[Marianne 5] - Marianne and the Lords of the East

by Juliette Benzoni

  The beach was so dark and empty that for a moment the three men believed themselves alone. Jason swore furiously into the wind, regardless of who might overhear him.

  "Perhaps they thought we'd never get aboard in this gale," Jolival hazarded. "Or else they decided that we were not coming—"

  "They had no business to think or decide," Jason snarled. "As to the gale, well, they're sailors, aren't they? In any case, I'm sure they can't be far off. I know O'Flaherty."

  His previous loud cursing might well have sufficed but to make doubly sure he whistled three times on a particular note and a moment later was answered in an identical fashion. Almost immediately Craig O'Flaherty and his men appeared, dark shadowy figures which the privateer's eyes, accustomed to peering through the blinding spray, were soon able to pick out from the surrounding blackness.

  The crew the Irishman had assembled could scarcely have been said to constitute the cream of the world's seamen. There were two Genoese, a Maltese, a Greek, an Albanian and two Georgians whom Craig had ruthlessly bribed away from the service of his friend Mamoulian. But they looked capable enough and stood up to Jason's practiced scrutiny.

  "So here you are at last," was Craig's welcome. "We were beginning to give up hope."

  "I daresay," retorted Jason dryly. "Several hours without a drink is a long time. Where were you, O'Flaherty? Find a bar somewhere still open?"

  "In a safe place, and on consecrated ground, what's more," the Irishman retorted, indicating the vague outline of a small tekke of Whirling Dervishes which made a white blur against the dark bulk of the mosque. "You may not have noticed, but it's blowing fit to skin a cat. It was all we could do to keep our feet on the beach."

  "You have a boat?"

  "Yes. That, too, is in a safe place—in that fisherman's hut, down there on the shore. Do you see it? And now, if you want my opinion, we had better be moving, unless we want our boarding party to take place in broad daylight. Dawn is not far off."

  "Come, then. Run out the boat."

  While the men ran down to the hut, Jason turned quickly to Jolival and grasped both his hands in the warm, spontaneous fashion which won him so many friends.

  "We part here, then. Goodbye, my friend. Take good care of her. This is not the first time I have entrusted her to you."

  "I spend my life taking care of her," Jolival said gruffly, trying to shake off a nasty feeling of impending disaster. "You take care of yourself, Beaufort. Wars are not precisely rest cures."

  "Don't worry. I'm indestructible. And look after the baby, too. His mother's love for him is very new and still very fragile, I think. It may be a long while before I am able to take care of him."

  The American's hands were warm and strong and firm.

  Returning their friendly pressure impulsively, Jolival was troubled by a slight feeling of remorse. Seeing the younger man so ready to be a father to another man's child, he was sorry he had not told him the whole truth. Prince Corrado had certainly approved his decision to conceal his true identity, but at that moment Jolival wished he had not done it. Jason was obviously expecting Marianne to have little Sebastiano with her when she landed in America, and might not be best pleased to find things otherwise.

  The men, under Craig's directions, were running the boat down to the sea. It was a long caïque, sound and well built, and looked capable of a pretty turn of speed.

  Suddenly the vicomte made up his mind.

  "There is something else I want to tell you—something about the child. I've not told you before because it did not seem to me that I had the right, but now—"

  "What is there about now in particular to make you decide to reveal a secret which does not belong to you—and which I may very well know already?"

  "Which you—?"

  Jason laughed. His hand came down heavily on Jolival's shoulder, warmly reassuring.

  "Perhaps I'm not quite such a fool as you and Marianne like to think, my friend. So you may be at peace with yourself. You have given nothing away, because you had no need to. Nor, by the way, have I any intention of giving young Sant'Anna my name. And now goodbye."

  He was about to turn away when he suddenly gripped Jolival with both hands.

  "Kiss her for me—and tell her I love her."

  Then he ran to join his men. They were having some trouble in getting the boat into the water. It was as if the sea were trying to throw off the vessel that had the temerity to try to ride it. Jolival could see the dim figures of men moving about against the background of foaming breakers and his mind groped half-unconsciously for a snatch of forgotten prayer.

