Captain Blood (Penguin Classics)

by Rafael Sabatini

  He paused, looking hard at Blood. Blood nodded understanding and assent. Relieved, the doctor continued: “But there should be no questions if you go carefully to work. You concert matters with Nuttall. You enlist him as one of your companions—and a shipwright should be a very useful member of your crew. You engage him to discover a likely sloop whose owner is disposed to sell. Then let your preparations all be made before the purchase is effected, so that your escape may follow instantly upon it before the inevitable questions come to be asked. You take me?”

  So well did Blood take him that within an hour he contrived to see Nuttall, and found the fellow as disposed to the business as Dr. Whacker had predicted. When he left the shipwright, it was agreed that Nuttall should seek the boat required, for which Blood would at once produce the money.

  The quest took longer than was expected by Blood, who waited impatiently with the doctor’s gold concealed about his person. But at the end of some three weeks, Nutall—whom he was now meeting daily—informed him that he had found a serviceable wherry, and that its owner was disposed to sell it for twenty-two pounds. That evening, on the beach, remote from all eyes, Peter Blood handed that sum to his new associate, and Nuttall went off with instructions to complete the purchase late on the following day. He was to bring the boat to the wharf, where under cover of night Blood and his fellow-convicts would join him and make off.

  Everything was ready. In the shed, from which all the wounded men had now been removed and which had since remained untenanted, Nuttall had concealed the necessary stores: a hundredweight of bread, a quantity of cheese, a cask of water and some few bottles of Canary, a compass, quadrant, chart, half-hour glass, log and line, a tarpaulin, some carpenter’s tools, and a lantern and candles. And in the stockade, all was likewise in readiness. Hagthorpe, Dyke, and Ogle had agreed to join the venture, and eight others had been carefully recruited. In Pitt’s hut, which he shared with five other rebels-convict, all of whom were to join in his bid for liberty, a ladder had been constructed in secret during those nights of waiting. With this they were to surmount the stockade and gain the open. The risk of detection, so that they made little noise, was negligible. Beyond locking them all into that stockade at night, there was no great precaution taken. Where, after all, could any so foolish as to attempt escape hope to conceal himself in that island? The chief risk lay in discovery by those of their companions who were to be left behind. It was because of these that they must go cautiously and in silence.

  The day that was to have been their last in Barbados was a day of hope and anxiety to the twelve associates in that enterprise, no less than to Nuttall in the town below.

  Towards sunset, having seen Nuttall depart to purchase and fetch the sloop to the prearranged moorings at the wharf, Peter Blood came sauntering towards the stockade, just as the slaves were being driven in from the fields. He stood aside at the entrance to let them pass, and beyond the message of hope flashed by his eyes, he held no communication with them.

  He entered the stockade in their wake, and as they broke their ranks to seek their various respective huts, he beheld Colonel Bishop in talk with Kent, the overseer. The pair were standing by the stocks, planted in the middle of that green space for the punishment of offending slaves.

  As he advanced, Bishop turned to regard him, scowling.

  “Where have you been this while?” he bawled, and although a minatory note was normal to the Colonel’s voice, yet Blood felt his heart tightening apprehensively.

  “I’ve been at my work in the town,” he answered. “Mrs. Patch has a fever and Mr. Dekker has sprained his ankle.”

  “I sent for you to Dekker’s, and you were not there. You are given to idling, my fine fellow. We shall have to quicken you one of these days unless you cease from abusing the liberty you enjoy. D’ ye forget that ye’re a rebel-convict?”

  “I am not given the chance,” said Blood, who never could learn to curb his tongue.

  “By God! Will you be pert with me?”

  Remembering all that was at stake, growing suddenly conscious that from the huts surrounding the enclosure anxious ears were listening, he instantly practiced an unusual submission.

  “Not pert, sir. I . . . I am sorry I should have been sought . . .”

  “Aye, and you’ll be sorrier yet. There’s the Governor with an attack of gout, screaming like a wounded horse, and you nowhere to be found. Be off, man—away with you at speed to Government House! You’re awaited, I tell you. Best lend him a horse, Kent, or the lout’ll be all night getting there.”

  They bustled him away, choking almost from a reluctance that he dared not show. The thing was unfortunate; but after all not beyond remedy. The escape was set for midnight, and he should easily be back by then.

  He mounted the horse that Kent procured him, intending to make all haste.

  “How shall I reenter the stockade, sir?” he enquired at parting.

  “You’ll not reenter it,” said Bishop. “When they’ve done with you at Government House, they may find a kennel for you there until morning.”

  Peter Blood’s heart sank like a stone through water.

  “But . . .” he began.

  “Be off, I say. Will you stand there talking until dark? His excellency is waiting for you.” And with his cane Colonel Bishop slashed the horse’s quarters so brutally that the beast bounded forward all but unseating her rider.

  Peter Blood went off in a state of mind bordering on despair. And there was occasion for it. A postponement of the escape at least until tomorrow night was necessary now, and postponement must mean the discovery of Nuttall’s transaction and the asking of questions it would be difficult to answer.

