Читать книгу Brethren of the Main - Рафаэль Сабатини - Страница 5

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Presently, from the partial stupor which pain had mercifully induced, a new variety of pain aroused him. The stocks stood in the open, under the full glare of the tropical sun, and its blistering rays scorched the lad's mangled, bleeding back like flames of fire. And soon to this was added a torment still mom unspeakable.

Flies—the cruel flies of the Antilles, drawn by the scent of blood, descended in clouds upon him. The ingenious Colonel Bishop, who so well understood the art of loosening stubborn tongues, knew that not all his ingenious cruelty could devise a torture more intolerable than that which Nature would procure a man exposed to her in Pitt's condition.

The slave—who in far-off Somerset, a year ago, had been a man of some substance and position—writhed in the stocks, and writhing, screamed in agony.

Thus was he found by Mr. Peter Blood, who to the troubled vision of that anguished lad seemed to materialize suddenly before him out of nothing. Steadying himself a moment to look up, Pitt found a 'pair of light-blue eyes regarding him from under brows that were very black and very level.

The condition of Mr. Blood's shirt and breeches was such that they barely held together. He wore no stockings, and his feet were thrust into wooden shoes that he had been at pains to fashion for himself; also his hat was of plaited straw of the kind worn by negroes and slaves, but it was rakishly cocked; this and the ringlets of his thick black hair, his small turned-up mustachios and little pointed beard, suggested a gentleman fallen upon evil days, who sought to make the best possible show upon the slenderest resources.

With a large palmetto leaf Mr. Blood whisked away the flies that were devouring Jerry's back, then slung the leaf by a strip of fiber from his neck, to protect him from further attacks. Next, sitting down beside the sufferer, he drew his head on to his own shoulder, and bathed his face from a pannikin of cold water that he carried.

Jerry quivered and moaned on a long-drawn breath.

"Drink!" he gasped. "Give me drink, for the love of God!"

The pannikin was held to his lips drank greedily, nor ceased until he had drained it. Cooled and revived, he sat up.

"My back," he groaned.

"Och, be easy now," said Mr. Blood. "Sure your back's taking no harm at all since I've covered it up. I'm wanting to know what's happened to you. Glory be, now! D'ye think we can do without a navigator, that ye go and provoke the beast Bishop until he all but kills you?"

Jerry sat up and groaned again; but now his anguish was mental rather than physical.

"I don't think a navigator will be wanted this time, doctor," he said, and proceeded to explain. "Nuttall came to me an hour ago in the plantation. He is in trouble through this boat he's sought for us. The magistrates sent for him yesterday, to explain how he, a debtor, comes by money to purchase a boat, and what he wants with it. Nuttall's in despair."

"And is that all?"

Mr. Blood got up and shrugged. He was a gentleman of something more than middle height, sparely built, with a lean, good-humored, bony face burnt by exposure almost to the golden-brown of a half-caste Indian.

"Nuttall'll be forced to keep a close tongue for his own sake. There's mighty unpleasant penalties for helping slaves to escape, worse than being branded on the forehead. But—" He checked, suddenly grave. "Does the colonel know?"

"He more than suspects. It was to wring the facts from me that he did this. I'm to rot here unless I speak."

"Bad cess to the filthy slaver!" snapped Mr. Blood, and fell thoughtful. "It must be contrived nevertheless," he muttered. "We can't go without you, and you'll not be disappointing a score of us that depend upon your seamanship."

"But we're not going, Peter," the prisoner insisted.

"Ye're light-headed," said Mr. Blood. "Not going! And everything prepared, and the weapons snugly stowed away in the wharf, the navigating implements, the provisions, and every other blessed thing required?"

"But don't you understand that we've no boat? The magistrates have ordered it to be confiscated unless Nuttall can satisfactorily account for his possession of it."

Mr. Blood stood quite still, stricken dumb for a moment by the cruel realization that he had toiled and schemed through long months, with the patience of a spider, only to be balked on the very eve of action, when all was ready and success seemed fully assured. The worst difficulty had been to obtain money for the boat. He had contrived to communicate with friends in England; and these friends had loyally assisted him: They had sent out merchandise from home consigned to a friend that Mr. Blood had made in Bridgetown, and this friend had sold the merchandise and held the proceeds at Mr. Blood's disposal.

He turned away, and with agony and despair in his eyes looked out to sea, over the blue water by which he had hoped so fondly soon to be travelling out of this hell of slavery into freedom.