CHAPTER IX THE LAST REVEL
March, 1588, was here; I had been restrained of my liberty since the sixteenth day of September, 1586, Oliver and myself had made many schemes for our deliverance, but they had all come to naught. We could not cross the mighty sea without a vessel; there was nothing but frail canoes here—light, fragile, they would suffice for a brief sail, but they could never live through the thousands of miles of water that rolled between us and England.
I had spent a great deal of my time in fencing and shooting with the lad, until now I felt that I could hold my own against DeNortier himself. My wrist was of steel, and my strength had grown enormously with my exercise in the open air; I could hit a small coin at thirty yards with a musketoon. Oliver, who knew nothing of a sword when he landed, had become a fairly good swordsman under my training, and was getting so that he could bring down the wild fowl on the wing with the gun.
Returning from a long stroll one evening and going up to my room, I found Oliver engaged in holding up to the light a splendid new doublet of light gray silk. It was a beautiful garment, and he was so occupied in admiring it that he did not hear me come into the door.
"What hast thou there, lad?" I asked. "Thou must have at thy disposal the shops of London, that thou shouldst have such a doublet as that. Faith, not but thou dost need one! That thou hast on now is almost in rags."
The boy turned to me, his face aglow.
"Ah, Sir Thomas! thou mayest laugh, but it is full time that we had some new garments. I have mended the one that thou hast on, until I fear that not a piece of the original cloth remains," and he broke into a merry, ringing laugh. "But the doublet that thou jeerest at is for thee. I have a new lilac one," and turning, he lifted it from a chair and held it up for my inspection.
"What means such prodigality?" I asked in astonishment. "What scheme is on foot?"
"The men hold high revelry to-night," he answered. "Pepin, who came up only a few moments ago, brought us each an entire outfit of new clothing, and told me that the Count sails to-morrow with all his men; that on his return he would resign command to one of his crew, and depart for the great region from whence he came, to return here no more. I asked him whether we were to go with the Count on his cruise to-morrow, and he replied yes, that only the natives would remain behind. He told me also that the Count DeNortier bade us dress in these new garments, and be at the board to-night to join in the feast."
The candles had been lit. Slowly, with the lad's help, I dressed myself in the silks and laces; it had been long since I had been garbed as fitting my birth and station. The clothes brought back to me my old, useless, happy life in far-away London, and the thought of the gayety and pleasure of days gone by, when I had softly spoken into the dainty ears of fair ladies the little useless whispers that went to make up their lives; had moved among the gay throng, the petted plaything of society. It had been sweet while it lasted, but it had passed from me.
Oliver had buckled on my gold-hilted sword, and given me a last touch.
"Thou art prepared, Sir Thomas," he cried, with a grand air and a sweeping bow. "And though thou mayest jeer at me if thou choosest, I will say to thy face, that thou art a goodly sight. Would that the fair ladies of London might see thee to-night; it would create a sensation, I can tell thee."
"Nonsense, boy!" I replied. "I have grown too old and rough to be a pleasant sight for a lady. She would want some fawning tailor's model, sweet-scented and delicate, and not a rude man such as I am."
But, nevertheless, pleased by his light flattery, I stepped forward to where one of the great mirrors hung and glanced at myself. Was this the silent, rough man, clad in his faded doublet, his sword in hand, ready at a moment's notice to defend himself from the foes who sought his life?
There looked back at me from the mirror the figure of a man, clad in splendid silks, a rich collar of lace about his neck, elegantly and richly dressed; his hair, in which the gray threads were beginning to shine, was combed back and fell upon his shoulders. The little pointed beard which he wore, was flecked with gray here and there; and his face, tanned and brown, was one which seemed created to command. The deep lines of suffering had purified and ennobled the face never handsome; the youth and gayety were gone from it, never to return, but 'twas stronger, deeper, better than it had been in the old days. The light hazel eyes, with that look of understanding that only sorrow brings, were more sympathetic and kinder than they had been of yore.
Yet as I looked at myself in the glass, and saw the gray threads in my hair and beard, I felt to-night as though I had reached the summit of the hill of life, and was beginning the long descent down the other side. Yes, to-night I realized that I was beginning to be an old man, with the best in life behind me.
