Kitabı oku: «Captain Blood: His Odyssey / Одиссея капитана Блада»

© Филимонова В. Б., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2020

© ООО «ИД «Антология», 2020

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Chapter I
THE MESSENGER

Peter Blood was a bachelor of medicine and lived in Water Lane in the town of Bridgewater.

As he smoked a pipe and watered the flowers on his windowsill, two pairs of eyes watched him from a window opposite. But Mr. Blood did not pay attention to them. He was thinking about the flowers and the people in the street. They were going to Castle Field for the second time that day. Earlier in the afternoon Ferguson, the Duke’s chaplain, had given a speech there.

Most of the people were men with green branches in their hats and pikes in their hands. They were traders of all kinds. Many strong men from Bridgewater and Taunton¹ went to serve in the Duke’s army. People said that the girls of Taunton had even taken their petticoats and made the banners for King Monmouth’s army². People called those men who did not join the army cowards or papists.

Peter Blood was not a coward and he was a papist only when he wanted to. And he had been a soldier. However, he watered his flowers and smoked his pipe on that warm July evening. He looked at the people in Water Lane and said a line of Horace³:

“Quo, quo, scelesti, ruitis?”⁴

And now perhaps you understand why he was quiet and did not join the people in Water Lane. He thought that they were fools with their banners of freedom. That Latin line tells you that. To him they were fools running towards their deaths.

You see, he knew too much about this Duke of Monmouth and his mother. He had read the proclamation posted at the Cross at Bridgewater – and he knew that it had been posted also at Taunton and in other towns. It said that “the high-born Prince James, Duke of Monmouth, son and heir to King Charles the Second was now King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland.” He had laughed at it and he had laughed at the next proclamation. It said that James, Duke of York, had poisoned the King and did not have the right to the Crown.

He did not know which was the greater lie.

Mr. Blood had spent a third of his life in the Netherlands. James Scott – who now called himself James the Second – was born there some six-and-thirty years ago, and Mr. Blood knew his story. James Scott was not an heir to the King of England and it was quite possible that he was not even his son. He would only bring ruin to England. He had ordered the people in Water Lane to go to war!

“Quo, quo, scelesti, ruitis?”

He laughed. Mr. Blood was very self-sufficient and unsympathetic. His life had taught him so. He knew – as all Bridgewater knew and had known now for some hours – that Monmouth wanted to fight the Royalist army under Feversham that same night. Mr. Blood thought that Lord Feversham would know it too.

Peter Blood finished smoking, and went to close his window. He looked across the street and met at last the angry look of the eyes that watched him. They were the eyes of the young Misses Pitt. They admired the handsome Monmouth more than anyone in Bridgewater.

Mr. Blood smiled and greeted them. He was friends with these ladies; one of them had been his patient. But they did not answer his greeting. They looked at him in a cold and angry way. His smile grew a little wider, a little less pleasant. He understood why they did it. The Misses Pitt did not like that he, as a young man who had been at war, stayed at home, smoked his pipe, and watered his flowers. They wanted him to go to Castle Field and fight to put Monmouth on the throne. So did women of all ages in Bridgewater.

Mr. Blood might have argued with these ladies. He had travelled a lot and now he just wanted to be a doctor. It was what he had always wanted to do and what he had studied. Peter Blood was a man of medicine and not of war; he wanted to help people, not to kill them. But Misses Pitt and other women in Bridgewater would have answered him, he knew, that he should not stay at home now. Misses Pitt would have said that their nephew Jeremy went to fight for freedom and that Jeremy was a sailor. But Mr. Blood did not want to argue. As I have said, he was a self-suficf ient man.

He closed the window, and turned to the room. Mrs. Barlow was setting the table for supper. He told her what he was thinking about.

“Those two vinegary virgins over the way are very unfriendly.”

Peter Blood had a pleasant voice and an Irish accent. In all his travels he had never lost it. It was a voice that could talk nicely or make orders. The man’s whole nature was in his voice. He was tall and thin, his skin was dark, and his eyes blue under the black eyebrows. By the look of his eyes you could see that he thought high of himself. He was always dressed in black, because he was a doctor, but also because he used to travel a lot and loved elegant clothes.

Now that you know Mr. Blood a little bit better, you might ask yourself how long such a man would stay in the quiet Bridgewater and work as a doctor. He came to Bridgewater some six months ago and he might have stayed there in peace and settled down completely to the life of a doctor. It is possible, but not probable. However, his life would soon change completely.

