CHAPTER V
Theywere soon across the drawbridge and outside the ramparts. The night was pitch dark, but in spite of it the coachman drove rapidly along the well-known road, and they were not stopped once after getting outside. As soon as they were on the side of the citadel opposite the town, they knew they were on the side of the Bohemian mountains. This was their point of escape. Gavin disengaged himself of his pillows and threw the heavy cloak over his arm, and St. Arnaud did likewise; they could not afford to cast away such excellent disguises. Then, noiselessly opening the carriage door, they both dropped to the ground with so much dexterity that they managed to shut the door, so its banging might not attract the orderly’s attention. They thus found themselves outside the fortress within fifteen minutes of the time they had escaped. They stopped and listened for a moment, but evidently no alarm had yet been given.
“We shall hear the guns, though, as soon as the carriage reaches the postern gate, if not before; and after that—” said St. Arnaud.
Gavin only pointed before them. “Yonder are the mountains. We cannot see them—so much the better—no one can see us. The frontier is twenty English miles away, and we should gain it before daylight.”
With the blood leaping in their veins at the thought of liberty, even for an hour, they plunged forward through the fog. The snow made walking difficult, but they felt as light of foot as the chamois among the hills. They sped along in spite of every obstacle, and when, within half an hour, the report of the three alarm guns rumbled through the heavy air, they had already gained a considerable distance. The darkness and the fog made it impossible for them to know precisely in what direction they were going; they only knew that they had got among fields and hedgerows, which they ardently hoped were in the direction of the mountains. Gavin, however, in the long marches of the past campaign had got something of the soldier’s instinct for the right road, and when toward midnight the fog lifted and a pallid moon came forth, they found they were on the right track for themountains, although they had not come as straight as they had hoped.
At intervals they had heard faint and distant sounds indicating pursuit; but the damp air stifled sound. At midnight, though, when it suddenly cleared, they heard afar off the tramping of hoofs. They found themselves on a by-road, where there were hedges, but no trees, and farmhouses were scattered about. All was as still as death except for that light but ominous echo of advancing horses and men. The sound was coming nearer, and the hoof-beats could be distinctly heard.
In front of them was a farmstead, with good outbuildings, including a cattle shed and stables. The snow was much trodden thereabouts, so that their tracks would not betray them. They found both the shed and the stable doors locked, but the stable window was left open for ventilation. They crawled in the window, and found a ladder leading to the loft, which was stored with hay. In two minutes they were concealed under it. In ten minutes more a squad of cavalry had ridden up, and every farmhouse was astir with the news they brought. Two prisoners had escaped, and the commandant would pay a hundred florins for either of them. The stable door was flung open, and thefarmer who owned the place and his two sons saddled the horses, arranging their plans in full hearing of the fugitives just above their heads. The business of the squad of cavalry was to arouse the country, rather than personally hunt for the fugitives. They soon passed on, therefore, and in a little while most of the men in the hamlet had joined in the search, while the rest returned to bed.
The hay in the loft was warm and dry, and Gavin and St. Arnaud were terribly fatigued, and they longed to take rest until morning; but the hours of darkness were precious to them. They waited until everything had quieted down, and then, starting forth from their hiding-place, resumed the march toward the mountains.
They trudged along, somewhat guided by their map, and although they caught sight more than once of pursuing parties, they managed to conceal themselves, but they knew they could not expect to be so fortunate in broad daylight.
The dawn came clear and beautiful, and bearing no trace of the fog of the night before. The Bohemian mountains, only ten English miles away, loomed darkly beautiful on the horizon. The snow lay deep upon the whole earth when the first golden shafts of light struck the mountain tops from theeast; as the sun rose in glory, they glowed milk white against a sky all blue and gold and rose-coloured. Gavin and St. Arnaud saw the exquisite sunrise with heavy hearts; a clear day made the chances of their eluding pursuit for ten miles still more hazardous. They were half dead with fatigue, after their weeks of close confinement; they were foot-sore and hungry, but their spirits were unfaltering, and no word of complaint escaped them.
