The Knight of Malta

As he told of the punishment and last words of the Moor, Father Elzear could no longer restrain his tears; he wept as he continued:

“Ah, Pierre, if you had heard him – if you only knew with what passionate feeling he uttered those words, ‘My son! my beloved child,’ you would have had pity on this poor father, whom they have carried off in a state of unconsciousness.”

What was the astonishment of Father Elzear, when he saw the commander, overwhelmed with emotion, hide his head in his hands and cry, sobbing convulsively:

“A son! a son! I, too, have a son!”

CHAPTER XXIV. THE POLACRE

The day after the execution of the sentence on the Moor, the north wind was blowing with increasing violence.

The waves hurled themselves with fury against the girdle of rocks through which opened the narrow passage which led into the road of Tolari.

About eleven o’clock in the morning, Captain Simon, mounted on the platform of the rambade, was talking with Captain Hugues about the punishment which occurred the day before, and of the courage of the Moor.

Suddenly they saw a polacre, her sails almost torn away, flying before the tempest with the rapidity of an arrow, and about to enter the dangerous pass of which we have spoken.

Sometimes the frail vessel, rising on the crest of the towering waves, would show the edge of her keel running with foam like the breast of a race-horse.

Again, sinking in the hollow of the waves, she would plunge with such violence that her stem would be almost perpendicular.

Soon they could distinguish on the deluged deck two men enveloped in brown mantles with hoods, who were employing every possible effort to hold the whip-staff of the rudder.

Five other sailors, squatting at the prow, or holding on to the rigging, awaited the moment to aid in the manoeuvre.

So, by turns carried to the top of the waves and plunged in their depths, the polacre was hastening with frightful speed to tie narrow entrance of the channel, where the waves were dashing with fury.

“By St Elmo!” cried Captain Simon, “there’s a ship gone to destruction!”

“She is lost,” replied Hugues, coldly; “in a few minutes her rigging and hull will be nothing but a wreck, and her sailors will be corpses. May the Lord save the souls of our brothers!”

“Why did he dare venture in this passage at such a time?” said the gunner.

“If a man is to be shipwrecked it is better to perish with a feeble hope. When a man hopes, he prays, and dies a Christian; when he despairs, he blasphemes, and dies a pagan.

“Look, look, Simon, there is the little boat going into the breakers; it is all up with her!”

At that moment the commander, who had been informed of the approach of the vessel and of her desperate condition, appeared on deck with all the chevaliers, officers, and others who manned the galley.

After carefully examining the polacre and the breakers, Pierre des Anbiez called out, in a loud and solemn voice:

“Let the two long-boats be ready and equipped to gather the corpses on the beach: no human power can save this unfortunate ship. Only God can help her.” While the overseers superintended the execution of this order, the commander, turning to the chaplain, said:

“My brother, let us say the prayers for the dying, for these unfortunate men. Brothers, on your knees. Let the crew uncover.”

It was a grand and imposing spectacle.

All the chevaliers, clothed in black, were kneeling bareheaded on the deck; the bell for prayer dolefully tolled a funeral knell amid the wild shrieks of the tempest.

The slaves were also on their knees and uncovered.

In the rear, in the middle of a group of chevaliers dressed in black, Father Elzear in his white cassock could be distinguished.

Prayers for the dying were said with as much solemnity as if they were being recited in a church on land, or in a cloister.

It was not a mere form; these monk-soldiers were sad and contemplative. As sailors they saw a vessel without hope; as Christians they prayed for the souls of their brothers. In fact the polacre seemed in danger of going down every moment. The furious waves, rushing into the channel on their way to the sea, broke the current and whirled and tossed in every direction. Her sails, by which she might have made steady headway, were blown under the enormous rocks; her rudder was useless, and she was at the mercy of the wind and waters which rushed back and forth in unabating rage.

The prayers and chants continued without cessation.

Above all the other voices could be heard the manly, sonorous voice of the commander. The slaves on their knees looked in sullen apathy on this desperate struggle of man against the elements.

Suddenly, by an unhoped-for chance, either because the polacre was of such perfect construction, or because she responded finally to the action of her rudder, or because the little triangular sail that she hoisted caught some current of the upper air, the gallant little vessel steadied herself, resumed her headway, and cleared the dangerous passage with the rapidity and lightness of a sea-gull.

