CHAPTER XVIIIA Little PlotFather and Son—A Message from Breda—An Afternoon Call—When Greek meets Greek—The Tug of War—Pourparlers—The Merk—Two Men and a Sack—Snatched from the River—Cousin Rafe—Scant Gratitude—A Ray of LightOne afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at the Hague, warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze of a log fire. The air was cold, and it had been raining heavily for hours. The old man had laid aside his wig; a black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to the ears; and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black that he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with his thin haggard cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the Church rather than the prosperous lord of an English manor.He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. His lips moved as he communed with himself, and the expression of his face showed that his thoughts were none too pleasant. Once or twice he clenched his teeth and brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the chair; he sighed often, and looked the very image of a sad, anxious, embittered man.Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley, the squire's son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually ruined by the rain."Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man on earth.""What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have you left your regiment?""Why! Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know. I've rid post from Breda through the most villainous rain ever I saw. Look, I'm splashed to the eyes; my third best wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my waistcoat has run; 'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the tailor, hang him! that swore the colour was fast. As for my new jack-boots—look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman. And why! You may well ask.""Well, you have a reason, I suppose. You want more money for your drunken orgies—is that it?""Hark to that, now! Was ever poor wretch so scurvily used by his own father! Why——""Come, a truce to your prating. Your reason, sir, and at once.""A warm welcome, egad! Well, sir, I've a something for you, a billet-doux; ha! ha!"The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a man of his years. There was a look of expectancy, almost of joy, in his eyes, and he held forth his hand eagerly."Give it me," he said."You will deal handsomely by me," said the youth; "consider, 'tis not every son would ride through pelting rain and spoil his garments withal for——""Give it me, I say," cried the old man passionately.Piers took from an inner pocket a letter, sealed with a big red seal. The squire's eyes gleamed as he took it and saw the handwriting of the address; his hand trembled as he tore away the seal and unfolded the paper. Then came a sudden change. The pallor of his cheeks became a deathly white, his features were distorted with rage, he muttered a curse and flung the letter to the floor."Gadzooks, 'tis not a billet-doux, then," piped his son, stooping to pick up the paper."Let it lie!" shouted the old man. "Lay not a finger on it, you—you puppy!""Why, there now," said the youth in an aggrieved tone. "That is all the thanks I get for adventuring myself in the fury of the elements, and ruining past cure as fine a coat as ever was seen in Spring Garden.""Silence! Hold your foolish tongue! You're a useless fool! You're a scented fop, the mock of every farthing playwright in the kingdom. Heavens! what have I done that I should be cursed with a brainless, senseless coxcomb that can do nothing but squander good money in fal-lals and worse!""Odsnigs! 'tis most villainous injustice. I can do many things, egad. I can make a good leg, and trounce a watchman, and pink a cit, and——""Out of my sight, out of my sight!" cried the exasperated father, stepping forward with uplifted hand as though to strike the poor fool."Zoons! I protest this——"But he left the sentence perforce unfinished, for the squire caught him by the shoulders and exerting all his strength thrust him from the room, turning the key, and standing for a moment with hand on heart to recover his breath. Then he suddenly opened the door again, caught the young man before he had gone three steps, swung him round, and holding him in a firm grip said:"See that you say nothing of this. You know nothing of that man, that Aglionby, except that you met him on the packet-boat; you hear me? Presuming on that acquaintance he sought your assistance; you have wit enough to remember that? And you are not to go near him again.""Egad, I've no wish to. Once is enough. A prison cell is no place for me. I had to hold my nose; and egad, to use a whole bottle of scent afterwards."The old man pushed him contemptuously away, returned to his room, and again locked the door. He picked up the letter, sat down in his chair, and, crouching there, seemed to have shrunk even to less than his former meagre bulk. He read the letter again. It ran:—"SIR,"Fate is against me. In pursuit of the Businesse you wot of, I am at this present layd by the heels, in Jail, under sentence to be Hang'd. Young Rochester & my Cozen have done it. 'Tis nessessarie for you to pulle me out of this Hole, & speedilie, orI'll tell All I knowe. The Meanes I leave to you; I advize to comunicate with Mr de Poliniac at his house in the Plein; he will helpe: he hasGoode Reasone, for at a Worde from me he'llswing too. No more at this Present from yr humble"RALPH AGLIONBY."P.S.—I knew your Sonne was in Breda. Heknowes Nothing."The squire tore up the paper and flung the pieces on the fire. For a few moments he sat in thought; then he rose and went into an ante-room, returning soon in his outdoor attire—wig, cocked hat, and long cloak. A few minutes later he was walking at a brisk pace through the rain towards the house mentioned in Aglionby's letter. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the green shutters were closed, the house had the appearance of being shut up for the season. He knocked again, and yet again, with growing vehemence, attracting the attention of passers-by. At length the door was opened for a few inches. Mr. Berkeley pushed it, but it was on the chain."Qu'est-ce que Monsieur demande?" said a voice."Monsieur de Polignac.""Monsieur is not within," said the same voice in English, the speaker having detected the squire's nationality by his accent."Where is he?""Pardon, Monsieur, I am not sure where my master is at this moment; but if Monsieur will leave a message——"Something in the man's manner assured Mr. Berkeley that he was lying."Look 'ee, my man," he said sternly, "I counsel you to bethink yourself. I will walk for five minutes, in the rain; you will have time to acquaint your master that an English gentleman whose name is probably unknown to him desires to see him on a very urgent matter—in the interest, mark you, of himself. An urgent matter, mark you. In five minutes I will return."On returning Mr. Berkeley was instantly admitted. The manservant, cowering beneath his stern look, led him meekly to a room off the hall, where he found Polignac in long cloak and jack-boots, evidently on the point of departing on a journey. The squire gave him a keen glance, and was not surprised to find that it was the same man whom he had met at the door of Aglionby's attic some months before."Monsieur de Polignac?" he said."That is my name, Monsieur.""My name is Berkeley. I met you at Aglionby's. It is for him I come. I desire a word with you.""I am at your service, Monsieur. Shall we be private?""It will doubtless be better so."Polignac shut the door, and offered Mr. Berkeley a seat."Thank you, I will stand; I need not detain you long.""As you please, Monsieur.""You have heard, Monsieur, of the plight into which our friend Captain Aglionby has fallen?—I sayourfriend.""I will not dispute the phrase, Monsieur. I had heard, as you surmise.""Pardon me—as he is our friend—am I right in assuming that the news may have some little connection with your purposed journey?""Since, as you say, he isourfriend, I do not deny it, Monsieur.""So that it will be, let us say, not disagreeable to you if some means of—of cheating the hangman—I am a plain blunt man, Monsieur—should be discovered?""Pardon me, Monsieur, I do not follow you."Mr. Berkeley looked at him keenly."I have had a letter from our friend," he said slowly."And I also, Monsieur.""He solicits my assistance.""And mine.""I came at once to see you.""And I, Monsieur, leave at once for Paris.""Ah!"Polignac, leaning against the window-frame, had an inscrutable smile upon his face."I will sit down," said Mr. Berkeley, placing a chair with its back to the door; "I find our interview will last a little longer than I looked for.""As you please, Monsieur. You will permit me?"Polignac seated himself at the table."It appears, Monsieur," said the squire, "that I should have saidmyfriend.""Again, Monsieur, I will not dispute the phrase. His family estates join yours, I understand?""What?""I do not know; I only repeat what your friend told me.""Yes, I understand," said Mr. Berkeley hurriedly, feeling that by his unguarded exclamation he had lost one point in the game. "Not precisely adjoin, but the phrase is sufficiently exact: we are neighbours.""And naturally you are concerned at the hapless situation into which your neighbour's evil star has brought him.""That is so, Monsieur.""Especially seeing that his evil star's influence extends also to you; is it not so?""As a neighbour and friend, you mean, Monsieur?""No, I do not mean that. I cannot say, like you, Monsieur, that I am a plain blunt man, but I think with small effort you will understand my meaning. I put myself in your place. Suppose, I tell myself, a neighbour of mine, whom I had found useful, had in the course of some enterprise on my behalf been so unlucky as to come into the grip of the law; naturally I should feel deeply concerned in his fate, and certainly I should do all in my power to save him, especially if I knew that the said