The Captain Blood Series. Rafael Sabatini
liked and honoured this brave lad he paid his case the tribute of a sigh. Then he knelt to his task, ripped away doublet and underwear to lay bare his lordship’s mangled side, and called for water and linen and what else he needed for his work.
He was still intent upon it a half-hour later when the dragoons invaded the homestead. The clatter of hooves and hoarse shouts that heralded their approach disturbed him not at all. For one thing, he was not easily disturbed; for another, his task absorbed him. But his lordship, who had now recovered consciousness, showed considerable alarm, and the battle-stained Jeremy Pitt sped to cover in a clothes-press. Baynes was uneasy, and his wife and daughter trembled. Mr. Blood reassured them.
“Why, what’s to fear?” he said. “It’s a Christian country, this, and Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who harbour them.” He still had, you see, illusions about Christians. He held a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his lordship’s lips. “Give your mind peace, my lord. The worst is done.”
And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall—a round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace about the breast of his coat.
Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.
The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He announced his authority to the yeoman.
“I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons. What rebels do you harbour?”
The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed itself in his trembling voice.
“I... I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman....”
“I can see for myself.” The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed, and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.
“No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned rebel, and that’s enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons. “Out with him, my lads.”
Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.
“In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be moved without peril to his life.”
Captain Hobart was amused.
“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him? There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”
“You’re hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am. We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”
The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.
“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.
“My name is Blood, sir—Peter Blood, at your service.”
“Aye—aye! Codso! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”
If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.
“I was.”
“Then I remember you—five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”
“That is so. I knew your colonel.”
“Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”
“This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”
“A doctor—you?” Scorn of that lie—as he conceived it—rang in the heavy, hectoring voice.
“Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.
“Don’t fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”
Mr. Blood’s smile annoyed him.
“I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.”
The Captain sneered. “Which you reached by way of Lyme Regis in the following of your bastard Duke.”
It was Mr. Blood’s turn to sneer. “If your wit were as big as your voice, my dear, it’s the great man you’d be by this.”
For a moment the dragoon was speechless. The colour deepened in his face.
“You may find me great enough to hang you.”
“Faith, yes. Ye’ve the look and the manners of a hangman. But if you practise your trade on my patient here, you may be putting a rope round your own neck. He’s not the kind you may string up and no questions asked. He has the right to trial, and the right to trial by his peers.”
“By his peers?”
The Captain was taken aback by these three words, which Mr. Blood had stressed.
“Sure, now, any but a fool or a savage would have asked his name before ordering him to the gallows. The gentleman is my Lord Gildoy.”
And then his lordship spoke for himself, in a weak voice.
“I make no concealment of my association with the Duke of Monmouth. I’ll take the consequences. But, if you please, I’ll take them after trial—by my peers, as the doctor has said.”
The feeble voice ceased, and was followed by a moment’s silence. As is common in many blustering men, there was a deal of timidity deep down in Hobart. The announcement of his lordship’s rank had touched those depths. A servile upstart, he stood in awe of titles. And he stood in awe of his colonel. Percy Kirke was not lenient with blunderers.
By a gesture he checked his men. He must consider. Mr. Blood, observing his pause, added further matter for his consideration.
“Ye’ll be remembering, Captain, that Lord Gildoy will have friends and relatives on the Tory side, who’ll have something to say to Colonel Kirke if his lordship should be handled like a common felon. You’ll go warily, Captain, or, as I’ve said, it’s a halter for your neck ye’ll be weaving this morning.”
Captain Hobart swept the warning aside with a bluster of contempt, but he acted upon it none the less. “Take up the day-bed,” said he, “and convey him on that to Bridgewater. Lodge him in the gaol until I take order about him.”
“He may not survive the journey,” Blood remonstrated. “He’s in no case to be moved.”
“So much the worse for him. My affair is to round up rebels.” He confirmed his order by a gesture. Two of his men took up the day-bed, and swung to depart with it.
Gildoy made a feeble effort to put forth a hand towards Mr. Blood. “Sir,” he said, “you leave me in your debt. If I live I shall study how to discharge it.”
Mr. Blood bowed for answer; then to the men: “Bear him steadily,” he commanded. “His life depends on it.”
As his lordship was carried out, the Captain became brisk. He turned upon the yeoman.
“What other cursed rebels do you harbour?”
“None other, sir. His lordship....”
“We’ve dealt with his lordship for the present. We’ll deal with you in a