The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “Now that you have spent the monthly income,” Val suggested as Rupert added up a long column of minute figures scrawled across the first page of his pocket note-book, “let’s really get away from economics for one evening. The surroundings suggest something more romantic than dollars and cents. After all, when did a pirate ever show a saving disposition? Would the first Roderick—”

  “The Roderick who brought home the Luck?” Ricky laughed. “But he brought home a fortune, too, didn’t he, Rupert?”

  Her brother relit his pipe. “Yes, but a great many lords came home from the Crusades with their pockets filled. Sir Roderick de la Stone thought the Luck worth his entire estate even after he was made Baron Ralestone.”

  Ricky shivered delicately. “Not altogether nice people, those ancestors of ours,” she observed.

  “No,” Val grinned. “By rights this room should be full of ghosts instead of the beat of just one. How many Ralestones died violently? Seven or eight, wasn’t it?”

  “But the ones who died in England should haunt Lorne,” argued Ricky, half seriously.

  “Well then, that sort of confines us to the crews of the ships our great-great-great-grandfather scuttled,” her brother replied.

  “Rupert,” Ricky turned and asked impulsively, “do you really believe in the Luck?”

  Rupert looked up at the empty niche. “I don’t know—No, I don’t. Not the way that Roderick and Richard and all the rest did. But something that has seven hundred years of history behind it—that means a lot.”

  “‘Then did he take up ye sword fashioned by ye devilish art of ye East from two fine blades found in ye tomb,’” Val quoted from the record of Brother Anselm, the friar who had accompanied Sir Roderick on his crusading. “Do you suppose that that part’s true? Could the Luck have been made from two other swords found in an old tomb?”

  “Not impossible. The Saracens were master metal workers. Look at the Damascus blades.”

  “It all sounds like a fairy-tale,” commented Ricky. “A sword with magic powers beaten out of two other swords found in a tomb. And the whole thing done under the direction of an Arab astrologer.”

  “You’ve got to admit,” broke in Val, “that Sir Roderick had luck after it was given to him. He came home a wealthy man and he died a Baron. And his descendants even survived the Wars of the Roses when four-fifths of the great English families were wiped out.”

  “‘And fortune continued to smile,’” Rupert took up the story, “‘until a certain wild Miles Ralestone staked the Luck of his house on the turn of a card—and lost.’”

  “O-o-oh!” Ricky squirmed forward in her chair. “Now comes the pirate. Tell us that, Rupert.”

  “You know the story by heart now,” he objected.

  “We never heard it here, where some of it really happened. Tell it, please, Rupert!”

  “In your second childhood?” he asked.

  “Not out of my first yet,” she answered promptly. “Pretty please, Rupert.”

  “Miles Ralestone, Marquess of Lorne,” he began, “rode with Prince Rupert of the Rhine. He was a notorious gambler, a loose liver, and a cynic. And he even threw the family Luck across the gaming table.”

  “‘The Luck went from him who did it no honor,’” Val repeated slowly. “I read that in that old letter among your papers, Rupert.”

  “Yes, the Luck went from him. He survived Marston Moor; he survived the death of his royal master, Charles the First, on the scaffold. He lived long enough to witness the return of the Stuarts to England. But the Luck was gone, and with it the good fortune of his line. Rupert, his son, was but a penniless hanger-on at the royal court; the manor of Lorne a fire-gutted wreckage.

  “Rupert followed James Stuart from England when that monarch became a fugitive to escape the wrath of his subjects. And the Marquess of Lorne sank to the role of pot-house bully in the back lanes of Paris.”

  “And then?” prompted Val.

  “And then a miracle occurred. Rupert was employed by his master on a secret mission to London, and there the Luck came again into his hands. Perhaps by murder. But he died miserably enough of a heavy cold got by lying in a ditch to escape Dutch William’s soldiers.”

  “‘So is this perilous Luck come again into our hands. Then did I persevere to mend the fortunes of my house.’ That’s what Rupert’s son Richard wrote about the Luck,” Ricky recalled. “Richard, the first pirate.”

  “He did a good job of fortune mending,” commented Val dryly. “Married one of the wealthiest of the French king’s wards and sailed for the French West Indies all in a fortnight. Turned pirate with the approval of the French and took to lifting the cargoes of other pirates.”

  “I’ll bet that most of his success was due to the Lady Richanda,” observed Ricky. “She sailed with him dressed in man’s clothes. Remember that miniature of her that we saw in New York, the one in the museum? All the ‘Black’ Ralestones are supposed to look like her. Hear that, Val?”

  “At least it was the Lady Richanda who persuaded her husband to settle ashore,” said Rupert. “She was personally acquainted with Bienville and Iberville who were proposing to rule the Mississippi valley for France by building a city near the mouth of the river. And ‘Black Dick,’ the pirate, obtained a grant of land lying along Lake Borgne and this bayou. Although the city was not begun until 1724, this house was started in 1710 by workmen imported from England.

