The Love of Monsieur

Immediately a ring was formed, into which the combatants were speedily pushed. Gratz laughed in his shrillest choked falsetto, while he threw off his coat and leered at the Frenchman. The huge bulk of the man was the more apparent when his coat had been removed, for in spite of his girth and fat his limbs were set most sturdily in his body, and though the muscles of his arms moved slothfully beneath the skin, it was easily to be seen that this was a most formidable antagonist. That he himself considered his task a rare sport, which would still further enhance his reputation among the crew, was easily to be perceived in the way he looked at Monsieur Mornay. And in this opinion he was not alone, for even Cornbury, who had pressed closely to the Frenchman’s side, wore a look which showed how deep was his concern over his friend’s predicament. Only Jacquard, of all those who stood about, felt no fear for Mornay. Upon the Dieu Merci he had seen the chevalier do a prodigy of strength and skill which had settled a mutiny once and for all, and had earned him a title which had given him a greater reputation in the Marine of France than all the distinctions which the King had seen fit to bestow. And as Jacquard looked at him, slim and not over-tall, but cool and deliberate, as upon his own deck three years ago, the Frenchman became again “René Bras-de-Fer,” “René the Iron Arm,” who fought for the love of fighting only, and who knew nothing of fear on sea or land.

That superiority in men which in spite of every adverse circumstance will not be denied shone so conspicuously in the face and figure of the Frenchman that the row of hairy faces about him looked in wonder. There was a rough jest or two, for Yan Gratz had won his way from the bowsprit aft by buffets and blows, and had waxed fat in the operation. To them he was the very living embodiment of a fighting devil of the sea. But many of them saw something in the cool, impassive expression of the Frenchman – a something which had won him friends (and enemies) before this, and were silent.

The Frenchman, with a quiet deliberation, rolled the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows and took the half-pike that was thrust into his hands. It has been said that the Chevalier Mornay was not above the medium height, nor, with the exception of an arm which might have seemed a little too long to be in perfect proportion, gave in his appearance any striking evidence of especial physical prowess. He had been known in London for a graceful and ready sword, and in his few encounters he had never received so much as a scratch. But even Gratz was stricken with wonderment at the appearance of the forearm, which his wide sleeves had so effectually concealed. The arm of the chevalier, as he brought his pike into a posture of defense, showed a more remarkable degree of development than he had ever seen before in any man – Frenchman or Englishman – of his stature. The legs, strong and straight as they were, with a generous bulge at the calf, betrayed nothing of this wonderful arm, which, swelling from a strong though not unslender wrist, rose in fine layers of steel-like ligament, tangled and knotted like the limbs of an oak. And up above the elbow the falling cotton shirt scarcely hid the sturdy bulk of muscle which swelled and trembled as the fingers moved the weapon down upon guard to resist the furious attack of the Hollander. Gratz prided himself no less upon his use of the pike than upon his use of his fists and boots, and, thinking to end the matter in a summary fashion, which might atone for his somewhat awkward fall upon the deck, he began thrusting hotly and with a skill which had hitherto availed his purposes. But he soon discovered that with this Frenchman, whom he had so hardily challenged, he was to have no advantage either in the reach or in the knowledge of the game. Mornay’s play, he quickly learned, was to allow him completely to exhaust himself. This, instead of teaching him caution, only increased his fury, so that at the end of a few moments of fruitless exertion he found himself puffing like a great grampus, the perspiration pouring blindingly into his eyes and down his arms, until his fat hands grew moist and slipped uncertainly upon the handle of his weapon.

The cloud that had hung upon Cornbury’s face at the beginning of the combat had disappeared, and with a childish delight in the clash of arms he watched his friend slowly but surely steal away the offensive power of the Dutchman, whose look of confidence had been replaced by a lightness of eye and a quivering of the forehead and lips which denoted the gravest quandary of uncertainty. Monsieur Mornay was breathing rapidly, but his brows were as level, his eye as clear, his hand as steady as when he had begun.

