Sword and Silk
That night the weather fell thick, and, the wind freshening suddenly,
the ship dropped anchor. Captain Eliphalet Wrye was not so familiar with
the reefs and tides of Fundy that he cared to navigate her waters in the
dark. This we considered very favourable to our enterprise; for the tide
running strongly, and the wind against it, kicked up a pother that made
the hold reëcho.
The time agreed upon was toward three, when those asleep are heaviest. I
think that most of our men slept, but with that consciousness of events
impending which would bring them wide awake on the instant. Marc, I
know, lay sleeping like a child. But for me no sleep, no sleep indeed. I
could not spare a minute from the delight of thinking and dreaming. Here
I lay in irons, a captive, an exile,—but my beloved had come.
“She has come, my beloved!” I kept saying over and over to myself.
Then I tried planning for our future; but the morrow promised her
presence, and for the time I could not get my thoughts past that. There
was no need to discount future joy by drawing bills of dear
anticipation. But it was tonic to my brain to look back upon the
hopeless despair in which I had lain weltering so few hours before. Now
they seemed years away—and how I blessed their remoteness, those sick
hours of anguish! Yes, though I had not given up my purpose, I had
surely given up the hope that kept it alive. Then Mother Pêche’s
soothsaying over the lines of my palm came back to me: “_Your heart’s
desire is nigh your death of hope_!”
Wonderful old woman! How came such wisdom to your simple heart, with no
teachers but herbs, and dews, and stillnesses of the open marsh, and
hill-whispers, and the unknown stars? Out of some deep truth you spoke,
surely; for even as my hope died, had not my heart’s desire come? And I
said to myself, “It is but a narrow and shallow heart that expects to
understand all it believes. Do we not walk as men blindfolded in the
citadel of mystery? What seem to us the large things and unquestionable
may, the half of them, be vain—and small, derided things an
uninterpreted message of truth!”
My revery was broken by Marc laying free hands upon mine.
“Are you awake?” he whispered. “The time has come. See! This is the way
to open them.” And very easily, as it seemed, he slipped the iron from
my wrists.
“Feel!” he went on, in the same soft whisper. I followed his fingers in
the dimness. There was no light but the murk of a smoky lanthorn some
way off, where the guards sat dejectedly smoking,—and I caught the
method of unlocking the spring. “Free your next neighbour, and pass the
word along,” continued Marc; and I did so. It was all managed with
noiseless precision.
In a very few minutes—which seemed an hour—there was a sneeze from the
furthermost corner of the hold, beyond the place where the guards sat.
It was not the most natural and easy sneeze in the world, but it served.
It was answered by another from the opposite corner. The shrill, silly
sound was yet in the air when the ominous form of long Philibert Trou
loomed high behind the sitting guards and fell upon one of them like
fate; while at the same moment, like a springing cat, the lithe figure
of La Mouche shot up at the other’s throat.
For such skilled hands it was but a moment’s work, and no noise about
it. Like the rising of an army of spectres, every man came silently to
his feet. Seizing the musket of the nearest guard, where he lay
motionless, I glided to the hatch, just far enough ahead of Marc to get
my foot first on the ladder.
As I reached the deck the sentry, not three paces distant, was just
turning. With a yell to warn his comrades he sprang at me. Nimbly I
avoided his bayonet thrust, and the butt of my musket brought him down.
I had reserved my fire for the possibility of a more dangerous
encounter.
There were shouts along the deck—and shots—and I saw sailors running up,
and then more soldiers—and I sprang to meet them. But already Marc was
at my side, and a dozen, nay, a score, of my fellow-captives. In a
breath, as it were, the score doubled and trebled—the hold seemed to
spout them forth, so hotly they came.
There were but few shots, and a fall or two with groans. The thing was
over before it was well begun, so perfect had been the surprise. We had
all who were on deck in irons, save for three slain and one grievously
wounded. Those who had been asleep in their bunks when the alarm was
given now promptly gave themselves up, soldiers and sailors alike, being
not mad enough to play out a lost game. Handcuffs were abundant, which
made our work the simpler.
As I went forward, wondering where Shafto was this while, I was met by
La Mouche and two others leading a prisoner. It was Captain Eliphalet,
with blood on his face, sorely dazed, but undaunted. Indignation and
reproach so struggled within him that he could not for the moment find
speech.
“Pardon, I beseech you, Captain Wrye,” I made haste to say, “the need
which has compelled me to make such rude return for your courtesy.
This,” and I tapped his irons with my finger, “is but for an hour or two
at most, till we get things on our ship fitly ordered. Then, believe me,
you will find that this is merely a somewhat abrupt reversal of the
positions of host and guest.”
I fear that Captain Eliphalet’s reply was going to be a rude one, but if
so it was quenched at his lips. The door of the cabin opened, a bright
light streamed forth, and down it glided Yvonne in her white gown, the
black lace over her head.
