The Black Swan (Historical Novel). Rafael Sabatini

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      To Miss Priscilla and the Major came then the most terrifying of all their experiences of that dreadful morning, when they beheld this half-naked figure clambering through the stern-windows of the coach.

      The Major, who had meanwhile armed himself for eventualities, laid a hand to his sword, and would have drawn it had not the Frenchman's speech made it known to them that it was indeed he, taking this shortest way to reach his cabin. His aspect was terrifying, with face and hands and naked torso befouled by sweat and powder. His voice came harsh with scorn.

      'The fight is fought. The lubberly Bransome was well advised to think of turning farmer. He should have thought of it before. Better for him, and better for those who sail with him. The fool never gave me a chance to use the guns. In God's name, why do such men go to sea? It's as if I took holy orders. Leach is saving gunpowder because he wants the ship. That's plain. He's going to board.'

      From what he had told them, they were left to surmise the part which the momentarily forgotten Frenchman had played in the action.

      Miss Priscilla, assuming that her only resource now lay in the help of Heaven, fell on her knees to pray. The Major looked on, helplessly, foolishly fierce.

      Monsieur de Bernis, however, displayed in this desperate pass neither fear nor helplessness.

      'Ah, but courage, mademoiselle. Compose yourself. I am here. It may be that you are in no danger. It may be. I can do things sometimes. You shall see. Have faith in me. A little faith.'

      He flung away on that, into his own cabin, calling for Pierre, who was there, awaiting him.

      Priscilla rose from her knees to question the Major.

      In his heart Major Sands could not suppose that the Frenchman was anything but vaingloriously boastful. A theatrical fellow who would attitudinize in the very face of death. But he made gallant shift to stifle that conviction, so as to comfort her distress.

      'I do not know what he can do. Stab me, I don't. But he seems confident. A resourceful fellow, I should judge. Remember, too, that he has been a buccaneer, and knows their ways. Dog don't eat dog, they say.'

      Thus, vaguely, he mumbled on, though in his heart there was no hope. From what they had heard as lately as last night of the ways of Tom Leach, he could only assume that death would be his portion, and only pray that it might be a swift one. Fearful as the prospect might be, yet a deeper agony clawed him on behalf of Priscilla Harradine. Beholding her, so sweet and lovely in her distress, he feared for her the worse fate of being allowed to live, the prey of such a beast as Leach. It even crossed his agonized mind to kill her where she stood, considering this, in the pass to which things were come, the highest and noblest proof he could give of his love and reverence. But the thought took no root in his will. Inert he remained standing by the locker on which she sat, conscious for once of his own utter futility, and offering her cheerlessly vague words of comfort.

      Thus, until the sunlight was eclipsed for them by the bulk of the great black ship. She came, her bulwarks lined with men, gliding up astern on their larboard quarter, and so cast her chilling, sinister shadow athwart the stern-ports where Miss Priscilla sat. Across the short gap of water came a trumpet call from the pirate's deck. They heard, too, the roll of drums, and presently there was a volley of musketry.

      It brought Miss Priscilla quivering to her feet, and urged the Major to set a protecting arm about her slimness.

      And then from his cabin Monsieur de Bernis re-emerged at last followed by his servant. He came now, not merely cleansed of his grime, but restored to his normal courtly habit. He had resumed his curled black periwig, his fine ruffled shirt, and his doublet of violet taffetas with its deep cuffs reversed in black and the buttonholes richly laced with silver. In addition, he was booted in fine black Cordovan leather, and he had armed himself, not only with a long rapier, but with a pair of pistols, slung before him, after the fashion of the buccaneers, in the ends of a stole, which, like his baldrick, was of purple leather stiff with silver bullion.

      They stared at him in wonder. That he should have been at such pains with his toilet at such a time was surprising enough. But the ease of his bearing was more surprising still.

      He smiled upon their wide-eyed wonder. He explained himself. 'Captain Leach is a great man. The last of the great buccaneers. He is to be received with ceremony.'

      He was moving forward towards them when the deck under their feet shuddered to a thudding, crashing impact, followed by rending of timbers, the ringing-clank of grapnels, the snapping of spars, and the long, harsh rattle of volley upon volley of musketry.

      Flung forward, Monsieur de Bernis clutched the table to steady himself. The Major dropped to his knees, whilst Miss Priscilla hurtling across the cabin, found refuge in the Frenchman's arms.

      'Save me!' she gasped. 'Save me!'

      Holding her, the man's tight lips under the little black moustache softened into a smile. One of his long shapely hands stroked the golden head that lay against his breast, and it may be that the firm calm touch of him soothed her more than his actual words.

      'I hope to do so. It may well be possible.'

      Deeply resentful of a situation which gave the Frenchman license for the intimacy of his attitude, the Major, gathering himself up, glared at him.

      'Why, what can you do?' he growled ungraciously.

      'We are going to see. Perhaps much. Perhaps little. But to do much, it is necessary that you obey me.' His manner became stern. 'Contradict nothing that I say, whatever it may be, and whatever you may think. Remember that, if you please, or you may destroy us all.'

      Overhead a thunder of feet went rolling across the deck, to inform them that the pirates were aboard the Centaur. A babel of shouts and screams, mingled with a din of pistol shots and musketry fire, and, under all, the deeper diapason of the inarticulate muttering of men in conflict made up the hideous, terrifying sound of battle joined. Something dark and bulky flashed downwards past the stern-ports. They realized that it was the body of a man flung overboard from the poop. Another, and yet another, followed.

      Miss Priscilla, in a fresh access of fear, clung yet more closely to Monsieur de Bernis.

      'It will not last,' he said, his voice quiet. 'Leach has three hundred men at least; the Centaur little more than a score.'

      His straining ears caught an approaching sound, and he added on a firmer note: 'You will obey me? Implicitly? Give me your word. It is important.'

      'Yes, yes. Whatever you may say.'

      'And you, Major Sands?'

      Gloomily the Major gave the demanded promise. He had scarcely uttered it when along the gangway from the waist came the padding of a score of naked feet and a raucous mutter of voices quickly growing louder and nearer.

      Overhead the sounds, if they had not diminished in volume, had changed in character, at least to the attentive, expert ears of Monsieur de Bernis. There were still the stamping and the shouting. But they were mixed now with sounds of horrible, obscene laughter, and a firing of muskets which de Bernis knew to be no more than wanton sporting, the triumphant joy-fire of the buccaneers.

      The brief fight was over. The invaders had swept like a tidal wave across the decks of the Centaur cutting down all resistance.

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