“BRAS-DE-FER”
And so for the present it was settled. Monsieur Mornay sought rest
vainly, and crept upon deck at the first flashing of the sun upon the
horizon. The _Sally_, dressed in a full suit of cloths upon both her
masts, went courtesying upon her course with a fine show of white about
her bows and under her counter. The brig was not inaptly named, for
there was an impudence in the rake of her masts and in the way she wore
her canvas which belied her reputation for a sober and honest-dealing
merchantman. There was a suggestion of archness, too, in the way her
slender stem curved away from the caresses of the leaping foam which
danced rosy and warm with the dawn to give her greeting, and a touch
of gallantry in the tosses and swayings of her prow and head as they
nodded up and down, the very soul of careless coquetry. But now and
then an opalescent sea, more venturesome and intrepid than his fellows,
would catch her full in the bluff of the bows and go a-flying over her
forecastle in a shower of spume and water-drops, which in the golden
light turned into jewels of many hues and went flying across the deck
to be carried down to the cool, translucent deeps under her lee. But
she shook herself free with a disdainful, sweeping toss and set her
broad bows out towards the open, where the colors were ever growing
deeper and the winds more rude and boisterous, as though she recked not
how impetuous the buffets of the storm, how turbulent the caresses of
the sea.
Something of the exhilaration of the old life came upon Monsieur
Mornay as he sent a seaman-like eye aloft at the straining canvases.
The _Sally_ was leaving the narrows and making for the broad reaches
where the Channel grew into the wide ocean. Far away over his larboard
quarter, growing ever dimmer in the eastern mist of the morning,
was the coast of France, the land where he was born, where he had
suffered and struggled to win the good name he thought his birth
had denied him. On his right, slipping rapidly astern, was England,
where he had come to crown his labors with a new renown, and where
he had only squandered that favor he had passed so many years of
stress in winning--squandered it for a fancy that now was like some
half-forgotten dream. It seemed only yesterday that he had been
standing there upon a vessel of his own, looking out to sea. A year
had passed since he had given up the command of the _Dieu Merci_ and
gone to Paris--a year of reckless abandon to pleasure at the gay court
of Charles, a year in which he had lived and forgotten what had gone
before, a year in which he had been born into the life that was his
by every right. A dream? Yes, a dream. It was a rough awakening. He
looked down at his rough clothing--his baggy, red trousers, with the
tawdry brass buttons, his loose, coarse shirt and rough boots, the
rudest slops that the brig provided; he felt of his short hair under
the woolen cap, and he wondered if this could be himself, the Chevalier
Mornay; the cock of the bird-cage walk, friend of princes and the
intimate of a king! Astern, across the swirling wake, lay the city of
pleasure, but the bitter smile that came into his face had none of the
rancor of hatred. It spoke rather of failure, of disappointment, of
things forsaken and unachieved.
From these reflections he was surprised by the sound of a voice at his
elbow. There, beside him, stood a fat man munching at a sea-biscuit.
His face, in consonance with the body, was round and flabby, but
there the consistency ended, for in color it was gray, like a piece
of mildewed sail-cloth. The distinguishing feature of his person was
his nose, which, round and inflamed, shone like a beacon in the middle
of his pallid physiognomy. His voice was lost in the immensity of his
frame, for when he spoke it seemed to come from a long distance, as
though choked in the utterance by the layers of flesh which hung from
his chin and throat. The pucker which did duty for a frown upon his
brow became a fat knot.
“You vhos a passenger upon dis schip, hey?” he said, with well-considered
sarcasm. “You vhos a passenger? You t’ink you make dis voyage to America
und do noding, eh? By Cott! we’ll see about dot.” And all the while he
kept munching at the sea-biscuit, and Monsieur Mornay stood leaning
against the rail watching him. “You vhos a French duke or someding,
ain’t it? Vell, ve vant none of de royal family aboardt de _Saucy Sally_.
Und vhen I, or de capdain, or Shacky Shackart gif de orders, you joomp,
or, py Cott! I’ll know vy not!”
But still Mornay looked at him, smiling. He was in a reckless mood, and
welcomed any opportunity that took him out of himself.