In a few moments the struggle which had promised such dire results became a farce. The Frenchman had suddenly assumed the offensive, and, beating down the guard of the other, began pricking him gently, with rare skill and discrimination, in different conspicuous parts of his anatomy. The chevalier’s weapon was sharp, and the skin of Yan Gratz was tender, but so nicely were the thrusts of the Frenchman tempered to the occasion that they did no more than draw a small quantity of blood at each place, which oozed forth in patches upon his moist and clinging shirt, so that he presently resembled some huge, spotted animal of an unknown species which disaster might have driven from his fastnesses in the deep. It would have been a remarkable exhibition of skill with a cut-and-thrust sword or a rapier, but with a half-pike it was little less than marvelous.

Yan Gratz struggled on, his tired arms vainly striving against the Frenchman’s assaults. Once, when the Dutchman had been disarmed, Monsieur Mornay generously allowed him to regain his weapon, choosing the advantage of Yan Gratz’s posture, however, to complete the circle of his punctures by a prick in the seat of his honor, which quickly straightened him again.

When the game had gone far enough, and the pallid pasty face of Yan Gratz was so suffused that it looked little less red than his nose or the blood upon his shirt, and his gasps for breath were become so short that they threatened to come no more at all, Monsieur Mornay threw his weapon down upon the deck and, breathing deeply, folded his arms and stood at rest.

“Mynheer,” he said, “it was a mistake to have begun. I am the best half-pikeman in France.”

The Dutchman blinked at him with his small pig-eyes, out of which the bitterness of his humiliation flashed and sparkled in a wild and vengeful light. The Frenchman turned his back to pass beyond the circle of grinning men who had not scrupled to hide their delight and admiration at his prowess in vanquishing their bully. But Gratz, whose exhaustion even could not avail to curb his fury, put all the small store of his remaining energy into a savage rush, which he directed full at the back of the retiring Frenchman. A cry arose, and Mornay would have been transfixed had not Cornbury intercepted the cowardly thrust by a nimble foot, over which the Dutchman stumbled and fell sprawling into the scuppers. The point of his weapon grazed the arm of Mornay and stuck quivering in the deck, a yard beyond where he had stood. Jacquard rushed to the prostrate figure in a fury at his treachery, but the man made no sign or effort to arise.

“By the ’Oly Rood! A craven stroke!” cried the captain, fetching the Dutchman a resounding kick, which brought forth a feeble groan. “Get up!” he roared. “Get up an’ go forward. Hods-niggars! we want none but honest blows among shipmates.”

Yan Gratz struggled to his feet and stumbled heavily down into the deck-house. Jacquard was grinning from ear to ear. If he had planned the combat himself, the result could not have been more to his liking. The favor of Billy Winch was no small thing to win, and Monsieur Mornay had chosen the nearest road to his heart. The captain, after hurling a parting curse at the Dutchman’s figure, slouched over to Mornay.

“Zounds! but ye ’ave a ’and for the pike, my bully. ’Ave ye aught o’ seamanship? If ye know your hangles, ye’re the very figure of a mate for Saucy Sally, for we want no more o’ ’IM,” and he jerked his finger in the direction taken by Yan Gratz.

Mornay laughed. “I’ve had the deck of a taller ship than Saucy Sally.” Billy Winch grasped Mornay by the hand right heartily.

“Come, what d’ye say? Me an’ Jacky Jacquard an’ you. We three aft. We’ve need o’ ye. Zounds! but ye’ve the useful thrust an’ parry.” Then he roared with laughter. “An’ I’m mistaken if ye’re not as ’andy a liar as a pikeman. I’ve seen the play of the best in the French Marine, and Captain René Mornay would have a word to say with ye as to who’s the best half-pikeman in France.”

Jacquard held his sides to better contain himself; his mouth opened widely and his little eyes were quite closed with the excess of his delight. Mornay and Cornbury smiled a little, and the Frenchman said, with composure:

“Perhaps. Monsieur le Capitaine Mornay and I are not strangers. But he holds his reputation so low and I mine so high, that I cannot bring myself to fight him.”

Here Jacquard could no longer contain himself.

“Can you not see farther than the end of your bowsprit, Billee Winch?” he cried; and while the captain wondered, “Can you not see, stupid fish? – ’tis Bras-de-Fer himself!”

Blackbeard fell back a step or two in his amazement, while a murmur swept over the crew, who, loath to leave the scene, had remained interested listeners to the colloquy.

“What! René the Iron Arm aboard the Sally?” said the captain, approaching the Frenchman again. “Soho! Though, by St. Paul’s – ye’re not unlike – An’ with a wig an’ doublet – ’Pon my soul, Jacky Jacquard, but I believe ’tis the truth. Say, is it so, master?”

