Читать книгу Princess of the Blood - Roxana Malaventura - Страница 8

While the first soft, pink fingers of daybreak were teasing at my cabin windows, the lookout’s cry of “Sail, Ho!” awoke me. Springing from my bed to splash a little water on my face, I paused before the looking-glass to be sure that I was presentable and began to dress myself for a day at sea. Polly had thoughtfully laid out a pair of close-fitting black breeches, a clean white linen shirt (cut a little full in the sleeve for my liking, but Polly is, well, Polly) and a red-and-gold satin sash, fitted to carry the cutlass and brace of pistols, polished like jewels, that lay on my writing-desk.

Spy-glass in hand, I was soon on deck taking the salutes of the crew as I made my way to the foredeck, where my Sailing-Master stood peering into the half-light to the Northeast. Crammed with sail, but making little way in the light air, a smart-looking three-masted frigate was passing the harbour-mouth on an easterly course. Raising my glass, I made out a trim, dark-painted hull, a two-decker of probably forty or forty-eight guns. No figurehead, nor any other decoration could I discern, as though her makers wanted her to be anonymous. She looked quite deadly, but she was certainly not Orion.

My spy-glass, I should explain, is extraordinary. The lenses were left me by my father, who had them from an acquaintance of his, a Herr Zeiss, I believe. While every other glass in the Caribbean presented, if one had the art to see anything at all through its wobbly brass tube, a blurry upside-down view with an artificial rainbow around the edge, mine delivered an upright image of matchless clarity. I swear that when I die, as much blood will be spilled by my friends fighting over it as in avenging me.

When I made out the pennant swirling lazily from the unknown ship’s mizzen-top, I saw only an unintelligible clutter of quarterings – shields within shields, lions rampant in all directions and fleurs de lis strewn about like confetti. The eighteenth-century nobleman’s arms are his pedigree; in most cases a pictorial record of his generations of in-breeding. A few I could read quite well, but this one defeated me, though it stirred a portentous recollection from the previous evening’s reading.

“Quartermaster!” I called, “To the foredeck, at the double!” When Bonaparte arrived, wheezing mightily, I handed him my glass. “Read me that blazon, if you can,” I commanded.

Taking the precious instrument in a grip I can only describe as fond, the Quartermaster peered through it a long while. Licking his lips, he began a lengthy incantation in a peculiar sing-song tone:

“Quarterly, Prime barry of eight Gules and Argent impaling Azure semi-de-lis Or a label Gules…”

“Mr. Bonaparte, if you please, be comprehensible!”

“Milady, beg pard’n, this is how ‘tis properly spoke.”

“I care not for properly, Quartermaster, just tell me who he is who sails that ship!” I knew I would have to find some way to let the dear old tar know how much I value his knowledge of all in the world whereof I find myself ignorant, but not yet.

“Milady, ‘tis, I don’t doubt, the lions of Guelders and Jülich, struck with the crosses and barbels of Lorraine. Nay, Milady, that cannot be so. ‘Tis surely a false flag!”

“Why say you so, Mr. Bonaparte?”

“Because, Milady, the man whose right it is to bear those arms, if such a man there is, has cousins whose arses sit on every throne in Europe, and on whose brows sit the coronets of twenty dukedoms.” This was without doubt the strangest coherent utterance I ever heard my Quartermaster make. The very perfectness of it provoked me and I wished he might return to his usual, semi-literate mode of speaking although I knew quite well it was entirely feigned.

“It is not his cousins’ brows and arses that concern me, Bonaparte, it’s his name. For the sake of keeping my cutlass out of your guts, just tell me who the devil he is.” I snatched my glass from his hands in vexation, and lifted it to my own eye.

“Milady, his name I know not – he can have none. The arms on that pennon are of a line that is extinct. That is the blazon of the Dukes of Guise.”

“And who the Devil might they be?” I demanded.

“If you please, Ma’am, I cannot tell ‘ee. The title is an old ‘un, bestowed a full three hundred years agorn, and more, but as muddled by intermarryin’ as a bowl o’ porridge is by the stirrin’ it.”

Gratified though I was by the return of Bonaparte’s customary gibberish, the want of an answer was driving my annoyance into a black fury.

