Captain Blood (Penguin Classics) Read online

  “Will ye so? And what would Governor Steed do, then?”

  “Ye’re not the only doctor on the island.”

  Mr. Blood actually laughed. “And will ye tell that to his excellency, him with the gout in his foot so bad that he can’t stand? Ye know very well it’s devil another doctor will he tolerate, being an intelligent man that knows what’s good for him.”

  But the Colonel’s brute passion thoroughly aroused was not so easily to be balked. “If you’re alive when my blacks have done with you, perhaps you’ll come to your senses.”

  He swung to his negroes to issue an order. But it was never issued. At that moment a terrific rolling thunderclap drowned his voice and shook the very air. Colonel Bishop jumped, his negroes jumped with him, and so even did the apparently imperturbable Mr. Blood. Then the four of them stared together seawards.

  Down in the bay all that could be seen of the great ship, standing now within a cable’s-length of the fort, were her topmasts thrusting above a cloud of smoke in which she was enveloped. From the cliffs a flight of startled seabirds had risen to circle in the blue, giving tongue to their alarm, the plaintive curlew noisiest of all.

  As those men stared from the eminence on which they stood, not yet understanding what had taken place, they saw the British Jack dip from the main truck and vanish into the rising cloud below. A moment more, and up through that cloud to replace the flag of England soared the gold and crimson banner of Castile. And then they understood.

  “Pirates!” roared the Colonel, and again, “Pirates!”

  Fear and incredulity were blent in his voice. He had paled under his tan until his face was the color of clay, and there was a wild fury in his beady eyes. His negroes looked at him, grinning idiotically, all teeth and eyeballs.

  CHAPTER VIII

  SPANIARDS

  The stately ship that had been allowed to sail so leisurely into Carlisle Bay under her false colors was a Spanish privateer, coming to pay off some of the heavy debt piled up by the predaceous Brethren of the Coast, and the recent defeat by the Pride of Devon of two treasure galleons bound for Cadiz. It happened that the galleon which escaped in a more or less crippled condition was commanded by Don Diego de Espinosa y Valdez, who was own brother to the Spanish Admiral Don Miguel de Espinosa, and who was also a very hasty, proud, and hot-tempered gentleman.

  Galled by his defeat, and choosing to forget that his own conduct had invited it, he had sworn to teach the English a sharp lesson which they should remember. He would take a leaf out of the book of Morgan and those other robbers of the sea, and make a punitive raid upon an English settlement. Unfortunately for himself and for many others, his brother the Admiral was not at hand to restrain him when for this purpose he fitted out the Cinco Llagas at San Juan de Porto Rico. He chose for his objective the island of Barbados, whose natural strength was apt to render her defenders careless. He chose it also because thither had the Pride of Devon been tracked by his scouts, and he desired a measure of poetic justice to invest his vengeance. And he chose a moment when there were no ships of war at anchor in Carlisle Bay.

  He had succeeded so well in his intentions that he had aroused no suspicion until he saluted the fort at short range with a broadside of twenty guns.

  And now the four gaping watchers in the stockade on the headland beheld the great ship creep forward under the rising cloud of smoke, her mainsail unfurled to increase her steering way, and go about close-hauled to bring her larboard guns to bear upon the unready fort.

  With the crashing roar of that second broadside, Colonel Bishop awoke from stupefaction to a recollection of where his duty lay. In the town below drums were beating frantically, and a trumpet was bleating, as if the peril needed further advertising. As commander of the Barbados Militia, the place of Colonel Bishop was at the head of his scanty troops, in that fort which the Spanish guns were pounding into rubble.

  Remembering it, he went off at the double, despite his bulk and the heat, his negroes trotting after him.

  Mr. Blood turned to Jeremy Pitt. He laughed grimly. “Now that,” said he, “is what I call a timely interruption. Though what’ll come of it,” he added as an afterthought, “the devil himself knows.”

  As a third broadside was thundering forth, he picked up the palmetto leaf and carefully replaced it on the back of his fellow-slave.

