THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE
In the first flood of his astonishment the Frenchman lost countenance
and fell back upon the entrance of the cabin. He forgot the efficiency
of his disguise. In London he had worn the mustachio, smooth chin, and
perruque; and the deft touches of poor Vigot had given him a name for a
beau which no art of the tailor alone could have bestowed. All of these
were lacking in the rough garments that he wore. When last my lady had
seen him it had been in the laces, orders, and all the accouterments
of a man of fashion, as befitted his station. Now the deep shadows
which the fog of battle had painted under his brows and eyes served a
purpose as effectual as the growth of his hair and beard. For no sign
passed the lady’s features, though she looked fair at him. A momentary
wonder there was, as the Frenchman paused; then a mute and pallid
supplication. Two Spanish women fell heavily upon their knees before
him, demeaning themselves in every conceivable manner for a look or a
word that would lull their apprehension and alarm.
It was not until then that Cornbury saw Mistress Clerke. She looked at
him blankly; but he, swearing audibly, fled past Bras-de-Fer to the
door.
“Bedad!” he muttered--“the lady in the play!” and vanished into the
passage.
Cast upon himself, Bras-de-Fer halted and stammered again. He was
daunted by that cold, gray eye, and discovered an inquietude and
trepidation greater than he had felt in the presence of a company
of pikemen. He wiped his sword and thrust it into its scabbard with
something of an air of the blusterer, fumbled at the collar at his
throat, and with a gesture tossed back the curls from his brow, finally
taking refuge in the women at his knees from that chill glance which
seemed to read and reproach him. Then, learning that his identity was
still unrevealed, he plucked up courage, and, releasing himself,
coldly but with a certain gallantry bowed to the gray-haired Spanish
lady who had been the most timorous in her embraces.
“Your fear, señora, pays neither me nor my ship a compliment,” he said,
coolly. “Your _San Isidro_ is of a nation that of late has proved
itself the enemy of my King upon the sea. I have taken her in honorable
battle, and--”
Here Jacquard, leering wickedly, the personification of the very thing
the women most feared, with Yan Gratz and a dozen pikes, came rushing
in at the door, rendering at naught his amiable intentions, for the
women fell to screaming again, and Mistress Clerke raised her pistolet
to her breast, it seemed, in the very act of firing. With a hoarse cry
Bras-de-Fer quelled the turmoil and sent Jacquard and the men growling
back upon the deck; but it was some moments before the qualms of the
women were relieved and quiet and order brought out of the tumult.
“Señor, what you say may be true,” said the patriarch who had sought
to defend himself, “but not all who bear the warrant of the King of
England have so honest a notion of warfare in these waters. What proof
have we of your integrity?”
Bras-de-Fer tossed his head with a touch of the old hauteur. He looked
past the gray-beard to the casement window, where the last glimmer of
the western light was burnishing her hair to gold. He saw only the fair
head of the woman who had discredited him, scorned and spurned him as
though he had been as low as the very thing he now appeared. The lips
grew together in a hard line that had in it a touch of cruelty.
“It is not the custom of officers of the King,” he said, “to give
proofs of integrity to prisoners of war. I offer no proof but my word.
I shall do with you as I see fit to do.” And stationing two pikemen at
the door of the cabin, he went upon the deck, filled with the thought
which almost drove from his mind the serious business of bringing the
wreck to rights and mending his own affairs.
There was much to be done before the _Sally_ and her huge captive
could be brought out into the safety of the broad ocean, away from
this dangerous proximity to the Havana. But Bras-de-Fer set himself
resolutely to the task, and, putting beside him all but the matter in
hand, with a fine, seaman-like sense brought order out of the tangle
and wreck of rigging both upon his own vessel and the Spaniard.
The night had come on apace, and with it a rising wind which ground the
vessels together in a manner which threatened to make them the more
vulnerable to the assaults of the sea. The business of shifting the
valuable part of the cargo was going swiftly forward under great flares
and ship’s lanterns, which were stuck in the bulwarks and hung from the
chains and rigging. Bras-de-Fer, a black shade against the lurid glow,
stood with folded arms and downcast eyes at a commanding eminence upon
the poop, watching the struggling, dusky, gnomelike figures below him.
A hoarse order rang from his lips now and then, which was echoed down
into the bowels of his own vessel and mingled with the cries and oaths
of the fellows below. Blocks creaked above, and the swaying bales
and chests, growing for a moment into fiery patches against the sooty
darkness behind them, swept over the bulwarks and into gray shadow
again, when they were speedily borne down into the gaping black maws of
the brig.
A pale and sibilant presence rustled from the shadows of the
mizzen-mast behind Bras-de-Fer. Trembling in limb and more pallid even
than the white frock that enfolded her, Mistress Barbara, in a ferment
of uncertainty, unattended and unguarded, had crept resolutely and with
indomitable courage past the guard at the cabin door to the side of
the conqueror of _San Isidro_. So frail and slender a thing she was,
emerging pale and spectral into the glare of the torches, that at the
touch of her halting hand upon his arm he started with a quick intaking
of the breath and sought his weapon. But when the light glowed upon the
brow and hair, and he saw, his hand dropped to his side and he bowed
his head to hide his features. With a gesture of annoyance designed to
serve the same end, he turned away towards the bulwarks.
