The Dark Secret of Josephine

by Dennis Wheatley

  The guns had obviously been aimed high, in the hope of bringing down one of Circe’s masts. With a whistling scream the eight balls hurtled overhead. Three of them passed harmlessly, three more tore rents in the sails, and two only cut pieces of rigging. No serious harm had been done and a little time must elapse before the enemy could get into position to fire another broadside; but that might have more serious results; so Captain Cummins decided that, rather than wait until wreckage might impede movement on the decks, arms should now be served out, and he gave the key of the armoury to the Second Mate.

  A few minutes later, muskets, pistols, cutlasses and boarding-pikes were being passed from hand to hand until every man of the crew had a fire-arm and some other weapon. Those on the poop received their’s last, and Bloggs was given a pistol and a cutlass. As he thrust the pistol into his belt his gaze travelled slowly over the little groups of men down on the deck, then he gave a swift glance at Captain Cummins, who was standing at the after rail with his back turned, and let go the wheel.

  Instantly it and the ship swung round. Her sails emptied, billowed out and flapped with the noise of guns, then hung slack.

  With a savage oath the Captain turned, strode towards him, and bellowed: ‘The wheel, Quartermaster! The Wheel! What in thunder are you about?’

  But Bloggs had turned his back to the wheel, and it was evident now that he had been waiting only for the moment when he and his fellow malcontents should be armed. Lifting his cutlass he shouted defiantly: ‘Haul down your flag tyrant! Me an’ my mates ain’t going to be killed for the likes of you.’

  At the sound of their raised voices all eyes were turned upon them. Down on the deck, as though at a pre-arranged signal, Blogg’s friends drew their weapons and ran towards the Mates. Up on the poop, one of the gun-crew suddenly turned and whirling his ramrod on high struck down the Bos’n.

  The Captain, his eyes suffused with rage, pulled out his pistol, but Bloggs was quicker. With a mighty swipe of his cutlass he clove Cummins from forehead to chin. His face pouring blood, the Captain slumped to the deck. The cutlass, stuck fast in the terrible wound, dragged Bloggs half down on top of him. Putting his foot on the dying man’s chest he strove to drag it free.

  Roger and Charles had been standing near the gun. Both whipped out their swords. Charles ran his through the man who had struck down the Bos’n; as the blade slid home below the mutineer’s ribs his eyes bulged in their sockets, he gave an awful groan, doubled up and staggered away clasping his stomach.

  Another of the gun-crew came at Roger with a boarding pike. It was the favourite weapon among seamen and very awkward to counter with a rapier. The man was small but very agile and jumping from side to side thrust with his pike at Roger’s face. Roger managed to beat aside the strokes but one of them caught him in the forearm, ripping open the sleeve of his coat and drawing blood. The wound was not serious and he used it to carry out an old trick.

  Pretending to have been disabled, he stepped back and let his sword arm drop. With a cry of triumph his attacker ran in on him. At the critical second he dropped on one knee and turned his sword upwards as though in a salute. The pike passed harmlessly over his shoulder, while the point of the sword pierced the sailor below the chin. With a violent thrust Roger forced the blade home. The man’s scream was choked in his throat by a rush of blood. He dropped his pike, went over backwards and lay squirming on the deck.

  Meanwhile, the First Mate had pulled out his pistol and fired at Bloggs. Just in time the Quartermaster caught sight of him and ducked. The bullet whistled through Bloggs’s curly black hair. Giving his head a shake, he abandoned his efforts to free his cutlass from the Captain’s skull, and sprang away. The Mate clubbed his pistol and ran at him to strike him down, but Bloggs seized his wrist and they closed in a desperate wrestle. The Dutchman weighed fourteen stone, and was a tough, powerfully built man, but the ex-blacksmith was as strong or stronger. Swaying this way and that, they strove for mastery.

  Charles had been about to come to Roger’s help, but as the man with the pike went down, he turned and took a step forward, intending to run to the assistance of the Mate. By ill luck he trod in a pool of blood, slipped, and measured his length on the deck. Quickly, he picked himself up, but it was then too late.

