Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Every word of it sank into the brain of Asad thus tardily to enlighten him. He wrung his hands in his blended fury and despair. The crew stood in appalled silence, daring to make no movement that might precipitate their end.

  “Name thine own price,” cried the Basha at length, “and I swear to thee by the beard of the Prophet it shall be paid thee.”

  “I named it yesterday, but it was refused. I offered thee my liberty and my life if that were needed to gain the liberty of another.”

  Had he looked behind him he might have seen the sudden lighting of Rosamund’s eyes, the sudden clutch at her bosom, which would have announced to him that his utterances were none so cryptic but that she had understood them.

  “I will make thee rich and honoured, Sakr-el-Bahr,” Asad continued urgently. “Thou shalt be as mine own son. The Bashalik itself shall be thine when I lay it down, and all men shall do thee honour in the meanwhile as to myself.”

  “I am not to be bought, O mighty Asad. I never was. Already wert thou set upon my death. Thou canst command it now, but only upon the condition that thou share the cup with me. What is written is written. We have sunk some tall ships together in our day, Asad. We’ll sink together in our turn to-night if that be thy desire.”

  “May thou burn for evermore in hell, thou black-hearted traitor!” Asad cursed him, his anger bursting all the bonds he had imposed upon it.

  And then, of a sudden, upon that admission of defeat from their Basha, there arose a great clamour from the crew. Sakr-el-Bahr’s sea-hawks called upon him, reminding him of their fidelity and love, and asking could he repay it now by dooming them all thus to destruction.

  “Have faith in me!” he answered them. “I have never led you into aught but victory. Be sure that I shall not lead you now into defeat — on this the last occasion that we stand together.”

  “But the galleon is upon us!” cried Vigitello. And so, indeed, it was, creeping up slowly under that faint breeze, her tall bulk loomed now above them, her prow ploughing slowly forward at an acute angle to the prow of the galeasse. Another moment and she was alongside, and with a swing and clank and a yell of victory from the English seamen lining her bulwarks her grappling irons swung down to seize the corsair ship at prow and stern and waist. Scarce had they fastened, than a torrent of men in breast-plates and morions poured over her side, to alight upon the prow of the galeasse, and not even the fear of the lantern held above the powder barrel could now restrain the corsairs from giving these hardy boarders the reception they reserved for all infidels. In an instant the fighting platform on the prow was become a raging, seething hell of battle luridly illumined by the ruddy glow from the lights aboard the Silver Heron. Foremost among those who had leapt down had been Lionel and Sir John Killigrew. Foremost among those to receive them had been Jasper Leigh, who had passed his sword through Lionel’s body even as Lionel’s feet came to rest upon the deck, and before the battle was joined.

  A dozen others went down on either side before Sakr-el-Bahr’s ringing voice could quell the fighting, before his command to them to hear him was obeyed.

  “Hold there!” he had bellowed to his sea-hawks, using the lingua franca. “Back, and leave this to me. I will rid you of these foes.” Then in English he had summoned his countrymen also to desist. “Sir John Killigrew!” he called in a loud voice. “Hold your hand until you have heard me! Call your men back and let none others come aboard! Hold until you have heard me, I say, then wreak your will.”

  Sir John, perceiving him by the mainmast with Rosamund at his side, and leaping at the most inevitable conclusion that he meant to threaten her life, perhaps to destroy her if they continued their advance, flung himself before his men, to check them.

  Thus almost as suddenly as it had been joined the combat paused

  “What have you to say, you renegade dog?” Sir John demanded.

  “This, Sir John, that unless you order your men back aboard your ship, and make oath to desist from this encounter, I’ll take you straight down to hell with us at once. I’ll heave this lantern into the powder here, and we sink and you come down with us held by your own grappling hooks. Obey me and you shall have all that you have come to seek aboard this vessel. Mistress Rosamund shall be delivered up to you.”