“Vell,” the Dutchman asked, his little, thin voice grown shrill with
rising temper, “vy don’t you moofe? Vy you standt looking at me?” And,
rushing suddenly forward, he aimed a blow of his heavy boot at Mornay,
which, had it reached its destination, must have wrought a grave injury
to the Frenchman. So great an impetus had it that, not finding the
expected resistance, the foot flew high in the air. But the Frenchman
was not there. He had stepped quickly aside, and, deftly catching the
heel of the boot in his hand, threw the surprised Dutchman completely
off his balance, so that he fell, a sprawling mass of squirming fat,
upon the deck. The commotion had drawn a number of the crew aft, and
the captain, reeling uncertainly to the roll of the vessel, came
blinking and puffing up the after-ladder. By this time the Dutchman had
struggled to an upright posture and came rushing upon Mornay again, all
arms and legs, sputtering and furious.
But the captain, no matter how deep in drink, was a person with the
shrewdest sense of his importance upon a ship of his own. He was
jealous of all blows not aimed by his own sturdy fist, and it was his
fancy that none should strike any but himself. It was therefore with a
sense of his outraged office that he rushed between the two men, and
with his bulky body and long arms averted the windmill attack of the
burly Dutchman.
“Mutiny, by ----, and not hout of soundings! Stand fast, Gratz! Stand
fast, I say! Hi’ll do the billy-coddling on this ship. Stand, I say!
Now, what is it?”
Gratz stepped forward a pace and spat. “Yaw! I gif her orders. And she
stumpled me packwards upon de deck.”
“What!” roared the captain. “Soho! we’ll see!” and he seized a pin from
the rail. The situation was threatening. Winch was already striding
forward, and his upraised pin seemed about to descend upon the luckless
Mornay when Jacquard interposed a long, bony arm.
“Fair play, Billee Winch! You’ll slaughter the man!”
“Out of the way!”
“Fair play, I say, Billee Winch!” Jacquard stood his ground and only
gripped the captain the tighter. “Fair play, Billee Winch, I tell you!
Gratz fell over his own feet. I saw it. Listen to me.”
The captain paused a moment. The lie had distracted him, and in that
pause Jacquard saw safety. The captain looked blearily at Mornay, who
had made no move to defend himself, but stood with little sign of
discomposure, awaiting the outcome of the difficulty.
“If Monsieur le Capitaine will but allow me--”
“By Cott,” broke in Gratz, “you shall not!” and made a wild effort to
strike Mornay again. But this time Jacquard caught him and twisted him
safely out of the way.
“By the Devil’s Pot!” roared Winch, “am I in command, or am I not?” He
raised his weapon this time towards Gratz, who cowered away as though
he feared the blow would fall.
“If Monsieur le Capitaine will allow me,” began Mornay again, politely,
“I would take it as a pleasure--”
“You!” sneered the captain, with a kind of laugh. “You! Why, Frenchman,
Yan Gratz will make three of ye. He’ll eat ye skin an’ bones.”
Jacquard smiled a little. “_Voilà!_ Billee Winch,” he cried, “the way
out of your difficulty: a little circle upon the deck, a falchion or a
half-pike--fair play for all, and--”
“Yaw! yaw! Fair play! fair play!” yelled the crew, rejoicing at the
prospect of the sport.
Billy Winch blinked a bleared and bloodshot eye at Jacquard and
Mornay, and then a wide smile broke the sluggish surface of the skin
into numberless wrinkles.
“If ye’ll have it that way,” he grinned, “ye’ll be stuck like a sheep.
But ’twill save me trouble. So fight away, my bully, an’ be dammed to
ye!”
Immediately a ring was formed, into which the combatants were speedily
pushed. Gratz laughed in his shrillest choked falsetto, while he threw
off his coat and leered at the Frenchman. The huge bulk of the man
was the more apparent when his coat had been removed, for in spite of
his girth and fat his limbs were set most sturdily in his body, and
though the muscles of his arms moved slothfully beneath the skin, it
was easily to be seen that this was a most formidable antagonist. That
he himself considered his task a rare sport, which would still further
enhance his reputation among the crew, was easily to be perceived in
the way he looked at Monsieur Mornay. And in this opinion he was not
alone, for even Cornbury, who had pressed closely to the Frenchman’s
side, wore a look which showed how deep was his concern over his
friend’s predicament. Only Jacquard, of all those who stood about, felt
no fear for Mornay. Upon the _Dieu Merci_ he had seen the chevalier
do a prodigy of strength and skill which had settled a mutiny once
and for all, and had earned him a title which had given him a greater
reputation in the Marine of France than all the distinctions which the
King had seen fit to bestow. And as Jacquard looked at him, slim and
not over-tall, but cool and deliberate, as upon his own deck three
years ago, the Frenchman became again “René Bras-de-Fer,” “René the
Iron Arm,” who fought for the love of fighting only, and who knew
nothing of fear on sea or land.
