Dark Mondays Read online

  But when they came up level with it, they saw no village; only a sort of landing and a couple of sheds, and two or three boats abandoned. John guessed that the cross marked only a place to disembark and portage, and talking with the men who’d been up the river before he learned that was so; also that the cross marked a grave.

  They’d kept plenty of company with dead men, though, so nobody minded camping there for the night. Morgan did some close talking with the surviving guide who’d come with them from Old Providence, who told him the jungle opened out soon, easy for steady marching.

  There were no attacks in the night, not even by the shade of Juan Gallego. Come morning, Morgan left a column of men to guard the boats and took the rest overland, to see whether they mightn’t hack a path through the jungle. He kept John close by his side, and Jacques too. Jacques was the first to spot the cut and broken twigs that meant somebody had passed that way not long before; he pointed to them silently. Morgan looked, and said nothing. John thought he saw again the mark of a slender bare foot, tiptoe here and there as though the girl had been running.

  A fairy-lass might slip through the trees easy, but an army of a thousand men is something else again. There were nasty things in the jungle too: spiders as big as kittens, scorpions, snakes, swarming ants whose bite was like the touch of a red-hot poker.

  When they’d made not more than a mile or two in two hours, Morgan bid them turn back. The cargo-boats couldn’t get any further up the river, but the canoes could just be floated; so upriver they went, paddle and dig, in shifts, and twice John fell into the muck and had to scramble back to his perch on the thwarts, with his knees sticking up about his ears, and was roundly cursed by his shipmates for being so big.

  But by nightfall they had all made it as far as a place the guide called Cedro Bueno, where the jungle thinned out a bit. Here they camped, and here the mutterings of mutiny grew loud around the campfires; for in all that time they hadn’t been able to eat a blessed thing but flower buds and snakes. John was sitting by Morgan when the party of men came to declare their grievances.

  The leader was Hendrik Smeeks, because he’d been a barber-surgeon and had an education, and he spoke well. He had short words for Morgan, though: he said it was plain their designs were known to the Spanish, and that all that lay ahead was starvation and ambush, and they’d best turn back now and cut their losses.

  Morgan heard him out, and then he began to talk. So artfully! Yes, he said, it would be a great thing if they were ambushed. The Spanish cowards surely had food with them, and horses. He could fancy a lovely bit of broiled horseflesh, sizzling from the fire, belike washed down with the curious dark wine of Peru, or maybe a maize-cake baked in the ashes. And what viands there’d be in Panama! Pickled fish, and sugared cates, beefsteaks, sherry sack such as the rich bishops and cardinals supped, white cheeses and oranges…

  Tender and lewd as a procurer he spoke, and all men hearing him groaned with hunger, and felt the painful rumblings of their bellies. John’s own mouth watered so he was near to drowning. Morgan said it was never his custom to be a tyrant; he preferred all parties in agreement whenever possible. So, he said, he’d put it to them: whether they would venture on to feasts and plunder, or slink back like starving curs. And if they were to go on, perhaps they’d agree to leave all but a few of the canoes and march overland, now that the way was open and plain?

  Which last made excellent sense, to men sick of fighting through the river mud. So they shouted that they’d go on, and some abused Smeeks for a coward. But Morgan graciously bid them leave off, saying that Smeeks was surely as good as the next man. Smeeks stalked away from him scowling. He had his revenge in time, though it cost him dear.

  * * *

  The next day they set off, with the main body of the men marching and others following in canoes, very much easier now that the damn things weren’t packed to the gunwales. A little after sunrise some of the boucaniers cried out that they’d spotted an Indian watching them from the woods, and took off in pursuit. They lost him, or there’d likely have been servings of long pork for breakfast, so sharp-set they were.

  Around noon Bob Plum, marching near the front, shaded his hand with his eyes and stared hard into the distance.

  “There’s smoke up there,” he said. Just as the words left his mouth, they heard a cry from the guide who had gone ahead in the lightest of the canoes: Emboscada! Emboscada!