They had avoided the highway, although they knew that every lane, by-road, and hedgerow would be searched for them; and as the day fully broke, they found themselves in a pleasant rolling country, somewhat off the usual line of travel, with many houses of a good class, but barren of woods. Immediately before them was a pleasant villa, with a tall yew hedge all around it. As they trudged past they noticed a kind of natural alcove in the hedge, in which they were tolerably concealed from view; and they threw themselves down for a moment to rest their weary limbs and study their rude map.
Soon they heard merry voices and laughter on the other side of the hedge. Two milkmaids were at their work, and as the milk foamed into thepails they laughed and chatted about the events of the night before.
“Such a night!” cried one. “Troopers all over the place at one o’clock in the morning; and Miss Hein screamed so loud when the officer caught her in her curl papers that he thought she had certainly concealed the two prisoners in the house.”
“How sorry I am to have missed it!” replied the other one. “This place is so dull, nothing happening from one week’s end to another, that I even like the notion of being routed out as you were last night. The truth is, I don’t fancy living with these quiet, prim ladies, like Miss Hein. I would rather live in a large family, with plenty of servants, and gay doings below stairs.”
Gavin peeped through an opening in the hedge. The milkmaid plunged into a description of the adventures of the night before, when the house and offices had been searched for the two fugitives; and in the excitement of her tale she stopped milking. Her back and that of her companion was toward Gavin, and the milk bucket was just within reach of his arm. He noiselessly thrust his arm through the opening and, reaching the milk pail, raised it as high as he could, and St. Arnaud, tiptoeing over the hedge, took it. There was about aquart of milk in it, and first St. Arnaud taking a pull at it, and then Gavin, it was emptied in a minute. Gavin’s long arm then replaced it, and they resumed their places of concealment. A shriek of dismay presently informed them that the milkmaid had found her bucket empty. The cow having strayed off, too, there was great excitement for a while, but both the women moved away from the hedge, marvelling the while over the strange disappearance of the milk.
St. Arnaud, turning to Gavin, said: “We shall be caught before twelve o’clock if we attempt to make across the country in this clear weather. This place has been searched once, and is not likely to be searched again. I believe our best chance is to remain here.”
“How?” asked Gavin.
“I will show you, if you will have confidence in me.”
A look was Gavin’s only answer to this.
St. Arnaud then, with Gavin, made his way boldly to the front door of the house and knocked loudly. Another maid opened the door, and from the smirk she wore, she, too, thought it rather amusing to have a sensation occasionally as they had had the night before. But there was no smirk upon theface of Miss Hein, a tall, thin, lugubrious-looking lady, with a not unkind face, who appeared behind her.
“Madam,” said St. Arnaud to Miss Hein, with a low bow, “I hear that you were very much disturbed last night by the searching of your house for two runaways from the fortress. I have come to make you every apology. We are officers, as you see. The officer last night was a mere subaltern, and, although zealous, he evidently did not know how to perform an unpleasant duty.”
“He certainly did not,” replied Miss Hein tartly.
“Ah, madam,” cried St. Arnaud sentimentally, “would that I had come in the first instance! I would not have disturbed you in the least. Any complaint you have to make about the officer or men I will attend to with pleasure.”
Miss Hein, whose placid house had been the scene of such unusual turmoil, was immensely pleased at the different tone that this supposed Prussian officer took with her, and bowing politely, invited them to enter. “And as you have probably been all night searching for the fugitives, you must be both tired and hungry, and I will have breakfast for you.”
Gavin could hardly restrain a shout of joy.
Miss Hein took them into a comfortable sitting-room on the first floor, and while waiting for breakfast to be prepared St. Arnaud made such good use of his time and tongue that the poor lady was completely won over. He begged that she would give them the honour of her presence while they breakfasted, which she graciously did. St. Arnaud asked if handbills had yet reached them describing the escaped prisoners, and with a deep feeling of joy heard they had not. At this Gavin said for the benefit of the servant waiting on them, as well as Miss Hein:
“I can tell you what they are like. St. Arnaud is a great big, red-headed fellow with a terrible squint—you would know the man to be a rascal anywhere. His manners are harsh, and his voice is like sawing wood with a dull saw.”
St. Arnaud, determined not to be outdone, broke in: “And the other one, Hamilton by name, would be taken for a girl dressed up in man’s clothes—a weak, puling creature, and universally considered the ugliest man in the French army.”
