# War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 14

THE half-hour had nearly passed. The Good Fortune was a ship of blood, a habitation of death. Sailing almost abreast of her and scarcely more than a pistol shot away, the Merry Amy had poured broadside after broadside into her. Against the ten guns that Lowther's vessel brought to bear—eight on her gun deck, one forward, and one aft—the brig could utilize only five, and now three of these were silent. But for the heavy seas, in which marksmanship even at close range was difficult, the Good Fortune could not have lived so long.
But she did live, and her masts still stood, and Falcon still held the wheel, though Diccon Drews was dead. Lachlan McDonald had taken his place. In his bull's voice Falcon still shouted his orders forward, but to Lachlan he gave his instructions for the powder-blackened men who worked the after-gun. He was very cool and calm now, the fury had gone from him; he smiled often. Once, when the Good Fortune still reeled under the shock of another broadside, he slapped Lachlan's back and congratulated him on becoming first mate of a pirate brig.
To Lachlan the thing seemed somehow not unduly strange—not stranger than all that had happened ​in the past few days, though all that had happened seemed a dream.
He had forgotten self. He had forgotten all that had gone before. He was one now with this crew of cutthroats, this crew of heroes. He was Lance Falcon's man.
He had been Falcon's man since the moment when Falcon had made that speech beside the mainmast. He had been afraid, weak with fear, sick with the sight of blood, bewildered by the incredible, infernal din of the fight—the thunder of the guns, the crashing of rent timbers, the cries of wounded men. But all this had passed; he was as cool now as Falcon himself. He loved every cursing, powder-blackened, blood-spattered human devil on the brig, and for Falcon himself he would fight till the deck sank under him.
The battle was in his veins. He was drunk with the stark, incalculable courage of these men who fought and cursed and died and still yelled above the tumult, "To hell with Black Lowther!"
There was blood on his sleeve and on his face, but it was not his blood. So far he had suffered not a scratch. He was grimy with powder and wet with spray and sweat. He had worked with the crew of the after-gun until (when a flying splinter had pierced Diccon Drews' throat) Falcon had shouted for him. Thenceforward he stood by the commander's side, passing his orders on to the crew of the long gun, and twice making his way forward to deliver instructions.
In place of the fear that for a while had gripped ​him, a fierce gladness flamed in him. He was happy, more passionately happy than he had ever been before. Yet he was perfectly aware that the end was near. He would never have believed that any ship or any crew could stand such punishment; and he knew that it could last only a little longer.
From the Merry Amy another broadside roared, and this time, whether by design or accident, the shot went high. From aloft came a loud crack and a great spar hung dangling, the sail that it had supported flapping loosely.
Falcon bellowed an order. To Lachlan it meant little, but he saw that men left the guns and leaped to the ropes. Suddenly Falcon threw his weight on the wheel and the brig swung to port, turning directly away from the Merry Amy, racing, with the wind behind her, straight for that distant purple line of trees which marked the coast.
There was still spirit enough in what was left of that battered crew for another cheer, and they cheered and Lachlan cheered with them. Yet he at least knew—for Falcon had told him—that they were going now to destruction almost as certain as that which in another half-hour Lowther's guns would have dealt.
Ahead and plainly visible was a gap in the far-off line of woods—Edisto Inlet. It seemed a broad, fair opening and behind it was safety; but minutes ago Falcon had informed Lachlan very calmly that there was one chance in a hundred of winning through. ​The inlet mouth was flanked and dotted with dangerous shoals; the tide, though flooding, was still very low; there was water in the brig's hold so that her draught was greater than normal and she steered sluggishly. It was all but certain that she would smash upon the reefs.
"I am saved the trouble of dropping you overboard," Falcon had said carelessly. "A little while now and we shall all be frolicking among the fishes."
Lachlan looked astern. The Merry Amy had come about and lay broadside on. Then slowly her bow swung landward, her yards were squared, and the chase was on once more. But Lowther was shortening sail rapidly now, and Lachlan saw a seaman in the ship's bow heaving the lead.
"He'll follow us in till the water shoals," growled Falcon. "Then he'll tack and watch us drown."
The minutes passed. Lachlan heard the hiss of the waves, the whine of the wind, the wailing of a wounded man somewhere forward, the groaning and creaking of the brig's straining spars. Yet, now that the guns were still and there came no more the crash of timbers disintegrating under a hail of iron, it seemed to him that they moved through a silence, grim, unnatural, unbearable.
It was more terrible than the tumult of the fight, this silence; it was portentous, black with fate; somehow he knew that it could not last and that after it would come the end.
​A loud crack, followed by others in quick succession, shattered it. A rending, rushing sound filled the air. Its shrouds and backstays long since shot away, the mainmast had broken fifteen feet above the deck, snapped by the prodigious pitching of the brig as she plunged head-on into the rollers. It fell forward, fouling the fore-yards; and in that moment the Good Fortune, already a wreck below from Lowther's guns, became a wreck above also, a helpless plaything of the waves.
