Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

CHAPTER XXXI. A MOONLIGHT RECOGNITION

I sat on my bed in the little chamber allotted me, and as the bright moonlight streamed along the floor, and lit up the wide landscape without, I hesitated within myself whether I should await the morning, or at once set forth on my way to the coast. It was true the abbé had not arrived; and without him I knew nothing of the vessel, nor where she lay, much less by what means I should induce the crew to receive me as a passenger. But my heart was fixed on gaining the coast; once there, I felt that the sea alone rolled between me and my country, and I had little doubt some means of escape would present itself.

The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a passion. I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very uncertainty.

As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was cautiously opened, and the landlord entered.

“He is come,” whispered he; “and, thank Heaven! not too late.”

“The abbé?” inquired I.

“No, not the abbé; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbé will not venture; but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is off the coast; the wind is fair – ”

“And not a moment to be lost,” added a deep, low voice, as the figure of a tall man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, darkened the doorway. “Leave us, Pierre; this is the gentleman, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord. “Should you need a light, I ‘ll bring one.”

“Thank you, friend; we can dispense with any, save what the moon affords us.”

As the door closed on the retiring figure of the host, the stranger took his place beside me on the bed, and in a low voice thus began: —

“I only know, sir, that you have the full confidence of one of my stanchest and best friends, who tells me that you are willing to incur great risk, provided you gain the chance of reaching your native land. That chance – nay, I will call it that certainty – lies in my power; and, in return for the assistance, are you willing to do me a service?”

“I served the Emperor, sir; ask me not anything unworthy of one who wore his epaulette. Aught else, if it be but honorable and fair, I ‘ll do.”

“I have no leisure for casuistry, nor is it my humor, sir,” replied he angrily. “Neither do I seek any wondrous devotion at your hands. The service is an easy one: costs nothing at the present; involves nothing for the future.”

“The slight value you place upon it may detract but little from my objection,” said I.

“Sacré ciel!” exclaimed he, in a louder voice, as he sprang from the bed and clasped his hands before him. “Is it to be ever thus? Is every step we take to be marred by some unlooked for casualty? Is the stamp of fear and vacillation to be on every act of our lives? This abbé, the creature we have made, the man whose fortune is our handiwork, could render but one service to our cause; and he fails us in our need. And now, you – ”

“Beware, sir, how you speak to one who has never been accustomed to hear his name slightingly used nor his honor impugned. With your cause, whatever it be, I have no sympathy. Remember that; and remember, also, we are strangers to each other.”

“No, par Saint Denis! that we are not!” said he, seizing me by the arm, as he turned his head round, and stared me steadfastly in the face. “It was but this instant I deemed my fortune at the worst; and now I find myself mistaken. Do you know me now?” said he, throwing off his travelling cap, and letting his cloak fall from his shoulders to the ground.

“De Beauvais!” exclaimed I, thunderstruck at the sight.

“Yes, sir; the same De Beauvais whose fortunes you have blighted, whose honor you have tarnished – Interrupt me not. The mill at Hôlbrun witnessed the latter, if even the former were an error; and now we meet once more.”

“Not as enemies, however; at least on my side. You may persist, if you will, in attributing to me wrongs I never inflicted. I can better bear the imputation, unjust though it be, than involve myself in any quarrel with one I feel no anger towards. I was in hopes a few hours hence might have seen me on my way from France forever; but here, or elsewhere, I will not reply to your enmity.”

De Beauvais made no reply as I concluded, but with his arms crossed, and head bent down, seemed lost in thought.

“And so,” said he, at length, in a slow, sad voice, “you have not found the service of the Usurper as full of promise as you hoped; you have followed his banner long enough to learn how mean a thing even ambition may be, and how miserably selfish is the highest aspiration of an adventurer!”

“The Emperor was my good master,” said I, sternly; “it would ill become me to vent my disappointment on aught save my own demerits.”

“I have seen as slight deservings bring a high reward, notwithstanding,” replied he; “ay, and win their meed of praise from lips whose eulogy was honor. There was a service, Burke – ”

“Stay, no more of this!” said I. “You are unjust to your own cause and to me, if you deem that the hour of baffled hopes is that in which I could see its justice. You are true and faithful to one whose fortunes look darkly. I respect the fidelity, while I will not follow its dictates. I leave the path where fame and riches abound; I only ask you to believe that I do so with honor. Let us part, then.”

“Where do you mean to go, hence?”

“I know not; a prospect of escape had led me hither. I must now bethink me of some other course.”

“Burke, I am your debtor for one kindness, at least,” said De Beauvais, after a brief pause. “You saved my life at the risk of your own. The night at the Château d’Ancre should never be forgotten by me; nor had it been, if I did not revenge my own disappointed hopes, in not seducing you to our cause, upon yourself. It may be that I wrong you in everything as in this.”