  Bloggs had succeeded in breaking the Dutchman’s hold. Stooping suddenly, he seized him under one knee and by the cravat, then heaving him up bodily, he staggered to the ship’s side and threw him overboard.

  Roger too had seen the Mate’s desperate situation. As Bloggs swung the unfortunate man off his feet, he sprang over Charles’s prostrate body and ran towards them. The boom of a second broadside sounded from the Frenchman, and at that moment it took effect. One of the shots struck the mizenmast full and true about twelve feet up. There was a frightful sound of rending timber. The upper part of the mast heeled over to port. Yards, spars, sails, rigging and blocks came crashing down smothering the poop and everyone on it beneath them. Roger was hit on the head by a piece of tackle and pitched forward unconscious.

  6

  Captured by Pirates

  When Roger regained consciousness he found himself in the after-cabin. All sound of fighting had ceased and there were only the usual noises of the ship’s gear straining against the wind as she ploughed her way smoothly through the sea. For a moment he wondered where he was, then the sight of the shattered mirrors and splashes of Nell’s blood on the silk covering of the settee where he lay brought everything back to him.

  Amanda was sitting beside him, and he took in the fact that she was crying. As he raised his bandaged head her sobs gave place to a sigh of relief, and quickly laying a gentle hand on his chest she urged him to lie still.

  His head ached abominably, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open. By turning it slightly he saw that Georgina was sitting slumped over the table, her dark head resting on her arms, and that Jenny, also weeping, was endeavouring to comfort her with an arm thrown round her shoulders. Clarissa was not in his field of vision but moved into it shortly after Amanda spoke, to stare down at him. Her eyes were unnaturally bright and her small face drawn, but she smiled faintly.

  ‘What happened?’ Roger asked in a husky voice.

  Putting her hand behind his head Amanda raised it a little and held a cup of wine to his lips so that he could take a few sips, then she said:

  ‘ ’Tis a mercy you were not killed, my love. You were struck on the head by a spar when the mizenmast came down. But you must not talk. It’s bad for you. Close your eyes now and try to go to sleep.’

  ‘I must know what happened,’ he insisted.

  It was Clarissa who answered. ‘We know only what we have been told. ’Tis said that Bloggs killed Captain Cummins and led a mutiny. The ship ceased to go forward before the mast was shot away and it seems, thinking our case was hopeless, most of the crew had already decided to surrender rather than fight. When the pirates boarded us they met with no resistance, and we are now captives. After they had cleared the debris from the poop they brought you down here, but … but Charles….’ Her young voice faltered to a stop and she looked away.

  Roger sat up with a jerk. A blinding pain shot through his head. With a groan, he shut his eyes, then gasped: ‘You … you do not mean …?’

  Clarissa nodded. ‘They say he was struck down by the mast and when found was already dead.’

  Amanda rounded on her angrily. ‘Need you have disclosed our loss while Roger is in so precarious a state? ’Tis wicked to disturb his mind when all above things it needs rest.’

  ‘Reproach her not!’ Roger exclaimed as he sank back. ‘There are times when it is best to know the worst, and this is one of them. What else is there to tell?’

  Feeling that he would demand an answer, Amanda took up the tale. ‘The pirate is said to be a French nobleman named de Senlac. He has put a prize crew on board under a fearsome-looking individual—one João de Mondego. It seems that Bloggs’s friends and the Porto Ricans all went over to the e
nemy. They have been left on board, while the four Balts and those of our own crew who remained loyal have been taken as prisoners to the barque. When they had hacked clear the fallen mast our remaining sails were trimmed again. We rounded the corner of Santo Domingo an hour back and are now proceeding along the island’s noth coast. There! That is all we know. And now I pray you try not to think more than you can help of our predicament; for ’tis likely you are concussed, and may become subject to brain fever unless you can court successfully the soothing influence of sleep.’

  ‘What of Dan?’ Roger asked. ‘And young Tom, and Monsieur Pirouet?’

  ‘All three were taken aboard the Frenchman, with Doctor Fergusson, the Second Mate, and the loyal members of the crew.’

