Springhaven: A Tale of the Great War

by R. D. Blackmore

  CHAPTER LXIII

  THE FATAL STEP

  As Carne rode up the hill that night towards his ruined castle, theflush of fierce excitement and triumphant struggle died away, andself-reproach and miserable doubt struck into him like ague. For thedeath of Twemlow--as he supposed--he felt no remorse whatever. Him hehad shot in furious combat, and as a last necessity; the fellow hadtwice insulted him, and then insolently collared him. And Faith, who hadthwarted him with Dolly, and been from the first his enemy, now wouldhave to weep and wail, and waste her youth in constancy. All that wasgood; but he could not regard with equal satisfaction the death of theancient Admiral. The old man had brought it upon himself by his stupidstubbornness; and looking fairly upon that matter, Carne scarcely sawhow to blame himself. Still, it was a most unlucky thing, and must leadto a quantity of mischief. To-morrow, or at the latest Monday, was tohave crowned with grand success his years of toil and danger. Therestill might be the landing, and he would sail that night to hasten it,instead of arranging all ashore; but it could no longer be a triumph ofcrafty management. The country was up, the Admiral's death wouldspread the alarm and treble it; and worst of all, in the hot pursuit ofhimself, which was sure to follow when people's wits came back to them,all the stores and ammunition, brought together by so much skill andpatience and hardihood, must of necessity be discovered and fall intothe hands of the enemy. Farewell to his long-cherished hope of speciallyneat retribution, to wit, that the ruins of his family should be theruin of the land which had rejected him! Then a fierce thought crossedhis mind, and became at once a stern resolve. If he could never restoreCarne Castle, and dwell there in prosperity, neither should any of hisoppressors. The only trace of his ancestral home should be a vast blackhole in earth.

  For even if the landing still succeeded, and the country were subdued,he could never make his home there, after what he had done to-night.Dolly was lost to him for ever; and although he had loved her with allthe ardor he could spare from his higher purposes, he must make up hismind to do without her, and perhaps it was all the better for him. Ifhe had married her, no doubt he could soon have taught her her properplace; but no one could tell how she might fly out, through herself-will and long indulgence. He would marry a French woman; that wouldbe the best; perhaps one connected with the Empress Josephine. As soonas he had made up his mind to this, his conscience ceased to troublehim.

  From the crest of the hill at the eastern gate many a bend of shore wasclear, and many a league of summer sea lay wavering in the moonlight.Along the beach red torches flared, as men of the Coast-Defence pushedforth, and yellow flash of cannon inland signalled for the Volunteers,while the lights gleamed (like windows opened from the depth) wheresloop and gun-boat, frigate and ship of the line, were crowding sailto rescue England. For the semaphore, and when day was out thebeacon-lights, had glowed along the backbone of the English hills, andEngland called every Englishman to show what he was made of.

  "That will do. Enough of that, John Bull!" Defying his native land,Carne shook his fist in the native manner. "Stupid old savage, I shalllive to make you howl. This country has become too hot to hold me, andI'll make it hotter before I have done. Here, Orso and Leo, good dogs,good dogs! You can kill a hundred British bull-dogs. Mount guard foran hour, till I call you down the hill. You can pull down a score ofVolunteers apiece, if they dare to come after me. I have an hour tospare, and I know how to employ it. Jerry, old Jerry Bowles, stir yourcrooked shanks. What are you rubbing your blear eyes at?"

  The huge boar-hounds, who obeyed no voice but his, took post upon therugged road (which had never been repaired since the Carnes were a powerin the land), and sat side by side beneath the crumbling arch,with their long fangs glistening and red eyes rolling in the silvermoonlight, while their deep chests panted for the chance of good freshhuman victuals. Then Carne gave his horse to ancient Jerry, saying,"Feed him, and take him with his saddle on to the old yew-tree in halfan hour. Wait there for Captain Charron, and for me. You are not to goaway till I come to you. Who is in the old place now? Think well beforeyou answer me."

  "No one now in the place but her"--the old man lifted his elbow, asa coachman does in passing--"and him down in the yellow jug. All theFrench sailors are at sea. Only she won't go away; and she moanethworse than all the owls and ghosts. Ah, your honour should never 'a donethat--respectable folk to Springhaven too!"