I knew not what the night or morrow held in store for me, but the struggle and toil and suffering of the last year had taught me patience; the fire of youth had burned out, and I would wait, and the morrow would tell.
Oliver had already dressed himself; young and comely he stood there, and I, for the moment, envied him his youth and buoyancy.
Together we descended the stairs, and passed into the great dining hall; both of the large sliding doors between the dining and front room had been thrown back, and now there was but one immense room.
The candlelight that night streamed down on a strange and motley crew. Down the great room there ran three long tables; around them there sat the entire crew of the ship, clad in the silks and satins of the nobles of Europe; with fine collars of lace and gold about their bronzed throats; their long hair perfumed and scented; their faces those of every nationality. It was a scene such as I have never witnessed before or since.
At a small table placed at the head of the room sat DeNortier, stroking his black beard. He arose as we entered.
"Welcome!" he cried. "Welcome to the last revel! Gentlemen, to-morrow we sail for the Spanish Main; who knows how many of us will ever return? Come, be seated here with me," and he motioned us to seats at his table.
There was only one vacant chair left; he noticed my glance at it.
"An old friend, detained by important business; he will not be here to-night. I am sure that thou must regret it," and he grinned at me.
"It is perhaps best that he did not come," I answered. "The night air possibly would not agree with him;" for I guessed that he referred to Dunraven.
He did not answer me, but beat upon his table for silence. The hubbub and noise ceased, and he arose to his feet, goblet in hand.
"My men," he said, "we go on a voyage long and perilous; I know not how many will meet with us again. When we return, I leave thee forever; Davis shall take my place, and be thy chief. I shall return to the Old World and dwell in peace. But before we drink to our voyage, I have one toast that I will give thee in honor of our guest, the Englishman. I give thee the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth of England!—may her years be full of glory and happiness!"
The men had arisen to their feet, glasses in hand; many of them were Englishmen, and, degraded and besotten as they were, they still felt a love for old England and a pride in the achievements of her Queen, whose name and fame rang around the world. As DeNortier ceased, there arose a shout that made the very candles upon the wall flicker in their sockets; once, twice, thrice it rose and fell, like the deep beat of the surf upon the beach—then it died out.
I arose to my feet, cup in hand.
"My men," I said, "I thank thee in the name of the Queen for thy courtesy, and would give thee in return—King Philip of Spain!"
The Spaniards drank it with a cheer, but it was nothing like the shout that had greeted the name of Elizabeth.
Then there were toasts of every sort and kind; the noise at the long tables arose to an uproar as some toast was drank of more than usual interest.
I glanced down the tables where the men sat, for we took no part in their merriment, but sat at our own table, quiet and composed. There were the spoils of many a galleon upon the board; goblets and drinking cups of gold and silver; candlesticks and vessels from the monasteries; richly embroidered altar cloths spread the long tables; and the heavy carved chairs of the priests seated the pirates at their revel. Behind the tables the natives, soft-footed and silent, filled the glasses as oft as they were emptied.
Without the night, quiet and silent, brooded; within the lights, the laughter, the song—revelry held high carnival. To-morrow they would sail, and who knew how many would return? They would feast to-night; what mattered the morrow, which might hold for them the halter? But to-night—ah, yes!—to-night was theirs, and the night was young yet; fill up again.
A tall fellow, his face flushed with the wine he had drunk, was roaring out a wanton love song, his fellows keeping time to the tune with their glasses upon the board. He finished amidst a storm of cheers and applause. Far down the table one of the men had already fallen forward upon the board, overcome by the wine that he had poured down.
A feeling of anxiety came over me; what were not the rogues capable of, when later in the night they should be crazed by the liquor that they had drunk, with nothing to hold them in check except the fear of their chief, and he was but one man, no matter how resolute and determined? What could he do against two hundred and fifty drunken, crazed wretches, hardened to every scene of misery and woe, who feared neither God nor man? Would they not, when they had reached the pitch of frenzy, turn upon Oliver and myself, and vent their fury upon us? For myself, I cared not, but I feared for the boy.
DeNortier must have seen the thought upon my face as I turned to him, for he spoke immediately.
"Have no fear," he said. "I have often had such revels before, and no harm came of it; my men know my hand too well to attempt to anger me."
