The Cinco Llagas and the Encarnacion, after a proper exchange of
signals, lay hove to within a quarter of a mile of each other, and
across the intervening space of gently heaving, sunlit waters sped a
boat from the former, manned by six Spanish seamen and bearing in her
stern sheets Don Esteban de Espinosa and Captain Peter Blood.
She also bore two treasure-chests containing fifty thousand pieces of
eight. Gold has at all times been considered the best of testimonies of
good faith, and Blood was determined that in all respects appearances
should be entirely on his side. His followers had accounted this
a supererogation of pretence. But Blood's will in the matter had
prevailed. He carried further a bulky package addressed to a grande
of Spain, heavily sealed with the arms of Espinosa--another piece of
evidence hastily manufactured in the cabin of the Cinco Llagas--and he
was spending these last moments in completing his instructions to his
young companion.
Don Esteban expressed his last lingering uneasiness:
“But if you should betray yourself?” he cried.
“It will be unfortunate for everybody. I advised your father to say a
prayer for our success. I depend upon you to help me more materially.”
“I will do my best. God knows I will do my best,” the boy protested.
Blood nodded thoughtfully, and no more was said until they bumped
alongside the towering mass of the Encarnadon. Up the ladder went
Don Esteban closely followed by Captain Blood. In the waist stood the
Admiral himself to receive them, a handsome, self-sufficient man,
very tall and stiff, a little older and greyer than Don Diego, whom he
closely resembled. He was supported by four officers and a friar in the
black and white habit of St. Dominic.
Don Miguel opened his arms to his nephew, whose lingering panic he
mistook for pleasurable excitement, and having enfolded him to his bosom
turned to greet Don Esteban's companion.
Peter Blood bowed gracefully, entirely at his ease, so far as might be
judged from appearances.
“I am,” he announced, making a literal translation of his name, “Don
Pedro Sangre, an unfortunate gentleman of Leon, lately delivered from
captivity by Don Esteban's most gallant father.” And in a few words
he sketched the imagined conditions of his capture by, and deliverance
from, those accursed heretics who held the island of Barbados.
“Benedicamus Domino,” said the friar to his tale.
“Ex hoc nunc et usque in seculum,” replied Blood, the occasional papist,
with lowered eyes.
The Admiral and his attending officers gave him a sympathetic hearing
and a cordial welcome. Then came the dreaded question.
“But where is my brother? Why has he not come, himself, to greet me?”
It was young Espinosa who answered this:
“My father is afflicted at denying himself that honour and pleasure. But
unfortunately, sir uncle, he is a little indisposed--oh, nothing grave;
merely sufficient to make him keep his cabin. It is a little fever, the
result of a slight wound taken in the recent raid upon Barbados, which
resulted in this gentleman's happy deliverance.”
“Nay, nephew, nay,” Don Miguel protested with ironic repudiation. “I can
have no knowledge of these things. I have the honour to represent upon
the seas His Catholic Majesty, who is at peace with the King of England.
Already you have told me more than it is good for me to know. I will
endeavour to forget it, and I will ask you, sirs,” he added, glancing at
his officers, “to forget it also.” But he winked into the twinkling
eyes of Captain Blood; then added matter that at once extinguished that
twinkle. “But since Diego cannot come to me, why, I will go across to
him.”
For a moment Don Esteban's face was a mask of pallid fear. Then Blood
was speaking in a lowered, confidential voice that admirably blended
suavity, impressiveness, and sly mockery.
“If you please, Don Miguel, but that is the very thing you must not
do--the very thing Don Diego does not wish you to do. You must not see
him until his wounds are healed. That is his own wish. That is the real
reason why he is not here. For the truth is that his wounds are not
so grave as to have prevented his coming. It was his consideration of
himself and the false position in which you would be placed if you had
direct word from him of what has happened. As your excellency has said,
there is peace between His Catholic Majesty and the King of England, and
your brother Don Diego....” He paused a moment. “I am sure that I need
say no more. What you hear from us is no more than a mere rumour. Your
excellency understands.”
