# The Love of Monsieur/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
"BRAS-DE-FER"
AND so for the present it was settled. Monsieur Mornay sought rest vainly, and crept upon deck at the first flashing of the sun upon the horizon. The Sally, dressed in a full suit of cloths upon both her masts, went courtesying upon her course with a fine show of white about her bows and under her counter. The brig was not inaptly named, for there was an impudence in the rake of her masts and in the way she wore her canvas which belied her reputation for a sober and honest-dealing merchantman. There was a suggestion of archness, too, in the way her slender stem curved away from the caresses of the leaping foam which danced rosy and warm with the dawn to give her greeting, and a touch of gallantry in the tosses and swayings of her prow and head as they nodded up and down, the very soul of careless coquetry. But ​now and then an opalescent sea, more venturesome and intrepid than his fellows, would catch her full in the bluff of the bows and go a-flying over her forecastle in a shower of spume and water-drops, which in the golden light turned into jewels of many hues and went flying across the deck to be carried down to the cool, translucent deeps under her lee. But she shook herself free with a disdainful, sweeping toss and set her broad bows out towards the open, where the colors were ever growing deeper and the winds more rude and boisterous, as though she recked not how impetuous the buffets of the storm, how turbulent the caresses of the sea.
Something of the exhilaration of the old life came upon Monsieur Mornay as he sent a seaman-like eye aloft at the straining canvases. The Sally was leaving the narrows and making for the broad reaches where the Channel grew into the wide ocean. Far away over his larboard quarter, growing ever dimmer in the eastern mist of the morning, was the coast of France, the land where he was born, where he had suffered and struggled to win the good ​name he thought his birth had denied him. On his right, slipping rapidly astern, was England, where he had come to crown his labors with a new renown, and where he had only squandered that favor he had passed so many years of stress in winning—squandered it for a fancy that now was like some half-forgotten dream. It seemed only yesterday that he had been standing there upon a vessel of his own, looking out to sea. A year had passed since he had given up the command of the Dieu Merci and gone to Paris—a year of reckless abandon to pleasure at the gay court of Charles, a year in which he had lived and forgotten what had gone before, a year in which he had been born into the life that was his by every right. A dream? Yes, a dream. It was a rough awakening. He looked down at his rough clothing—his baggy, red trousers, with the tawdry brass buttons, his loose, coarse shirt and rough boots, the rudest slops that the brig provided; he felt of his short hair under the woolen cap, and he wondered if this could be himself, the Chevalier Mornay; the cock of the bird-cage walk, friend ​of princes and the intimate of a king! Astern, across the swirling wake, lay the city of pleasure, but the bitter smile that came into his face had none of the rancor of hatred. It spoke rather of failure, of disappointment, of things forsaken and unachieved.
From these reflections he was surprised by the sound of a voice at his elbow. There, beside him, stood a fat man munching at a sea-biscuit. His face, in consonance with the body, was round and flabby, but there the consistency ended, for in color it was gray, like a piece of mildewed sail-cloth. The distinguishing feature of his person was his nose, which, round and inflamed, shone like a beacon in the middle of his pallid physiognomy. His voice was lost in the immensity of his frame, for when he spoke it seemed to come from a long distance, as though choked in the utterance by the layers of flesh which hung from his chin and throat. The pucker which did duty for a frown upon his brow became a fat knot.
“You vhos a passenger upon dis schip, hey?” he said, with well-considered sarcasm. “You ​vhos a passenger? You t’ink you make dis voyage to America und do noding, eh? By Cott! we’ll see about dot.” And all the while he kept munching at the sea-biscuit, and Monsieur Mornay stood leaning against the rail watching him. “You vhos a French duke or someding, ain’t it? Vell, ve vant none of de royal family aboardt de Saucy Sally. Und vhen I, or de capdain, or Shacky Shackart gif de orders, you joomp, or, py Cott! I’ll know vy not!”
But still Mornay looked at him, smiling. He was in a reckless mood, and welcomed any opportunity that took him out of himself.