enterprise was one that the law would look unkindly on. Such would be my sentiments, Monsieur, and I do not suppose myself different from other men.""The case is so well put, Monsieur, that it would seem to fit your situation to a nicety.""Appearances are then deceitful, Monsieur. Strange to say, I had the same thought with regard to you. Your friend the captain is not a hero, certainly not a martyr, and even though a few vindictive words at the last would not save his neck, yet to a man of his disposition it would sweeten his end to know that another shared his fate."Mr. Berkeley had been growing visibly restive. How much did this suavely malicious Frenchman know? He dared not question him plainly."You speak, Monsieur, of a few vindictive words. It is clear to me that Aglionby has threatened you——""And I care not a jot for his threats," interrupted Polignac. "As you are aware, I am about to depart for Paris; eh bien! Monsieur le Capitaine's threats will not reach me there.""But if I save him, Monsieur?"Polignac's mouth twitched."He is a vengeful man," pursued the squire. "I should have no object in concealing from him your notions of the obligations of friendship; and since it appears that you, on your side, permit yourself to talk of an 'enterprise' and 'the grip of the law', does it not occur to you that the captain, and I myself as his friend, might make things—well, very unpleasant for you? And remember, you are not in Paris yet."There was a moment's silence, taking advantage of which Mr. Berkeley leant forward and, tapping Polignac's knee, added:"Come, Monsieur, let us understand one another. It is to my interest that Captain Aglionby should not die—by the hangman; it is to your interest—correct me if I am wrong—that he should not live, or you will find this country shut to you. Our interests appear to clash; but is it not possible—I throw out the suggestion—to reconcile them—to gain both our ends?"Polignac smiled."Let us talk as friends, Monsieur," he said.An hour passed before Mr. Berkeley left the house. It was still raining, but his gloomy expression had given place to one of fierce satisfaction. Polignac bade him a cordial adieu at the door, and as soon as he was gone called his servant."Antoine," he said, "unsaddle my horse. I do not ride to-day."One evening, at dusk, Harry Rochester, whom no experience could cure of his habit of taking solitary strolls, was seated on a bridge spanning the Merk at a short distance outside Breda. His thoughts were anything but pleasant. Aglionby and his associates, though defended by the sharpest criminal lawyer in Holland, had been condemned to death, and the execution had been fixed for the morrow. Harry knew that the captain richly deserved his fate; his action in betraying his cousin Sherebiah in itself put him beyond the pale of pity, to say nothing of his persistent offences against Sherebiah's master, which Harry was more ready to forgive. But despicable as the man was, Harry, almost in spite of himself, felt a certain compassion for him. He had learnt from Sherebiah something of his history. His mother, old Gaffer Minshull's sister, had died when Ralph was very young, heart-broken by her husband, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, yet a hypocrite of the most brutal type. Aglionby had received a fair education, but had run wild from boyhood, and as a mere youth had decamped or been driven from his father's house and gone out into the world to seek his fortune. Sherebiah had lost sight of him for years; suddenly he had reappeared at Winton St. Mary, seared with travel and hard faring, and full of stories of adventure and prowess in all parts of Europe, especially in the service of the Czar of Muscovy. Harry knew as much as Sherebiah of his subsequent career, and shared the surprise of the whole village at the strangely close acquaintanceship between the captain and the squire.This was the man who was to die next day, and Harry, sitting on the bridge, one hand clasping his knee, almost wished that he had let the villain go. He had been brought up in the worst school; all his life long he had been an Ishmael, his hand against every man, every man's hand against him. His mother had been a Minshull: surely there was some seed of good in him; mayhap his villainies were only the desperate expedients of a man who had no means of livelihood; certainly he could have no cause of enmity against Harry, and his machinations must be put down to the man who employed him. His approaching fate weighed also upon Sherebiah, who had for days gone about with restlessness and anxiety printed upon his usually jocund face. Certainly the good fellow had no reason to love Aglionby, but after all they were of the same blood, and Sherry appeared to fear keenly the shame and disgrace.Looking over the glooming river, idly watching the rolling water and the scattered buildings upon the bank, Harry suddenly perceived a small door open in the face of a store or warehouse some few yards to his left. The door was some thirty feet above the river, and gave upon a narrow platform to which goods were hoisted by a crane from barges below. As the door opened, inwards, a head appeared. The owner looked for some time up and down the river, over which darkness was fast falling. All was quiet; no traffic was passing; no craft indeed was to be seen save one small boat, moored to a post on the bank some yards on the other side of the bridge.The head disappeared, but immediately afterwards two men emerged from the doorway, coming sideways through the narrow opening. Between them they carried a large sack which their exertions showed to be heavy. They came to the edge of the platform; they laid their burden down; then, giving a quick look around, with one push they toppled it over, and it fell with a sounding plump into the water. It disappeared below the surface; after a moment the two men returned into the warehouse, and the door was shut.The rivers were such common receptacles of rubbish that Harry would not have given a second thought to this incident but for a certain furtiveness in the manner of the two men. He wondered what the sack contained. All at once he saw it reappear on the surface, several yards nearer to him; the stream was flowing fast in his direction."'Tis maybe a superfluous dog," he thought, for only an animal was likely to rise after such an immersion. Yet it was large for a dog.The sack came steadily towards him: it was about to pass under the single arch of the bridge: he leant over to watch it: and with a start of amazement saw dimly a white human face. At that same moment the bundle sank again. Harry could not know whether it was man or woman, whether alive or dead, but without an instant's hesitation he ran to the other parapet, sprang on it, and dived into the river. A drowning man rises three times, he had heard; perhaps there was a chance to save this poor wretch, whoever it might be, and foil his murderers.Coming to the surface with a gasp, he looked around for any sign of the dark bundle, fearing lest in the blackness of the encroaching night he might lose it altogether. For some seconds he saw nothing; then, a few yards away, it bobbed up. Three or four vigorous strokes brought the swimmer to it just as it was going down once more. He seized it with his left hand and, supporting the head above the water, made for the bank, luckily no more than seven or eight yards distant. He hauled the heavy object up the sodden slope, stooped down to examine it, and saw that it was a man tied up to the neck, and with a gag about his mouth. It was the work of a moment to tear away the gag. He placed his hand over the man's heart: did it still beat? He could not tell; all feeling seemed to be deadened within him by his excitement and strain. The man made no sound or movement. Harry shivered and thought he must be dead; of the means to resuscitate a half-drowned man he knew nothing.A few seconds passed; then he heard hasty footsteps behind him, and turned just as Sherebiah sprang down the slope. The faithful fellow had been again playing his part of watch-dog; he had seen Harry's plunge into the river, and raced round the embankment in alarm."Fecks, you give me a jump, sir," he panted. "What's amiss?""Ah! Sherry, look; 'tis a man, in a sack; the poor wretch is drowned, I fear.""'Tis murder then. Let's see, sir."He stooped down, cut the fastenings of the sack, and pulled it off the body."Now sir, lend a hand. Fust thing is to pour the water out of un.""He was gagged, Sherry.""Then that saves our time. A gagged man can't ship many gallons o' water. Leave un to me, sir."He quickly opened the man's coat and vest, bent over him, and pressed heavily beneath his lower ribs. Then he sprang back, and again bent forward and pressed. After repeating these movements several times, he went to the man's head, took his arms and pulled them back till they met behind, then jerked them forward upon his breast. A gurgling sound came from the man's lips."He be alive, sir," cried Sherebiah. "Another minute or two and we'll have un on his feet."A great sigh escaped from the prostrate form."Well done, master," said Sherebiah, ceasing from his exertions. "You've got your breath again, thanks be. Now, take your time, and don't get up till 'ee feel disposed: only bein' drippen wet the sooner you be dry the better, so——Sakes alive! Master Harry, 'tis my good-for-nothen cousin Rafe Aglionby, and no one else.""Good heavens!""Rafe, man, can 'ee open your eyes? 