  "It was a slight error of judgment, Jerry. What a mealy lot theseEnglish are, to make such a fuss about a trifle! But I am toosoft-hearted to blow her up. Tell her to meet me in half an hour by thebroken dial, and to bring the brat, and all her affairs in a bundle suchas she can carry, or kick down the hill before her. In half an hour, doyou understand? And if you care for your stiff old bones, get out of theway by that time."

  In that half-hour Carne gathered in small compass, and strapped up in alittle "mail"--as such light baggage then was called--all his importantdocuments, despatches, letters, and papers of every kind, and the cashhe was entrusted with, which he used to think safer at Springhaven. Thenhe took from a desk which was fixed to the wall a locket bright withdiamonds, and kissed it, and fastened it beneath his neck-cloth. Thewisp of hair inside it came not from any young or lovely head, but fromthe resolute brow of his mother, the woman who hated England. He shouldhave put something better to his mouth; for instance, a good beefsandwich. But one great token of his perversion was that he never didfeed well--a sure proof of the unrighteous man, as suggested by theholy Psalmist, and more distinctly put by Livy in the character he givesHannibal.

  Regarding as a light thing his poor unfurnished stomach, Carne mountedthe broken staircase, in a style which might else have been difficult.He had made up his mind to have one last look at the broad lands of hisancestors, from the last that ever should be seen of the walls they hadreared and ruined. He stood upon the highest vantage-point that he couldattain with safety, where a shaggy gnarl of the all-pervading ivy servedas a friendly stay. To the right and left and far behind him all hadonce been their domain--every tree, and meadow, and rock that faced themoon, had belonged to his ancestors. "Is it a wonder that I am fierce?"he cried, with unwonted self-inspection; "who, that has been robbed asI have, would not try to rob in turn? The only thing amazing is mypatience and my justice. But I will come back yet, and have my revenge."

  Descending to his hyena den--as Charron always called it--he caughtup his packet, and took a lantern, and a coil of tow which had beenprepared, and strode forth for the last time into the sloping courtbehind the walls. Passing towards the eastern vaults, he saw the form ofsome one by the broken dial, above the hedge of brambles, which hadonce been of roses and sweetbriar. "Oh, that woman! I had forgotten thataffair!" he muttered, with annoyance, as he pushed through the thorns tomeet her.

  Polly Cheeseman, the former belle of Springhaven, was leaning againstthe wrecked dial, with a child in her arms and a bundle at her feet.Her pride and gaiety had left her now, and she looked very wan throughfrequent weeping, and very thin from nursing. Her beauty (like herfriends) had proved unfaithful under shame and sorrow, and little ofit now remained except the long brown tresses and the large blue eyes.Those eyes she fixed upon Carne with more of terror than of love inthem; although the fear was such as turns with a very little kindness toadoring love.

  Carne left her to begin, for he really was not without shame in thismatter; and Polly was far better suited than Dolly for a scornful andarrogant will like his. Deeply despising all the female race--as theGreek tragedian calls them--save only the one who had given him to theworld, he might have been a God to Polly if he had but behaved as aman to her. She looked at him now with an imploring gaze, from thegentleness of her ill-used heart.

  Their child, a fine boy about ten months old, broke the silence bysaying "booh, booh," very well, and holding out little hands to hisfather, who had often been scornfully kind to him.

  "Oh, Caryl, Caryl, you will never forsake him!" cried the young mother,holding him up with rapture, and supporting hi
s fat arms in thatposition; "he is the very image of you, and he seems to know it. Baby,say 'Da-da.' There, he has put his mouth up, and his memory is sowonderful! Oh, Caryl, what do you think of that--and the first time oftrying it by moonlight?"

  "There is no time for this nonsense, Polly. He is a wonderful baby,I dare say; and so is every baby, till he gets too old. You must obeyorders, and be off with him."

  "Oh no! You are come to take us with you. There, I have covered his faceup, that he may not suppose you look cross at me. Oh, Caryl, you wouldnever leave him behind, even if you could do that to me. We are notgrand people, and you can put us anywhere, and now I am nearly as wellas ever. I have put up all his little things; it does not matter aboutmy own. I was never brought up to be idle, and I can earn my own livinganywhere; and it might be a real comfort for you, with the great peoplegoing against you, to have somebody, not very grand, of course, but astrue to you as yourself, and belonging altogether to you. I know manypeople who would give their eyes for such a baby."

