Chapter Twelve.
How I joined the good ship “Arrow.”
It was a still, sultry afternoon, and as I lay on my oars half-a-mile from shore I made up my mind I had little help to look for from the breezes; nor, as the tide was then running, could I afford to drift. I must row steadily, unless I wished to find myself out in the open, without supplies, before nightfall. However, that was no great hardship, and after my idle week in the cave I was glad enough (had my stomach only been a little less empty!) of a little hard work.
Whether the two men whose boat I had borrowed discovered their loss sooner or later I do not know to this day. But they might have left me a handier craft. I knew her of yore, an old Rathmullan tub, useful enough to ferry market women across to Inch, but ill-suited for a single rower on a windless sea.
For all that I was glad enough to have her, and feel myself once more my own master.
I would fain have put her head to Knockowen had I dared. But there I knew I could not look for safety. His honour, no doubt thankful to be allowed to consider me dead, would resent my return, and a way would soon be had of handing me over to the League, who by this time were in hue and cry to have my life. Martin, fool as he was, could be trusted to see to that business, while his honour received the compliments of his brother magistrates on his loyalty and sacrifices.
No; if I landed anywhere it must be at Kilgorman, where I should hardly be looked for, or if I was, should possibly pass for one of the ghosts of the place.
It was a dark night, without even a moon, before the distant light of Knockowen far up the lough showed me I must be coming within reach of my destination. A little breeze was now coming in from the open, which would, did I only dare to take it, carry me to my little lady’s side in less than an hour. Alas, it was not for me! and I pulled toilfully on.
It was not without some groping that at last I found the little creek into which the Cigale was wont to creep on her secret visits; and here at last, worn-out with fatigue and hunger, and still more with care, I ran my boat and landed.
What to do next I hardly knew. Food was what I needed most; after that, sleep; and after that, safety. It seemed as if I was to sup off the last, which was poor comfort to an empty stomach. I felt my way as quietly as I could up the track which led from the creek, and found myself presently on the cliff above, close to my dear mother’s grave. I might as well sleep here as anywhere else, and when they found me dead in the morning they would not have far to carry me.
Was I turning coward all of a sudden—I, who had looked down the barrel of a gun a week ago and not quailed? The gleam of the white cross on the Gormans’ tomb made me start and shiver. I seemed to hear footsteps in the long grass, and detect phantom lights away where the house was.
Presently I felt so sure that I heard steps that I could stay where I was no longer, and hurried back by the way I had come towards the boat. Then gathering myself angrily together, and equally sure I had heard amiss, I turned back again and marched boldly up towards Kilgorman House.
Whether it was desperation or some inward calling, I know not, but my courage rose the nearer I came. What had I to fear? What worse could happen to me in the house of my birth than out here on the pitiless hillside?
Even when I found the avenue-gate locked and barred I did not repent. It was easily climbed.
Soon I came under the grim walls, and, as if to greet me, a wandering ray of the moon came out and fell on the window above the hall-door. It even surprised me how little fear I felt as I now hauled myself up by the creepers and clambered on to the porch. But here my triumph reached its limit.
The window this time was closely barred. His honour had no doubt guessed how, on my former visits, I had found entrance, and had taken this means to thwart my next. No shaking or pulling was of any avail. Kilgorman, by that way at least, was unassailable.
Yet I was not to be thwarted all at once. My courage, I confess, was a little daunted as I clambered down to earth, and proceeded to feel my way carefully round the house for some more likely entry. But entry there was none. Every window and door was fast. The moonlight, which swept fitfully over the stagnant swamp, struck only on sullen, forbidding walls, and the breeze, now fast rising, moaned round the eaves to a tune which sent a shudder through my vitals.
My courage seemed to die away with it. But I determined to make one more round of the walls before I owned myself beaten. I tried the bar of every window. One after another they resisted stiffly, till suddenly I came on one (that below the room where I had found the strange relic of my mother months ago) which yielded a little in my hand, and seemed to invite me to test it again. The second time it gave more, and after a while, being eaten through with rust, it broke off.
The bars on either side of it proved equally yielding, and though some cost more trouble than others, I succeeded in about half-an-hour in breaking away sufficient to effect an entrance. The window behind the bars was easily forced, and once more I found myself standing inside Kilgorman.
It would be a lie to say that I felt no fears. Indeed every step I took along the dark passage helped to chill my blood, and long before I had reached the door of the great kitchen I wished myself safe outside again.
But shame, and the memory of that pathetic message from my dead mother, held me to my purpose. And, as if to encourage me, the candle stood where I had found it once before on the little ledge, and beside it, to my astonishment, a small crust of bread. It must have stood there a week, and was both stale and mouldy. But to my famishing taste it was a repast for a king, and put a little new courage into me.
It surprised me to find the great apartment once again crowded with arms, stacked all along the sides and laid in heaps on the centre of the floor. What perplexed me was not so much the arms themselves as the marvel how those that brought them entered and left the house.
But just now I had no time for such speculations. I was strung up to a certain duty, and that I must perform, and leave speculation for later. My mother’s letter, if it meant anything, meant that I was to seek for something below or behind the great hearth; and as I peered carefully round it with my candle I could not help recalling the ghost which Tim and I had both heard, years ago, advance to this very spot and there halt.
Save the deep recess of the fireplace itself, there was no sign above or below of any hiding-place. The flagstones at my feet were solid and firm, and the bricks on either side showed neither gap nor crack. I pushed the candle further in and stepped cautiously over the crumbled embers into the hollow of the deep grate itself.
As I did so a blast from above extinguished the light, and at the same moment a sound of footsteps fell on my ear, not this time from the outer passage, but apparently from some passage on the other side of the wall against which I crouched.
I felt round wildly with my hands for the opening by which I had entered. Instead of that I found what felt like a step in the angle of the wall, and above it another. An instinct of self-preservation prompted me to clamber up here, and ensconce myself on a narrow ledge in the chimney, some six feet above the level of the ground.
Here I waited with beating heart as the footsteps came nearer. I could judge by the sound that they belonged not, like the last I had heard, to a wandering woman, but to two men, advancing cautiously but with set purpose, and exchanging words in whispers.
