# The Love of Monsieur/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII
THE SAUCY SALLY
Monsieur Mornay and his companions made but a sorry spectacle upon the decks of the vessel aboard of which the hand of destiny had so fortuitously tumbled them. The Frenchman had lost his doublet, hat, and periwig, the blood flowed freely from a wound in his head, and his bowed figure was slim and lean in his clinging and dripping garments. The Irishman stood near, with one hand upon the Frenchman’s shoulder, watching him narrowly, fearful that in another mad moment he might throw himself overboard after his lost heritage. But Monsieur Mornay made no move to struggle further. He stood supine and subordinate to his fate. The light of battle which had so recently illumined them shone in his eyes no more. And the head which by the grace of God had been raised last night so that he could look every ​man level in the eyes was now sunk into his shoulders—not in humiliation or abasement, but in a silent acquiescence to the whelming sense of defeat that was his.
Cornbury, his red poll glowing a dull ember in the moonlight, stood by the side of his friend, erect, smiling—his usual inscrutable self. Presently, when a lantern had been brought, the man with the black beard came forward again and placed himself, arms akimbo, before the bedraggled figures of the fugitives. His voice was coarse and thick, like his face and body. As he leaned sideways to accommodate the squint of one eye and looked at them in high humor, an odor of garlic and brandy proclaimed itself so generously that even the rising breeze could not whip it away.
“Soho!” he said again. “Soho! soho!” while he swayed drunkenly from one foot to the other. “Queer fishin’ even for the Thames, mateys. Soho! If there be luck in hodd numbers, then ’ere’s the very luck o’ Danny McGraw, for of all the hoddities—Ho, Redhead, whither was ye bound? Newgate or Tyburn or ​the Tower? The Tower? Ye aren’t got much o’ the hair o’ prisoners o’ state.”
Cornbury looked him over coolly, and then, with a laugh, “Bedad, my dear man, we’d had a smell of all three, I’m thinking.”
By this time half the crew of the vessel were gathered in a leering and grinning circle.
“Pst!” said one; “’tis the Duke o’ York in dishguise.”
“The Duke o’ York,” said another. “Ai! yi! an’ the little one’s the Prince o’ Wales.”
Blackbeard thrust his nose under that of the Irishman. “Well, Redhead,” he cried, “wot’s the crime? Murder or thieving or harson?” To lend force to his query he clapped his hand down upon Cornbury’s shoulder. The Irishman’s eyes gleamed and his hand went to his side, but he forgot that his weapon was no longer there. He shrugged a careless shoulder and drew away a pace.
“Whist!” he said, good-humoredly; “’tis the King I’ve just killed.”
“Yaw! ’Tis the red of the blood-royal upon ​his head,” said the drunkard, amid a wild chorus of laughter.
Here a tall figure thrust through the grinning crowd, which gave back a step at the sound of his voice.
“Nom d’un nom!” he cried. “They shiver with the cold. A drink and a dip in the slop-chest is more to the point—eh, captain?” Blackbeard swayed stupidly again, and, with a growl that might have meant anything, rolled aft and down below. The tall man took the lantern and led the way into the forecastle, whither the fugitives followed him. But it was not until they got within the glare of the forecastle lantern that they discovered what manner of man it was to whom they owed this benefaction. He was tall and thin, and his long, bony arms hung heavily from narrow shoulders, which seemed hardly stout enough to sustain their weight. From a thick thatch of tangled beard and hair, a long, scrawny neck thrust forward peeringly, like that of a plucked fowl; and at the end of it a smallish head, with a hooked nose, black, beady eyes, and great, projecting ​ears was bonneted in a tight-fitting woolen cap which made more prominent these eccentricities of nature. This astonishing figure would have seemed emaciated but for a certain deceptive largeness of bone and sinew. His nether half ended in a pair of long shanks attired in baggy trousers and boots, between which two bony knees, very much bowed, were visible. By his manner he might have been English, by his language French, by his ugliness anything from a pirate to an evil dream of the Devil.
Monsieur Mornay had reached the forecastle in a kind of stupefaction, and it was not until the ugly man returned from below with some dry clothing and a bottle of brandy that he came broadly awake. Then, wet and shivering, he threw aside his shirt and drank a generous tinful of grateful liquor, which sent a glow of warmth to the very marrow of his chilled bones. For the first time he glanced at his benefactor.
“Mille Dieux!” he cried, in joyful surprise. “Jacquard!” The tall man bent forward till his neck seemed to start from its fastenings.
“By the Devil’s Pot! why, what—wh—? It ​cannot be—Monsieur le Chevalier! Is it you?”
In his surprise he dropped the bottle from his hand, and the liquor ran a dark stream upon the deck; but, regardless, he made two strides to Mornay’s side, and, taking him by the shoulders, looked him eagerly in the face. “It is! It is! Holy Virgin, Monsieur le Capitaine, how came you here?”
Cornbury had never looked upon so ill-assorted a pair, but watched them stand, hand clasped in hand, each looking into the face of the other.
“A small world, Jacquard! How came you to leave Rochelle?”
“Oh, Monsieur,” said the other, wagging his head, “times are not what they have been. The sea has called me again. My flesh dried upon my bones. I could not stay longer ashore. And a profitable venture—a profitable venture—”
“Honest, Jacquard! Where do ye go?”
