'Strike the bargain.'
His brother lifted his hand to knock down the sale, when another voice stopped him. A double eagle, sir. Twenty golden dollars American bid. ' The voice was not raised, yet it carried clearly to every man there, as it could carry from quarterdeck to maintop in a force eight gale.
Robyn started, and swung her chains disbelievingly in that direction; she would have known that lazy drawling inflectionif she had not heard it for a lifetime. He stood at the very edge of the firelight, but as every head in the circle turned to him, he stepped forward.
The smile had frozen on Alphonse's face, and he hesitated. Call the bid! ' The advancing figure in plain white shirt and dark breeches made the men about him seem small and grubby, and after a moment's hesitation, Alphonse obeyed him. A double eagle bid, he said harshly. 'Captain Mungo, St. John of the clipper Huron bids a double golden eagle.'
Robyn felt her legs start to sag under her with relief, but the men behind her jerked her upright by her chain.
Camacho Pereira had whirled to face the American, and to stare at him furiously. Mungo St. John answered him with a smile, indulgent and patronizing. Robyn had never seen him look more handsome and dangerous, his dark wavy hair catching the firelight, and the gaze of his yellow-flecked eyes level and unflinching in the face of Carnacho's fury. A thousand rupees, Carnacho, he said softly. 'Can you match it? ' Carnacho hesitated, and then turned back quickly to his own brother, his voice low and urgent.
Stake me? ' he asked, and Alphonse laughed. I never lend money.'
To a brother? ' Camacho insisted. Especially not to a brother, Alphonse answered. 'Let the wench go, you can buy a dozen better for fifty rupees each. 'I must have her. ' He whirled back to face Mungo St. John. 'I must have her. It is a matter of honour. Do you understand? He took the beaver from his head, and spun it away. One of his men caught it, and Camacho ran both hands through his thick black locks, and then stretched his arms down at his sides, fleidng the fingers like a conjurer about to perform a sleight of hand. I will make one more bid, he said ominously. 'I bid one mohur of gold, and ten inches of Toledo steel. ' The knife seemed to appear in his hand from out of the air he lifted the point to the level of Mungo St. John's belt buckle. Walk away, Yankee, or I will take the woman and your gold double eagle.'
The watchers growled, a low blood-thirsty sound, and swiftly rearranged themselves into a ring about the two men, jostling for a better view. One hundred rupees says Machito slits the Yankee's guts. 'Done! And there was a rising hubbub as the wagers were called and accepted.
Mungo St. John had not stopped smiling, but now he held out his right hand without once taking his eyes off the Portuguese's face.
Out of the ranks of the watchers emerged a large, toadlike figure with a head as round and bald as a cannon ball. Tippoo moved with reptilian speed to Mungo St. John's right side. He placed a knife in the outstretched hand, and then unknotted the embroidered sash from his waist and handed that to his Captain. Mungo wrapped the sash around his left forearm, still smiling softly to himself.
He had not once looked up at Robyn, though she had not been able to tear her own eyes from his face.
He seemed godlike to her at that moment, everything about him, the darkly classical features, the wide shoulders under the white cloth of his shirt, the narrow waist clinched with a broad belt of polished leather, the strong straight legs in tightly fitted breeches and soil leather boots, seemed to have come down directly from Olympus. She would have gladly thrown herself at his feet and worshipped him.
just below Robyn, Camacho was stripping off his own jacket and wrapping his guard arm with it. Then with the long knife in his right hand he made a low swift cut, forehand and then backhand, so the steel whispered as it dissolved into a silver blur like the wing of a dragonfly in flight. At each stroke he ducked his head slightly and flexed his knees, loosening and warming his muscles like an athlete before the contest.
Then he moved forward, stepping lightly in the treacherous mud and weaving the point of the knife to distract and intimidate his adversary.
The smile went from Mungo St. John's lips, to be replaced by a grave and attentive expression, like a mathematician considering a complex problem. He kept his own knife low, advancing his wrapped forearm, and balancing easily, stood his full height and turned gently to face the Portuguese as he circled. It reminded Robyn of the night she had watched him on the dance floor at Admiralty House, so tall and graceful, so balanced and controlled in each movement.
Now at last the watchers were silent, straining eagerly for the first glimpse of blood, but when Carnacho charged they roared the way the crowd roars when the bull first bursts into the ring. Mungo St. John barely seemed to move, swaying his body at the hips so the knife slid past him, and then he was facing Camacho again.
Twice more the Portuguese attacked, and both times Mungo St. John moved effortlessly aside, but each time he gave a little ground, until he was backed up to the first rank of watchers, they began to fall back to give the American room to fight, but Camacho saw his opportunity as Mungo, was crowded like a prize-fighter against the ropes and he swung back to attack. At the same moment, almost as though it had been rehearsed, a booted foot shot out from the crowd.
Nobody was sure whose foot it was, for the throng was closely packed and the light uncertain, but the kick to the back of Mungo St. John's heel almost brought him down sprawling in the mud, he lunged to catch his balance, but before he could do so, Camacho hit him with the long bright blade. Robyn screamed and Mungo St. John spun away from the sting of the steel with scarlet spreading wetly down his shirt-front like rich Burgundy wine spilled on a damask tablecloth, and his own knife flicked out of his hand and was lost in the red mud.
The crowd bellowed, and Camacho swarmed in eagerly, following the wounded man the way a good dog hunts a pheasant with a broken wing.
Mungo was forced to give him ground, falling back, clutching the wound, dodging and weaving, catching a forehand slash on his wrapped guard arm so the embroidered cloth split almost to the flesh beneath it.
Skilfully Camacho herded him towards the auction block, and when Mungo, felt the poles catch in the small of his back, he froze for a moment as he realized that he was trapped. Camacho drove in at him, going for the belly, his lips drawn back baring his perfect white teeth.
Mungo St. John caught the knife on his guard and then snatched a grip on the wrist with his right hand. The two men stood chest to chest, their arms entwined like vines on a trellis, swaying slightly as they strained together, and the effort brought a fresh flood of bright blood from Mungo's wound, but slowly he forced Camacho's knife hand upwards, bending it at the elbow, until the point was no longer aimed at Mungo's belly but at the night sky above them.