Presently, to my amazement, a ray of light shot through the blackness of the recess below me, followed by a creaking noise as a part of the floor of the hearth swung slowly upwards, and revealed to my view a dimly-lit, rocky passage below, slanting downwards, and leading, as I could judge by the hollow sound that came through it, towards the shore of the lough.
I could now understand how it came that a house so closely barred and bolted was yet so easily frequented. And, indeed, the whole mystery of the smuggled arms became clear enough.
The two men who now clambered up, carrying a lantern, which illuminated the whole of the recess, and (had they only thought of looking up) the very ledge on which I sat, were sailors; and in one I recognised the foreign-looking fellow who, years ago, had commanded the Cigale and attended my mother’s wake. I knew from what I had overheard at his honour’s that, since my father had given himself up to the smuggling of arms, and received charge of the Cigale, this worthy fellow had left, that ship and devoted himself to the more perilous occupation of robbing his Majesty’s subjects indiscriminately on the high seas. His companion was evidently, by his villainous looks, a desirable partner in the same business.
“I told you so,” said the latter, turning his lantern into the room. “Guns enough for a regiment. Luck for us.”
“We have room enough for the lot,” growled the Frenchman in pretty plain English. “Monsieur Gorman shall find that two can play at one game. He smuggles the guns in in the Cigale, I smuggle them out in the Arrow. Parbleu! we are quits.”
And he laughed a loud laugh at his own jest. Then they proceeded to count their booty, and while so engaged it seemed to me that I had better escape before my position became more exposed, as it would be sure to be as soon as the business of carrying the guns through the recess began. So I took advantage of the darkness, when they were engaged at the far end of the kitchen, to drop from my perch and slip through the trap-door.
The peril of this movement only dawned on me when I found myself in the narrow, rocky cave. If this secret passage were guarded at the other end, as was most likely, by sentinels from the ship, what was to become of me? However, there was no retreating now. So I groped my way forward, down the ever-widening passage, till at last I found myself in a great wide-mouthed cave, full of water, in the middle of which ran a smooth causeway of stones, forming a kind of natural pier and landing-place. The rocky ledges running out beyond on either side formed a little harbour, in which, in the roughest weather, the water was fairly calm; and a further tongue of rock beyond that, rising some thirty or forty feet, and seeming to any one approaching it from without to be part of the cliffs, offered a safe riding-place for a ship of moderate draught.
As good luck would have it, the cave was empty. The Arrow must have come in after I had crossed the lough that evening. And the French skipper and his mate had evidently left their crew to anchor and clear the vessel in the roads while they reconnoitred the house.
I could see very little of the ship through the darkness, and, indeed, was too busy making myself scarce to heed her.
Nor had I much time to spare. For almost before I had got round the ledge and clambered partly up the cliff at the top of the cave mouth, I heard a boat putting off and voices making for the little harbour.
After that, fatigue and hunger did their work with me, and despite the peril of my position I fell asleep, and never woke till the sun was high and hot in the heavens.
Then, when I looked out, I saw as pretty a little schooner as I had ever set eyes on lying in the roads. I used to think it hard to beat the Cigale for looks, but the Arrow was her superior in every way. She was a bigger vessel, and armed at every port. Her lines were both light and strong, and by the cut of her rigging I could fancy she had the speed of a greyhound.
The sight of her set all my old sea-longing aflame. Pirate as she was, it would be good, I thought, to be on her and face the open sea, far away from my persecutors and enemies—away from Knockowen, and Kilgorman, and—
Here I stopped short. Knockowen, next to the Cigale where Tim was, held what counted most to me of this world’s good. Kilgorman held the spirit of my dead mother, waiting to be relieved of its trouble. How could I desert the one or the other and call myself a brave man?
What I could not decide, fate decided for me. The cave below me was guarded by the pirate’s men, who clattered their muskets on the stones and kept a keen look-out on all sides for any chance intruder. To quit my present perch would be certain death. So I lay and watched the boat as she plied backwards and forwards with the guns, and wondered how soon the task of loading would be done.
It went on all the day, and every hour I felt myself grow fainter and more sick with hunger. For nearly two days, except last night’s crust, I had tasted nothing; and before that, sea-weed had been the chief article of my diet. The scene presently seemed to swim before me, and at last, what with the heat and famine, I fairly swooned away.
When I came to, two curious faces were bent over me, and my bed was no longer the rocky cliff side, but the hard floor of a boat as it danced over the waves.
“He looks a likely lad,” said one voice.
“He’s safer with us than ashore,” said another. “I warrant he was put there to spy on us.”
“Come, lad,” said the first speaker, shaking me not altogether roughly; “we have you safe this time.”
“’Deed, sir,” said I, “as long as you give me some food you may do what you like with me.”
And with this I rolled over again and all grew dim. When I opened my eyes next it was dark, and by the motion under me I guessed I was on the ship. A lantern swung dimly overhead, and a loud snoring below me showed me I was not alone in my bunk. What was of more interest just then, a piece of a loaf and some salt meat stood within reach of where I lay, and had evidently been put there for my use. You may guess if I let them stand long.
This refreshment, with the sleep I had had, and a few drops of rum in the tail of a bottle that stuck from my messmate’s pocket, made a new man of me. And I sank back to my rest with a sense of comfort I have rarely known the like of since.
In the morning a rough hand roused me.
“Come, you have had enough coddling, my hearty. The captain wants you. And, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll say your prayers before you go on deck, as he’ll likely drop you overboard.”
This failed to frighten me, as it was meant to do; and I gathered myself together and climbed the hatchway, feebly enough, I confess, but with good cheer, and stood on the deck of the Arrow.
The coast of Donegal was clear over our stern, and a smart breeze from the east filled our sails and sent us spanking through the water.
The skipper was sitting aft, pipe in mouth, and waiting for me. I resolved to take the bold course and not wait to be spoken to.
“The top of the morning to you, captain,” said I, saluting; “and it’s well you’re looking since you were at my mother’s wake.”