“Vell,” the Dutchman asked, his little, thin voice grown shrill with rising temper, “vy don’t you moofe? Vy you standt looking at me?” And, rushing suddenly forward, he aimed a blow of his heavy boot at Mornay, which, had it reached its destination, must have wrought a grave injury to the Frenchman. So great an impetus had it that, not finding the expected resistance, the foot flew high in the air. But the Frenchman was not there. He had stepped quickly aside, and, deftly catching the heel of ​the boot in his hand, threw the surprised Dutchman completely off his balance, so that he fell, a sprawling mass of squirming fat, upon the deck. The commotion had drawn a number of the crew aft, and the captain, reeling uncertainly to the roll of the vessel, came blinking and puffing up the after-ladder. By this time the Dutchman had struggled to an upright posture and came rushing upon Mornay again, all arms and legs, sputtering and furious.
But the captain, no matter how deep in drink, was a person with the shrewdest sense of his importance upon a ship of his own. He was jealous of all blows not aimed by his own sturdy fist, and it was his fancy that none should strike any but himself. It was therefore with a sense of his outraged office that he rushed between the two men, and with his bulky body and long arms averted the windmill attack of the burly Dutchman.
“Mutiny, by ——, and not hout of soundings! Stand fast, Gratz! Stand fast, I say! Hi’ll do the billy-coddling on this ship. Stand, I say! Now, what is it?”
​Gratz stepped forward a pace and spat. “Yaw! I gif her orders. And she stumpled me packwards upon de deck.”
“What!” roared the captain. “Soho! we’ll see!” and he seized a pin from the rail. The situation was threatening. Winch was already striding forward, and his upraised pin seemed about to descend upon the luckless Mornay when Jacquard interposed a long, bony arm.
“Fair play, Billee Winch! You’ll slaughter the man!”
“Out of the way!”
“Fair play, I say, Billee Winch!” Jacquard stood his ground and only gripped the captain the tighter. “Fair play, Billee Winch, I tell you! Gratz fell over his own feet. I saw it. Listen to me.”
The captain paused a moment. The lie had distracted him, and in that pause Jacquard saw safety. The captain looked blearily at Mornay, who had made no move to defend himself, but stood with little sign of discomposure, awaiting the outcome of the difficulty.
​“If Monsieur le Capitaine will but allow me—”
“By Cott,” broke in Gratz, “you shall not!” and made a wild effort to strike Mornay again. But this time Jacquard caught him and twisted him safely out of the way.
“By the Devil’s Pot!” roared Winch, “am I in command, or am I not?” He raised his weapon this time towards Gratz, who cowered away as though he feared the blow would fall.
“If Monsieur le Capitaine will allow me,” began Mornay again, politely, “I would take it as a pleasure—”
“You!” sneered the captain, with a kind of laugh. “You! Why, Frenchman, Yan Gratz will make three of ye. He’ll eat ye skin an’ bones.”
Jacquard smiled a little. “Voilà! Billee Winch,” he cried, “the way out of your difficulty: a little circle upon the deck, a falchion or a half-pike—fair play for all, and—”
“Yaw! yaw! Fair play! fair play!” yelled the crew, rejoicing at the prospect of the sport.
Billy Winch blinked a bleared and bloodshot ​eye at Jacquard and Mornay, and then a wide smile broke the sluggish surface of the skin into numberless wrinkles.
“If ye’ll have it that way,” he grinned, “ye’ll be stuck like a sheep. But ’twill save me trouble. So fight away, my bully, an’ be dammed to ye!”
Immediately a ring was formed, into which the combatants were speedily pushed. Gratz laughed in his shrillest choked falsetto, while he threw off his coat and leered at the Frenchman. The huge bulk of the man was the more apparent when his coat had been removed, for in spite of his girth and fat his limbs were set most sturdily in his body, and though the muscles of his arms moved slothfully beneath the skin, it was easily to be seen that this was a most formidable antagonist. That he himself considered his task a rare sport, which would still further enhance his reputation among the crew, was easily to be perceived in the way he looked at Monsieur Mornay. And in this opinion he was not alone, for even Cornbury, who had pressed closely to the Frenchman’s side, wore a look which showed how deep was his con​cern over his friend’s predicament. Only Jacquard, of all those who stood about, felt no fear for Mornay. Upon the Dieu Merci he had seen the chevalier do a prodigy of strength and skill which had settled a mutiny once and for all, and had earned him a title which had given him a greater reputation in the Marine of France than all the distinctions which the King had seen fit to bestow. And as Jacquard looked at him, slim and not over-tall, but cool and deliberate, as upon his own deck three years ago, the Frenchman became again “René Bras-de-Fer,” “René the Iron Arm,” who fought for the love of fighting only, and who knew nothing of fear on sea or land.