'Tis me and Mr. Rochester; you be safe."Both Harry and Sherebiah were now stooping over the captain. His eyes opened; the same choking sound came from his lips. For some minutes he lay gasping, wriggling, endeavouring vainly to rise, the others watching him the while with mixed feelings. His recovery of consciousness was slow: at last his movements ceased, he heaved a great sigh and looked up with intelligence."How be'st come to this?" asked Sherebiah. "Thowt 'ee was ripe for hangman this time, coz.""Rot you!" spluttered the captain, struggling to his feet. "Hands off! Shall I never be quit of you!""Zooks! That's your thanks! Come, Rafe, blood's thicker nor water, as 'ee said yourself: you've broke prison sure enough, but they'll be after 'ee afore mornen. Mr. Rochester ha' saved 'ee from drownen, but you must put a few miles betwixt 'ee and hangman afore you can rest easy. How be'st come to this, man?""Let me go, I tell you.""But you be drippen wet, Rafe; you'll cotch your death o' cold;—and faith, so will Master Harry. Better get home, sir, and change your things.""No hurry, Sherry. Captain Aglionby, believe me, you must make yourself scarce. You've done me many an ill turn, for what reason I know not. But that's past now; I have no wish to give you up to the hangman. There's a boat moored to the bank a few yards down: you had better take that, and row through the night. Sherry, you're dry; change clothes with the captain.""I'll have none of his clothes. I'll take the boat. Out of my way!"Escaping from Sherebiah's grasp, Aglionby stumbled away in the direction of the boat, the other two watching him in silence until the darkness swallowed him."Unthankful viper!" muttered Sherebiah."To save a foe's life is an injury never forgiven," said Harry with a shrug. "I'm shivering, Sherry: let us get back.""Ay sure. But I'd like to know what be the true meanen o' this. To be saved out o' jail and then chucked into river—why, in a manner o' speaken 'tis out o' fryen-pan into fire. One thing 'tis sure: my coz Rafe bean't born to be hanged nor drownded neither: question is, will it be pison or a dagger-end? But you be mortal cold, true; we'll home-along, sir."They returned to the city, and were passing a large inn in the market-place when Harry suddenly touched Sherebiah on the arm."Sherry, you see that man at the door of the coach there? 'Tis one of the men I saw fling Aglionby into the river. I know him by his cap.""I' feck, we'll have a nearer sight on un, and see who he be speaken to in coach. Keep close, sir, and we'll take a peep at 'em unbeknown."Crossing to the other side of the street, and keeping well in the darkness, they quickly made their way towards the coach, and reached a position whence, by the light of the inn lamp, they could see into it without being seen. Each turned to the other in silence, astonishment and conviction in their eyes. The occupants of the coach were two: Mr. Berkeley and Monsieur de Polignac. It was to the latter that the man at the door was speaking. They were clearly at the end of their conversation; the man touched his cap and withdrew, and as the coach drove off, a look of gratification shone in the faces of its two occupants."What do you make of that, Sherry?""Make on't! 'tis plain as a pikestaff. Dead men tells no tales; that's what I make on't, sir. Rafe Aglionby knows a mort too much for they two high-liven villains; that's where 't is: they got un out o' jail to stop his tongue at scaffold foot, and then pitched un in the river to cool it for ever. 'Tis a mortal pity we let un go, sir, for't seems to me we ought to know what he knows, and get to the bottom o' the squire's desperate work agen you. But you always was a tender-hearted Christian, like your feyther afore 'ee.""I couldn't let murder be done before my very eyes, Sherry.""Ah, you'll have to see wuss now you be a man o' war, sir. Well, 'tis heapen coals of fire on his yead, as the Book says, and mebbe Them above'll reward 'ee for't; ay, so."CHAPTER XIXMarlborough's March to the DanubeA Foreigner at the Hall—War Again—Good-bye!—Comparisons—Up the Rhine—A Bold Stroke—Marlborough's Way—Despatches—A Mission to Eugene—Fanshawe Missing—The Road to Innsprück—Zum Grauen Bären—Mein Wirth—Breakfast at Three—The Second-best Room—A Trap-Door—Midnight Visitors—A Hasty Toilet—A Sound on the Stairs—Through the Copse—Stampede—The Lieutenant of the Guard—At Obermiemingen—The Little Abbé—Max Berens—A Surprise Visit—Mein Wirth Explains—Injured Innocence—In the Net—Hobson's Choice—The Missing Messengers—In TerroremNo soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness of winter quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not an exception to the rule. As the weary months passed slowly by, he grew tired of the endless drilling and exercising, varied by marching and sham fights. He was very popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the other officers of the regiment, but found himself unable to take much interest in their amusements. Beer-drinking was not to his taste; the Dutch comedies performed at the theatres were dull, and the paternal government prohibited the performance of lighter French pieces. As the winter drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became so proficient as to win a prize at a regimental match; but the frost was not of long duration. He was not a fellow to allow time to hang on his hands. He practised broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal of Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he could lay hands, and spent many an hour poring over maps until he had the geography of all central Europe at his finger-ends.No great news came from the outside world. In November the Netherlands suffered in some degree from the fierce storm that swept through the Channel, strewing the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at the roots, blowing down churches and houses. In the same month also the Archduke Charles passed through Hollanden routefor England and Spain, to assume in the latter country the sovereignty which was the bone of contention between his father the Emperor and King Louis of France.Almost the only relaxations in Harry's life were his visits to Madame de Vaudrey's house, where both he and Fanshawe were always welcome guests. They formed with Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the New Year week. It happened that on the last day of the year 1703 Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare event. One piece of news it contained was much discussed at Madame de Vaudrey's table."And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire hev had a Visiter for a matter of munths. 'Tis a tall blacke Frenchman by his looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman, with a Smile & a twitching Mouthe. Squire & he be alwaies together, moste particler Frendes it do seeme. None of us soules can't abide him, nor the Qualitie neither. For myself, I don't like his Lookes, not me, & 'tis luckie he can't understand English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe and again as would turne his blacke Hair white."Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive away from Breda in company with the squire."The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when Harry translated the gaffer's letter. "I only wonder that the other man, that insolent captain, is not with them. I wonder where he is?""I don't know," said Harry, who had kept his own counsel regarding the last he had seen of Aglionby."I hope he will never cross my path," said Mynheer Grootz. "He is truly a villain, a dastard: to inform on his cousin, and to plan the attack on Harry, and to have the insolence to pay court to Madame la Comtesse!""Yes, indeed," said the lady, "and my dear husband not four years dead! Who is the squire that your old friend writes of, Harry?""He is lord of the manor at my old home, Madame. His son is in one of our foot regiments, and Mr. Berkeley came over to Holland with him: it was then he met Monsieur de Polignac.""Qui se ressemble s'assemble. What is the name of the bad old man, Harry?""Berkeley.""Berkeley!" Madame de Vaudrey puckered her brow and appeared to be reflecting."How ugly your English names are!" exclaimed Adèle, "and how difficult to say! I cannot even yet say Rochestair properly.""You say it better than you say my name," said Fanshawe gloomily."But then I have known Monsieur Rochestair longer," returned Adèle. "Shall we go into the drawing-room, Mamma? I do so want to hear Monsieur Fanshawe sing that amusing song of his again."Fanshawe glowered. He knew that Adèle was teasing him, and wished with all his heart that he could recall the luckless moment when he had first amused her with the song of "Widdicombe Fair". Harry's eyes twinkled."Yes," said Madame de Vaudrey, "you young people can precede us to the drawing-room. I have a little matter of business to talk over with our good friend Mynheer Grootz."Then Adèle's eyes caught Harry's, and they both smiled as at some secret known to them alone.Time passed away, and at length, when the winter was gone, and the gray Dutch sky was rifted with the blue of spring, came the welcome news that Marlborough had arrived at the Hague and that a great campaign was to open. No one knew what the duke's plans were, but there was a general feeling that stirring events were preparing, and a universal hope that the long series of small engagements, sieges, marches and counter-marches would be brought to an end by a decisive pitched battle. Mynheer Grootz was working night and day at commissariat business, and for weeks there was a continual bustle of preparation: the cleaning of arms, the testing of harness, a thousand-and-one details that employed countless people beside the soldiers.At length a day came when, all preparations completed, the eager troops were ready to march out. Harry and Fanshawe, accompanied by Sherebiah, rode over to Lindendaal one evening to take farewell of the ladies. Fanshawe was in the dolefullest of dumps. Notwithstanding Adèle's refusal of him, he had still nursed a hope that time might prove on his side, but found every hint of a sentimental nature adroitly parried, and now feared that with his absence his last chance would disappear. His spirits were raised a little by the warmth, and indeed effusiveness, with which she bade him good-bye."I shall hope to hear great things of you, Monsieur," she said, "and to learn that you have come through the campaign unscathed.""Your good wishes shall be my talisman, Mademoiselle," said Fanshawe gallantly, bowing over her hand.Harry meanwhile had taken leave of Madame de Vaudrey, who held both his hands and spoke to him with a quite motherly tenderness. Then he turned to say good-bye to Adèle. She had disappeared. Fanshawe had already gone out to the front of the house to see that his horse's girth was rightly strapped, and Harry followed, thinking that Mademoiselle had perhaps accompanied him to the door. But as he passed through the hall, he saw through the open door of the dining-room that Adèle was there, standing at the window with her back to him."There you are, Mademoiselle," he said, entering the room; "I was looking for you. It is a longer good-bye this time."She turned round slowly, and her back being to the sunset glow he could scarcely see her features. She held out her hand, and said slowly, with perhaps a little less cordiality than he had unconsciously expected:"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!"He took her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then was gone.As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round from the garden with his arm unblushingly about the waist of Katrinka, the prettiest maidservant of the house. The honest fellow led the girl up to his master."I've done it, sir," he said. "Her've said it. Feyther o' mine may think what a' will, but, an't please Them above to bring me through, by next winter there'll be a Mistress Minshull once more to comfort his old aged soul. Eh, Katrinka, lass?"The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy."'