No difference, indeed! This man was a thief. The rage changed to a fearful lust to hurt the little man, to outrage him, to hold him up to scorn as Henry Morgan had been scorned. The cruel desire made the captain’s lips grow thin and white.
“What have you in your pocket?”
“Nothing-nothing, sir.”
“Let me see what you have in your pocket.” The captain was pointing a heavy pistol.
“It’s nothing, sir-only a little crucifix! I found it.” He drew out a golden cross studded with diamonds, and on it a Christ of ivory. “You see, it’s for my wife,” the Cockney explained.
“Ah! for your Spanish wife!”
“She’s half Negro, sir.”
“You know the penalty for concealing spoil?”
Jones looked at the pistol and his face grayed. “You would not-Oh, sir, you would not-” he began chokingly. Then he seemed to be clutched by invisible, huge fingers. His arms dropped stiffly to his sides, his lips sagged open, and a dull, imbecilic light came into his eyes. There was a little foam on his lips. His whole body twitched like a wooden dancing figure on a string.
Captain Morgan fired.
For a moment the Cockney seemed to grow smaller. His shoulders drew in until they nearly covered his chest, like short wings. His hands clenched, and then the whole contracted mass fell to the ground, convulsing like a thick, animate jelly. His lips drew back from his teeth in a last idiot snarl.
Henry Morgan stirred the body with his foot, and a change stirred in his mind. He had killed this man. It was his right to kill, to burn, to plunder-not because he was ethical nor even because he was clever, but because he was strong. Henry Morgan was the master of Panama and all its people. There was no will in Panama save Henry Morgan’s will. He could slaughter every human in the country if he so chose. All this was true. No one would deny it. But in the Palace back there was a woman who held his power and his will in contempt, and her contempt was a stronger weapon than his will. She fenced at his embarrassment and touched him at her convenience.
But how could that be? he argued. No one was master in Panama but himself, and he had just killed a man to prove it. Under the battering of his arguments the power of Ysobel waned and slowly disappeared. He would go back to the Palace. He would force her as he had promised.
This woman had been treated with too much consideration.
She did not realize the significance of slavery, nor did she know the iron of Henry Morgan.
He turned about and walked back toward the Palace. In the Hall of Audience he threw off his pistols, but the gray rapier remained at his side.
Ysobel was kneeling before a holy picture in her little whitewashed cell when Henry Morgan burst upon her. The dried duenna shrank into a corner at the sight of him, but Ysobel regarded him intently, noted his flushed face, his half-closed, fierce eyes. She heard his heavy breathing, and with a smile of comprehension rose to her feet. Her laughter rang banteringly as she drew a pin from her bodice and assumed the position of a fencer, One foot forward, her left arm held behind her for balance, the pin pointed before her like a foil.
“En garde!” she cried. Then the captain rushed at her. His arms encircled her shoulders and his hands were tearing at her clothing. Ysobel stood quite still, but one hand darted about with its pin-striking, striking-like a small white serpent. Little spots of blood appeared on Henry’s cheeks, on his throat.
“Your eyes next, Captain,” she said quietly, and stabbed him thrice on the cheekbone. Henry released her and stepped away, wiping his bloody face with the back of his hand. Ysobel laughed at him. A man may beat-may subject to every violation-a woman who cries and runs away, but he is helpless before one who stands her ground and only laughs.
“I heard a shot,” she said. “I thought perhaps you had killed some one to justify your manhood. But your manhood will suffer now, will it not? Word of this encounter will get about somehow; you know how such things travel. It will be told that you were beaten with a pin in the hands of a woman.” Her tone was gloating and cruel.
Henry’s hand slipped to his side, and the lean rapier crept from its sheath like a frozen serpent. The light licked viciously along its lank blade. At last the needle point came out, and the steel turned and pointed at the woman’s breast.
Ysobel grew sick with terror. “I am a sinner,” she said. Then a dawning relief came into her face. She motioned the aged duenna to her and spoke in rapid, clattering Spanish.
“It is true,” said the old woman. “It is true.”
