In Destiny's Clutch

Chapter IV: "Betide What May"

NEVER since Giannetino Doria had surprised him on the road of Goialatta off the coast of Corsica, on that famous occasion when he was made prisoner, had Dragut found himself in so desperately tight a corner. He sat on the deck of his galley, muttering imprecations against the Genoese with that astounding and far-reaching fluency in which the Moslem is without rival upon earth. He pronounced authoritatively upon the shamelessness of Doria’s mother, and the inevitably shameful destiny of his daughters. He called perfervidly upon Allah to rot the bones and destroy the house of his archenemy, and he foretold how dogs would of a certainty desecrate the admiral’s grave. Then, seeing that Allah remained disdainfully aloof, he rose up one day in a mighty passion, and summoned his officers.

“This skulking here will not avail us,” he blazed at them, as if it were by their contriving that he was trapped. “By delay we but increase our peril. What is written is written. Allah has bound the fate of each man about his neck. Betide what may, tonight we take to the open sea.”

“And by morning you’ll have found the bottom of it.” drawled a voice from one of the oars.

Dragut, who was standing on the gangway between the rowers’ benches, whipped around with a snarl upon the speaker. He found himself gazing into the languid eyes of Messer Brancaleone. The rest of the last few days had restored the Italian’s vigor, and certain thoughts that he had lately been indulging had restored his courage.

“Are you weary of life?” wondered the corsair. “Shall I have you hanged before we go to meet your friends out yonder?”

“To do one or the other,” said Brancaleone, “would be to render absolute the conviction which has been growing upon me during this week past.”

“And what may that be?”

“That you’re a dull fellow when all is said, Messer Dragut. Hang me, and you hang the only man in all your fleet who can show you the way out of this trap.”

Dragut stared between anger and amazement. “You can show me a way out of this trap?” he echoed. “What way may that be?”

“Strike off my fetters, restore me my garments, and give me proper food, and I will discuss it with you.”

Dragut glowered at him. “We have a shorter way to make men speak,” he said. Brancaleone smiled and shook his head. “You think so? Another of your delusions.”

It was odd what a power of conviction dwelt in his imperturbable tones. The corsair issued an order, and turned away. A half hour later, Messer Brancaleone, nourished, washed, and clothed, looking once more like the elegant Italian gentleman who had first been hoisted aboard the galley, stepped on to the deck, where Dragut-Reis awaited him in some impatience.

Seated cross-legged upon a gorgeous silken divan that was wrought in green and blue and gold, the handsome corsair combed his square black beard with fretful fingers. Behind him, stark-naked save for his white loin cloth, stood his gigantic Nubian, his body oiled until it shone like ebony, armed with a great curved scimitar.

“Now, sir,” growled Dragut, “what is this precious plan of yours—briefly?” His tone was contemptuous.

“You begin where we should end,” said the imperturbable Genoese. “I owe you no favors Messer Dragut, and I bear you no affection that I should make you a free gift of your life and liberty. My eyes have seen something to which yours are blind, and my brain has conceived something of which yours is quite incapable.

These things, sir, are for sale. Before I part with them we must agree upon the price.” Dragut stared from under scowling brows.

He could scarce believe that the world held so much impudence. “And what price do you suggest?” he snarled, by way of humoring the Genoese.

“Why, as to that, since I offer you life and liberty, it is but natural that I should claim my own life and liberty in return, and similarly the liberty of Madonna Amelia and of my servants whom you captured; also it is but natural that I should require the restoration of the money and jewels you have taken from us, and since you have deprived us of our felucca, it is no more than proper that you should equip us with a vessel in which to pursue the journey which you interrupted.

“Considering the time we have lost in consequence of this interruption,” Brancaleone went on, “it is but just that you should make this good as far as possible by presenting me with a craft that is capable of the utmost speed. I will accept a galley of six and twenty oars, manned by a proper complement of Christian slaves.”

“And is that all?” roared Dragut.

“No,” said Brancaleone quietly. “That is but the restitution due to me. We come now to the price of the service I am to render you. When you were Giannetino Doria’s prisoner, Barbarossa paid for you, as all the world knows, a ransom of three thousand ducats. I will be more reasonable.”

“Will you so?” snorted Dragut. “By the splendor of Allah, you’ll need to be.”

“I will accept one thousand ducats.”

“May Allah blot thee out, thou impudent son of shame!” cried the corsair, filled with fury.

“You compel me to raise the price to fifteen hundred ducats,” said Brancaleone smoothly. “I must be compensated for abuse since I cannot take satisfaction for it as between one Christian gentleman and another.”

It was good for Dragut that his feelings suddenly soared to an intensity beyond expression, else might the price have been raised even beyond the famous ransom that Barbarossa had paid. Mutely he stood glowering, clenching and unclenching his hands; than he half turned to his Nubian swordsman. “Ali—” he began.

Brancaleone once more cut in. “Ah, wait,”

said he. “I pray you calm yourself. Remember how you stand, and that Andrea Doria holds you trapped. Do nothing that will destroy your only chance. Time enough to call in Ali and have my head hacked off when I have failed.”

That speech arrested Dragut’s anger in full flow. He wheeled upon the Genoese once more.

“You accept that alternative?”

Brancaleone smiled with almost pitying amusement. “Why not? I have no slightest fear of failure. I can show you how to win clear of this trap and make the admiral the laughingstock of the world.”

“Speak, then; let me know your plan!” cried Dragut fiercely.

“If I do so before you have agreed to my terms, then I shall have nothing left to sell.”

Angrily Dragut turned aside, and strode to the taffrail. He looked across the shimmering blue water to the fortifications at the harbor mouth; with the eyes of his imagination he looked beyond at the fleet of Genoa riding out yonder in patient conviction that it held its prey.

The price that Brancaleone asked was outrageous—a galley and some two hundred Christian slaves to row it and fifteen hundred ducats. In all it amounted to fully as much as the ransom that Barbarossa had paid for him, yet Dragut must pay it, or fall into the power of his Christian foes. He came to reflect that he would pay it gladly enough to be out of this tight corner.

He came about again. He spoke of torture once more, but in a half-hearted sort of way; for he did not himself believe that it would be effective with a man of Brancaleone’s temper.

Brancaleone laughed at the threat, and shrugged his shoulders. “You may as profitably hang me, Messer Dragut,” he said, “for your infidel barbarities will but seal my lips for all time.”

“We might torture the woman,” said Dragut the ingenious.

Brancaleone, on the words, turned white to the lips; but it was the pallor of bitter, heartsearing resolve, not the pallor of such fear as Dragut had hoped to awaken. He advanced a step, his imperturbability all gone, and he sent his words into the face of the corsair with the fierceness of a cornered wild cat.

“Attempt it,” said he, “and as God’s my witness I leave you to your fate at the hands of Genoa—ay, though my heart should burst with the pain of my silence. I am a man, Messer Dragut; never doubt it.”

“I do not,” said Dragut, his piercing black eyes upon that set white face. “I agree to your terms. Show me a way out of Doria’s clutches, and you shall have all that you have asked for.”