  And then into the stockade, panting and sweating, came Kent followed by best part of a score of plantation workers, some of whom were black and all of whom were in a state of panic. He led them into the low white house, to bring them forth again, within a moment, as it seemed, armed now with muskets and hangers and some of them equipped with bandoleers.

  By this time the rebels-convict were coming in, in twos and threes, having abandoned their work upon finding themselves unguarded and upon scenting the general dismay.

  Kent paused a moment, as his hastily armed guard dashed forth, to fling an order to those slaves.

  “To the woods!” he bade them. “Take to the woods, and lie close there, until this is over, and we’ve gutted these Spanish swine.”

  On that he went off in haste after his men, who were to be added to those massing in the town, so as to oppose and overwhelm the Spanish landing parties.

  The slaves would have obeyed him on the instant but for Mr. Blood.

  “What need for haste, and in this heat?” quoth he. He was surprisingly cool, they thought. “Maybe there’ll be no need to take to the woods at all, and, anyway, it will be time enough to do so when the Spaniards are masters of the town.”

  And so, joined now by the other stragglers, and numbering in all a round score—rebels-convict all—they stayed to watch from their vantage-ground the fortunes of the furious battle that was being waged below.

  The landing was contested by the militia and by every islander capable of bearing arms with the fierce resoluteness of men who knew that no quarter was to be expected in defeat. The ruthlessness of Spanish soldiery was a byword, and not at his worst had Morgan or L’Ollonais ever perpetrated such horrors as those of which these Castilian gentlemen were capable.

  But this Spanish commander knew his business, which was more than could truthfully be said for the Barbados Militia. Having gained the advantage of a surprise blow, which had put the fort out of action, he soon showed them that he was master of the situation. His guns turned now upon the open space behind the mole, where the incompetent Bishop had marshaled his men, tore the militia into bloody rags, and covered the landing parties which were making the shore in their own boats and in several of those which had rashly gone out to the great ship before her identity was revealed.

  All through the scorching afternoon the battle went on, the rattle and crack of musketry penetrating ever deeper into the town to show that the defenders were being driven steadily back. By sunset two hundred and fifty Spaniards were masters of Bridgetown, the islanders were disarmed, and at Government House, Governor Steed—his gout forgotten in his panic—supported by Colonel Bishop and some lesser officers, was being informed by Don Diego, with an urbanity that was itself a mockery, of the sum that would be required in ransom.

  For a hundred thousand pieces of eight and fifty head of cattle, Don Diego would forbear from reducing the place to ashes. And what time that suave and courtly commander was settling these details with the apoplectic British Governor, the Spaniards were smashing and looting, feasting, drinking, and ravaging after the hideous manner of their kind.

  Mr. Blood, greatly daring, ventured down at dusk into the town. What he saw there is recorded by Jeremy Pitt—to whom he subsequently related it—in that voluminous log from which the greater part of my narrative is derived. I have no intention of repeating any of it here. It is all too loathsome and nauseating, incredible, indeed, that men however abandoned could ever descend such an abyss of bestial cruelty and lust.

  What he saw was fetching him in haste and white-faced out of that hell again, when in a narrow street a girl hurtled into him, wild-eyed, her u
nbound hair streaming behind her as she ran. After her, laughing and cursing in a breath, came a heavy-booted Spaniard. Almost he was upon her, when suddenly Mr. Blood got in his way. The doctor had taken a sword from a dead man’s side some little time before and armed himself with it against an emergency.

  As the Spaniard checked in anger and surprise, he caught in the dusk the livid gleam of that sword which Mr. Blood had quickly unsheathed.

  “Ah, perro inglés!” he shouted, and flung forward to his death.

  “It’s hoping I am ye’re in a fit state to meet your Maker,” said Mr. Blood, and ran him through the body. He did the thing skillfully: with the combined skill of swordsman and surgeon. The man sank in a hideous heap without so much as a groan.

