Captain Blood (Penguin Classics) Read online

  Again Peter Blood was there, ministering to the sufferers in his care, moving among those unfortunate Spaniards whom no one heeded. All the charity, all the gifts were for the members of the crew of the Pride of Devon. And this Peter Blood accounted natural enough. But rising suddenly from the re-dressing of a wound, a task in which he had been absorbed for some moments, he saw to his surprise that one lady, detached from the general throng, was placing some plantains and a bundle of succulent sugar cane on the cloak that served one of his patients for a coverlet. She was elegantly dressed in lavender silk and was followed by a half-naked negro carrying a basket.

  Peter Blood, stripped of his coat, the sleeves of his coarse shirt rolled to the elbow, and holding a bloody rag in his hand, stood at gaze a moment. The lady, turning now to confront him, her lips parting in a smile of recognition, was Arabella Bishop.

  “The man’s a Spaniard,” said he, in the tone of one who corrects a misapprehension, and also tinged ever so faintly by something of the derision that was in his soul.

  The smile with which she had been greeting him withered on her lips. She frowned and stared at him a moment, with increasing haughtiness.

  “So I perceive. But he’s a human being none the less,” said she.

  That answer, and its implied rebuke, took him by surprise.

  “Your uncle, the Colonel, is of a different opinion,” said he, when he had recovered. “He regards them as vermin to be left to languish and die of their festering wounds.”

  She caught the irony now more plainly in his voice. She continued to stare at him.

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “To warn you that you may be incurring the Colonel’s displeasure. If he had his way, I should never have been allowed to dress their wounds.”

  “And you thought, of course, that I must be of my uncle’s mind?” There was a crispness about her voice, an ominous challenging sparkle in her hazel eyes.

  “I’d not willingly be rude to a lady even in my thoughts,” said he. “But that you should bestow gifts on them, considering that if your uncle came to hear of it . . .” He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished. “Ah, well—there it is!” he concluded.

  But the lady was not satisfied at all.

  “First you impute to me inhumanity, and then cowardice. Faith! For a man who would not willingly be rude to a lady even in his thoughts, it’s none so bad.” Her boyish laugh trilled out, but the note of it jarred his ears this time.

  He saw her now, it seemed to him, for the first time, and saw how he had misjudged her.

  “Sure, now, how was I to guess that . . . that Colonel Bishop could have an angel for his niece?” said he recklessly, for he was reckless as men often are in sudden penitence.

  “You wouldn’t, of course. I shouldn’t think you often guess aright.” Having withered him with that and her glance, she turned to her negro and the basket that he carried. From this she lifted now the fruits and delicacies with which it was laden, and piled them in such heaps upon the beds of the six Spaniards that by the time she had so served the last of them her basket was empty, and there was nothing left for her own fellow-countrymen. These, indeed, stood in no need of her bounty—as she no doubt observed—since they were being plentifully supplied by others.

  Having thus emptied her basket, she called her negro, and without another word or so much as another glance at Peter Blood, swept out of the place with her head high and chin thrust forward.

  Peter watched her departure. Then he fetched a sigh.

  It startled him to discover that the thought that he had incurred her anger gave him concern. It could not have been so yesterday. It became so only since he had been vouchsafed this revelation of her true nature. “Bad cess to it now, it serves me right. It seems I know nothing at all of human nature. But how the devil was I to guess that a family that can breed a devil like Colonel Bishop should also breed a saint like this?”

  CHAPTER VI

  PLANS OF ESCAPE

  After that Arabella Bishop went daily to the shed on the wharf with gifts of fruit, and later of money and of wearing apparel for the Spanish prisoners. But she contrived so to time her visits that Peter Blood never again met her there. Also his own visits were growing shorter in a measure as his patients healed. That they all throve and returned to health under his care, whilst fully one third of the wounded in the care of Whacker and Bronson—the two other surgeons—died of their wounds, served to increase the reputation in which this rebel-convict stood in Bridgetown. It may have been no more than the fortune of war. But the townsfolk did not choose so to regard it. It led to a further dwindling of the practices of his free colleagues and a further increase of his own labors and his owner’s profit. Whacker and Bronson laid their heads together to devise a scheme by which this intolerable state of things should be brought to an end. But that is to anticipate.