Mr. Blood was the son of an Irish doctor and a Somersetshire lady. He got his wild character from his mother, which made his father worry about him. His father had always been unusually peace-loving for an Irishman. He had early decided that the boy should also become a doctor. Peter Blood was quick to learn and greedy of knowledge and received at the age of twenty the degree of baccalaureus medicinae⁵ at Trinity College, Dublin⁶. His father died three months after that. By then, his mother had been dead some years already. Thus, Peter Blood inherited some few hundred pounds and decided to travel to see the world. He took service with the Dutch, and then he joined the war with France at sea. He had fought under the famous de Ruyter⁷ in the Mediterranean, where that great Dutch admiral lost his life.

We do not know for sure where he had been after the Peace of Nimeguen⁸. But we know that he spent two years in a Spanish prison. After he had been set free again, he travelled to France, and took service with the French in the war with the Spanish Netherlands.

When he was thirty-two and had travelled enough, he suddenly became homesick. He took a ship from Nantes to Ireland. But the weather was not good and the ship anchored at Bridgewater Bay. Blood’s health had grown worse, and he decided to stay there for a while. After all, his mother was born there.

Thus in January 1685 he came to Bridgewater. He had some few hundred pounds with which he had left Dublin eleven years ago.

He liked the place, and his health grew better there. Besides, he thought that he had had enough adventures for a man’s lifetime, so he decided to settle there, and work as a doctor again.

Those are the most important parts of his story up to that night, six months later, when the battle of Sedgemoor⁹ was fought.

Mr. Blood did not show any interest in what was happening in Bridgewater and went to bed early. He was asleep long before eleven o’clock. At this hour, as you know, Monmouth rode along the Bristol Road. You also know that he had lost all his advantages because of bad leadership before ever he met Lord Feversham.

The armies met around two o’clock in the morning. Mr. Blood did not wake up to the sound of cannon and slept peacefully till four o’clock.

At sunrise, he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Someone was knocking at the door of his house, and a voice was calling him. This was the noise that had woken him up. He thought that someone needed urgent help and took his bedgown and slippers, to go downstairs and see who it was. On the stairs he met Mrs. Barlow who was in panic. He quieted her and went himself to open.

There in golden light of the morning sun stood a man and his horse. Mr. Blood could see that the young man had ridden as fast as he could. His face was dirty and so were his clothes. The young man opened his mouth to speak, but did not say anything for a long moment.

In that moment Mr. Blood saw that it was Jeremy Pitt, the young nephew of the ladies opposite, one who had joined the rebellion because of his enthusiasm.

Jeremy had woken up the neighbours; they were opening their doors and looking out into the street.

“Take your time, now,” said Mr. Blood.

But the young man started speaking right away.

“It is Lord Gildoy. He is wounded… at the farm by the river. I took him there… and… and he sent me for you. Come away! Come away!”

Jeremy wanted Mr. Blood to go with him right away in bedgown and slippers. But the doctor told him to wait till he got ready for the journey.

“Of course, I’ll come,” Mr. Blood said. “Of course, I’ll come. But first I’ll get some clothes and other things that I may need.”

But he was not quite sure what he should do. Lord Gildoy had been very friendly and generous since Peter Blood had settled in Bridgewater. And so he wanted to help him – and he also knew quite well that Lord Gildoy had supported the Duke.

“There’s no time to lose.”

“Be easy now. I will not lose any. Come in… take a chair…” He opened the door.

Young Pitt did not go in.

“I’ll wait here. Hurry up, in God’s name.”

Mr. Blood thought he would ask young Pitt questions on their way. While the doctor put on his boots, he told Mrs. Barlow what to do and what he wanted for dinner. Mr. Blood did not know then that he would not eat it.

When at last he left the house, he found young Pitt among women who had come to ask for the news of the battle. Mr. Blood could see that they were upset by the news Jeremy had given them.

When he saw the doctor, he climbed to the saddle.

“Come along, sir,” he cried. “Mount behind me.”

Mr. Blood did as he was asked. The women gave way, and Peter Blood set out upon his Odyssey.

Chapter II
KIRKE’S DRAGOONS

The farm stood a mile or so to the south of Bridgewater on the right bank of the river. It was a grey building with ivy on its lower parts. A sweet smell came from the orchards, and the waters of the river reflected the morning sun. It was dificf ult to believe that there was a war happening in that area.

Near Bridgewater they had met many wounded men who crossed the river to go back to the town where they would get help and shelter. They looked at Mr. Blood and young Pitt in terror as they rode across the bridge out of the city and towards Feversham’s headquarters.