A few minutes after she was out of danger, calmly sailing the waters of the road.

This manoeuvre was so unforeseen, so wonderful, and so well executed, that for a moment astonishment suspended the prayers of the chevaliers.

The commander, amazed, said to the officers, after a few moments of breathless silence:

“My brothers, let us thank the Lord for having heard our prayers, and let us sing a song of thanksgiving.”

While the galley resounded with this pious and solemn invocation, the polacre, The Holy Terror to the Moors, for it was she, was beating about in the road with very little sail, in order to approach the black galley.

She was but a little distance from her when a cannon-shot, sent from the rambade of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, signalled her to hoist her flag and lie to.

A second cannon-shot ordered her to send her captain on board the black galley. Whatever interest this vessel inspired in the commander when she was in danger, her perils past, she must conform to the established rules for visiting ships.

Soon the polacre lay to, and her little boat, equipped with two rowers and steered by a third sailor, approached the stem of the galley.

The man who was at the helm left the whip-staff, slowly climbed the stairs of the first seat of rowers, and stood before the commander and his chevaliers, who had gathered together in the rear of the galley. The sailor in question was no other than our old acquaintance, the worthy Luquin Trinquetaille. His hooded mantle, his boots, and his breeches of coarse wool were running with water.

As he set foot on the deck of the galley he respectfully allowed his hood to fall back on his shoulders, and it could be easily seen that his good, honest face was still excited by the terrible experience through which he had just passed.

The commander, in his visits to Maison-Forte, had often seen Luquin, and was agreeably surprised to recognise a man who could give him some news of his brother, Raimond V.

“The Lord has rescued your ship from a great peril,” said the commander to him. “We have already prayed for your soul, and the souls of your companions.‘’

“May all of you be blessed, M. Commander; we had need of it, for our situation was awful; never since I have been at sea did I ever take part in such a frolic.”

The commander replied to the captain, sternly, “The trials that the Lord sends us are not frolics. How is my brother Raimond?”

“Monseigneur is well,” replied Trinquetaille, a little ashamed of having been reproved by the commander. “I left him in good health, day before yesterday, when I left Maison-Forte.”

“And how is Mlle, des Anbiez?” asked Father Elzear, who had come near.

“Mlle, des Anbiez is very well, father,” replied Luquin.

“Where did you sail from, and where are you going?” asked the commander.

“M. Commander, yesterday I came out of La Ciotat, with three fishing-boats, all armed, in order to cruise two or three leagues from the coasts to discover the pirates.”

“The pirates?”

“Yes, M. Commander. A pirate chebec appeared three days ago; Master Peyrou discovered it. All the coast is alarmed; they expect a descent from the pirates, and they are right, because a tartan from Nice, that I met before this squall, told me that on the east of Corsica had been seen three vessels, and one of them is the Red Galleon of Pog-Reis, the renegade.”

“Pog-Reis!” exclaimed the commander.

“Pog-Reis!” repeated the chevaliers, who surrounded the commander.

“Pog-Reis!” again said Pierre des Anbiez, with an expression of savage satisfaction, as if at last he was about to meet an implacable enemy he had long sought, but who, by some fatality, had always escaped him.

“What were you going to do at Tolari?” asked the commander of Trinquetaille.

“To speak truly, M. Commander, I was not going for pleasure. Surprised by the squall yesterday, I was beating about as I could, but the weather became so violent, and thinking my polacre doomed, I made a vow to Our Lady of Protection, and risked entering the pass, that I was acquainted with, for I have anchored there many a time, coming from the coasts of Sardinia.”

“The Lord grant that this north wind may stop blowing!” said the commander; then, addressing his expert pilot, he said, “What do you think of the weather, pilot?”

“M. Commander, if the wind increases until sunset, there is a chance that it will cease at the rising of the moon.”

“If that is so, and you can put out to-night without danger,” said the commander to Trinquetaille, “go to La Ciotat and inform my brother of my arrival.”