“I am René Mornay,” said the Frenchman.

“Soho!” he roared in delight. “Then Sally shall give ye meat and drink and make a bed to ye. An’ when ye will she’ll set ye ashore in France. Or, if ye care for the clashin’ of arms, she’ll show ye the path of the galleons o’ Spain. Come, let’s below and drink to a better understanding.”

It was thus that Monsieur Mornay sailed forth for the Spanish Main.

CHAPTER X

BRAS-DE-FER MAKES A CAPTURE

The feat at arms of Monsieur Mornay at the expense of the luckless Gratz had set the ship by the ears, and with little opposition Bras-de-Fer became the third in command. Before many weeks were gone it was discovered that he had his seamanship at as ready a convenience as his pike-play, for in a troublesome squall in a windy watch on deck, while Jacquard was below, he had not scrupled to take the command from Captain Billy Winch, who was so deep in liquor that he didn’t know the main-brace from a spritsail sheet, and who had had the Sally upon her beam-ends, with all his ports and hatches open. Mornay sprang to the helm and gave the orders necessary to bring her to rights. Indeed, the command had clearly devolved upon Jacquard; for the lucid intervals of Captain Billy Winch were becoming less and less, until from that state of continued jubilation which marked his departure from the port of London he had passed into one of beatific unconsciousness, from which he only aroused himself to assuage his thirst the more copiously. One black morning in the wilds of the Atlantic he reached the deck, his eyes wide with fever and his mouth full of oaths, swearing that he would no longer stay below, but his legs were so completely at a loss that, what with the wild plunges of the vessel and the assaults of the seas which made clean breaches over her, he was thrown down into the scuppers again and again, and all but drowned in the wash of the deck. But the bruising and sousing in the saltwater, instead of rebuffing him or abating a whit of his ardor, but served to sober him and make him the more ambitious to take his proper place aboard the vessel. Jacquard would have restrained him, but he threw the Frenchman aside, and, while trying to descend the ladder at the angle of the poop, lost his balance, and, catching wildly at the lee bulwark, disappeared in the dirty smother under the quarter and was seen no more.

After this mishap, Jacquard went below to the cabin with Mornay to make his plans for the future of the Saucy Sally. There, among the rum-reeking effects of the captain, he discovered the royal charter and warrant under which the vessel sailed, together with the lists of Spanish vessels which should have left port, their destinations and probable values. Jacquard outlined the plans he had made for their operations when they should have reached the waters he had chosen. Cornbury, who had been reading abstractedly in the warrant, gave a sudden cry.

“Bresac,” he said, pointing a long forefinger upon the parchment. “Faith, my dear man, your fortune is a silly, whimsical jade, after all. Cast your eye hither for a moment of time.”

Mornay took the document in amazement.

Whereas it hath come to Our Notice [it began] that certain Enemies of the State sailing in the Vessels of the Kingdom of Spain have prepared, ordered, and levied war against Us, and have molested and harassed Our lawful Commerce upon the Sea, to the oppression of Our loyal Subjects carrying on the same, by the advice of Our Privy Council we hereby grant to our good and loyal subject Henry Heywood, Knt., that his vessel or vessels —

“’Tis as plain as a pike-handle,” said Cornbury. And as Mornay still scanned the document: “Faith, can ye not see? – ye’re a guest upon a vessel of your own. The vessel and all she owns is yours, man – yours!”

“Parbleu!” said Mornay, when the edge of his wonderment was dulled. “I believe you. A rare investment, indeed, for the millions of the Bresacs.”

“A thousand per centum at the very least, with a modicum for the King. Ye cannot wonder how Charles bewailed the man’s demise. Ye touched his purse, René. And friendship has little to expect from the conscience of an empty pocket.”

“By my life, it is so!” said the wide-eyed Mornay. “Jacquard shall know. Listen, my friend.” And, with a particular reticence with regard to the name of Mistress Clerke, he told Jacquard of the great secret, the rape of the papers, and the other things pertaining to his discovery. It was learned that in the matter Jacquard knew only one Captain Brail, a ship-chandler and owner, who had the finding of all the sea appurtenances, the making of the contracts, and the furnishing of the stores. The sympathetic Jacquard followed Monsieur Mornay through a description of the duel, his face wreathed in smiles, his eyes shining with delight. He wept at the tale of the mother, commiserated the orphan, and, when he learned how Sir Henry Heywood had taken possession of the proofs of the boy’s birth and lineage and had kept him from his rightful inheritance, Jacquard rose upon his long legs and swore aloud at the man’s perfidy. When Mornay had finished, he sat silent a moment, clasping and unclasping his knotted, bony fingers.

