Part 26 (1/2)
”The compliments of the morning to you. And I trust you rested well!” M.
Radisson called out.
Ben wished that he might be cursed if any man could rest well on bare boards rimed with frost like curdled milk.
”Cheer up, man! Cheer up!” encourages Radisson. ”There's to be a capture to-day!”
”A capture!” reiterates Ben, glowering black across the table and doffing his cap with bad grace.
”Aye, I said a capture! Egad, lad, one fort and one s.h.i.+p are prize enough for one day!”
”Sink my soul,” flouts Gillam, looking insolently down the table to the rows of ragged sailors sitting beyond our officers, ”if every man o' your rough-scuff had the nine lives of a cat, their nine lives would be shot down before they reached our palisades!”
”Is it a wager?” demands M. Radisson.
”A wager--s.h.i.+p and fort and myself to boot if you win!”
”Done!” cries La Chesnaye.
”Ah, well,” calculates M. Radisson, ”the s.h.i.+p and the fort are worth something! When we've taken them, Ben can go. Nine lives for each man, did you say?”
”A hundred, if you like,” boasts the New Englander, letting fly a broadside of oaths at the Frenchman's slur. ”A hundred men with nine lives, if you like! We've powder for all!”
”Ben!” M. Radisson rose. ”Two men are in the fort now! Pick me out seven more! That will make nine! With those nine I own your fort by nightfall or I set you free!”
”Done!” shouts Ben. ”Every man here a witness!”
”Choose!” insists M. Radisson.
Sailors and soldiers were all on their feet gesticulating and laughing; for G.o.defroy was translating into French as fast as the leaders talked.
”Choose!” urges M. Radisson, leaning over to snuff out the great breakfast candle with bare fingers as if his hand were iron.
”s.h.i.+ver my soul, then,” laughs Ben, in high feather, ”let the first be that little Jack Sprat of a half-frozen Battle! He's loyal to me!”
”Good!” smiles M. Radisson. ”Come over here, Jack Battle.”
Jack Battle jumped over the table and stood behind M. Radisson as second lieutenant, Ben's eyes gaping to see Jack's disguise of bushranger like himself.
”Go on,” orders M. Radisson, ”choose whom you will!”
The soldiers broke into ringing cheers.
”Devil take you, Radisson,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Ben familiarly, ”such cool impudence would chill the Nick!”
”That is as it may be,” retorts Radisson. ”Choose! We must be off!”
Again the soldiers cheered.
”Well, there's that turncoat of a Stanhope with his fine airs. I'd rather see him shot next than any one else!”