"For myself, I fear not," I answered. "My only fear was for the boy; I would not have him harmed." And I turned my head to look at Oliver, who with wide eyes was surveying the scene before him.
"Thou needst not worry," he replied; "he is as safe as though he were in his father's house."
"Where is the priest?" I asked. "It is strange that he is not here. I would have thought that he would be the first to come."
The Count smiled. "I looked to see him here too," he answered, "but perhaps he would not come for fear that thou wouldst kill him. He fears thee as though thou wert the foul fiend himself," and he finished with a laugh.
"He has good cause to," I said grimly. "If I had but given him his deserts, he would have been now where no revelry could disturb him."
"He is a strange fellow," DeNortier said musingly, as though half to himself, stroking his pointed black beard. "I picked him up in London, five years ago; he had been expelled from the monastery for drunkenness, and was adrift without chart or compass, when I discovered him. But he has well requited me for my trouble, for he is a useful fellow, and true as steel to me."
I looked at him; it might be that I could win him to my side, or if I could but make him distrust Dunraven, it would be a good night's work.
"Be not so sure of that," I answered.
He started and peered at me, a look of suspicion upon his face.
"Why dost thou say that?" he cried. "Dost know aught of what thou speakest?"
I leaned back in my chair, and regarded him with a cold smile.
"Am I a child, that I speak of what I know not of?" I said.
The look of suspicion deepened upon his face; then there came another, a look of anger.
He spoke: "Show me some proof of that which thou sayest, Sir Thomas; not that I doubt thy word, but this is a matter of importance that thou talkest of, and not to be lightly decided."
"And of what advantage will this be to me?" I asked. "Why should I go to the trouble, if it is to be of no benefit to me?"
He answered me, speaking slowly:
"It is of more importance than thou mayest think; thou art held here by my power; did I but say the word thou shouldst go scot-free. Would that be of advantage to thee? Could I think that the fat rogue played me false, I would soon settle his fate. But why should he do that? It would not be to his advantage, and he knows too well where his bread lies to cut his own throat. His hopes are all based upon me; take me away, and they fall to the ground. No, thou art mistaken, it could not be so."
"Thou hast forgotten that Dunraven is rich and powerful; that he has gold in abundance to reward his servants and tools. He wishes to keep an eye upon thee, as well as myself. Perhaps he thinks that thou mightst become a dangerous rival to him, or mightst be tempted to play him false. What better spy could he choose on us both than Father Francis?" I gazed at him, a smile of triumph upon my face.
He brought down his fist upon the table with a blow that made the glasses ring.
"Show me the proof!" he cried—"but the proof, and then I shall know how to act."
"Oliver," I said, turning to the boy, "go up into my room; move that heavy chest which stands next the wall, and bring down to me the bundle of papers that thou findest behind it."
He arose, and ran lightly from the room. I sat quietly in my seat, and gazed at the Spaniard.
"What effect will this have upon my detention?" I asked. "Wilt thou free me?"
"I shall know better how to answer when I see the papers," he replied hoarsely.
The noise at the tables had redoubled. One of the seamen had brought out a couple of flutes and was urging a short, squat sailor to give them the sword dance. After much pressing by his friends, and after drinking off a couple of glasses of wine, "only to steady his nerves a bit," as he informed them, he announced that he was ready to begin.
A space was cleared in the middle of the room, and in it a dozen swords were fastened, blades upward. The man had taken off his shoes, and stood in his stocking feet, his eyes covered with a cloth.
The flute struck up a wild, barbarous air, and springing into the midst of the swords he began to dance, while the men crowded eagerly around him. Up he went, turning, twisting, whirling, all the while chanting a low savage tune, now leaping to the right, now to the left, but always alighting in the space, perhaps four inches in width, that lay between each sword. Now advancing, now retreating, always evading the perilous blades with a skill that was marvelous to me, when I thought of the cloth over his eyes.
A loud burst of music; he had finished, and was untying the bandage from about his face, midst the cries, "Well done!" of his companions.