“And that will be a great joy to Maison-Forte, M. commander, although your arrival there may be useless, for a vessel from Marseilles, that I met, told me that soldiers had been sent to La Ciotat with the captain of the company of the guards attending the Marshal of Vitry. They said that these troops were to be sent to Maison-Forte, in consequence of the affair of the recorder Isnard.”

“And what is that?” asked the commander of Luquin.

The captain then told how Raimond V., instead of submitting to the orders of the Governor of Provence, had had his emissary chased by bulls.

As he listened to the narration of this imprudent pleasantry on the part of Raimond V., the commander and Father Elzear looked at each other sadly, as if they deplored the foolish and rash conduct of their brother.

“Go below to the refectory, and the head waiter will give you something to warm and strengthen you,” said the commander to Luquin.

The captain obeyed this order with gratitude, and returned to the prow, followed by a few curious sailors, anxious to learn all the news of Provence.

The commander entered his chamber with his brother, and said to him:

“As soon as the weather will permit, we will depart for Maison-Forte. I fear much that Raimond may be the victim of his rashness concerning the creatures of the cardinal. The Lord grant that I may meet Pog-Reis, and that I may be able to prevent the evil which he is no doubt preparing for this shore, which is so defenceless, and for the unfortunate city of La Ciotat.”

CHAPTER XXV. THE RED GALLEON AND THE SYBARITE

About the same time that The Holy Terror to the Moors was making her marvellous entrance into the road of Tolari, and the sad and black galley of Malta was standing toward her, three vessels of very different character were anchored in Port Mage, quite a good road situated on the northeast of the island of Port-Cros, one of the smallest of the Hyères islands.

Port-Cros, about six or seven leagues from La Ciotat, was at this time of year thickly populated, inasmuch as the season for tunnies and sardines brought many fishermen there who made it a temporary home.

Two galleys and a chebec were at anchor in the bay of which we speak. The tempest had not diminished in violence, but the waters of Port Mage, protected by the high lands on the northwest side, were very tranquil, and reflected in their calm azure the brilliant colours which shone from the Red Galleon of Pog-Reis and the green galley of Trimalcyon. The chebec, commanded by Erebus, had nothing remarkable in its exterior.

The fears of the watchman and the suspicions of Reine were only too well founded. The three unknown men of the gorges of Ollioules were no other than pirate captains, not natives of Barbary, but renegades.

During one of their cruises, they got possession of a Holland vessel, and found on board a Muscovite lord, his son, and preceptor. After having sold them as slaves in Algiers, they took their papers and had the audacity to disembark at Cette, and, coming to Marseilles by land, to present themselves to the Marshal of Vitry under borrowed names. The marshal, deceived by the very boldness of this artifice, received them hospitably.

After a sojourn quite profitably employed in making inquiries concerning the departures and arrivals of vessels of commerce, the three corsairs returned to Cette, and at that point were not distant from the coast of Provence.

They contemplated an important attack on this seashore, and had been keeping themselves sometimes in one of the numerous bays of the island of Corsica, and sometimes in one of the little deserted harbours on the coasts of France or of Savoy; for, at this period, the shores were so badly guarded that pirates risked such positions without fear, and too often without danger.

There was as much difference in the aspect of the two pirate galleys of which we speak, and that of the commander, as there could be between a solemnly attired nun and a silly Bohemian girl glittering in satin and spangles. One was as silent and somber as the others were gay and blustering.

We prefer to conduct the reader on board the Sybarite, a galley of twenty-six oars commanded by Trimalcyon, and anchored a few cable lengths from the Red Galleon of Pog-Reis.

The construction of the pirate galleys resembled very much that of the galleys of Malta; but the ornamentation and splendour of the furniture and accommodation inside differed greatly from them.

The crew was composed of slaves, whether Christians, negroes, or even Turks, as the renegades took little pains as to the manner of recruiting the service of their vessels.

Although they were chained to their benches, as were the crews on the galleys of Malta, the slaves of the Sybarite seemed to partake of the joyous atmosphere which surrounded them.

Instead of having a ferocious, morose, or dejected air, their countenances expressed a vulgar indifference or a cynical insolence. They appeared robust and capable of enduring the severest fatigue, but the fear inspired by their undisciplined character could be seen in the heroic appointments of repression which surrounded them.