That superiority in men which in spite of every adverse circumstance will not be denied shone so conspicuously in the face and figure of the Frenchman that the row of hairy faces about him looked in wonder. There was a rough jest or two, for Yan Gratz had won his way from the bowsprit aft by buffets and blows, and had waxed fat in the operation. To them he was the very living embodiment of a fighting devil of ​the sea. But many of them saw something in the cool, impassive expression of the Frenchman—a something which had won him friends (and enemies) before this, and were silent.
The Frenchman, with a quiet deliberation, rolled the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows and took the half-pike that was thrust into his hands. It has been said that the Chevalier Mornay was not above the medium height, nor, with the exception of an arm which might have seemed a little too long to be in perfect proportion, gave in his appearance any striking evidence of especial physical prowess. He had been known in London for a graceful and ready sword, and in his few encounters he had never received so much as a scratch. But even Gratz was stricken with wonderment at the appearance of the forearm, which his wide sleeves had so effectually concealed. The arm of the chevalier, as he brought his pike into a posture of defense, showed a more remarkable degree of development than he had ever seen before in any man—Frenchman or Englishman—of his stature. The legs, strong and straight as they ​were, with a generous bulge at the calf, betrayed nothing of this wonderful arm, which, swelling from a strong though not unslender wrist, rose in fine layers of steel-like ligament, tangled and knotted like the limbs of an oak. And up above the elbow the falling cotton shirt scarcely hid the sturdy bulk of muscle which swelled and trembled as the fingers moved the weapon down upon guard to resist the furious attack of the Hollander. Gratz prided himself no less upon his use of the pike than upon his use of his fists and boots, and, thinking to end the matter in a summary fashion, which might atone for his somewhat awkward fall upon the deck, he began thrusting hotly and with a skill which had hitherto availed his purposes. But he soon discovered that with this Frenchman, whom he had so hardily challenged, he was to have no advantage either in the reach or in the knowledge of the game. Mornay’s play, he quickly learned, was to allow him completely to exhaust himself. This, instead of teaching him caution, only increased his fury, so that at the end of a few moments of fruitless exertion he found himself ​puffing like a great grampus, the perspiration pouring blindingly into his eyes and down his arms, until his fat hands grew moist and slipped uncertainly upon the handle of his weapon.
The cloud that had hung upon Cornbury’s face at the beginning of the combat had disappeared, and with a childish delight in the clash of arms he watched his friend slowly but surely steal away the offensive power of the Dutchman, whose look of confidence had been replaced by a lightness of eye and a quivering of the forehead and lips which denoted the gravest quandary of uncertainty. Monsieur Mornay was breathing rapidly, but his brows were as level, his eye as clear, his hand as steady as when he had begun.
In a few moments the struggle which had promised such dire results became a farce. The Frenchman had suddenly assumed the offensive, and, beating down the guard of the other, began pricking him gently, with rare skill and discrimination, in different conspicuous parts of his anatomy. The chevalier’s weapon was sharp, and the skin of Yan Gratz was tender, ​but so nicely were the thrusts of the Frenchman tempered to the occasion that they did no more than draw a small quantity of blood at each place, which oozed forth in patches upon his moist and clinging shirt, so that he presently resembled some huge, spotted animal of an unknown species which disaster might have driven from his fastnesses in the deep. It would have been a remarkable exhibition of skill with a cut-and-thrust sword or a rapier, but with a half-pike it was little less than marvelous.
Yan Gratz struggled on, his tired arms vainly striving against the Frenchman’s assaults. Once, when the Dutchman had been disarmed, Monsieur Mornay generously allowed him to regain his weapon, choosing the advantage of Yan Gratz’s posture, however, to complete the circle of his punctures by a prick in the seat of his honor, which quickly straightened him again.