“Do you hear that, Martha?” said Miss Hein to the maid. “Remember it and tell the other servants.”
A good breakfast had very much raised the spirits of the two fugitives, but they realized that they were in jeopardy every moment. St. Arnaud, after reflecting a moment, said to Miss Hein: “Would it be asking too much of your kindness to let a couple of tired Prussian officers sleep a few hours in your house? We have been travelling all night—I will explain later why we have no horses—and we are overcome with fatigue.”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Hein, who had been completely won by her amiable guests. “I myself am leaving in my travelling chaise this afternoon, to pay a visit of some days in the town of Glatz, and I will take you both with pleasure. The chaise seats four. Meanwhile, you may take your rest in an upper chamber. I am glad to show hospitality to officers who know so well how to treat a helpless woman.”
They were shown upstairs into a comfortable room with two beds. As they shut and locked the door, they looked earnestly at each other. St. Arnaud, without a word, tumbled into one of the beds, saying: “We may never come out of this room alive; but let us take our rest calmly. We are in the hands of fate.”
“In the hands of God, you mean—so my mothertaught me,” answered Gavin; and straightway he plumped down on his knees at the side of the bed, and said a prayer out aloud for their success in escaping; and then, throwing himself on the bed, was asleep in two minutes.
St. Arnaud waked first. There was a clock in the room, and he saw that it was five o’clock, and the short winter twilight was coming on. He shook Gavin, and in a few moments they went downstairs. Miss Hein, in her riding-dress, was walking up and down the hall impatiently. “I am afraid,” she said, “it is too late to make our start.”
“That is unfortunate,” responded St. Arnaud. “Would you, however, permit us to use your chaise to the next posting-house, which cannot be more than two miles away?”
Miss Hein cogitated for a moment. But there was a sweet persuasiveness in St. Arnaud’s tone that she had not been able to resist since the first hour she met him, and she answered pleasantly:
“Yes. You have been so polite—”
“Oh, madam, it is you—it is your kindness—and trust me, it will never be forgotten.”
The chaise was before the door, and Gavin and St. Arnaud, bidding an adieu so warm that itbrought the blood to Miss Hein’s faded cheek, went out and entered the carriage. The coachman, a country lout, drove off in the direction of Glatz. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, St Arnaud put his head out of the window and said:
“You are going in the wrong direction. It is the next posting-house toward the mountains that we wish to reach.” The rustic turned his horses about, and they travelled toward the mountains for four miles. They were too intent upon listening for pursuit and surprise to speak much, but Gavin said: “It is not often that escaped prisoners ride in coaches and chaises, as we have done.”
“Good Miss Hein!” cried St. Arnaud. “I had half a mind to throw ourselves on her mercy. I believe there is scarcely a woman who lives who will not be kind to an unfortunate.”
At the next posting-house they had no trouble in securing horses, Miss Hein’s chaise and servants being well known. The postmaster and all the people were asking about the fugitives, and several detachments of soldiers had visited the place that day. St. Arnaud, talking with the postmaster, carelessly asked if descriptive handbills had been posted yet.
“We are expecting them every moment,” replied the man.
St. Arnaud then gave a personal description which could not possibly apply to either himself or Gavin; and, asking for a private room, wrote Miss Hein a note full of gratitude, to which he signed a German name. The chaise they had ordered soon appeared, and in a little while they were travelling toward the frontier.
When night fell they were entering a little mountain village marked with a cross on their map; and, driving through the steep and straggling street, they came to a shop with a bag of wool hanging in one window and a hank of yarn in the other.
They knocked, and were asked to enter by a pleasant-faced woman. The house was a kind of a rude inn, as well as shop and dwelling, and half a dozen peasants were gathered around a fire on which a pot was boiling. St. Arnaud spoke two words—“Madame Ziska”—in the woman’s ear, and she responded by an intelligent look.
“This is no place for your honours,” she said; “I have a little room off that I can give you.”
She led them into a small room, scarcely morethan a shed, and shut the door. “I have change for a hundred ducats,” she whispered. “My cousin—for so Madame Ziska is, although I am not fit to be her waiting-maid—told me to give you that much money out of my savings, and you would give me a bank-note for it.”