  Sir John glowered upon him a moment from the poop, considering. Then —

  “Though not prepared to make terms with you,” he announced, “yet I will accept the conditions you impose, but only provided that I have all indeed that I am come to seek. There is aboard this galley an infamous renegade hound whom I am bound by my knightly oath to take and hang. He, too, must be delivered up to me. His name was Oliver Tressilian.”

  Instantly, unhesitatingly, came the answer— “Him, too, will I surrender to you upon your sworn oath that you will then depart and do here no further hurt.”

  Rosamund caught her breath, and clutched Sakr-el-Bahr’s arm, the arm that held the lantern.

  “Have a care, mistress,” he bade her sharply, “or you will destroy us all.”

  “Better that!” she answered him.

  And then Sir John pledged him his word that upon his own surrender and that of Rosamund he would withdraw nor offer hurt to any there.

  Sakr-el-Bahr turned to his waiting corsairs, and briefly told them what the terms he had made.

  He called upon Asad to pledge his word that these terms would be respected, and no blood shed on his behalf, and Asad answered him, voicing the anger of all against him for his betrayal.

  “Since he wants thee that he may hang thee, he may have thee and so spare us the trouble, for ’tis no less than thy treachery deserves from us.”

  “Thus, then, I surrender,” he announced to Sir John, and flung the lantern overboard.

  One voice only was raised in his defence, and that voice was Rosamund’s. But even that voice failed, conquered by weary nature. This last blow following upon all that lately she had endured bereft her of all strength. Half swooning she collapsed against Sakr-el-Bahr even as Sir John and a handful of his followers leapt down to deliver her and make fast their prisoner.

  The corsairs stood looking on in silence; the loyalty to their great captain, which would have made them spend their last drop of blood in his defence, was quenched by his own act of treachery which had brought the English ship upon them. Yet when they saw him pinioned and hoisted to the deck of the Silver Heron, there was a sudden momentary reaction in their ranks. Scimitars were waved aloft, and cries of menace burst forth. If he had betrayed them, yet he had so contrived that they should not suffer by that betrayal. And that was worthy of the Sakr-el-Bahr they knew and loved; so worthy that their love and loyalty leapt full-armed again upon the instant.

  But the voice of Asad called upon them to bear in mind what in their name he had promised, and since the voice of Asad alone might not have sufficed to quell that sudden spark of revolt, there came down to them the voice of Sakr-el-Bahr himself issuing his last command.

  “Remember and respect the terms I have made for you! Mektub! May Allah guard and prosper you!”

  A wail was his reply, and with that wail ringing in his ears to assure him that he did not pass unloved, he was hurried below to prepare him for his end.

  The ropes of the grapnels were cut, and slowly the galleon passed away into the night, leaving the galley to replace what slaves had been maimed in the encounter and to head back for Algiers, abandoning the expedition against the argosy of Spain.

  Under the awning upon the poop Asad now sat like a man who has awakened from an evil dream. He covered his head and wept for one who had been as a son to him, and whom through his madness he had lost. He cursed all women, and he cursed destiny; but the bitterest curse of all was for himself.

  In the pale dawn they flung the dead overboard and washed the decks, nor did they notice that a man was missing in token that the English captain, or else his followers, had not kept strictly to the letter of the bond.

  They returned in mourning to Algier
s — mourning not for the Spanish argosy which had been allowed to go her ways unmolested, but for the stoutest captain that ever bared his scimitar in the service of Islam. The story of how he came to be delivered up was never clearly told; none dared clearly tell it, for none who had participated in the deed but took shame in it thereafter, however clear it might be that Sakr-el-Bahr had brought it all upon himself. But, at least, it was understood that he had not fallen in battle, and hence it was assumed that he was still alive. Upon that presumption there was built up a sort of legend that he would one day come back; and redeemed captives returning a half-century later related how in Algiers to that day the coming of Sakr-el-Bahr was still confidently expected and looked for by all true Muslimeen.