Soon enough there were no signs of battle. Mr. Blood and Jeremy Pitt were now riding through the peaceful orchards heavy with the fruit.

At last they reached the courtyard, where Baynes, the master of the homestead, greeted them.

In the big hall, the doctor found Lord Gildoy – a very tall and dark young gentleman – on a day-bed under one of the tall windows. Mrs. Baynes and her daughter were taking care of him. His face was pale, his eyes closed, and his lips blue. He moaned quietly.

Mr. Blood stood for a moment and watched his patient. Lord Gildoy had such bright hopes in life. Peter Blood had always liked this brave man and found it sad that he had decided to risk it all, perhaps life itself, for someone like Monmouth. The doctor sighed and knelt by the day-bed and called for water and linen and what else he needed for his work.

He was still working a half-hour later when the dragoons arrived. He did not notice them and the noise that they were making, but he could feel that Lord Gildoy grew worried. Jeremy Pitt, who – unlike the doctor – had seen that the dragoons were coming, hid quickly in a clothes-press.

Baynes, his wife, and daughter were scared. Mr. Blood tried to calm them down.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s a Christian country, and Christian men do not fight the wounded, or those who help them.” He still had, you see, illusions about Christians. He made Lord Gildoy drink a glass of cordial. “The worst is done, my lord.”

And then they came into the hall – the dragoons of the Tangiers Regiment¹⁰, led by a black-browed man with gold lace on his chest.

Baynes stood where he was, and his wife and daughter moved back in fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder at the men.

The oficf er gave his men an order, and then spoke to Baynes.

“I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons. Are there any rebels here?”

Baynes was scared, his voice was trembling.

“I… I do not help rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman…”

“I can see for myself.” The Captain came up to the daybed, and looked at the grey-faced Lord Gildoy.

“No need to ask what happened to him. A rebel, and that’s enough for me.” He gave an order to his dragoons. “Take him out.”

Mr. Blood stood up. He was now between the day-bed and the dragoons.

“Sir!” said he, angrily. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is wounded. He may die if you move him.”

Captain Hobart was surprised.

“Oh, I have to think of the lives of these rebels! Do you think we’re taking him to take care of his health? There’re gallows along the road from Weston to Bridgewater. Colonel Kirke’ll teach these rebels a lesson.”

“You’re hanging men without trial?”

The Captain looked at him angrily. Soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. He started to remember.

“Who may you be?” he asked.

“My name is Blood, sir – Peter Blood.”

“Yes – yes! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”

If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not show it.

“I was.”

“Then I remember you – five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”

“That is so. I knew your colonel.”

“You may meet him again.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”

“This wounded gentleman. I was brought here to help him. I am a doctor.”

“A doctor – you?” The Captain did not believe him.

“Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.

“Don’t talk French to me, man,” said Hobart in a loud voice. “Speak English!” Mr. Blood’s smile annoyed him.

“I am a doctor,” Mr. Blood explained. “I work in the town of Bridgewater.”

The Captain looked at him unkindly. “You followed your Duke there from Lyme Regis¹¹.”

Mr. Blood returned his unfriendly look. “If your wit were as big as your voice, my dear, you’d be a great man.”

For a moment the dragoon did not say anything. His face grew purple.

“I may be great enough to hang you.”

“You look and act like a hangman. But if you hang my patient here, you may risk your life. He’s not someone you may hang without trial. He has the right to trial – the right to trial by his peers.”

“By his peers?”

The Captain was surprised when he heard those three words.

“Sure, now, only a fool would not have asked his name. The gentleman is Lord Gildoy.”

And then Lord Gildoy spoke for himself, in a weak voice.

“I support the Duke of Monmouth. I’ll take the consequences. But I’ll take them after trial – by my peers, as the doctor has said.”

The Captain was quiet for a moment. As it is common in many men like Hobart, deep down he was a very shy man. And so when he learnt who Lord Gildoy was, he felt very shy. He had always felt respect and fear towards titles. And he had always felt respect and fear towards his colonel. Percy Kirke would not forgive his mistakes, so the Captain wanted to be sure that he did not make any.

By a gesture he stopped his men. He must think. Soon enough Mr. Blood gave him yet another reason to think.

“Lord Gildoy has friends and relatives on the Tory¹² side, Captain. They’ll have something to say to Colonel Kirke if you hang him without trial by his peers. Think carefully, Captain, or you may risk your life.”