“Monsieur, the Saucy Sally is no proper ship for you.” He moved his head with a curious solemnity from side to side. “No place for you—we go a long voyage, monsieur,” and ​he broke off abruptly. “But tell me how came you in such straits as these?” Then Monsieur Mornay told Jacquard briefly of the fight in the Fleece Tavern and of their escape, and after this Cornbury learned how Jacquard had been the Chevalier Mornay’s cockswain upon the Dieu Merci in the Marine of France. But through it all Jacquard preserved a solemn and puzzled expression, which struggled curiously with his look of delight at the sight of Mornay. At last, unable longer to contain himself, he glanced stealthily around to where the men were swinging their hammocks, and said, in a kind of shouting whisper:
“Monsieur, you cannot stay upon the Saucy Sally. To-morrow, before we leave the Channel, you must get ashore.”
Mornay looked curiously at the man. “Why, Jacquard! You, too? Your Sally is none so hospitable a lass, after all. Upon my faith, ’tis too bad in an old shipmate. I had but just coaxed myself into a desire to stay, and—here—”
Jacquard’s face was a study in perplexities. ​He drew the fugitives to a small room, or closet. When the door was shut he sat down, his mouth and face writhing with the import of the information he could not bring himself to convey.
“Ods-life, man,” growled Cornbury, “have ye the twitches? Speak out!”
“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said Jacquard, “’tis no cruise for you. We go to the Havana and Maracaibo and—” He hesitated again.
“Out with it before ye get in irons. Ye hang in the wind like a fluttering maid.”
“Well, monsieur, we are a flibustier—no more, no less,” he growled. “Voilà, you have it. I had hoped—”
To his surprise, Monsieur Mornay broke into a wild laugh. “You, Jacquard—honest Jacquard—a farbon, a pirato?”
“Well, not just that, monsieur—a flibustier,” he said, sulkily. “There is a difference. Besides, the times were bad. I went to the Spanish Main—”
“And became a boucanier—”
“Monsieur, listen. We are not a common pirato. No, monsieur. This ship is owned by a ​person high in authority, and Captain Billee Winch bears a warrant from the King. Under this we make a judicious war upon the ships of Spain and none other. We have taken their ships in honest warfare, with much mercy and compassion.”
“A very prodigy of virtue. Your Sally is too trim a maiden to be altogether honest, eh?” Mornay paused a moment, looking at his old shipmate, then burst into a loud laugh.
“Bah, Jacquard! sail with you I will, whether or no. I am at odds with the world. From to-night, I, too, am a flibustier. If I cannot go in the cabin, aft, I will go in the forecastle; if not as master, as man. Pardieu, as the very lowest and blackest devil of you all—”
“You, monsieur—you!”
“Yes, I. I have squeezed life dry, Jacquard. I have given my best in the service of honor and pride. They have given me rank and empty honors, and all the while have kept me from my dearest desire. From to-night virtue and I are things apart. I throw her from me as I would throw a sour lemon.”
​“A pirato!” Cornbury came around and placed a hand upon each of the Frenchman’s shoulders, while he looked him straight in the eyes. “Monsieur le Chevalier,” he said, soberly—“Monsieur de Bresac—”
At the sound of that name he had staked so much to win, the Frenchman dropped his eyes before the steady gaze of the Irishman. But if his poor heart trembled, his body did not. Slowly but firmly he grasped the wrists of his friend and brought his hands down between them.
“No, no, Cornbury,” he said; “it must not be. That sacred name—even that—will not deter me. It is done. May she who bears it find less emptiness in honor and life than I. I wish her no evil, but I pray that we may never meet, or the fate which makes men forget their manhood, as I forget mine to-night, may awake the sleeping God in me to living devil, and demand that I make of her a very living sacrifice upon its very altar—”
“René, I pray you!” cried Cornbury. Mornay did not even hear him.
​“I yield at last. From the time I came into the world I have been the very creature of fate. I have struck my colors, Cornbury. I have hauled down my gay pennons. I have left my ship.” He leaned for a moment brokenly upon the bulkhead. But before Cornbury could speak he started up. “No, no. Vice shall command here if she will. She will be but a poor mistress can she not serve me better than Ambition and Honor. Come, Cornbury. Come to the Spanish Main. There’ll be the crash of fight once more and a dip into the wild life that brings forgetfulness. Come, Cornbury.”
Jacquard, who had been listening to this mad speech with his mouth as wide agape as his eyes and ears, rose to his feet.
“Monsieur,” he asked, joyfully, “you will go with us to the Spanish Main?”
“Yes, yes!”
“And be a common boucanier, a cutthroat?” said Cornbury the ironical.
“Ay!”
“But, man, you have no position here; ye’ll be ​cuffed and beaten—maybe shot by yon drunken captain—”
“I’ve been beaten before—”
“Monsieur,” gladly broke in Jacquard, upon whom the light had dawned at last—“monsieur, I am second in command here, and half the crew are French. I’m not without authority upon them. Set your mind at rest. With these men you shall have fair play.” He paused, scratching his head. “With the captain it is another matter—”
“Bah, Jacquard! I’ve weathered worse storms. Your captain is a stubborn dog, but I’ve a fancy he barks the loudest when in drink. Come, Cornbury, I’m resolved to start from the bottom rung of the ladder once more. Will you not play at pirate for a while?”
“Unless I mistake,” said Cornbury, coolly, “I have no choice in the matter. The walking is but poor, and I’ve no humor for a swim. My dear man, ye may rest your mind on that—ye’re a madman—of that I’m assured. But I’ll stay with ye awhile.”