MAROONED
Jacquard conducted Mistress Barbara aft to the cabin until the boat
could be prepared. And Monsieur silently followed, his eyes dim with
tears at the loss of this friend to whose helpful skill both he and
Mistress Barbara owed their lives. When they were safe within, Jacquard
blurted forth:
“It was the best I could do, monsieur, the very best I could do. The
danger is not yet past. There is no safety for you or madame upon the
same ship with Yan Gratz.”
Bras-de-Fer silently wrung his hands.
“It is a desperate journey for a lady tried already to the point of
breaking, Jacquard. If they would but land us--”
“Ah, monsieur. It were madness to try them again. Have you not seen
their temper?”
“No, no, monsieur, I am strong!” cried Barbara. “See! I am strong. Let
us leave this dreadful charnel-ship. If I must die, let it be alone
upon the broad ocean. That at least is clean of evil intent.”
“Nay, madame,” continued the Frenchman. “If they would but sail us--”
“No, no. Let us go at once. I can meet death bravely if need be, but
not here.”
“Monsieur, it will not be so bad,” broke in Jacquard. “The sea has gone
down, and, although a long swell is running, it is low and smooth. A
fair breeze draws from the west. The pinnace is stanch. The day is
young. By the morrow you should raise the palms of Guanahani above the
sea. I shall see you well provided with food, water, and weapons. Upon
San Salvador are friendly Caribs, and in due course--”
“_Mon ami_,” said Bras-de-Fer at last, “you are right. Were it not
for madame, perhaps, I should yet make some small effort to establish
myself upon the _Sally_. They have beaten me, but I am grieving little.
I have no stomach for this life, my friend. The letting of blood in
any but honest warfare sickens me and turns me to water. I leave the
dogs without regret. But you, you and my gallant Cornbury.” He paused a
moment, his hand to his brow, then raised his head with a glad smile.
“Jacquard, will you not come with us? If we get safe ashore I can
perhaps give you a service which will requite you.”
But Jacquard was wagging his head.
“No, no, monsieur. It is too late. I am too old a bird. Would ye clip
the eagle’s wings? Would ye pen the old falcon in a gilded humming-bird
cage? I’ve chosen to fly broadly, and broadly I’ll fly till some stray
bullet ends my flapping. And now make ready, madame. A warm cloak
against the night air, a pillow--for boat-thwarts are none too soft;
and when ye are ready I shall be at the door.” And he vanished, his
bullet head, with its round wool cap, scraping at the door-jamb as he
passed.
When he had gone, Barbara sank upon the bench at the table. Had it not
been for the strong arms of Bras-de-Fer she must have fallen to the
deck. Tired nature, overwrought nerves, rebellious, refused to obey.
“But a little while, Barbara, dear, and we will be alone. Courage, brave
one! Courage! We will soon gain the shore. Then, a ship--and--life!”
“Ah, monsieur, I am weary. So weary that I fear for this journey in the
open boat. God grant we may reach its ending.” Her head fell forward
upon his breast and she breathed heavily as one in a deep sleep.
He laid her gently so that her arms rested upon the table. Then he
quickly prepared a package of articles which would be most necessary
for her. Jewels there were and a packet of his own money. He found a
flask of _eau-de-vie_, and when he had aroused her he gently forced her
to drink a half-tumbler of it mixed with water.
Presently Jacquard and Barthier came with the papers for him to sign.
When this was done they all went upon the deck. The Spanish prize
lay at a distance of several cables’ lengths, and, from a movement
among the spars, was getting under way in charge of the prize crew.
Alongside, at the starboard gangway, rode the pinnace. It looked so
small, so masterless and helpless, by the side of the larger vessels in
that infinity of ocean, that Mistress Barbara shivered as she looked
down into it. But one glance around the decks to where the prostrate
figures had lain reconciled her to her lot.
Between Bras-de-Fer and Jacquard there was but one hearty hand-shake.
The very lack of more effusive demonstration between them meant more
than many words could have done. And as monsieur passed over the
gangway and down into the vessel there was little in his demeanor
to show the sting of his defeat at the hands of these devils of the
sea, whom he had sought, and unsuccessfully, to bring into the domain
of a proper humanity. A scornful laugh broke from among the men as
he disappeared over the side, and Yan Gratz, waving a pistol, piped
obscene threats and criticism from the quarter-deck. But presently,
when Mistress Barbara had been slung over the side in a whip from the
main-yard, Jacquard disappeared from the rail, and the falsetto of the
Dutchman was no longer heard.
