An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  “These are worth a fortune,” he exclaimed, then added, “You say de Suavez showed them to you?”

  “Yes,” Lizbeth replied. “They were hidden behind this picture. There is a secret panel in the wall.”

  “I wonder why he showed them to you – ?” Rodney began.

  Lizbeth looked away from him a little anxiously.

  “But of course I know!” he added sharply. “He wanted to give them to you. He is in love with you, he has admitted as much.”

  “I refused them,” Lizbeth said quickly.

  “How dare he?” Rodney asked. “He knows as well as I do that the spoils of a ship all belong to a common pool.”

  “I doubt if you would ever have found these,” Lizbeth told him quietly. “If he had not shown me, I would never have guessed that anything was hidden there. You had no idea either.

  Rodney looked down at the emeralds in the box and then at Lizbeth.

  “He must love you very much. Were you tempted to accept them?”

  “Of course not!”

  Lizbeth’s tone was indignant.

  “I wish I could believe you,” Rodney said. “Perhaps my entrance into the cabin was more inopportune than I realised at the time!”

  “I think you are being insulting,” Lizbeth said. “I told you that I had already refused the jewels. There is no point in our discussing it further.”

  She walked away as she spoke. She hoped, as she reached the door, that he would call her back. But he said nothing and she left him with the box of jewels in his hands, staring down at the great square-cut emerald.

  10

  The men were cheering, half ironically, as a pearling lugger was brought alongside the Santa Perpetua. There were six Spaniards in charge of it, and as they were brought aboard Lizbeth could see that they were the type she had imagined all Spaniards to be before she met Don Miguel.

  Their faces were coarse and bestial, their deportment arrogant; and that they were brutal was obvious when one looked at the natives they had commanded in the lugger. Every man had open wounds across his back where he had been struck with the many-thonged leather whips which the Spaniards used so cruelly on their slaves.

  They were very different indeed from the natives whom Rodney had asked to volunteer for service on the English ships, cowed and broken both in body and spirit, they did not seem to care what happened to them, and the fact that their ship had been captured seemed to leave them only apathetic.

  Rodney called the Cimaroon to his side.

  “Do you know these men?” he asked. The Cimaroon nodded.

  “They are not of my tribe,” he said. “They come from further South.”

  “They will be of little use even if they consent to sail with us,” Rodney said. “If I put them ashore, will they manage to get back to their own people”

  The Cimaroon shrugged.

  “Those who survive will doubtless find their way home,” he said.

  “So be it!”

  Rodney gave the order for the boats to take the captured slaves and put them ashore; but even this hardly seemed to rouse the Indians from their lethargy; and the Spaniards, watching what appeared to them the mercifulness of a madman, sneered openly. Their hard faces and bold eyes made Lizbeth shudder.

  She remembered how Rodney had told her to poison herself rather than be captured by the Spaniards, and now she saw the reason for this suggestion. Death was infinitely preferable to being at the mercy of men such as these. She was even relieved as she heard Rodney give the order for them to be taken below and put in chains.

  The contents of the lugger were brought aboard. There was a small amount of silver and a quantity of wine that was being taken to the Governor of a settlement farther north; but these were unimportant beside the pearls which the lugger was conveying to Nombre de Dios to be ready for the sailing of the next gold fleet.

  There were canvas bags full of them hidden in a safe place in the Captain’s cabin. All were valuable; but there were not, Rodney decided, any exceptionally fine specimens among them, until a further search of the lugger revealed a small tin box hidden beneath the boards of the cabin. There were only six pearls in the box, but they were enough to make Rodney exclaim in astonishment, for he knew that these indeed were treasure trove. Softly pink as the morning sky, they shimmered iridescent in the sunlight, so delicate, so lovely in their texture that even the most inexperienced beholder must have some idea of their intrinsic value.

  Rodney placed them in his own cabin for safety and giving orders that they would tow the lugger until they could find a convenient place to break her up, he signalled the Sea Hawk that he wished to talk with Barlow.

