Captain in Calico. George Fraser MacDonald
with equal certainty. La Bouche made a sudden thrust at his face, and instinctively Rackham leaped back, but it was only a feint. La Bouche stepped back, lowering his point, and mocked him.
‘Will you not come for your sword, big Jean? See, it is here.’ And the ruffian indicated the fallen rapier at his feet.
A woman’s voice, husky and vibrant, spoke from the crowd at Rackham’s back.
‘Make an end, Pierre. It’s over warm for such excitement.’ And a ripple of laughter greeted her words.
But the callous mockery of that voice was La Bouche’s undoing, for it transformed Rackham’s helplessness into violent anger. He tensed for a spring, and in the same moment La Bouche struck. His point ripped out, but even as it did so the Englishman pivoted on his heel and the blade, tearing through his shirt, ploughed a deep furrow along his ribs and driven on by the force of La Bouche’s thrust, spent itself on air. La Bouche stumbled, and was in the act of recovering when Rackham’s fist crashed against his temple and sent him headlong.
A great shout went up from the spectators, and Rackham, bounding forward, snatched up his sword. La Bouche was on his feet in an instant to meet the Englishman’s assault: one mighty back-hand sweep he parried, but he was rattled, and as Rackham’s arm went up for another stroke La Bouche lost his head and lunged wildly at his opponent’s unguarded front. His point never went home. Rackham swept the blade aside with his left hand, leaving the Frenchman extended and helpless, and before La Bouche could even attempt a recovery Rackham, now inside his guard, had run him through the body. La Bouche’s rapier fell from his hand, his mouth opened horribly, and as the sword was withdrawn he collapsed, coughing and retching. For a few seconds Rackham stood looking down at him, then he turned on his heel and walked back to Major Penner.
There was a moment’s dead silence, and then the voice of the crowd broke out in noisy confusion. Penner, having shaken Rackham’s hand and mastered his delight, went over to join the little group surrounding the fallen Frenchman. La Bouche’s face was deadly grey but there was no blood at his lips, and a brief examination enabled the Major to ascertain that the wound was not mortal.
‘The more’s the pity,’ he observed, as he rose from the Frenchman’s side. ‘He’s a dirty hound who would have been better on the road to hell this minute.’
‘You dare to mock the dying?’ La Bouche’s lieutenant, a squat, barrel-chested ruffian, rounded on the Major.
‘I wish I had the opportunity,’ sighed Penner. ‘But he’s far from dying. It’s a high thrust in the chest’ – he indicated the crimson gash of the wound half-hidden by the thick black hair on La Bouche’s breast – ‘and no one ever died of one of those. Not,’ he added hopefully, ‘unless ye intend to let him bleed to death.’
Grumbling and cursing, they nevertheless made shift to staunch their captain’s bleeding while the Major rejoined Rackham who sat, pale and breathing heavily, on a bench against the tavern wall.
‘You’re not unscratched yourself,’ said Penner, kneeling at his principal’s side and making examination of the bloody groove which La Bouche’s rapier had cut in his ribs. ‘Another inch to the left there and it’s yourself would be lying on the sand yonder. And, blast me, what ails your hand?’ He swore in disgust at the sight of the crimson stain spreading through the sash which the pirate had swathed on his forearm. ‘The graceful art of sword-play! You’ll have taken this when you beat his blade aside with your hand. And not the wit to realise that in so turning a point you must touch the blade for an instant only, for fear it has a cutting edge.’
‘Talk less and bind it for me,’ said Rackham shortly. He lay back, his black head resting against the plaster of the wall, his face grimed with sand and sweat. Reaction had set in, and he was finding it an effort to talk. The Major, having stripped away the bloody sash and sponged the wound, bound a linen cloth tightly about it, remonstrating as he did so, like a mother with an injured child.
‘It’s thankful we should be you’ve taken no worse hurt. I was a fool to have let matters go so far. When he disarmed you that time – my God!’ The Major shuddered. ‘I thought ye were done, and so you would have been, but that ye have the fiend’s own luck and a surprising nimbleness on your feet. But, there now, all’s well that ends well, as the poet says.’
At that moment they were interrupted by a woman’s voice calling them from the roadway, and at the sound of it Rackham spun round so violently that he nearly upset the Major. For it was the voice which had urged La Bouche to run him through when he stood disarmed; the voice which had made him forget his fear in a mad surge of fury, and the recollection of its mockery reawoke his anger against the speaker.
‘Major Penner! A moment, Major, if you please.’
The Major, turning with Rackham, swept off his hat and made a clumsy bow towards a carriage which stood at the roadside. He muttered an excuse to Rackham and lumbered towards it.
The woman in the carriage was tall, and quite the most vivid-looking creature Rackham had ever seen. Her hair, beneath a broad-brimmed bonnet, was glossy dark red, and hung to shoulders which in spite of the heat were covered only by a flimsy muslin scarf. Her high-waisted green gown was cut very low on her magnificent bosom, which was bare of ornament; her face was long, with a prominent nose and chin, her brows heavy and dark, and her lips, which were heavily painted, were broad and full, with an odd quirk at the corners that gave her an expression at once wanton and cynical. Massive earrings touched her shoulders, there was a tight choker of black silk round her neck, and the bare forearm which lay along the edge of the carriage was heavily bangled and be-ringed.
‘In God’s name, Penner, what was the meaning of that moon madness?’ She waved a jewelled hand in Rackham’s direction. ‘D’ye value the hide of your friend so cheap that you’ll offer him as meat for a bully-swordsman’s chopping?’
‘Why, ma’am, I—’ Penner shuffled and stammered. ‘I was opposed to it, d’ye see – from the outset, but—’
‘If that was your opposition, God save us from your encouragement,’ observed the woman languidly. She turned her heavy-lidded eyes on Rackham. ‘For one who has so narrowly cheated the chaplain your champion is mighty glum,’ she observed. ‘He has a name, I suppose?’
‘Hah, yes,’ said Penner. ‘My manners are all to pieces, I think. Permit me, ma’am, to present my friend and brother officer, Captain Rackham – Captain John Rackham.’ He made a vague gesture of introduction. ‘John – er, Captain, – Mistress Bonney.’
Rackham, still resentful of this red-haired Amazon, gave a nod which was the merest apology for a bow. Covered with dust and sweat, he was conscious of the bedraggled figure he must present, and his indignation was not sufficient to make him forget his vanity.
But Mistress Bonney had no thought for his disarray. Her eyes widened at the mention of his name.
‘The pirate captain? He that fired on the Governor’s fleet and took a fortune in silver from the Spaniards?’
‘The same,’ said Major Penner, with the proud air of a master exhibiting a prize pupil. ‘And now turned privateer with me.’
Mistress Bonney’s grey eyes beneath those heavy black brows considered Rackham appreciatively. Her broad lips parted in a smile. ‘Faith, it’s an honour to meet so distinguished a captain. I had heard you took the pardon this morning. Doubtless you mean to lead a peaceful life ashore.’
She was laughing at him, and he flushed angrily. ‘You hear a deal, madam. But it’s not all gospel. If they tell you I fired on the King’s ships they lie: it was no work of mine but that of a half-drunk fool. Nor did I take any silver from the Spanish. That, too, was another’s work.’
‘Another half-drunk fool?’ she asked, smiling.
‘A