At the end of her speaking, Ysobel thriftily drew aside the webby lace of her mantilla that it might not be spotted with blood. The duenna began interpreting.
“Sir, my mistress says that a true Catholic who dies at the hand of an infidel goes to heaven. This is true.
Further, she says that a Catholic woman who dies protecting her holy marriage vow goes straightway to heaven. This also is true. Lastly, she thinks that such a woman might, in course of time, be canonized.
Such things have happened. Ah, sir! Captain, be kind! Permit me to kiss her hand, now, before you strike. What grace to have kissed the hand of a living saint! It may do much for my own sinful soul.”
Ysobel spoke to her again.
“My mistress bids you strike; more, she urges it, pleads for the blow. The angels are hovering about her head. She sees the great light, and the holy music is sounding in her ears.”
The rapier point lowered. Henry Morgan turned away and gazed out into the sunlit garden. Little Chico came galloping along the path and sat down in the open doorway.
The little beast clasped his paws and raised them above his head as though in prayer. The lean rapier made a sharp swishing sound as it drove into its scabbard. And Captain Morgan stooped to pick up the tiny monkey. He walked away stroking Chico ‘s head with his forefinger.
Henry Morgan lifted a golden cup from the heap of loot. It was a lovely, slender chalice with long curved handles and a rim of silver. Around its outer edge four grotesque lambs chased each other, and inside, on the bottom, a naked girl lifted her arms in sensual ecstasy. The captain turned the cup in his hands. Then, suddenly, he hurled it at a little fiery pyramid of diamonds. The stones scattered from their neat pile with a dry, rustling sound. Henry Morgan turned and went back to his serpent chair. He was thinking of the little Cockney, Jones; thinking of the cold hand of epilepsy which had seized him in his last moment of life. The hand had been always behind him, a giant hand to wring the man’s body until the white drops of agony oozed from his lips. Henry wondered, now, why he had wanted to hurt the little man, to torture him, and finally to kill him. Jones had been shadowed through all his life by a sleepless tormentor. Of course, this murder had been caused by the words of Coeur de Gris who had said that Jones was like Henry Morgan. Yes, he knew it now, and he knew, also, a red shame for his trumped charge of thievery. Why could he not have killed the man without explanation?
And Coeur de Gris-where was he now? He had seen Ysobel-that was fairly sure-and she had noticed him. Perhaps she loved Coeur de Gris, with his bright hair and his curious way with women. And how could he keep this young man from knowing his defeat, from hearing the adventure of the pin and all the ignominy of Henry Morgan’s dealings with La Santa Roja? The pistol which had killed Jones was lying on the floor. Henry picked it up and methodically went to loading it. He did not fear ridicule from Coeur de Gris, but rather sympathy and understanding. Henry did not want understanding now. His lieutenant would look at him with compassion and some pity; and there would be something superior about the pity, something faintly ironic. It would be the pity of a young, handsome man who condones the amorous failure of one not so handsome. And then, Coeur de Gris was something like a woman for knowing things-something like Ysobel. He gathered information with a mysterious hidden eye.
And the Red Saint. Henry must take her away with him, of course. He could do nothing else. Perhaps, after a long time, she would fall in love with him, but not, surely, beca
use of merits in himself. Her contempt had convinced him that he had no merits; that he was a monstrous being, set apart from other men by unmentionable ugliness. She had not said so much, but she had intimated it. No, he had not the qualities like to draw a woman to his side when there were other men about. But perhaps, if she saw no other men, she might ignore the qualities so lacking in him. She might come, at last, to build on something he possessed.
He thought of the last scene with her. Now that he was calm, his wild action seemed the showing off of a thick-legged little boy. But how could any man have done otherwise?
She had beaten assault with laughter-sharp, cruel laughter which took his motives out and made sport of them. He might have killed her; but what man could kill a woman who wanted to be killed, who begged to be killed? The thing was impossible. He rammed a bullet into the muzzle of his pistol.
A draggled, unkempt figure came through the doorway. It was Coeur de Gris, a red-eyed, mud-spattered Coeur de Gris with the blood of the battle still on his face. He looked at the heap of treasure.