And now the outer door opened, and from the darkness outside an Indian appeared, leading by a rope a tame bear. Often had I seen the animal about the native settlement. He was a huge, clumsy, good-natured brute, and as he stood in the middle of the room sniffing the air, his little eyes blinking in the light, his head rolling from side to side, he looked anything but dangerous. His master had taught him to wrestle, and as the animal stood erect on the floor, I saw one of the seamen stripping off his doublet to struggle with him.
The Indian untied the rope from about the brute's head.
"The Señor had best treat him gently to-night," he said in his native tongue to the sailor as he advanced, "for he has been in an ugly humor all day, and it has been only within the last few moments that I have been able to approach him."
I remonstrated with DeNortier.
"The man had best not wrestle with the bear to-night," I said. "The Indian says that he is in an ugly humor, and he might do the sailor a harm."
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"The brute does not look dangerous," he answered. "I have seen him around here for more than a year, and never have I known him to do any mischief."
I looked at the beast again; truly he did not look dangerous. To-night he seemed the same good-humored giant that he had ever been; only he was a little restless, perhaps the light and the unaccustomed crowd made him so. He was a tremendous fellow, standing six feet or more on his hind legs, and with his long curved paws, he could tear a man to pieces as if he were a leaf, should he become infuriated.
The sailor was ready, and advanced to meet the bear. He was as fine a specimen of mankind as the brute was of the animal creation—tall, broad-shouldered, with big corded arms, upon which the great muscles stood out like the ivy upon some gigantic oak. He might well have stood for a statue representing the brute strength of man.
The beast did not seem disposed to meet his antagonist, and it was only by repeated blows with his stick that his master could persuade him to advance toward the seaman, and then he did so very unwillingly.
The sailor threw his arms around the unresisting animal, and bore down his great weight upon him; with a crash they went down, the man upon the bear. The pirate arose lightly in an instant, but the beast lay still, as if stunned by the fall. Angered by the easy overthrow of his pet, the native brought down his heavy stick with a dull thud upon the bear. With a hoarse growl, he sprang to his feet, his little eyes flashing fire, his tongue protruding from his teeth.
"Do not approach him!" I cried out to the sailor.
But he, flushed with his easy victory and by the wine he had drunk, and goaded on by the cheers of his fellows, would not listen to me. With an oath he sprang forward, wrapped his arms about the brute again, and now followed a terrible struggle.
The bear had wound his paws around the assailant's body, and to and fro they moved, each endeavoring to throw the other. Twice, incredible as it may seem, the man had put forth all of his bull strength, and the bear had tottered—had almost fallen—but each time he had recovered himself, and had borne the man back again. Both times the men had raised a cheer as the bear had staggered, and each time silence had fallen upon them as the brute had hurled back their favorite.
And now they were both becoming exhausted by the fury of the struggle. The great drops of sweat stood out upon the head and arms of the man, his shoulders heaved with the effort—but he was game; the little eyes of the brute had grown dull and glassy, he was plainly tired. It was time for the thing to stop. I had already opened my mouth to DeNortier, to ask him to put a stop to this, when the end came.
The brute had almost ceased to struggle, and his victorious antagonist was bending him backwards, when suddenly the bear stepped upon one of the swords, which still lay edge upwards upon the floor, where the dancer had left them. With a grunt of anger he straightened himself, his eyes flashed fire; plainly his brute mind in some way connected his assailant with the pain. In an instant he tightened his grasp about the man's body, tighter, tighter, tighter; and even as a score sprang forward to drag him from his prey, there was a dull crunch, and the man bent double, fell limp and lifeless to the floor, crushed to death in the terrible paws of his foe.
For an instant the beast stood there erect, his eyes upon the man as he lay at his feet; then a dozen blades leaped from their sheaths, and the seamen were upon him. The light flashed upon their swords for an instant—then the beast fell, pierced in a dozen places, and a convulsion passed over him.
The Indian, in a torrent of tears, threw himself upon his body. "Pepin!" he moaned, "they have killed thee—Pepin, speak to me."
The dying beast opened his eyes, as though called back to life by the voice of one whom he loved; a low grunt of pleasure came from him as he recognized his master. Raising his muzzle, he rubbed it against the Indian's face; then the head fell back upon the floor, a low whine, and he lay still.