  “Take ’em!” said Morgan, and drawing his cutlass he led the charge, men following him like so many roaring lions. Oh, for grilled flesh, and maize-cakes, and wine! And now they could see the huts clear, and the smoke, and…

  Nothing else.

  The smoke hung low in the sunlight, putting a haze on things, but even so it was plain the place had been deserted. The Brethren milled around like ants, baffled and then angry. Morgan said something in Welsh, what, John didn’t know, but it had a blistering kind of sound to it. He stalked over to the guide, who was just coming up to the bank in the canoe.

  “What is this place?” he demanded.

  “The outpost of Torna Caballos,” said the guide. Blackstone, who’d been poking through some empty provision-bags, turned his head sharply.

  Dick Pettibone found a crust of bread, just then, half-charred from being in the ashes, and straightaway another man made a grab for it. Dick backed away, clutching the crust; the other fellow made to open Dick’s guts with his cutlass, and only the fact that Morgan drew his pistol and fired stopped him.

  “Now by God, the next man to raise his hand will get a bullet between his eyes,” said Morgan. “And I leave it to you all to imagine what kind of burial he shall have, look you. Go search the huts! See if any provision was left.”

  John saw that Blackstone had already slipped off to the huts, and he followed after.

  “Wasn’t this the place where you were bid to look for your lost prince? Torna Caballos?”

  “The same,” said Blackstone, throwing back the door of one shelter. Nothing but a dirt floor scattered with straw, and a few dirty hammocks hanging from the ceiling beam.

  “Looks like you been done again, then,” said John. Blackstone only gave him a disgusted sort of look and went outside to the next hut. From the shouts of disappointment echoing across the clearing, it was plain no food had been left anywhere.

  At the fourth hut they tried, something was different; their boots thudded with a hollow noise as they stepped inside. John looked down and saw that the floor was made of wood.

  “This must be the mayor’s house, eh?” he said. Blackstone looked down absent-mindedly, then looked away; then looked back, with gimlet eyes.

  “There’s a cellar under this,” he said, bouncing experimentally. Sure enough, there was a hollow sort of boom from under his feet. John took a straw and bent down, poking it between the planks. It vanished its whole length into the dark without touching anything. He reached for another straw, from the heap that had been placed conveniently on the floor, and Blackstone caught his arm. One scuff of his boot through the straw-heap laid bare the trap door underneath.

  John drew his pistol. Blackstone drew his too. With his free hand he caught the ring and threw the door back, aiming down into the dark.

  “Don’t shoot!” cried someone from below.

  John was so hungry, and so tantalized by the thought of hams or wine or whatever else might be hidden down there, that he jumped in straightaway. He landed fair on his feet and saw a fearful-looking Spaniard, and behind him a second figure sitting against the wall. So much he noticed before he saw the provision bags hanging from the ceiling, and as Blackstone descended the ladder John tore a bag down, and stuffed his mouth with dry bread and jerked meat.

  The Spaniard had fallen to his knees in entreaty. As he saw John’s boots he began to weep with relief.

  “Thank God, you have come,” he said. “I thought you were the pirates.”

  John grinned with his mouth full and was on point of telling the poor devil the truth of i
t, but Blackstone raised his hand.

  “Where is His Highness?” he said.

  The Spaniard got to his feet. Stepping to one side, he indicated the seated figure.

  “Here, señor,” he said.

  Blackstone looked horrified, and John didn’t much blame him. The man who sat there didn’t fit John’s idea of a prince. He was naked but for some raggedy breeches, without a hair anywhere on his body; not so much as an eyelash. His skin was white as salt and he had a swollen kind of look, like a drowned man. The blank moon-face was as placid as smooth water in a millpond.

  Blackstone went down on one knee before him.

  “Have I the honor of addressing His Royal Highness, Prince Maurice von Simmern?” he asked.

  “He cannot answer you, I am afraid, señor,” said the Spaniard.

  Blackstone looked round, his eyes blazing. “What have you done to him?” he said.

  The Spaniard gave a little cough. “We have done nothing, señor. His Highness’ lamentable condition is entirely his own doing.”