They quickly made the exchange, and both eagerly asked for news of Madame Ziska, but there was none since she had passed through the village on her way to Vienna.
Supper was presently served—the first meal St. Arnaud and Gavin had eaten in liberty since the first night of their meeting. They were waited on by a tall, handsome, intelligent-looking girl, Bettina, the niece of the hostess. She took them for Prussian officers, and showed them the utmost ill-will. She nearly knocked Gavin’s head off with a platter when he turned to ask her some simple question, and scowled blackly at St. Arnaud when he airily threw her a kiss. They were in uproariously high spirits, although they kept their voices down as much as possible.
“This is magnificent,” cried St. Arnaud, ladling cabbage soup into his mouth. “I have altogether lost my taste for pâté de foie gras and champagne, in favor of cabbage soup and onions, bacon, andblack bread. They are the real luxuries of life.” To which Gavin agreed.
St. Arnaud then turned his attention to the sulky Bettina. “What a great stroke it would be if you capture those two fellows escaped from Glatz! You would get two hundred florins.” No reply from Bettina, except a furious clattering of dishes. “You could get married with that portion,” continued St. Arnaud.
“Not unless I meet some men who are a vast improvement on those who come here,” retaliated Bettina, flouncing out angrily.
Presently the woman of the house entered and, after refusing to take any money for their entertainment, said: “You will find outside a cart and horse. They belong to me, so you may do as you like with them.” She showed them a way out without passing through the front part of the house, and there, in the moonlight, was a rough country cart, and Bettina sitting in it to drive them. But what a change was in her! Eager, smiling, and obliging, she could do nothing at first but apologize for her rudeness. “I did not know you were Madame Ziska’s friends,” she protested a dozen times.
They mounted into the cart, and with thanks that came from the bottom of their hearts partedwith their friend. They travelled on through the night, Bettina driving rapidly and skilfully. The moon sank, and then came the ghastly hour between night and day, and presently a sunrise more glorious than they had ever seen, for they were at liberty and in safety.
Bettina was to leave them at a small village across the frontier, where they hoped to get horses, but were far from certain. Hearing them discuss this, Bettina said: “If you like, you can buy this horse and cart. My aunt has been trying to sell them both for forty florins this month past; she wants to buy better ones.”
“Here are fifty florins,” joyfully cried St. Arnaud. “But how will you get back home?”
“I can walk,” nonchalantly replied Bettina, “and if I get tired on the way, I will wait for the carrier’s cart, which goes to my village to-day.”
She got down in the road, St. Arnaud handed her the money, and she made him promise to feed the horse well; and then St. Arnaud, proceeding, by way of reward, to give her a kiss, Bettina raised her strong arm and fetched him a thundering box on the ear; and Gavin, who was standing by quite innocent, inadvertently happening to laugh, Bettinagave him two corresponding slaps that nearly knocked him down, crying:
“Is that the way you behave? I’ll teach you better manners, both of you!” and she strode down the road indignantly, scorning to look back.
“I thought,” said Gavin, rubbing his tingling cheeks, “that women were always kind to the unfortunate.”
“Well, there are exceptions,” diplomatically replied St. Arnaud. “For my own part, I am very much obliged to the young lady for not giving me a good beating; she is perfectly capable of it, physically as well as morally.”
“And we are not unfortunate any longer,” cried Gavin, jumping into the cart, and giving the patient horse a whack. “We are free, we have money, we have this equipage!”
“Yes,” replied St. Arnaud gayly, “we will not trouble with post-chaises; we will travel the whole distance to Vienna in this blessed cart; we will make ourentréeas conspicuously as possible. We will drive under the palace windows of the Empress Queen herself, and let her see us. Oh, we will make such an arrival into Vienna that it won’t be forgotten in a hurry!”
“We will! We will!” shouted Gavin, belabouring,in the excess of his joy, the poor horse; “and we won’t say anything about the fond adieu we had from Miss Bettina.”
