Doctor Syn on the High Seas - Thorndike Russell (читать лучшие читаемые книги TXT) 📗

Amidst the bawling and the singing of the seamen, they heard the orders

given for the furling of the sails, as slowly the ship drew nearer to

the entrance.

“Will he land hereabouts?” asked Syn.

“Aye,” returned Esnada. “The Harbour -master said by those steps there.

I could wish he had not driven away the crowd, for then you could have

ambushed

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amongst them. From the height of his desk, he could spot a mouse upon

this quay, and you are so plaguy tall, my friend. Besides, the

blackness of your dress against this dazzling whiteness makes you the

more conspicuous.”

“Oh, I want him to see me,” said Syn, with a sardonic smile.

“But he’ll sulk then in his cabin, and sent others ashore about his

business,” argued Esnada.

“If so, and should my patience pass all bearing,” returned Syn, “we

could find some means of boarding her. No cabin door would keep me out,

did I once allow myself to say, ‘Now is the time’.”

Suddenly Esnada heard him draw his breath through his set teeth so

sharply that it whistled. Then, without opening his mouth, he spoke

through his throat:

“He is there upon the poop. Blue coat, gilt buttons and the white

feather in his hat. So he flaunts the badge of his cowardice, it seems.

He will do his best to avoid a fight, for there has never been a gamecock yet with a white feather. You see him?”

Esnada nodded: “He is learning against the bulwark.”

Instinctively the Spaniard loosened his scabbard, but Syn checked the

movement sharply:

“Remember this is my quarrel. You could command anything from me, but

not a drop of his blood.” He drew a brass spyglass from his pocket and

brought his enemy the nearer. “This Tappittino, or whatever he calls

himself, is a true Tappitt of Iffley, for the rascally fool is as drunk

as an owl. If his eyes are not too bleared to see me, I fancy the sight

of me will sober him.”

“Do you see a woman standing in the bows?” asked Esnada.

Round swung the spyglass to the bows. For a few tense seconds Syn

said nothing. Then he whispered, “It is she. My wife.”

Esnada wondered whether his emotion was about to get the better of

his friend, for the hands that held the glass began to shake. With the

same fear that he might lose his grim determination, Syn snapped the

glass into its sockets and thrust it in his coat. Then he said sadly:

“She is far too beautiful to have been spoiled by a devil. I never

thought she would be there amongst so many men. Well, perhaps ‘tis

better I should confront them both.”

At that instant, Imogene saw him and with a cry of terror raced for

the poop, crying aloud to Nicholas.

“He is there!” she cried. “He is waiting there to kill us! Don’t you

see? The figure in black. The figure in black. It is my husband-Christopher. I tell you it is Doctor Syn.”

Frightened by the vehemence of her terror, Nicholas jerked himself

into soberness. A cold panic drove the drink right out of him, as beads

of perspiration burst from every pore. With clenched fists she beat

against him like a terri fied child. She drove him into instant action,

for springing at his sailing -master he cried out with an oath to “Bout

ship!”

Ignorant of what dreadful catastrophe was about to fall upon them,

their panic impelled the crew into a quick and blind obedien ce. The

sharp and ringing orders were promptly answered, and the ship,

dangerously swinging round in a water-space that was hardly adequate,

all but crashed into the masonry of the quay. As it was, the helmsman’s

skillful steering did not avoid the staggering scraping from the wall.

“What re they doing? Good God! are they mad?” cried out the Harbourmaster, and his question was echoed from the crowd.

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That there was method in their madness became at once apparent, and

with sails already unfurled again she was standing far away to sea.

The Harbourmaster came puffing up to the end of the jetty and,

making a funnel with his hands, bawled out, “Santa Maria, what is

wrong?”

But since no one on board the Santa Maria called back, Doctor Syn

vouchsafed a suggestion:

“It almost seems as though they had seen some dreadful phantom who

frightened them away.”

“I never saw a ship do that before,” replied the Harbourmaster.

“Right to the mouth of Port, her cargoes eagerly waited for, then of a

sudden, round, at great risk to the ship and all upon her, and off to

sea. Look, she is sailing resolutely, as though all Hell were after

her. I think, good Senor, you are in the right of it and this is devil’s

business.”

As he hurried away to write down in his harbour log of the

extraordinary occurrence, Doctor Syn turned to Esnada and smiled. But

the smile was very grim.

“I am glad there was no kill today, for I think this is the method of

torture to employ. He was obviously afraid. The poor, fly fox! Well, I

have covered his cover at Iffley, and I’ve covered his cover here. He

will not dare to go on breaking harbourage like this. He must put into

some port, and from that port he must sail. We must get a system of

spying on him, my good Esnada, and make it so perfect that should we

miss him at one port, we must find whither he has sailed, and post by

road or faster vessel to arrive there first.”

With the help of the Harbourmaster, Esnada was enabled to get in

touch with agents in the differe nt ports of the Peninsula, so that in a

little the movements of the Santa Maria were known to Syn before she

made them. No sooner was her destination known, but the Doctor would

set off to await his

arrival. But Nicholas was cautious. He was also very m uch afraid. The

certainty of seeing that mysterious elegant figure in black for ever

standing before him upon the end of every harbourage he sought got on

his nerves. As he could not run away each time, as he had done at San

Sebastian, he would never anchor save in mid-water. He set a guard to

watch his enemy continually, with the strictest-orders that on no

account was he to be allowed to board ship.

Nicholas himself could never go ashore, for even in the dead of

night, although the figure of Syn might disappear for an hour or so, he

knew that it would reappear again without a warning. And, as Syn

guessed, Imogene was just as frightened as Nicholas, and their horror

communicated itself to the crew, who, whenever they landed either on

pleasure bent or for business connected with the ship, avoided contact

with the figure, never lingering in case it might address them. There

mere fact that it never seemed to notice them filled these fellows with

superstitious dread, and the hardest dogs amongst them would cross

themselves devoutly as they hurried by.

And this went on and on, until the Santa Maria disappeared. She was

due to arrive at her port of lading, and, as usual, Syn was there. But

this time he waited in vain. He then traveled back the longest road

through Spain right from Cadiz, the port in question, to rejoin Esnada

in the north. There, month after month went by, and to all inquiries the

various agents’ answer was: “No news of the Santa Maria.” After a year

the agents answered finally, “She is posted amongst the Lost” But this

Syn resolutely refused to believe. He told Esnada that is was only a

question of waiting, and that sooner or later he would surely hit upon

some clue as to the whereabouts of his enemy.

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In the meantime, Syn set himself to study languages. He added