Springhaven: A Tale of the Great War

by R. D. Blackmore

  CHAPTER LIV

  IN A SAD PLIGHT

  "How shall I get out of this parole? Or shall I break it, instead ofgetting out? Which shall I think of first, my honour, or my country? Thesafety of millions, or the pride of one? An old Roman would have settledit very simply. But a Christian cannot do things so. Thank God there isno hurry, for a few days yet! But I must send a letter to Desportes thisvery night. Then I must consider about waiting for a week."

  Scudamore, unable to think out his case as yet--especially after runningas if his wind could turn a vane--was sitting on the bank, to let theriver-bed get darker, before he put his legs into the mud to get across.For the tide was out, and the old boat high and dry, and a very weakwater remained to be crossed (though, like nearly all things that areweak, it was muddy), but the channel had a moist gleam in the dry springair, and anybody moving would be magnified afar. He felt that it wouldnever do for him, with such a secret, to be caught, and brought to book,or even to awake suspicion of his having it. The ancient Roman of whomhe had thought would have broken parole for his country's sake, and thenfallen on his sword for his own sake; but although such behaviour shouldbe much admired, it is nicer to read of such things than to do them.Captain Scuddy was of large and steady nature, and nothing came to himwith a jerk or jump--perhaps because he was such a jumper--and he worehis hat well on the back of his head, because he had no fear of losingit. But for all that he found himself in a sad quandary now.

  To begin with, his parole was not an ordinary leave, afforded by hiscaptors to save themselves trouble; but a special grace, issuing fromfriendship, and therefore requiring to be treated in a friendly vein.The liberality of these terms had enabled him to dwell as a friendamong friends, and to overhear all that he had heard. In the balanceof perplexities, this weighed heavily against his first impulse to castaway all except paramount duty to his country. In the next place, heknew that private feeling urged him as hotly as public duty to cast awayall thought of honour, and make off. For what he had heard about the"fair secretary" was rankling bitterly in his deep heart. He recalledat this moment the admirable precept of an ancient sage, that in sucha conflict of duties the doubter should incline to the course leastagreeable to himself, inasmuch as the reasons against it are sure to beurged the most feebly in self-council. Upon the whole, the question wasa nice one for a casuist; and if there had not been a day to spare, dutyto his country must have overridden private faith.

  However, as there was time to spare, he resolved to reconcile privatehonour with the sense of public duty; and returning to his room, wrote acareful letter (of which he kept a copy) to his friend Desportes, now onboard, and commanding the flagship of one division of the flotilla. Hesimply said, without giving his reason, that his parole must expire ineight days after date, allowing one day for delivery of his letter.Then he told M. Jalais what he had done, and much sorrow was felt inthe household. When the time had expired without any answer from CaptainDesportes, who meant to come and see him but was unable to do so,Scudamore packed up a few things needful, expecting to be placed incustody, and resolved to escape from it, at any risk of life. Then hewalked to Etaples, a few miles down the river, and surrendered himselfto the commandant there. This was a rough man--as Desportes hadsaid--and with more work to do than he could manage. With very littleceremony he placed the English prisoner in charge of a veteran corporal,with orders to take him to the lock-up in the barracks, and there awaitfurther instructions. And then the commandant, in the hurry of hisduties, forgot all about him.

  Captain Scuddy now found himself in quarters and under treatment verytrying to his philosophy. Not that the men who had him in charge werepurposely unkind to him, only they were careless about his comfort, andhaving more important work to see to, fed him at their leisure, whichdid not always coincide with his appetite. Much of his food was wateryand dirty, and seemed to be growing its own vegetables, and sometimesto have overripened them. Therefore he began to lose substance, and hischeeks became strangers to the buxom gloss which had been the delight ofMadame Fropot. But although they did not feed him well, they took goodcare of him in other ways, affording no chance of exit.