  One day, whether by accident or design, Peter Blood came striding down the wharf a full half-hour earlier than usual, and so met Miss Bishop just issuing from the shed. He doffed his hat and stood aside to give her passage. She took it, chin in the air, and eyes which disdained to look anywhere where the sight of him was possible.

  “Miss Arabella,” said he, on a coaxing, pleading note.

  She grew conscious of his presence, and looked him over with an air that was faintly, mockingly searching.

  “La!” said she. “It’s the delicate-minded gentleman!”

  Peter groaned. “Am I so hopelessly beyond forgiveness? I ask it very humbly.”

  “What condescension!”

  “It is cruel to mock me,” said he, and adopted mock-humility. “After all, I am but a slave. And you might be ill one of these days.”

  “What, then?”

  “It would be humiliating to send for me if you treat me like an enemy.”

  “You are not the only doctor in Bridgetown.”

  “But I am the least dangerous.”

  She grew suddenly suspicious of him, aware that he was permitting himself to rally her, and in a measure she had already yielded to it. She stiffened, and looked him over again.

  “You make too free, I think,” she rebuked him.

  “A doctor’s privilege.”

  “I am not your patient. Please to remember it in future.” And on that, unquestionably angry, she departed.

  “Now is she a vixen or am I a fool, or is it both?” he asked the blue vault of heaven, and then went into the shed.

  It was to be a morning of excitements. As he was leaving an hour or so later, Whacker, the younger of the other two physicians, joined him—an unprecedented condescension this, for hitherto neither of them had addressed him beyond an occasional and surly “good-day!”

  “If you are for Colonel Bishop’s, I’ll walk with you a little way, Doctor Blood,” said he. He was a short, broad man of five-and-forty with pendulous cheeks and hard blue eyes.

  Peter Blood was startled. But he dissembled it.

  “I am for Government House,” said he.

  “Ah! To be sure! The Governor’s lady.” And he laughed; or perhaps he sneered. Peter Blood was not quite certain. “She encroaches a deal upon your time, I hear. Youth and good looks, Doctor Blood! Youth and good looks! They are inestimable advantages in our profession as in others—particularly where the ladies are concerned.”

  Peter stared at him. “If you mean what you seem to mean, you had better say it to Governor Steed. It may amuse him.”

  “You surely misapprehend me.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’re so very hot, now!” The doctor linked his arm through Peter’s. “I protest I desire to be your friend—to serve you. Now, listen.” Instinctively his voice grew lower. “This slavery in which you find yourself must be singularly irksome to a man of parts such as yourself.”

  “What intuitions!” cried sardonic Mr. Blood. But the doctor took him literally.

  “I am no fool, my dear doctor. I know a man when I see one, and often I can tell hi
s thoughts.”

  “If you can tell me mine, you’ll persuade me of it,” said Mr. Blood.

  Dr. Whacker drew still closer to him as they stepped along the wharf. He lowered his voice to a still more confidential tone. His hard blue eyes peered up into the swart, sardonic face of his companion, who was a head taller than himself.

  “How often have I not seen you staring out over the sea, your soul in your eyes! Don’t I know what you are thinking? If you could escape from this hell of slavery, you could exercise the profession of which you are an ornament as a free man with pleasure and profit to yourself. The world is large. There are many nations besides England where a man of your parts would be warmly welcomed. There are many colonies besides these English ones.” Lower still came the voice until it was no more than a whisper. Yet there was no one within earshot. “It is none so far now to the Dutch settlement of Curaçao. At this time of the year the voyage may safely be undertaken in a light craft. And Curaçao need be no more than a stepping-stone to the great world, which would lie open to you once you were delivered from this bondage.”

  Dr. Whacker ceased. He was pale and a little out of breath. But his hard eyes continued to study his impassive companion.