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said Harry. "My old friend will be pleased, I promise you. And look 'ee, I'll give you five minutes to say good-bye to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on.""Thank 'ee, sir! I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be done.""Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said Harry with a smile, as they rode off."Yes, confound him! But hang it, Harry, I'll not give up hope yet. She was very kind to me when she said good-bye, and, by George! if I only escape a Frenchman's bullet and can manage to come off with flying colours and a neat little sabre-cut—who knows? she may be Mistress Godfrey Fanshawe yet."Harry was silent. He felt a little surprised, perhaps a little hurt, that Adèle should have shown more warmth to Fanshawe, a friend of later date. He did not know what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have put his thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate manner, had left him vaguely dissatisfied and made him disinclined to talk. Fanshawe, however, was in high spirits, and chattered freely as they went side by side at a walking pace along the road to Breda. Sherebiah by and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind. He too was in capital spirits, and, having no one to converse with, was humming as he rode:"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,All along, down along, out along lee;And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, DanWhiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all."So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,All along, down along, out along lee,And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——""Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had been so busy talking that not till this moment had he recognized the song. "Hanged if you are not always singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!""Beg pardon, sir. No offence. 'Tis a favourite ditty o' mine, and, axin' your pardon, I thowt 'twas one o' yourn too.""Nay; anything else, anything else, my good fellow, not that, as you love me.""Very good, sir. I be in a mind to troll a ditty, 'tis true, and if my tenor tones don't offend 'ee, I'll try a stave o' 'Turmut-hoein'."Next morning, under a bright May sun, the troops in Breda marched out to join the Duke of Marlborough at Ruremond. As Harry's troop passed Lindendaal, and he caught a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs at the windows, he could not help wondering whether he should see those kind friends again.At Ruremond the troops were reviewed by the duke himself; thence they marched to Juliers and Coblentz, where they halted for two days to allow the Prussian and Hanoverian levies in British pay to unite with them. Everybody had expected that the march would be continued up the Moselle, with the purpose of coming to grips with the French army under Marshal Villeroy. But to the general astonishment orders were given to cross that river by the stone bridge, and then the Rhine by two bridges of boats, and to proceed through the principality of Hesse-Cassel. The new orders were eagerly discussed by the officers of all the corps, but Marlborough had kept his own counsel, and indeed at this time his plan was known to scarcely anyone but Lord Godolphin, with whom he had talked it over in outline before leaving England, and Prince Eugene of Savoy, to whom he had entrusted it in correspondence.The plan must have seemed hazardous, even reckless, to soldiers who held by the old traditions; but it was one that displayed Marlborough's military genius to the full. He had divined the true meaning of the recent movements of the French armies, and determined on a great effort to defeat the aim of King Louis so shrewdly guessed at. Relying on his ally, the Elector of Bavaria, the French king had resolved to make a strenuous attack upon the Emperor in the heart of his own dominions, Vienna. If Austria were crushed in one great battle, Louis had reason to expect a general rising of the Hungarians, by which the empire would be so much weakened that he could enforce peace and secure the triumph of his policy on his own terms. Already a French army under Marshal Marsin had joined forces with the Elector of Bavaria; other armies were rapidly advancing to reinforce them, and the combined host would be more than a match for any army that the emperor could put in the field against it.Marlborough saw only one way to save the empire: he must prevent if possible the junction of the several French armies, or, if that were impossible, defeat them in a pitched battle. But he knew that the States of Holland would shrink from the risk of an expedition so far from their own borders; he therefore gave out that his campaign was to be conducted along the Moselle, and only when he was well on his way, and it was too late to oppose him, did he reveal his full design. Fortunately the Dutch Government rose to the opportunity; they sent him the reinforcements and supplies he asked for, and were satisfied with the detachment of one or two small forces to keep watch on Villeroy, who had crossed the Meuse and was threatening Huy. For himself, Marlborough intended to press forward with all speed towards the Danube, join Prince Louis of Baden and Prince Eugene of Savoy, and give battle to the combined French and Bavarians on ground of his own choosing.For Harry this famous march was attended with endless novelty and excitement. Every morning at dawn camp was struck, and for five or six hours, with occasional halts, the troops marched, covering twelve or fifteen miles, and bivouacking about nine o'clock, thus completing the day's work before the sun grew hot. All along the route supplies for man and beast were furnished by commissaries, whose duties were so well organized that everything was on the ground before the troops arrived, and they had nothing to do but pitch their tents, boil their kettles, and lie down to rest. Everything was arranged and carried out with matchless regularity and order; Marlborough himself had a thorough grasp of the details, and showed such consideration for his men that on personal grounds he won their admiration and confidence. The passage of so large and miscellaneous a force, consisting of English, Dutch, Prussians, Danes, and levies from several of the minor German states, might well have been attended by many disorders; but Marlborough always displayed great humanity in his dealings with the people of the country through which he passed, and in these matters an army takes its cue from the commander-in-chief.After quitting Coblentz, the duke went forward a day's march with the cavalry, leaving the artillery and foot to follow under the command of his brother, General Charles Churchill. Unfortunately rainy weather set in towards the end of May, and the roads were rendered so difficult that Churchill's force lost ground, and by the time Marlborough reached Ladenburg, on June 2, was four or five days behind. This delay gave the duke some little cause for anxiety, for he had learnt that Prince Louis of Baden, a brave but sluggish general of the old school, had allowed reinforcements to reach the Elector of Bavaria, and failed to seize an excellent opportunity of defeating the combined force. Marlborough, wishing on this account to hurry his advance, sent back two troops of Dutch horse to assist his brother with the cannon. One of these happened to be Harry's. The heavy Flemish horses were serviceable in dragging the guns, but the rains were so persistent and the soft roads so cut up that when Churchill reached Maintz he was still some five days' march behind the duke.Late on the night of June 3, when the camp was silent, a courier reached Maintz with the following despatch from Marlborough at Ladenburg:—
CHAPTER XVIII
A Little Plot
Father and Son—A Message from Breda—An Afternoon Call—When Greek meets Greek—The Tug of War—Pourparlers—The Merk—Two Men and a Sack—Snatched from the River—Cousin Rafe—Scant Gratitude—A Ray of Light
One afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at the Hague, warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze of a log fire. The air was cold, and it had been raining heavily for hours. The old man had laid aside his wig; a black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to the ears; and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black that he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with his thin haggard cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the Church rather than the prosperous lord of an English manor.