  ‘Tom and Dan had a quarrel,’ Clarissa put in. ‘Tom told me about it before he was taken away. Our flag had fallen with the mizen gear, but caught high up so was still flying well above the deck. Dan climbed up, cut it down and threw it into the sea. Tom was taken with a great rage that Dan should perform so treacherous an act and fought with him, but got the worst of it.’

  ‘Be silent, girl,’ Amanda snapped. ‘Have you not the sense to realise that this betrayal by our trusted servant will so distress Roger as to further excite his mind. Ill news will always keep, and additional woes the very last things that should be thrust upon him at this moment.’

  Clarissa stuck out her small pointed chin aggressively. ‘Your pardon, cousin, but I disagree. Wounded as Roger is, upon his leadership and ability to plan for us now rests our sole hope of preservation. ’Tis but proper that he should be made aware without delay of all particulars; so that he can formulate his policy accordingly.’

  ‘She is right,’ Roger murmured. ‘My wound is painful but I doubt its being dangerous, and at least it has resulted in my being allowed to remain with you. Bad as things are we must not lose heart, but try to devise some means of either placating or tricking our captors.’

  He strove to get into his voice a note of optimism, although his heart could not have been heavier. Clarissa’s touching faith in his capabilities only added to his misery. He had not a notion that might even alleviate their situation, was still too hampered by pain to think clearly, and greatly doubted if he would be given any chance at all to influence such decisions as might be taken about their future.

  Closing his eyes, so that Amanda might not see the tears that welled up into them, he thought of Charles. Young, handsome, rich, titled, debonair, no man could have seen more favoured by the gods, yet in one awful moment he had been snatched from those who loved him. His wit and kindness, quick perception and gentle nature had made him the most delightful of companions, and they would all miss him terribly. Roger’s heart bled for Georgina. Her passionate half-gipsy blood had caused her to love many men, but for Charles she had had in addition something of a mother’s fondness and had found with him a mental contentment that she had never known before, so his loss must prove for her a cruel affliction.

  Every few moments a stab of pain shot through Roger’s head, rendering all his efforts to concentrate abortive; so he was forced to give up, and lay for a while in a semi-stupor. He was roused from it by Amanda’s uttering an exclamation. Opening his eyes, he saw that she was staring with a frightened expression towards the cabin door. Raising himself a little he saw that in it stood the fearsome figure of a Carib Indian whose hook-nosed face seemed to protrude from his chest.

  A moment later he realised that the Indian was a hunchback, and Amanda saw that her fears were groundless, for from his long ape-like arms there dangled a brush in one hand and a dustpan in the other. He had evidently been sent to tidy up the cabin and had found the things in Tom’s closet. Having given them a not unfriendly grin he set about his task, swept up the broken glass, removed a wrecked chair and tied back the torn curtains. Then he signed to Jenny to pull Georgina away from the table.

  As Jenny half lifted her mistress in her arms Roger saw that Georgina’s lovely face had an unnaturally blank expression, and he feared that the shock of Charles’s death had unhinged her mind. Without a murmur she allowed herself to be led away and made comfortable in a chair on the far side of the cabin.

  The hunch-back left them for a few minutes to return carrying a big basket piled high with tropical fruits, then he went to investigate the larder. Fetching from it half a ham, a round of curried beef, a big wedge of cheese, a cake, biscuits and several bottles of wine, he set them out on the table, but did not bother to lay it with plates, cutlery or glasses, before going away again.

  Five minutes later the pirate who had been put on board as the captain of the prize crew came in, accompanied by a woman. At the first glance Roger saw that Amanda’s description of João de Mondego as a fearsome-looking individual was no exaggeration. He was very tall and at some time must have been severely burnt, as his face was almost fleshless and the scarred skin was drawn so tightly across the bones that it had the terrifying appearance of a living skull. He was dressed in buff breeches and a gold-laced coat that must have once belonged to a gentleman of the last generation. Two pistols and a knife was thrust through his broad leather, silver-studded belt, and in his hand he carried a naked cutlass.

  The woman, on the other hand, was strikingly handsome. She was a splendidly-built mulatto with fine dark eyes, and an abundance of lustrous black hair that fell about her shoulders in carefully-curled ringlets. Her coffee-coloured skin was without a blemish, her nose was large but not flattened, and her partly negroid ancestry showed only in her full, ripe mouth.