Two pieces of ordnance and several blunderbusses on pivot, constantly turned on the crew, were disposed in such a manner that they could sweep the galley from one end to the other.

The spahis, or select soldiers charged with superintending the crew, always wore long pistols in their belts, and carried a battle-axe in their hands.

The uniform of these spahis consisted of red mantles, gaiters of embroidered morocco, and a coat of mail underneath a jacket which was trimmed with yellow lace.

Their scarlet fez was surmounted by a turban of coarse white muslin, loosely rolled in the antique style which, it was said, ran back to the time of the soldiers of Hai-Keddin-Barberousse.

The costume of the crew was not uniform, as plunder and pillage were the principal means by which worn-out garments were replaced. Some of them wore breeches and doublets upon which could be seen the marks of the gold or silver lace which had once adorned them, and which had been removed for the profit of the reis or the captain. Others were clothed in the coats of soldiers, and some even wore the black felt garments taken from the soldiers of religion.

Notwithstanding the heterogeneous appearance of the crew, the galley of Trimalcyon-Reis was kept with scrupulous cleanliness. Its sea-green colour, relieved with fillets of purple, was, at the stern, richly set off in gold, and, in fact, a red flag, on which was embroidered in white the two-edged scimitar, called Zulfekar, was the only sign by which the Sybarite could be recognised as a pirate vessel.

Not far distant lay at anchor the Red Galleon of Pog-Reis, which had a severer and more warlike appearance, and near the entrance of the bay the Tsekedery, or light vessel commanded by Erebus, carried the same standard.

The coasts of France were then, as we have said, in such a deplorable state of defence that these three vessels had been able, without the slightest obstacle, to put into port, in order to escape the storm which raged the day before.

If the exterior of the Sybarite was splendid, her interior offered all the refinements of the most elaborate luxury, in which there was a happy combination of the customs of the West and the East.

A dwarf negro, fantastically attired, had just struck three resounding blows on a Chinese gong placed at the stem near the helm. At this signal a band of musical instruments performed some martial airs. It was the dinner-hour of Trimalcyon, and the chamber of the stem had been converted temporarily into a dining-room.

The partitions were hidden under rich tapestries of poppy-coloured Venetian brocatelle with handsome designs in green and gold.

Pog and Trimalcyon were seated at table.

Trimalcyon had the same characteristic corpulence, the same bright complexion, shrewd eye, joyous countenance, and red, sensual lips. His long, soft cloak of blue velvet disclosed, in opening, a buff-skin of extreme elasticity, covered over with a steel net so finely wrought that it was as flexible as the thinnest material. This habit of wearing continually a defensive armour proved in what confident security the captain of the Sybarite was accustomed to live.

Pog-Reis, sitting opposite his companion, had also the same haughty, sarcastic manner. He wore an Arabian yellek of black velvet embroidered with black silk, on which hung at full length his heavy red beard; his green and red cap of the Albanian fashion covered half his white forehead, which was deeply furrowed with wrinkles.

Two female slaves of great beauty, one a mulattress, the other a Circassian, dressed in light, thin gowns of Smyrna material, performed, with the aid of the dwarf negro, the table service of Trimalcyon.

On revolving shelves were displayed magnificent pieces of plate, unmatched and incomplete it is true, but of the most beautiful workmanship, some of silver, some of gilt, and others of gold set with precious stones. In the midst of this plate, the fruit of robbery and murder, were placed, in sacrilegious derision, sacred vessels, carried away either from the churches on the seashore or from Christian ships.

A very penetrating and very sweet perfume burned in a censer hanging from one of the rafters of the ceiling. Seated on a luxurious divan, the captain of the Sybarite said to his guest:

“Excuse this poor hospitality, my comrade. I would prefer to replace these poor girls with Egyptian slaves, who, equipped with ewers of Corinthian metal, would sprinkle, as they sang, rose-scented snow-water on our hands.”

“You do not lack vases and ewers, Trimalcyon,” said Pog, throwing a significant glance at the sideboard.