The seamen had gathered around the body of their companion, who lay upon the floor where he had fallen. One of their number, who possessed some knowledge of medicine, knelt beside him; rising, he shook his head sadly. "He is dead," he said in a low voice.
DeNortier had arisen, and following him, I passed down to where the sailor lay. The face of the man was stern and set, as he had looked when he was wrestling with the animal. He had had no time for preparation; as he lived, so had he also died. We looked at him for a moment. Only a few brief minutes before he had been among us, in the prime of his magnificent manhood; now he lay there cold and stiff, fit food for the worms and foul reptiles of the earth.
Turning to the pirates, the Count ordered them to remove both the man and the beast, and he made his way back to his seat without so much as another glance. I lingered a moment where the Indian lay upon the body of the animal, his arm locked about its rough head. Here was love, deep and deathless.
The rough sailors were removing the body of one whom they had eaten and caroused with, one who had faced death with them many a time, a comrade and friend, and yet they knew no such love as this. True they stepped softly and spoke in low voices, but that was out of their awe for the unknown; of that cold hand which had beckoned to one with whom they had feasted to leave the board, and he could but obey.
But the poor untaught savage loved the wild beast whom he had trained and fed. His love was something higher, finer, nobler than they could know; and treading softly, I stood by his side with uncovered head and dropped a coin beside him. But he did not move, and quietly I passed back to where DeNortier sat.
Some wise man hath said truly that "in the midst of life we are in death." He was one who knew of the secrets of the soul, had drank deep of the wine of understanding, and who realized how uncertain is our brief hour.
They had carried out both the sailor and the bear, together with the Indian, who had refused to leave his pet, when the door opened and Oliver appeared, the package in his hand.
"I would have returned sooner," he panted, as he extended it towards me, "but the chest was heavy, and I had much work to move it; for the package had slipped under the bottom, and it was some time before I could discover where it lay."
"Why didst thou not call for aid?" I asked, as I cut the cord with which it was secured.
"It was not necessary," he answered, his eye upon me; plainly he thought that I had some reason for remaining behind.
"Here is the proof," I said, as I turned to the Count and laid the bundle of papers upon the table.
It contained the diary and all the notes, save that of my lady, which had lain next my heart ever since I had discovered it. He took the package, and opening it, began methodically to read the papers.
Oliver and myself had resumed our seats, to await the result of DeNortier's investigation. I glanced down the long tables; the men had taken their seats, but, hardened as they were, the tragedy had cast a gloom over their spirits, and they sat in silence, drinking deeply of the wine, only speaking softly among themselves. Their silence, deep and unbroken, was a strange contrast to the mirth and turmoil that only a few minutes before had rung through the room.
There is something in silence that oppresses the mind; we can bear the noise and roar with a good grace, but silence is a quality that strikes dismay within the breast of man. To-night, as I gazed upon these silent men, I felt a thrill of something pass over me—'twas not fear, it was more like dread, that foe I had seldom experienced since I came to man's estate. They were dangerous thus; in the feasting and revelry they had not had time to plot, but now they were silent and had the opportunity.
I was now aroused by Oliver, who caught my sleeve.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Why have the men grown so silent?"
I whispered to him what had happened.
"Awful," he murmured, as he covered his face with his hands, "I am glad that I missed the sight."
The pirate had spoken not a word since he had taken the papers. Slowly, carefully, he glanced over them one by one, but now he had finished. With an oath, he threw them from the table.
"Thou didst speak truth, Sir Thomas," he said. "He is false!—false as hell! And I trusted him, and believed him devoted to me. All the while he played spy upon me, and reported every motion to his master, Lord Dunraven. He shall pay dear for this," he continued, his voice rising, "for I will hang him as high as Haman. "Thou art free," he said, looking at me, "both thou and the lad. We will join forces against my lord, fool that he is to think he could deceive me thus; but I will settle with him, once and for all. Come," he continued, "this is to be thy last night here. Thou art free—free as the wind. To-morrow we will talk of plans to outwit Dunraven, and to punish this dog, the priest—but to-night we will drink. Fill up thy glass, both thou and the lad. Here is confusion to Lord Dunraven, and success to all his foes!"
"I drink that toast with a good grace," I said, and I drained the brimming goblet, as did Oliver also.