“It is a strange story, monsieur – the strangest I have ever heard. It means, monsieur, that upon the Saucy Sally, at least, you have come into your own. Besides, once my captain, always my captain. Allons! It shall be as before. Bras-de-Fer shall lead. Jacquard shall obey. That is all.” He arose and took Monsieur Mornay by the hand. “Henceforth,” he said, “it shall be Captain René Bras-de-Fer. Now we will go upon deck, and I shall tell them.”

Although the death of Billy Winch had caused much commotion aboard the vessel, the crew in the main were tractable and compliant. Upon his own great popularity, upon the reputation of Bras-de-Fer, and upon the large portion of the crew who were Frenchmen like himself, Jacquard relied to effect the necessary changes in the management of the vessel. The Frenchman’s bearing since he had come aboard had been such as to enhance rather than to remove the early impression that he had made, and but a spark was needed to amalgamate him with the ship’s company. That spark Jacquard dexterously applied. He called all hands aft, and with a stirring appeal to their imagination, one by one, recalled the feats of the chevalier – the fight in the open boat with the Austrian pirate, the defiance of the Spanish Admiral under the very guns of the Bona Ventura, the six duels upon the landing-place at Cronenburg, the wreck of the Sainte Barbe, and the mutiny and ignominious defeat of Jean Goujon upon the Dieu Merci. All of these things he painted with glowing colors, so that as he stepped forth on deck they hailed Bras-de-Fer with a glad acclaim. Then Bras-de-Fer told them what he hoped to do, and read them (amid huzzahs) the list of Spanish shipping.

When the matter of the captaincy had been duly settled beyond a doubt, with a grace which could not fail to gain approval, he unhesitatingly appointed Yan Gratz again the third in command, and this magnanimity did much to unite him to the small faction which stood aloof. The frank confidence he placed in the Hollander put them upon the terms of an understanding which Gratz accepted with as good a grace as he could bring to the occasion. A cask of rum was brought up on the deck and the incident ended in jubilation and health-giving, which in point of good-fellowship and favorable augury left nothing to be desired. At the end of a week Bras-de-Fer had given still more adequate proofs of his ability. With a shrewd eye he had discovered the natural leaders among the crew. These he placed in positions of authority. Then, appointing Cornbury master-at-arms, put the men upon their mettle at pike-play and the broadsword with such admirable results that the carousing and laxity engendered by the habits of Captain Billy Winch became less and less, until the rum-casks were no more brought up on deck, except upon rare and exceptional occasions. Of growls there were a few, and here and there a muttering apprised him of dissatisfaction among the free-drinkers. But he offered prizes from the first Spanish vessel captured for those most proficient in the manly arts, to appease their distaste for the sport, himself entering upon the games with a spirit and a poise which were irresistible. The unrestrained life had caught the fancy of Cornbury, too, and with nimble tongue and nimbler weapon he won his way with the rough blades as though he had entered upon this service by the same hawse-pipe as themselves. Once, when a not too complimentary remark had been passed upon his beard, which was grown long and of an ingenuous crimson, he took the offender by the nose and at the point of his sword forced him upon his knees to swear by all the saints that his life-long prayer had been that some exclusive dispensation of nature should one day turn his beard the very self-same color as the Irish captain’s; who then, in satisfaction of the cravings of that reluctant delinquent, forced him below to the paint closet, where he caused him to bedaub himself very liberally with a pigment of the same uncompromising hue – so liberally that not storm nor stress could avail for many weeks to wash clean the stigma. Indeed, so strikingly did the combative characteristics of his race manifest themselves in the performance of his new duties that but for Jacquard the aggressive Irishman had been almost continually embroiled. But as it was, Cornbury served his captain a useful purpose; and, though the ready tact of Bras-de-Fer averted serious difficulties, there were adventures aplenty for the master-at-arms – enough, at least, to satisfy the peculiar needs of his temperament.

