Marianne held her breath, her heart pounding. She did not know why Jason had suddenly felt the need to be private with her but hope welled up tremblingly inside her and she dared not be the first to speak for fear of breaking the spell. She walked slowly ahead of him, oh, so very slowly, with her head a little bent, wishing that the deck was ten miles long. At last, Jason spoke.
'Marianne!'
She stopped at once but without turning. She waited, paralysed with hope now that he had used her name once more.
'I wanted to tell you… that on my ship you are quite safe. While I am in command, you need have no fears, either of the English or of my own men. Forget what Leighton said. It is unimportant.'
'He hates me. Is that, too, unimportant?'
'He does not hate you. Not you specifically, I mean. He feels the same way about all women. He dislikes and resents them, not altogether without reason. His mother did not care for him and the girl he loved and was to have married left him for another. Since that time, he has fallen back on a general detestation.'
Marianne nodded and turned, slowly, to look at Jason. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, as though he did not know what to do with them, staring out to sea.
'Why did you bring him?' she asked. 'When you knew what this voyage was to be? You were coming for me and yet, on your own admission, you brought with you a man who hates everything to do with women.'
'Because…' Jason seemed to hesitate for a moment before going on, in something of a hurry: 'He was not to make the whole voyage with us. It had been agreed that on the way home I was to set him down at a place arranged between us. You must remember that Constantinople was not then included in our plans,' he added, with a touch of bitterness that betrayed his hurt.
Marianne was stabbed by it to her very soul. Her own gaze went sadly to the sea, where it fled in ripples of blue and silver away from the side of the ship.
'Forgive me,' she murmured. 'Duty and gratitude can be heavy burdens to carry, but that is no reason to disown them. I wish with all my heart it could have been different for us. I'd dreamed for so long of this voyage, wherever it took us. For me, it was not the end that mattered but being together.'
In an instant, he was close to her, pressed hard against her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he implored her, with a passion near to desperation:
'It's not too late. The course we are on is still – our course. It's not until we're through the straits that we must choose… Oh, Marianne, Marianne, how can you be so cruel to us both! If you would only…'
His hands were touching her. Weakly she shut her eyes and relaxed against him, aware to the point of agony of the moment's closeness.
'Am I the one who is cruel? Did I offer you an impossible choice? You thought it only a whim, some kind of attempt to keep alive a past that is gone, a past I don't even want…'
'Then prove it, my love! Let me take you away from all this. I love you to death and you, of all people, know it! You made that dinner hell for me. I've never seen you look so lovely… I'm only a man! Can't we forget the rest of the world?'
Forget? It was such a beautiful word and how Marianne longed to be able to utter it with the same conviction as Jason. A nasty, insidious little inward voice would keep whispering that the forgetfulness was to be all on her side. Was he going to wipe the slate clean of all his own past memories? But the present moment was too precious and Marianne did not want to lose it yet. Perhaps, after all, Jason was going to give way? She wriggled round in the circle of his arms and brushed his lips briefly with her own.
'Can't we forget as easily on the way to Constantinople as on a course for America?' she murmured, kissing him. 'Don't torture me. You know I have to go… but I need you so! Help me!'
There was a little silence, momentary but complete. Then, all at once, Jason's arms fell.
'No,' he said.
He stepped back. Between the two bodies which, a moment before, had been touching, ready to melt together into the same fusion of joy, the curtain of refusal and incomprehension had dropped coldly into place once more, the captain's tall figure bowed sharply, outlined against the blue vault above.
'Forgive me for asking you,' he said icily. 'This is your cabin. Allow me to wish you a good night.'
He had turned away, he was going further perhaps now than before, just because of love's weakness which had made him cry out in his distress. Pride, that terrible, unapproachable masculine pride, was uppermost once more. As the virile figure vanished into the night, Marianne cried after him:
'Your love is nothing but lust and obstinacy! But I'll always love you, whether you like it or not… in my own way, because it's the only way I know! You liked it well enough before… It's you who cast me off.'