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE HEATHEN CREED

  Sakr-el-Bahr was shut up in a black hole in the forecastle of the Silver Heron to await the dawn and to spend the time in making his soul. No words had passed between him and Sir John since his surrender. With wrists pinioned behind him, he had been hoisted aboard the English ship, and in the waist of her he had stood for a moment face to face with an old acquaintance — our chronicler, Lord Henry Goade. I imagine the florid countenance of the Queen’s Lieutenant wearing a preternaturally grave expression, his eyes forbidding as they rested upon the renegade. I know — from Lord Henry’s own pen — that no word had passed between them during those brief moments before Sakr-el-Bahr was hurried away by his guards to be flung into those dark, cramped quarters reeking of tar and bilge.

  For a long hour he lay where he had fallen, believing himself alone; and time and place would no doubt conduce to philosophical reflection upon his condition. I like to think that he found that when all was considered, he had little with which to reproach himself. If he had done evil he had made ample amends. It can scarcely be pretended that he had betrayed those loyal Muslimeen followers of his, or, if it is, at least it must be added that he himself had paid the price of that betrayal. Rosamund was safe, Lionel would meet the justice due to him, and as for himself, being as good as dead already, he was worth little thought. He must have derived some measure of content from the reflection that he was spending his life to the very best advantage. Ruined it had been long since. True, but for his ill-starred expedition of vengeance he might long have continued to wage war as a corsair, might even have risen to the proud Muslim eminence of the Bashalik of Algiers and become a feudatory prince of the Grand Turk. But for one who was born a Christian gentleman that would have been an unworthy way to have ended his days. The present was the better course.

  A faint rustle in the impenetrable blackness of his prison turned the current of his thoughts. A rat, he thought, and drew himself to a sitting attitude, and beat his slippered heels upon the ground to drive away the loathly creature. Instead, a voice challenged him out of the gloom.

  “Who’s there?”

  It startled him for a moment, in his complete assurance that he had been alone.

  “Who’s there?” the voice repeated, querulously to add: “What black hell be this? Where am I?”

  And now he recognized the voice for Jasper Leigh’s, and marvelled how that latest of his recruits to the ranks of Mohammed should be sharing this prison with him.

  “Faith,” said he, “you’re in the forecastle of the Silver Heron; though how you come here is more than I can answer.”

  “Who are ye?” the voice asked.

  “I have been known in Barbary as Sakr-el-Bahr.”

  “Sir Oliver!”

  “I suppose that is what they will call me now. It is as well perhaps that I am to be buried at sea, else it might plague these Christian gentlemen what legend to inscribe upon my headstone. But you — how come you hither? My bargain with Sir John was that none should be molested, and I cannot think Sir John would be forsworn.”

  “As to that I know nothing, since I did not even know where I was bestowed until ye informed me. I was knocked senseless in the fight, after I had put my bilbo through your comely brother. That is the sum of my knowledge.”

  Sir Oliver caught his breath. “What do you say? You killed Lionel?”

  “I believe so,” was the cool answer. “At least I sent a couple of feet of steel through him— ’twas in the press of the fight when first the English dropped aboard the galley; Master Lionel was in the van — the last place in which I should have looked to see him.”

  There fell a long silence. At length Sir Oliver spoke in a small voice.

  “Not a doubt but you gave him no more than he was seeking. You are right, Master Leigh; the van was the last place in which to look for him, unless he came deliberately to seek steel that he might escape a rope. Best so, no doubt. Best so! God rest him!”

  “Do you believe in God?” asked the sinful skipper on an anxious note.

  “No doubt they took you because of that,” Sir Oliver pursued, as if communing with himself. “Being in ignorance perhaps of his deserts, deeming him a saint and martyr, they resolved to avenge him upon you, and dragged you hither for that purpose.” He sighed. “Well, well, Master Leigh, I make no doubt that knowing yourself for a rascal you have all your life been preparing your neck for a noose; so this will come as no surprise to you.”

  The skipper stirred uneasily, and groaned. “Lord, how my head aches!” he complained.

  “They’ve a sure remedy for that,” Sir Oliver comforted him. “And you’ll swing in better company than you deserve, for I am to be hanged in the morn-ing too. You’ve earned it as fully as have I, Master Leigh. Yet I am sorry for you — sorry you should suffer where I had not so intended.”