In this fashion, learning a discipline of gunnery, arms, and seamanship, and a little of discontent at the restraint besides, they crept south and across the broad Atlantic. Gales buffeted them and blew them from their course, but after many weeks they made northing enough to cross the path of the Spanish silver ships from South America. The first vessel they took was a galleon from Caracas. She was heavy with spices and silks, but had lost her convoy in the night, and was making for Porto Bello. A shot across her bows hove her to, and her guard of soldiers gave her up without a struggle. The Sally hove alongside, and here came the first test of the discipline of Bras-de-Fer. The fellows rushed aboard with drawn weapons, and, finding no resistance, were so enraged at the lack of opportunity to display their new prowess that they fell to striking lustily right and left, and driving the frightened Spaniards forward shrieking down into the hold. ’Twas rare sport for Cornbury, who went dancing forward, aiding the progress of the flying foe with the darting end of his backsword. Only the best efforts of Bras-de-Fer prevented the men from following the victims below, where darker deeds might have been done. Yan Gratz, who had made one voyage with an old pirato named Mansfelt, made so bold as to propose that the Spaniards be dropped overboard, that being the simplest solution of the difficulty. But Bras-de-Fer clapped the hatches over the prisoners with a decision which left little doubt in the minds of the crew as to his intentions. There was a flare of anger at this high-handed discipline, for they were free men of the sea, they said, and owed nothing to any one. Captain Billy Winch had been none too particular in this matter of detail. But, in spite of their curses, Bras-de-Fer brought the prisoners and the prize to port in safety.

It was the beginning of a series of small successes which filled the Sally’s store-rooms and brought three prizes for her into the harbor of Port Royal, Jamaica. There, quarrelsome, bedizened, and swaggering through the streets of the town, Bras-de-Fer and Cornbury saw many of these gentlemen of the sea, who owed allegiance to no man, company, or government. In the same trade as themselves, it might be, save only that with a less nice discrimination these gentry robbed broadly, while the Sally, in despite of her very crew, fought and took only from the enemies of the English King. It was there, too, that the Frenchman met the new English governor, and explained the freak of fortune by which he had come to command the Sally. The governor became most friendly, and (with a sly look of cupidity, which had but one meaning) gave information of the sailing of the San Isidro from Spain, bearing the new governor of Chagres, several bishops and priests, and gold and silver coin of inestimable value for the priests of the Church in the Spanish colonies of America.

Learning that the San Isidro would stop at the Havana, Bras-de-Fer filled his water-tanks and sailed boldly forth to intercept her. It was untried water to the Frenchman, and charted with so little adequacy that the booming of the surf upon the reefs sounded with a too portentous frequency upon the ears. But Jacquard had eyes and ears for everything, and they won their way to the Florida coast without mishap. There a herikano buffeted them out to sea, and it was with many misgivings that they won their way back to the channels of the Bahamas.

The storm had blown itself out, and the ocean shone translucent as an emerald. Low-hanging overhead, great patches of fleecy white, torn from a heaped-up cloud-bank over the low-lying islands of the eastern horizon, took their wild flight across the deep vault of sky in mad pursuit of their fellows who had gone before and were lost in a shimmer of purple, where the sea met the palm-grown spits of the western main. The cool, pink glow upon the Sally’s starboard beam filled the swell of the top-sails with a soft effulgence which partook of some of the coolness and freshness of the air that drove them. Far down upon the weather bow, first a blur, then a shadow which grew from gray to silver and gold, came the San Isidro. Jacquard sighted her, but it was Bras-de-Fer who proclaimed her identity. She was a fine new galleon, spick and span from the Tagus, with three tiers of guns, and masts of the tallest. Her bright new fore-topsail bore the arms of Spain, and the long pennons floating from her trucks and poles proclaimed the high condition of her passengers.

Bras-de-Fer cleared his ship for action and called his men aft.

“There, my fine fellows,” he cried, “is steel worthy of your metal. Let it not be said that Saucy Sally takes her sustenance from the weak and cowardly and flirts her helm to the powerful. Yonder is your prize. She has thrice your bulk and complement – three gun tiers and twenty score of men. So much the more honor! For in her hold are gold and silver bright and new minted from the Spanish treasury, and wines for fat priests, which shall run no less smoothly down your own proper throats. Yonder she is. Take her. Follow where I shall lead and she is yours for the asking.”