That went home. He checked, fractionally, as though he would have turned back, then he stiffened and went on towards the after-cabin where, safe from feminine wiles, those other men, his brothers, waited for him.
Left alone, Marianne turned towards her own cabin. She was about to open the door when she had the odd feeling that someone was watching her. She swung round abruptly and as she did so a dark shadow detached itself from the foremast and slipped away forward. It was silhouetted for an instant, lithe and dark, against the yellow glow of the prow lantern. Marianne knew, from the supple way he moved, that it was Kaleb and the knowledge annoyed her a little. Apart from the fact that she had other things on her mind just then than the fate of the black people of America, she could not at that moment see the runaway slave as anything other than a source of discord between Jason and herself.
The door banged to behind her and she hurried to the haven of her bed to mull over in solitude possible ways of defeating Jason's obstinacy. Whatever else had happened, that evening she had won a victory, but she strongly doubted whether Jason would grant her the opportunity of winning any more. Instinct told her that he would probably avoid her like the plague. It might perhaps be wise to deprive him of that satisfaction by keeping out of his sight for a while, even if only to give him time to start asking himself a few questions?
The Sea Witch sailed on through the night, regardless of the hopes and fears she carried with her, while on the forecastle the sailors continued their singing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Corfu Frigates
On the morning of the eighth day at sea, as they were approaching the coast of Corfu, a vessel appeared out of the sun, bearing down on the brig under her full spread of canvas, a tall white pyramid to eastward which was signalled by the masthead look-out with a hail:
'Sail on the port bow!'
From the poop deck, Jason Beaufort's voice spoke like an echo: 'Let her come. Steady as she goes.'
'An English frigate,' Jolival announced. He had a telescope to his eye and was studying the approaching vessel. 'I can see the red ensign at her peak. Looks as though she means business, too.'
Marianne, standing by him at the port rail, hugged her big cashmere shawl about her and shivered. There was something new and disturbing in the air. Pipes shrilled all around her, calling all hands on deck. Jason, standing beside the helmsman, was watching the Englishman. There was tension in every line of his body, a tension reflected in the crew, both on deck and aloft.
'Are we in the Straits of Otranto already?' Marianne asked.
'Yes. That Englishman must be out of Lissa. But he turned up very promptly… almost as if he was expecting us.'
'Expecting us? But why?'
Jolival shrugged helplessly. Jason had given an order to O'Flaherty who responded with a loud 'Aye aye, sir!' and clattered down the steps calling men to him. In a moment, weapons were being taken from chests and handed out among the sailors as they filed quickly past the first-officer, selecting swords, cutlasses, pistols, dirks or musketoons according to their abilities and preferences. Within the space of a very few seconds, the brig had been cleared for action.
'Are we really going to fight?' Marianne whispered anxiously.
'So it seems. Look, the Englishman has put a shot across our bows.'
A puff of white smoke had come from the long black hull banded with yellow, and was followed by a dull report.
'Hoist our colours!' Jason yelled. 'Show them we're neutral. The damned fool's coming straight at us.'
'A battle!' Marianne exclaimed softly, more to herself than to Jolival. 'That's all we needed! Maybe the men are right and I do bring bad luck.'
'Don't talk rubbish,' growled the vicomte. 'We all knew this might happen and the men have never looked on a fight as a disaster. This is a privateer, don't forget.'
But the thought lingered uncomfortably. For a week now, not a day had passed without some incident or accident to the ship. The vessel seemed to be fated. It had begun with half the starboard watch going down with some form of food poisoning, of unknown origin, and lying groaning in their hammocks for twenty-four hours. Then, a man slipped on the main deck, when the ship pitched suddenly, and split his head open. The next day, two of the seamen came to blows over some trivial matter and had to be put in irons. Finally, only last night, fire had broken out in the galley and, although it had been put out very quickly, Nathan had narrowly escaped being burnt alive. On the rare occasions when she left her cabin for a breath of air, she would look the other way if she caught sight of John Leighton's pale face and the mocking challenge in his eyes. Once already, she had seen the boatswain, an olive-skinned Spaniard with the pride of a hidalgo and the grossness of a drunken monk, extend the back of his hand with two fingers towards her in the traditional gesture to ward off the evil eye.