“No, no,” she began, pleadingly; “you must hear me. I am English, like
the King you serve. At your hands I have every right to consideration.”
“You sail in parlous times, madame,” he replied, coldly, striving to
disguise his voice.
“Listen, sir. I have braved danger of insult, and worse, to come hither
to-night. But there is something--I cannot tell what--which says that
you will deal fairly.”
“Your confidence, I trust, is not ill-placed,” with averted head.
“Your manner of speaking betrays that you are French. Nay, do not turn
away, monsieur. If you are not English, you serve an English master,
and that should be the guarantee of all honesty.”
“Honesty is as honesty does,” he replied, turning with more assurance
to address her. And then, “You come a cool dove of peace in time of hot
war, madame. You have no place in such a scene as this.”
“Give me a word, sir, and I will go.”
His gaze was fixed blankly upon the starless vacancy. “I can promise
nothing, madame. It is the fortune of war ... or fate.” The last he
murmured half below his breath.
“You will take us to Jamaica, monsieur--not the Tortugas--say it will
not be the Tortugas!”
“The Tortugas are the lair of the _piratos_. If I am such, it were
useless further to converse. A pirate has small stomach for mercy--much
for requital.”
Puzzled somewhat, she grasped her wrap more closely and drew back in
dismay. “What do you mean? That you will have no pity, that--” She
paused as she saw his bitter smile, stepping a pace back from him in
horror.
But the cruel pleasure he had in torturing her, at the sight of her
dread and fear was pleasure no longer.
“Madame, forgive me,” he said, with a carefully studied frankness.
“I have only said I can make no promises. There are two vessels, and
I cannot be upon both. The wind even now is rising, and soon we must
be parting company. But I will do for you and for the Spanish lady,
your friend, what I may; and now”--bending over her with all his old
grace--“now, if madame will permit me, I will conduct her to the cabin.”
The speech, the very words, the very gesture, the very modulations
of the voice--where had she heard them before? A hurried winging of
thought brought the swaying of colored lanterns--a garden--a graveled
walk--a perfumed night; and while she still looked in wonder, a
boisterous puff of wind flared up the torch on the mast and tossed his
wide-brimmed hat back upon his head so that she saw a scar upon his
temple.
She peered straight forward and he turned his head in vain.
“Good God!” she cried. “This! Is it this?”
It was too late to continue the concealment, had he wished to do so.
Then, while he in turn was peering at her, startled at the lively
expression of horror in her eyes--a horror at his condition and plainly
not at himself--she covered her face with her fingers and bowed her
head into them, not shrinkingly in loathing as he might have expected
from the woman he had left in London, but in an anguish as of
penitence, the impotence of a child at the reproof of an angry parent,
in contrition, remorse, or humiliation. He could not understand. But,
straightening himself with a stern dignity, which sat well upon him, he
replied in a tone so low that its vibrant note barely reached her ears.
“This, madame, ... even this.”
When she looked up at him again it was with clear, level, unflinching
eyes.
“Monsieur--” she began, haltingly.
But he held up his hand. “I had hoped to have withdrawn ere this upon
my own ship and to have left you.”
“Thank God that you did not. I would atone to you for many things.
Could you have deserted us? You owe me a greater debt of humiliation
and abasement than you can ever hope to pay. But would you abandon us
to that crew of demons below! Ah,” she shuddered; “it is a vengeance
worthy of the name.”
“Madame, the sparks of such hatred as that you bear for me are best
unfed to flame. You shall be adequately guarded upon the _San Isidro_.
But before dawn I and my ship will have sailed--”
“No, no,” she broke in. “You must not. You cannot leave--”
The woman in her rebelled at the thought that he could find it possible
to do what he promised.
“_Must_ and _can_ are strong words.” He smiled coldly. “There is no
_must_ or _can_ upon the _San Isidro_ but mine. The _convenances_ of
St. James’s Square are not those of the Spanish Main, madame.”
But the evil she had wrought in this man’s life, though she had wrought
it unconsciously, gave her a new humility. She had done and dared much
already. She would not go back.
“I pray you, monsieur, in the name of that mother you once swore by--in
the name of all the things you hold most holy--I pray that you will
heed my prayer. Take, at least, the Señorita de Batteville upon your
vessel. Take us from the faces of the men at the cabin door who leer
and grin at us with a too horrid import.”
A frown crossed the Frenchman’s features.
“These men will be upon the _Saucy Sally_.”
“But you, monsieur, will be there--you will not permit--”
“Madame has a too generous confidence in my competency.”
“Ah, it is for you to be generous. A man who can win so great a victory
can afford to be kind.” She put her hands forward in the act of
supplication, and in doing so the wrap slipped from the shoulder and
arm it had so scrupulously hidden. A cloth, dull and blurred with red,
was wrapped half-way between the elbow and the shoulder. When he saw
that dark patch, his cool composure fell from him like a mantle and he
bent forward eagerly, all his perceptions aquiver with sensibility.