Captain Hobart had to listen to the warning. “Take up the day-bed,” said he, “and carry him on that to Bridgewater. Then wait until I take order about him.”

“He may die on the way,” Blood said. “You cannot move him.”

“So much the worse for him. My task is to search for rebels.” He gestured to his men. Two of them took up the day-bed, and turned to go.

Gildoy looked at Mr. Blood. “Sir,” he said, “I am in your debt. If I live, I shall never forget it.”

Mr. Blood bowed for answer; then to the men: “Be careful,” he commanded. “His life depends on it.”

As they carried Lord Gildoy out, the Captain quickly turned to Baynes.

“What other rebels are you hiding?”

“None other, sir. Lord Gildoy…”

“Lord Gildoy is on the way to Bridgewater. We’ll now search your house. And, by God, if you’ve lied to me…” He turned back to his men and gave them an order. Four of his dragoons went out. In a moment they were moving noisily in the other room. Meanwhile, the Captain was going around the hall.

Mr. Blood did not see why he should stay there any longer.

“I would like to wish you a very good day,” he said.

“I would like you to stay here for a while,” the Captain commanded.

Mr. Blood sat down. “You’re tiresome,” he said. “I wonder why your colonel hasn’t discovered it yet.”

But the Captain did not pay attention to him. He picked up a dirty hat from the floor. It was near the clothes-press where the unfortunate young Pitt was hiding. The Captain smiled in a very unkind way. He looked first at Baynes, then at the two women, and finally at Mr. Blood. The doctor sat with one leg over the other. He tried to look indifferent, but in fact he was not.

The Captain went to the press, and opened it. He took young Pitt by the collar, and pulled him out into the open.

“And who is this?” he asked. “Another nobleman?”

Mr. Blood imagined the gallows, and how the Captain would hang this unfortunate young sailor without trial, in the place of Lord Gildoy. On the spot he invented not only a title but a whole family for the young man.

“You’ve said it, Captain. This is Viscount Pitt, first cousin to Sir Thomas Vernon, who’s married to Moll Kirke, sister to your colonel.”

Both the Captain and his prisoner were surprised. Young Pitt tried hard not to show it. Mr. Blood’s words made the Captain very angry. He looked at his prisoner again.

“He’s lying, is he not?” he demanded, looking into young Pitt’s face.

“If you think so,” said Blood, “hang him, and see what happens to you.”

The dragoon looked at the doctor and then at his prisoner. “Pah!” He gave an order to his men. “Bring this Viscount Pitt to Bridgewater. And him also,” he pointed to Baynes. “We’ll show him what it means to help rebels.”

Baynes tried to fight the dragoons. The women screamed, but then the Captain came up to them and they stopped screaming in terror. He took the girl by the shoulders. She was pretty, with golden hair and blue eyes. She looked up into the face of the dragoon and hoped he would let her go. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her.

“Let that quiet you, little rebel,” he said, “Till I’ve finished with them.”

And he left her in the arms of her mother. His men stood, waiting for orders, holding the two prisoners.

“Take them away.” He looked at the girl again. “I’ll stay for a while – to search this place. There may be other rebels here.” And then he pointed to Mr. Blood and added: “And take him with you.”.

Mr. Blood had been thinking that he could use one of his instruments to fight Captain Hobart. But he did not know how to get to his instrument case. He was beginning to think that he could tell the Captain some tale of hidden treasure, but then Captain Hobart’s words stopped him.

“It will suit me very well,” Mr. Blood said. “I am going to Bridgewater myself.”

“You are going to prison there.”

“Ah, bah! You’re surely joking!”

“There’s a gallows for you if you prefer it. It’s only a question of now or later.”

The dragoons held Mr. Blood, and the instrument case was on the table out of his reach. The doctor tried to escape, but the dragoons did not let him. They tied his wrists behind his back.

“Take him away,” said Hobart, and turned to the other waiting dragoons. “Go search the house.”

The soldiers went out by the door leading to the other rooms. The guards took Mr. Blood into the courtyard, where Pitt and Baynes had already been waiting. Mr. Blood looked back at Captain Hobart. The doctor was very angry. He wanted to tell Hobart what he would do to him, but decided to keep quiet.

After a short while, the dragoons took the prisoners to Bridgewater. From the homestead came the screams of a woman in agony. Baynes tried to run back to the homestead, his face pale. As a consequence he fell down and the dragoons dragged him a yard or two.

Mr. Blood thought, as he went under the apple-trees of the orchard on that July morning, that man was the worst work of God, and that only a fool would want to be a doctor and help people.