'Maybe, but that isn't to say the captain isn't here either. Let me go and look.'
Unable to endure the uncertainty a moment longer, gripped by a fear she could not have described, and by the same sense of something amiss which had struck Theodores earlier, she glided like a shadow past the deckhouse, its door swinging crazily off its hinges, and reached the poop and climbed up, taking care to avoid the faint beam from the single stern light.
Eagerly she sprang towards the door that led into the after-cabin and the captain's own sleeping cabin, but there she pulled up short, staring in bewilderment at the boarded-up doorway and, on the planks nailed across it, the great seals of red wax, like drops of blood.
Only then did she look around her, taking in the details she had missed before but which now stood out clearly in the dim light. Everywhere there were traces of a fight: in the splinters of wood torn from the rails and spars, the twisted metalwork and the marks gouged in the deck by cannon shot, and most of all in the dark stains which were most sinisterly evident around the wheel.
At that moment hope abandoned her.
There was nothing more to wait for, nothing to look for, either. Jason's beautiful ship was now a ghost-ship, the battered remnant of the thing she had once been. Someone, certainly, had recaptured her from the mutineers, but whoever that someone was, it was not Jason, could not be, or why these signs of battle? Why the seals? A Barbary pirate, perhaps, or perhaps some Ottoman rais had come upon the Sea Witch far from land, half out of control in the inexperienced hands of Leighton and his crew, and she had fallen an easy prey.
To Marianne's distraught mind, it seemed all too clear what must have happened, from the grim traces left on board. Everything proclaimed a battle lost, defeat and death, even down to the bored soldiers keeping guard over the floating wraith, since, for good or ill, it was now obviously the property of some noble person.
As for those she loved and had last seen here, where no echo of their voices now remained, she would never see them more. She knew that now, for certain. They were dead.
Utterly broken by this latest blow, Marianne slid to the deck, oblivious of everything around her, and with her head against the boarded-up door that Jason would never use again, gave herself up to silent tears. It was there that Theodoros found her, huddled against the wood as though trying to become a part of it.
He tried to make her stand but could not, for all his great strength. She had become a dead weight, loaded down with an immense burden of misery and despair which were beyond him, as a man, to cope with. She simply lay there, crushed to the ground by the rocklike pressure of grief and disappointment, and he knew that she would make no attempt to drag herself out of it. For her the outside world had simply ceased to matter.
Theodoros knelt beside her and, feeling for her hand, found it cold as if all the blood had already drained away from it. Yet the hand moved, pushing him away.
'Leave me alone…' she whispered. 'Go away!'
'No. I'm not leaving you. You are grieving, therefore you are my sister. Come.'
She was not listening. He guessed that she had wandered away from him again, borne on the bitter stream of her own tears, far beyond all reason and logic. Cautiously he raised his head and looked about him.
The janissaries were away up in the bows of the ship and had heard and seen nothing. They were sitting on coils of rope, their guns between their knees, and had taken out long pipes and were smoking placidly, gazing out at the night. The rich scent of tobacco mingled with the smell of seaweed on the breath of the breeze that wafted to them from the Black Sea. Obviously, neither of them suspected there was any other creature on board but their two selves.
Slightly reassured, Theodoros bent over Marianne once more.
'Please, you must try! You cannot stay here… it is madness! You must live, you must go on fighting!'
He was using his own terms to persuade her, the things that made up all the world for him. She did not even answer but only shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and he could feel her tears wet on his hand. He was overwhelmed with compassion such as he had never felt before.
He knew that this woman was brave and eager for life, and yet the words of life and battle had no power over her now.
She lay there, as a dog will lie outside the door of its dead master, and he knew that she would never move again unless he did something. All she wanted was simply to lie where she was until death took her. Yet she was so young… so beautiful.
He was seized with anger against all those who had tried to make use of that youth and beauty, so ill-protected by the resounding titles which did not compensate for the load of responsibility they had burdened her with, himself among the rest. He was ashamed of himself, remembering the oath he had wrenched from the castaway before the sacred icons. Not everything was justified in the cause of freedom. And now that she could no longer help herself, this over-tried child who, for all that, had done her best to help him, had even killed for him, he was not going to abandon her.
She had not moved for some time, but when he tried again to lift her, he felt the same refusal, the same resistance which told him that if he persisted she was capable of screaming aloud. Yet they could not stay where they were for ever. It was too dangerous.
'I'm going to make you live in spite of yourself,' he muttered through his teeth, 'but for what I am about to do, forgive me!'
He raised his huge hand. He had learned much about all forms of fighting and he knew how to knock a man out with a single, scientifically-delivered blow to the back of the head. Judging the power of his arm to a hair's breadth, he struck. There was no more resistance. The girl's body slumped instantly and relaxed. Immediately, he slung her across his shoulder and, bending double so as to be indistinguishable from the bulwark, he made his way back to the entry port where the companion ladder hung.
It was no effort at all. His burden was as nothing to the joy of getting her away.