The mast in the pinnace had been stepped, and the sail, strong and
serviceable, but none too large, flapped impatiently in the breeze.
And so when Barbara was seated, white and dark-eyed, showing with a
painful effort a last haughty disdain to the rascals at the portholes
and bulwarks, Bras-de-Fer shipped his tiller and hauled his sheet aft
to the wind. The little vessel bounced in a sprightly, joyous fashion,
the brown sail bulged stanchly, and in a moment a patch of green water,
ever growing wider, flashed and trembled between the pinnace and the
_Saucy Sally_. Among the row of dark heads along the rail Bras-de-Fer
looked for only one, and to him he presently turned and raised his hat
in salute. Jacquard replied; and then his long arms went flying and his
hoarse voice cried aloud the orders to set the vessel upon her course.
Presently the yards flew around, the vessel squared away, and the
_Saucy Sally_ was but a memory. A vessel nameless, without identity,
was sailing away from them upon the sea, and they were alone.
Barbara looked no more. She had seated herself upon the gratings at the
bottom of the craft, her arms resting upon the stern thwart. But now
that all immediate danger had passed and she sat safe and at peace,
the wonderful spirit and courage to which she had nerved herself in a
moment failed her. Her head fell forward upon her arms and she sank
inert and prone at the feet of the Frenchman. Scarce realizing what had
happened, yet fearful that some dreadful fate had intervened to take
his love from him, he dropped the tiller and fell upon his knees by
her side, his mind shaken by the agony of the moment; for her face had
taken a kind of waxen, leaden color more terrifying than mere pallor,
and the lips, save for a faint-blue tinge, became under his very
eyes of the same deathly hue. He dashed handful after handful of the
sea-water into her face and rubbed her chill arms and hands. He poured
a draught of the rum between her cold lips. But she moved not. Beseech
her as he might, there was no response to his petitions. He sought the
pulse; he could feel nothing. The breath had ceased. Oh, God! Had the
cup of happiness been placed at their lips only to sip? Was it to be
poured out before his very eyes? He cried aloud in his agony and raised
the face to his own, kissing it again and again, as if by the warmth of
his own passion he could awaken it to life.
“My love! my love!” he cried. “Come back to me! Come back to me again!
Open thine eyes! Breathe but my name! Come back to me, my love!”
He had waited an eternity. At last, as he put his ear to her breast, a
sound, ever so faint, but still a sound, told him that the heart was
pulsing anew. He forced a generous draught of the rum through her lips
and madly renewed his efforts to arouse the blood. Several moments
more he struggled in pitiful suspense, and then a gentle color flowed
under the marble skin, a touch of pink rose to the blue lips, the
eyelids quivered a moment and then opened. He hauled the sail to shield
her from the glare of the sun, and held a cup of fresh water to her
lips. She looked at him, but no words came from her lips. Instead, she
breathed a sigh and with a faint smile relinquished herself and fell
back peacefully into his arms. Once or twice she opened her eyes in
an effort to speak, but each time he soothed her and bade her rest.
He was but a man, and it needed a gentler hand to cope with such an
emergency; but now that the danger was past he felt instinctively that
nature would seek in her own ways to restore, and he let her lie quiet,
pillowed in the curve of his arm against his breast. And so, presently,
her breathing was regular, and she slept.
He could not know how long it had been since they left the _Sally_,
but by the sun he saw that there was yet an hour or two of the day.
The ships were become mere dull blotches upon the sky, and from his
position the lower tier of guns seemed just at the line of the sea.