That superiority in men which in spite of every adverse circumstance
will not be denied shone so conspicuously in the face and figure of
the Frenchman that the row of hairy faces about him looked in wonder.
There was a rough jest or two, for Yan Gratz had won his way from the
bowsprit aft by buffets and blows, and had waxed fat in the operation.
To them he was the very living embodiment of a fighting devil of the
sea. But many of them saw something in the cool, impassive expression
of the Frenchman--a something which had won him friends (and enemies)
before this, and were silent.
The Frenchman, with a quiet deliberation, rolled the sleeves of his
shirt above his elbows and took the half-pike that was thrust into
his hands. It has been said that the Chevalier Mornay was not above
the medium height, nor, with the exception of an arm which might have
seemed a little too long to be in perfect proportion, gave in his
appearance any striking evidence of especial physical prowess. He
had been known in London for a graceful and ready sword, and in his
few encounters he had never received so much as a scratch. But even
Gratz was stricken with wonderment at the appearance of the forearm,
which his wide sleeves had so effectually concealed. The arm of the
chevalier, as he brought his pike into a posture of defense, showed a
more remarkable degree of development than he had ever seen before in
any man--Frenchman or Englishman--of his stature. The legs, strong and
straight as they were, with a generous bulge at the calf, betrayed
nothing of this wonderful arm, which, swelling from a strong though
not unslender wrist, rose in fine layers of steel-like ligament,
tangled and knotted like the limbs of an oak. And up above the elbow
the falling cotton shirt scarcely hid the sturdy bulk of muscle which
swelled and trembled as the fingers moved the weapon down upon guard
to resist the furious attack of the Hollander. Gratz prided himself no
less upon his use of the pike than upon his use of his fists and boots,
and, thinking to end the matter in a summary fashion, which might
atone for his somewhat awkward fall upon the deck, he began thrusting
hotly and with a skill which had hitherto availed his purposes. But
he soon discovered that with this Frenchman, whom he had so hardily
challenged, he was to have no advantage either in the reach or in
the knowledge of the game. Mornay’s play, he quickly learned, was to
allow him completely to exhaust himself. This, instead of teaching him
caution, only increased his fury, so that at the end of a few moments
of fruitless exertion he found himself puffing like a great grampus,
the perspiration pouring blindingly into his eyes and down his arms,
until his fat hands grew moist and slipped uncertainly upon the handle
of his weapon.
The cloud that had hung upon Cornbury’s face at the beginning of the
combat had disappeared, and with a childish delight in the clash of
arms he watched his friend slowly but surely steal away the offensive
power of the Dutchman, whose look of confidence had been replaced by a
lightness of eye and a quivering of the forehead and lips which denoted
the gravest quandary of uncertainty. Monsieur Mornay was breathing
rapidly, but his brows were as level, his eye as clear, his hand as
steady as when he had begun.
In a few moments the struggle which had promised such dire results
became a farce. The Frenchman had suddenly assumed the offensive, and,
beating down the guard of the other, began pricking him gently, with
rare skill and discrimination, in different conspicuous parts of his
anatomy. The chevalier’s weapon was sharp, and the skin of Yan Gratz
was tender, but so nicely were the thrusts of the Frenchman tempered
to the occasion that they did no more than draw a small quantity of
blood at each place, which oozed forth in patches upon his moist and
clinging shirt, so that he presently resembled some huge, spotted
animal of an unknown species which disaster might have driven from his
fastnesses in the deep. It would have been a remarkable exhibition of
skill with a cut-and-thrust sword or a rapier, but with a half-pike it
was little less than marvelous.
Yan Gratz struggled on, his tired arms vainly striving against the
Frenchman’s assaults. Once, when the Dutchman had been disarmed,
Monsieur Mornay generously allowed him to regain his weapon, choosing
the advantage of Yan Gratz’s posture, however, to complete the circle
of his punctures by a prick in the seat of his honor, which quickly
straightened him again.