“Oh, Paul, what has happened? Are you—are you safe?” she asked
breathlessly, ‘twixt laughing and tears. The shooting and shouting had
aroused her roughly.
“Quite safe, my dearest,” I whispered. “And—the ship is ours.”
All that this meant flashed upon her, and her face flushed, her eyes
dilated. But before she found voice to welcome the great news, her
glance fell upon Captain Eliphalet’s blood-stained countenance, and her
joy faded into compassion.
“Oh!” she cried, “you are _not_ wounded, surely, surely!” And she
pressed her handkerchief pitifully to the blood-spots.
“It is nothing, nothing, mademoiselle, but a mere scratch, or bruise,
rather,” stammered Captain Eliphalet. Then she saw that his hands were
fettered.
“Paul!” she exclaimed, turning upon me a face grown very white and
grave. “And he was so kind to me! How could you!”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Yvonne,” said I. “But this is what I am
going to do.”
Slipping off the irons I tossed them into the sea.
“Captain Wrye,” said I to him, with a bow, “I have much yet to do, and I
must not stay here any longer. May I commit to your charge for a little
while what is more precious than all else?”
Yvonne thanked me with a look, and laid her hand on the captain’s arm.
“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother Pêche has a
wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away.
By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half
score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of
fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot
through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of
it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and
dropped across a coil of rope.
The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs.
“Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc,
springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay
at hand, very well suited to the purpose.
But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light
from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He
stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword
thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave
figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly
be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his
toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second,
lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us.
“I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship
is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.”
“I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman
among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will
see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his
head toward the two whom he had shot down.
“I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and
will count myself much honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you
English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to
give it back.”
“I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with
satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them.
But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her
eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear!
Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped.
I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger,
lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my
thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face.
“It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him
with the question in her eyes.
“Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even
excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.”
Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the
heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said
was:
“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in
a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the
swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her
interest.
“They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them
out to me.
I took the nearest—and knew as soon as the hilt was in my hand that it
was an honest weapon, of English make, something slow in action and
lacking subtlety of response, but adequate to the present enterprise.
Lanthorns were brought, and so disposed by Marc’s orders that the light
should fall fairly for one as for the other. The Englishman had regained
his good temper,—or a civil semblance of it,—and marked the preparations
with approval.
“You have had abundant experience, I perceive, in the arbitrament of
gentlemen,” said he.
“My cousin has, in particular, monsieur,” replied Marc dryly. Whereupon
Mr. Shafto turned upon me a scrutiny of unaffected interest.
A moment more, and the swords set up that thin and venomous whispering
of theirs. Now, what I am _not_ going to do, even to please Yvonne,
is—undertake to describe that combat. She wishes it, because under my
instruction she has learned to fence very cunningly herself. But to me
the affair was unpleasant, because I saw from the first a brave
gentleman, and a good enough swordsman as these English go, hopelessly
overmatched. I would not do him the discredit of seeming to play with
him. He fenced very hotly, too. He wanted blood, being bitter and
humiliated. After a few minutes of quick play I thought it best to prick
him a little sharply in the arm. The blood spurted scarlet over his
white sleeve; and I sprang back, dropping my point.
“Are you satisfied, monsieur?” I asked.
“No, never! Guard yourself, sir!” he cried angrily, taking two quick
steps after me.
During the next two minutes or so he was so impetuous as to keep me
quite occupied; and I was about concluding to disarm him, when there
came a strange intervention. It was most irregular; but the wisest of
women seem to have small regard for points of stringency in masculine
etiquette. At a most knowingly calculated moment there descended between
us, entangling and diverting the points of our weapons,—what but a
flutter of black lace!
“I will not have either of you defeated!” came Yvonne’s voice, gayly
imperious. “You shall _both_ of you surrender at once, to me! There is
no dishonour, gentlemen, in surrendering to a woman!”
It was a most gracious thought on her part, to save a brave man from
humiliation; and my worship of her deepened, if that were possible. As
for the elegant Mr. Shafto, he was palpably taken aback, and glowered
rudely for a space of some seconds. Then he came to himself and accepted
the diversion with good grace. With a very low bow he presented his
sword-hilt to Yvonne, saying:
“To you, and to you only, I yield myself a prisoner, Mademoiselle de
Lamourie,”
Yvonne took the sword, examined it with gay concern on this side and on
that, tried it against the deck as she had seen him do, and then,
without so much as a glance at Marc or me for permission, gravely
returned it to him.
“Keep it, monsieur,” she said. “I have no use for it at present; and I
trust to hold my prisoners whether they be armed or defenceless.”
“That you will, mademoiselle, I’ll wager,” spoke up Captain Eliphalet,
just behind.