Time was precious, for the land lay a full day’s sail, even should
the breeze continue to favor them, and he could not tell how long it
would blow thus steadily. Fearful of awakening Barbara and yet anxious
to take advantage of every favorable opportunity, he reached for the
sheet and tiller and set the little vessel upon her course. She heeled
gladly to the wind, and the coursing of the water beneath her long
keel made a sound grateful to his ears. He had taken the _Sally’s_
position upon the charts before leaving, and steered a course which
should surely fetch a sight of the land upon the morrow. If the breeze
held and the night were clear, he could steer by the stars. He blessed
the habits of his training, in which he had studied the heavens in
his night watches, wherever he might be. There was no sign of any
disturbance of the elements. The heavy swell now and then shook the
wind out of his tiny sail, but not a cloud flecked the sky above him,
and the sea which glittered and sprang playfully at the sides of the
pinnace seemed to beckon to him gladly in hopeful augury for the hours
to come.
The apprehensions that he had felt were dissipated in the mellow glow
of the southern sun. Had he been alone, this voyage in an open boat
over an unknown sea would have filled him with delight. But the slender
figure at his side, which lay pale and silent in the shadow of the
gunwale, filled him with vague alarms.
On, on into the void, the tiny vessel crept. The sun sank low in the
sky and dropped, a red ball, behind the disk of sea. The dusk swept up
over the ocean like the shadow of a storm, and night drew a purplish
curtain across the smiling heaven. The stars twinkled into sudden
life, and night fell, clear, warm, spangled, while the soft, stealthy
seas crept alongside and leaped and fawned at the shearing prow of
the pinnace. An arching moon arose and sailed, a silver boat, high
into the heavens. But Bras-de-Fer moved not and Barbara still slept.
Continually his keen eyes swept the dark rim of the horizon for a blur
of sail or the sign of any portentous movement of the elements. He
knew the horrors of this southern ocean, and the catlike purring of
the silken seas did not deceive him; for in the swaying deep he could
feel the great rhythmical pulse of the heart of the sea, which spoke a
continuous, sullen, ominous threat of resistless might, ready at the
turn of a mood to rise, engulf, and devour.
By midnight the wind fell, and with the flapping of the idle sail
Barbara awoke.
She lay for some moments, her eyes winking at the swinging stars, then
pushed the cloak aside, lifted her head, and looked wide-eyed around
and into the face of Bras-de-Fer.
“I have slept?” she asked, bewildered--“I have slept in this boat?” He
bent forward over her eager delight.
“The clock around, Barbara, dear. You were so weary, so weary, I have
let you rest.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. The _Saucy Sally_--”
“An evil dream, a nightmare. See; we are borne upon a fairy sea. All
the world is at peace. This infinity of beauty is ours--it is for us
alone.”
She shuddered a little and drew closer to him. “Oh, it is so vast, so
inscrutable, this treacherous, pitiless water! Have we come nearer to
the land?”
“Fifteen leagues at least. The wind has failed us but this half-hour.
After you have eaten and drunk you shall sleep again, and when you
awake I promise you land under the very lid of the eye.”
“And you--have you not slept?”
“Madame, I am a very owl of birds. But I have the hunger of a lynx.”
Then while she took the helm he set before her the food which Jacquard
had provided. There were sea-biscuit, boucan, preserved fruits from the
store of the _San Isidro_, and a pannikin of rum-and-water.
It was not until she ate that she discovered how hungry she was;
Bras-de-Fer had eaten nothing for eight-and-forty hours. And so like
two children they sat and supped hungrily. When the meal was done,
Bras-de-Fer arranged the bread-bags and the pillow so that she might
sleep in greater comfort, but she would not have it so.
“No, no,” she insisted, “I am well again and strong. If you do not
sleep I shall not.” And so resolute was her tone that he forbore to
press her further.
But sleep was the furthest from his own eyes. He felt not even the
faintest touch of weariness. She leaned back upon his arm again, and
so, hand in hand, they sat in their little vessel, mute and spellbound
at the completeness of their happiness, which even the presence of
grim danger was powerless to steal away from them. The air was sweet
and balmy and brushed their cheeks like the breath from an angel’s
wing. The first pungent aromatic odor of the land reached their
nostrils, mingled delicately with the salt of the sea. In silence they
watched the planets burn and glow red like molten iron against the
star-bepowdered sky, across which the placid moon sailed down upon its
promised course. Flying stars vied with each other in the brightness
of their illuminations in their honor. And presently, shaming them
into darkness, a giant meteor shot like a flaming brand across the
spacious sky, spurning and burying in its splendid pathway a myriad of
the lesser embers; which, when it was done, peeped forth again timidly
upon the velvet night, ashamed of their small share in its glory. All
of this they saw reflected doubly on an ocean of gray satin, which sent
the bright reflections in wriggling rays like so many snakes of fire
to mingle and play amid the glow of the caressing surges, which gushed
languidly at their very feet.
