In answer to this sally, Jacquard burst into a loud laugh. “Ha, ha! Ye’re swelled out of all proper dimensions, Yan Gratz. Ye forget that Monsieur the Governor and Monsieur Bras-de-Fer are friends. Listen, then, to what I propose. Bras-de-Fer will write us a letter saying that you or I may receive the ships for our owners. In return we will give monsieur and madame the pinnace and let them go whither they will.”
“No, py Cott!” roared Gratz, furious at being balked of his vengeance. “He shall not get avay from me!”
There was a mingling of opinions, loudly and profanely expressed, and it looked for the moment as though the strife would be renewed. Yan Gratz’s Dutchmen stood by him to a man. And while the gleaming sword and pistolet of monsieur held them at a safe distance, they sought by their shouting of wild threats to make up for their other deficiencies. Barbara, hid behind Bras-de-Fer, sought valiantly to match her courage to his, but with pale face and quaking limbs she awaited the decision upon which rested his life or death, and hers. It mattered little which it was to be. She had suffered so much that anything—anything which brought rest—would be welcome. But monsieur had lost no whit of his aggressiveness. If he was silent, it was because silence was best. With a keen eye he noted the effect of the speech of Jacquard. He saw that his compatriot had chosen wisely in leaving his sword undrawn. Thus Jacquard retained his influence with the crew, whose sympathy and arms he could not have swayed alone against Yan Gratz. Had Jacquard drawn his weapon, all would have been lost. As it was, Bras-de-Fer noted that the larger number of the crew were wagging and nodding their heads in a propitious deliberation. Frenchmen, many of them, they were willing to forget the discipline and restriction of their liberties. Only one of them, Duquesnoy, had joined in the conflict against their compatriot. Duquesnoy was dead. They would be satisfied now if the cause of their grievances was removed. There was a way which offered complete compensation. With Bras-de-Fer marooned with his lady and his imperious notions, they would be free to lead the life which Billy Winch had not scrupled to deny them.
Barthier, gray-haired, pock-marked, earringed, shoved his huge frame before Yan Gratz.
“We have deliberated, Yan Gratz,” said he. “Jacquard has spoken the truth. Monsieur has fought well. He has bought his life, and that of his lady. San Salvador is distant but twenty leagues to the south. We will give them provisions for a week, weapons, and the pinnace, and set them free.”
Gratz glared around at him and past Barthier at the row of grim, hairy faces; and he knew that he was defeated. With an ill grace he sheathed his sword, thrust his pistol in his belt, and, muttering, waddled forward into the forecastle with his following.
When they were gone, Bras-de-Fer fell upon his knees beside a figure upon the deck at his feet. He lifted Cornbury’s head upon his knee, and, calling for a pannikin of rum, forced a small quantity of the fluid between the lips of the Irishman. Jacquard felt for his heart, and Barbara tore a bit of her skirt to stanch the flow of blood. They bathed his forehead with water, and in a moment were rewarded by a flicker of the eyelid and a painful intaking of the breath. Presently, resting upon Jacquard’s knee, he opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.
“I am near spent,” he muttered. And then, as his eye caught those of Bras-de-Fer, a smile with the faintest glimmer of professional pride twitched at his lip.
“Ah, monsieur,” he said, “did I not teach them well their thrust and parry?”