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.”
Chapter V:
Really Simple.
TREMBLING still from his recent emotion, Brancaleone hoarsely bade the corsair call up his officers and repeat his words before them. “And you shall make oath upon this matter,” he added. “Men say of you that you are a faithful Moslem. I mean to put it to the test.” Dragut, now all eagerness to know what plan was stirring in his prisoner’s brain, unable to brook further suspense in this affair, called up his officers, and before them all, taking Allah to witness, he made oath upon the beard of the Prophet that if Brancaleone could show him deliverance, he on his side would recompense the Genoese to the extent demanded.
Thereafter Dragut and Brancaleone went ashore, with no other attendant but the Nubian swordsman. It was the Genoese who led the way, not toward the fort, as Dragut had expected, but in the opposite direction. Arrived at the northernmost curve of that almost circular lagoon, where the ground was swampy. Brancaleone paused. He pointed across a strip of shallow land, that was no more than a half mile or so in width, to the blue-green sea beyond. Part of this territory was swamp, and part sand; vegetation there was of the scantiest; some clumps of reeds, an odd date palm, its crest rustling slightly in the breeze, and nothing else.
“It is really very simple,” said the Italian. “Yonder lies your way.”
As he spoke, a red-legged stork rose from the edge of the marsh, and went circling overhead.
Dragut’s face was purple with rage. He deemed that this smooth fellow had brought him there to make mock of him.
“Are my galleys winged like that stork, thou fool?” he answered passionately. “Or are they wheeled like chariots that I can sail them over dry land.”
Brancaleone looked at him in stupefaction. “I protest,” said he, “that for a man of your reputation for shrewdness, you fill me with amazement. I said you were a dull fellow. I little dreamed how dull. Nay, now, suppress your rage. Truth is a very healing draft, and you have need of it. I compute now that aboard your ships there will be, including slaves, some three thousand men.
No doubt you could press another thousand from the island into your service. How long would it take four thousand men to dig a channel deep enough to float your shallow galleys through that strip of land?”
Dragut’s fierce eyes flickered as though he had been menaced with a blow. “By Allah!” he ejaculated, and gripped his beard. “By the splendor of Allah!”
“In a week the thing were easily done,”
Brancaleone resumed, “and meanwhile your fort will hold the admiral in play and mask your labors. Then, one dark night, you slip through this channel, and stand away to the south, so that by sunrise you shall have vanished beyond the sky line, leaving the admiral to guard an empty trap.”
Dragut laughed aloud, in almost childlike glee, and otherwise signified his delight by the vehemence with which he testified to the unity of Allah. Suddenly he checked, and his eyes narrowed as they rested upon Brancaleone. “‘Tis a scurvy trick you play your lady’s grandsire!” said he.
The Genoese shrugged and, smiled deprecatingly. “Every man for himself, Messer Dragut. We understand each other, I think. ‘Tis not for love of you I do this thing.”
“I would it were,” said the corsair, with an odd sincerity, and thereafter, as they returned to the galleys, it was seen that Dragut’s arm was about the shoulders of the infidel, and that he spoke with him as with a brother.
The fact is that Dragut, fired with admiration of Brancaleone’s resourcefulness, was cast down at the thought that so fine a spirit should of necessity be destined to go down to the pit. He spoke to him now of the glories of Islam, and of the future that must await a gentleman of his endowments in the ranks of the Moslem; he had of a sudden conceived so great an affection for him that he was filled with the desire to convert him to the true faith. But this was a matter in which Brancaleone was politely obdurate, and Dragut had not the time to devote to the conversation, greatly as he desired it. There was the matter of that canal to engage him.
Brancaleone’s instructions were diligently carried out. Daily the fort at the Boca de Cantara would belch forth shot at the Genoese navy, which stood well out of range. To the admiral this was but the barking of a dog that dared not come within biting reach, and the waste of ammunition roused his contempt of that pirate Dragut whom he held at his mercy.
There came a day, however, when the fort was silent; it was followed by another day of silence, in the evening of which one of the admiral’s officers suggested that all might not be well. Doria agreed with him.
“All is not at all well with that dog Dragut.”
Andrea Doria laughed in his white beard. “He wants us within range of his guns. The ruse is a little too obvious.”
And so the great Genoese fleet remained carefully out of range of the empty fort, what time Dragut himself was some scores of miles away, speeding as fast as his slaves could row for the archipelago and the safety of the Dardanelles. In the words of the Spanish historian, Marmol, who has chronicled the event—although many of the details here recorded escaped his knowledge— ”Dragut left Messer Andrea Doria ‘with the dog to hold.’“
Brancaleone accompanied the Moslem fleet at first, though now aboard the galley which Dragut had given him in accordance with their agreement, and with him sailed the lovely Amelia Francesca Doria, his chest of gold, the jewels, and the fifteen hundred ducats that Dragut, grimly stifling his reluctance, had paid the Genoese.
On the second day of their voyage, the corsair was able to replace the vessel granted to Brancaleone. They met a royal galley from Naples, manned by Spaniards, and rowed by Moslem slaves. She was speeding to Andrea Doria with news that the viceroy was sending reenforcements. There was a sharp, short fight, and Messer Dragut added her to his fleet, liberating the Moslem slaves, and replacing them by the Spaniards who had manned the vessel.
Some hours later, Messer Brancaleone and the corsair captain parted company with many expressions of mutual good will, and the Genoese put about and steered a northwesterly course for the coast of Spain.
Chapter VI:
That Impudent Genoese
IT was some months ere Dragut learned the true inwardness of Messer Brancaleone’s conduct.
He had the story from a Genoese captive, captain of a carack which the corsair scuttled in the Straits of Messina. The fellow’s name chanced to be Brancaleone, upon learning which Dragut inquired if he were kin to one Ottavio Brancaleone, who had gone to Spain with the admiral’s granddaughter.