To have spoken would have been to break the spell which bound them to
the infinite. And so they sat enthroned in these wonderful dominions of
which for the nonce they were prince and princess.
“Thou art content?” he asked at last.
She did not answer him at once. When she did, it was softly and with
eyes which sought the distant horizon away from him.
“If to be content means to breathe freely, deeply, the pure air of
heaven, to thank God for the present, to care not what evil has been
or what evil may be, to be engulfed in quiet delight, to be swathed in
peace, then, monsieur, I am content.”
He flushed warmly, and the arm about her tightened. He sought her lips
with his own. She did not resist him. And so before the high, effulgent
altar of God’s heaven, with the surges for choristers, the stars for
candles, and the voices of the sentient night for company, he plighted
her his troth.
It was then that she swept away the only shadow that remained upon
their love. With head bowed, in deep contrition he told her of his
madness that first night upon the _Saucy Sally_, when he had wildly
railed at fate, at all things, and promised to wreak upon her he knew
not what dire vengeance.
“Our accounts are balanced, then,” she smiled. “We shall begin anew.
For I, too, have many times denied you in my heart and on my lips. And
I know that I have loved you always.”
“_Adorée!_” he whispered.
It was Barbara, as if to belie her own happiness, who first broke
the spell of witchery that had fallen upon them. Her eyes, which had
aimlessly sought the horizon, stopped and dilated as she fixed her gaze
upon one spot which trembled and swam in the light. Bras-de-Fer started
up, straining his eyes to where she pointed.
“Look!” she cried. “Is it--”
There, her rigging and sails clearly drawn in lines of ice, a phantom
of the thing that she was, hung a vessel. She had crept up on some flaw
of wind, her sail in the shadow, and now upon another tack had thrown
her white canvases to the reflection of the sky.
“It is no phantom,” cried monsieur, in delight. “A ship, Barbara,
_chérie_! By her build a man-of-war, not two leagues distant.”
“Will she have seen us, do you think?”
“If she has not, it will be but a matter of moments.”
He ran forward to where the provisions and weapons had been put under a
piece of pitched canvas. He drew forth a musket, and loaded it with an
extra charge of powder. Barbara put her fingers to her ears as the gun
roared forth its salute.
The silent night was split and riven asunder by the mighty echoes;
the robe of enchantment fell, the prince and princess were prince and
princess no longer. Barbara sighed. Their throne was but a rugged boat
and themselves but castaways wildly seeking a refuge. The dream of an
hour was over. But none the less she helped monsieur load the muskets,
and cried gladly when a flash and a puff of smoke came from the side of
the stranger, and the low reverberation of the echoes of the shot told
her that they were rescued.
The ship came slowly down. ’Twas evident she brought the wind with
her, for about the pinnace all was a dead calm. Barbara’s qualms that
she, too, might be a _boucanier_ were speedily set at rest; for as she
came nearer they discovered that she sat tall upon the water, and the
glint of her ordnance along her larboard streaks proclaimed her trade.
No sign of her nationality she gave until she had come within long
earshot. Then a round, honest English voice rang heartily:
“Ahoy the boat! Who are ye? Whence d’ye come?”
To this Bras-de-Fer replied that they were castaways, marooned, and in
sore need of help. The ship, they learned, was his Majesty’s _Royal
Maid_, war brig of his excellency the governor of Jamaica.
“See, madame,” he murmured as the ship drew near. “’Tis manifest you
are my destiny. While you have frowned, Dame Fortune would have none of
me. And now she is benignity itself.” He paused, sighing. “And yet I
could almost wish she had not smiled so soon.”
Her hand under cover of the cloak sought his. “Insatiable man, can you
not be content?”
“It was too, too sweet an enchantment to be so soon ended.”
“Nay,” she whispered. “It is but just begun.”
THE END
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Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The Author’s em-dash style has been retained.
--Two slightly different advertisement book lists for author Grace
Livingston Hill were both retained.