“Believe me, that you do, De Beauvais.”

“Be it as it may, I am your debtor. I came here to-night to meet one who had pledged himself to perform a service. He has failed in his promise; will you take his place? The same means of escape shall be yours. All the precautions for his safety and sure conduct shall be taken in your behalf. I ask no pledge for the honorable discharge of what I seek at your hands, save your mere assent.”

“What is it you require of me?”

“That you deliver these letters to their several addresses; that you do so with your own hands; that when questioned, as you may be, on the state of France, you will not answer as the partisan of the Usurper.”

“I understand you. Enough: I refuse your offer. Your zeal for the cause you serve must indeed be great when it blinds you to all consideration for one placed as I am.”

“It has made me forget more, sir, far more than that, as I might prove to you, were I to tell what my life has been for two years past. But for such forgetfulness there is an ample recompense, a glorious one, – the memory of our king.” He paused at these words, and in his tremulous voice and excited gesture I could read the passion that worked within him. “Come, then; there shall be no more question of a compact between us. I ask no conditions, I seek for no benefits: you shall escape. Take my horse; my servant, who is also mounted, will accompany you to Beudron, where you will find fresh horses in readiness. This passport will prevent all interruption or delay; it is countersigned by Fouché himself. At Lisieux, which you will reach by sunset, you can leave the cattle, and the boy of the cabaret will be your guide to the Falaise de Biville. The tide will ebb at eleven o’clock, and a rocket from the sloop will be your signal to embark.”

“And for this I can render nothing in return?” said I, sadly.

“Yes. It may be that in your own country you will hear the followers of our king scoffed at and derided, – called fools or fanatics, perhaps worse. I would only ask of you to bear witness that they are at least ardent in the cause they have sworn to uphold, and firm to the faith to which they have pledged themselves. This is the only service you can render us, but it is no mean one. And now, farewell!”

“Farewell, De Beauvais! But ere we separate forever, let me hear from your lips that you bear me no enmity; that we are friends, as we used to be.”

“Here is my hand. I care not if you injured me once; we can be friends now, for we are little likely to meet again as enemies. Adieu!”

While De Beauvais left the room to order the horses to be in readiness, the landlord entered it, and seemed to busy himself most eagerly in preparing my knapsack for the road.

“I trust you will be many a mile hence ere the day breaks,” said he, with an anxiety I could ill comprehend, but which at the time I attributed to his desire for the safety of one intrusted with an important mission. “And now, here come the horses.’”

A moment more, and I was seated in the saddle. A brief word at parting was all De Beauvais spoke, and turned away; and the minute after I was hurrying onward towards Beudron.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE FALAISE DE BIVILLE

Everything occurred as De Beauvais had predicted. The authorities in the little villages we passed glanced at my passport, and as instantaneously handed it back, and we journeyed like couriers of the Emperor, without halt or impediment.

We reached Lisieux early in the evening, where, having dismissed the servant and horses, I took my way on foot towards a small fishing village, called La Hupe, where at a certain cabaret I was to find my guide to Biville.

The address of the sailor written on a card, and marked with a peculiar cipher by De Beauvais, was at once recognized by the old Norman, who welcomed me with a rude but kindly hospitality.

“Thou art more like a man to make this venture than the last three who came down here,” said he, as he slowly measured me with his eye from head to foot. “These priests they sent us never dared even to look at the coast, much less to descend the cliffs; but thou hast a look about thee of another fashion. And now, the first thing is to have something to eat, and I promise thee a goutte of brandy will not be amiss to prepare thee for what is before thee.”

“Is there, then, so much of danger in the descent?”

“Not if a man’s head be steady and his hand firm; but he must have both, and a stout heart to guide them, or the journey is not over-pleasant. Art thou cool enough in time of peril to remember what has been told thee for thy guidance?”

“Yes; I hope I can promise so much.”

“Then thou art all safe; so eat away, and leave the rest to me.”

Although the sailor’s words had stimulated my curiosity in the highest degree, I repressed every semblance of the feeling, and ate my supper with a well-feigned appearance of easy indifference; while he questioned me about the hopes of the Bourbon party in their secret machinations, with a searching inquisitiveness that often nearly baffled all my ingenuity in reply.

“Ah! par Saint Denis!” said he, with a deep sigh, “I see well thou hast small hope now; and, in truth, I feel as thou dost. When George Cadoudal and his brave fellows failed, where are we to look for success? I mind well the night he supped here.”

“Here, said you?”

“Ay, where you sit now, – on the same seat. There was an English officer with him. He wore a blue uniform, and sat yonder, beneath that fishing-net; the others were hid along the shore.”

“Was it here they landed, then?”

“Yes, to be sure, at the Falaise; there is not another spot to land on for miles along the coast.”