“Get me Polly,” I said, “on the double. And two men who can read – I trust you have some.” As an afterthought, I called after him as he scuttled away, “French, if it is not too much trouble.”

Polly, of course, was the first to appear. Having attempted, as ever, to anticipate my wish, he arrived on the foredeck immaculately attired in sky-blue satin breeches, snow-white hose and a swallowtail coat the colour of coral, with a slender glass of sherry on a tiny silver tray. Ignoring his grief-stricken expression as I tossed tray, sherry and glass over the side, I handed him my spy-glass, which he took with no less reverence than he would a holy relic, if they have them in Polynesia.

“Take a good look at that pennon, Polly,” I ordered, “and memorise every detail.” This I knew he could do, to the last stitch, well enough to embroider it on a cushion, were I to bid him do so. “Do you have it?”

Polly lifted a shapely knee, placing one velvet espadrille on the gunwale, ostensibly to steady himself, in reality to mimic a pose he had seen in a picture-book, and raised the spy-glass.

“Aye, Milady, I have it,” he replied after a few moments. “And Milady, I am quite certain I have seen it before – it is in one of Milady’s books, of that I am sure.”

“Get to my cabin, find your paint-box and make a copy as quick as you can, “ I commanded.

“Aye, aye, Milady!” he said, and vanished. Hasdrubal Bonaparte had by this time returned, accompanied by two crewmen, neither much more than a boy and both bearing evidence that the Quartermaster had hastily washed them from the neck up before bringing them to my presence, in which they now stood looking up at me with quite satisfactory expressions of dread.

“Names?”

“Godfrey, Lady,” said one. He was rather good-looking, in a whelpish way.

“And Hawke,” the other, who, by comparison, was quite ill-favoured – buck-toothed, blotchy and blinking.

“Mr. Bonaparte tells me you can read. Is he correct?

“Aye, Ma’am,” as one voice.

“Est-ce que vous êtes moins bêtes que votres pieds? ” I had to test their French, you understand, by insulting them. The one called Hawke was dumbfounded; Godfrey blushed, and replied:

“Toujours à votre service , Milady.”

“You’ll do,” I replied; Godfrey even made a brave attempt to meet my eye, but failed. “Now get to my cabin at once. If you lay a finger on anything you shouldn’t, I’ll cut it off and put your eyes out with it. My cabin boy will show you a picture, and you, Hawke, will seek it in the books upon my chart table. You, Godfrey, as you seem to be quicker at the French tongue, will find me the genealogy of the Dukes of Guise. Have you any questions?”

They did not.

“Off you go, then, and quick about it. Bos’un!”

“Oy, Morm?” replied MacDonald, exhausting at one breath his ready stock of English phrases.

“Have the helm bring us about, weigh anchor and let us drift inshore a cable’s length or so. I would not have yon frigate get too close a look at us before we know what she is and who sails her. Send a few aloft to let out sail and take it in again, and have them do it a mite lubberly, if you follow me.” I wanted to keep Hecate , if not invisible, in the shadow of the coastline as long as possible, and if she were observed, to look harmless.

My huge Boatswain glared and twitched, sending the crew to their tasks with, instead of commands, a few chirps of his whistle and an alacrity that an admiral might envy.

“Mr. O’Sullivan, Mr. Bonaparte…”

“Aye?”

“Quarterdeck. We shall discuss plans for action.”

“Action, Milady?”

“Yes,” I replied as we made our way aft, “it would appear that we have chanced upon a Frenchman on the high seas, have we not?” I awaited no answer. “If not a Frenchman, an impostor. If he is the former, our letter of marque gives me leave to engage and plunder him; if the latter, the laws of the Sea allow me to engage and destroy him.” I was mightily impressed by the logic of this, and my blood was up.

“Bo’sun!” I called, “order clear for action!”

Dear Reader, lest your excitement arise too rapidly at the prospect of impending combat, may I intervene for a moment. I must remind you that there was scarcely a breath of wind and the mysterious frigate was a good three leagues distant. The sun was then barely two hands’ breadth above the horizon and I had no reason to foresee a shot being fired before luncheon.