He stared at me, and then seemed to understand.
“You—you are Gallagher’s boy, then?”
“The same, captain,” said I; “and I’m obliged to you for this day’s food.”
“Gallagher was no friend of mine,” said he; “but since he is dead, that shall not be against you, if you sail with me.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed. “Is my father dead?”
“The Cigale went down off Foreland Head a month since.”
“And Tim, my brother, was he drowned?”
“Likely enough, if he was aboard. Only two of the crew escaped.—So you sail under my orders?”
“I have nothing else to do,” said I.
“You may swing at the yard-arm, if you prefer it,” said he.
“Thanking you all the same, I’ll sail where I am,” said I.
So, with a very heavy heart, I found myself one of the crew of the Arrow.
Chapter Thirteen.
The guard-house at Brest.
Captain Cochin—for so the commander of the Arrow styled himself, though I always had my doubts whether he had any right to one title or the other—was too well aware of the value of his cargo to risk it in pursuing his ordinary calling of a pirate on the present voyage. So he stood well out to sea, ostentatiously flying the English flag, and giving friendly salutes to any chance vessels that came in his course.
“Parbleu!” said he, “England owes me one debt for taking the guns away from those who would have used them against her, and selling them to my poor countrymen, who will use them against one another. But there is no gratitude in England, and if I want payment I must help myself. But not this voyage—by-and-by.”
As for me, the joy I should have felt at finding myself free and at sea was damped by the news of the loss of the Cigale, and with it, of my father and Tim. The hope of seeing Tim again had kept me in heart during many a trouble and danger, and now I felt more alone than ever.
In the whole world, except Con the dog, there was left me but one friend; and she, if she ever thought of me, did so as of one below her, and already dead. But that I was young and clung hard to life, I would as soon have dropped over the side of the Arrow as anywhere else, and so ended the bad business of my little history.
In a day or two, however, as the wind freshened and the great Atlantic waves pitched the Arrow like a plaything from one to the other, my spirits began to rise once more, and the cloud on my mind gave way before the cheery influence of a seaman’s life.
One of the first things I discovered was that I knew far less about seamanship than I gave myself credit for. Sailing the Arrow was a very different business from sailing his honour’s lumbering tubs across Lough Swilly, and I had to own that I had a great deal to learn and very little to teach before I could call myself a complete sailor. Still, I was handy, and not afraid to lend a hand at anything, from holding the helm to cooking the mate’s dinner. And so, before many days were over, I had taken my place without much ado as one of the crew.
For a ship of that size, engaged in such a trade, a crew of thirty men was small enough. Most of them were foreigners, a few, like myself, Irish, and the rest English. The one thing that kept them all from quarrelling was the hope of plunder; and it was easy to guess that, in the matter of the stolen guns, although the credit of that achievement belonged to Captain Cochin alone, the men would not have agreed on this peaceable journey to France if they had not been promised a share in the fruits of the cargo when sold.
Captain Cochin found out that it is as hard to avoid the enemy’s ships when you do not want them as it is to fall in with them when you do.
We had been out nearly a week, beating about against fitful winds down the west coast of Ireland, when one evening just before nightfall we sighted land on our weather-bow, and between us and it a sail bearing down our way.
As far as we could make out the stranger was a cruiser, in all probability one of the government vessels at that time stationed off Bantry Bay, on the look-out for some of the foreign smugglers and privateers that made it their hunting-ground. The light fell too suddenly to enable us to see more, but Captain Cochin flew the English colours at his mast-head, and held on his course until night hid us completely.
Then we put out into the wind and ran for the open sea, and waited for the morning.
The short midsummer night left us little waiting; and as soon as day broke, the first thing we saw, within a league of us, and bearing right across our course, was the stranger in full chase. She was a brigantine fully armed, and carrying a great spread of sail, but to our surprise she flew not the English but the French colours.
On seeing this, Captain Cochin quickly hauled down the English flag, and ran up that of his own country; but he disregarded the stranger’s signal to come to, and held on with every breath of wind he could get into his canvas.
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” they say. And so, the French privateer suspecting the French pirate to have good reason for running away, pressed on all sail, and gave full chase.
What surprised me most was to see that she was fast coming up on us. I had never contemplated such a thing as the Arrow being caught by anything on water; but I had to admit now I was wrong. If the Arrow was a hare, the Frenchman was a greyhound.
However, there was no time to speculate on questions of speed. The question was, should we show fight, or lie-to and explain ourselves? There was no hope of a ship like ours, so slenderly manned, being able to capture or even disable our heavily-armed pursuer. On the other hand, to surrender meant losing all our booty, and possibly our ship into the bargain; for the French, when it suited their purpose, were ready enough to take advantage of a chance of pressing a smart craft like the Arrow into their own service, especially as she bore an English name, and was known to have preyed pretty impartially on friend and foe alike.
An eager consultation took place on deck, some urging one course, some another, while some proposed to throw the cargo overboard, and one or two to scuttle the ship.
However, as good luck would have it, there was a fifth way out of the difficulty which we had little dreamed of.
“A sail on the weather-quarter!” suddenly shouted our watch.
The captain and mate went aloft to view her, and presently reported an English frigate in full sail bearing down in our direction. She seemed to be coming fast, across the wind, and by the look of her was a regular line-of-battle ship, with a double row of guns snarling from her ports.
“That settles us,” said Captain Cochin, rapidly recovering his spirits. “While the lion and the tiger fight, Mister Fox slips off with the booty. Way there; keep her as she goes, master; and good-day to you, monsieur.”
He spoke the truth. The Frenchman, as soon as she caught sight of the English frigate, altered her course abruptly, and instead of being the hunter became the hunted. So, for an hour or more, each of us held her own way, the Englishman closing on the Frenchman, and the Arrow sailing clear of both. Towards afternoon, the distant sound of a gun behind us told us the battle had already begun, and before nightfall the two were no doubt at it broadside to broadside.
After that, we gave the land a wide berth, and met nothing we need fear, till at last, with the French flag flying, we sailed merrily into Brest Harbour, safe and sound, without a scratch on our hull or a hole in our canvas.