  Then suddenly there came a triumphant shout, and Jolival saw nothing more.

  "Here we go, then!" a voice cried in Italian. Already it sounded some way off. "But it's a real night for the devil!"

  Left alone on the beach, Jolival shivered. A night for the devil?

  True enough, perhaps. The caïque had vanished. The sea had swallowed it, like the dark, gaping jaws of some ravening monster. There was nothing to be heard but the frenzied pounding of the waves and the howling of the wind. Was the gallant little craft still afloat?

  Unable to free himself from his sense of foreboding, Jolival turned up the collar of his coat mechanically and climbed back up the slope toward the three bare plane trees where they had tethered the horses. He had no wish to return to Bebek. What was the point? Marianne would only pester him with questions to which he had no answers. At that precise moment he did not even know for certain that the caïque had not gone straight to the bottom.

  The wind dropped for a second and he heard a church clock in Pera strike five. It gave him an idea. The French embassy was nearby and, having been built as a Franciscan monastery, it contained a belfry which, although in a somewhat dilapidated condition, commanded a view over the Bosporus and the Golden Horn. From up there, as soon as it was light enough, it would at least be possible to see what became of the Sea Witch and perhaps even something of the gallant band of men attempting to gain possession of her.

  Leaving the horses tethered to the plane tree so that the noise of hooves should not wake the whole district, which at this hour of a winter's morning was still shuttered and empty, Jolival turned his steps in the direction of the embassy. He had no difficulty obtaining entrance once he had succeeded in rousing the porter, in itself no easy task. The man stood in some awe of the gentleman who came to play chess with the ambassador and, although it was a considerable time since he had last been seen there, he was admitted without question. It was as much as he could do, however, to prevent them from waking Monsieur de Latour-Maubourg.

  "I sat up late at the bedside of a sick friend who is not expected to live," Jolival explained. "The churches are not open yet and I wish very much to pray for him. There is no need to disturb His Excellency. I will see him later. All I want at present is to be left alone in the chapel."

  This thundering lie went down beautifully. Jolival knew his man, Conan, the ambassador's doorkeeper, was a good Breton and of a rigid piety which found no joy in Islam. The latter was pleasantly surprised to encounter such lofty sentiments in his master's friend.

  "Friendship is a fine thing," he pronounced sententiously, "and the fear of God a finer still. With Monsieur the Vicomte's permission, I will say a prayer or two for his friend myself. For the present, the chapel is not locked. Monsieur has only to enter. There are candles and a tinder box at the door. You will be quite undisturbed."

  Jolival asked nothing better. He thanked the doorkeeper warmly, feeling a trifle uncomfortable, for the man was looking at him as though a halo were already sprouting around his head. Then, having strengthened his good opinion by slipping a gold coin discreetly into his hand, he hurried away through the ancient cloister toward the chapel.

  The door opened with hardly a creak and he found himself breathing in the familiar smells of melted wax, incense and well-polished wood. The worthy Conan, indeed, took touchingly good care of what he thought of as his chapel. It was
his way of striking a blow at the Infidel.

  To discover the candles and light one with the tinderbox so that the porter might see the light through the windows was the work of a moment. Seconds later, Jolival was climbing the narrow spiral stair that led up from beside the doorway two steps at a time, with the vigor of a young man.

  He knew where to find, in its niche beside the bell, an object of the greatest relevance to his present purpose. This was the telescope, used by the ambassador to survey the traffic of the harbor and also from time to time the movements of his diplomatic colleague and neighbor, his particular bete noire, the British ambassador.

  The belfry was not very high but high enough in daylight for a person standing there to be able to see everything that was happening in the vicinity of the Tower of the Maiden. And by the time that Jolival arrived somewhat breathlessly at the top, the night was already beginning to pale.

  A lighter strip was showing behind the hills of Scutari, as though the color were being leached out of the sky. Very soon the narrows would be visible but not yet. Jolival tucked the telescope under his arm and leaned against the wall, trying to master his impatience. The morning seemed unconscionably slow in coming.