When the game had gone far enough, and the pallid pasty face of Yan
Gratz was so suffused that it looked little less red than his nose or
the blood upon his shirt, and his gasps for breath were become so
short that they threatened to come no more at all, Monsieur Mornay
threw his weapon down upon the deck and, breathing deeply, folded his
arms and stood at rest.
“Mynheer,” he said, “it was a mistake to have begun. I am the best
half-pikeman in France.”
The Dutchman blinked at him with his small pig-eyes, out of which
the bitterness of his humiliation flashed and sparkled in a wild and
vengeful light. The Frenchman turned his back to pass beyond the
circle of grinning men who had not scrupled to hide their delight and
admiration at his prowess in vanquishing their bully. But Gratz, whose
exhaustion even could not avail to curb his fury, put all the small
store of his remaining energy into a savage rush, which he directed
full at the back of the retiring Frenchman. A cry arose, and Mornay
would have been transfixed had not Cornbury intercepted the cowardly
thrust by a nimble foot, over which the Dutchman stumbled and fell
sprawling into the scuppers. The point of his weapon grazed the arm
of Mornay and stuck quivering in the deck, a yard beyond where he
had stood. Jacquard rushed to the prostrate figure in a fury at his
treachery, but the man made no sign or effort to arise.
“By the ’Oly Rood! A craven stroke!” cried the captain, fetching the
Dutchman a resounding kick, which brought forth a feeble groan. “Get
up!” he roared. “Get up an’ go forward. Hods-niggars! we want none but
honest blows among shipmates.”
Yan Gratz struggled to his feet and stumbled heavily down into the
deck-house. Jacquard was grinning from ear to ear. If he had planned
the combat himself, the result could not have been more to his liking.
The favor of Billy Winch was no small thing to win, and Monsieur Mornay
had chosen the nearest road to his heart. The captain, after hurling a
parting curse at the Dutchman’s figure, slouched over to Mornay.
“Zounds! but ye ’ave a ’and for the pike, my bully. ’Ave ye aught o’
seamanship? If ye know your hangles, ye’re the very figure of a mate
for _Saucy Sally_, for we want no more o’ ’IM,” and he jerked his
finger in the direction taken by Yan Gratz.
Mornay laughed. “I’ve had the deck of a taller ship than _Saucy
Sally_.” Billy Winch grasped Mornay by the hand right heartily.
“Come, what d’ye say? Me an’ Jacky Jacquard an’ you. We three aft.
We’ve need o’ ye. Zounds! but ye’ve the useful thrust an’ parry.” Then
he roared with laughter. “An’ I’m mistaken if ye’re not as ’andy a liar
as a pikeman. I’ve seen the play of the best in the French Marine, and
Captain René Mornay would have a word to say with ye as to who’s the
best half-pikeman in France.”
Jacquard held his sides to better contain himself; his mouth opened
widely and his little eyes were quite closed with the excess of his
delight. Mornay and Cornbury smiled a little, and the Frenchman said,
with composure:
“Perhaps. Monsieur le Capitaine Mornay and I are not strangers. But he
holds his reputation so low and I mine so high, that I cannot bring
myself to fight him.”
Here Jacquard could no longer contain himself.
“Can you not see farther than the end of your bowsprit, Billee Winch?”
he cried; and while the captain wondered, “Can you not see, stupid
fish?--’tis Bras-de-Fer himself!”
Blackbeard fell back a step or two in his amazement, while a murmur
swept over the crew, who, loath to leave the scene, had remained
interested listeners to the colloquy.
“What! René the Iron Arm aboard the _Sally_?” said the captain,
approaching the Frenchman again. “Soho! Though, by St. Paul’s--ye’re
not unlike-- An’ with a wig an’ doublet-- ’Pon my soul, Jacky Jacquard,
but I believe ’tis the truth. Say, is it so, master?”
“I am René Mornay,” said the Frenchman.
“Soho!” he roared in delight. “Then _Sally_ shall give ye meat and
drink and make a bed to ye. An’ when ye will she’ll set ye ashore in
France. Or, if ye care for the clashin’ of arms, she’ll show ye the
path of the galleons o’ Spain. Come, let’s below and drink to a better
understanding.”
It was thus that Monsieur Mornay sailed forth for the Spanish Main.