But here Captain Cochin’s good luck suddenly deserted him; for no sooner was he berthed, with sails stowed and anchors out, than he discovered that the French merchantman next him was none other than a vessel which on his last voyage out he had attempted to board in mid-channel, and, but for a sudden squall, would have captured and plundered. The captain of the merchantman had already reported his wrongs to the authorities; and now, finding himself cheek by jowl with the offender, lost not a moment in taking his revenge.
So, just as we were about to lower our boat for a jaunt on shore, to refresh us after our voyage, the port-admiral sent off a galley to board us, and summon us to attend on shore in irons, and show cause why we should not, each one of us, be hanged by the neck.
It was a pretty end to our jaunt, and so suddenly done that there was nothing for it but to surrender and follow where we were bidden. No doubt a smart craft like the Arrow, with a cargo of guns, was a good enough excuse for the French admiral, quite apart from our delinquencies; and at a time like this, when France lived under a reign of terror, the only excuse needed for any act, just or unjust, was the force to perform it.
You may imagine, out of all the hang-dog prisoners who marched that day through the streets of Brest, I felt myself the most ill-used; for I had sailed in the Arrow by no will of my own, and had taken part in no act of violence against any Frenchman, dead or alive. And yet, because I chanced to be among the crew, I was to be hung by the neck! I knew well enough, from what I had heard of French justice, that any excuses would be but breath wasted. Indeed, as one of the few English of the party, I should probably be spared even the farce of a trial. My only hope was that Captain Cochin, who had not been unkind to me so far, would speak a word in my favour.
We were marched to a dismal, white-washed guard-house on the edge of the town, and were there locked up by half-dozens till it suited the admiral’s convenience to consider our case, and that was not till next day. The cell in which I and five of my shipmates were confined was a small, underground cellar, reeking with damp and foul smells, and lit only by a narrow grating in the ceiling, through which all night the rain poured steadily, forming a huge puddle in the middle of the earth floor.
There was one narrow bench on which we sat huddled together, to eat our scanty portion of black bread, and pass the dismal night as best we could. For my part, that night reconciled me to the prospect of a French gallows as much as anything.
In the morning we were ordered to march once more, and were brought into the presence of some official who acted as judge to try cases of misdemeanour on the high seas. With the exception of Captain Cochin and myself (I was able to speak the language a little) few of us understood French, and the formality of having the proceedings interpreted to us was not even allowed. The captain and certain of the crew of the merchantman were present and told their grievance, and with a large sweep of assumption swore that we were each as bad as the other. The judge demanded what Captain Cochin had to say, and cut him short before he had well opened his mouth.
I made a feeble effort to put myself right, not so much in any hope of moving the tribunal as of reminding Captain Cochin of my claims on his good offices. But he was too savage and perturbed to take the hint.
Then it came out that we were bringing arms into France, and were called to prove that they were not for the use of the enemies of liberty. Whom were they consigned to? They were not consigned.—Where did they come from? Ireland.—Ireland was in sympathy with France in her war against tyranny. To rob Ireland was to rob the friend of France. To whom were the arms about to be sold? To any that would buy them.—None but the enemies of France needed arms. Her sons were all armed already. Therefore the traffic was not only wicked but treasonable, and for treason there was but one punishment—death.
At this the audience, who had crowded into the court, cheered loudly.
Had we any defence? any witnesses? Of course we had none but ourselves.
Then the sentence of the court was pronounced. Captain Cochin was to be guillotined next morning. The rest of us were to be hanged in chains that afternoon, and our bodies left exposed to view for three days as a warning to pirates and traitors.
So ended our trial; and had it not been so tragic in its ending, I could have laughed at the farce of it.
We were marched back to our prison to spend the few hours that remained of our lives; and on the way our attention was directed by a friendly guard to a great gallows with accommodation on it for at least ten persons side by side. I only hoped, if it came to that, I might be in the first batch.
This time I was placed in a different cell from that I had occupied the night before. It was above ground, and lit by a larger window. Indeed, it was not intended to be used as a cell at all; but, as my jailer explained in a jocular way, he had so many guests that day that he was obliged to accommodate some of them in the soldiers’ quarters, and begged monsieur (that was I) would accept his excuses for not having made more elaborate preparations for his reception. In half-an-hour or so, he said, there would be more room. If monsieur could kindly wait till then, he should have an apartment suited to his dignity.
“Monsieur is too good,” said I in the politest French I could muster, thinking it wise to humour him; “but I should take it as a favour to be allowed to give up my apartment.”
“By no means,” said the other, slapping me on the back; “we cannot spare your company a moment before the time.—Meanwhile, make yourself at home, and receive the assurance of my profound esteem.”
“There is one favour I would beg, if I might be so bold,” said I. “In the short time left me I would like to write a letter to a friend.”
“If it is a lady friend,” said the Frenchman with a wink, “it might be allowed—provided she is fair, and I may have the honour of delivering it.”
“She is fair,” said I, trying hard to keep up the jest; “and I will gladly trust you with what I write to her.”
The fellow was, after all, of the good-natured kind, and I think meant no harm by his jests. At any rate, after some demur, he agreed to loose my handcuffs for half-an-hour while I wrote; and having fetched me in pen and paper, left me to myself, double locking the door after him.
This was what I wanted. I waited till his footsteps died down the passage, and then crept silently to the window. It was above my reach, but by jumping I could just catch the bars and haul myself up. Not being intended as a dungeon, the bars were loosely fixed, and I found that it would be possible to remove one, and so allow room through which to squeeze. The casement itself was of the ordinary kind, and opened outwards with a simple catch-fastener.
Outside was a courtyard at the back of the guard-house, in which were scattered sundry brooms and buckets, and a pile of rubbish in one corner. By mounting this I calculated I could get my hands to the top of the outer wall; and once over that, my chance was come.
I returned to my table and pretended to be occupied with writing, while really I was listening with all my ears for any sound that might show on which side of the prison the guard was set.