  It was not long before Barlow came aboard with a smile of pleasure on his face at the thought that Rodney wished to see him. Lizbeth, sitting in the sunshine, watched the two men meet and saw them go into the aft cabin.

  She could guess fairly accurately what they would discuss, for she knew, although Rodney had not said so openly, that he was considering returning home.

  The day before they had attacked a small Spanish settlement which had been built beside one of the many natural harbours that the mainland provided. There were no ships in the harbour as the Santa Perpetua nosed her way along the coast, but the Cimaroon had told Rodney that there would be plunder to be had at the settlement, and he made his plans accordingly.

  He had sent a boat loaded with eighteen English arquebuses and archers ashore north of the harbour. They had instructions to watch the roads leaving the settlement and prevent the Spaniards from escaping with their treasure before Rodney could capture it. He was well aware that, if attacked from the sea by superior odds, the inhabitants of the settlement would run away as quickly as possible, taking with them everything of value they could lay their hands on.

  Soon after his men had landed, Rodney sailed the Santa Perpetua boldly into the harbour, knowing that at the first sight of her the Governor and the people would expect her to be manned by Spaniards. It was only when they were anchored and his men were already rowing ashore that Rodney ran up the flag of St. George.

  There was some hand-to-hand fighting; but when Rodney threatened the Spaniards with a taste of the Santa Perpetua’s guns, they surrendered unconditionally.

  It was not an important settlement, but there was a large quantity of gold and silver, both in coinage and domestic utensils, and some very fine bales of silk which the Governor had purchased to send back to Spain. There were cedar boards, too, and Spanish weapons which Rodney knew had a value in England.

  While they were there, they also took the opportunity of replenishing both the Santa Perpetua and the Sea Hawk with provisions and good Chile wine. It was not wise to linger long in case they were surprised by Spanish warships; so having taken everything they could aboard,

  Rodney sailed away, leaving the Spaniards furious but powerless to do anything to prevent their going.

  The Sea Hawk was now weighed down with cargo, as was the Santa Perpetua, and Lizbeth guessed there would not be much point in delaying their passage home. She was sure that was why Rodney was having a conference with Barlow at this very moment; then, as she watched the boats returning from the shore where they had deposited the slaves from the pearling lugger, she heard a footstep and looking up she saw that Don Miguel had come up on the quarter-deck.

  He had been confined to his cabin during the encounter with the pearling lugger and now she supposed he had been released and she smiled up at him, conscious at the same time that Mister Gadstone was within earshot.

  “Another capture I hear,” Don Miguel said.

  Lizbeth nodded.

  “A pearling lugger,” she replied.

  “A good haul?” he enquired.

  “I do not know,” Lizbeth lied, because somehow she could not bear to tell him about those six pearls.

  There was no reason for her to keep it secret, but she did not want to boast to Don Miguel of Rodney’s success. She was proud of what they had done, and yet the
newly awakened love within herself made her understand much that Don Miguel was feeling.

  He, too, wanted to be successful. He, too, wanted to show her that he could conquer and be the conqueror. She could understand, as she would not have understood before the pain in his voice and the sudden harshness of his tone as he said :

  “Master Hawkhurst has the blessing of the gods – good fortune is always at his shoulder.”

  “We are not yet home,” Lizbeth answered.

  Don Miguel glanced towards Master Gadstone who, although he was watching the boats returning from the shore, obviously had an interest in their conversation.

  “And when we reach what you call home,” Don Miguel said, and now he spoke in Spanish, “I shall never see you again. Do you not think that I remember that, every moment, every second of the day and night? I am a prisoner here in my own ship, but in some ways I, too, am fortunate, for I know that you are not far from me, and there are moments like this when I can keep looking at you.”

  “Hush, we must be careful.”