  “Well?” he said after a pause. “What do you say to that?”

  Yet Blood did not immediately answer. His mind was heaving in tumult, and he was striving to calm it that he might take a proper survey of this thing flung into it to create so monstrous a disturbance. He began where another might have ended.

  “I have no money. And for that a handsome sum would be necessary.”

  “Did I not say that I desired to be your friend?”

  “Why?” asked Peter Blood at point-blank range.

  But he never heeded the answer. Whilst Dr. Whacker was professing that his heart bled for a brother doctor languishing in slavery, denied the opportunity which his gifts entitled him to make for himself, Peter Blood pounced like a hawk upon the obvious truth. Whacker and his colleague desired to be rid of one who threatened to ruin them. Sluggishness of decision was never a fault of Blood’s. He leapt where another crawled. And so this thought of evasion never entertained until planted there now by Dr. Whacker sprouted into instant growth.

  “I see, I see,” he said, whilst his companion was still talking, explaining, and to save Dr. Whacker’s face he played the hypocrite. “It is very noble in you—very brotherly, as between men of medicine. It is what I myself should wish to do in like case.”

  The hard eyes flashed, the husky voice grew tremulous as the other asked almost too eagerly:

  “You agree, then? You agree?”

  “Agree?” Blood laughed. “If I should be caught and brought back, they’d clip my wings and brand me for life.”

  “Surely the thing is worth a little risk?” More tremulous than ever was the tempter’s voice.

  “Surely,” Blood agreed. “But it asks more than courage. It asks money. A sloop might be bought for twenty pounds, perhaps.”

  “It shall be forthcoming. It shall be a loan, which you shall repay us—repay me, when you can.”

  That betraying “us” so hastily retrieved completed Blood’s understanding. The other doctor was also in the business.

  They were approaching the peopled part of the mole. Quickly, but eloquently, Blood expressed his thanks, where he knew that no thanks were due.

  “We will talk of this again, sir—tomorrow,” he concluded. “You have opened for me the gates of hope.”

  In that at least he uttered no more than the bare truth, and expressed it very baldly. It was, indeed, as if a door had been suddenly flung open to the sunlight for escape from a dark prison in which a man had thought to spend his life.

  He was in haste now to be alone, to straighten out his agitated mind and plan coherently what was to be done. Also he must consult another. Already he had hit upon that other. For such a voyage a navigator would be necessary, and a navigator was ready to his hand in Jeremy Pitt. The first thing was to take counsel with the young shipmaster, who must be associated with him in this business if it were to be undertaken. All that day his mind was in turmoil with this new hope, and he was sick with impatience for night and a chance to discuss the matter with his chosen partner. As a result Blood was betimes that evening in the spacious stockade that enclosed the huts of the slaves together with the big white house of the overseer, and he found an opportunity of a few words with Pitt, unobserved by the others.

  “Tonight when all are asleep, come to my cabin. I have something to say to you.”

  The young man stared at him, roused by Blood’s pregnant tone out of the mental lethargy into which he had of late been lapsing as a result of the dehumanizing life he lived. Then he nodded understanding and assent, and they moved apart.

  The six months of plantation life in Barbados had made an almost tragic mark upon the young seaman. His erstwhile bright alertness was all departed. His face was growing vacuous, his eyes were dull and lack-luster, and he moved in a cringing, furtive manner, like an over-beaten dog. He had survived the ill-nourishment, the excessive work on the sugar plantation under a pitiless sun, the lashes of the overseer’s whip when his labors flagged, and the deadly, unrelieved animal life to which he was condemned. But the price he was paying for survival was the usual price. He was in danger of becoming no better than an animal, of sinking to the level of the negroes who sometimes toiled beside him. The man, however, was still there, not yet dormant, but merely torpid from a surfeit of despair; and the man in him promptly shook off that torpidity and awoke at the first words Blood spoke to him that night—awoke and wept.

  “Escape?” he panted. “O God!” He took his head in his hands, and fell to sobbing like a child.