  But sour fruit often contains good pips. Scudamore's food was not worthsaying grace for, and yet a true blessing attended it: forasmuch as theFrenchmen diminished the width of their prisoner, but not of the window.Falling away very rapidly, for his mind was faring as badly as his body(having nothing but regrets to feed upon, which are no better diet thandaisy soup), the gentle Scuddy, who must have become a good wrangler ifhe had stopped at Cambridge, began to frame a table of cubic measure,and consider the ratio of his body to that window, or rather theaperture thereof. One night, when his supper had been quite forgottenby everybody except himself, he lay awake thinking for hours and hoursabout his fair Dolly and the wicked Carne, and all the lies he must havetold about her--for not a single syllable would Scudamore believe--andthe next day he found himself become so soft and limp, as well asreduced to his lowest dimension, that he knew, by that just measurewhich a man takes of himself when he has but a shred of it left, thatnow he was small enough to go between the bars. And now it was high timeto feel that assurance, for the morning brought news that the order forhis removal to a great prison far inland was come, and would be carriedout the next day. "Now or never" was the only chance before him.

  Having made up his mind, he felt refreshed, and took his food withgratitude. Then, as soon as the night was dark and quiet, and themighty host for leagues and leagues launched into the realms of slumber,springing with both feet well together, as he sprang from the tub atStonnington, Scuddy laid hold of the iron bars which spanned the windowvertically, opened the lattice softly, and peeped out in quest ofsentinels. There were none on duty very near him, though he heard onepacing in the distance. Then flinging himself on his side, he managed,with some pain to his well-rounded chest, to squeeze it through thenarrow slit, and hanging from the bar, dropped gently. The drop wasdeep, and in spite of all precautions he rolled to the bottom of agrassy ditch. There he lay quiet to rest his bruises, and watch whetherany alarm was raised. Luckily for him, the moon was down, and no onehad observed his venture. Crawling on all fours along a hollow place, hepassed the outposts, and was free.

  Free in mind as well as body, acquitted from all claims of honour,and able without a taint upon his name to bear most important news toEngland, if he could only get away from France. This would be difficult,as he was well aware; but his plan had been thoroughly considered in hisprison, and he set forth to make the best of it. Before his escape hadbeen discovered, he was under M. Jalais' roof once more, and found hisgood friends resolved never to betray him. "But I must not expose you tothe risk," said he, "of heavy fine and imprisonment. I shall have to saygood-bye to all your goodness in an hour. And I shall not even allowyou to know what road I take, lest you should be blamed for sending mypursuers on the wrong one. But search my room in three days' time, andyou will find a packet to pay for something which I must steal for thepresent. I pray you, ask nothing, for your own sake."

  They fed him well, and he took three loaves, and a little keg of cider,as well as the bag he had packed before he surrendered himself atEtaples. Madame Fropot wept and kissed him, because he reminded her ofher lost son; and M. Jalais embraced him, because he was not at all likeany son of his. With hearty good wishes, and sweet regret, and promisesnever to forget them, the Englishman quitted this kind French house, andbecame at once a lawful and a likely mark for bullets.

  The year was now filled with the flurry of Spring, the quick nick oftime when a man is astonished at the power of Nature's memory. Agreat many things had been left behind, mainly for their own good, nodoubt--some of the animal, some of the vegetable, some of the mineralkingdom even--yet none of them started for anarchy. All were content tobe picked up and brought on according to the power of the world, makingallowance for the pinches of hard times, and the blows of east windsthat had blown themselves out. Even the prime grumbler of the earth--a
biped, who looks up to heaven for that purpose mainly--was as nearlycontent with the present state of things as he can be with anything,until it is the past. Scudamore only met one man, but that one declaredit was a lovely night; and perhaps he was easier to please because hehad only one leg left.

