# War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 23

MR. FRANCIS O'SULLIVAN lounged upon his mule and chirped a foolish song. When his mind was serene, he loved the stately stanzas of the austere Greeks. In moments of anxiety, his tongue, without direction from his brain, warbled of lighter themes. Care bestrode him now, for he sang of love:
Jock Pearson, riding on the little man's right, scowled as though he found the tune distasteful; and Meg Pearson riding just behind him, a long-stemmed black pipe clenched in her teeth, suddenly ripped out a most unladylike oath. Mr. O'Sullivan turned in his saddle and beamed upon the lady.
"What ails you, Meg?" he inquired mildly. "Do you swear at my singing? For my part, I swear by it."
"Your singin' be damned," Meg answered harshly. "They're comin'. I hear their hoof-beats."
​Mr. O'Sullivan's smile lost something of its good-humour.
"I'm disappointed," he said. "I had begun to hope that it was a real panther, after all. Well, our friends have a good start. Hast any plans, Jock?"
The big trader shook his head. "Only to help Almayne all we can without runnin' ourselves in hot water," he answered gruffly.
"Hum," said Mr. O'Sullivan thoughtfully. "And suppose you let me do the talking, Jock of the bear's voice. I've a good lying tongue in my head, and the less you say the less likely you'll get in trouble."
Jock grumbled something in the depths of his beard, but Meg said quickly, "Talk and be damned to you. Nem' mind my cursin', Mr. O'Sullivan. When somethin's goin' to happen I gets a little narvous and forgets my breedin'."
"I'm a little nervous myself, Mistress Pearson," O'Sullivan said coolly, and went back to humming his tune. Ugly Meg glanced at him sharply, threw back her head and laughed.
"Well, what now, my lovely Bird of Paradise?" asked O'Sullivan testily.
"I was only thinkin'," she said, her corrugated sun-tanned face a little redder than usual, "what a comical sight you are, a-settin' on that-ar mule with that-ar sword a-danglin' by your side."
Mr. O'Sullivan seemed not to hear her. He appeared to be deep in thought, but in reality he was listening—listening to the hoof-beats, which he, too, ​now heard. Yet he would not turn his head. He sat very erect upon his jogging mule, his uncovered white hair gleaming in the sun, his small, bright-blue eyes very blue in his round, smooth, pink countenance. As always, he wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and black knee trousers with silver buckles. One hand, in which he carried a light hickory switch, lay upon the pommel of his saddle; the other rested on the hilt of the slender rapier that he had worn constantly since leaving Charles Town.
Suddenly he seemed to wake from his absorption.
"My sword, eh," he muttered absently. "What's comical about my sword? Why, damme, woman . . ."
A shout interrupted him. A pack-horse driver was pointing with his whip. Around a bend of the Path behind the pack train a group of riders were approaching at a gallop. There were five men in all, a tall man on a big black horse leading them.
O'Sullivan sat on his mule watching them keenly.
"The tall, wide one's Lance Falcon," he said quietly. "Jock, d'ye know the others?"
Pearson shook his head. "Can't tell yit," he answered. "Except the tall one, they ride like sailors."
Mr. O'Sullivan grinned.
"That's what they are," he muttered. "Falcon's brought his own men with him. Probably the Governor was too slow in moving, and he's taken matters into his own hands. Well, well, luck's with us. Come."
He clucked to his mule and, followed by Jock and ​Mistress Pearson, rode to the rear of the pack train.
"We'll meet 'em here," he said. "Mind, now, I do the parleying."
Lance Falcon, booted and spurred, the long red feather in his hat matching his broad red sash, reined in before the group, his men close behind him.
"Give you good day, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. "It grieves me to see that those who were with you are no longer of your company."
Mr. O'Sullivan blinked for a moment uncomprehendingly. Then he turned to Jock Pearson.
"This man," he said distinctly in his bird-like treble, jerking his thumb towards Falcon, "is of a certainty very drunk."
Falcon started violently, stared at O'Sullivan, then smiled.
"Your pardon, sir," he said, "I am very sober, and I am in haste."
O'Sullivan calmly returned the stare, then spoke again to Jock.
"If he is not drunk," the little man chirped, "then he is a boor. He has not the courtesy to uncover before a lady."
Falcon's hand, resting on his sword-hilt, tightened, but his smile was broader than before. His eyes darted quickly from one to another of the three, and with a flourish he swept off his wide hat with its red—feather.
"A thousand apologies," he cried, bowing low to Meg. "In my haste I took the lady to be a man. I pray you overlook the error."
​His smile vanished suddenly.
"You are Jock Pearson?" he asked, addressing the trader.
Jock nodded.
"It will be well for you, then, to answer my questions truthfully. I come with the Governor's authority. A young lady, Mistress Jolie Stanwicke, together with Mr. Lachlan McDonald and a hunter named Almayne, joined your party one day's march from Charles Town. Where are they now?"
"May I ask," said Mr. O'Sullivan meekly, "to see the Governor's warrant?"
Falcon whirled on him fiercely.
"And may I ask you, sir," he thundered, "to hold your tongue?"
The small blue eyes in Mr. O'Sullivan's pink face blinked rapidly. He stroked the point of his chin with a chubby white hand.