  "There is no time for this," Carne answered, sternly; "my arrangementsare made, and I cannot take you. I have no fault to find with you, butargument is useless."

  "Yes, I know that, Caryl; and I am sure that I never would attempt toargue with you. You should have everything your own way, and I couldattend to so many things that no man ever does properly. I will be aslave to you, and this little darling love you, and then you will feelthat you have two to love you, wherever you go, and whatever you do.And if I spoke crossly when first I found out that--that I went away fornothing with you, you must have forgiven me by this time, and I neverwill remind you again of it; if I do, send me back to the place I belongto. I belong to you now, Caryl, and so does he; and when we are awayfrom the people who know me, I shall be pleasant and cheerful again. Iwas only two-and-twenty the day the boats came home last week, and theyused to say the young men jumped into the water as soon as they caughtsight of me. Try to be kind to me, and I shall be so happy that I shalllook almost as I used to do, when you said that the great ladies mightbe grander, but none of them fit to look into my looking-glass. DearCaryl, I am ready; I don't care where it is, or what I may have to putup with, so long as you will make room for your Polly, and your baby."

  "I am not at all a hard man," said Carne, retreating as the impulsivePolly offered him the baby, "but once for all, no more of this. I havequite forgiven any strong expressions you may have made use of when yourhead was light; and if all goes well, I shall provide for you and thechild, according to your rank in life. But now you must run down thehill, if you wish to save your life and his."

  "I have run down the hill already. I care not a pin for my own life;and hard as you are you would never have the heart to destroy yourown little Caryl. He may be called Caryl--you will not deny him that,although he has no right to be called Carne. Oh, Caryl, Caryl, you canbe so good, when you think there is something to gain by it. Only begood to us now, and God will bless you for it, darling. I have given upall the world for you, and you cannot have the heart to cast me off."

  "What a fool the woman is! Have you ever known me change my mind? Ifyou scorn your own life, through your own folly, you must care for thebrat's. If you stop here ten minutes, you will both be blown to pieces."

  "Through my own folly! Oh, God in heaven, that you should speak so of mylove for you! Squire Carne, you are the worst man that ever lived; andit serves me right for trusting you. But where am I to go? Who will takeme and support me, and my poor abandoned child?"

  "Your parents, of course, are your natural supporters. You are hurtingyour child by this low abuse of me. Now put aside excitement, and runhome, like a sensible woman, before your good father goes to bed."

  She had watched his face all the time, as if she could scarcely believethat he was in earnest, but he proved it by leaving her with a wave ofhis hat, and hastening back to his lantern. Then taking up that, and thecoil of tow, but leaving his package against the wall, he disappearedin the narrow passage leading to the powder vaults. Polly stood stillby the broken dial, with her eyes upon the moon, and her arms aroundthe baby, and a pang in her heart which prevented her from speaking, ormoving, or even knowing where she was.

  Then Carne, stepping warily, unlocked the heavy oak door at the entranceof the cellarage, held down his lantern, and fixed with a wedge the topstep of the ladder, which had been made to revolve with a pin and collarat either end, as before described. After trying the step with his hand,to be sure that it was now wedged safely, he flung his coil into thevault and followed. Some recollection made him smile as he was goingdown the steps: it was that of a stout man lying at the bottom, shakenin every bone, yet sound as a grape ensconced in jelly. As he touchedthe bottom he heard a little noise as of some small substance falling,but seeing a piece of old mortar dislodged, he did not turn round toexamine the place. If he had done so he would have found behind theladder the wedge he had just inserted to secure the level of the"Inspector's step."

  Unwinding his coil of tow, which had been steeped in saltpetre to makea long fuse, with a toss of his long legs he crossed the barricade ofsolid oak rails about six feet high securely fastened across the vault,for the enclosure of the dangerous storage. Inside it was a passage,between chests of arms, dismounted cannon, and cases from everydepartment of supply, to the explosive part of the magazine,the devourer of the human race, the pulp of the marrow of theFuries--gunpowder.