  “The house of an exile,” Rupert continued slowly. “Richard Ralestone was born in England, but he left there in his tenth year. In spite of the price on his head, he crept back to Devon in 1709 to see Lorne for the last time. And it was from the rude sketches he made of ruined Lorne that Pirate’s Haven was planned.”

  “Why, we saw those sketches!” Ricky’s eyes shone with excitement. “Do you remember, Val?”

  Her brother nodded. “Must have cost him plenty to do it,” he replied. “Richard had an immense personal fortune of his own gained from piracy, and he spared no expense in building. The larger part of the stone in these walls was brought straight from Europe, just as they later brought the paving blocks for the streets of New Orleans. When he had done—and the place was five years a-building because of Indian troubles and other disturbances—he settled down to live in feudal state. Some of his former seamen rallied around him as a guard, and he imported blacks from the islands to work his indigo fields.

  “The family continued to prosper through both French and Spanish domination until the time of American rule.”

  “Now for Uncle Rick.” Ricky settled herself with a wriggle. “This is even more exciting than Pirate Dick.”

  “In the year 1788, the time of the great fire which destroyed over half of New Orleans, twin boys were born at Pirate’s Haven. They came into their heritage early, for their parents died of yellow fever when the twins were still small children.

  “Those were restless times. New Orleans was full of refugees. From Haiti, where the revolting blacks were holding a reign of terror, and from France, where to be a noble was to be a dead one, came hundreds. Even members of the royal house, the Duc d’Orleans and his brother, the Duc de Montpensier, came for a space in 1798.

  “The city had always been more or less lawless and intolerant of control. Like the New Englanders of the eighteenth century, many respected merchants were also smugglers.”

  “And pirates,” suggested Val.

  “The king of smugglers was Jean Lafitte. His forge—where his slaves shaped the wrought-iron which was one of the wonders of the city—was a fashionable meeting-place for the young bloods. He was the height of wit and fashion—daring openly to placard the walls of the town with his notices of smugglers’ sales.

  “And Roderick Ralestone, the younger of the twins, became one of Lafitte’s men. In spite of the remonstrances of his brother Richard, young Rick withdrew to Barataria with Dominque You and the rest of the outlawed captains.

  “In the winter of 1814 matters came to a head. Richard wanted to marry
an American girl, the daughter of one of Governor Claiborne’s friends. Her father told him very pointedly that since the owners of Pirate’s Haven seemed to be indulging in law breaking, such a marriage was out of the question. Aroused, Richard made a secret inspection of certain underground storehouses which had been built by his pirate great-grandfather and discovered that Rick had put them in use again for the very same purpose for which they had been first intended—the storing of loot.

  “He waited there for his brother, determined to have it decided once and for all. They quarreled bitterly. Both were young, both had bad tempers, and each saw his side as the right of the matter—”

  “Regular Ralestones, weren’t they?” commented Val slyly.

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Rupert. “Well, at last Richard started for the house, his brother in pursuit.

  “Then they fought, here in this very hall. And not with words this time, but with the rapiers Richard had brought back from France. A slave named Falesse, who had been the twins’ childhood nurse, was the only witness to the end of that duel. Richard lay face down across the hearth-stone as she came screaming down the stairs.”

  Ricky was studying the gray stone.

  “By rights,” Val agreed with her unspoken thought, “there ought to be a stain there. Unfortunately for romance, there isn’t.”

  “Rick was standing by the door,” Rupert continued. “When Falesse reached his brother, he laughed unsteadily and half raised his sword in a duelist’s salute. Then he was gone. But there were two swords on the floor. And that niche was empty.

  “When he fled into the night storm with his brother’s blood staining his hands, Rick Ralestone took the Luck of his house with him.

  “After almost a year of invalidism, Richard recovered. He never married his American beauty. But in 1819 he took a wife, a young Creole lady widowed by the Battle of New Orleans. Of Rick nothing was heard again, although his brother searched diligently for more than thirty years.”

  “How,” Val grinned at his brother, “did Richard explain the little matter of the ghost which is supposed to walk at night?”

  “I don’t know. But when the Civil War broke out, Richard’s son Miles was the master of Pirate’s Haven. The once-great fortune of the family had shrunk. Business losses in the city, floods, a disaster at sea, had emptied the family purse—”

  “The Luck getting in its dirty work by remote control,” supplied the irrepressible Val.

  “Perhaps. Young Miles had married in his teens, and the call to the Confederate colors brought both his twin sons under arms as well as their father.