Seconds later, he had taken the sculls and was steering the perama towards the harbour entrance. A few minutes more and he would have reached the place that he had selected and could carry his companion to the French embassy, which he knew well. Only then would he be able to return to his own battle and to the terrible sufferings of his country. But first he had to return this child to her own place and her own people. She was like a delicate flower that cannot live in strange soil but can only find the nourishment it needs to live and grow in its own ground.
The boat rounded Galata point, past the walls of the old castle, and the minarets belonging to the mosque Kilij Ali lifted their vague white columns to the star-filled sky. They were out on the choppy little waves of the Bosphorus now, and the boat began to dance a little.
Theodoros, still pulling at the oars, began to smile suddenly. Though the wind was cold, the night was clear, calm and beautiful.
It was not a night for tragedy. There was some mistake somewhere. What it was he could not tell, but his instinct, the instinct of a man brought up among mountains and used from boyhood to looking at the sky and the stars, told him now that for the woman lying unconscious in the bottom of the boat, the sunshine and the happiness were not gone for good, and Theodoras' instinct had never betrayed him yet. The longest road winds to an end at last, and the longest night must pass and see the dawn.
For the Emperor's envoy, this voyage at least was done and the time come to set foot on the soil of the Grand Signior and the fair-haired Sultana.
With a decisive gesture, Theodoras the rebel sent his boat into the calm waters of a little bay and drove it hard up against the sandy shore.
* * *
The Comte de Latour-Maubourg, French ambassador to the Sublime Porte, stared with stupefaction at the scarecrow figure of the giant who had invaded his embassy and dragged him from his bed by thundering on his door, bellowing like a bull, and then pushing his way past the porter.
Next, his perplexed and myopic gaze went to the young woman whom the intruder had deposite
d, quite unconscious, in a chair, as tenderly as if he had been her mother.
'You tell me this is the Princess Sant'Anna?'
'Herself, your excellency! But this moment escaped from the English vessel Jason by whom we were picked up, she and I, on the high sea, but where they were seeking to keep her prisoner. The ship was to have sailed at dawn to take her back to England.'
'A most extraordinary story! Who was attempting to detain the Princess?'
'Your diplomatic colleague from England. He came aboard this morning and recognized her.'
The ambassador smiled thinly.
'Mr Canning is a gentleman who knows his own mind. But you, my friend, who are you?'
'Merely her highness' servant, excellency. I am called Theodore.'
'Damnation! Is she travelling with a retinue? It must be an accomplished one. I notice you speak Turkish. By the way, isn't that faint of hers lasting a rather long time? For I am assuming she has fainted. There hasn't been an accident, I hope?'
'She suffered a shock, excellency,' Theodoros said blandly. 'I greatly regret that I was obliged to – render her unconscious, in order to spare her grief.'
The ambassador's grey eyes looked thoughtful, but not in any way surprised. Years of diplomacy at the Ottoman court had taught him not to be surprised at anything, and especially not at anything that concerned the vexed question of female psychology.
'I see,' was all he said. 'There is water and cognac on that table. See if you can revive your mistress while I go for some salts.'
He returned a few moments later, bringing with him someone else who, as soon as he entered the door, gave vent to a joyful exclamation.
'My God! Where did you find her?'
'So it is she? Ginning was not mistaken?'
'No doubt about it, my dear Comte. By God, it makes me wish I hadn't forgotten how to pray!'
Arcadius de Jolival, his eyes bright with tears of joy, hurled himself at the still unconscious Marianne, while the ambassador, following more slowly, began to wave the sal volatile under her nose.
She gave a long shudder, groaned and made an instinctive movement to thrust away the penetrating smell, but she did open her eyes.
They wandered a little at first and then, almost immediately, fastened on the familiar face of Jolival, who was now weeping unashamedly from sheer relief.
'You, my friend? But how?… Where am I?'
It was Theodoros, standing very correctly in the background as befitted the servant of a noble house, who answered her.
'At the French embassy, your highness, where I felt it best to bring you after your accident.'
'My accident?'
Marianne's brain was still struggling to catch up with recent events. The comfortable, elegantly furnished sitting-room was reassuring, as was the tear-stained face of her old friend, which was comfortingly real, but what was this accident… Then, suddenly, the veil was rent away and once again she saw the battered ship, the door with the red seals on it, the bloodstains and the fierce faces of the janissaries glimpsed in the light of the lantern, and she flung herself against Jolival's chest, and clung to his coat.
'Jason? Where is he? What has happened to him? There was blood on the deck… Jolival, for pity's sake, tell me, is he—?'
Gently, he took her hands in his, feeling them tense and very cold still. He held them close to his breast to warm them, but he did not meet her eyes. The beseeching look in them was too much for him.
'Honestly, I don't know,' he said, and there was a break in his voice.
'You don't… even know?'
'No. But I am being equally honest when I say that I believe with all my heart he is alive. Leighton could not afford to kill him.'
'But how?… Why?'
The questions rose to Marianne's lips so thick and fast that she could not utter half of them coherently.
The ambassador decided it was time to intervene.