The Frenchman, I believe, had been quite correct in saying that the company at present being entertained in the place was inconveniently large; and if so, the guard set over them was probably dangerously small. And if the executions were to begin at once, it was conceivable they might be still smaller as the afternoon wore on. So, though I knew that my precious half-hour was slipping by, I waited patiently for a good part of it, till presently I heard a word of command, and a confused tramp of footsteps down the passage.
This was the first batch of my luckless comrades being marched to their death, and I shuddered as I thought how near I stood to their fate.
But cost what it would I would make a dash for freedom first. I sprang to the window and hauled myself up on to the ledge. The loose bar gave way after a very little coaxing, and next minute I was out of the casement and in the little courtyard. One or two windows overlooked it, but either these were too high for any one to look from, or there was no one to look, or if there was, the attraction of the ghastly scene going on at the other side took them the other way. And to this same attraction, no doubt, was due the fact that no sentry was patrolling the back of the prison.
I succeeded by means of the rubbish heap in scaling the wall. But before leaping down on the other side, the thought occurred to me that if I could hide somewhere near till night, I should have a better chance of escaping with my pursuers ahead of me than behind me.
By following the line of the wall I found I could reach a corner of the prison where there was a blank wall, up which a gutter pipe ran to the rambling, gabled roof, where, if I could only reach it, I should hardly be looked for.
The clamber was a perilous one, especially as the heavy rain rendered the iron pipe more than usually slippery. But I was sailor enough to understand how to grip with hands and feet, and succeeded with no great difficulty in reaching the top and hiding myself away in a deep angle of the roof—not safe, indeed, but with time at least to breathe and consider what next.
Nor was I too soon; for I had not lain there two minutes before I heard a sudden shout and rush of feet in the yard below, and knew that my escape had been discovered and that a price was upon my head.
Chapter Fourteen.
The wood near Morlaix.
As I expected, the hiding-place I had chosen was about the safest I could have had. For my jailers, taking note of the trampled dust-heap in the corner, and finding, moreover, my half-written letter (which I had taken the precaution to drop on the far side of the wall before I doubled on my steps), had no doubt that I had fled either towards the open country or to the harbour, where possibly I might succeed in smuggling myself on board a ship.
So, instead of increasing the sentries round the house, they actually reduced them in order to reinforce the pursuing party. My policy was to get away while the coast was comparatively unprotected, and trust to night and my good angel to get clear of the place. So, when the excitement had subsided a little, and the remaining soldiers on guard were summoned to assist at the hanging of the second batch of my shipmates, I stole from my hiding-place and, covered by the sea-mist which came with the sundown, slid down the pipe and crossed the wall, and set off as briskly as I could in an easterly direction through the outskirts of the town.
The streets were moderately crowded with wayfarers and loungers, and as I sauntered along with a big French cigar in my mouth, which had cost me two of my few remaining sous, no one paid me any particular heed. A few of the soldiers eyed me suspiciously as a doubtful character, but they were too accustomed to queer sea-dogs prowling about the place to consider me worth the trouble of a challenge.
At last I came to one of the posting taverns of the town where the coach for Paris was beginning to take up passengers in the presence of the usual curious crowd of idlers. At the present time, when everybody went in terror of his life, and to be suspected of any design against the liberties of France was the same thing as being condemned for it, it was no easy task even for the most innocent and well-conducted traveller to get clear of a town like Brest.
The few merchants and tourists and nervous women who ventured were made to pass through a row of soldiers, who examined their passports narrowly, and sometimes ordered them to stand aside for further inquiry; a command which sent the blood out of the cheeks of him who heard it, and made him think no more of the mail-coach but of the low tumbrel on which the victims of the guillotine took their last dreadful drive.
Even while I stood, there was one woman—a would-be traveller—who failed to satisfy the officer on guard, and who, on being ordered back, fell on her knees with shrieks and begged for mercy. And not one of those who stood gaping beside me but said she would be in luck if she got it.
Still more fuss was made about a horseman who demanded leave to ride forward to Paris on an errand of hot haste. He was, to all appearance, a gentleman’s lackey, and, from the little I heard of the talk, spoke English easier than French. He was ordered to dismount while the officer carefully read his passport by the light of a lantern and inspected his letters of introduction and even of credit. Finally, after much suspense, he was allowed to remount, which he did in less than a moment, and clattered away through the pouring rain out into the wet night.
The sight of him made me envious indeed. What would I not give for a sound horse under me and a sound passport in my pocket!
At last the diligence was nearly ready. The luggage was stowed in the boot, and two great mail baskets were swung and padlocked on the bar underneath. The four horses were brought out and put to, and driver, guard, and officer retired to the hostel for a parting glass.
An impulse seized me then to slip out of the crowd and creep forward on the road under the deep shadow of the wall. Far I could not go, I knew, for at the barrier I should be detected and stopped. But the coach, having been so carefully inspected at its starting-point, would, I judged, be allowed through the barrier without further challenge. It should not be my fault if I did not go through with it.
The rain was pouring in sheets, and on such a night no one would be likely to walk abroad for pleasure. Nor between the hostel and the barrier was it probable that any sentinel would patrol the empty street. At any rate I met nothing, except a market-cart coming in, the occupants of which were too busy discussing the handling they had received at the barrier to look under the shadow of the wall for a vagrant boy.
At last I found a convenient place, where the road was dark as night, and where a sharp turn made it likely that the horses would be taken slowly past. Here I crouched, dripping from head to foot, for a long ten minutes.
Then my heart beat as I heard the dull rumble of the wheels, and caught the lurid glare of the two lamps coming. By the brief glance I got I saw that the guard (as I had hoped) had crouched in for shelter under the driver’s hood, and that the sole occupant of the back coupé was buried under his tarpaulin.
Now was my time. I had carefully selected my point of attack. The two baskets I spoke of underneath the coach swung on double iron bars, and between the two, could I only scramble there, there was just room for me to perch, completely hidden, at any rate while night lasted, from the keenest of eyes.
