Marianne and the Rebels

Jason's face darkened with rage and he was about to make a violent reply, when Leighton's cold voice cut in like a knife:

'Precisely. Such a slave is worth a fortune and I am the first to deplore this punishment.'

'I did not bring him from Venice to sell him again,' Jason snapped. 'I'm only carrying out the law of the sea. If he dies of it, so much the worse. You may go on, Arroyo.'

'No! I won't let you! Coward! You're nothing but a coward and a bully! I won't let you!'

The boatswain was already raising his whip again but uncertainly. Anger had given Marianne an added strength which made it almost impossible for the lieutenant to hold her. Around them the men stood staring, fascinated by the raging, wild-eyed woman, too dazed to intervene.

Jason, beside himself, was already springing down from the poop to go to his lieutenant's assistance, when the voice from the masthead cried:

'Captain! The Pomone is asking what's amiss. What'll I tell her?'

'Punishment, tell'em!'

'They must have heard the Princess screaming,' O'Flaherty muttered breathlessly. 'With a telescope they can see all that's going on here. Better belay, Captain. Short of knocking her unconscious, we can't keep her quiet, and it's not worth risking a fight, two against one.'

'It's not that I don't want one,' Jason snarled, clenching his fists. 'How many lashes now?'

'Twenty-five.'

Sensing victory within her reach, Marianne had stopped struggling, and was conserving her breath to scream the louder if Jason did not give in.

For a moment, their eyes met, both filled with an equal rage, but it was the privateer's that were the first to fall.

'Cut him down,' he ordered curtly, swinging on his heel. 'But put him in irons. If Dr Leighton is willing to attend him, he can have him.'

'I hope you're proud of yourself, Jason Beaufort!' Marianne cried scornfully. 'I don't know which I admire most: your hospitality or your sense of honour!'

Jason had already turned away, but he paused beside the mizzen-mast where two men were engaged in cutting down the Ethiopian's motionless figure.

'Honour?' he said, with a weary little shrug. 'It's not a word you know the meaning of! As for my hospitality, as you call it, I'd have you know that on board this ship it's called discipline. Those who flout the common law must take the consequences. And now, go back to your cabin. You have no business here, and I may yet forget that you're a woman.'

Marianne turned without a word and laid her hand with dignity on the arm which O'Flaherty was holding out to her uneasily, waiting to escort her to her cabin.

As they went, she saw that the ship was now sailing past a dark and desolate-looking coast, in sombre contrast to the bright blue sea and sparkling sunshine. It was a land of stark, black rock, bare hills and sharp, menacing reefs. In the clear Greek light it seemed a place designed for storms and darkness and shipwreck. A place for murder, too. The thought made her shiver a little and she turned to her companion:

'Do you know what land that is?'

'The island of Cythera, ma'am.'

Marianne exclaimed in surprise:

'Cythera! You can't mean it? Surely, you are joking? Cythera? Those gloomy, barren rocks!'

'Yes, indeed it is. The island of love! It's a sad disappointment, I agree. I can't imagine anyone wishing to embark for such a dismal spot.'

'No… but isn't that just what we all do? We embark, full of joy and eagerness, for our dream Cythera, only to arrive here, on a harsh rocky isle where everything is smashed. That's what love is, Lieutenant. It's a trap, like the fires lit by wreckers on an empty shore to entice lost ships in to shatter themselves on the cruel rocks. Love is a shipwreck, a wreck made all the worse because it happens just when you think a haven is in sight.'

Craig O'Flaherty drew in his breath. His naturally cheerful face bore a look of distress that sat uneasily on it. He was silent for a moment and then said quietly:

'You mustn't despair, ma'am. You aren't wrecked yet.'

'No? In two or three days we'll reach Athens. What can I do then but take passage on some Greek vessel going to Constantinople, while you set a course for America.'

There was another silence. The lieutenant appeared to be having some difficulty in breathing but, as Marianne glanced in surprise at his flushed face, he seemed to make up his mind with an immense effort, like a man reaching a decision he has been putting off for a long time.

'No,' he said abruptly. 'Not for America. Or not at first, at any rate. We're bound for Africa.'

'Africa?'

'Yes. For the Gulf of Guinea. We're expected on the island of Fernando Po, in the Bight of Biafra, and – and the slave depots of Old Calabar. That is why the doctor was so much against this voyage to Constantinople – and your own presence on board.'

'What are you trying to tell me?'

Marianne uttered the words in a strangled shriek and O'Flaherty grasped her hastily by the arm and hurried her onward, casting uneasy glances around him.

'Not here, ma'am! Go back to your cabin. I have my duty.'

'But I want to know—'

'Later, I beg you! When I am free – this evening, for instance. I'll come to your door and tell you everything then. In the meanwhile, try not to blame the captain too much. He has fallen into the clutches of a devil who aims to drive him mad.'

They had reached Marianne's door by now. O'Flaherty was bowing briefly and, much as she longed to know the truth about the things that had been kept from her, she realized that for the present it was useless to insist: better to wait and let the lieutenant tell her in his own good time.

Yet, as he turned to go, she called him back:

'Mr O'Flaherty, just one thing more. How is the man who was flogged?'

'Kaleb?'

'Yes. I know the thing he did was very bad but – that terrible punishment…'

'He was spared the greater part of it, thanks to you, ma'am,' the lieutenant said gently, 'and a man of his strength doesn't die of twenty-five lashes. As for the thing he did – well, I know two or three more'd be glad to do the same. Until this evening, then, ma'am.'

This time, Marianne let him go. She entered the cabin thoughtfully, to be greeted with something not far short of rapture by Agathe who had evidently been expecting Jason Beaufort to hang her mistress at the yard-arm for daring to interfere.

Marianne told her in a few words what had taken place and then withdrew into a silence which lasted until evening. Her brain whirled with such a confused multitude of thoughts that it was all she could do to sort them out. There were so many questions that she did not give up until her head was aching. Overcome at last by weariness and the pain in her temples, she decided to try and sleep.

It would help to build up her strength and, in any case, sleep was quite the best way of making the time pass quickly when one was consumed with curiosity.

She was roused from her sleep by the sound of gunfire which sent her dashing breathlessly to the porthole, fearing an attack. But it was only the frigates of their escort firing a farewell salute. Cythera had vanished. Westwards, the sun was low in the sky and the two warships, their mission accomplished, were going about for the return journey to Corfu. They could not go any farther for fear of offending the Sultan, who was not friendly to France. The British squadrons were equally cautious, to avoid damaging the recently improved relations between their own government and the Sublime Porte. In the normal way of things the Sea Witch should have been able to make Constantinople without further trouble – if her captain had not decreed that the voyage was to end at Piraeus, whence he would set a course for Africa.

It was this mention of Africa that tormented Marianne more even than her own predicament. O'Flaherty, if Marianne had understood him correctly, had implied that Jason intended to sail for the Bight of Biafra to pick up a cargo of slaves. Yet that could not possibly be true, since Jason's one object in going to Venice had been to meet the woman he meant to make his wife and take her with him to Charleston. It was to be a lovers' trip, almost a honeymoon. A cruise on board a slave ship could scarcely be expected to appeal to a young woman, and certainly no man worthy of the name would inflict such a voyage on the woman he loved. Then, what?