“Ah, well, yes, there are vases of gold and silver, but what is that compared to the Corinthian metal of which antiquity speaks: a metal made of a mixture of gold, silver, and bronze, and so marvellously wrought that a large ewer and basin only weighed one pound? By Sardanapalus! comrade, some day I must make a descent on Messina. They say that the viceroy possesses several antique statuettes of that precious metal. But take some of this partridge pudding spiced with wild aniseed; I had it served on its silver gridiron burning hot. Or do you prefer these imitations of pea-fowl eggs? You will find there, instead of the yellow, a very fat tit-lark, well yellowed, and, instead of the white, a thick sauce of cooked cream.”

“Your fine vocabulary of gormandising ought to win for you the esteem of your cook. You appear to me to be made, both of you, for the purpose of understanding each other,” said Pog, eating with disdainful indifference the delicate dishes served by his host.

“My cook,” replied Trimalcyon, “understands me well enough, in fact, although sometimes he has his discouragements; he regrets France, from which country I carried him off unawares. I have tried to console him, for a long time, with everything, – silver, money, attention, – nothing succeeds however, so I have finished where I ought to have begun, with a severe bastinado, and am quite well satisfied with it, and he is too, I suppose, since he cooks wonderfully, as you see. Give us something to drink, Orangine!” called Trimalcyon to the mulattress, who poured out a glorious glass of Bordeaux wine. “What is that wine, Crow-provender?” asked he of the negro dwarf, holding his glass up to his eyes to judge its colour.

“My lord, it was taken, in the month of June, from a Bordeaux brigantine on its way to Genoa.”

“H’m, h’m,” said Trimalcyon, tasting it, “it is good, very good, but there is the inconvenience of supplying ourselves as we do, friend Pog: we never have the same quality, so if we get accustomed to one kind of wine, we meet with cruel disappointments. Ah! our trade is not a bed of roses. But you do not drink! Fill Seigneur Fog’s glass, Swan-skin,” said Trimalcyon, to the white Circassian, pointing to his guest’s cup.

Pog, as a refusal, placed his finger over his glass.

“At least, let us drink to the success of our descent upon La Ciotat, comrade.”

Pog replied to this new invitation by a movement of contemptuous impatience.

“As you please, comrade,” said Trimalcyon, without the slightest indication of being offended by the refusal and haughty manner of his guest, “it is just as well not to trust myself to your invocations; the devil knows your voice, and he always thinks you are calling him. But you are wrong to disdain that ham, it is from Westphalia, I think, – is it not, you scoundrel?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the dwarf, “it came from that Dutch fly-boat, arrested as it sailed out of the strait of Sardinia. It was destined for the Viceroy of Naples.” At that moment the flourishes of the musicians ceased; a noise, at first quite indistinct, but increasing by degrees, soon became loud and threatening. The clanking of chains and complaints of the galley-slaves could be heard, and, finally, rising above the tumult, the voices of the spahis and the cracking of the coxswain’s whip.

Trimalcyon seemed so accustomed to these cries, that he continued to drink a glass of wine that he was carrying to his lips, and carelessly remarked, as he set his glass on the table:

“There are some dogs that want to bite; fortunately their chains are good and strong. Crow-provender, go and see why the musicians have stopped playing. I will have them given twenty blows of the cowhide if they stop again, instead of blowing their trumpets. I am too good. I love the arts too much. Instead of selling these do-nothings in Algiers, I have kept them to make music, and that is the way they behave! Ah! if they were not too feeble for the crew, they should find out what it is to handle the oar.”

“They are certainly too weak for that, my lord,” said the negro dwarf; “the comedians that you captured with them on that galley from Barcelona are still at the house of Jousouf, who bought them. He cannot get two pieces of gold for a single one of the singing, blowing cattle.”

Pog-Reis seemed thoughtful and oblivious of what was passing around him, although the murmurs of dissatisfaction increased to such violence that Trimalcyon said to the dwarf:

“Before you go out, place here by me, on the divan, my pistols and a stock of arms. Well, now go and see what is the matter. If it is anything serious, let Mello come and tell me. At the same time, inform those blowers of trumpets that I will make them swallow trumpets and buccinæ if they stop playing a moment.”

“My lord, they say they have not wind enough to play two hours together.”