Some weeks after this, on a brilliant winter morning, the last day of the year, all Vienna was astir for a great military review. The Empress Queen, undaunted by the disasters at Rosbach and Leuthen, had determined to renew the contest with her old enemy, the King of Prussia, at the earliest practicable moment; and to give heart to her army and people, she appeared constantly before them, reviewed her troops often, and showed undiminished confidence in them. She had, it is true, consented that her brother-in-law, the Archduke Charles, should be relieved of the command of the army, in deference to the popular will. But she, the most loyal sovereign in the world to all who had served her, took occasion to soften the blow to the Archduke Charles by appearing with him in public and treating him with a kindness that his courage and devotion merited, although he had been vanquished by the superior genius of the King of Prussia. She had, therefore, ordered a grand review of the household troops, with a number of veterans of the last campaign. It was a means she took of keeping up the courage of her people,as well as complimenting a loyal but unfortunate servant. When her enemies thought her nearest to ruin, then it was that Maria Theresa showed herself so superior to fear that she infused her own high courage into her army and her people. And for this reason, when her military fortunes were low, she chose rather to act as if disasters were mere mishaps, to be redeemed in another campaign.
The Viennese, who love pageants better than any other people in the world, were out early to see the spectacle, which did not begin until ten o’clock. Scarcely had the sun tipped the glorious tower of the cathedral of St. Stephen, and blazoned the long lines of windows in the Imperial Palace until they shone like molten gold, before the streets were thronged with citizens and people from the surrounding country. The Empress Queen had selected the broad and splendid plaza in front of the Imperial Palace from which to view the march past, and the multitudes poured toward the Stadt, through the narrow and tortuous streets which lead to this region of palaces, museums, and churches. The morning was clear, mild, and beautiful, and the gay Viennese had apparently forgotten the dreadful day of Rosbach and the terrible hours of Leuthen.
The sunny air resounded with martial music and the steady tread of marching feet of men and iron-shod hoofs of horses. Splendid coaches bearing ambassadors and ambassadresses rolled majestically through the streets. Great officers of state, resplendent in their orders and decorations, leaving their chariots wedged in the eager, curious, and noisy throng, made their way on foot to the palace doors. Military officers in glittering uniforms, with gorgeous horse trappings, dashed about on their spirited chargers. A blare of trumpets on the one hand was answered by the quick music of a military band on the other, and the air vibrated with the continuous clang of the fife and drum. It was the day of glory of the brave army, which, though defeated, stood ready to renew the conflict with its old enemy at the first signal. As the morning hours sped on toward ten o’clock the enthusiasm of the crowds increased. The prospect of seeing their Empress Queen in state always put the Viennese in a good humour, and the multitudes that packed the streets leading toward the palace were full of merriment and in the notion to be pleased with everything.
The approach of the troops was heralded with cheers that seemed to come from miles away, andfollowed them to the point where the head of the first column debouched before the palace. At the same moment a fanfare of silver trumpets from the trumpeters of the guard announced that the Empress Queen had left the palace. The great gates were thrown wide open, and the Imperial body-guard rode forth. This was a magnificent battalion of men, all mounted on coal-black horses, and wearing brass helmets and cuirasses that glittered in the dazzling light. After them came the Hungarian contingent, a people between whom and Maria Theresa a peculiar bond of affection subsisted. The people greeted these with imitations of the peculiarly wild and piercing cries of their country. Next rode the young archdukes, handsome lads, and superbly mounted. Last, appeared the Empress Queen, mounted upon a noble, iron-gray charger, with the Emperor Francis on her right and the Archduke Charles on her left.
Maria Theresa never looked more royal and imperial than when on horseback. She rode with exquisite grace, and her stately mien fitly indicated her brave spirit. Although then past her first youth and the mother of many children, she was still the most graceful princess in Europe; and maturity had not robbed her of her natural comeliness. Hereyes still shone with star-like brightness, and the colour mounted beautifully to her cheek when, after a moment’s sudden checking of noise, a roar of joyous cheering, of wild hand-clapping, and of military music clashed heavenward. She had then ridden briskly out upon the open space, where, under the splendid standards of the Empire, she bowed right and left, with an enchanting smile. Maria Theresa loved to be with her people, and was as happy to show herself to them as they were pleased to see her. The Emperor Francis, a handsome man of middle age, and his brother, the Archduke Charles, came in for their share of applause, and acknowledged it gracefully. But the Empress Queen had been for twenty years the darling of the people, and her husband and children were loved and applauded chiefly because they were hers.