  She was wearing gold-tasselled, patent-leather Hessian boots, a knee-length mustard-coloured skirt, and a scarlet blouse which was so tight that it accentuated the shape of her full breasts almost to the point of indecency. In a black silk sash round her waist she carried a silver-mounted pistol and an ivory-handled riding switch. Roger judged her to be about thirty, but, having coloured blood, she might have been considerably younger.

  Both of them surveyed the prisoners in silence for a moment, then the man said in guttural French: ‘Come Lucette; let us eat.’ Upon which they sat down at the table and set to. Using only their fingers and sheath knives they crammed the food into their mouths and washed it down with copious draughts of wine straight from the bottles.

  For a quarter of an hour they gorged themselves without exchanging a word. At length João gave a great belch and sat back; then his companion got lazily to her feet and, fixing her big sloe-like eyes on Amanda, said in an educated voice, using the lisping French commonly spoken by Creoles:

  ‘You are the tallest, so your clothes will fit me best. Where are they?’

  Amanda told her the situation of her cabin, and with lithe grace she lounged out through the door. There was silence for a moment, then Clarissa, also using French, asked the pirate:

  ‘What do you intend to do with us?’

  A slow grin spread over João de Mondego’s skull-like face and he replied with a heavy accent due to his Portuguese origin. ‘You’ll see in good time, my pretty. There’s no call to be frightened, though. Provided you’re a sensible wench no harm will come to you.’

  His words were reassuring, but the implication that lay behind them was far from being so. Again a tense silence fell, while he continued to eye her speculatively between swigs at the bottle of claret that was before him.

  He had just finished it when the mulatto he had called Lucette came in again. She was still wearing the same clothes but now had on over her scarlet shirt a brocade jacket of Amanda’s. Showing her fine white teeth in a full-lipped smile she said:

  ‘Your things fit me very well, Madame. I shall find a good use for them.’ Then she asked: ‘Which of you is the Countess?’

  Georgina did not even look up, but Amanda waved a hand in her direction, and the mulatto walked over to her. For a moment Lucette stood looking down on the grief-stricken figure, then she said smoothly: ‘I think your earrings would suit me, Lady. Be good enough to hand them over.’

  I
t seemed as though Georgina had not even heard her, as she made no move to obey; her eyes remained blank and her face expressionless. Lucette’s brows drew together in a frown and she exclaimed: ‘You sulky bitch, you need a lesson.’ Then, thrusting out a hand, she seized one of the diamond drops and tore it from Georgina’s ear.

  With a cry of pain Georgina suddenly came to life. Her eyes blazing, she threw up an arm, thrust the mulatto away and sprang to her feet. Roger, too, jerked himself erect. His head was swimming and his legs unsteady, but he lurched forward, crying in angry protest:

  ‘Can you not see that the Countess is unwell! She is suffering from the shock of her husband’s death. Have the decency to treat her grief with respect.’

  For an answer Lucette turned, took a step towards him and struck him in the face with her clenched fist. The blow caught him on the left eye. A pall of blackness suddenly eclipsed his vision. Against it he saw stars and whirling circles, then his weak knees gave under him and he fell back in Amanda’s arms.

  Never had he felt so angry and humiliated. He could have sobbed with rage at the lack of strength which rendered him impotent to defend those he loved, even from a woman. As it was he could only let Amanda lower him back on to the settee, and sit there with his aching head buried in his hands.

  It was another cry which brought his head swiftly up again, but this time it did not come from Georgina. Realising the futility of resistance, she had given up her other ear-ring, and the mulatto was standing opposite one of the cracked mirrors fixing the diamonds in her ears.

  The short sharp scream had been uttered by Clarissa. Swaggering over to her, João had grasped her round the waist, and with one horny hand beneath her chin was forcing her head back so that he could kiss her. Amanda had jumped up and rushing at him seized his arm in an endeavour to drag him away from her young cousin; but lifting his heavy boot he gave her a kick on the thigh that sent her reeling.