His excellency frowned thoughtfully. “I understand... in part,” said he.
Captain Blood had a moment's uneasiness. Did the Spaniard doubt his bona
fides? Yet in dress and speech he knew himself to be impeccably Spanish,
and was not Don Esteban there to confirm him? He swept on to afford
further confirmation before the Admiral could say another word.
“And we have in the boat below two chests containing fifty thousand
pieces of eight, which we are to deliver to your excellency.”
His excellency jumped; there was a sudden stir among his officers.
“They are the ransom extracted by Don Diego from the Governor of....”
“Not another word, in the name of Heaven!” cried the Admiral in alarm.
“My brother wishes me to assume charge of this money, to carry it to
Spain for him? Well, that is a family matter between my brother and
myself. So, it can be done. But I must not know....” He broke off. “Hum!
A glass of Malaga in my cabin, if you please,” he invited them, “whilst
the chests are being hauled aboard.”
He gave his orders touching the embarkation of these chests, then led
the way to his regally appointed cabin, his four officers and the friar
following by particular invitation.
Seated at table there, with the tawny wine before them, and the servant
who had poured it withdrawn, Don Miguel laughed and stroked his pointed,
grizzled beard.
“Virgen santisima! That brother of mine has a mind that thinks of
everything. Left to myself, I might have committed a fine indiscretion
by venturing aboard his ship at such a moment. I might have seen things
which as Admiral of Spain it would be difficult for me to ignore.”
Both Esteban and Blood made haste to agree with him, and then Blood
raised his glass, and drank to the glory of Spain and the damnation of
the besotted James who occupied the throne of England. The latter part
of his toast was at least sincere.
The Admiral laughed.
“Sir, sir, you need my brother here to curb your imprudences. You should
remember that His Catholic Majesty and the King of England are very good
friends. That is not a toast to propose in this cabin. But since it has
been proposed, and by one who has such particular personal cause to hate
these English hounds, why, we will honour it--but unofficially.”
They laughed, and drank the damnation of King James--quite unofficially,
but the more fervently on that account. Then Don Esteban, uneasy on the
score of his father, and remembering that the agony of Don Diego was
being protracted with every moment that they left him in his dreadful
position, rose and announced that they must be returning.
“My father,” he explained, “is in haste to reach San Domingo. He desired
me to stay no longer than necessary to embrace you. If you will give us
leave, then, sir uncle.”
In the circumstances “sir uncle” did not insist.
As they returned to the ship's side, Blood's eyes anxiously scanned the
line of seamen leaning over the bulwarks in idle talk with the Spaniards
in the cock-boat that waited at the ladder's foot. But their manner
showed him that there was no ground for his anxiety. The boat's crew had
been wisely reticent.
The Admiral took leave of them--of Esteban affectionately, of Blood
ceremoniously.
“I regret to lose you so soon, Don Pedro. I wish that you could have
made a longer visit to the Encarnacion.”
“I am indeed unfortunate,” said Captain Blood politely.
“But I hope that we may meet again.”
“That is to flatter me beyond all that I deserve.”
They reached the boat; and she cast off from the great ship. As they
were pulling away, the Admiral waving to them from the taffrail,
they heard the shrill whistle of the bo'sun piping the hands to their
stations, and before they had reached the Cinco Llagas, they beheld the
Encarnacion go about under sail. She dipped her flag to them, and from
her poop a gun fired a salute.
Aboard the Cinco Llagas some one--it proved afterwards to be
Hagthorpe--had the wit to reply in the same fashion. The comedy was
ended. Yet there was something else to follow as an epilogue, a thing
that added a grim ironic flavour to the whole.
As they stepped into the waist of the Cinco Llagas, Hagthorpe advanced
to receive them. Blood observed the set, almost scared expression on his
face.
“I see that you've found it,” he said quietly.
Hagthorpe's eyes looked a question. But his mind dismissed whatever
thought it held.
“Don Diego...” he was beginning, and then stopped, and looked curiously
at Blood.