The march past then began. First came a splendid body of cavalry, hussars, cuirassiers, and dragoons. The Hungarian contingent, led by their hetmans, was gorgeously picturesque, and as they waved their swords and lances in the air with wild grace the Empress Queen responded with a charming inclination of the heard. Maria Theresa had not forgotten that in her most perilous hour the loyalty of the Hungarians had saved her throne andcountry from the rapacity of Frederick. Next came the foot regiments, sturdy men who had withstood the shock of battle, and whose stained and tattered battle-flags showed what service they had seen. The field artillery, then a great novelty in warfare, followed, their long, bronze guns, cast with the Empress Queen’s crown and cipher in the metal, gleaming dully in the sunlight. So brilliant was the spectacle, that the hours sped away, and it was long after noon when the end of the last column appeared in view.
Among those watching it, in the crowd of diplomats, was a slight but singularly high-bred looking man, evidently an Englishman. He sat in a plain but handsome coach, magnificently horsed. All who saw the parade and the outburst of affectionate loyalty toward the Empress Queen were affected to a certain degree by it except this English gentleman. He, however, regarded it all with a cool smile, and did not speak except to make some disparaging remark to an officer in an English uniform who sat on horseback next the coach.
As the end of the columns drew near there was a new and sudden outburst of cheering heard afar off, mixed with laughter; the multitudes of people had evidently seen something to both please and amusethem. It was so noticeable that the Archduke Charles sent an aide riding down the line, who came back smiling. He approached the Empress Queen and the Emperor, and said something which caused them both to smile, too. At the same moment the last detachment of troops was passing, and directly behind them came a country cart, drawn by a sorry horse. On a plank laid across the cart sat Gavin Hamilton, driving. He still wore the enormous chapeau and cloak of General Kollnitz. The huge hat was pushed back, showing his handsome bronzed face, his white teeth gleaming in a perpetual smile; while he awkwardly held up the huge cloak in handling the coarse rope reins.
Sitting in solitary magnificence in the body of the cart was St. Arnaud, dressed in Pfels’ hat and cloak. He sat flat, with his shapely legs stretched stiffly out before him, and, in contrast to Gavin’s boyish grins of delight, St. Arnaud was as perfectly grave and composed as if in attendance upon royalty. The crowds had found out who they were, and shouts resounded, and cries were bandied about.
“There they are, in the disguise they escaped in! They say that Frederick was so angry when he heard of their getting away that he burst a blood-vessel!”
“And poor old Kollnitz took to his bed with chagrin, and has never left it since!” called out another.
The English gentleman turned to the officer on horseback and said:
“What children are these Viennese! Because a couple of officers make a clever escape, and appear riding in a cart, these childish people go wild with delight. Depend upon it, it is neither the escape nor the men who matter—it is the cart and horse which pleases them.”
“You scarcely do the Viennese justice, Sir Gavin,” replied the officer, standing up in his stirrups to look as the cart approached. “I recognise young St. Arnaud of Dufour’s regiment as the officer sitting down; but who is the younger one—evidently St. Arnaud’s junior—who is driving?”
Sir Gavin Hamilton stood up in the coach and looked attentively at the cart, which was then passing the royal party. Gavin brought the horse to a standstill, stood up, as did St. Arnaud, and both respectfully saluted the Empress Queen.
“That younger man,” said Sir Gavin, with the utmost nonchalance, “is my son. He is not my heir, however.”
The officer uttered an exclamation of surprise,but Sir Gavin’s face remained quite impassive. No one but the officer heard him, and the next moment there was a general movement of the privileged bystanders as the royal party turned toward the palace. Then an aide-de-camp rode up to the cart, and after a few words St. Arnaud and Gavin descended, and an orderly led the equipage away.
Gavin and St. Arnaud followed the aide, Captain Count Derschau, into the courtyard of the palace, and to a small door in a wing of the vast building. Entering, he showed them the way to a small anteroom, saying:
“You will remain here until Her Majesty sends for you, which will be within half an hour;” and courteously excusing himself, he left them.