Captain Blood - Rafael Sabatini (tohfa e dulha read online .TXT) 📗

attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He announced his authority to the yeoman.

“I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons. What rebels do you harbour?”

The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed itself in his trembling voice.

“I⁠ ⁠… I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman⁠ ⁠…”

“I can see for myself.” The Captain stamped forward to the daybed, and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.

“No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned rebel, and that’s enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons. “Out with him, my lads.”

Mr. Blood got between the daybed and the troopers.

“In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be moved without peril to his life.”

Captain Hobart was amused.

“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him? There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”

“You’re hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am. We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”

The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.

“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.

“My name is Blood, sir⁠—Peter Blood, at your service.”

“Aye⁠—aye! Codso! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”

If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.

“I was.”

“Then I remember you⁠—five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”

“That is so. I knew your colonel.”

“Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”

“This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”

“A doctor⁠—you?” Scorn of that lie⁠—as he conceived it⁠—rang in the heavy, hectoring voice.

“Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.

“Don’t fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”

Mr. Blood’s smile annoyed him.

“I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.”

The Captain sneered. “Which you reached by way of Lyme Regis in the following of your bastard Duke.”

It was Mr. Blood’s turn to sneer. “If your wit were as big as your voice, my dear, it’s the great man you’d be by this.”

For a moment the dragoon was speechless. The colour deepened in his face.

“You may find me great enough to hang you.”

“Faith, yes. Ye’ve the look and the manners of a hangman. But if you practise your trade on my patient here, you may be putting a rope round your own neck. He’s not the kind you may string up and no questions asked. He has the right to trial, and the right to trial by his peers.”

“By his peers?”

The Captain was taken aback by these three words, which Mr. Blood had stressed.

“Sure, now, any but a fool or a savage would have asked his name before ordering him to the gallows. The gentleman is my Lord Gildoy.”

And then his lordship spoke for himself, in a weak voice.

“I make no concealment of my association with the Duke of Monmouth. I’ll take the consequences. But, if you please, I’ll take them after trial⁠—by my peers, as the doctor has said.”

The feeble voice ceased, and was followed by a moment’s silence. As is common in many blustering men, there was a deal of timidity deep down in Hobart. The announcement of his lordship’s rank had touched those depths. A servile upstart, he stood in awe of titles. And he stood in awe of his colonel. Percy Kirke was not lenient with blunderers.

By a gesture he checked his men. He must consider. Mr. Blood, observing his pause, added further matter for his consideration.

“Ye’ll be remembering, Captain, that Lord Gildoy will have friends and relatives on the Tory side, who’ll have something to say to Colonel Kirke if his lordship should be handled like a common felon. You’ll go warily, Captain, or, as I’ve said, it’s a halter for your neck ye’ll be weaving this morning.”

Captain Hobart swept the warning aside with a bluster of contempt, but he acted upon it none the less. “Take up the daybed,” said he, “and convey him on that to Bridgewater. Lodge him in the gaol until I take order about him.”

“He may not survive the journey,” Blood remonstrated. “He’s in no case to be moved.”

“So much the worse for him. My affair is to round up rebels.” He confirmed his order by a gesture. Two of his men took up the daybed, and swung to depart with it.

Gildoy made a feeble effort to put forth a hand towards Mr. Blood. “Sir,” he said, “you leave me in your debt. If I live I shall study how to discharge it.”

Mr. Blood bowed for answer; then to the men: “Bear him steadily,” he commanded. “His life depends on it.”

As his lordship was carried out, the Captain became brisk. He turned upon the yeoman.

“What other cursed rebels do you harbour?”

“None other, sir. His lordship⁠ ⁠…”

“We’ve dealt with his lordship for the present. We’ll deal with you in a moment when we’ve searched your house. And, by God, if you’ve lied to me⁠ ⁠…” He broke off, snarling, to give an order. Four of his dragoons went out. In a moment they were heard moving noisily in the adjacent room. Meanwhile, the Captain was questing about the hall, sounding the wainscoting with the butt of a pistol.

Mr. Blood saw no profit to himself in lingering.

“By your leave, it’s a very good day I’ll be wishing you,” said he.

“By my leave, you’ll remain awhile,” the Captain ordered him.

Mr. Blood