I saw the driver throw himself back and pull in the reins for the corner, and in the momentary check of the speed I darted out from my hiding-place, and clambered in under the tail of the coach and reached the bars between the baskets. But for Providence I should have fallen between the wheels. As it was, the start forward of the horses carried me dragging on my toes twenty yards before I could haul myself up and lie face upwards across the bars, with my head on one basket, my feet on the other, and my nose almost rubbing the bottom of the coach.
I have, I own, travelled many a mile more comfortably, but few more happily. I had but one terror, and that was short-lived. At the barrier the coach pulled up, and the guard got down to hand in his papers, and to help himself to a spare wrapper out of the boot. Then, with a cheerful “Hi! hi!” he clambered back to his place, the barrier swung open, and we were out of Brest in the open country outside.
Little I cared that the mud plastered my back with a coat as thick as that I had on. Little I cared that the drippings of the coach fell in my mouth and eyes, and the stench of stale straw almost choked me. I was free! The noose on the gallows would remain empty for me. I was so gay I believe I even laughed under the coach.
Presently, however, I began to realise that this security was not to be for ever. When daylight came, or even sooner, should we reach the end of our first stage before, I should be able no longer to hide myself. It would be wiser to escape half-an-hour too soon than be discovered half-an-hour too late.
So when, some four hours out, I judged by the toiling of the horses we were approaching the summit of a hill, I slipped from my perch, and after running some little way under the boot, cast loose just as the driver cracked his whip and the horses started at a spanking trot down the incline.
It frightened me to find myself standing in the open road and hear the diminishing sounds of the friendly diligence. In front of me I could see the grey break of dawn struggling among the heavy clouds. Behind me swept the rain, buffeting me forward. Somewhere or other I must find shelter from the night.
No sooner had I resolved upon this than the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop sent my teeth chattering in real earnest. I had barely time to dart to the roadside and hide below the hedge when a horseman swept by. By his look he was not a soldier or an ordinary traveller, such as the courier I had seen set out from Brest. I cared little who he was, provided he rode on and let me alone. But till I lost all sound of him I spent an uneasy time in the ditch.
As soon as the August dawn gave me a view, I found myself on the top of a great exposed heath, across which the road reached for a mile or so, and then plunged downwards into a thick wood. Towards this wood I hastened with all the speed I could. Here at least I could lie hid a while till my next chance turned up.
That chance was nearer than I thought. About half-way through the wood the road forked into three, one way on either hand striking deep among the trees; that in the middle holding straight on, and by the marks of wheels being evidently the highroad. I struck to the right some way, and then quitted the road altogether for a glade in the wood which seemed to lead to denser shelter.
I had scarcely left the track when I was startled by the sound of a voice and a groan close by. Had I wanted to retreat I could hardly have done so unseen, but a glance in the direction from which the sound proceeded held me where I was.
A horse stood quietly nibbling the grass, and on his back, fallen forward, with arms clasping the beast’s neck, and head drooping helplessly downward, was his rider, bleeding from a pistol wound in the neck, and too weak even to disengage his feet from the stirrups. In a single glance I recognised the horseman who had ridden ahead of the coach.
A pistol, evidently dropped from his hand, lay on the grass, and his hat lay between the horse’s feet.
If life was not already extinct, it was fast ebbing away. I lifted him as gently as I could and laid him on the grass. He opened his eyes, and his lips moved; but for a moment he seemed choked. I tried with some moss to stanch his still bleeding wound, but the groan he gave as I touched him caused me to desist.
Then he tried to speak something in French.
“What is it?” said I, in English.
A look of quick relief came into his face.
“Ride forward with the letters—for God’s sake—promise.”
Even in the feeble, broken words I could recognise a countryman.
“Yes,” said I.
“Horses—at each post—my purse,” he gasped.
“I promise I will do as you ask—as I am an Irishman and a Christian.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
“Your hand,” said he, at last.
I gave it to him, and as it closed on his he groaned, and died.
It had all happened so suddenly that for a minute or two I knelt where I was, with my hand still in his, like one in a dream. Then I roused myself, and considered what was to be done.
The dead man was a good-looking youth, scarcely twenty, dressed in the habit of a gentleman’s groom, and evidently, by the smartness of his accoutrement, in the employ of some one of importance. As to how he had come by his death I could only guess. But I suspected the horseman I had seen galloping back towards Brest in the morning twilight had had something to do with it. The highwayman had met the traveller, and shots had been exchanged—the one fatal, the other telling enough to send the bandit flying. The poor wounded fellow had had strength enough to turn his horse into the wood and cling to his seat. How long he had stayed thus, slowly bleeding to death, I could not say; but the diligence must have passed that way two hours ago, and he must have been well ahead of it when his journey was thus suddenly stopped.
Then I recalled his dying words, and after tethering the horse set myself to look for the papers he spoke of. I found them at last—the passport in his breast pocket, whence he could easily produce it, the others in his belt. The former described the bearer as John Cassidy, travelling from Paris to Dublin and back on urgent private business, duly signed and countersigned. It gave a description of the bearer, even down to the clothes he wore: I supposed to enable any official who passed him from one point of his journey to another to identify him. The letters were two in number, one addressed to Citoyen Duport, a Deputy of the National Convention, and marked with the greatest urgency. The other—and this startled me the most—to one George Lestrange at Paris, with no other address. Lestrange! The name called to mind one or two memories. Was not the gay young officer I had once ferried across to Rathmullan a Lestrange—a kinsman of my lady; and was not Biddy McQuilkin of Kerry Keel, who once set her cap at my father, in the service of this same Lestrange’s aunt in Paris? Strange if this hot errand should concern them! All things considered, I decided that the wisest thing would be for me to put on the dead man’s clothes, and make myself in general appearance as near to the description of the passport as possible. In fact, for the rest of this journey I must be John Cassidy himself, travelling post to Paris, with a horse waiting on him at each stage, a purse full of money, a pistol, and a belt containing two urgent letters of introduction. Little dreamed I when I sneaked out of Brest under the belly of that lumbering diligence that I was to go to my journey’s end in this style!
Before I started I buried the dead man, and along with him my cast-off clothes, in a pit in the wood, which I covered over with leaves and moss. Then I mounted my horse, stuck my loaded pistol in my belt, commended my ways to Heaven, and cantered on in the face of the rosy summer dawn towards Paris.
