CHAPTER XLI
PIGGY, THE PRIVATEERSMAN
I
In a minute he had clambered aboard the lugger.
The privateer had dropped a hawser over her side as buffer. The boy was up it in a moment, and on to the deck, his heart beating high.
The deck was empty.
No! a figure was leaning over the side, his back to Kit. No sailor, obviously. He was wearing a great bearskin, and Kit caught the glimmer of a bayonet. A sentinel, and not asleep, nor drunk; for he was humming _Ça Ira_.
_La Coquette_ too then carried soldiers!
Stealthy as a cat, the boy drew away along the deck. Piper, weather- wise old man, had told him truth. Thin wisps of mists were sweeping over the sea, veiling the stars.
How God helps His little children who help Him!
Up the shrouds of the foremast. The ratlines seared his feet. A little wind licked his body. The mist was chill as a winding-sheet.
There was no danger of being seen. He was nearer the stars than the deck. Between him and it now lay a blanket of mist.
But what was that in the East?
It was the whitening of the dawn.
There was no time to be lost.
He swarmed up the top-gallant mast, unwound the flag, and made it fast.
How it fluttered!--what a rollicking tow-row!--had ever flag rampaged so boisterously!
The man below stopped humming. Kit could not see him; so he could not see the flag.
Down he slid, the mast scraping his knees as he went; but he scarcely felt the pain. His heart was swelling. The privateer was flying British colours. She was his. Single-handed he had taken a French ship. He was half in tears, half laughing. It seemed so dream-like, so ridiculous.
Down the shrouds, and back to the deck.
II
Not a soul stirred. Forward somewhere a man shouted in his sleep. Aft the sentinel was whistling now.
Swift as an eel, the boy flashed to the side, and poised for his plunge.
No! the splash would be heard.
Swiftly along the deck, making for his steppingstone, the lugger.
His work done, his heart brimming, the boy was ripe for mischief as a happy girl.
As he stole along the deck, his eyes never left the soldier's back. The fellow was leaning over the bulwark, his trousers tight, and their contents rounded and tempting. Should he, should he spank him?
A moment the boy struggled with his imp-self, and prevailed.
Nelson! Duty!
He slipped over into the lugger. The tide had shifted her position. Now she bumped under the stern of the privateer.
The port of the stern-cabin was open, and light poured from it. Standing on the weather-boarding, Kit peeped in.
A little fat man was sitting at a table, dead asleep, and snoring stertorously. His arms were on the table, and his head on his arms. He was quite bald, and very red. His lips pouted, and the under one thrust up towards his nose. The little round body rose and fell, bladder-like. His nose was a snout, short and cocked. A more pig-like little person Kit thought he had never seen.
A great bottle stood on the table before him, and beside it a scratch- wig and guttering candle. On the table a pistol pinned down a chart, and under the sleeper's head was a sheet of paper and a pen.
Piggy had fallen asleep writing.
Flung into a corner was a cocked hat. Beside it lay a much-mounted sword, and on a chair a blue frock-coat, with tawdry epaulettes.
The boy lifted his eyes. An obscene print decorated the bulk-head. It smote him in the face like a handful of filth. He snatched his eyes away. They fell upon a tarpaulin-bag hung on the door. On the bag was an eagle, beneath it a large
N.
That settled it.
The boy meant to have that bag.
III
He was through the port in a twinkling.
The man was sleeping like the dead, his head askew on his hands, and lips compressed in pouting content. For the time being the body had mastered invincibly any soul there might be within. The man was so much slow-heaving earth.
The naked boy leaned over the sleeper. The pen had fallen from Piggy's hand, and left a little scrawl across the letter he had been writing.
The character was flourishing, self-complacent, and, above all, easy to read.
It was written in French, and ran, translated,
_Sire,
I have to inform your Majesty that Sunday dawn I was lying off Seaford Head, waiting to escort the lugger_ Kite, _according to your Majesty's instructions. As I was on my knees inviting the good God to shower blessings on the sacred head of you, His so faithful servant, a sail was seen.
I bore up for her immediately. She was an English ship of the line.
I engaged her at once, fearless of the odds, knowing that the good God is always on your Majesty's side. Desperate valour was displayed by your Majesty's seamen. We were out-numbered four to one.
She carried 120 guns in three tiers and was alive with men--all sent by me to answer before the Great Judge for being in arms against your anointed Majesty. May He deal with them as they deserve!
The Englishman was towing the lugger _Kite_. Knowing the vital importance of the mission on which she was engaged, I cut her out from under the enemy's stern, leading the boat attack myself, under a terrific fire from her stern-galleries.
The _Kite_ had two dead men aboard, one of them, helas! the brave Monsieur de Diamond, so devoted to your Majesty's interests. He was sitting upon the despatch-bag, which thus had escaped the vigilance of his murderers.
My lord the General was not on board. I am lying off Beachy Head waiting for him. Should he not appear by tomorrow noon, I shall not dare to wait longer, but shall make all sail with the despatches I have captured.
I permit myself to congratulate your Majesty upon my victory, and sign myself with effusion,
Your Majesty's humble and adoring servant,
EGALITE LAGLOIRE.
P.S.--I have prepared, and now send, the chart for which your Majesty asked. As your Majesty's eye will see at a glance all is in order. We do but wait the last word from my lord the General. The red crosses mark the stations...._
Here the pen had dropped from the writer's hand.
IV
The boy turned with beating heart: he had struck gold indeed.
Unshipping the despatch bag, he slung it about his shoulders.
Lifting the pistol, he snatched the chart, and thrust it under the flap of the locked bag.
The action set the candle swaling. It shot out a snake-like flame that licked the bald pate of the sleeping privateersman.
He awoke with a start and a _sacre_, clapping his hand to his singed head.
Then through drink-and-sleep-blurred eyes, he saw the naked figure by the door.
He half rose, little fat man, so pleased.
"_Mon ange!_" he cried, and fluttered both arms, much as Gwen's young canaries fluttered their wings when seeking food from their mother.
In a flash the boy had turned the key in the lock behind him, and flung it through the open port.
Then he swung the despatch-bag.
Many a pillow-fight with Gwen up and down the twisting passages of their attic nursery had made him expert. Crash it came down on Piggy's bald skull.
"One from your _ange_!" cried the lad, and followed up with a left-hander between the eyes.
Down crashed the amorous gentleman, spluttering.
A foot, planted fair on his mouth, stifled his cry.
Before he could recover, the boy was through the port, on to the lugger, and had slipped into the sea, quiet as a water-rat.
Behind him a dreadful scream woke the ship.
"_Les depeches! Les depeches!_"
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