'Madame,' he said, 'you are in no state to listen to anything at the moment. You have had a shock, you are exhausted, bruised and very likely hungry. Let me take you to your room and send a little supper up to you. Afterwards, perhaps—'
But Marianne was already on her feet, thrusting aside both the chair and Jolival at once. Only a short while ago, on that empty deck, she had believed that there was nothing in this world left for her to love or hope for, and had felt the life drain away from her like wine out of a leaky cask. She knew now that she had been wrong. Arcadius was here, looking at her, alive and well, and he said that Jason might not be dead.
In a moment all her vitality and fighting spirit was restored to her. It was like a miracle. As though she had been born again!
'I am most grateful to your excellency,' she said in her normal tone, 'for your kind welcome. I shall not hesitate to trespass on your hospitality, I am afraid. But, please, before I go to rest, let me hear what my old friend has to tell me. It is something that matters greatly to me, you understand, and I shall not be able to sleep, I know, until I know what has happened.'
Latour-Maubourg bowed. 'My house and myself are yours to command, Princess. In that case, I shall merely order a light supper to be brought to us here. You will not deny that you could do with it, and so could we. As for your rescuer…'
His not imperceptive gaze went from Theodoros' rigidly controlled face to Marianne's anxious one. Ashamed at having thought only of herself, she instantly besought him to see that her 'servant' was properly looked after, whereat the ambassador smiled fleetingly.
'I hoped that I had deserved your confidence, madame. This man is no more your servant than I myself. The French embassy is neutral ground for such as you – Monsieur Lagos. You are welcome to my house, and you shall sup with us.'
'You know him?' Marianne said wonderingly.
'But of course. The Emperor has great admiration for the courage of the Greeks, and has always urged me to keep myself fully informed concerning their affairs. There are few men as popular among the Phanariots as this klepht from the mountains of the Morea. Or few who could answer to his description. A mere matter of size, my friend. You are welcome here.'
Theodoros bowed courteously, without speaking.
Leaving his visitors to recover from their surprise, the Comte de Latour-Maubourg left the room with a dignity not in the least impaired by his Indian dressing-gown of flowing design and the green silk nightcap on his head.
When he had gone, Marianne turned at once to Jolival.
'And now, Arcadius,' she begged, 'tell me everything that has happened since – since our parting.'
'You mean since that villain overpowered us and took possession of the ship, after as good as throwing you into the sea? Seriously, Marianne, I can still hardly believe my eyes. Here you are alive, thoroughly alive, when for weeks now we have hardly dared to think that you could have survived. Can't you see I'm dying to know—'
'And so am I, Jolival! And dying of apprehension, too, because I know you. If you had anything but bad news to tell, you would have been half-way through it by now. Is it – so very dreadful?'
Jolival shrugged and began pacing up and down the room, his hands tucked under his coat tails.
'I don't know. Weird, more than anything. Everything that has happened since the moment I last saw you seems to have been totally irrational. But listen and you'll see.'
Marianne sat curled up in an armchair, listening with all her ears, and as Jolival proceeded, she soon ceased to see or hear anything but the story he had to tell, which was certainly a very strange one.
After criminally abandoning Marianne, the Sea Witch had turned aside from her original course and set sail for Africa. On the following night she was at a point midway between the Morea and the island of Crete when, just as darkness was falling, she was sighted by the corsair xebecs of Veli Pasha, the formidable son of the Pasha Ali of Yannina.
The Epirote's flotilla had easily overcome a vessel in no better or more experienced hands than those of a megalomaniac doctor and a handful o
f ruffians. At least, so far as the prisoners lying in irons below decks had been able to deduce from the short duration of the fight. One thing, too, they were now certain of, and that was that Jason Beaufort was no longer in command.
'Then how can you think he may be still alive?' Marianne burst out. 'Leighton must have killed him to gain possession of the Witch!'
'Killed him? No. But deprived him of his senses, drugged him to the eyeballs. And I don't think that we need look much farther for an explanation of a great deal in his behaviour which seemed to all of us who knew Beaufort well to be utterly unlike him. Not everything can be explained by jealous rage, and I know now that our captain had been in the man Leighton's power ever since Corfu. We were not sufficiently wary of that man.
'O'Flaherty told me in the end that Leighton had long been engaged in the slave-trade and had learned various secrets from the witch-doctors of Benin and Ourdah. After his betrayal of you, he encouraged Beaufort to drink heavily, but what he drank was not honest spirits.'
'Then, if he was not killed, what did Leighton do with him?'
'He escaped with him, in the launch, during the fight. It was pitch dark and everything was in total confusion. A boy who was behind one of the guns saw them go. He recognized the captain who, he said, was like a man walking in his sleep. It was Leighton who took the oars. He also took your jewels, I may add, as a kind of insurance, because we couldn't find them with your things, although we looked.'
'Jason desert his ship when it was in danger! Jason run from a fight!' Marianne said incredulously. 'It's just not likely, Arcadius! He would never get calmly into a boat while his men were being killed.'
'Of course not, but I thought I told you he was not himself. My dear child, if you stick at every piece of unlikelihood in our tale you are going to have a hard time of it. Well, down there in the orlop, we were convinced nothing but death awaited us at the hands of the pasha's devils, that or slavery at best. Nothing of the kind. On the contrary, Ahmet Rais, who was what you might call the commodore of the fleet, treated us with perfect courtesy.'
[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels Page 40