  It was in his mind to slink back in the night, once his work at Government House were done, and from the outside of the stockade make known to Pitt and the others his presence, and so have them join him that their project might still be carried out. But in this he reckoned without the Governor, whom he found really in the thrall of a severe attack of gout, and almost as severe an attack of temper nourished by Blood’s delay.

  The doctor was kept in constant attendance upon him until long after midnight, when at last he was able to ease the sufferer a little by a bleeding. Thereupon he would have withdrawn. But Steed would not hear of it. Blood must sleep in his own chamber to be at hand in case of need. It was as if Fate made sport of him. For that night at least the escape must be definitely abandoned.

  Not until the early hours of the morning did Peter Blood succeed in making a temporary escape from Government House on the ground that he required certain medicaments which he must, himself, procure from the apothecary.

  On that pretext, he made an excursion into the awakening town, and went straight to Nuttall, whom he found in a state of livid panic. The unfortunate debtor, who had sat up waiting through the night, conceived that all was discovered and that his own ruin would be involved. Peter Blood quieted his fears.

  “It will be for tonight instead,” he said, with more assurance than he felt, “if I have to bleed the Governor to death. Be ready as last night.”

  “But if there are questions meanwhile?” bleated Nuttall. He was a thin, pale, small-featured man with weak eyes that now blinked desperately.

  “Answer as best you can. Use your wits, man. I can stay no longer.” And Peter went off to the apothecary for his pretexted drugs.

  Within an hour of his going came an officer of the Secretary’s to Nuttall’s miserable hovel. The seller of the boat had—as by law required since the coming of the rebels-convict—duly reported the sale at the Secretary’s office, so that he might obtain the reimbursement of the ten-pound surety into which every keeper of a small boat was compelled to enter. The Secretary’s office postponed this reimbursement until it should have obtained confirmation of the transaction.

  “We are informed that you have bought a wherry from Mr. Robert Farrell,” said the officer.

  “That is so,” said Nuttall, who conceived that for him t
his was the end of the world.

  “You are in no haste, it seems, to declare the same at the Secretary’s office.” The emissary had a proper bureaucratic haughtiness.

  Nuttall’s weak eyes blinked at a redoubled rate.

  “To . . . to declare it?”

  “Ye know it’s the law.”

  “I . . . I didn’t, may it please you.”

  “But it’s in the proclamation published last January.”

  “I . . . I can’t read, sir. I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “Faugh!” The messenger withered him with his disdain. “Well, now you’re informed. See to it that you are at the Secretary’s office before noon with the ten pounds surety into which you are obliged to enter.”

  The pompous officer departed, leaving Nuttall in a cold perspiration despite the heat of the morning. He was thankful that the fellow had not asked the question he most dreaded, which was how he, a debtor, should come by the money to buy a wherry. But this he knew was only a respite. The question would presently be asked of a certainty, and then hell would open for him. He cursed the hour in which he had been such a fool as to listen to Peter Blood’s chatter of escape. He thought it very likely that the whole plot would be discovered, and that he would probably be hanged, or at least branded and sold into slavery like those other damned rebels-convict, with whom he had been so mad as to associate himself. If only he had the ten pounds for this infernal surety, which until this moment had never entered into their calculations, it was possible that the thing might be done quickly and questions postponed until later. As the Secretary’s messenger had overlooked the fact that he was a debtor, so might the others at the Secretary’s office, at least for a day or two; and in that time he would, he hoped, be beyond the reach of their questions. But in the meantime what was to be done about this money? And it was to be found before noon!

  Nuttall snatched up his hat, and went out in quest of Peter Blood. But where look for him? Wandering aimlessly up the irregular, unpaved street, he ventured to enquire of one or two if they had seen Dr. Blood that morning. He affected to be feeling none so well, and indeed his appearance bore out the deception. None could give him information; and since Blood had never told him of Whacker’s share in this business, he walked in his unhappy ignorance past the door of the one man in Barbados who would eagerly have saved him in this extremity.

  Finally he determined to go up to Colonel Bishop’s plantation. Probably Blood would be there. If he were not, Nuttall would find Pitt, and leave a message with him. He was acquainted with Pitt and knew of Pitt’s share in this business. His pretext for seeking Blood must still be that he needed medical assistance.

  And at the same time that he set out, insensitive in his anxiety to the broiling heat, to climb the heights to the north of the town, Blood was setting out from Government House at last, having so far eased the Governor’s condition as to be permitted to depart. Being mounted, he would, but for an unexpected delay, have reached the stockade ahead of Nuttall, in which case several unhappy events might have been averted. The unexpected delay was occasioned by Miss Arabella Bishop.

  They met at the gate of the luxuriant garden of Government House, and Miss Bishop, herself mounted, stared to see Peter Blood on horseback. It happened that he was in good spirits. The fact that the Governor’s condition had so far improved as to restore him his freedom of movement had sufficed to remove the depression under which he had been laboring for the past twelve hours and more. In its rebound the mercury of his mood had shot higher far than present circumstances warranted. He was disposed to be optimistic. What had failed last night would certainly not fail again tonight. What was a day, after all? The Secretary’s office might be troublesome, but not really troublesome for another twenty-four hours at least; and by then they would be well away.

