in tense, avid silence the first clash of the blades, was now a milling mass of men who surged this way and that, cursing, shouting, craning their necks, staring towards the east. Another moment, and the circle broke as most of the seamen rushed to the rail. Lachlan, nearly swept off his feet in the tumult, turned.
Out from the heavy fog bank ahead and to the eastward had burst a great ship, a ship of towering masts and tapering spars, high-sided, her black hull pierced with gunports like a frigate. She flew no flag. Her wet, bellying sails shone like silver in the sun; her white decks were dotted with men running to and fro. She was sailing on a course that would bring her presently across the brig's bows; and even as Lachlan watched her, there came a puff of smoke from her forward deck, and a ball struck the sea ahead of the Good Fortune.
Close behind Lachlan a thunderous voice bellowed a command. Falcon stood there, his face aflame with excitement, his eyes blazing. Still grasping his sword, he shouted orders with his bull's voice, turning now forward and now aft; and almost in an instant Lachlan saw chaos magically transformed.
Hubbub ceased, confusion vanished. Men ran to the ropes; suddenly, with a mighty flapping of canvas, the brig swung round into the wind, careening so sharply that for a minute Lachlan, struggling to keep his footing, thought that she must capsize.
She righted herself, her sails filled, slowly she gathered headway, her stern now turned to the great ship that had come out of the fog. Lachlan, gazing aft, saw that the ship also was turning in a manœuvre as swift and daring as that in which Falcon had turned his brig. Beside him a harsh voice croaked an oath—a one-eyed, earringed seaman, teeth bared in a snarling grin.
"By the Pit!" the man growled, "Black Lowther knows his business, too. Here's Hell's soup now!"
A hand fell on the seaman's shoulder and sent him spinning. It was Falcon. "Come aft, sir!" he snapped at Lachlan, and strode towards the stern, shouting orders as he went. Lachlan followed, saw Falcon snatch the wheel from the helmsman, stood by with thumping heart and parted lips as the tall man before him, oblivious of his presence, dealt with the peril that had burst upon him out of the fog.
He crowded sail on the brig until she was carrying every inch of canvas. He sent men aloft with buckets to wet the sails so that they would hold the wind. Meanwhile he prepared for battle. Lachlan saw that men were busy at the broadside guns, that ammunition was being brought from the magazine, that cutlasses, hangars, and pikes were stacked upon the deck.
Then, after half an hour of feverish activity, of ceaseless bellowing of orders, a strange stillness and silence fell. Lachlan knew that for the present all that could be done had been done, that the issue rested with fate.
Falcon turned to him then with a smile as bland as that of a courtier in a ballroom.
"You have most damnably good luck, Mr. McDonald," he said slowly. The smile became a laugh.
"D'ye know why we are put to all this pother?" he asked. "D'ye know who our friends are yonder?" He jerked his head towards the pursuing ship.
Lachlan shook his head.
"That ship," Falcon continued, "is named the Merry Amy and she is commanded by a gentleman of some fame upon the seas From his amiable disposition he is known as Black Lowther, and, like myself, he is a privateer of somewhat easy conscience who does not quite understand where privateering ends and piracy begins. Once, in the Gulf of Florida, I stole from him a prize that he had taken, and he swore by his favourite saint that he would cut off my ears and feed my heart to his pet dog. His ship being twice as large as the Good Fortune and carrying eighteen guns to our eight, he conceives that he has his opportunity now."
He ceased and stood silent a few moments, his hands gripping the wheel, his narrowed eyes fixed on the sea ahead. He glanced aloft, shouted an order, then turned again to Lachlan.
"It may happen after all, sir," he said calmly, "that I shall have to drown you like a rat instead of killing you like a gentleman. If I am forced to that necessity presently, you will please blame this inconvenient fellow, Lowther, who has interrupted our little affair."