Meanwhile the frigate was still coming on and in answer to the brig's signals had hoisted a flag of true, indicating that she wanted to parley.
'Let him come alongside,' Jason snapped. 'We'll see what he wants. But have the men standing by, all the same. I don't like the look of things. The moment I caught sight of his tops'ls, I got the feeling he was after us.'
He began calmly stripping off his blue coat, unwinding his stock and rolling up his sleeves. Nathan, who was very nearly the image of his brother Toby, stood at his elbow ready to hand him his cutlass. Jason tested the edge against his thumb before stowing it in his belt. Urged on by the boatswain's pipes, most of the men were already at action stations.
'I'll have the guns loaded and run out,' Jason ordered.
Clearly, the privateer was not going to be taken by surprise. The frigate was very close now. She was the Alcestis of forty guns, a well-found vessel under the command of an efficient captain, Commodore Maxwell. Those on board the Sea Witch could see the marines ranged in perfect order on her deck, but no barge was being lowered. That meant communication would be by loud-hailer; not a good sign.
Jason picked up his own voice trumpet.
'What do you want?' he called.
An English voice came back, a trifle distorted but clear and menacing.
'To visit your ship. We have excellent reasons.'
'I'd like to know them. We are an American vessel and therefore neutral.'
'If you're neutral, you shouldn't have Bonaparte's envoy aboard. You have a choice: hand over the Princess Sant'Anna or we send you to the bottom!'
Marianne held her breath and something icy seemed to trickle down her spine. How had the Englishman known that she was on board? And more than that, how did he know that she was on a mission for Napoleon? She was dreadfully aware, suddenly, of the enemy's power. The mouths of the cannon protruding from her gun ports looked enormous. Marianne was conscious of nothing but the guns and the matches, flaring a little in the morning breeze, in the hands of the gun crews. But there was no time to think about the future, for already Jason's voice was answering boldly:
'You can try!'
'Do you refuse?'
'Would you agree, Captain Maxwell, if someone asked you to hand over your honour? My passengers are sacred. Ladies especially.'
The stiff figure on the frigate's quarter-deck bowed.
'I anticipated that would be your answer, sir, but it was my duty to put the question. We fight it out, then.'
The two ships drew apart, each loosing their first broadside before they were out of range. But they fired before the crews had got the guns properly laid and neither hit the target. Drawing off again, they reloaded and returned to the charge, like two knights in the lists.
'We can't win,' Marianne wailed. 'Go and tell Jason to give me up. The English will sink us. They are much better armed than we are!'
'Your friend Surcouf wouldn't think much of that for an argument,' said Jolival. 'The next time you see him, you must ask him to tell you about the Kent. A duel between two ships at sea is more a matter of seamanship and winds, and of stout hearts if it comes to grappling. And I've an idea our men are stout enough at heart!'
There was no doubt that the faces of the men about them on the deck were alive with the excitement of the coming fight. The seamen had smelled powder and it made their eyes shine and their nostrils flare. Marianne caught sight of Gracchus among them: armed with a pistol and clearly as happy as a king, the young coachman was preparing to do battle with the best. Up in the rigging, men were busy with the sails as, amid a flow of orders, the brig heeled round with a proud and stately grace into the wind. The Englishman, less easily manoeuvrable, had barely begun to turn but a fresh volley rent the air and white puffs dotted the air between them as the Alcestis let go her stern chasers.
Craig O'Flaherty came hurrying up to Marianne.