He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. His lips moved as he communed with himself, and the expression of his face showed that his thoughts were none too pleasant. Once or twice he clenched his teeth and brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the chair; he sighed often, and looked the very image of a sad, anxious, embittered man.
Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley, the squire's son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually ruined by the rain.
"Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man on earth."
"What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have you left your regiment?"
"Why! Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know. I've rid post from Breda through the most villainous rain ever I saw. Look, I'm splashed to the eyes; my third best wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my waistcoat has run; 'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the tailor, hang him! that swore the colour was fast. As for my new jack-boots—look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman. And why! You may well ask."
"Well, you have a reason, I suppose. You want more money for your drunken orgies—is that it?"
"Hark to that, now! Was ever poor wretch so scurvily used by his own father! Why——"
"Come, a truce to your prating. Your reason, sir, and at once."
"A warm welcome, egad! Well, sir, I've a something for you, a billet-doux; ha! ha!"
The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a man of his years. There was a look of expectancy, almost of joy, in his eyes, and he held forth his hand eagerly.
"Give it me," he said.
"You will deal handsomely by me," said the youth; "consider, 'tis not every son would ride through pelting rain and spoil his garments withal for——"
"Give it me, I say," cried the old man passionately.
Piers took from an inner pocket a letter, sealed with a big red seal. The squire's eyes gleamed as he took it and saw the handwriting of the address; his hand trembled as he tore away the seal and unfolded the paper. Then came a sudden change. The pallor of his cheeks became a deathly white, his features were distorted with rage, he muttered a curse and flung the letter to the floor.
"Gadzooks, 'tis not a billet-doux, then," piped his son, stooping to pick up the paper.
"Let it lie!" shouted the old man. "Lay not a finger on it, you—you puppy!"
"Why, there now," said the youth in an aggrieved tone. "That is all the thanks I get for adventuring myself in the fury of the elements, and ruining past cure as fine a coat as ever was seen in Spring Garden."
"Silence! Hold your foolish tongue! You're a useless fool! You're a scented fop, the mock of every farthing playwright in the kingdom. Heavens! what have I done that I should be cursed with a brainless, senseless coxcomb that can do nothing but squander good money in fal-lals and worse!"
"Odsnigs! 'tis most villainous injustice. I can do many things, egad. I can make a good leg, and trounce a watchman, and pink a cit, and——"
"Out of my sight, out of my sight!" cried the exasperated father, stepping forward with uplifted hand as though to strike the poor fool.
"Zoons! I protest this——"
But he left the sentence perforce unfinished, for the squire caught him by the shoulders and exerting all his strength thrust him from the room, turning the key, and standing for a moment with hand on heart to recover his breath. Then he suddenly opened the door again, caught the young man before he had gone three steps, swung him round, and holding him in a firm grip said:
"See that you say nothing of this. You know nothing of that man, that Aglionby, except that you met him on the packet-boat; you hear me? Presuming on that acquaintance he sought your assistance; you have wit enough to remember that? And you are not to go near him again."
"Egad, I've no wish to. Once is enough. A prison cell is no place for me. I had to hold my nose; and egad, to use a whole bottle of scent afterwards."
The old man pushed him contemptuously away, returned to his room, and again locked the door. He picked up the letter, sat down in his chair, and, crouching there, seemed to have shrunk even to less than his former meagre bulk. He read the letter again. It ran:—
"SIR,
"Fate is against me. In pursuit of the Businesse you wot of, I am at this present layd by the heels, in Jail, under sentence to be Hang'd. Young Rochester & my Cozen have done it. 'Tis nessessarie for you to pulle me out of this Hole, & speedilie, orI'll tell All I knowe. The Meanes I leave to you; I advize to comunicate with Mr de Poliniac at his house in the Plein; he will helpe: he hasGoode Reasone, for at a Worde from me he'llswing too. No more at this Present from yr humble
"RALPH AGLIONBY.
"P.S.—I knew your Sonne was in Breda. Heknowes Nothing."
The squire tore up the paper and flung the pieces on the fire. For a few moments he sat in thought; then he rose and went into an ante-room, returning soon in his outdoor attire—wig, cocked hat, and long cloak. A few minutes later he was walking at a brisk pace through the rain towards the house mentioned in Aglionby's letter. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the green shutters were closed, the house had the appearance of being shut up for the season. He knocked again, and yet again, with growing vehemence, attracting the attention of passers-by. At length the door was opened for a few inches. Mr. Berkeley pushed it, but it was on the chain.
"Qu'est-ce que Monsieur demande?" said a voice.
"Monsieur de Polignac."
"Monsieur is not within," said the same voice in English, the speaker having detected the squire's nationality by his accent.
"Where is he?"
"Pardon, Monsieur, I am not sure where my master is at this moment; but if Monsieur will leave a message——"
Something in the man's manner assured Mr. Berkeley that he was lying.
"Look 'ee, my man," he said sternly, "I counsel you to bethink yourself. I will walk for five minutes, in the rain; you will have time to acquaint your master that an English gentleman whose name is probably unknown to him desires to see him on a very urgent matter—in the interest, mark you, of himself. An urgent matter, mark you. In five minutes I will return."
On returning Mr. Berkeley was instantly admitted. The manservant, cowering beneath his stern look, led him meekly to a room off the hall, where he found Polignac in long cloak and jack-boots, evidently on the point of departing on a journey. The squire gave him a keen glance, and was not surprised to find that it was the same man whom he had met at the door of Aglionby's attic some months before.
"Monsieur de Polignac?" he said.
"That is my name, Monsieur."
"My name is Berkeley. I met you at Aglionby's. It is for him I come. I desire a word with you."
"I am at your service, Monsieur. Shall we be private?"
"It will doubtless be better so."
Polignac shut the door, and offered Mr. Berkeley a seat.
"Thank you, I will stand; I need not detain you long."
"As you please, Monsieur."
"You have heard, Monsieur, of the plight into which our friend Captain Aglionby has fallen?—I sayourfriend."
"I will not dispute the phrase, Monsieur. I had heard, as you surmise."
"Pardon me—as he is our friend—am I right in assuming that the news may have some little connection with your purposed journey?"
"Since, as you say, he isourfriend, I do not deny it, Monsieur."
"So that it will be, let us say, not disagreeable to you if some means of—of cheating the hangman—I am a plain blunt man, Monsieur—should be discovered?"
"Pardon me, Monsieur, I do not follow you."
Mr. Berkeley looked at him keenly.
"I have had a letter from our friend," he said slowly.
"And I also, Monsieur."
"He solicits my assistance."
"And mine."
"I came at once to see you."
"And I, Monsieur, leave at once for Paris."
"Ah!"
Polignac, leaning against the window-frame, had an inscrutable smile upon his face.
"I will sit down," said Mr. Berkeley, placing a chair with its back to the door; "I find our interview will last a little longer than I looked for."
"As you please, Monsieur. You will permit me?"
Polignac seated himself at the table.
"It appears, Monsieur," said the squire, "that I should have saidmyfriend."
"Again, Monsieur, I will not dispute the phrase. His family estates join yours, I understand?"
"What?"
"I do not know; I only repeat what your friend told me."
"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Berkeley hurriedly, feeling that by his unguarded exclamation he had lost one point in the game. "Not precisely adjoin, but the phrase is sufficiently exact: we are neighbours."
"And naturally you are concerned at the hapless situation into which your neighbour's evil star has brought him."
"That is so, Monsieur."
"Especially seeing that his evil star's influence extends also to you; is it not so?"
"As a neighbour and friend, you mean, Monsieur?"
"No, I do not mean that. I cannot say, like you, Monsieur, that I am a plain blunt man, but I think with small effort you will understand my meaning. I put myself in your place. Suppose, I tell myself, a neighbour of mine, whom I had found useful, had in the course of some enterprise on my behalf been so unlucky as to come into the grip of the law; naturally I should feel deeply concerned in his fate, and certainly I should do all in my power to save him, especially if I knew that the said enterprise was one that the law would look unkindly on. Such would be my sentiments, Monsieur, and I do not suppose myself different from other men."