“Sainte Vierge!” he whispered. “How came you by that?”
“It is nothing,” she said, drawing back at his ardor. “A scratch of
broken glass. That is all.”
He bent to the deck for the erring silk. “I did not know,” he
stammered, his voice mellow with sympathy. “I did not know. Forgive me,
madame.”
“There is nothing to forgive. It is the fortune of war.”
“Is it painful? I am something of a chirurgeon. Let me--” He looked her
in the face, and then drew back in a mingling of confusion and pride.
“It is nothing, I tell you,” she broke in, with a stamp of the foot.
“Nothing. I do not even feel it.” And when she had enwrapped it again
she lowered her voice until it trembled with the earnestness of her
entreaty. “Have pity, monsieur--pity!”
The Frenchman had turned away and was looking out into the moonless
night. The slender white hand stole faltering forward until it rested
upon the coarse sleeve of his coat.
“Take me with you, monsieur. Take me aboard the _Saucy Sally_.”
And still looking out to sea, he replied, in a voice gruff and rugged,
which did not avail to hide a generous courtesy beneath:
“It shall be as you wish, madame. Bid the señorita prepare at once.”
And in a moment, when he looked again, she was gone.
How was it that the thread of this woman’s life had become entangled
again with his? Could it be that the hand which controlled his destiny
had wrought these miracles in his strange career in a mere sport or
purposeless plan? Could it be that, two grains of sand afloat on the
winds of life’s desert, they had met, parted, and come together again?
In the infinity of wide ocean he had gone adrift upon the tide of
another life with nothing but his memories to bind him to the old. But
sure as metal to its loadstone his vessel had been driven, in spite of
wind and the raging of the sea, with an unerring certainty into the
very path of the _San Isidro_. How was she, the toast of London, the
bright particular planet in that bright firmament, divested of all
the bright luster of her constellation, alone and all but friendless,
adrift in these wild waters? How came this gay paradise bird, despoiled
of its plumage, in so foreign a clime? Why had she left London? Had
some convulsion of her starry sky cast her down from her high seat?
Where was Captain Ferrers? Were they become estranged? What had come of
the papers? The enigma grew in complexity. Her speech had puzzled him.
Why had she been thankful to have found him? Was it the joy of learning
that her captor was one who had not sunk so low that he could do the
vile deeds she had feared of him? What atonement was it she offered?
And for what? His heart leaped wildly, only to shrink again to a dull,
drowsy beat. What did it mean? Nothing, or anything; conciliation,
mock humility--a sop to Cerberus. Bah! He was done with hope. There,
a shadow of disconsolation, he stood, fixed and nerveless, struggling
against the soft, cajoling hand-maidens of Virtue--Gentleness, Beauty,
Reverence, Love--personified in this woman, whom, try as he might, he
could not pluck from his life.
The pale light of dawn found him where he watched until the transshipping
was done, and the cases of coin, the silks and plate, were stowed safely
below. The fitful wind, which had tossed up a restless sea, was now
become so boisterous that the grappling irons were cast off and the
_Saucy Sally_ drifted away from the Spaniard and hung with a backed
mainsail a half-cable’s length under her lee. The prisoners of the
_San Isidro_ had been carefully secured below and a prize crew of
Jacquard, Cornbury, and thirty men had been placed upon her to bring the
wreck into port. She was sound enough below. But the rigging, in spite
of all their endeavors, was still a mere tangle of useless gearing. The
sails drew on the jury-masts, and together, with gathering impetus, the
two vessels moved slowly out into the growing light of the East.
The wisdom of the efforts of Bras-de-Fer in removing to the handier
vessel the most movable of the priceless freight was soon apparent.
For there, dull patches upon the southern sky, were the sails of two
large vessels bearing smartly up under the stress of the fine westerly
wind. Hoarse curses rang forth, and fists were wildly brandished
towards the approaching ships, which, as it was plainly to be seen,
were Spanish men-of-war, aroused to alertness by the cannonading at
sunset and the night-long flares. It would have been hopeless for
Bras-de-Fer to try and bring both vessels clear away, for the unwieldly
prize rolled heavily in the rising swell and made scarce a bubble
under the forefoot. And in her damaged condition, with crippled spars
and many guns out of service, the _Sally_ could hardly hope to repeat
her success over the _San Isidro_ with two war vessels fresh from the
Havana. The weight of argument lay upon the side of his defeat with the
loss of all that he had gained. There were two alternatives--to remain
with the _San Isidro_ and fight it out to the last, or take his prize
crew aboard the _Sally_ and abandon the _San Isidro_ and her prisoners
to her compatriots.
Bras-de-Fer chose the latter. There was only time to effect the change.
He called Jacquard and his master-at-arms and the prize crew aboard
their own vessel, and, clapping all sail upon the _Saucy Sally_ that
she could carry in safety, sailed clear away and abandoned the huge
hulk to the approaching enemy.