He was a tall lean fellow, this Frenchman, with eyes that glinted fiercely as they gloated over his prisoners.
"Sacres Anglaise!" he spat. "Insolents! Your impudence in sailing under the flag of France shall be repaid here and now. Pirates and ravagers! String them up by the neck, every cursed pirate of them -the spectacled boy first!"
His raised arm pointed to the Vengeur's yardarm. A slim figure ducked under his gold-laced sleeve and Jeanne Terray turned to confront him.
"M. le Capitaine Gruvel!" she cried, her eyes flashing. "This is unworthy of you and of France! These are English seamen of the frigate Althea, and their midshipman is an officer of the English King's navy!"
"Be silent, mademoiselle!" he snarled at her. "What is that to me?"
"To you it may be nothing," she said contemptuously, "though I should have thought your honour would mean something. To me it means that these men must be treated as prisoners of war. They used me fairly and courteously. I ask you now-"
"Stand aside, mademoiselle!" Gruvel waved her away. "I command here, and I say they shall hang!" And he added a string of oaths.
Septimus, who had resumed his uniform and cocked hat and still wore his spectacles, understood enough of the captain's language to be seriously annoyed.
"Monsieur Gruvel," he began, seeking for the correct French.
"Silence, pirate!" the man flung at him. "Who bade you speak?"
"You did," retorted Septimus severely, "when you used such language before a lady. You are not a gentleman, sir."
Captain Gruvel, thus insulted on his own quarterdeck, drew back his hand to strike. Then, feeling no doubt that his watching officers would lose respect for him if he struck a prisoner, he flung both arms wide.
"They shall all hang!" he vociferated. "I take the responsibility!"
"You will-and your officers also, when I report your action to the naval authorities at Marseilles, Captain Gruvel!"
Jeanne Terray had pitched her clear voice to reach the ears of all. Septimus saw the anxious faces among the Vengeur's officers, and heard their uneasy murmuring. Captain Grovel heard it too. He glared at Jeanne, fingering his moustache. Then he swung round angrily to glower at Septimus.
"I have decided to spare you, pirate, since Madame la Capitaine here begs your lives! When you are in the prison at Marseilles you will wish you had been hanged, I promise you! Take them below!"
French marines closed round the Althea's men, shepherding them with musket-butts. As Midshipman Quinn passed close to Jeanne Terray, he spoke rapidly from the corner of his mouth, in English.
"That was generous of you, mademoiselle."
Without moving a muscle of her face, Jeanne replied, also in English.
"That was a very nice omelette, Monsieur Midshipman!" she said.
Chapter SEVEN
Mr. Quinn's Troupe
THE PRISON OF La Ferronnerie in Marseilles was a sombre building of dark-grey stone standing like a huge square box just behind the bustle of the long quays of the port. A busy street ran in front of the prison's high wall, and the buildings opposite it cut off all view of the sea from the narrow barred window on the first floor where Midshipman Septimus Quinn was looking out. It was the afternoon of the day following the Vengeur's capture of the midshipman and his six seamen.. They had been in the prison of La Ferronnerie for nearly twenty-four hours, and already they had had enough of it.
The Vengeur had made all speed into Marseilles, the nearest port, with her prisoners. Their landing had been an unpleasant business, for the inhabitants of Marseilles gathered in crowds to fling oaths and stones at the seven British sailors as they were marched from the quays to the prison. It was well known along the southern coast of Napoleon Bonaparte's land that the frigate Althea had not only made many impudent raids along that coast but had also reduced Fort Flambeau, only five miles from Marseilles itself, to ruin. The frigate's men were not likely to be popular.
Midshipman Quinn, from his iron-barred window, could see the fronts of some warehouses and a narrow street below them where people-fishermen, market-women, and traders-went to and fro in the fitful sunlight of a cloudy September afternoon. On the blank wall of one of the warehouses was a gaudy poster announcing that "THE GREAT ENRICO AND HIS TROUPE OF ACROBATS AND TUMBLERS" would visit Marseilles for the Carnival. Above the rooftops, where lines of washing were hanging, he could just make out the distant spars of ships at the quays. That was all.
He turned to look at the single room of their prison. Though it was merely four stone walls with a door in one and a window in another, it was less uncomfortable than he had expected. (The… regime)[3], and Septimus suspected he was no true son of the New Republic, for he had treated his English prisoners well. They had straw for bedding, and their food, though consisting mainly of very thin soup and bread, was eatable. All the same, they were seven men accustomed to the freedom of the sea life and now cooped up together in one small bare room, and at the back of all their minds was one thought: Escape.
The midshipman cast a glance at each man in turn. Tod Beamish, the gigantic seaman whom he had made his second-in-command, was chatting gravely with Frith, the lean and grim-visaged Northumbrian. The fiery red head of O'Neill the Irishman could be seen in the gloom close to the pigtailed and whiskered face of Dobbs and the perky countenance of Eccles, the little Cockney. Wallace, the slow-moving Scot, was asleep on the straw, his snores undisturbed by the laughter O'Neill was provoking with his stories. They were a good half-dozen, as good as any he could have picked from the lower deck of a line-of-battle ship. Every one of them--even the unruly Dobbs--could be trusted to do his part in any attempt at escape. But how was that attempt to be made? Not by the window, which was closely barred with new iron and in full view of the street. There was a thirty-foot drop to a narrow yard and then iron-spiked railings on top of a high wall. That meant escaping by the door-through the interior of the prison, a hopeless task, apparently.
Beamish and Frith stopped their talk and approached him. "Begging pardon, sir," Beamish said, "me and Frith's been talking of escape."
"And I've been thinking of it," nodded Septimus. "Pray continue, Beamish."
"Well, sir, it looks as if they'll bring us food twice a day. There's a guard with a musket who keeps his gun levelled from the doorway while his pal carries in the soup and bread. When they did it this forenoon the man with the gun was a fellow near as big as me. "
"Well?" said the midshipman as he paused. The others, including Wallace, who had been awakened by the sound of the magic word "escape", were gathering round.
"The musket's the trouble, sir," said Beamish, "but Frith's suggested a way of getting over it. We all draw lots--all the seamen, sir--and the man as the lot falls to, he has to draw the fire of the musket. The rest of us overpower both the guards. Then I put on the uniform of the big guard, sir, and march all of you out of the prison."
There was a chorus of agreement. The idea of a gamble whereby one of them lost his life to give the rest a chance of escape appealed to their sporting sense. Septimus regarded the big seaman thoughtfully.
"There's the germ of a good plan there, Beamish," he said, "but there are three things wrong with it. First, one of us is bound to be killed."
"Never mind that, sir!" they broke in cheerfully. "We'll take our chance, so we will!!"
3
Пропущено несколько слов, что-то вроде «комендант тюрьмы установил довольно мягкий режим (прим. ancient-skipper) .