"The case is so well put, Monsieur, that it would seem to fit your situation to a nicety."
"Appearances are then deceitful, Monsieur. Strange to say, I had the same thought with regard to you. Your friend the captain is not a hero, certainly not a martyr, and even though a few vindictive words at the last would not save his neck, yet to a man of his disposition it would sweeten his end to know that another shared his fate."
Mr. Berkeley had been growing visibly restive. How much did this suavely malicious Frenchman know? He dared not question him plainly.
"You speak, Monsieur, of a few vindictive words. It is clear to me that Aglionby has threatened you——"
"And I care not a jot for his threats," interrupted Polignac. "As you are aware, I am about to depart for Paris; eh bien! Monsieur le Capitaine's threats will not reach me there."
"But if I save him, Monsieur?"
Polignac's mouth twitched.
"He is a vengeful man," pursued the squire. "I should have no object in concealing from him your notions of the obligations of friendship; and since it appears that you, on your side, permit yourself to talk of an 'enterprise' and 'the grip of the law', does it not occur to you that the captain, and I myself as his friend, might make things—well, very unpleasant for you? And remember, you are not in Paris yet."
There was a moment's silence, taking advantage of which Mr. Berkeley leant forward and, tapping Polignac's knee, added:
"Come, Monsieur, let us understand one another. It is to my interest that Captain Aglionby should not die—by the hangman; it is to your interest—correct me if I am wrong—that he should not live, or you will find this country shut to you. Our interests appear to clash; but is it not possible—I throw out the suggestion—to reconcile them—to gain both our ends?"
Polignac smiled.
"Let us talk as friends, Monsieur," he said.
An hour passed before Mr. Berkeley left the house. It was still raining, but his gloomy expression had given place to one of fierce satisfaction. Polignac bade him a cordial adieu at the door, and as soon as he was gone called his servant.
"Antoine," he said, "unsaddle my horse. I do not ride to-day."
One evening, at dusk, Harry Rochester, whom no experience could cure of his habit of taking solitary strolls, was seated on a bridge spanning the Merk at a short distance outside Breda. His thoughts were anything but pleasant. Aglionby and his associates, though defended by the sharpest criminal lawyer in Holland, had been condemned to death, and the execution had been fixed for the morrow. Harry knew that the captain richly deserved his fate; his action in betraying his cousin Sherebiah in itself put him beyond the pale of pity, to say nothing of his persistent offences against Sherebiah's master, which Harry was more ready to forgive. But despicable as the man was, Harry, almost in spite of himself, felt a certain compassion for him. He had learnt from Sherebiah something of his history. His mother, old Gaffer Minshull's sister, had died when Ralph was very young, heart-broken by her husband, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, yet a hypocrite of the most brutal type. Aglionby had received a fair education, but had run wild from boyhood, and as a mere youth had decamped or been driven from his father's house and gone out into the world to seek his fortune. Sherebiah had lost sight of him for years; suddenly he had reappeared at Winton St. Mary, seared with travel and hard faring, and full of stories of adventure and prowess in all parts of Europe, especially in the service of the Czar of Muscovy. Harry knew as much as Sherebiah of his subsequent career, and shared the surprise of the whole village at the strangely close acquaintanceship between the captain and the squire.
This was the man who was to die next day, and Harry, sitting on the bridge, one hand clasping his knee, almost wished that he had let the villain go. He had been brought up in the worst school; all his life long he had been an Ishmael, his hand against every man, every man's hand against him. His mother had been a Minshull: surely there was some seed of good in him; mayhap his villainies were only the desperate expedients of a man who had no means of livelihood; certainly he could have no cause of enmity against Harry, and his machinations must be put down to the man who employed him. His approaching fate weighed also upon Sherebiah, who had for days gone about with restlessness and anxiety printed upon his usually jocund face. Certainly the good fellow had no reason to love Aglionby, but after all they were of the same blood, and Sherry appeared to fear keenly the shame and disgrace.
Looking over the glooming river, idly watching the rolling water and the scattered buildings upon the bank, Harry suddenly perceived a small door open in the face of a store or warehouse some few yards to his left. The door was some thirty feet above the river, and gave upon a narrow platform to which goods were hoisted by a crane from barges below. As the door opened, inwards, a head appeared. The owner looked for some time up and down the river, over which darkness was fast falling. All was quiet; no traffic was passing; no craft indeed was to be seen save one small boat, moored to a post on the bank some yards on the other side of the bridge.
The head disappeared, but immediately afterwards two men emerged from the doorway, coming sideways through the narrow opening. Between them they carried a large sack which their exertions showed to be heavy. They came to the edge of the platform; they laid their burden down; then, giving a quick look around, with one push they toppled it over, and it fell with a sounding plump into the water. It disappeared below the surface; after a moment the two men returned into the warehouse, and the door was shut.
The rivers were such common receptacles of rubbish that Harry would not have given a second thought to this incident but for a certain furtiveness in the manner of the two men. He wondered what the sack contained. All at once he saw it reappear on the surface, several yards nearer to him; the stream was flowing fast in his direction.
"'Tis maybe a superfluous dog," he thought, for only an animal was likely to rise after such an immersion. Yet it was large for a dog.
The sack came steadily towards him: it was about to pass under the single arch of the bridge: he leant over to watch it: and with a start of amazement saw dimly a white human face. At that same moment the bundle sank again. Harry could not know whether it was man or woman, whether alive or dead, but without an instant's hesitation he ran to the other parapet, sprang on it, and dived into the river. A drowning man rises three times, he had heard; perhaps there was a chance to save this poor wretch, whoever it might be, and foil his murderers.
Coming to the surface with a gasp, he looked around for any sign of the dark bundle, fearing lest in the blackness of the encroaching night he might lose it altogether. For some seconds he saw nothing; then, a few yards away, it bobbed up. Three or four vigorous strokes brought the swimmer to it just as it was going down once more. He seized it with his left hand and, supporting the head above the water, made for the bank, luckily no more than seven or eight yards distant. He hauled the heavy object up the sodden slope, stooped down to examine it, and saw that it was a man tied up to the neck, and with a gag about his mouth. It was the work of a moment to tear away the gag. He placed his hand over the man's heart: did it still beat? He could not tell; all feeling seemed to be deadened within him by his excitement and strain. The man made no sound or movement. Harry shivered and thought he must be dead; of the means to resuscitate a half-drowned man he knew nothing.
A few seconds passed; then he heard hasty footsteps behind him, and turned just as Sherebiah sprang down the slope. The faithful fellow had been again playing his part of watch-dog; he had seen Harry's plunge into the river, and raced round the embankment in alarm.
"Fecks, you give me a jump, sir," he panted. "What's amiss?"
"Ah! Sherry, look; 'tis a man, in a sack; the poor wretch is drowned, I fear."
"'Tis murder then. Let's see, sir."
He stooped down, cut the fastenings of the sack, and pulled it off the body.
"Now sir, lend a hand. Fust thing is to pour the water out of un."
"He was gagged, Sherry."
"Then that saves our time. A gagged man can't ship many gallons o' water. Leave un to me, sir."
He quickly opened the man's coat and vest, bent over him, and pressed heavily beneath his lower ribs. Then he sprang back, and again bent forward and pressed. After repeating these movements several times, he went to the man's head, took his arms and pulled them back till they met behind, then jerked them forward upon his breast. A gurgling sound came from the man's lips.
"He be alive, sir," cried Sherebiah. "Another minute or two and we'll have un on his feet."
A great sigh escaped from the prostrate form.
"Well done, master," said Sherebiah, ceasing from his exertions. "You've got your breath again, thanks be. Now, take your time, and don't get up till 'ee feel disposed: only bein' drippen wet the sooner you be dry the better, so——Sakes alive! Master Harry, 'tis my good-for-nothen cousin Rafe Aglionby, and no one else."
"Good heavens!"
"Rafe, man, can 'ee open your eyes? 'Tis me and Mr. Rochester; you be safe."