When the game had gone far enough, and the pallid pasty face of Yan Gratz was so suffused that it looked little less red than his nose or the blood upon his shirt, and his gasps for breath ​were become so short that they threatened to come no more at all, Monsieur Mornay threw his weapon down upon the deck and, breathing deeply, folded his arms and stood at rest.
“Mynheer,” he said, “it was a mistake to have begun. I am the best half-pikeman in France.”
The Dutchman blinked at him with his small pig-eyes, out of which the bitterness of his humiliation flashed and sparkled in a wild and vengeful light. The Frenchman turned his back to pass beyond the circle of grinning men who had not scrupled to hide their delight and admiration at his prowess in vanquishing their bully. But Gratz, whose exhaustion even could not avail to curb his fury, put all the small store of his remaining energy into a savage rush, which he directed full at the back of the retiring Frenchman. A cry arose, and Mornay would have been transfixed had not Cornbury intercepted the cowardly thrust by a nimble foot, over which the Dutchman stumbled and fell sprawling into the scuppers. The point of his ​weapon grazed the arm of Mornay and stuck quivering in the deck, a yard beyond where he had stood. Jacquard rushed to the prostrate figure in a fury at his treachery, but the man made no sign or effort to arise.
“By the ’Oly Rood! A craven stroke!” cried the captain, fetching the Dutchman a resounding kick, which brought forth a feeble groan. “Get up!” he roared. “Get up an’ go forward. Hods-niggars! we want none but honest blows among shipmates.”
Yan Gratz struggled to his feet and stumbled heavily down into the deck-house. Jacquard was grinning from ear to ear. If he had planned the combat himself, the result could not have been more to his liking. The favor of Billy Winch was no small thing to win, and Monsieur Mornay had chosen the nearest road to his heart. The captain, after hurling a parting curse at the Dutchman’s figure, slouched over to Mornay.
“Zounds! but ye ’ave a ’and for the pike, my bully. ’Ave ye aught o’ seamanship? If ​ye know your hangles, ye’re the very figure of a mate for Saucy Sally, for we want no more o’ ’im,” and he jerked his finger in the direction taken by Yan Gratz.
Mornay laughed. “I’ve had the deck of a taller ship than Saucy Sally.” Billy Winch grasped Mornay by the hand right heartily.
“Come, what d’ye say? Me an’ Jacky Jacquard an’ you. We three aft. We’ve need o’ ye. Zounds! but ye’ve the useful thrust an’ parry.” Then he roared with laughter. “An’ I’m mistaken if ye’re not as ’andy a liar as a pikeman. I’ve seen the play of the best in the French Marine, and Captain René Mornay would have a word to say with ye as to who’s the best half-pikeman in France.”
Jacquard held his sides to better contain himself; his mouth opened widely and his little eyes were quite closed with the excess of his delight. Mornay and Cornbury smiled a little, and the Frenchman said, with composure:
“Perhaps. Monsieur le Capitaine Mornay and I are not strangers. But he holds his repu​tation so low and I mine so high, that I cannot bring myself to fight him.”
Here Jacquard could no longer contain himself.
“Can you not see farther than the end of your bowsprit, Billee Winch?” he cried; and while the captain wondered, “Can you not see, stupid fish?—’tis Bras-de-Fer himself!”
Blackbeard fell back a step or two in his amazement, while a murmur swept over the crew, who, loath to leave the scene, had remained interested listeners to the colloquy.
“What! René the Iron Arm aboard the Sally?” said the captain, approaching the Frenchman again. “Soho! Though, by St. Paul’s—ye’re not unlike— An’ with a wig an’ doublet— ’Pon my soul, Jacky Jacquard, but I believe ’tis the truth. Say, is it so, master?”
“I am René Mornay,” said the Frenchman.
“Soho!” he roared in delight. “Then Sally shall give ye meat and drink and make a bed to ye. An’ when ye will she’ll set ye ashore in France. Or, if ye care for the clashin’ of arms, ​she’ll show ye the path of the galleons o’ Spain. Come, let’s below and drink to a better understanding.”
It was thus that Monsieur Mornay sailed forth for the Spanish Main.