Captain Blood | Page 8

bare his lordship's mangled
side, and called for water and linen and what else he needed for his
work.
He was still intent upon it a half-hour later when the dragoons invaded
the homestead. The clatter of hooves and hoarse shouts that heralded
their approach disturbed him not at all. For one thing, he was not easily
disturbed; for another, his task absorbed him. But his lordship, who had
now recovered consciousness, showed considerable alarm, and the
battle-stained Jeremy Pitt sped to cover in a clothes-press. Baynes was
uneasy, and his wife and daughter trembled. Mr. Blood reassured them.
"Why, what's to fear?" he said. "It's a Christian country, this, and
Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who
harbour them." He still had, you see, illusions about Christians. He held
a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his lordship's lips.

"Give your mind peace, my lord. The worst is done."
And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall - a
round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers
Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace
about the breast of his coat.
Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and
daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the
day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.
The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an 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 day-bed,
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 day-bed 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