Both Harry and Sherebiah were now stooping over the captain. His eyes opened; the same choking sound came from his lips. For some minutes he lay gasping, wriggling, endeavouring vainly to rise, the others watching him the while with mixed feelings. His recovery of consciousness was slow: at last his movements ceased, he heaved a great sigh and looked up with intelligence.
"How be'st come to this?" asked Sherebiah. "Thowt 'ee was ripe for hangman this time, coz."
"Rot you!" spluttered the captain, struggling to his feet. "Hands off! Shall I never be quit of you!"
"Zooks! That's your thanks! Come, Rafe, blood's thicker nor water, as 'ee said yourself: you've broke prison sure enough, but they'll be after 'ee afore mornen. Mr. Rochester ha' saved 'ee from drownen, but you must put a few miles betwixt 'ee and hangman afore you can rest easy. How be'st come to this, man?"
"Let me go, I tell you."
"But you be drippen wet, Rafe; you'll cotch your death o' cold;—and faith, so will Master Harry. Better get home, sir, and change your things."
"No hurry, Sherry. Captain Aglionby, believe me, you must make yourself scarce. You've done me many an ill turn, for what reason I know not. But that's past now; I have no wish to give you up to the hangman. There's a boat moored to the bank a few yards down: you had better take that, and row through the night. Sherry, you're dry; change clothes with the captain."
"I'll have none of his clothes. I'll take the boat. Out of my way!"
Escaping from Sherebiah's grasp, Aglionby stumbled away in the direction of the boat, the other two watching him in silence until the darkness swallowed him.
"Unthankful viper!" muttered Sherebiah.
"To save a foe's life is an injury never forgiven," said Harry with a shrug. "I'm shivering, Sherry: let us get back."
"Ay sure. But I'd like to know what be the true meanen o' this. To be saved out o' jail and then chucked into river—why, in a manner o' speaken 'tis out o' fryen-pan into fire. One thing 'tis sure: my coz Rafe bean't born to be hanged nor drownded neither: question is, will it be pison or a dagger-end? But you be mortal cold, true; we'll home-along, sir."
They returned to the city, and were passing a large inn in the market-place when Harry suddenly touched Sherebiah on the arm.
"Sherry, you see that man at the door of the coach there? 'Tis one of the men I saw fling Aglionby into the river. I know him by his cap."
"I' feck, we'll have a nearer sight on un, and see who he be speaken to in coach. Keep close, sir, and we'll take a peep at 'em unbeknown."
Crossing to the other side of the street, and keeping well in the darkness, they quickly made their way towards the coach, and reached a position whence, by the light of the inn lamp, they could see into it without being seen. Each turned to the other in silence, astonishment and conviction in their eyes. The occupants of the coach were two: Mr. Berkeley and Monsieur de Polignac. It was to the latter that the man at the door was speaking. They were clearly at the end of their conversation; the man touched his cap and withdrew, and as the coach drove off, a look of gratification shone in the faces of its two occupants.
"What do you make of that, Sherry?"
"Make on't! 'tis plain as a pikestaff. Dead men tells no tales; that's what I make on't, sir. Rafe Aglionby knows a mort too much for they two high-liven villains; that's where 't is: they got un out o' jail to stop his tongue at scaffold foot, and then pitched un in the river to cool it for ever. 'Tis a mortal pity we let un go, sir, for't seems to me we ought to know what he knows, and get to the bottom o' the squire's desperate work agen you. But you always was a tender-hearted Christian, like your feyther afore 'ee."
"I couldn't let murder be done before my very eyes, Sherry."
"Ah, you'll have to see wuss now you be a man o' war, sir. Well, 'tis heapen coals of fire on his yead, as the Book says, and mebbe Them above'll reward 'ee for't; ay, so."
CHAPTER XIX
Marlborough's March to the Danube
A Foreigner at the Hall—War Again—Good-bye!—Comparisons—Up the Rhine—A Bold Stroke—Marlborough's Way—Despatches—A Mission to Eugene—Fanshawe Missing—The Road to Innsprück—Zum Grauen Bären—Mein Wirth—Breakfast at Three—The Second-best Room—A Trap-Door—Midnight Visitors—A Hasty Toilet—A Sound on the Stairs—Through the Copse—Stampede—The Lieutenant of the Guard—At Obermiemingen—The Little Abbé—Max Berens—A Surprise Visit—Mein Wirth Explains—Injured Innocence—In the Net—Hobson's Choice—The Missing Messengers—In Terrorem
No soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness of winter quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not an exception to the rule. As the weary months passed slowly by, he grew tired of the endless drilling and exercising, varied by marching and sham fights. He was very popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the other officers of the regiment, but found himself unable to take much interest in their amusements. Beer-drinking was not to his taste; the Dutch comedies performed at the theatres were dull, and the paternal government prohibited the performance of lighter French pieces. As the winter drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became so proficient as to win a prize at a regimental match; but the frost was not of long duration. He was not a fellow to allow time to hang on his hands. He practised broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal of Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he could lay hands, and spent many an hour poring over maps until he had the geography of all central Europe at his finger-ends.
No great news came from the outside world. In November the Netherlands suffered in some degree from the fierce storm that swept through the Channel, strewing the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at the roots, blowing down churches and houses. In the same month also the Archduke Charles passed through Hollanden routefor England and Spain, to assume in the latter country the sovereignty which was the bone of contention between his father the Emperor and King Louis of France.
Almost the only relaxations in Harry's life were his visits to Madame de Vaudrey's house, where both he and Fanshawe were always welcome guests. They formed with Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the New Year week. It happened that on the last day of the year 1703 Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare event. One piece of news it contained was much discussed at Madame de Vaudrey's table.
"And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire hev had a Visiter for a matter of munths. 'Tis a tall blacke Frenchman by his looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman, with a Smile & a twitching Mouthe. Squire & he be alwaies together, moste particler Frendes it do seeme. None of us soules can't abide him, nor the Qualitie neither. For myself, I don't like his Lookes, not me, & 'tis luckie he can't understand English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe and again as would turne his blacke Hair white."
Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive away from Breda in company with the squire.
"The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when Harry translated the gaffer's letter. "I only wonder that the other man, that insolent captain, is not with them. I wonder where he is?"
"I don't know," said Harry, who had kept his own counsel regarding the last he had seen of Aglionby.
"I hope he will never cross my path," said Mynheer Grootz. "He is truly a villain, a dastard: to inform on his cousin, and to plan the attack on Harry, and to have the insolence to pay court to Madame la Comtesse!"
"Yes, indeed," said the lady, "and my dear husband not four years dead! Who is the squire that your old friend writes of, Harry?"
"He is lord of the manor at my old home, Madame. His son is in one of our foot regiments, and Mr. Berkeley came over to Holland with him: it was then he met Monsieur de Polignac."
"Qui se ressemble s'assemble. What is the name of the bad old man, Harry?"
"Berkeley."
"Berkeley!" Madame de Vaudrey puckered her brow and appeared to be reflecting.
"How ugly your English names are!" exclaimed Adèle, "and how difficult to say! I cannot even yet say Rochestair properly."
"You say it better than you say my name," said Fanshawe gloomily.
"But then I have known Monsieur Rochestair longer," returned Adèle. "Shall we go into the drawing-room, Mamma? I do so want to hear Monsieur Fanshawe sing that amusing song of his again."
Fanshawe glowered. He knew that Adèle was teasing him, and wished with all his heart that he could recall the luckless moment when he had first amused her with the song of "Widdicombe Fair". Harry's eyes twinkled.
"Yes," said Madame de Vaudrey, "you young people can precede us to the drawing-room. I have a little matter of business to talk over with our good friend Mynheer Grootz."
Then Adèle's eyes caught Harry's, and they both smiled as at some secret known to them alone.
Time passed away, and at length, when the winter was gone, and the gray Dutch sky was rifted with the blue of spring, came the welcome news that Marlborough had arrived at the Hague and that a great campaign was to open. No one knew what the duke's plans were, but there was a general feeling that stirring events were preparing, and a universal hope that the long series of small engagements, sieges, marches and counter-marches would be brought to an end by a decisive pitched battle. Mynheer Grootz was working night and day at commissariat business, and for weeks there was a continual bustle of preparation: the cleaning of arms, the testing of harness, a thousand-and-one details that employed countless people beside the soldiers.