“We are rich,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Where have you been, Coeur de Gris?”
“Been? ‘Why, I have been drunk. It is good to be drunk after fighting.” He smiled wryly and licked his lips “It is not so good to stop being drunk. That is like childbirth-necessary, but unpleasant and unornamental.”
“I wanted you by my side,” said Henry Morgan.
“You wanted me? I was informed that you wanted no one-that you were quite complete and happy in yourself-and so I got a little drunker. You see, sir, I did not want to remember your reason for being alone.” He paused. “It was told me, sir, that the Red Saint is here.” Coeur de Gris laughed at his own ill-concealed emotion. He changed his manner with an effort of will. His tone became jocular.
“Tell me the truth, sir. It is a small gift to a man to know what he has missed. Many people have no other gift during their whole lives. Tell me, sir, has the sweet enemy fallen? Has the castle of flesh capitulated?
Does the standard of Morgan float over the pink tower?”
Henry’s face had flushed. The pistol in his hand rose quietly, steadied by an inexorable madness. There was a sharp crash and a white billow of smoke.
Coeur de Otis stood as he was. He seemed to be intently listening to some distant, throbbing sound.
Then a grimace of terror spread on his face. His fingers frantically explored his breast and followed a trickle of blood to its source, a small hole in his lung. The little finger edged into the hole. Coeur de Gris smiled again. He was not afraid of certain things. Now that he knew, he was not frightened any more.
Captain Morgan stared stupidly at the pistol in his hand.
He seemed surprised to discover it there, startled at its presence.
Coeur de Gris laughed hysterically.
“My mother will hate you,” he cried ruefully. “She will practice all her ancient curses upon you. My mother-” he choked over his breath. “Do not tell her. Make some gleaming lie. Build my poor life up to a golden minaret. Do not let it stop like a half-finished tower. But, no-you need build only a foundation.
If you give her that, she will continue the structure of heroic memory. She will make for me a tomb of white, inaccurate thoughts.” His throat filled with blood. “Why did you do it, sir?”
The captain looked up from his pistol.
“Do it?” He saw the bloody lips, the torn breast; he started up from his chair and then fell back again.
Misery was writing lines about his eyes. “I do not know,” he said. “I must have known, but I have forgotten.”
Coeur de Gris went slowly to his knees. He steadied himself with his knuckles on the floor. “It is my knees, sir; they will not bear me any more,” he apologized. He seemed to be listening for the throbbing sound again. Suddenly his voice rose in bitter complaint.
“It is a legend that dying men think of their deeds done. No-No-I think of what I have not done-of what I might have done in the years that are dying with me. I think of the lips of women I have never seen-of the wine that is sleeping in a grape seed-of the quick, warm caress of my mother in Goaves.
But mostly I think that I shall never walk about again-never, never stroll in the sunshine nor smell the rich essences the full moon conjures up out of the earth-Sir, why did you do it?”
Henry Morgan was staring at the pistol again. “I do not know,” he muttered sullenly. “I must have known, but I have forgotten. I killed a dog once-and I have just killed Jones. I do not know why.”
“You are a great man, Captain,” Coeur de Gris said bitterly. “Great men may leave their reasons for the creative bands of their apologists. But I-why, sir, I am nothing any more-nothing. A moment ago I was an excellent swordsman; but now, my being-that which fought, and cursed, and loved-it may never have been, for all I know.” His wrists weakened and he fell to his side and lay there coughing at the obstruction in his throat. Then, for a time, there was no sound in the room save his uneven gasping for breath. But suddenly he raised himself on one elbow and laughed; laughed at some cosmic joke, some jest of the great rolling spheres; laughed triumphantly, as though he had solved a puzzle and found how simple it was. A wave of blood rode to his lips on the laughter, and filled up his throat. The laugh became a gushing sigh, and Coeur de Gris sank slowly to his side and was still, because his lungs would no longer force breath.