I should also take the opportunity to inform you that I have been able, by veiled promises to my Publisher's broker – promises that he is obliged to keep secret from his devoted and guileless wife – to persuade him to augment this text with an occasional illustration. Here is the first

– the coat of arms that provoked such a flurry of activity upon my foredeck.

The Reader must never know what I was obliged to promise in exchange for this concession. Whether the above image is available to the Reader in full colour or not (or indeed, whether at all) you may treat as an indication both of my willingness to suffer for my art and of my Broker’s success in exploiting it. Hemingway may sit in a smart hotel, banging out chapter after whiskey-sodden chapter without a care, but a girl must trade in whatever currency Mother Nature gives her. I am not bitter, just better-looking.

While we are, as it were, digressed, may I explain my last order? “Clear for action” is a command that really dates from the great days of Sail, from Nelson’s day, when lines of massive ships would close for the bloodiest combat imaginable. Such ships were conceived and built as floating islands full of guns, with one palatial apartment for a commander, scant privacy for his gentleman officers and not a thought for the hundreds of loyal men serving under ‘em. Often as not at sea for months on end, it was inevitable that certain comforts were introduced. Furniture, livestock, partitions, libraries, musical instruments – in a few cases, whole orchestras – so often cabin’d, cribb’d and constrain’d ship-borne warfare that at first contact with the enemy, commands are given to throw the whole lot overboard. The only things not jettisoned are the ship’s boats – these they launch and tow astern in a line, like the tail of a kite, while the clarinets and cattle are tossed to Davy Jones.

When the order was given aboard Hecate, it meant little more than ‘clear away the crockery’. For one thing, it was behaviour unlikely to go unnoticed by the enemy, and my attacks, so often against far heavier opponents, invariably depended upon surprise. A hatch was opened; a pair of goats and a hen-coop were stowed below, while the boats were trailed astern. The off-watch, summoned to quarters by the boatswain’s whistle, set about filling buckets with sea-water and distributing them amongst the guns. Powder and shot were passed about and sand was spread on the decks, lest they become slippery with blood. In every spare socket of the pin-rails a pistol or a cutlass was put, and a myriad other things done to make Hecate ready for combat.

Polly returned, a look of triumph on his face, waving his watercolour in exultation. Behind him, each carrying a fat folio, trotted Hawke and Godfrey, looking as pleased with themselves as they might had they just discovered the Ark of the Covenant.

“Milady! Milady!” Polly crowed, “We have found him!”

Turning to young Godfrey (the prettier one, you will recall), I asked,”Qu’est ce que c’est que tu as trouvé?”

His reply came without hesitation:

“Madame, this House of Guise – it is not truly a house at all, nor even a proper Dukedom. There are lands, but it is the title itself that is the distinction.”

“Go on, boy,” I urged, noting with some apprehension a veritable thicket of bookmarks sprouting from the volume in his hands.

“Madame, if you please, the Dukedom was created in 1528, elevating a branch of the House of Lorraine, and…” Young Hawke chimed in – evidently he was not, as I had assumed, entirely ignorant of French –“And Milady, the coat of arms – they are the arms of royal families, Lorraine, Anjou, Luxembourg, Condé…” I cut him off.

“Peace, boy! One at a time! And if you please, Master Godfrey, spare us the entire family history – just tell me the state of the title as it stands.”

“Aye, Ma’am. The last to hold the title was Henriette of Bavaria, the Princess Palatine. Some say her husband had a rare disease, some, even, that he was a, a werewolf, Ma’am, but the Princess had a kindly heart, and cared for him until his death. They had ten children; several died in infancy and one, a daughter, ‘tis said was lost at sea. Under Spanish law, Ma’am, a daughter may inherit while the French, subject to the King’s wish, would revert the title to her husband. The fate of this lost daughter, Ma’am, cannot be verified.

“The only surviving son is Louis, the Duke of Bourbon and Prince of Conti or Condé – these titles, from his father, take precedence, Ma’am. The arms on yonder pennon are not his.”

I did not turn to look at Hasdrubal Bonaparte’s face at that moment, for I knew it would be more triumphant than I could abide. Instead, I asked the boys, “Can you tell me who might lay claim to this title?”