At length a day came when, all preparations completed, the eager troops were ready to march out. Harry and Fanshawe, accompanied by Sherebiah, rode over to Lindendaal one evening to take farewell of the ladies. Fanshawe was in the dolefullest of dumps. Notwithstanding Adèle's refusal of him, he had still nursed a hope that time might prove on his side, but found every hint of a sentimental nature adroitly parried, and now feared that with his absence his last chance would disappear. His spirits were raised a little by the warmth, and indeed effusiveness, with which she bade him good-bye.
"I shall hope to hear great things of you, Monsieur," she said, "and to learn that you have come through the campaign unscathed."
"Your good wishes shall be my talisman, Mademoiselle," said Fanshawe gallantly, bowing over her hand.
Harry meanwhile had taken leave of Madame de Vaudrey, who held both his hands and spoke to him with a quite motherly tenderness. Then he turned to say good-bye to Adèle. She had disappeared. Fanshawe had already gone out to the front of the house to see that his horse's girth was rightly strapped, and Harry followed, thinking that Mademoiselle had perhaps accompanied him to the door. But as he passed through the hall, he saw through the open door of the dining-room that Adèle was there, standing at the window with her back to him.
"There you are, Mademoiselle," he said, entering the room; "I was looking for you. It is a longer good-bye this time."
She turned round slowly, and her back being to the sunset glow he could scarcely see her features. She held out her hand, and said slowly, with perhaps a little less cordiality than he had unconsciously expected:
"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!"
He took her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then was gone.
As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round from the garden with his arm unblushingly about the waist of Katrinka, the prettiest maidservant of the house. The honest fellow led the girl up to his master.
"I've done it, sir," he said. "Her've said it. Feyther o' mine may think what a' will, but, an't please Them above to bring me through, by next winter there'll be a Mistress Minshull once more to comfort his old aged soul. Eh, Katrinka, lass?"
The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy.
"'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said Harry. "My old friend will be pleased, I promise you. And look 'ee, I'll give you five minutes to say good-bye to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on."
"Thank 'ee, sir! I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be done."
"Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said Harry with a smile, as they rode off.
"Yes, confound him! But hang it, Harry, I'll not give up hope yet. She was very kind to me when she said good-bye, and, by George! if I only escape a Frenchman's bullet and can manage to come off with flying colours and a neat little sabre-cut—who knows? she may be Mistress Godfrey Fanshawe yet."
Harry was silent. He felt a little surprised, perhaps a little hurt, that Adèle should have shown more warmth to Fanshawe, a friend of later date. He did not know what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have put his thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate manner, had left him vaguely dissatisfied and made him disinclined to talk. Fanshawe, however, was in high spirits, and chattered freely as they went side by side at a walking pace along the road to Breda. Sherebiah by and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind. He too was in capital spirits, and, having no one to converse with, was humming as he rode:
"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,All along, down along, out along lee;And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, DanWhiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all."So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,All along, down along, out along lee,And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,All along, down along, out along lee;And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, DanWhiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,
All along, down along, out along lee;
All along, down along, out along lee;
And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, DanWhiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan
Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,
Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
"So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,All along, down along, out along lee,And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
"So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,
All along, down along, out along lee,
All along, down along, out along lee,
And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
"Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had been so busy talking that not till this moment had he recognized the song. "Hanged if you are not always singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!"
"Beg pardon, sir. No offence. 'Tis a favourite ditty o' mine, and, axin' your pardon, I thowt 'twas one o' yourn too."
"Nay; anything else, anything else, my good fellow, not that, as you love me."
"Very good, sir. I be in a mind to troll a ditty, 'tis true, and if my tenor tones don't offend 'ee, I'll try a stave o' 'Turmut-hoein'."
Next morning, under a bright May sun, the troops in Breda marched out to join the Duke of Marlborough at Ruremond. As Harry's troop passed Lindendaal, and he caught a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs at the windows, he could not help wondering whether he should see those kind friends again.
At Ruremond the troops were reviewed by the duke himself; thence they marched to Juliers and Coblentz, where they halted for two days to allow the Prussian and Hanoverian levies in British pay to unite with them. Everybody had expected that the march would be continued up the Moselle, with the purpose of coming to grips with the French army under Marshal Villeroy. But to the general astonishment orders were given to cross that river by the stone bridge, and then the Rhine by two bridges of boats, and to proceed through the principality of Hesse-Cassel. The new orders were eagerly discussed by the officers of all the corps, but Marlborough had kept his own counsel, and indeed at this time his plan was known to scarcely anyone but Lord Godolphin, with whom he had talked it over in outline before leaving England, and Prince Eugene of Savoy, to whom he had entrusted it in correspondence.
The plan must have seemed hazardous, even reckless, to soldiers who held by the old traditions; but it was one that displayed Marlborough's military genius to the full. He had divined the true meaning of the recent movements of the French armies, and determined on a great effort to defeat the aim of King Louis so shrewdly guessed at. Relying on his ally, the Elector of Bavaria, the French king had resolved to make a strenuous attack upon the Emperor in the heart of his own dominions, Vienna. If Austria were crushed in one great battle, Louis had reason to expect a general rising of the Hungarians, by which the empire would be so much weakened that he could enforce peace and secure the triumph of his policy on his own terms. Already a French army under Marshal Marsin had joined forces with the Elector of Bavaria; other armies were rapidly advancing to reinforce them, and the combined host would be more than a match for any army that the emperor could put in the field against it.
Marlborough saw only one way to save the empire: he must prevent if possible the junction of the several French armies, or, if that were impossible, defeat them in a pitched battle. But he knew that the States of Holland would shrink from the risk of an expedition so far from their own borders; he therefore gave out that his campaign was to be conducted along the Moselle, and only when he was well on his way, and it was too late to oppose him, did he reveal his full design. Fortunately the Dutch Government rose to the opportunity; they sent him the reinforcements and supplies he asked for, and were satisfied with the detachment of one or two small forces to keep watch on Villeroy, who had crossed the Meuse and was threatening Huy. For himself, Marlborough intended to press forward with all speed towards the Danube, join Prince Louis of Baden and Prince Eugene of Savoy, and give battle to the combined French and Bavarians on ground of his own choosing.
For Harry this famous march was attended with endless novelty and excitement. Every morning at dawn camp was struck, and for five or six hours, with occasional halts, the troops marched, covering twelve or fifteen miles, and bivouacking about nine o'clock, thus completing the day's work before the sun grew hot. All along the route supplies for man and beast were furnished by commissaries, whose duties were so well organized that everything was on the ground before the troops arrived, and they had nothing to do but pitch their tents, boil their kettles, and lie down to rest. Everything was arranged and carried out with matchless regularity and order; Marlborough himself had a thorough grasp of the details, and showed such consideration for his men that on personal grounds he won their admiration and confidence. The passage of so large and miscellaneous a force, consisting of English, Dutch, Prussians, Danes, and levies from several of the minor German states, might well have been attended by many disorders; but Marlborough always displayed great humanity in his dealings with the people of the country through which he passed, and in these matters an army takes its cue from the commander-in-chief.
After quitting Coblentz, the duke went forward a day's march with the cavalry, leaving the artillery and foot to follow under the command of his brother, General Charles Churchill. Unfortunately rainy weather set in towards the end of May, and the roads were rendered so difficult that Churchill's force lost ground, and by the time Marlborough reached Ladenburg, on June 2, was four or five days behind. This delay gave the duke some little cause for anxiety, for he had learnt that Prince Louis of Baden, a brave but sluggish general of the old school, had allowed reinforcements to reach the Elector of Bavaria, and failed to seize an excellent opportunity of defeating the combined force. Marlborough, wishing on this account to hurry his advance, sent back two troops of Dutch horse to assist his brother with the cannon. One of these happened to be Harry's. The heavy Flemish horses were serviceable in dragging the guns, but the rains were so persistent and the soft roads so cut up that when Churchill reached Maintz he was still some five days' march behind the duke.
Late on the night of June 3, when the camp was silent, a courier reached Maintz with the following despatch from Marlborough at Ladenburg:—