  Little by little, as if a curtain were rising very slowly on a new act in the theater, the majestic sweep of the Bosporus and the Golden Horn began to take shape out of the darkness, still clad in the gray light of early morning which made one color of the sky, with its hurrying shoals of wind-driven cloud, and the sea, with its watery clouds of foam flecking the surface.

  Suddenly Jolival seized the telescope and clapped it to his eye with a joyful exclamation. Down below, near the little wooden fort that crowned the ruined tower, the Sea Witch was hoisting her sails. The foresail billowed out, followed by the jib. It was still blowing too hard for her to carry much sail.

  "They've done it!" Jolival cried exultantly to himself. "They're away!"

  It was true. In the gray light that was clearing and brightening with every second, the brig was veering gracefully, like a huge ghostly bird, setting her course for the open sea. But their bold stroke had not gone unnoticed, for Jolival heard the sound of a shot and saw the little puff of smoke break from the fort, so that it looked like a testy old man smoking a pipe. But the shot fell a long way short. The Sea Witch was already clear of the land and, scorning the efforts of her would-be keepers as contemptuously as the steep seas under her prow, was heading gloriously for the Sea of Marmara and freedom, with the stars of the United States climbing challengingly to her masthead.

  Arcadius watched her for a little while with eyes that were full of tears and he was on the point of giving thanks for her escape when all of a sudden it happened… In a moment the sea was alive with sails: tall pyramids of white canvas sailing out from behind the Princes' Islands in line ahead. These were no xebecs or polaccas or any of those antiquated vessels which, however seaworthy, remained somehow pathetic. These were big, modern warships, well armed and formidable.

  Jolival swore vigorously as he recognized them. A ship of the line, two frigates and three corvettes: Admiral Maxwell's squadron, moving out slowly, with the serenity of conscious power, to bar the way. What could Jason do, alone against six, even the smallest better armed than he?

  Jolival saw that the brig was cramming on all sail regardless of the state of the wind and guessed that the American meant to try and make a run for it. He had the wind with him and by making skillful use of it a seaman of his quality might still succeed in giving his more powerful but less streamlined enemies the slip.

  "He's mad," a voice said calmly at Jolival's side. "It takes a fine sailor to try a trick like that. It will be a pity if he runs her aground because she's a beautiful ship."

  It was almost without surprise that Jolival looked around and saw the Comte de Latour-Maubourg, clad in dressing gown and nightcap and provided with another telescope, of which he appeared to possess something of a collection.

  "He is a fine sailor," Jolival said. "But I've a nasty fear—"

  "Me too! Because there's another thing—look there! The wind's changing… Ha, damnation! By God, what wretched luck!"

  The ambassador was right. The Sea Witch's sails flapped suddenly and the vessel heeled over to the gale. Meanwhile, the English ships, which had been beating up-channel with the wind against them, now had the advantage of a following wind and were not slow to make use of it. Their tall black hulls seemed to leap over the troughs between the waves and they piled on more and more canvas as they prepared to run down the brig.

  It looked as if Jason were bound to be captured. In a fight of one against six he was lost from the start and it was no longer possible for him to get up sufficient speed to outdistance his pursuers.

  "But good God," Jolival muttered through clenched teeth, "what is the English squadron doing here at this of all moments? Have we been betrayed? Were they warned in advance?"

  The ambassador's shortsighted eyes blinked at the vicomte in real surprise.

  "Warned about what? What is this talk of a betrayal, my friend? Admiral Maxwell is on his way to the Black Sea for an inspection of the north coast harbors. The two frigates are going as escort but the corvettes will stop short at the entrance to the Bosporus."

  "A tour of inspection? By an Englishman?"

  The French ambassador gave vent to a deep sigh which culminated in a violent bout of coughing. He went very red in the face and vanished behind a huge handkerchief which he fished out of his dressing gown pocket. When the coughing had died down, he reappeared, still looking very flushed.

  "Forgive me. I have a dreadful cold… But you were saying?"

  "That it's queer to find an English squadron inspecting Ottoman defenses."