  The stars had appeared, and the young leaves turned the freshness oftheir freedom towards them, whether from the crisp impulse of night,or the buoyant influence of kindness in the air. There was very littlewind, and it was laden with no sound, except the distant voice ofan indefatigable dog; but Scudamore perceived that when the tide setdownwards, a gentle breeze would follow down the funnel of the river.Then he drew the ancient boat which he had used before to the mossybank, and having placed his goods on board, fetched a pair of oars andthe short mast and brown sail from the shed where they were kept, andat the top of a full tide launched forth alone upon his desperateenterprise.

  There was faint light in the channel, but the banks looked very dark;and just as he cast loose he heard the big clock at Montreuil, a greatway up the valley, slowly striking midnight. And he took it for goodomen, as he swiftly passed the orchard, that his old friend the oxtrotted down to the corner, and showed his white forehead under asprawling apple-tree, and gave him a salute, though he scarcely couldhave known him. By this time the breeze was freshening nicely, andScudamore, ceasing to row, stepped the mast, and hoisting the brownsail, glided along at a merry pace and with a hopeful heart. Passing themouth of the creek, he saw no sign of the traitorous pilot-boat, neitherdid he meet any other craft in channel, although he saw many moored ateither bank. But nobody challenged him, as he kept in mid-stream, andbraced up his courage for the two great perils still before him ere hegained the open sea. The first of these would be the outposts on eitherside at Etaples, not far from the barracks where he had been jailed, andhere no doubt the sentinels would call him to account. But a far greaterdanger would be near the river's mouth, where a bridge of boats, with abroad gangway for troops, spanned the tidal opening.

  There was no bridge across the river yet near the town itself, but,upon challenge from a sentry, Scudamore stood up and waved his hat, andshouted in fine nasal and provincial French, "The fisherman, AugusteBaudry, of Montreuil!" and the man withdrew his musket, and wished himgood success. Then he passed a sandy island with some men asleep uponit, and began to fear the daybreak as he neared the bridge of boats.This crossed the estuary at a narrow part, and having to bear muchheavy traffic, was as solid as a floating bridge can be. A double row ofbarges was lashed and chained together, between piles driven deep intothe river's bed; along them a road of heavy planks was laid, risingand falling as they rose and fell with tide, and a drawbridge near themiddle of about eight yards' span must suffice for the traffic of thelittle river. This fabric was protected from the heavy western surgesby the shoals of the bar, and from any English dash by a strong shorebattery at either end. At first sight it looked like a black wall acrossthe river.

  The darkness of night is supposed to be deepest just before dawn--butthat depends upon the weather--and the sleep of weary men is often inits prime at that time. Scudamore (although his life, and all that lifehangs on from heaven, were quivering at the puff of every breeze) wasenabled to derive some satisfaction from a yawn, such as goes the roundof a good company sometimes, like the smell of the supper of sleepthat is to come. Then he saw the dark line of the military bridge, andlowered his sail, and unstepped his little mast. The strength of thetide was almost spent, so that he could deal with this barrier at hisleisure, instead of being hurled against it.

  Unshipping the rudder and laying one oar astern, Scudamore fetched alongthe inner row of piles, for he durst not pass under the drawbridge,steering his boat to an inch while he sat with his face to the oar,working noiselessly. Then he spied a narrow opening between two barges,and drove his boat under the chain that joined them, and after somefending and groping with his hands in the darkness under the planksof the bridge, contrived to get out, when he almost despaired of it,through the lower tier of the supporters. He was quit of that formidablebarrier now, but a faint flush of dawn and of reflection from the seacompelled him to be very crafty. Instead of pushing straightway for thebar and hoisting sail--which might have brought a charge of grape-shotafter him--he kept in the gloom of the piles nearly into the left bank,and then hugged the shadow it afforded. Nothing but the desolate sandssurveyed him, and the piles of wrack cast up by gales from the west.Then with a stout heart he stepped his little mast, and the breeze,which freshened towards the rising of the sun, carried him brisklythrough the tumble of the bar.

