# The Love of Monsieur/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV
MUTINY
SHE summoned all her courage, and Bras-de-Fer led her forward along the passage upon the deck to the other hatch. Yan Gratz, Jacquard, and the crew were crowded at the broadside guns, and at the sight of monsieur the Dutchman’s face broke into a pasty smile as he sneered to his neighbor.
“Vos dis a schip or Vitehall Palace? Pots blitz!” And he spat demonstratively.
But Bras-de-Fer was handing my lady down the hatch into the after-hold, with a gesture into which he put even more of a manner than the occasion demanded. Jacquard had gone down before with a lighted lantern, and had unfastened the hatch of the lazaretto, the opening of which made a murky patch in the obscurity. Mistress Barbara shuddered a little and drew back, but the strong arm of monsieur encircled ​her waist, his firm hand reassured her own, and his low voice spoke in even accents.
“These are chests of gold and silver, jewels and silks, madame”; and then, “It is here that we keep our priceless captures,” he whispered, smiling. “Sit in comfort. The water-line is above, where you see the beams o’erhead. In a little while I will come again, and all will be well.” He pressed the trembling hand in both his own, and she saw him follow the long figure of Jacquard, who with sympathy and discretion, of which his glum demeanor gave no indication, had left the light hanging to a timber and gone growling above.
Alone with the swaying lantern, the beams and bulkheads, the boxes and chests, she gave herself over to her own turbulent reflections. There was a swish and hollow gurgle at her very ear as the seas alongside washed astern, a creaking and a groaning of the timbers, which made her tremble for the stanchness of the vessel. The boxes and chests resolved themselves into great square patches of light which thrust their staring presence forward ob​trusively; and the vagrant diagonal shadow took a new direction and meaning in the misty darkness beyond the sphere of light at each new posture of the vessel. Strange odors—musty, dry, and evil-smelling—afflicted her nostrils; and the air, hot and fetid, hung about her and upon her offensively. Breathing became a muscular exertion and an effort of the will. She bit her lip and clenched her hands upon the chest where she was seated, to keep from crying aloud her misery and terror. Suddenly there was a sound of rending and tearing among the complaining timbers, and the guns above renewed their angry threats. One, two, three, four single discharges she heard, a scattering broadside, and then silence. Again that chorus of unfamiliar sounds, each one of which spoke to her in a different way of danger in some new and dreadful form. Presently the clamorous sea sang a louder, wilder note, the timbers cried aloud in their distress, the lantern swung sharply in abrupt and shortening circles, and the shadows, like arms, thrust out at her from the unseen and filled her with a new and name​less terror. The motion of the vessel was sickening. And the black, noisome air, from which there was no escape, seemed to fill her very brain and poison her faculties.
With a blind effort she arose, and in affright at she knew not what crept up the ladder to the hatch. It were better to die the death at once than to be poisoned by inches. She drank gratefully of the purer air above her and listened to the sounds of shouting from the deck. There was a shock and a crash as the ships came together, and then all sounds, save at intervals, were lost in the grinding of the vessels and the roar of the sea between. She heard several shots as though at a great distance, but these were as nothing after the noise of the great guns, and she almost smiled as she thought how easily the victory was accomplished.
And he—had monsieur come off free of harm? She trembled a little at the thought of it, and yet even the trembling had in it something of a new and singular delight. With her eyes free to roam in the gray of the half-deck, where there was air, if ever so faint, and the sweet ​smell of the sea, she thought no more of herself. The silence above boded no ill. She heard nothing but the wash of the sea alongside, the creaking and clatter of blocks on the deck, and the craunch of the ships to the roll of the sea. At last the sound of voices was nearer and louder, whether in anger, fear, or pleasure she could not discover; then the tramping of heavy boots and the rushing of men forward and aft; but no sound of shot or clash of steel, to remind her of her continued jeopardy. Five, ten minutes she listened, all her faculties alert for the sound of his voice. The grinding of the vessels ceased, and when the main-deck hatch was removed she could hear quite plainly the sounds upon the deck. The voices of men in fierce disputation fell hollowly down through a crack in the narrow aperture. One was thin and small, like that of a child. Another was heavy and gruff, and cursed volubly in French. Sharper tones rang between and through it all, the roar or continuous murmur of a crowd. Something had fallen amiss, she was sure. Suddenly, as though a spell had fallen upon their tongues, the clamor ​was hushed, and in the brief second of desperation the sea noises about her sang loudly in her ears, which strained to catch every sound.