  "My poor friend, can you tell me anything in these times that is not queer? Canning rules the seraglio and has the sultan in his pocket, because His Highness is relying on the English to help him bring about the great reforms he dreams of. He is also hoping for help from London in patching up some sort of decent peace with the tsar. In all of which we are very much in the way. All the old friendship is quite dead. I may well find myself persona non grata before long. The emperor has remembered us a little too late."

  Being reluctant to become involved in a discussion of the international situation, Jolival put his telescope to his eye once more and uttered a startled cry. The Sea Witch had extricated herself from her predicament by going about and was now fleeing before the English under full sail, making up the Bosporus toward the Black Sea. Her topsails grew larger and more clearly visible in Jolival's glass.

  Latour-Maubourg had also returned to his observation of the vessel's movements.

  "May I ask whither she was bound?" he inquired.

  "Charleston—in North Carolina."

  "Hmm… she seems to be going the wrong way, then. I wonder what her captain hopes to find in the Euxine? I'll admit, though, you were quite right. He is a magnificent seaman."

  "I'm wondering, too. Yet he must know it's a dead end. But I suppose he has no choice. It's that or see his ship taken and himself made prisoner. But I think he's simply hoping to scatter Maxwell's pack and try the passage again later, with a following wind."

  "I agree. All the same, if I were he I'd haul down that American flag. It's asking for trouble. His only fear now is the guns of Rumeli Hissar."

  The Sea Witch was now running fast before the wind and it was clear that she was not only managing to maintain her lead over her adversaries but was actually lengthening it appreciably. Of course, she still had to run the gauntlet of the old fortress which guarded the narrows…

  "Bah!" said Latour-Maubourg, shutting up his telescope. "I daresay he'll get away with it. But now, my friend, suppose you tell me where you've been all this time and how I come to have the pleasure of finding you at the top of my tower?"

  But the poor ambassador's question was fated to go unanswered because Jolival, with a brief bow and a muttered: "Forgive me, my dear sir," was already clatte
ring down the stairs again at breakneck speed. Latour-Maubourg dashed to the stone balustrade and, leaning over so far that he all but lost his balance, called out: "Hey there! Where are you off to? Wait for me, can't you? I'm coming down!"

  He might as well have held his peace, for Jolival did not hear him. He raced full tilt through the cloister, brushing past Conan as that worthy was coming forward to express the hope that his prayers had been satisfactory, tore open the heavy door, shot out into the steeply sloping street and pelted downhill to the clump of planes. As he untied one of the tethered horses, he called out to a passing street porter: "These two horses! Take them to the French embassy and say they belong to Monsieur de Jolival. Here's something for you, and you'll get as much again for your trouble."

  A heavy silver coin spun through the air and landed in the man's grubby fist. He hurried to carry out the command, eager to double the unexpected windfall. Meanwhile, Jolival had set spurs to his mount and was riding as fast as the animal could carry him up the steep hill leading to the Buyukdere road. He was in a hurry to get back to Humayunabad. He had to know how Jason fared with the guns of Rumeli Hissar and, above all, he had to warn Marianne. If she happened to catch sight of Jason's brig sailing up the Bosporus instead of down, it might well be enough to throw her into a high fever.

  When he reached Bebek after a frantic ride, much of it across country because of the state of the roads, he was surprised to find the place unnaturally quiet. Ordinarily the gatehouse of Turhan Bey's residence was a scene of bustling activity, with messengers arriving, bringing news from the harbor, and servants hurrying about their business, but this morning all was still.

  The kapiji was smoking his pipe in the center of a crowd of grooms and stable boys who looked as if they all had been talking at once. However, they turned to greet Jolival and one of the grooms bestirred himself sufficiently to take the vicomte's horse when he dismounted and flung the reins to him.

  Within the palace it was just the same. The servants stood about in little groups, chatting among themselves, and in the gardens the bostanjis, the gardeners, were also sitting on their barrows or leaning on their spades, apparently engaged in discussions of equal interest. Of Osman, the chief steward of Humayunabad, there was nothing to be seen at all.