Henry still stared at the pistol in his hand. Slowly he raised his eyes to the open window. The streaming rays of the sun made the treasure on the floor glow like a mass of hot metal. His eyes wandered to the body in front of him. He shuddered. And then he went to Coeur de Gris, picked him up, and sat him in a chair. The limp body fell over to one side. Henry straightened it and braced it in an upright position. Then he went back to his serpent chair.
“I raised my hand like this-” he said, pointing the pistol at Coeur de Gris. “I raised my hand like this. I must have. Coeur de Gris is dead. Like this, I raised it-like this-and pointed-How did I do it?” He bowed his head, then raised it with a chuckle.
“Coeur de Gris!” he said; “Coeur de Otis! I wanted to tell you about La Santa Roja. She rides horses, you know. She has no womanly modesty at all-none at all-and her looks are only moderate.” He peered at the propped figure before him. The eyes of Coeur de Gris had been only half closed, but now the lids slipped down and the eyes began to sink back in his head. On his face was the frozen distortion of his last bitter laughter.
“Coeur de Gris!” the captain shouted. He went quickly to the body and laid his hand on its forehead.
“This is a dead thing,” he said musingly. “This is only a dead thing. It will bring flies and sickness. I must have it taken away at once. It will bring the flies into this room. Coeur de Gris! we have been fooled. The woman fences like a man, and she rides horses astride. So much labor lost for us! That’s what we get for believing everything we hear-eh, Coeur de Gris? — But this is only a dead thing, and the flies will come to it.”
He was interrupted by a tramp of feet on the stairs. A band of his men entered, driving in their midst a poor frightened Spaniard-a mud-draggled, terrified Spaniard. The lace had been torn from his neck, and a little stream of blood ran from one sleeve.
“Here is a Spaniard, sir,” the leader said. “He came to the city bearing a white flag. Shall we respect the white flag, sir? He has silver on his saddle. Shall we kill him, sir? Perhaps he is a spy.”
Henry Morgan ignored the speech. Instead he pointed to the body in the chair.
“That is only a dead thing,” he announced. “That is not Coeur de Gris. I sent Coeur de Gris away. He will be back soon. But that is-I raised my hand like this-do you see? — like this. I know exactly how I did it; I have tried it again and again. But that is a dead thing. It will bring the flies to us.” He cried, “Oh, take it away and bury it in the earth!”
A buccaneer moved to lift the body.
“Don’t touch him! Don’t dare to to
uch him! Leave him where he is. He is smiling. Do you see him smile?
But the flies-No, leave him. I will care for him myself.”
“This Spaniard, sir; what shall we do with him? Shall we kill him?”
“What Spaniard?”
“Why, this one before you, sir.” He shoved the man forward. Henry seemed to awaken from a deep dream.
“What do you want?” he asked harshly.
The Spaniard struggled with his fright.
“It-it is my wish and the wish of my padrone to have speech with one Captain Morgan if he will have the goodness.
I am a messenger, Seсor-not a spy, as these-these gentlemen suggest.”
“What is your message?” Henry’s voice had become weary.
The messenger took reassurance from his changed tone. “I come from one man very rich, Seсor. You have his wife.”
“I have his wife?”
“She was taken in the city, Seсor. “
“Her name? “
“She is the Doсa Ysobel Espinoza, Valdez y los Gabilanes, Seсor. The simple people of the city have called her La Santa Roja. “
Henry Morgan regarded him for a long time. “Yes, I have her,” he said finally. “She is in a cell. What does her husband wish?”
“He offers ransom, Seсor. He has reason to wish his wife with him again.”
“What ransom does he offer?”
“What would Your Excellency suggest?”
“Twenty thousand pieces of eight,” Henry said quickly. The messenger was staggered. “Twenty thous-viente mil-” He translated fully to comprehend the enormity of the amount. “I perceive that Your Excellency also wants the woman.”
Henry Morgan looked at the body of Coeur de Gris. “No,” he said; “I want the money. “
Now the messenger was relieved. He had been prepared to think this great man a great idiot. “I will do what may be done, Seсor. I will come back to you in four days. “
Cup of Gold [Золотая чаша] Page 16