At last a single voice, slow, calm, dispassionate, began to speak; it was his. She emerged upon the half-deck in order that nothing of what was passing might escape her, and leaned upon the ladder, looking to where the daylight flickered down.
“Your humor is changed wondrously, mes amis. You ask many things, not the least of which is this Spaniard’s death. You, Yan Gratz, and you, Barthier, Troc, and Duquesnoy, you, Craik and Goetz, stand aside. I grant nothing—nothing—where I see the gleam of a weapon naked. Sheathe your cutlasses and stand aside. Then, maybe, we shall see.”
There was an ominous movement of scraping feet, a clatter of weapons, and then a hoarse turmoil, a very bedlam of sounds, a wild scratching and scuffling upon the deck, and hoarse, dreadful cries, savage and fierce, like the bark of hungry dogs, yet, with its ringing accompaniment of clanging steel, infinitely more terrible. ​Half mad with the terror at this struggle, of which she could see nothing, faint and weak with the accumulation of her distresses, she hung more dead than alive to the companion-ladder, in one moment shutting her ears to the mad din above her, in another listening eagerly for the broken fragments of sound, fearful that the end of all things might come in one of those merciful moments in which she heard nothing. She thrust her hand into her breast and pulled forth the slender petronel which she had brought from the San Isidro. She looked at the shining barrel and saw to the flint and charge. There should be no hesitation. If monsieur—
But no! no! He was there yet. She heard his voice, strong, valiant, ringing like a clarion above the medley: “Aha, Cornbury!” it cried. “Point and edge, mon ami! … Your pupils are too apt, Monsieur le Maître d’Armes. … Ah, Craik, would you? … Voilà … touché, Duquesnoy … touché, mais … ce n’est rien! … Well struck, Cornbury! … Jacquard, help us, coquin! … To the rail … ​back to back … we will drive them … into the sea!”
The rushing feet clattered over her head and she heard the sound of his voice no more. She wondered whether it was because it rang no more that she did not hear it, or whether her terror and her weakness had deprived her of her senses. The seconds grew into hours. Broken cries and curses in strange, harsh voices came to her again, and she knew that she heard aright; the sound of blows, the hard breathing of men, all swallowed in the many noises of the combat, and at the last the fall of something muffled, heavy, and resistless upon the deck came with a new and dreadful portent to her ears. She stifled the shriek which rose to her lips and pressed her hands to her bosom to still its tremors. That dull, echoless sound could have but one meaning.
She stood inert, her mind and body things apart. She could not bring herself into accord with the too obtrusive fact, and wondered aimlessly that her ear caught at the cries of the complaining timbers and rush of water along​side, rather than at the vortex of her life’s tragedy which whirled just at her elbow. And thus, in a merciful tempering of her spirit to the occasion she hung swaying to the ladder, her mind gaining a cool and purposeful self-possession which was to nerve her frail body to further efforts. If monsieur were dead, then she had but to die also. She knew that she must keep her strength, for if she lost consciousness they would come below and find her; and when she awoke—alive and alone upon this horrible ship— The thought gave a new life to her energies, and she determined to put an end at once to the uncertainty. Anything were better than the suspense which each moment made the danger of weakness more imminent. Step by step she crept up the staggering ladder until her head had reached the level of the hatch above. Then she pushed aside the covering, and, the pistolet in her nerveless fingers, peered forth upon deck.