  Blackstone got to his feet. “You had better explain.”

  John had begun to feel a little sick by this time, what with the food he’d gobbled down so fast and the queer way the cellar stank, so he didn’t pay as much attention as he might have, but what the Spaniard explained was: that many years before the crew of a Spanish galleon weathered a fearful storm at sea, and put into an islet to repair their gear. There on the sand was a new-wrecked ship, the Defiance, and lashed to her mast was a man, still alive.

  He was taken prisoner, along with a half-dead servant they found belowdecks, and shipped off for interrogation to Hispaniola. There, the viceroy learned that the prisoner was close kin to the English king in exile (as he was then). The Spanish hadn’t loved Oliver Cromwell particularly, so the viceroy put the royal prisoner in rather better rooms than were usually given to English heretics, and then wrote to Spain to ask, what should he do next?

  Unfortunately, the royal prisoner, instead of waiting and being ransomed like a sensible man, took it into his head to try to escape. That, at least, was what they learned afterward from the servant.

  It seemed he had seen an English play wherein one Juliet avoided an enforced marriage by drinking off a potion that made her look dead. She was buried in the family crypt, and woke afterward, and all had been well but for her true love not being privy to her plan and killing himself before she woke.

  Prince Maurice (for this was he) having no true love to worry him, resolved to escape in this manner: to appear to die, and then have his servant break into the crypt and set him free. He sent the man, who had leave to do his marketing and his laundry and such, into the nearest village to ask whether a potion mightn’t be found to make a man appear to be dead.

  There was a sort of herb doctor there and he had such a potion, all right, but it seemed the servant hadn’t explained proper as to what it was needed for.

  All went off as planned until the servant broke into the crypt to free the prince, when he was found to be alive, indeed, but in his present unfortunate state. They were recaptured by the viceroy’s men, much to the viceroy’s dismay. He had just got word back from Spain that Prince Maurice was to be set free and returned to the bosom of his loving family, in the hope that King Charles would remember this little favor if he was ever restored to his throne.

  So he wrote again, explaining what had happened. It was a great embarrassment to the Spanish, who were always ready to abuse common Englishmen but felt that those of royal blood ought to be given certain considerations. They decided to keep the matter a secret; as far as the English knew, Prince Maurice was dead anyway. And, who knew? Perhaps the effects of the drug might wear off and the prince might one day be more presentable.

  This proved not to be the case, however. The years went on, and Prince Maurice was moved from one prison to another on the Spanish Main, and now and again a rumor got out that he’d been seen somewhere. Then it became public knowledge that his brother, Prince Rupert, had offered a reward to know his fate.

  Well, the Spanish weren’t about to admit the truth, so the order went out that the matter was to be kept concealed. But then, some warden with a keen eye for the main chance saw a way he might turn a profit. He devised all the hugger-muggery with the boots, and wrote in secret to Prince Rupert’s agents to see if they were in the market for one lost prince, somewhat the worse for wear.

  “And it has been much more difficult than we expected, señor,” said the Spaniard peevishly. “He is difficult to move about and to conceal, especially with those sons of whores the pirates making war on us, and then there has been the cost of his feeding. I hope you have brought the money, señor.”

  Blackstone turned and shot him dead where he stood.

  “Neat,” said John, in an admiring kind of way. “You get the prince and keep the money, eh?”

  The sound of the shot brought men running to the hut, and in short order there were faces peering down through the trap. Prince Maurice just sat there; neither the shot nor the commotion that followed drew his notice.

  * * *

  It took rope and tackle to get the prince out of the cellar, but once he was set on his feet he’d walk, if prodded on the back, and stop if prodded on the front. The men crowded around him, curious, all save those who were busy in the cellar; and the less said about that the better.

  “Aie! Il est un zombi,” said Jago, looking horrified. “They are the misfortune.”

  “What, you mean bad luck?” said John.

  “We can scarcely have worse luck than he’s had,” said Blackstone. He saw Morgan approaching and went off to have a quiet word with him.