The old sailor then began a circumstantial account of the arrival of George and his accomplices from England; and told how they had one by one scaled the cliffs by means of a cord, well known in these parts, called the “smuggler’s rope.” “Thou shalt see the spot now,” added he, “for there’s the signal yonder.”

He pointed as he spoke to an old ruined tower, which crowned a cliff about half a mile distant, and from a loophole in which I could see a branch of ivy waving, as though moved by the wind.

“And what may that mean?”

“The cutter is in sight; as the wind is off shore, she ‘ll be able to come in close to-night. Indeed, if it blew from the westward, she dared not venture nearer, nor thou, either, go down to meet her. So, now let’s be moving.”

About twenty minutes’ walking brought us to the old signal-tower, on looking from the window of which I beheld the sea plashing full three hundred feet beneath. The dark rocks, fissured by time and weather, were abrupt as a wall, and in some places even overhung the waves that rolled heavily below. Masses of tangled seaweed and shells, which lay in the crevices of the cliffs, showed where in times of storm the wild waters were thrown; while lower down, amid fragments of rocks, the heavy beams and planks of shipwrecked vessels surged with every motion of the tide.

“You cannot see the cutter now,” said the old sailor, – “the setting sun leaves a haze over the sea; but in a few minutes more we shall see her.”

“I am rather looking for the pathway down this bold cliff,” replied I, as I strained my eyes to catch something like a way to descend by.

“Then throw thine eyes in this direction,” said the sailor, as he pointed straight down beneath the window of the tower. “Seest thou that chain there? Well, follow it a little farther, and thou may’st mark a piece of timber jutting from the rock.”

“Yes, I see it plainly.”

“Well, the path thou asketh for is beneath that spar. It is a good rope of stout hemp, and has carried the weight of many a brave fellow before now.”

“The smuggler’s rope?”

“The same. Art afraid to venture, now thou seest the place?”

“You’ll not find me so, friend. I have seen danger as close before now, and did not blink it.”

“Mark me well, then,” said he, laying his hand on my arm. “When thou readiest that rope, thou wilt let thyself cautiously down to a small projecting point of rock; we cannot see it here, but thou wilt soon discern it in the descent. The rope from this goes no farther, for that spot is nigh sixty fathom below us. From thence the cliff slopes sharply down about thirty or forty feet. Here thou must creep cautiously, – for the moss is dry and slippery at this season, – till thou nearest the edge. Mark me well, now: near the edge thou’lt find a large stone fast-rooted in the ground; and around that another rope is fastened, by which thou may’st reach the bottom of the precipice. There is but one place of peril in the whole.”

“The sloping bank, you mean?”

“Yes; that bit will try thy nerve. Remember, if thy foot slip, there’s nothing to stop thy fall; the cliff is rounded over the edge, and the blue sea beats two hundred feet below it. And see! look yonder, far away there! Seest thou the twinkling, as of a small star, on the water?”

“The cutter will throw up a rocket, will she not?”

“A rocket!” repeated he, contemptuously; “that’s some landsman’s story thou hast been listening to. A rocket would bring the whole fleet of boats from Tréport on her. No, no; they know better than that: the faintest glimmer of a fishing-craft is all they ‘ll dare to show. But see how steadily it burns now! we must make the signal seawards.”

“Halloo, Joseph! a light there.”

A boy’s voice answered from the upper part of the tower, – the same figure who made the signal towards the shore, and whose presence there I had altogether forgotten; and in a few minutes a red glare on the rocks below showed that the old man’s command was obeyed, and the beacon lighted.

“Ah! they see it already,” cried he, triumphantly, pointing seawards; “they’ve extinguished the light now, but will show it again, from time to time.”

“But tell me, friend, how happens it that the marines of the Guard, who line this coast, do not perceive these signals?”

“And who tells thee that they do not? They may be looking, as we are now, at that same craft, and watching Her as she beats in shore; but they know better than to betray us. Ah, ma foi! the ‘contrebande’ is better than the Government. Enough for them if they catch some poor English prisoner now and then, and have him shot; that contents the Emperor, as they call him, and he thinks the service all that is brave and vigilant. But as to us, it is our own fault if we fall in with them; it would need the rocket you spoke of a while ago to shame them into it. There, look again, – thou seest how far in shore they’ve made already; the cutter is stealing fast along the water. Answer the signal, Joseph.”

The boy replenished the fire with some dry wood, and it blazed up brilliantly, illuminating the gray cliffs and dark rocks, on which the night was fast falling, but leaving all beyond its immediate sphere in deepest blackness.

“I see not, friend, by what means I am to discover this sloping cliff, much less guide my way along it,” said I, as I gazed over the precipice, and tried to penetrate the gloomy abyss below me.