  Lizbeth hardly breathed the words above a whisper. She was alarmed. She saw the quick glance Master Gadstone gave Don Miguel when he started to speak in Spanish. Whatever language he used, there was no disguising the soft, caressing tone of his voice or the expression in his eyes when he looked at her.

  “We must be careful,” Lizbeth whispered again.

  She rose to her feet as she spoke and walked across the quarter-deck, climbing the companion-way to the poop, which was as far away from everyone as she could get. Don Miguel followed her, and now as they stood side by side high above the sea, he said,

  “I love you!”

  “If Rodney should hear, you would be confined to your cabin,” Lizbeth warned him.

  Don Miguel shrugged his shoulders.

  “Master Hawkhurst is jealous. That is why he behaves as he does.”

  Lizbeth shook her head.

  “No, he is not jealous,” she contradicted him.

  She wished with all her heart that he was. Rodney’s anger was hard to bear and she had been more unhappy this past week than she had ever been in her life. Her love had brought her no clear understanding of the man she loved. Rodney’s was a strange, complex character she decided. She only knew that his moods wounded and distressed her and that she had no power over him, as she had over Don Miguel, to make him happy or unhappy by a smile or a frown.

  Rodney was incensed with her and she knew it every time they sat down to a meal. She could not have believed that he could change so completely and be so different from the laughing, easy companion with whom she had shared the voyage until Don Miguel disrupted their friendship.

  He had been angry with her when they left Plymouth and his offhand silence had been uncomfortable soon after leaving England. But Rodney had recovered and his silence had broken down under his own need of conversation.

  But this was different. Now he spoke bitterly, harshly and often with a cold sarcasm that was more hurtful than blows. He seemed not only suspicious of her, Lizbeth thought, but also there was something in his manner which made her feel that he despised her. She found herself longing to plead with him, to ask his forgiveness, to swear, if he wished it, that she would never speak to Don Miguel again. Then, even as the words trembled on her lips pride came to her aid.

  She would not demean herself so far to any man, even though she loved him as she loved Rodney. He was being unjust. He was at fault in what he suspected, but she swore that she would not humble herself to seek his favours. Yet she could not prevent herself being wounded and made desperately unhappy by the situation.

  She saw Rodney at meals, but Don Miguel was invariably with them. At other times he usually ignored her presence. She might, she thought miserably, have been invisible or something lower than a slave from the way he seemed obviously not to see her as he walked about the deck.

  Alone in her cabin, Lizbeth cried many bitter tears. Love, she thought, had brought her no happiness – only a loneliness beyond anything she had ever imagined. It was hard in the circumstances not to want to seek comfort where she might find it, and despite herself she did find Don Miguel’s love for her comforting.

  “I love you!”

  There was a magic in those very words. even though they were spoken by a man she did not love. And yet, she thought, in a way she did love Don Miguel. She loved him with an affection that was almost maternal in its warmth. She wanted to comfort him, she wanted to protect him from the horror and misery that lay ahead of him in the future.

  He was so young – not in age, but in outlook and character – and she knew from the stories he told her of his childhood that he had been cosseted by his mother and kept from encountering the hardships which other boys of his age took as a matter of course. He had always known luxury and comfort, the security of family life, the adoration of his womenfolk.

  It was his father who had insisted that he should go abroad and had suggested a visit to the Spanish Main. The Santa Perpetua had sailed from Spain with several other vessels and was to return guarded by the fleet of warships – what could have been safer? How, indeed, could they have anticipated that any accident might happen to Don Miguel?

  He had character, Lizbeth thought, even though it was not as yet fully developed but he had experienced very little emotion in his life, and she knew, even without his telling her so, that his love for her was something overwhelming and completely unsettling.

  “I love you.”

  She had never realised before how many intonations, how much suppressed longing could he expressed in those three simple words, whether they were spoken in English or Spanish, they still meant the same thing. the throbbing of a man’s heart. the yearning of his whole soul.

