Читать книгу Princess of the Blood - Roxana Malaventura - Страница 4

What manner of man was he, Milord? Let me tell you.

Corpulent he was, and given neither to washing nor grooming. Lice were in his hair, gravy in his beard, rum on his breath, mildew in his fingernails, blasphemy on his tongue and lechery in his heart. His weskit was mis-buttoned, his breeches ill-fitting and his linen decaying. His breath was foul; his manners worse; his wig was putrid, powdered with flour and infested with vermin.

In such state, Milord, the wretch thought to board me. I, alone, having neither father nor brother, nor any gentleman to defend me, found myself in the most vexing dilemma. Submission to him I could not contemplate, so must need choose betwixt leaping over the gunwale to trust to whatever mercy the greasy waters of the port might offer, or, pitting a woman’s strength against a monstrous assailant, endeavour somehow to defend myself.

Frozen by terror and indecision, alone on the deck I stood as the filthy villain lurched towards me, muttering obscenities modesty forbids me to recount. One grubby hand clasped a bottle of rum, while the other, fumbling inside his greasy breeches, produced from therein the organ, bloated and monstrous, which is ever a virtuous woman’s deepest dread.

Closer and closer he came, so close that the very stink of him filled my terrified nostrils – I longed to fly from him, Milord, but my petrified limbs would not obey my mind’s command. Scarcely could I breathe, Milord, and as his shadow fell across me, my knees began to fail. Stooping to set his bottle on the deck, he unsheathed his cutlass. At that very instant, the swell (which must have been rising, though it had escaped my notice), caused Orion to pitch quite suddenly. At this unexpected motion, the villain staggered backward a pace and my nerves recovered their sense. With renewed energy I turned and ran for my life, and more.

As I fled, the hem of my skirts entangled itself in the ‘midships pinrail-post, pitching me headlong on the deck. Vainly I struggled against the enclosing masses of fabric, to no avail. Planting upon my back a naked and noisome foot, so long unshod it felt as hard and weathered as the hoof of Satan himself, the brute pinned me to the deck and with the point of his cutlass began to saw at the ribbons lacing my bodice.

“Pity! Pity!” I sobbed.

“Aye, pretty’s the word, and no mistake,” was his slurred reply, adding deficiency of hearing to the faults earlier enumerated.

With the mad strength that only desperation lends, and with the easing of the laces wrought by his notched and rusting blade, a final effort, a terrible rending of taffeta and a frenzied lunge released me from my encumbering gown. With hot tears of shame stinging my cheeks, one last dash brought me to the door of the Great Cabin – I flung myself within and bolted the door, leaving the vile cur to scratch and rage impotently against it.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I searched about the cabin, illuminated only by a few slanting shafts of pale moonlight, and caught sight of my reflection in the looking glass that Commodore Barnet kept there for the purpose (I could only presume) of admiring himself in his uniform. With what dismay, Milord, did I view the mirror’s image. Naked but for my torselette and drawers, with one shoe gone I knew not whither, and my hair, my hair so carefully dressed by dear Polly only hours before, looking like a madwoman’s. Desperately I cast about the cabin for some garment wherewith to clothe myself, but none could I find.

Only, in a corner, were the Commodore’s black top-boots. He is, as Milord knows, a man of no great stature, and it struck me that his foot and mine might be almost of a size. Kicking off my remaining slipper (a precious little thing, green and scarlet brocade, kitten-heeled with a dainty gilt rosette at the toe), I pulled on the Commodore’s boots. I cannot readily describe the relief afforded by the sensation of glossy leather about my limbs, but I beg Milord to understand that, shod thus, I seemed almost clothed, was sensible of an Amazon’s prowess, and felt the terror inspired by the assailant still beating at the portal, much diminished.

But beating at the portal he still was, and I saw that the weathered timber would not long withstand the blows of his cutlass. Even as this thought formed in my head, the panels of the door began to yield to his ignoble blade. At that very instant my eye fell on a pistol, lying amidst the clutter on the chart-table. Snatching it up, I drew back the hammer and saw to my infinite relief that the pan was primed. I was, as Milord knows, raised in the Colonies, so am familiar with the use of firearms, though I had of course never in anger wielded one. Once again, I discovered myself vexed by dilemma: my upbringing told me that I must, to safeguard the virtue that is the irreplaceable gift of heaven, turn the weapon against my own breast, while instinct and outrage made me long to see the life’s blood spurt from him who would rob me of that very gift.

Retreating as far from the door as possible, I pressed the ice-cold muzzle against my bosom and began to pray, even as the cabin door was breached. The pirate’s arm appeared; his fingers fumbled for the latch, and sprang it open. The prayer died upon my lips as I turned the pistol from my own heart and levelled it at his.

“Not one step more, hell-spawn!” I cried, in a voice I could barely recognise as my own. His slobbering lips distorted by a twisted grin of mockery, the villain replied: “D’ye think it right for a lady to be playin’ with fire-arms? Hand it to me, lest ye hurt yerself.” With that he began to advance towards me. “Not one more step, I said! I will blow your black and shrivelled heart out of your chest and straight to Hell, you vicious, lecherous, misbegotten scum!”

At that, he paused for a moment; “Ye’d never shoot, yer blood’s too thin and ladyloike for such.”