"I think, sir," he said cheerfully, "that by using my tongue I may save Your Honour considerable fruitless effort. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that Mistress Jolie Stanwicke and her two companions were riding in our company. Let us suppose that they learned of your approach and decided to give you the slip. Let us suppose, finally, that they left us forthwith, not even pausing to say good-bye. A few miles distant, I am informed, are the great swamps and canebrakes of the Santee. By now, if all I have supposed is true, Mistress Jolie Stanwicke and her friends are in the Santee canebrakes. And by ​now I think it has dawned upon you, my black-browed, evil-eyed fellow, that you have played the part of a most lamentable ass."
Falcon's full-blooded, sun-tanned face had turned a purple-red; under his moustache his white teeth gleamed; there was murder in his eyes. But Mr. O'Sullivan continued, unabashed:
"Gentle and courteous sir," he said, in tones of utmost humility, "by your gracious leave, I will put the case before you. I'm thinking you found the Governor a little slow to move, so you, being a man of action, took matters into your own hands. With your own men you galloped out of Charles Town to run Mistress Jolie Stanwicke down. There was a thing or two that you forgot, I'm thinking. You and your men are seamen, and seamen are grand upon the sea. But what I don't understand, Your Honour, and what you don't understand, Your Honour, is this: How in hell are your seamen going to track Mistress Jolie Stanwicke in the canebrakes of the Santee, and she in the charge of James Almayne, the best woodsman in Carolina?"
Mr. O'Sullivan smiled a beatific smile, the smile of a pink-cheeked, snowy-haired cherub.
"Faith, most superfluous sir," he said, "we were worried a while ago, thinking that surely you had with you some man of the woods who could follow a wilderness trail and maybe match wits with Almayne. Yes, my thick-skulled Captain, you gave me a scare, for I had understood that you had a brain. But my ​mind's easy now and there's a singing in my heart. Good day, sir, and may the snakes of the Santee canebrakes sharpen their fangs on your hide."
For some moments Captain Falcon sat his horse in silence. He sat frowning, his arms folded, his head sunk forward a little, his eyes fixed upon Mr. O'Sullivan. The veins bulged in his forehead, yet his voice was calm.
"I take it," he said, "that you are Mr. Francis O'Sullivan, the pedagogue."
Mr. O'Sullivan bowed. "The same, sir," he replied sweetly. "And you are Captain Lance Falcon, the pirate, who will some day be hanged."
A slow smile replaced Falcon's frown. "Mr. O'Sullivan," said he, "you have given me much pleasure."
Again the little man on the mule inclined his head. "Sure and 'twould be discourteous," he replied, "not to return the compliment. It has been a real joy to me to learn that mine enemy is an ass."
Falcon's smile broadened. "Most of what you have said," he remarked quietly, "is true. Most true of all is it that I proved myself foolish when I lost patience with the Governor and set out on this quest without a woodsman to guide me. I had hoped to overtake my quarry on the road and bag the bird before it could escape into the woods. Yet I am not quite the simpleton that you have supposed me, Mr. O'Sullivan. The Governor's men are but an hour or two behind me, and when they come up we shall try to match wits with your friend Almayne."
​Mr. O'Sullivan leaned forward on his mule. His right hand moved with amazing swiftness, and the hickory switch that he held in it thrashed across Falcon's cheek.
"You lie, Lance Falcon!" he said distinctly in his high thin voice of a bird.
It was a stinging blow. It left a white welt on the dark tan of Falcon's face. Yet the man did not move an inch, did not even lift his hand.
"Eh, well!" he cried. He turned to his men behind him, and to the pack drivers standing near by.
"You are all witnesses?" he asked. "You saw the blow?"
A dozen heads nodded. Falcon turned again to the little man on the mule.
"Of course, Mr. O'Sullivan," he said, "your design has been entirely plain from the beginning. You wished to make a quarrel. I have understood that you have some reputation with the sword—in fact, that you make a pittance by teaching not only Greek and Latin but rapier-play also. Well, I am not unwilling to have a lesson from so eminent a teacher, and perhaps in my clumsy way I may be able to instruct the pedagogue. 'Twill help pass the time until the Governor's men arrive."
With a tiger's litheness which belied his bulk, he leaped from his horse. In an instant O'Sullivan, too, was on his feet.
"The ground is firm here," Falcon continued coolly, "and the trees do not hedge us in too closely. ​There is room for some pretty play, do you not think?"
"And the road is open behind you," chirped O'Sullivan in answer, "so that when the fear of God comes upon you, your long legs may beat a rub-a-dub-dub back to town."
Again Falcon's white teeth gleamed under his moustache.
"Tut, tut, my little pepper pot," he replied, "you are overdoing it now. I see that I can instruct the pedagogue in gentlemanly courtesy."
Deliberately he removed his coat, handed it to one of his men, rolled back the sleeve of his white shirt, exposing his powerful fore-arm, dark brown with the suns of many seas.
He drew his sword with a flourish and, lowering the point, turned to Meg Pearson.
"Permit me, Madame," he said, bowing, "to reassure the timorous heart that must needs dwell with so fair a face. I shall not kill our little pedagogue. To do so might put me to some bother in Charles Town. I shall make a hole in his right arm above the elbow and I think that within the next quarter hour he will lose a part of his left ear."
"Ugly Meg," said Mr. O'Sullivan testily, "if you don't want to see this long-winded, most damned pirate sent to hell, you can just ride up the road a little piece and smoke your pipe."