The buck-toothed Hawke was the first to answer: “If you please, Ma’am, the fairest claimant is the lost daughter, if she lives, but most would say the title belongs to Signor Gonzaga, the Duke of Mantua…”

“That’s absurd,” I snapped. The Gonzaga family has held absolute rule in Mantua and most of Lombardy for centuries. “I have had…” I paused, choosing a word, “…dealings with the present Duke – he can have no interest, on that I stake my life.” The nature of my dealing with Ferdinand Gonzaga was nobody’s business but my own, but I knew full well that he was fully occupied with keeping Mantua in his own clutches and out of those of his uncle-in-law, who happened to be the Holy Roman Emperor. I need not again remind the Reader that the politics of this period are somewhat intricate.

“Master Hawke, have you another suggestion?”

“Beg pard’n Milady, there might be two dozen pretenders, any of them wealthy enough to fit out a ship…” I was warming to this boy; behind his plain features seemed to lurk a quick and subtle brain, but at that instant a cry from the lookout intervened:

“Ahoy on deck! Making Sail!”

Sure enough, while I and most of my officers had been distracted by our discussion, the anonymous vessel in the distance had hoisted her spankers and, for all that the breeze was still very light, was making away from us. This could mean only one of two things – he either did not know who shared that patch of sea with him, or he did not care. In either case, he was in a hurry.

“Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“Aye, Ma’am?”

“We shall engage this wretch, but we shall not yet take him. Sail me into his wake and hold there – I wish to see whether he will run from me, for if, indeed, he is the anonymous Duke in that letter, he must know who pursues him. If he is any sailor at all he may attempt to turn and bring us under his guns, but you shall not let him.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

I turned to young Hawke and Godfrey, “Well done, lads. If you are still alive, you shall dine with me in my cabin tonight.”

I had just commanded my Sailing-Master to play a dangerous game. We had the weather gage, which is to say, the wind would drive us constantly toward the enemy. He could not escape, but he could, at any instant, turn to larboard or starboard, spilling the wind from his sails while Hecate sailed headlong into his broadside – two dozen guns, each spitting thirty pounds of hot iron. If he was skilled enough, and his crew well-trained, he could steer a snake’s course, bringing each broadside to bear in alternation. Well I knew that most of his shot would miss, but some must strike and half a dozen hits might cripple us. What I had ordered was, in effect, to demand constant vigilance; to put the life of my ship in the hands of her lookouts. A dangerous game, to be sure, and one that could not last beyond nightfall.

I did have one advantage, to take it I spoke quietly to the Helmsman, my mysterious Navajo witch-doctor.

“Helm, can you find me a mark for the long nines?”

These weapons were unique in the Caribbean in that century. Mounted on Hecate’s fo’c’stle, this beautiful pair of cast bronze pieces were death to an enemy who let me fall in behind him. Twice the length (so twice the range) of any other ship-borne gun in the world, they were like a vampire’s fangs. I will not go into the technicalities, but ship-building and gun-founding were yet to advance to a state where such artillery was either common or practical. The Helmsman stood silent, wooden, one eye fixed on his compass, the other on my quarry, fully three leagues ahead. He squinted upwards, at the ripple in the windward edge of the mizzen royal, Hecate’s loftiest sail.

Finally, he spoke, “Bring balls.”

“Guns!” I called.

“Ja, min Kapten?” replied the burly Swede.

“Send up a dozen nine-pound shot, good ones.” Not all round-shot, you understand, are quite round.

When the shot were deposited on the deck at his feet, the steersman squatted and ran his leathery fingers over each one, weighing it, turning it this way and that, until he found four that he liked; these he placed in a line upon the deck. Returning to the helm, he turned a few points to port, and back, to starboard, and back, causing the round-shot to roll, and return, roll, and return. All the while he muttered a strange, wordless, tuneless song. In a few minutes he had brought the iron balls to life, they danced a little ballet around each other and finally, he turned to me and spoke.

“I have mark,” he said. To Günnar Günnarson, “Load very careful. For powder, use freshest, one fifth weight of ball.”

I would call anyone a liar who told such a tale, but I saw it with my own eyes.