Noting the pause and the look, Esteban bounded forward, his face livid.
“Have you broken faith, you curs? Has he come to harm?” he cried--and
the six Spaniards behind him grew clamorous with furious questionings.
“We do not break faith,” said Hagthorpe firmly, so firmly that he
quieted them. “And in this case there was not the need. Don Diego died
in his bonds before ever you reached the Encarnacion.”
Peter Blood said nothing.
“Died?” screamed Esteban. “You killed him, you mean. Of what did he
die?”
Hagthorpe looked at the boy. “If I am a judge,” he said, “Don Diego died
of fear.”
Don Esteban struck Hagthorpe across the face at that, and Hagthorpe
would have struck back, but that Blood got between, whilst his followers
seized the lad.
“Let be,” said Blood. “You provoked the boy by your insult to his
father.”
“I was not concerned to insult,” said Hagthorpe, nursing his cheek. “It
is what has happened. Come and look.”
“I have seen,” said Blood. “He died before I left the Cinco Llagas. He
was hanging dead in his bonds when I spoke to him before leaving.”
“What are you saying?” cried Esteban.
Blood looked at him gravely. Yet for all his gravity he seemed almost to
smile, though without mirth.
“If you had known that, eh?” he asked at last. For a moment Don Esteban
stared at him wide-eyed, incredulous. “I don't believe you,” he said at
last.
“Yet you may. I am a doctor, and I know death when I see it.”
Again there came a pause, whilst conviction sank into the lad's mind.
“If I had known that,” he said at last in a thick voice, “you would be
hanging from the yardarm of the Encarnacion at this moment.”
“I know,” said Blood. “I am considering it--the profit that a man may
find in the ignorance of others.”
“But you'll hang there yet,” the boy raved.
Captain Blood shrugged, and turned on his heel. But he did not on that
account disregard the words, nor did Hagthorpe, nor yet the others
who overheard them, as they showed at a council held that night in the
cabin.
This council was met to determine what should be done with the Spanish
prisoners. Considering that Curacao now lay beyond their reach, as
they were running short of water and provisions, and also that Pitt was
hardly yet in case to undertake the navigation of the vessel, it had
been decided that, going east of Hispaniola, and then sailing along
its northern coast, they should make for Tortuga, that haven of the
buccaneers, in which lawless port they had at least no danger of
recapture to apprehend. It was now a question whether they should convey
the Spaniards thither with them, or turn them off in a boat to make the
best of their way to the coast of Hispaniola, which was but ten miles
off. This was the course urged by Blood himself.
“There's nothing else to be done,” he insisted. “In Tortuga they would
be flayed alive.”
“Which is less than the swine deserve,” growled Wolverstone.
“And you'll remember, Peter,” put in Hagthorpe, “that boy's threat to
you this morning. If he escapes, and carries word of all this to his
uncle, the Admiral, the execution of that threat will become more than
possible.”
It says much for Peter Blood that the argument should have left him
unmoved. It is a little thing, perhaps, but in a narrative in which
there is so much that tells against him, I cannot--since my story is
in the nature of a brief for the defence--afford to slur a circumstance
that is so strongly in his favour, a circumstance revealing that the
cynicism attributed to him proceeded from his reason and from a brooding
over wrongs rather than from any natural instincts. “I care nothing for
his threats.”
“You should,” said Wolverstone. “The wise thing'd be to hang him, along
o' all the rest.”
“It is not human to be wise,” said Blood. “It is much more human to
err, though perhaps exceptional to err on the side of mercy. We'll be
exceptional. Oh, faugh! I've no stomach for cold-blooded killing. At
daybreak pack the Spaniards into a boat with a keg of water and a sack
of dumplings, and let them go to the devil.”
That was his last word on the subject, and it prevailed by virtue of the
authority they had vested in him, and of which he had taken so firm a
grip. At daybreak Don Esteban and his followers were put off in a boat.
Two days later, the Cinco Llagas sailed into the rock-bound bay of
Cayona, which Nature seemed to have designed for the stronghold of those
who had appropriated it.