  This joyous confidence of his was his first misfortune. The next was that his good spirits were also shared by Miss Bishop, and that she bore no rancor. The two things conjoined to make the delay that in its consequences was so deplorable.

  “Good morning, sir,” she hailed him pleasantly. “It’s close upon a month since last I saw you.”

  “Twenty-one days to the hour,” said he. “I’ve counted them.”

  “I vow I was beginning to believe you dead.”

  “I have to thank you for the wreath.”

  “The wreath?”

  “To deck my grave,” he explained.

  “Must you ever be rallying?” she wondered, and looked at him gravely, remembering that it was his rallying on the last occasion had driven her away in dudgeon.

  “A man must sometimes laugh at himself or go mad,” said he. “Few realize it. That is why there are so many madmen in the world.”

  “You may laugh at yourself all you will, sir. But sometimes I think you laugh at me, which is not civil.”

  “Then, faith, you’re wrong. I laugh only at the comic, and you are not comic at all.”

  “What am I, then?” she asked him, laughing.

  A moment he pondered her, so fair and fresh to behold, so entirely maidenly and yet so entirely frank and unabashed.

  “You are,” he said, “the niece of the man who owns me as his slave.” But he spoke lightly. So lightly that she was encouraged to insistence.

  “Nay, sir, that is an evasion. You shall answer me truthfully this morning.”

  “Truthfully? To answer you at all is a labor. But to answer truthfully! Oh, well, now, I should say of you that he’ll be lucky who counts you his friend.” It was in his mind to add more. But he left it there.

  “That’s mighty civil,” said she. “You’ve a nice taste in compliments, Mr. Blood. Another in your place . . .”

  “Faith, now, don’t I know what another would have said? Don’t I know my fellow-man at all?”

  “Sometimes I think you do, and sometimes I think you don’t. Anyway, you don’t know your fellow-woman. There was that affair of the Spaniards.”

  “Will ye never forget it?”

  “Never.”

  “Bad cess to your memory. Is there no good in me at all that you could be dwelling on instead?”

  “Oh, several things.”

  “For instance, now?” He was almost eager.

  “You speak excellent Spanish.”

  “Is that all?” He sank back into dismay.

  “Where did you learn it? Have you been in Spain?”

  “That I have. I was two years in a Spanish prison.”

  “In prison?” Her tone suggested apprehensions in which he had no desire to leave her.

  “As a prisoner of war,” he explained. “I was taken fighting with the French—in French service, that is.”

  “But you’re a doctor!” she cried.

  “That’s merely a diversion, I think. By trade I am a soldier—at least, it’s a trade I followed for ten years. It brought me no great gear, but it served me better than medicine, which, as you may observe, has brought me into slavery. I’m thinking it’s more pleasing in the sight of Heaven to kill men than to heal them. Sure it must be.”

  “But how came you to be a soldier, and to serve the French?”

  “I am Irish, you see, and I studied medicine. Therefore—since it’s a perverse nation we are—. . . Oh, but it’s a long story, and the Colonel will be expecting my return.”

  She was not in that way to be defrauded of her entertainment. If he would wait a moment they would ride back together. She had but come to enquire of the Governor’s health at her uncle’s request.

  So he waited, and so they rode back together to Colonel Bishop’s house. They rode very slowly, at a walking pace, and some whom they passed marveled to see the doctor-slave on such apparently intimate terms with his owner’s niece. One or two may have promised themselves that they would drop a hint to the Colonel. But the two rode oblivious of all others in the world that morning. He was telling her the story of his early turbulent days, and at the end of it he dwelt more fully than hitherto upon the manner of his arrest
and trial.

  The tale was barely done when they drew up at the Colonel’s door, and dismounted, Peter Blood surrendering his nag to one of the negro grooms, who informed them that the Colonel was from home at the moment.

  Even then they lingered a moment, she detaining him.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Blood, that I did not know before,” she said, and there was a suspicion of moisture in those clear hazel eyes. With a compelling friendliness she held out her hand to him.

  “Why, what difference could it have made?” he asked.

  “Some, I think. You have been very hardly used by Fate.”

  “Och, now . . .” He paused. His keen sapphire eyes considered her steadily a moment from under his level black brows. “It might have been worse,” he said, with a significance which brought a tinge of color to her cheeks and a flutter to her eyelids.

  He stooped to kiss her hand before releasing it, and she did not deny him. Then he turned and strode off towards the stockade a half-mile away, and a vision of her face went with him, tinted with a rising blush and a sudden unusual shyness. He forgot in that little moment that he was a rebel-convict with ten years of slavery before him; he forgot that he had planned an escape, which was to be carried into effect that night; forgot even the peil of discovery which as a result of the Governor’s gout now overhung him.

  CHAPTER VII

  PIRATES

  Mr. James Nuttall made all speed, regardless of the heat, in his journey from Bridgetown to Colonel Bishop’s plantation, and if ever man was built for speed in a hot climate that man was Mr. James Nuttall, with his short, thin body, and his long, fleshless legs. So withered was he that it was hard to believe there were any juices left in him, yet juices there must have been, for he was sweating violently by the time he reached the stockade.