The roar, the blinding flash and belching smoke startled and dazed me as I discharged the weapon, for I expected to see him fall dead the instant the trigger was pulled. Instead, bellowing like a whipped bullock, the blackguard reeled backward through the door and commenced to writhe upon the deck. Inexperience, over-agitation, and unfamiliarity with the weapon had conspired to direct my aim, not through his heart as I had quite profanely hoped, but at the organs of generation, to which part of his anatomy his hands were now clasped.

Snatching up the cutlass from the deck where it fell, I stood over his prostrate form and cried, in a voice echoing through the port, “Get off this ship, you scurvy dog, and back to the ditch you were born in!” Faint-hearted, craven cur that he is, with pathetic apologies muttered through gritted teeth, like a thrashed mongrel, he slithered to the gang-plank, and away onto the wharf.

I later learned, Milord, that he managed to crawl back to his squalid dwelling, there to be nursed by the evil crone he calls his wife. They say she healed him, not out of kindness, for her flint-like heart would admit no such sentiment, but to prolong the exercise of her remorseless and lingering vengeance.

I am told that his wound was to organs which were vital not to its owner, but to his hope of offspring. My shot had destroyed those fleshy orbs which are at once the origin of life and the seat of the very urge that had propelled him to assault me.

After this adventure, Milord, I resolved henceforth to wear a man’s boots when aboard, and to practise my marksmanship.

His Excellency the Governor of Jamaica sat opposite me at an immense table. Withdrawing from his sleeve a spotless white handkerchief, he sat for a full minute polishing his lorgnette in silence.

Behind him King George peered over us from a coronation portrait, looking distinctly uncomfortable, perched in his Garter robes on the edge of an over-large chair. His majesty was not a handsome man and he seemed to my eye to be a poor copy of a rather pedestrian original.

At last, when the Governor decided that he had sufficiently digested my narrative or that his lorgnette was sufficiently clean, he opened a mahogany writing-case whence he produced some papers.

“Signorita Malaventura,” he began, “I have here two documents. The first is your confession, which you will sign, and which I shall retain as surety against treachery. The second is a Letter of Marque, over His Majesty’s own seal, by which you, your ship and your crew are commissioned to the King’s service as privateers, to prey upon the ships, ports and plantations of the French and Spanish with neither let nor hindrance. How do you say?”

“Does Your Excellency have a particular objective in mind?”

“Young Lady,” he replied, leaving his seat and crossing to a credenza made in the style and proportions of a Grecian temple, “there is, as it happens, a certain vessel. She flies no flag, and neither her name nor her captain’s is known, though rumours abound. What I can tell you”– here the Governor poured two glasses of sack and lowered his voice to a growl –“is that this ship arrived in these waters without warning; no man who has laid eyes on her has lived to tell of it, except a few lunatic ravings, and her captain is a bloodthirsty rogue who leaves behind him only a trail of blasted hulks and rotting corpses. Will you take this warrant or not?”

“Should I refuse?’

“Then you shall hang.”

“And if I require a few days to consider your proposal?”

“You shall spend them in my prison, where a great many of your bitterest enemies are housed. Regrettably, as His Majesty’s resources provide no separate accommodation for prisoners of the fair sex, I can neither offer you privacy nor guarantee you safety.”

“How may I know you are to be trusted?” I asked.

“Young Lady,” the Governor replied, placing a wine-glass beside me and puffing his chest, “my family has sat in the House of Lords since the battle of Bosworth Field and no stain upon my name or honour has ever gone unanswered. My word is my bond.” While uttering these words, His Excellency returned to his chair, dipped a quill into an ivory inkstand, and offered it across the table.

“What of provisions?” I asked, “I am a poor woman and Hecate ’s larders are empty, her cordage rotten and her magazine bare. Will this warrant fill them? With what coin may I engage a crew to sail her?”

Withdrawing a small key from within the folds of lace encircling his throat, the Governor opened a brass-bound chest that sat beside his chair. From within it he produced a purse, and, up-ending it upon his desk, poured forth a glittering pile of silver. “With this,” he said, “you may empty half the brothels in Tortuga and thereby procure a crew as good as any in these waters, with plenty left to victual and arm that little vessel of yours, fit to sail against the King’s enemies. Now sign.”

With what resource I know not, I took the proffered quill in an untrembling hand, and perused the list of my supposed crimes – the most conspicuous were whoredom, heresy, lechery, piracy, apostasy, murder (conspired at, attempted, and accomplished), pillage and arson. I knew at once that this document was my death-warrant a dozen times over, but at its foot I signed my name. By some spark of bravado I even gave the pen a ladylike flourish and handed the page back across his desk.

Taking the confession, folding and sealing it with black wax, the Governor handed me, as though it were an invitation to his box at the opera, my Letter of Marque, as it is called – a Royal Warrant. Raising his glass and leering salaciously over its rim, His Excellency proposed a toast – to ‘success’. A glimpse into his open writing-case teased my eye, and rising, replied, “To the King!”

His annoyance almost audible, the Governor rose, turned to face the monarchical portrait and raised his glass obediently while I leaned across the table for a better view of the contents of his writing-case.

Turning back to face me, His Excellency again raised his glass and, with his eyebrows set at an angle he may have imagined to be alluring, asked whether I desired anything further of him. I replaced my glass upon the table untouched (I detest sack and didn’t much fancy the King), made a curtsey and departed.

Having entered his study a pirate and a fugitive, I left it a Privateer in His Majesty’s service.