book excerpt -- Stephen's rescue (HMS Surprise)
'Who are you, sir?' asked Jack.
'Joan Maragall, sir,' he whispered in the clipped English of the Minorcans, very like that of Gibralter. 'I come from Esteban Domanova. He says, Sophia, Mapes, Guarnerius.'
Melbury Lodge was the house they had shared; Stephen's full name was Maturin y Domanova; no one else on earh knew that Jack had once nearly bought a Guarnerius. He un-cocked the pistol and thrust it back.
'Where is he?'
'Taken.'
'Taken?'
'Taken. He gave me this for you.'
In the beam of the lantern the paper showed a straggle of disconnected lines: Dear J - some words, lines of figures - the signature S, tailing away off the corner, a wavering curve.
'This is not his writing,' whispering still in the darkness, caution rising still over this certainty of complete disaster. 'This is not his hand.'
'He has been tortured.'
***
Killick dared not speak, but put cold mutton, bread and butter, and claret in front of him. 'I must eat,' he said to himself, and deliberately set to his meal: but his stomach was closed - even the wine seemed hard in his gullet. This had not happened to him before, in no action, emergency or crisis. 'It don't signify,' he said, pushing the things aside.
***
'Hold him,' said Jack to the dark seaman closing in. 'Maragall, ask him where Stephen is.'
'Vous etes un officier anglais, monsieur?' asked Dutourd, ignoring Maragall.
'Answer, God rot your bloody soul,' cried Jack with a flush of such fury that he trembled.
***
Stephen saw them walk into his timeless dream: they had been there before, but never together. And never in these dull colors. He smiled to see Jack, although poor Jack's face was so shockingly concerned, white, distraught. But when Jack's hands grappled with the straps his smile changed to an almost frightened rigour: the furious jet of pain brought the two remote realities together.
'Jack, handsomely, my dear,' he whispered as they eased him tenderly into a padded chair. 'Will you give me something to drink, now, for the love of God? En Maragall, valga'm Deu,' he said, smiling over Jack's shoulder.
'Clear the room, Satisfaction,' said Jack, breaking off - several prisoners had come up, some crawling, and now two of them made a determined rush at Dutord, standing ghastly, pressed into the corner.
'That man must have a priest,' said Stephen.
'Must we kill him?' said Jack.
Stephen nodded. 'But first he must write to the colonel - bring him here - say, vital information - the American has talked - it will not wait. Must not: vital.'
'Tell him, sir,' said Jack to Maragall, looking back over his shoulder, with the look of profound affection still on his face. 'Tell him he must write this note. If the colonel is not here in ten minutes I shall kill him on that machine.'
Maragall led Dutourd to the desk, put a pen in hand. 'He says he cannot,' he reported. 'Says his honor as an officer -'
'His what?" cried Jack, looking at the thing from which he had unstrapped Stephen.
'Joan Maragall, sir,' he whispered in the clipped English of the Minorcans, very like that of Gibralter. 'I come from Esteban Domanova. He says, Sophia, Mapes, Guarnerius.'
Melbury Lodge was the house they had shared; Stephen's full name was Maturin y Domanova; no one else on earh knew that Jack had once nearly bought a Guarnerius. He un-cocked the pistol and thrust it back.
'Where is he?'
'Taken.'
'Taken?'
'Taken. He gave me this for you.'
In the beam of the lantern the paper showed a straggle of disconnected lines: Dear J - some words, lines of figures - the signature S, tailing away off the corner, a wavering curve.
'This is not his writing,' whispering still in the darkness, caution rising still over this certainty of complete disaster. 'This is not his hand.'
'He has been tortured.'
***
Killick dared not speak, but put cold mutton, bread and butter, and claret in front of him. 'I must eat,' he said to himself, and deliberately set to his meal: but his stomach was closed - even the wine seemed hard in his gullet. This had not happened to him before, in no action, emergency or crisis. 'It don't signify,' he said, pushing the things aside.
***
'Hold him,' said Jack to the dark seaman closing in. 'Maragall, ask him where Stephen is.'
'Vous etes un officier anglais, monsieur?' asked Dutourd, ignoring Maragall.
'Answer, God rot your bloody soul,' cried Jack with a flush of such fury that he trembled.
***
Stephen saw them walk into his timeless dream: they had been there before, but never together. And never in these dull colors. He smiled to see Jack, although poor Jack's face was so shockingly concerned, white, distraught. But when Jack's hands grappled with the straps his smile changed to an almost frightened rigour: the furious jet of pain brought the two remote realities together.
'Jack, handsomely, my dear,' he whispered as they eased him tenderly into a padded chair. 'Will you give me something to drink, now, for the love of God? En Maragall, valga'm Deu,' he said, smiling over Jack's shoulder.
'Clear the room, Satisfaction,' said Jack, breaking off - several prisoners had come up, some crawling, and now two of them made a determined rush at Dutord, standing ghastly, pressed into the corner.
'That man must have a priest,' said Stephen.
'Must we kill him?' said Jack.
Stephen nodded. 'But first he must write to the colonel - bring him here - say, vital information - the American has talked - it will not wait. Must not: vital.'
'Tell him, sir,' said Jack to Maragall, looking back over his shoulder, with the look of profound affection still on his face. 'Tell him he must write this note. If the colonel is not here in ten minutes I shall kill him on that machine.'
Maragall led Dutourd to the desk, put a pen in hand. 'He says he cannot,' he reported. 'Says his honor as an officer -'
'His what?" cried Jack, looking at the thing from which he had unstrapped Stephen.