And now the men had resumed their revelry. They had drunk deep, several of them had fallen under the table, and their fellows, flagons in hand, were now roaring out right lustily the chorus of a drinking song. Many of the glasses had been overturned, and the wine ran in little rivulets over the costly covering of the table; but with their faces lit up with mirth, they heeded it not. Their voices rose to a yell that deafened my ears; then died out—they had finished the song.
DeNortier was drinking deep; fooled in his most trusty man, and chagrined and vexed, to hide his anger he had poured down goblet after goblet of the wine. It was in vain I tried to check him; he was deaf to all my words of warning, and heard me unmoved, as without a moment's hesitation he kept up his debauchery. Although his head was as marble, it would have been more than human if the wine had not begun to tell on him. He said nothing, but silently drank again and again, as though he were an automaton.
I had sipped my wine sparingly, as had also Oliver; for I knew not how the drunken debauchery would end. I could not withdraw as yet, but as soon as DeNortier lost consciousness, as he was sure to do in a few moments if he kept up his mad course, I had determined to take Oliver, and barricade ourselves in our room, where we would be safe until the men became sober and the Count was himself.
And now a whisper circulated among the pirates, who, keyed up to a drunken frenzy by the wine they had drunk, were but looking for someone to vent their insane rage upon, and were ripe for any mischief. I had heard the whispered word: "What do these Englishmen as the guests of our captain? Let us bind them, and string them up to the nearest tree. They are intermeddlers, and have no business in our midst." I heard a burly ruffian whisper this to his neighbor, and saw him pass it on, until now it had gone around the table, and all eyes were turned to me.
They had seen me practice with the sword, and shoot with the musketoon; plainly they hesitated before attacking so formidable a foe. But all they needed was a few more glasses to nerve them up to the work; then, careless of consequences, they would rush upon Oliver and myself and overpower us by sheer force of numbers.
The time had come for me to retire; for DeNortier was asleep, and could take no offense when he found out later what I had done. Bending over, I whispered to the lad to rise and leave the room.
The Count stirred at the sound of my low tones; his head had fallen upon the table and he was wrapped in a drunken sleep, but even as we moved to rise, he staggered to his feet, his eyes red and bloodshot.
"Up, every man!" he cried to his crew. "Up and drink one last toast with me! Fill high the goblets! It is the last that we shall drink together, and the best."
Habit is near akin to nature; and the habit of obedience brought every one of these drunken brutes to his feet, cups in hand. There, lurching and tipsy, they stood.
The Count had filled his goblet high, and as he did so his eye fell upon us where we sat.
"Up, my noble ally!" he cried. "I give a toast that thou canst not refuse. Why sittest thou silent? Up, I say!"
Whispering to Oliver to rise, I stood up, cup in hand. We would leave when we had drunk this toast, as it would take only a few minutes, and I did not care to offend the Count.
He waited, swaying to and fro, until we had arisen, and then, steadying himself against the table, he looked around.
It was a wild and ungodly sight. One of the great tables had fallen with a crash, and the wine ran down the room in a stream, and over the pirates, as they lay in sodden slumber upon the floor. Some of the candles had burned down to the sockets and gone out; the blood was clotted upon the floor where the man and bear had fallen and died. The chairs lay strewn all about the floor; and the ruffian crew laughed in drunken glee as they swayed, goblet in hand. DeNortier, drunken and solemn, gazed at me, as he reeled opposite. Oliver and myself were the only sober men in the room.
"I give thee a toast," he repeated, a strange smile upon his face. "A lady, the fairest and loveliest upon the earth! My bride—for I am soon to wed," he continued, not noticing the drunken exclamations of surprise which came from the men, "and the lady is the most beautiful in England. Drink! Drink to the noble bride!—drink to the Lady Margaret Carroll!"
I leaned forward, and before he could stir, I gave him a blow with my fist, which sent him sprawling backwards upon the floor. A loud cry from Oliver, and turning quickly, my eyes fell upon the priest, Father Francis, who had entered, and stood by one of the great tables in the room.
Even as I turned, he caught up one of the heavy gold drinking cups and hurled it full at me. I attempted to dodge it—but too late; with a crash, it struck me upon the forehead, and I went down, as though cuffed by the very hand of Hercules himself.