Chapter Fifteen.
A Rat-trap in the Rue d’Agnès.
The worth of my credentials was very soon put to the test; for an hour’s ride brought me to Morlaix, where, as I had learned from a hastily scrawled list of places on the cover of the passport, I was to expect my first fresh horse.
Here there was some grumbling at my lateness and wondering as to the cause of it. For the diligence guard had reported that I (or rather he whom I represented) had started ahead of the coach from Brest, and should have passed Morlaix three hours in front.
Whereupon I explained that I had been attacked by a highwayman, and obliged to hide in the woods till daylight. At which they laughed, and said if I chose to travel to Paris alone on horseback, instead of journeying as most honest citizens did, I must expect to be shot at. Then I was ordered into the conciergerie while my passport and papers were examined.
It was lucky for me I had put on the dead man’s clothes, and that the description chiefly related to these. As regards personal appearance I was described as young, beardless, with blue eyes, brown hair, and “nothing remarkable,” which equally well described me as it did poor John Cassidy.
“Who is your master?” demanded the officer.
“Citoyen Lestrange,” said I boldly, “an Irishman resident in Paris.”
“Where have you been?”
“To Dublin, to see my master’s agent, Mr Patten.”
“Is this Monsieur Patten’s letter?”
“That to my master is his. That to the Citoyen Duport is from a French gentleman in Dublin whose name I do not know.”
It hurt me to tell so many lies in one breath. But I must needs have some story to tell, and prayed Heaven to forgive me for this.
To my relief the officer seemed satisfied, and I gathered that the Citoyen Duport must be a man of consequence in Paris.
“Pass, John Cassidy,” said he, handing me back my papers.
The same ceremony awaited me at each halting-place, and I realised before I was half-way to Paris that it was no easy matter for a stranger to travel in France in those days. What would have become of me but for the accident in the wood near Morlaix it were hard to say.
But though I had much to congratulate myself on, I confess that as I drew near to the capital I had much to perturb me. At every halting-place on the way there were some who shrugged their shoulders when they heard I was going to Paris. Paris, I heard it whispered, was no safe place just then even for a Frenchman, still less for a stranger. The streets were flowing with the blood of those whose only crime was that they were suspected of not being the friends of the people. As to my passport, it would be of little use to me unless I could give a fit account of myself and my masters. As for Citoyen Duport, if I once put my head in his jaws I need not expect to see it on again. And as for my letter to Citoyen Lestrange, I had better carry it in the sole of my stocking, and let no one know I bore a missive to any Englishman or Irishman in Paris. My wisest course, so one frank official at Alençon told me, was to know no French, to have no errand but my letter to Citoyen Duport; that delivered, he thought I should save trouble if I shot myself through the head.
All this was very alarming; and I began to doubt, when at last I caught sight of the towers and domes of Paris in the distance, whether I should not have been better off after all hiding in the caves under Fanad, or dangling on the gallows beside Brest harbour.
At the barrier, however, things fell out easier for me than I had feared. For, just as I arrived, a common cart on the way out had been stopped and searched, and in it, hidden in a wood packing-case, had been unearthed some notorious enemy of the people, over whose detection there was great rejoicing, and the promise of a famous execution in the morning. For all these reasons the soldiers and officials into whose hands I fell were in high good-humour, and after scanning my passport and the letter to the deputy let me go by.
I had followed the advice of my late counsellor, and forgotten all the little French I knew, and had hidden the letter to Citoyen Lestrange in my stocking. Whether I was to carry out the rest of his advice remained to be seen.
The officer at the barrier retained my passport, saying it was done with, from which I concluded that now I was in Paris there was little hope of getting out of it again. So, feeling like a mouse in a trap, I parted company with my horse, my passport, and even my pistol (of which I was also relieved), and walked forward into the noisy city, wishing I only knew where to go next.
Presently I came into a long narrow street, where the houses overhead slanted towards one another and nearly shut out the light of heaven. Poles stuck out from the windows, on which hung clothes or signs or legends; the sight of which, swaying in the wind, mingled with the foul odour and the noise and the jostling crowd, fairly dazed a country boy like me. How, in such a place as this, was I to find what I wanted—namely, a meal and a night’s lodging?
At last, in front of me, there swung a flaunting sign—“A l’Irlandois”—at which I cheered up. Here, at any rate, in the midst of this noisome babel, seemed to come a whiff from the old country, and I felt like a castaway in sight of land.
But before I had time to reach the place the whole street seemed suddenly to go mad. First there was a yell and a roll of drums at the end by which I had entered. Then every window seemed alive with people, straining forward with howls and execrations and clenched fists. From every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this narrow Rue d’Agnès and there run mad.
I noticed that the one thing all were agreed upon, was to keep a clear space in the roadway, and strain their necks impatiently in the direction of the drums; and soon enough the reason of all this excitement became clear. Drawn by a single horse, and escorted by a troop of National Guards, came a low open cart, in which sat two persons, deadly white, gazing in a dazed vacant way at the scene around them, and sometimes casting a reproachful glance at the slowly plodding horse. One of the two was an old man, of fine, aristocratic presence, which the coarse clothes he wore could not disguise. The other was a low ruffian, with swollen face and bleared eyes, in the dress of a butcher. Between the two, except that they were on their way to death, there was nothing in common. Till to-day they had never met, and after to-day they would never meet again. The crime of one, so I heard, was that he was related to an aristocrat; that of the other, that he had murdered his own daughter. For both offences the law of France just then had but one penalty. And of the two, he who was most execrated and howled at and spat upon was the gentleman.
In less time than it takes to write it the show had passed. A few of the crowd followed to see the end of the business. The rest, for the most part, returned to their callings, and before the drums were out of hearing the Rue d’Agnès was once more a plain, dirty, ordinary Paris street.