Joy gave her new strength and energy. There against the bulwarks, pale and breathless, but erect and strong, with the light of battle still ​undiminished in his eyes, was Bras-de-Fer; while around him in a wide, snarling circle were a dozen of the wolves of the Saucy Sally, ready to spring in upon him, and yet each fearful to be the first to bite. There was a smell of rum in the air, and a broken cask told a part of the cause of the difficulty. Upon the deck curious loose distortions made a ghastly parody of the flesh which they had been. All these things she noted in a glance, but her eyes fell instinctively upon the figure of a tall man, the one who had lighted her below, who was brandishing his arms, not at monsieur, but towards a stout man in baggy breeches, who stood defiantly blinking at him, raising first a pistol and then a sword towards Bras-de-Fer in a manner not to be misinterpreted. Here was the key to the situation. He was not then quite alone. But as she looked a thrill of horror came over her. Two men fell upon the tall man from behind and seized his arms. Then the fat man leaned forward towards monsieur, with an oily, vicious smile. He said nothing at all, but, keeping his sword in front of him, with his left hand, slowly ​and with a grim deliberation, raised his pistol into a line.
Barbara’s wild cry rang from one end of the deck to the other. Regardless of her own danger and scarce responsible, she was flying across the intervening space towards Yan Gratz. The startled Dutchman, disconcerted for a moment by this unfamiliar sound, turned, his mouth agape, his pistol pointing purposeless at the empty air. “Stop!” she cried, supremely imperious, yet affrighted at the sound of her own voice. “Stop! You must not! I command you!”
Yan Gratz paused, uncertain for a moment. He looked at this gentle adversary as though he did not know whether to scowl or laugh. Then his lumpy face broke into a smile and his lifted brows puckered his forehead into innumerable wrinkles. The pistol dropped to his side.
“Aw—yaw—you commandt me?”—he began wagging his head—“but who in de name o’ Cott vhas you?”
Then for the first time his eye fell upon the ​pistolet which Mistress Barbara still held tightly clutched in her extended hand. In her solicitude for monsieur she had forgotten herself and the weapon, which now, still unconsciously, she pointed directly at the portly person of Yan Gratz. He stammered and fell back a pace in amazement. The diversion was sufficient. For by this time Jacquard had struggled to his feet, and, throwing aside the fellows who were holding him, had rushed in and seized the pistol from the hand of the Dutchman before he could use it. At the same moment Bras-de-Fer, with a fierce cry, had sprung forward among the amazed mutineers and had taken Barbara under the cover of his weapon.
“Listen, mes camarades!” roared Jacquard above the confusion, waving the pistol in wide, commanding circles. “Listen, mes braves, and you will not regret. Listen, I say. It is I, Jacquard, who speaks. Wait but a moment and hear me. Listen. And when I am done you will say old Jacquard is wise.” His ungainly figure towered before them—the swinging arms like great wings, the hooked brows and curved beak ​making him look not unlike some gigantic bird of prey ready at a moment to fall upon any who denied him. At last, such was his influence that they were brought to a measure of calmness. Then with crafty deliberation he began to speak.
“Ah, mes galants, we have hunted together long, you and I, and we have hunted well. Last year you drank or spent or gamed a thousand pounds away. To-day the hold and lazaretto of old Sally are full of Spanish silks and laces and plate for the selling. In Port Royal are other ships which will yield ye more. And you will sacrifice these ships and these cargoes and all the money they’ll bring to you.”
Many cries arose, the loudest of which was that of Yan Gratz. “Sacrifice de schips, Shacky Shackart! Py Cott! It is a lie, verdomd!”
“It is so, mateys, I will swear it. Kill monsieur, yonder, and not one shilling from the ships do you get. Why? In Port Royal monsieur showed his warrant to the governor. The governor has a certain share in the takings from the Isidro. ’Twill be a strange tale ye’ll tell if ​Bras-de-Fer comes not back with the ship. The master-at-arms ye’ve killed, if I mistake not. He’s captain in his Majesty’s Guards. Perhaps ye can explain that.”
Anxious glances passed among the rascals as they looked first at monsieur and then at Jacquard. But Yan Gratz was not to be deceived or robbed of his vengeance.
“Donner vetter!” he cried. “Ay, yai. Vhat tifference it makes? De varrant is de varrant of Pilly Vinch; no odder—I am as goot a man as him. Tunder of der Teufel! I vill make a call mineself upon de covernor of Chamaica.”