  The young man knelt and said his morning prayer, with one hand stillupon the tiller; for, like most men who have fought well for England,he had staunch faith in the Power that has made and guides the nations,until they rebel against it. So far his success had been more than hisown unaided hand might work, or his brain with the utmost of its labourssecond. Of himself he cast all thoughts away, for his love seemed lost,and his delight was gone; the shores of his country, if he ever reachedthem, would contain no pleasure for him; but the happiness of millionsmight depend upon his life, and first of all that of his mother.

  All by himself in this frail old tub, he could scarcely hope to crossthe Channel, even in the best of weather, and if he should escape theenemy, while his scanty supplies held out. He had nothing to subsist onbut three small loaves, and a little keg of cider, and an old tar tubwhich he had filled with brackish water, upon which the oily curdle ofthe tar was floating. But, for all that, he trusted that he might holdout, and retain his wits long enough to do good service.

  The French coast, trending here for leagues and leagues nearly due northand south, is exposed to the long accumulating power of a western gale,and the mountain roll of billows that have known no check. If even asmart breeze from the west sprang up, his rickety little craft, intendedonly for inland navigation, would have small chance of living throughthe tumult. But his first care was to give a wide berth to the land andthe many French vessels that were moored or moving, whether belongingto the great flotilla, or hastening to supply its wants. Many a time hewould have stood forth boldly, as fast as the breeze and tide permitted;but no sooner had he shaped a course for the open sea than some hostilesail appeared ahead and forced him to bear away until she was faronward. Thus, after a long day of vigilance and care, he was not morethan five miles from land when the sun set, and probably further fromthe English coast than when he set forth in the morning; because he hadstood towards the south of west all day, to keep out of sight of theleft wing of the enemy; and as the straight outline of the coast beganto fade, he supposed himself to be about half-way between the mouth ofthe Canche and that of the little Authie.

  Watching with the eyes of one accustomed to the air the lastcommunication of the sun, and his postscript (which, like a lady's, isthe gist of what he means), Scudamore perceived that a change of weathermight come shortly, and must come ere long. There was nothing veryangry in the sky, nor even threatening; only a general uncertaintyand wavering; "I wish you well all round," instead of "Here's a guineaapiece for you." Scuddy understood it, and resolved to carry on.

  Having no compass, and small knowledge of the coast--which lay out ofrange of the British investment--he had made up his mind to lie by forthe night, or at any rate to move no more than he could help, forfear of going altogether in the wrong direction. He could steer by thestars--as great mariners did, when the world was all discovery--so longas the stars held their skirts up; but, on the other hand, those starsmight lead him into the thick of the enemy. Of this, however, he mustnow take his chance, rather than wait and let the wind turn against him.For his main hope was to get into the track where British frigates,and ships of light draught like his own dear Blonde, were upon patrol,inside of the course of the great war chariots, the ships of the line,that drave heavily. Revolving much grist in the mill of his mind, asthe sage Ulysses used to do, he found it essential to supply the motivepower bodily. One of Madame Fropot's
loaves was very soon disposed of,and a good draught of sound cider helped to renew his flagging energy.

  Throughout that night he kept wide-awake, and managed to make fairprogress, steering, as well as he could judge, a little to the west ofnorth. But before sunrise the arrears of sleep increased at compoundinterest, and he lowered his sail, and discharged a part of the heavysum scored against him. But when he awoke, and glanced around him witheyes that resented scanty measure, even a sleepy glance sufficed to showmuch more than he wished to see. Both sky and sea were overcast withdoubt, and alarm, and evil foreboding. A dim streak lay where the landhad been, and a white gleam quivered from the sunrise on the waves, asif he were spreading water-lilies instead of scattering roses. As theearth has its dew that foretells a bright day--whenever the dew is ofthe proper sort, for three kinds are established now--so the sea has aflit of bloom in the early morning (neither a colour, nor a sparkle, nora vapour) which indicates peace and content for the day. But now therewas no such fair token upon it, but a heavy and surly and treacherouslook, with lumps here and there; as a man who intends to abuse usthrusts his tongue to get sharp in his cheek.