  Mr. Blood swung to the girl, who leaned panting and sobbing against a wall. He caught her by the wrist.

  “Come!” he said.

  But she hung back, resisting him by her weight. “Who are you?” she demanded wildly.

  “Will ye wait to see my credentials?” he snapped. Steps were clattering towards them from beyond the corner round which she had fled from that Spanish ruffian. “Come,” he urged again. And this time, reassured perhaps by his clear English speech, she went without further questions.

  They sped down an alley and then up another, by great good fortune meeting no one, for already they were on the outskirts of the town. They won out of it, and white-faced, physically sick, Mr. Blood dragged her almost at a run up the hill towards Colonel Bishop’s house. He told her briefly who and what he was, and thereafter there was no conversation between them until they reached the big white house. It was all in darkness, which at least was reassuring. If the Spaniards had reached it, there would be lights. He knocked, but had to knock again and yet again before he was answered. Then it was by a voice from a window above.

  “Who is there?” The voice was Miss Bishop’s, a little tremulous, but unmistakably her own.

  Mr. Blood almost fainted in relief. He had been imagining the unimaginable. He had pictured her down in that hell out of which he had just come. He had conceived that she might have followed her uncle into Bridgetown, or committed some other imprudence, and he turned cold from head to foot at the mere thought of what might have happened to her.

  “It is I—Peter Blood,” he gasped.

  “What do you want?”

  It is doubtful whether she would have come down to open. For at such a time as this it was no more than likely that the wretched plantation slaves might be in revolt and prove as great a danger as the Spaniards. But at the sound of her voice, the girl Mr. Blood had rescued peered up through the gloom.

  “Arabella!” she called. “It is I, Mary Traill.”

  “Mary!” The voice ceased above on that exclamation, the head was withdrawn. After a brief pause the door gaped wide. Beyond it in the wide hall stood Miss Arabella, a slim, virginal figure in white, mysteriously revealed in the gleam of a single candle which she carried.

  Mr. Blood strode in followed by his distraught companion, who, falling upon Arabella’s slender bosom, surrendered herself to a passion of tears. But he wasted no time.

  “Whom have you here with you? What servants?” he demanded sharply.

  The only male was James, an old negro groom.

  “The very man,” said Blood. “Bid him get out horses. Then away with you to Speightstown, or even farther north, where you will be safe. Here you are in danger—in dreadful danger.”

  “But I thought the fighting was over . . .” she was beginning, pale and startled.

  “So it is. But the deviltry’s only beginning. Miss Traill will tell you as you go. In God’s name, madam, take my word for it, and do as I bid you.”

  “He . . . he saved me,” sobbed Miss Traill.

  “Saved you?” Miss Bishop was aghast. “Saved you from what, Mary?”

  “Let that wait,” snapped Mr. Blood almost angrily. “You’ve all the night for chattering when you’re out of this, and away beyond their reach. Will you please call James, and do as I say—and at once!”

  “You are very peremptory . . .”

  “Oh, my God! I am peremptory! Speak, Miss Traill, tell her whether I’ve cause to be peremptory.”

  “Yes, yes,” the girl cried, shuddering. “Do as he says—Oh, for pity’s sake, Arabella.”

  Miss Bishop went off, leaving Mr. Blood and Miss Traill alone again.

  “I . . . I shall never forget what you did, sir,” said she, through her diminishing tears. She was a slight wisp of a girl, a child, no more.

  “I’ve done better things in my time. That’s why I’m here,” said Mr. Blood, whose mood seemed to be snappy.

  She didn’t pretend to understand him, and she didn’t make the attempt.

  “Did you . . . did you kill him?” she asked, fearfully.

  He stared at her in the flickering candlelight. “I hope so. It is very probable, and it doesn’t matter at all,” he said. “What matters is that this fellow James should fetch the horses.” And he was stamping off to accelerate these preparations for departure, when her voice arrested him.

  “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here alone!” she cried in terror.

  He paused. He turned and came slowly back. Standing above her he smiled upon her.