  “Sh! Steady now! Steady!” Blood admonished him in a whisper, alarmed by the lad’s blubbering. He crossed to Pitt’s side, and set a restraining hand upon his shoulder. “For God’s sake, command yourself. If we’re overheard we shall both be flogged for this.”

  Among the privileges enjoyed by Blood was that of a hut to himself, and they were alone in this. But, after all, it was built of wattles thinly plastered with mud, and its door was composed of bamboos, through which sound passed very easily. Though the stockade was locked for the night, and all within it asleep by now—it was after midnight—yet a prowling overseer was not impossible, and a sound of voices must lead to discovery. Pitt realized this, and controlled his outburst of emotion.

  Sitting close thereafter they talked in whispers for an hour or more, and all the while those dulled wits of Pitt’s were sharpening themselves anew upon this precious whetstone of hope. They would need to recruit others into their enterprise, a half-dozen at least, a half-score if possible, but no more than that. They must pick the best out of that score of survivors of the Monmouth men that Colonel Bishop had acquired. Men who understood the sea were desirable. But of these there were only two in that unfortunate gang, and their knowledge was none too full. They were Hagthorpe, a gentleman who had served in the Royal Navy, and Nicholas Dyke, who had been a petty officer in the late king’s time, and there was another who had been a gunner, a man named Ogle.

  It was agreed before they parted that Pitt should begin with these three and then proceed to recruit some six or eight others. He was to move with the utmost caution, sounding his men very carefully before making anything in the nature of a disclosure, and even then avoid rendering that disclosure so full that its betrayal might frustrate the plans which as yet had to be worked out in detail. Laboring with them in the plantations, Pitt would not want for opportunities of broaching the matter to his fellow-slaves.

  “Caution above everything,” was Blood’s last recommendation to him at parting. “Who goes slowly, goes safely, as the Italians have it. And remember that if you betray yourself, you ruin all, for you are the only navigator amongst us, and without you there is no escaping.”

  Pitt reassured him, and slunk off back to his own hut, and the straw that served him for a bed.


  Coming next morning to the wharf, Blood found Dr. Whacker in a generous mood. Having slept on the matter, he was prepared to advance the convict any sum up to thirty pounds that would enable him to acquire a boat capable of taking him away from the settlement. Blood expressed his thanks becomingly, betraying no sign that he saw clearly into the true reason of the other’s munificence.

  “It’s not money I’ll require,” said he, “but the boat itself. For who will be selling me a boat and incurring the penalties in Governor Steed’s proclamation? Ye’ll have read it, no doubt?”

  Dr. Whacker’s heavy face grew overcast. Thoughtfully he rubbed his chin. “I’ve read it—yes. And I dare not procure the boat for you. It would be discovered. It must be. And the penalty is a fine of two hundred pounds besides imprisonment. It would ruin me. You’ll see that?”

  The high hopes in Blood’s soul began to shrink. And the shadow of his despair overcast his face.

  “But then . . .” he faltered. “There is nothing to be done.”

  “Nay, nay: things are not so desperate.” Dr. Whacker smiled a little with tight lips. “I’ve thought of it. You will see that the man who buys the boat must be one of those who goes with you—so that he is not here to answer questions afterwards.”

  “But who is to go with me save men in my own case? What I cannot do, they cannot.”

  “There are others detained on the island besides slaves. There are several who are here for debt, and would be glad enough to spread their wings. There’s a fellow Nuttall, now, who follows the trade of a shipwright, whom I happen to know would welcome such a chance as you might afford him.”

  “But how should a debtor come with money to buy a boat? The question will be asked.”

  “To be sure it will. But if you contrive shrewdly, you’ll all be gone before that happens.”

  Blood nodded understanding, and the doctor, setting a hand upon his sleeve, unfolded the scheme he had conceived.

  “You shall have the money from me at once. Having received it, you’ll forget that it was I who supplied it to you. You have friends in England—relatives, perhaps—who sent it out to you through the agency of one of your Bridgetown patients, whose name as a man of honor you will on no account divulge lest you bring trouble upon him. That is your tale if there are questions.”