  “Phew! He doesn’t half stink,” said one man, holding his nose.

  “It is the smell of the living death,” said Jago. “The Indians on Hispaniola, they teach the médecins among the poor people how to make this. It makes slaves of the dead.”

  “A dead man! Lord preserve us!” cried Bob Plum, backing up against the Reverend.

  “This is sorcery,” the Reverend said, with his hands beginning to shake.

  “It’s a big fat fellow who ain’t been washed in a month, more than likely,” said John. “And he ain’t no dead man.” He told them a little of the truth, and they were no less appalled.

  “Prince Maurice!” cried Dick Pettibone. “Why, he was a lovely gentleman! Oh, to see him come to this!” He stepped close and shouted up at the prince. “Your Highness! Your Highness, do you apprehend me?”

  The prince only stared. Whether there was some memory behind that egg-smooth countenance, of riding with his cavaliers at Lyme or piratical raids out of Kinsale, who can say? Morgan seemed to be wondering the same thing, as he approached and looked him up and down.

  “Jesus,” he said at last. “We’ll fetch him along with us; but we are doing his brother no kindness, to bring him home so. Can he walk?”

  John said he could, and pushed him a little; the prince started forward obediently, and likely would have kept going until he was in the river, had John not run ahead and stopped him. Morgan shook his head. “Jesus,” he repeated. “Very well; form up! We march on.”

  * * *

  The prince came with the Brethren, and only wanted for a bit of guiding now and then to keep him on the path. They camped that night at another abandoned village, where Morgan gave order that someone should wash the prince, as the smell was starting to offend even Brethren who’d gone a week without a bath or a change of clothes. Dick Pettibone volunteered, as did Bob Plum, once he’d been told that Maurice had been a good Protestant prince and none of your scurvy Papist gentry.

  He proved a good beast of burden too. They found they could strap a pack to him and he’d bear it along without the least complaint. So they loaded him with powder and shot and he marched along of them. Blackstone started to object to this and then shrugged; for it really took more imagination than a man’s generally given to see that fat, staring thing as a royal cousin.

  T
hat night they found another village, but lately deserted, and camped there. Next day they came to another, about noon, and here had great luck: for Jacques found a cache of foodstuffs, sacks of wheat and plantains, hidden in a little cave. Morgan had the whole mess cooked into a sort of porridge and served out equally to all parties, even those like Hendrik Smeeks, who had been seen picking his teeth as they left Torna Caballos. Dick Pettibone took it on himself to feed the prince with a spoon, like a baby, and the poor creature opened his mouth obediently and swallowed too, but gave no sign that he understood anything.

  They marched on, more easily, for the country was more open and there were little deserted farmsteads now and again. One of these made a good campsite that evening, with plenty of dry firewood stored in an outbuilding. The Brethren sprawled at their ease around fires and there was plenty of big talk and praises for Morgan, now that they’d had a few scraps of luck; for everyone assumed the worst was behind them.

  * * *

  The first sign they were in the wrong on the point came when they’d been marching an hour or two next day. The land began to rise, and the going became harder. Around midday they came on another little farm and discovered the barn loaded with ears of dry maize. Most of the men wanted to stop right there and grind it into meal for cakes, and it was only by drawing his sword that Morgan kept them from doing so. He gave them hot words, and there were surly looks and mutters. The maize was portioned out equally to every man, and awkward it was to carry too. There were some who fell to chewing at it whiles on the march, and not a few rash fellows broke teeth doing that.

  John was marching along beside the prince, who was moving a little slower as so many had sort of casually draped their bundles of maize over him on the march, when he heard the cry:

  “Los indios! Emboscada!”

  John drew his cutlass and ran forward, but it wasn’t to be an engagement for blades; he caught a glimpse of lithe brown bodies retreating through the trees, and a man next to him dropped with an arrow in the eye, screaming no end. Still the Brethren raced on, shedding ears of maize as they came over the ground, and were only stopped by a bend in the river. Here they saw the last of a troop of about a hundred Indians scrambling ashore on the opposite bank.