  “Miles, the father, fell in the First Battle of Bull Run. But Miles, the son and elder of the twins, a lieutenant of cavalry, came out of the war the only surviving male of his family.

  “His brother Richard had been wounded and was home on sick leave when the Northerners occupied New Orleans. Betrayed by one of his former slaves, a mulatto who bore a grudge against the family, he was murdered by a gang of bullies and cutthroats who had followed the invading army.

  “Richard had been warned of their raid and had managed to hide the family valuables in a secret place—somewhere within this very hall, according to tradition.”

  Val and Ricky sat up and looked about with wondering interest.

  “But Richard was shot down in cold blood when he refused to reveal the hiding-place. His brother and some scouts, operating south without orders, arrived just in time to witness the last act. Miles Ralestone and his men summarily shot the murderers. But where Richard had so carefully concealed the last of the family treasure was never discovered.

  “The war beggared the Ralestones. Miles went north in search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder until it was leased in 1879 to a sugar baron. In 1895 it was turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. And since then it has been leased. We have had in all four tenants.”

  “But,” Ricky broke in, “since the Luck went we have not prospered. And until it returns—”

  Rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons. “It’s nothing but a folk-tale,” he told her.

  “It isn’t!” Ricky contradicted him vehemently. “And we’ve made a good beginning anyway. We’ve come back.”

  “If Rick took the Luck with him, I don’t see how we have an earthly chance of finding it again,” Val commented.

  “It came back once before after it had gone from us,” reminded his sister. “And I think that it will again. At least I’ll hope so.”

  “Outside of the superstition, it would be well worth having. The names of the heads and heirs of the house are all engraved along the blade, from Sir Roderick on down. Seven hundred years of history scratched on steel.” Rupert stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. “Ten to ten, and we’ve had a long day. Who’s for bed?”

  “I am, for one.” Val swung his feet down from the couch, disturbing Satan who opened one yellow eye lazily.

  Ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff flowers carved in the stone. Val took her by the arm.

  “No use wondering which one you push to reveal the treasure,” he told her.

  She looked up startled. “How did you know what I was thinking about?” she demanded.

  “My lady, your thoughts, like little white birds—”

  “Oh, go to bed, Val. When you get poetical I know you need sleep. Just the same,” she hesitated with one foot on the first tread of the stair, “I wonder.”

  CHAPTER III

  The Ralestones Entertain an Unobtrusive Visitor

  Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. An unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. With a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor.

  The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. On his chest stood Satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and purring gently. From the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.

  Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds who had built in the hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside to look out upon the morning.

  It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. A bee blundered past Val’s nose, and he realized that it might be well to close the screen hanging shutter-like outside.

  From the direction of the hidden water came the faint putt-putt of a motor-boat, but inside Pirate’s Haven there was utter silence. As yet the rest of the family were not abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered Pirate’s Haven for himself.

  The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight were fighting the usual gloom. On the hearth-stone lay a scrap of white, doubtless Ricky’s handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air. The blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below. Satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very good to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive.

  Here was evidence of last night’s storm. Wisps of Spanish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coarse gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. And in the open places, the grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.

  A rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four steps of broken stone into a sort of glen. Here some early owner of the plantation had
made an irregular pool of stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny spring. Frogs the size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the water when Val’s shadow fell across its rim. A leaden statue of the boy Pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. Ricky would love this, thought her brother as he dabbled his fingers in the chill water trying to catch the stem of the single lily bud.

  Out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of the pool. The sun was very warm across Val’s bowed shoulders. He liked the garden, liked the plantation, even liked the circumstances which had brought them there. Lazily he arose and turned.

  By the steps down which he had come stood a slight figure in a faded flannel shirt and mud-streaked overalls. His bare brown feet gripped the stones as if to get purchase for instant flight.

  “Hello,” Val said questioningly.

  The new-comer eyed young Ralestone warily and then his gaze shifted to the bushes beyond.

  “I’m Val Ralestone.” Val held out his hand. To his astonishment the stranger’s mobile lips twisted in a snarl and he edged crabwise toward the bushes bordering the glen.

  “Who are you?” Val demanded sharply.

  “Ah has got as much right heah as yo’ all,” the boy answered angrily. And with that he turned and slipped into a path at the far end of the glen.

  Aroused, Val hurried after him to reach the bayou levee. The quarry was already in midstream, wielding an efficient canoe paddle. On impulse Val shouted after him, but he never turned. A rifle lay across his knees and there were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe. Then Val remembered that Pirate’s Haven lay upon the fringe of the muskrat swamps where Cajun and American squatters still carried on the fur trade of their ancestors.

  But as Val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited guest, another canoe put off from the opposite shore of the bayou and came swinging across toward the rough wooden landing which served the plantation. A round brown face grinned up at Val as a powerful negro clambered ashore.