In answer to this sally, Jacquard burst into a loud laugh. “Ha, ha! Ye’re swelled out of all proper dimensions, Yan Gratz. Ye forget that Monsieur the Governor and Monsieur Bras-de-Fer are friends. Listen, then, to what I propose. Bras-de-Fer will write us a letter saying that you or I may receive the ships for our owners. In return we will give monsieur and madame the pinnace and let them go whither they will.”
“No, py Cott!” roared Gratz, furious at be​ing balked of his vengeance. “He shall not get avay from me!”
There was a mingling of opinions, loudly and profanely expressed, and it looked for the moment as though the strife would be renewed. Yan Gratz’s Dutchmen stood by him to a man. And while the gleaming sword and pistolet of monsieur held them at a safe distance, they sought by their shouting of wild threats to make up for their other deficiencies. Barbara, hid behind Bras-de-Fer, sought valiantly to match her courage to his, but with pale face and quaking limbs she awaited the decision upon which rested his life or death, and hers. It mattered little which it was to be. She had suffered so much that anything—anything which brought rest—would be welcome. But monsieur had lost no whit of his aggressiveness. If he was silent, it was because silence was best. With a keen eye he noted the effect of the speech of Jacquard. He saw that his compatriot had chosen wisely in leaving his sword undrawn. Thus Jacquard retained his influence with the crew, whose sympathy and arms he could not have swayed alone ​against Yan Gratz. Had Jacquard drawn his weapon, all would have been lost. As it was, Bras-de-Fer noted that the larger number of the crew were wagging and nodding their heads in a propitious deliberation. Frenchmen, many of them, they were willing to forget the discipline and restriction of their liberties. Only one of them, Duquesnoy, had joined in the conflict against their compatriot. Duquesnoy was dead. They would be satisfied now if the cause of their grievances was removed. There was a way which offered complete compensation. With Bras-de-Fer marooned with his lady and his imperious notions, they would be free to lead the life which Billy Winch had not scrupled to deny them.
Barthier, gray-haired, pock-marked, ear-ringed, shoved his huge frame before Yan Gratz.
“We have deliberated, Yan Gratz,” said he. “Jacquard has spoken the truth. Monsieur has fought well. He has bought his life, and that of his lady. San Salvador is distant but twenty leagues to the south. We will give ​them provisions for a week, weapons, and the pinnace, and set them free.”
Gratz glared around at him and past Barthier at the row of grim, hairy faces; and he knew that he was defeated. With an ill grace he sheathed his sword, thrust his pistol in his belt, and, muttering, waddled forward into the forecastle with his following.
When they were gone, Bras-de-Fer fell upon his knees beside a figure upon the deck at his feet. He lifted Cornbury’s head upon his knee, and, calling for a pannikin of rum, forced a small quantity of the fluid between the lips of the Irishman. Jacquard felt for his heart, and Barbara tore a bit of her skirt to stanch the flow of blood. They bathed his forehead with water, and in a moment were rewarded by a flicker of the eyelid and a painful intaking of the breath. Presently, resting upon Jacquard’s knee, he opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.
“I am near spent,” he muttered. And then, as his eye caught those of Bras-de-Fer, a smile with the faintest glimmer of professional pride twitched at his lip.
​“Ah, monsieur,” he said, “did I not teach them well their thrust and parry?”
“Too well, indeed; Destouches himself could not have done better. I would you had given them less skill, mon ami.”
“’Twas Craik—my favorite stroke—in tierce,” he gasped, and then his head fell back against Jacquard. Presently he revived and looked at Barbara and Bras-de-Fer, while another smile played at the corner of his blue eye.
“Madame,” he whispered to Barbara—“madame, he has loved ye long and well. Take him to London and there serve him as a boucanier and renegado should be served. Take him prisoner to yer house and yer heart, and keep him there for as long as ye both shall live.” A spasm of pain shot across his features, and he clutched at his wound. “Bedad,” he said, “but the plaguy thing burns at me like an ember. It’s nearly over, I’m thinking. René,” he cried, “my dear man, if ye tell them at the barracks that I was brought to my death by the low thrust in tierce in the hands of such a lout, I’ll come from my grave and smite ye. An’ if ye see my ​brother, the Earl, ye may tell him for me—to send my pittance to—”
The effort had been too much for his waning strength. His eyes closed again. And this time they did not open.