A cry rose from her deck—a cry that was not a cheer—a hoarse, long-drawn moan of dismay. Slowly she fell off until she lay in the trough of the seas, wallowing heavily, rolling her ripped and shattered bulwarks under. No spar ever fashioned could stand such a strain. Within three minutes her dreadful wallowing fairly jerked the foremast out of her.
She lived a half-hour longer. Wind and tide and onrushing combers drove her drunkenly towards the coast. When she perished she perished utterly. The sea raised her high and flung her down upon an invisible reef, raised her once more and a second time flung her down. To Lachlan it seemed that she went to pieces as suddenly as though some monstrous cannon in her vitals had exploded and blown her into atoms.
Lachlan lay on his back in a shallow hollow amid low sand hills. He raised his head slowly and looked ​about him. Four men, naked or half-naked, sprawled near him breathing heavily. In the east the sun stood an hour high. The air was very still.
Against the blue sky a white-headed eagle circled on motionless wings. In a small gray-green bush across the hollow a wren sang merrily. Above a ridge of sand thirty feet away Lachlan saw the head of a whitetail buck appear, heard the buck's snort of astonishment as he wheeled and vanished. From beyond the dunes came the continuous moan of the surf. Suddenly Lachlan remembered.
It came crowding back into his mind—a torrent of memories, confused yet vivid. Most vivid of all was one.
He was in the water fighting his way towards a great floating timber, a fragment of the Good Fortune, to which several men were clinging. He knew that he could not reach it, but he fought on.
At last he clutched for it, missed, and knew that he was done. But a hand reached out, grasped him, drew him up on the timber. Later he realized that the man next to him, the man who had saved him, was Lance Falcon.
All this seemed vastly remote, as though it had happened months ago. He remembered vaguely that, after an eternity, the sea had cast them ashore in the dusk, that they had staggered across the narrow beach to the sandhills beyond and had flung themselves down on the soft sand.
Lachlan got slowly to his feet. He felt somewhat ​light-headed, his limbs were stiff and sore, he was cold. He swung his bare arms—his only garment was his breeches—to warm himself, and discovered suddenly that he was weak and very tired. Without a glance at the four sleeping men, he walked a few steps to the top of the sand ridge in order to get a view of his surroundings.
Fifty yards away on the beach he saw Falcon, coatless and hatless, his white shirt hanging in nibbons, gazing out over the ocean.
Lachlan stood for some moments watching him. Presently Falcon turned, saw Lachlan standing on the dune, and beckoned him; and Lachlan walked slowly down the slope of the dune and across the beach. As he approached, he saw that Falcon was smiling; and this smile filled him with a dull surprise, a vague, ill-defined horror.
"Give you good morning, Mr. McDonald," Falcon said briskly as Lachlan drew near. "I have been mourning at the grave of the Good Fortune, and now my faithful first mate has come to shed a few tears on her watery bier."
It was the tone, the sneer on his lips, that made a hard, loathsome jest of the words. Yonder beyond the breakers was a vast grave, a grave where more than forty men were sleeping; and standing beside this grave, this man, their captain, jested and smiled.
Lachlan stepped back a pace, his face suddenly white; but Falcon continued calmly:
"She was a staunch brig, but too small and not ​fast enough. As for my crew, they knew too much about me, and it was time I was rid of them. It may be that Providence, acting through Black Lowther, has done me a good turn."
The thought seemed to amuse him. He smiled more broadly, then added thoughtfully:
"It happens that the four who are saved are very faithful dogs whom I can trust and use. Else it might be well to finish what Lowther and the ocean between them could not quite accomplish."
He paced to and fro on the beach, while Lachlan watched him in silence. Presently he halted and stood facing the younger man.
"I have a bargain to propose to you, Mr. McDonald," he said, "though why I bargain with you I hardly know. You are alone with me on a lonely shore. Man to man, you are not my match. I am heavier and stronger. You are weak from last night's ordeal. You are not fit either to fight or to run. I have no weapon, but I can easily kill you with my hands or with that piece of driftwood yonder.
"My proposal is this: You will forget what you learned in my cabin about my dealing with the Spaniards. You will forget, too, that you saw the black flag flying at my peak or that I am aught else than an honest privateersman. You will give me your word of honour that you will not use these things against me in any way."
He ceased abruptly and stood searching Lachlan's face.
​"Your answer, sir," he said brusquely. "Time presses."
Lachlan looked past Falcon over the leagues of ocean. Again there came crowding into his mind a host of memories: the din of the sea fight, the roar of the guns, the crash of shattering timbers, a great voice booming above the gale. He lifted his eyes and met Falcon's gaze.
"I agree," he said in a low, lifeless tone.
He felt suddenly very tired. He turned his back on Falcon, walked to the sand ridge above the beach, and sat down on the sand.