FAIR BLOWS THE WIND
 My
name it Tatton Chantry and unless the gods are kind to rogues,
I shall die within minutes.
My two companions are dead, and those who came to this shore
with us have fled, believing me already killed. Their boat bobs
upon a gray sea flecked with the white of foam and soon they shall
be alongside the Good Catherine.
I am alone. I am left without food, without a musket, with
naught but the clothes in which I stand . . . and a sword. I also
have its small companion, a knife.
Crouched at the base of a gnarled and wind-racked tree, I
wait with pounding heart. For they will come now, for me. My two
companions are dead, and they must know that I am alone. One against
many.
My lips are dry, and my tongue keeps seeking them. Am I, then,
a coward? Death hangs over me like a cloud. Am I, whose blade
has sent so many others to their deaths, afraid to die?
I can flee, I can hie myself down the beach, running until
they bring me down like a frightened hare.
A Chantry flee? True, the name is not mine. I have but claimed
it, used it, found it helpful. Dare I dishonor it? Dare I be less
than the name deserves? I have carried it proudly. Therefore if
die I must, I shall die proudly, even though the name is not mine
and I die unheralded at the hands of savages.
They have killed some of those who came with me, but was I
seen? Is it possible I escaped notice? Do they know that I am
here? Do they delay killing me only to despoil those already slain.
We had come ashore for fresh water. Our casks were filled
, all were aboard the ship's boat but we three, two of the hands
and myself, and we had lingered to look about. They started back
at the call, but I saw a corner of something projecting from the
sand, and paused.
Arrows struck the boat, doing I know not what harm to its
crew, and spears were thrown, but most fell short. Then some good
lad fired a musket.
The ball caught a savage in the face and he fell, his head
half blown away. Shocked, the savages stopped their rush and the
boat gained the current and was gone, downstream and to the sea.
Then the savages were stripping the two dead men, muttering
and exclaiming over what they found.
Now a faint breeze ruffled the leaves, and I crouch, waiting.
Cold sweat beads my brow, trickles into my eyes, and I dare not
move for fear my motion will be seen. Very still am I, for they
are but thirty yards away and often within plain sight.
Is this to be the end of me? Of Tatton Chantry? The last of
his line, the first of his name?
There lies the ship; the boat is now alongside. How I wish
I were on it, to climb aboard!
The water casks are being hoisted aboard, and finally the
boat itself. Before long my companions will be relating the story.
Soon they will sail, and I alone will remain upon this barren
shore. Alone, but for the savages . . .
I wait and watch . . . Now the sails shake free, the wind
takes them and the Good Catherine moves.
Something within me dies. I have never been one to weep, nor
to bewail my fortunes, which God knows have been ill enough, and
I cannot find it in me to don the mantle of Job. Perhaps it is
that I am Irish. We Irish wear the cloak of adversity with style.
I wait . . . the sails of my ship drop below the horizon.
The squabbling of the savages has ceased.
They will come now. I shall meet them as my father's son should
meet them, sword in hand. If I am to die, being the last of my
line, let me go well that my ancestors need not feel they bred
in vain.
Very well, then! I shall go to meet them! If there be lives
beyond this, let them make ready. I shall go to meet them now.
They are gone! Did they despise me, then? Did they think me
too meek a man for their killing? Or did they simply not know
I was here.
The two dead sailors, good men both, lie horribly cut about
the face and body . . . mutilated.
To them I doff my plumed hat in silent tribute, for they did
what they were set to do on ship and shore, they lived and died
as men. Yet had they been even the lowest of scoundrels I would
have wished them alive with me, for now I am alone.
What am I, Tatton Chantry, to do, marooned upon this shore
with nothing!
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