With a heart a good deal weighted by what I had seen, I turned into the Cabaret ”à l’Irlandois.” If I had expected to find anything there to remind me of my own country, I was sorely disappointed. A few blouse-clad idlers sat at a table, smoking and drinking sugar and water, and discussing the news of the day with their host, a surly-looking fellow, who, whatever his inn might be, was himself a common type of Frenchman. “Now?” demanded he as I approached. “Monsieur,” said I in English, “I desire a bed and some food.”
“Speak French,” said he in English. “I speak no French,” replied I in French. Whereupon one of the idlers was summoned as interpreter. I knew French enough to hear in the words that passed between him and mine host the two expressions “spy” and “money,” and I wished I had never come into the place. But it was not easy to get out now without confirming the suspicion, and I deemed it wise to appear indifferent.
“If monsieur can give me a bed, I will put up with him,” said I to the interpreter; “if not—”
“Citizen Picquot sees his money before he sells his wares,” said the other.
I laid a gold piece on the table. “Citizen Picquot is a wise man,” said I.
Then followed a cross-examination of me, prompted by the cautious Picquot and interpreted by his ally.
“Who was I? Where did I come from? Why did I seek a lodging at his house of all others? How long was I going to stay? What was my occupation in Paris? How much more money had I got?” and so on.
To all of which I answered my best; and when I produced my letter to the Deputé Duport they treated me more ceremoniously. I was shown to a room, the like of which for filth I had never slept in before, and shall never, I hope, sleep in again. It was a large chamber, the boards of which were furred with mildew, and the valance on the bed was dropping off with rottenness. Generations of cats had haunted it and slept on the coverlet. The dungeon at Brest was fresh and sweet compared to it. Yet Citizen Picquot smilingly demanded two francs a night and the price of my candle.
“Monsieur is safe here,” said he, forgetting, as did I, that I knew no French. “I had a guest, a week ago, who was found by the Guards and taken before the Tribunal and guillotined. He would have been safe too, but we had a difference about money, and I denounced him. It was only a week ago. They will not search my house again for a month to come. Monsieur will be quite safe; but if, alas, he perish (and who is quite safe in these days?), I will myself protect his effects, and see his letter to the depute duly forwarded.”
All this was vastly consoling.
“Apropos,” said I, “cannot I deliver my letter this evening?”
“This evening,” said my host with a shrug; “it is death to approach a deputé à la Convention Nationale after the séance is closed. The last who did it was Mademoiselle Corday, and she— In the morning, monsieur, when the Convention sits, you shall deliver your letter; till then, peace and sound repose.” And he bowed himself out.
I knew not much of the world, but I knew enough to wish myself out of this rat-trap. To try to escape just now would, I saw, be futile. Yet to spend the night there meant, if not murder, at least robbery and pestilence. A brave face was the only thing to put upon the business, and I followed Citizen Picquot downstairs and called for food and drink, in which I invited not him only but his gossips to join me.
I noticed that the door was carefully locked when any one came in or went out, and that any chance motion of mine in that direction was quickly intercepted. So the evening wore on, and presently the lights of the cabaret were extinguished, and my host passed me my candle and again bade me good-night.
I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and my belt.
I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I tied up in the tail of my shirt. Then I considered that the only safe place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it fast against the four, at any rate for a while.
I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand cautiously turned the handle.
“The young dog smells a rat,” muttered my landlord, with a hickup which gave me some hope.
“True for you, monsieur,” replied I, in as good French as I could muster. “I can shoot rats as well as smell them.” And I made the blade of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the cocking of a pistol.
“Armed!” ejaculated the tipsy scoundrel. “God have mercy! Pardon, monsieur, I came to see if you were comfortable.”
“Monsieur citoyen is too good. I am most comfortable, and beg to be waked at cock-crow. Bonsoir.”
I knew of course that was not the end of him, but while he stumbled downstairs to take counsel with his comrades I had at least time to breathe. I peeped out of the door. All was dark, and there was no sound but the ticking of the great Dutch clock in the shop below.
The clock! I had noticed it that evening—a great unwieldy structure like a coffin on end, and a dial above. If I could but get down to it, while my assailants were up despatching me, I might yet have a chance of eluding them. I could hear them discussing together at the foot of the stairs, and presently advance once more to the charge, not this time with my host as an advance-guard, but all together. I slipped out into the passage, and hid in a dark corner at the head of the stairs, so close, indeed, that they all but brushed against me in passing.
“Alors, il dort,” said my host, listening for a moment. “No; he moves. All together now.”
And with one accord they hurled themselves against the door, which of course offered no resistance, and admitted them toppling one over the other into the room.
I waited no longer, but slipped down the stairs and into the clock. I had to displace the pendulum to do it, but trusted to the muddled condition of the enemy not to miss the ticking.
After a while they came down in a towering rage, blaming one another for what had happened. They were just in the humour to be quarrelsome, and as I stood motionless in my narrow sentry-box I heard as pretty a battle of words as it has ever been my lot to listen to.
Their one comfort was that I could not be far away. Either I had gone out by the window, in which case I had undoubtedly broken my neck; or I was down in the cellar, in which case I would keep till morning. “Meanwhile, comrades, let us drink long life to the Republic, and down with the Girondists.”
So to drink they fell, but were hardly settled when a loud summons came at the outer door, and a shout of, “Open, in the name of the Republic One and Indivisible!”
Then did mine host quake in his shoes, and his comrades turned pale.
“To bed!” whispered my host with trembling voice. “Go up and sleep.”
They were not long in obeying, and that night the bed that was meant for me held three of the soundest sleepers in all France.
The knocking continued, and mine host, feigning a great yawn, took down his key and asked who was there.
“Citoyen Picquot, open to the National Guard.”
The door opened, and half-a-dozen soldiers trooped into the shop.
“Produce your lodgers,” demanded the soldier in command.
“I have but three, citizen soldier. Follow me, they shall be at your service.”
The officer followed my host upstairs; the others remained below. Presently I heard a loud outcry and scuffling of feet above, and a shouted word of command. The soldiers instantly rushed up the stairs.
But no speed of theirs could equal that with which I darted from my hiding-place and out at the open door into the street, thanking Heaven that whatever rats might be caught that night in the Rue d’Agnès I was not one of them.