  Master Leigh sucked in a shuddering breath, and was silent for a while.

  Then he repeated an earlier question.

  “Do you believe in God, Sir Oliver?”

  “There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet,” was the answer, and from his tone Master Leigh could not be sure that he did not mock.

  “That’s a heathen creed,” said he in fear and loathing.

  “Nay, now; it’s a creed by which men live. They perform as they preach, which is more than can be said of any Christians I have ever met.”

  “How can you talk so upon the eve of death?” cried Leigh in protest.

  “Faith,” said Sir Oliver, “it’s considered the season of truth above all others.”

  “Then ye don’t believe in God?”

  “On the contrary, I do.”

  “But not in the real God?” the skipper insisted.

  “There can be no God but the real God — it matters little what men call Him.”

  “Then if ye believe, are ye not afraid?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of hell, damnation, and eternal fire,” roared the skipper, voicing his own belated terrors.

  “I have but fulfilled the destiny which in His Omniscience He marked out for me,” replied Sir Oliver. “My life hath been as He designed it, since naught may exist or happen save by His Will. Shall I then fear damnation for having been as God fashioned me?”

  “’Tis the heathen Muslim creed!” Master Leigh protested.

  “’Tis a comforting one,” said Sir Oliver, “and it should comfort such a sinner as thou.”

  But Master Leigh refused to be comforted. “Oh!” he groaned miserably. “I would that I did not believe in God!”

  “Your disbelief could no more abolish Him than can your fear create Him,” replied Sir Oliver. “But your mood being what it is, were it not best you prayed?”

  “Will not you pray with me?” quoth that rascal in his sudden fear of the hereafter.

  “I shall do better,” said Sir Oliver at last. “I shall pray for you — to Sir John Killigrew, that your life be spared.”

  “Sure he’ll never heed you!” said Master Leigh with a catch in his breath.

  “He shall. His honour is concerned in it. The terms of my surrender were that none else aboard the galley should suffer any hurt.”

  “But I killed Master Lionel.”

  “True — but
that was in the scrimmage that preceded my making terms. Sir John pledged me his word, and Sir John will keep to it when I have made it clear to him that honour demands it.”

  A great burden was lifted from the skipper’s mind — that great shadow of the fear of death that had overhung him. With it, it is greatly to be feared that his desperate penitence also departed. At least he talked no more of damnation, nor took any further thought for Sir Oliver’s opinions and beliefs concerning the hereafter. He may rightly have supposed that Sir Oliver’s creed was Sir Oliver’s affair, and that should it happen to be wrong he was scarcely himself a qualified person to correct it. As for himself, the making of his soul could wait until another day, when the necessity for it should be more imminent.

  Upon that he lay down and attempted to compose himself to sleep, though the pain in his head proved a difficulty. Finding slumber impossible after a while he would have talked again; but by that time his companion’s regular breathing warned him that Sir Oliver had fallen asleep during the silence.

  Now this surprised and shocked the skipper. He was utterly at a loss to understand how one who had lived Sir Oliver’s life, been a renegade and a heathen, should be able to sleep tranquilly in the knowledge that at dawn he was to hang. His belated Christian zeal prompted him to rouse the sleeper and to urge him to spend the little time that yet remained him in making his peace with God. Humane compassion on the other hand suggested to him that he had best leave him in the peace of that oblivion. Considering matters he was profoundly touched to reflect that in such a season Sir Oliver could have found room in his mind to think of him and his fate and to undertake to contrive that he should be saved from the rope. He was the more touched when he bethought him of the extent to which he had himself been responsible for all that happened to Sir Oliver. Out of the consideration of heroism, a certain heroism came to be begotten in him, and he fell to pondering how in his turn he might perhaps serve Sir Oliver by a frank confession of all that he knew of the influences that had gone to make Sir Oliver what he was. This resolve uplifted him, and oddly enough it uplifted him all the more when he reflected that perhaps he would be jeopardizing his own neck by the confession upon which he had determined.