  She wished as she had wished several times before, that she could reciprocate his love. Perhaps then for a very short while, they might have found happiness and joy together. She might, indeed, have given him some memories to comfort him when he was imprisoned but try as she would she could not pretend to love Don Miguel when her heart was already given to Rodney.

  He had no use for it. If he thought of any woman, he thought of Phillida and yet Lizbeth loved him, loved him even when he sat angry and glowering at the dinner table, making the atmosphere so unpleasant that she was unaware of what she ate and indeed felt her throat close against food as if it poisoned her.

  Only Don Miguel seemed unaffected by Rodney’s anger. He said little, but his eyes watched her face with an intensity which he knew without being told infuriated Rodney more than anything else.

  “I love you.”

  Don Miguel’s voice struck across Lizbeth’s thoughts as she stood now on the poop. Then, as she turned from a contemplation of the sea, she saw Master Barlow come from the aft cabin, across the half-deck and go down the side of the ship into his waiting boat with an air of haste and purpose about him which confirmed her idea that they were turning for home.

  She was about to speak to Don Miguel when she saw Rodney come on to the quarter-deck and heard his voice giving orders to Master Gadstone. The ship suddenly sprang to activity, boats were being taken alongside, men were climbing up the rigging.

  Lizbeth looked at Don Miguel. His face was very pale, his eyes dark and wounded.

  “You are going home,” he said. quietly, “and you are glad. I saw the sudden light come into your eyes when you were sure of it. You will forget me but as long as there is a living breath in my body, I shall never forget you.”

  “Nor I you.” Lizbeth said quickly. “I shall think of you and pray for you.”

  She saw that her words had been no comfort to him, and she added,

  “Perhaps the war will be over very quickly. Perhaps you will not be a prisoner for long – perhaps not at all. The Queen will send you home to Spain and then you will be with your family again.”

  Don Miguel did not reply in words, he only gave a sharp, humourless laugh and Lizbeth realised how absurd her suggestions were. There was no Spanish Am
bassador in England now to plead his case, even if he had one. For years, perhaps for a lifetime, he might linger, forgotten and neglected in some dark prison, even as hundreds of Englishmen suffered in Spanish hands.

  Lizbeth remembered her own feelings when she first carne aboard the Sea Hawk, when she wanted to fight every Spaniard. Then there was not even pity in her heart for those who died. and she knew that public feeling in England was as strong as hers had been, if not stronger.

  She thought of the Spaniards who had been taken off the pearling lugger and knew she would not ask mercy for them. They were cruel and bestial. It was only Don Miguel who was different, and that perhaps was merely because she knew him and because he loved her. It was when human relationships entered into politics, she thought suddenly, that things became difficult.

  It was easy to hate one’s enemy until he became a man in love. She felt it was all too difficult for her to understand, too difficult to argue about. She only wanted to save Don Miguel from his inevitable fate and she had no idea how to do it.

  She saw Rodney glance up at them as they stood there silhouetted against the sunlit sky, and she saw that, as he looked, his eyes were hard and his lips tightened in the way that she most feared. Instinctively Lizbeth moved forward and Don Miguel followed her.

  Men were hurrying about the decks and Rodney stood watching them. There was something in his attitude. in the breadth of his shoulders and the carriage of his head which made Lizbeth feel suddenly proud of him. He was a born commander. She had not been at sea with him for over two months without learning that his methods might be unorthodox, but they ensured results; that the men not only adored him, they also trusted him. They were ready, Lizbeth knew, now, to do anything that he asked of them. and the same could be said of his officers.

  He had the power of leadership; and as she watched him now. Lizbeth knew that in Rodney lay the makings of a great Englishman. He was young yet, but one day, she thought with a sudden perceptive clairvoyance, he would rank with Drake, Frobisher and Hawkins and all those others who were already acknowledged heroes – Elizabeth’s men, who were making the name of England feared and venerated, loved and envied over the whole known world.