"What's that you say? Has she been stolen?"
Gracchus shook his head, opened his mouth, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, gulped painfully two or three times and managed to say: "Put… put her in quarantine, damn them! She's… riding at anchor… out in… the Bosporus, near the Tower of the Maiden…"
"Quarantine!" Jolival exclaimed. "But why?"
The onetime errand boy of the rue Montorgueil jerked his shoulders angrily.
"It seems one of the men on board her took ill and died suddenly of the cholera. They took the body ashore at once and burned it, but the port authorities insist on the ship's being quarantined. When we got there with Monsieur O'Flaherty she'd just put out from her moorings with one of my lord Turhan's men made to pilot her. It's dreadful, isn't it, Monsieur Jason? What are we going to do?"
Gracchus, whose delight at seeing his favorite hero once again—aided by such explanations as Jolival thought proper to give him—had made the harsh memories of their last encounter melt like butter in the sun, had been dispatched by Jason to find Craig O'Flaherty and instruct him to set about assembling a crew.
Unexpectedly enough, Jason's old lieutenant of the Sea Witch had not left Constantinople. Something in his Irish soul had responded to the color and poetry of the city, and also to the possibilities of the contraband trade in Russian vodka and the wines of the Crimea for a man with some small business sense.
Left to himself after Achmet Reis had taken the brig and some of those aboard her to the Ottoman capital, O'Flaherty had at first been at a loss what to do. It would have been possible, certainly, for him to have signed on with one or another of the British vessels which, like the frigate Jason, were frequent visitors to the Golden Horn, and so make his way back to Europe. But once again his Irish soul rebelled at the thought of treading an English deck, even with the object of returning to his native seas.
Furthermore, not only was he still a welcome visitor at the French embassy, where he called frequently to see Jolival, but he was also drawn by something stronger than himself to the American brig. He loved the ship almost like a child and when he learned that the Haseki Sultan had bought her and given her to Marianne, he had settled down to wait for Beaufort, like Marianne herself, with the same complete faith only rather more patience.
The early days of waiting had not been easy. He had no very clear idea what to do with himself but divided his time and what little money he had between the various taverns in the city and the shadow play in Seraskier Square, which delighted his boyish heart. He had gone on in this way until one day his thirst for alcohol had taken him into a certain tavern in Galata which was the haunt of the most fervent devotees of Bacchus of all the European shore.
There he had made the acquaintance of one Mamoulian, a Georgian from the region of Batum who was endeavoring, in the fumes of Greek and Italian wines, to forget the war that was slowly ruining him. For the hostilities between the Porte and Tsar Alexander had effectively put a stop to the profitable import of vodka, since no seaman worthy of the name was willing any longer to run the risks of taking his ship into Russian waters.
A friendship fostered by a few bottles of wine drunk in company had sprung up between the two, and they had agreed to form a temporary alliance. The end of the war was in sight and O'Flaherty for his part was unwilling to engage himself for any length of time, not wishing to outstay the brig in Constantinople.
As a result, leaving word for Jolival that he could be found at the bar known as the San Giorgio, which had become his favorite haunt, the Irishman had plunged happily into two smuggling expeditions, both of which were crowned with success and besides restoring his fortunes in a most agreeable way had made the time hang much less heavily on his hands.
As luck would have it, he had just returned from the second of these voyages and was back in Galata when Gracchus came looking for him with the news of Jason's arrival and his initial instructions. Craig O'Flaherty had promptly celebrated the happy event by downing an enormous glass of Irish whiskey, procured from heaven alone knew where, and had then set off, towing Gracchus after him, to cross the Golden Horn and hasten to the Phanar waterfront, to be greeted with the disconcerting sight which Gracchus had described.
The two of them had spent the whole day running up and down trying to find out where the brig was lying, so that sunset had caught them on the wrong side of the Golden Horn and they had been obliged to spend the night in a Greek tavern at considerable risk of being taken up by the watch.
There they had drowned their sorrows in a resinated wine which had left them both with aching heads, and at daybreak they had flung themselves into a boat to cross the water again and make their report.
Ignoring Gracchus's anguished query, Jason asked merely: "Where have you left Mr. O'Flaherty?"
"With the porter—the kapiji, I mean. He didn't like to come in—not knowing Turhan Bey. He's waiting there for your orders."
"I'll go and bring him in. We must decide what is to be done. And there's the child still not come—"
"Mon Dieu!" Gracchus exclaimed. "What with everything else, I was forgetting the baby! Isn't it born yet?"
"No," Jolival said. "He—or she, because there's no saying it will be a boy, after all—is taking his time about it."
"But—isn't it dangerous, taking so long?"
Jolival shrugged. "I don't know. We must hope not."
Their hopes were justified. For even as the vicomte was speaking, Rebecca's long, supple and experienced hands, reaching right into the body of her patient to turn the child, which was positioned badly, were delivering Marianne at last.
She, poor girl, had suffered so much that the actual birth drew from her no more than a plaintive cry, followed by merciful unconsciousness. She did not hear the baby's first, remarkably vigorous wail as Rebecca slapped it sharply. Or Donna Lavinia's delighted exclamation: "It's a boy! Sweet Jesus, we have a son…"
"And a very fine boy, too," the Jewess added. "He must weigh nearly nine pounds. He'll be a splendid man. Go and tell those two fools who were smoking away in the next room. No doubt you'll find them in the gallery."
But the faithful nurse of the Sant'Annas was no longer listening. She had fled from the chamber, picking up her starched petticoats to run the faster, and was making straight for the prince's apartments. As she ran, she was laughing and crying and babbling aloud, possessed by a joy that must be shared.
"A son!" she was crying. "He has a son! The curse is lifted. God has taken pity on him at last…"
In the meantime, while Rebecca attended to the newborn child Marianne was recovering consciousness under the ministrations of Jelal Osman Bey. The doctor had roused himself at last from his fatalistic stillness and hurried to revive the young mother from her dangerous swoon. The life of a woman capable of bringing into the world such a boy as she had just given birth to was not to be lightly thrown away.
Marianne, opening her eyes, was vaguely aware of a dark face with a little pointed beard which she was able to identify after a moment.
"Doctor," she breathed. "Will it… will it be much longer now?"
"Are you still in pain?"
"N-no. No… that's right. The pains have stopped."
"And so they should have done, for it is all over."
"Over?"
Marianne drew the word out slowly, as though struggling to grasp its meaning. She was conscious of little beyond the blessed relief to her tortured body. Over! The frightful agony was over. The pain was not going to come again and she could go to sleep at last.
But the face was still hovering over her and she could smell the scent of ambergris that clung to his garments.