'Captain's compliments, ma'am, and will you go below. No need to expose yourself. We're going to try and capture his wind.'
The flush on his face owed nothing to drink this morning. If Jason had ordered rum all round for the crew to hearten them for the coming action, he had taken care to pass over his first-officer. O'Flaherty made a move to take Marianne's arm to lead her below but she hung back, clinging to the rail like a child that would not go to bed.
'I don't want to go below! I want to stay here and see what happens. Jolival, tell him I want to see!'
'You can watch from the portholes. You'll be safer there, although you may not see so well,' Jolival told her.
'It's an order, ma'am,' the first-officer added. 'You must go down.'
'An order? To me?'
'Well, to me, actually. I'm afraid my orders are to see you to safety, by force if necessary. The captain went on to say that if you insisted on exposing your life it was scarcely worth him risking the lives of his men.'
Tears welled up in Marianne's eyes. Even now, with death threatening them both, Jason was sending her away from him. She surrendered, acknowledging defeat.
'Very well. In that case, I'll go alone. You are needed, Mr O'Flaherty, I believe.' She glanced significantly towards the poop where Jason, apparently having dismissed her from his mind, was absorbed in his strategy. His eyes were fixed on the enemy and a stream of orders issued from his lips.
The Alcestis was showing her elegantly carved and gilded stern windows as the Witch came across on an oblique course to windward, neatly cutting the wind from her sails. Then, as her canvas flapped helplessly, the Witch's carronades roared. Smoke billowed over the brig's deck but through it came a shout of triumph.
'A hit! There goes her mizzenmast!'
It was echoed grimly by the voice from the masthead:
' 'Nother vessel coming up astern, sir! She's opening fire on us!'
The last words were drowned in the noise of another report, a little farther off.
The newcomer had slipped out from behind the small green island called Phanos and was bearing down on them under every stitch of canvas, flying the unmistakable British flag. Jolival blenched and seizing hold of Marianne began to drag her towards the companion.
'It's a trap!' he cried. 'We'll be caught between two fires. Now I see why the Alcestis let us take her wind so easily.'
'Then we're lost? In that case—'
Tearing herself from his grasp, Marianne made a dash for the poop, determi
ned at all costs to get to Jason and die with him. But Kaleb was before her, barring her way.
'Not that way, madame! It's dangerous.'
'I know! Let me go! I must go to him!'
'Stop her!' Jason bellowed. 'If you let that lunatic woman up here, I'll have you in irons!'
The end of this speech was lost in the smoke and din as part of the rail disintegrated and the shot sliced through the shrouds and ploughed on into the deck-house roof.
Instantly, Kaleb had flung Marianne to the ground, hurling himself on top of her and pinning her to the deck with all his weight. The noise was deafening and visibility down to no more than a few feet. The guns' crews were firing almost before they had finished reloading. Fire belched from every one of the brig's gun ports but her decks were rent with agonizing screams and the groans of injured and dying men.
Coughing and choking, Marianne fought vigorously to free herself from the smooth and powerfully muscled body holding her down. At last, with the energy of desperation, she managed to push him off and struggle to her knees.
Without so much as a glance of gratitude for the man who had saved her life, and who, in any case, was already returning to his duties, she peered through the smoke in search of Jason. She could not see him, the entire after part of the ship being enveloped in a thick fog, but she heard his voice yelling, with an inexpressible note of triumph, in response to another shout from the masthead:
'Reinforcements are coming! We'll make it yet!'
Staggering to her feet, Marianne began to run towards the sound and literally fell into the arms of Gracchus who, his face blackened with powder, loomed ghostlike out of the reeking smoke.
'What is he saying, Gracchus?' she gasped, clinging to him. 'Reinforcements? Where?'
'Come with me. I'll show you. There are more ships coming. French ships. They're coming from the big island. And in the nick of time too. We were in a bad way between these two misbegotten Englishmen!'
[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels Page 19