  “There, there! You’ve no cause for alarm. It’s all over now. You’ll be away soon—away to Speightstown, where you’ll be quite safe.”

  The horses came at last—four of them, for in addition to James who was to act as her guide, Miss Bishop had her woman, who was not to be left behind.

  Mr. Blood lifted the slight weight of Mary Traill to her horse, then turned to say good-bye to Miss Bishop, who was already mounted. He said it, and seemed to have something to add. But whatever it was, it remained unspoken.

  The horses started, and receded into the sapphire starlit night, leaving him standing there before Colonel Bishop’s door. The last he heard of them was Mary Traill’s childlike voice calling back on a quavering note—

  “I shall never forget what you did, Mr. Blood. I shall never forget.

  But as it was not the voice he desired to hear, the assurance brought him little satisfaction. He stood there in the dark, watching the fireflies amid the rhododendrons, till the hoof-beats had faded Then he sighed and roused himself. He had much to do. His journey into the town had not been one of idle curiosity to see how the Spaniards conducted themselves in victory. It had been inspired by a very different purpose, and he had gained in the course of it all the information he desired. He had an extremely busy night before him, and must be moving.

  He went off briskly in the direction of the stockade, where his fellow-slaves awaited him in deep anxiety and some hope.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE REBELS-CONVICT

  There were, when the purple gloom of the tropical night descended upon the Caribbean, not more than ten men on guard aboard the Cinco Llagas, so confident—and with good reason—were the Spaniards of the complete subjection of the islanders. And when I say that there were ten men on guard, I state rather the purpose for which they were left aboard than the duty which they fulfilled. As a matter of fact, whilst the main body of the Spaniards feasted and rioted ashore, the Spanish gunner and his crew—who had so nobly done their duty and ensured the easy victory of the day—were feasting on the gun-deck upon the wine and the fresh meats fetched out to them from shore. Above, two sentinels only kept vigil, at stem and stern. Nor were they as vigilant as they should have been, or else they must have observed the two wherries that under cover of the darkness came gliding from the wharf, with well-greased rowlocks, to bring up in silence under the great ship’s quarter.

  From the gallery aft still hung the ladder by which Don Diego had descended to the boat that had taken him ashore. The sentry on guard in the stern, coming presently round this gallery, was suddenly confronted by the black shadow of a man standing before him at the head of the ladder.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, but without alarm,
supposing it one of his fellows.

  “It is I,” softly answered Peter Blood in the fluent Castilian of which he was master.

  “Is it you, Pedro?” The Spaniard came a step nearer.

  “Peter is my name; but I doubt I’ll not be the Peter you’re expecting.”

  “How?” quoth the sentry, checking.

  “This way,” said Mr. Blood.

  The wooden taffrail was a low one, and the Spaniard was taken completely by surprise. Save for the splash he made as he struck the water, narrowly missing one of the crowded boats that waited under the counter, not a sound announced his misadventure. Armed as he was with corselet, cuissarts, and head-piece, he sank to trouble them no more.

  “Whist!” hissed Mr. Blood to his waiting rebels-convict. “Come on, now, and without noise.”

  Within five minutes they had swarmed aboard, the entire twenty of them overflowing from that narrow gallery and crouching on the quarter-deck itself. Lights showed ahead. Under the great lantern in the prow they saw the black figure of the other sentry, pacing on the forecastle. From below sounds reached them of the orgy on the gun-deck: a rich male voice was singing an obscene ballad to which the others chanted in chorus:

  “Y estos son los usos de Castilla y de Leon!”

  “From what I’ve seen today I can well believe it,” said Mr. Blood, and whispered: “Forward—after me.”

  Crouching low, they glided, noiseless as shadows, to the quarter-deck rail, and thence slipped without sound down into the waist. Two thirds of them were armed with muskets, some of which they had found in the overseer’s house, and others supplied from the secret hoard that Mr. Blood had so laboriously assembled against the day of escape. The remainder were equipped with knives and cutlasses.