  Scudamore saw that his poor old boat, scarcely sound enough for the menof Gotham, was already complaining of the uncouth manners of the strangeplace to which she had been carried in the dark. That is to say, shewas beginning to groan, at a very quiet slap in the cheeks, or even athoroughly well-meaning push in the rear.

  "You are welcome to groan, if you don't strain," exclaimed the heartlessCaptain Scuddy.

  Even as he spoke he beheld a trickle of water glistening down theforward bends, and then a little rill, and then a spurt, as if a seriousleak was sprung. He found the source of this, and contrived to caulkit with a strand of tarred rope for the present; but the sinking of hisknife into the forward timber showed him that a great part of the bowswas rotten. If a head-sea arose, the crazy old frame would be prone tobreak in bodily, whereas if he attempted to run before the sea, alreadybeginning to rise heavily from the west, there was nothing to save thefrail craft from being pooped. On every side it was a bad lookout, therewas every sign of a gale impending, which he could not even hope toweather, and the only chance of rescue lay in the prompt appearance ofsome British ship.

  Even in this sad plight his courage and love of native land prevailedagainst the acceptance of aid from Frenchmen, if any should approachto offer it. Rather would he lie at the bottom of the Channel, or driftabout among contending fishes, than become again a prisoner with hissecret in his mind, and no chance of sending it to save his country. Asa forlorn hope, he pulled out a stump of pencil, and wrote on the backof a letter from his mother a brief memorandum of what he had heard, andof the urgency of the matter. Then taking a last draught of his tarrywater, he emptied the little tub, and fixed the head in, after he hadenclosed his letter. Then he fastened the tub to an oar, to improve thechance of its being observed, and laid the oar so that it would floatoff, in case of the frail boat foundering. The other oar he kept athand to steer with, as long as the boat should live, and to help him tofloat, when she should have disappeared.

  This being done, he felt easier in his mind, as a man who has preparedfor the worst should do. He renewed his vigour, which had begun to flagunder constant labour and long solitude, by consuming another of hisloaves, and taking almost the last draught of his cider, and afterthat he battled throughout the dreary day against the increase of badweather. Towards the afternoon he saw several ships, one of which hetook to be a British frigate; but none of them espied his poor labouringcraft, or at any rate showed signs of doing so. Then a pilot-boat ran byhim, standing probably for Boulogne, and at one time less than a leagueaway. She appeared to be English, and he was just about to make signalfor aid, when a patch in her foresail almost convinced him that she wasthe traitor of the Canche returning. She was probably out of her propercourse in order to avoid the investing fleet, and she would run insideit when the darkness fell. Better to go to the bottom than invoke suchaid; and he dropped the oar with his neckerchief upon it, and faced theangry sea again and the lonely despair of impending night.

  What followed was wiped from his memory for years, and the loss was notmuch to be regretted. When he tried to think about it, he found nothingbut a roaring of wind and of waves in his ears, a numbness of arms as helaboured with the oar tholed abaft to keep her heavy head up, a pricklychill in his legs as the brine in the wallowing boat ran up them, andthen a great wallop and gollop of the element too abundant round him.

  But at last, when long years should have brought more wisdom, he wentpoaching for supper upon Welsh rabbits. That night all the ghastly timecame back, and stood minute by minute before him. Every swing of hisbody, and sway of his head, and swell of his heart, was repeated, thebuffet of the billows when the planks were gone, the numb grasp ofthe slippery oar, the sucking down of legs which seemed turning intosea-weed, the dashing of dollops of surf into mouth and nose closed everso carefully, and then the last sense of having fought a good fight, butfallen away from human arms, into "Oh Lord, receive my spirit!"