  Of this there was now collected here, and stored in tiers that reachedthe roof, enough to blow up half the people of England, or lay themall low with a bullet before it; yet not enough, not a millionth partenough, to move for the breadth of a hair the barrier betwixt rightand wrong, which a very few barrels are enough to do with a man who hassapped the foundations. Treading softly for fear of a spark from hisboots, and guarding the lantern well, Carne approached one of the casksin the lower tier, and lifted the tarpaulin. Then he slipped the woodenslide in the groove, and allowed some five or six pounds to run out uponthe floor, from which the cask was raised by timber baulks. Leaving theslide partly open, he spread one end of his coil like a broad lamp-wickin the pile of powder which had run out, and put a brick upon the towto keep it from shifting. Then he paid out the rest of the coil on thefloor like a snake some thirty feet long, with the tail about a yardinside the barricade. With a very steady hand he took the candle frominside the horn, and kindled that tail of the fuse; and then replacinghis light, he recrossed the open timber-work, and swiftly remounted theladder of escape. "Twenty minutes' or half an hour's grace," he thought,"and long before that I shall be at the yew-tree."

  But, as he planted his right foot sharply upon the top step of theladder, that step swung back, and cast him heavily backwards to thebottom. The wedge had dropped out, and the step revolved like thetreadle of a fox-trap.

  For a minute or two he lay stunned and senseless, with the lanternbefore him on its side, and the candle burning a hole in the bubblyhorn. Slowly recovering his wits, he strove to rise, as the deadly perilwas borne in upon him. But instead of rising, he fell back again with acurse, and then a long-drawn groan; for pain (like the thrills of a manon the rack) had got hold of him and meant to keep him. His right armwas snapped at the elbow, and his left leg just above the knee, and thejar of his spine made him feel as if his core had been split out of him.He had no fat, like Shargeloes, to protect him, and no sheath of hairlike Twemlow's.

  Writhing with anguish, he heard a sound which did not improve hiscondition. It was the spluttering of the fuse, eating its merry waytowards the five hundred casks of gunpowder. In the fury of peril hecontrived to rise, and stood on his right foot with the other hanginglimp, while he stayed himself with his left hand upon the ladder. Evenif he could crawl up this, it would benefit him nothing. Before hecould drag himself ten yards, the explosion would overtake him. His onlychance was to quench the fuse, or draw it away from the priming. Witha hobble of agony he reached the barricade, and strove to lift hiscrippled frame over it. It was hopeless; the power o
f his back was gone,and his limbs were unable to obey his brain. Then he tried to crawlthrough at the bottom, but the opening of the rails would not admit hisbody, and the train of ductile fire had left only ash for him to graspat.

  Quivering with terror, and mad with pain, he returned to the foot of thesteps, and clung till a gasp of breath came back. Then he shouted, withall his remaining power, "Polly, oh, Polly, my own Polly!"

  Polly had been standing, like a statue of despair, beside the brokendial. To her it mattered little whether earth should open and swallowher, or fire cast her up to heaven. But his shout aroused her fromthis trance, and her heart leaped up with the fond belief that he hadrelented, and was calling her and the child to share his fortunes. Thereshe stood in the archway and looked down, and the terror of the sceneoverwhelmed her. Through a broken arch beyond the barricade palemoonbeams crossed the darkness, like the bars of some soft melody; inthe middle the serpent coil was hissing with the deadly nitre; atthe foot of the steps was her false lover--husband he had calledhimself--with his hat off, and his white face turned in the lastsupplication towards her, as hers had been turned towards him just now.Should a woman be as pitiless as a man?

  "Come down, for God's sake, and climb that cursed wood, and pull backthe fuse, pull it back from the powder. Oh, Polly! and then we will goaway together."

  "It is too late. I will not risk my baby. You have made me so weak thatI could never climb that fence. You are blowing up the castle which youpromised to my baby; but you shall not blow up him. You told me to runaway, and run I must. Good-bye; I am going to my natural supporters."

  Carne heard her steps as she fled, and he fancied that he heardtherewith a mocking laugh, but it was a sob, a hysterical sob. She wouldhave helped him, if she dared; but her wits were gone in panic. She knewnot of his shattered limbs and horrible plight; and it flashed acrossher that this was another trick of his--to destroy her and the baby,while he fled. She had proved that all his vows were lies.

  Then Carne made his mind up to die like a man, for he saw that escapewas impossible. Limping back to the fatal barrier, he raised himselfto his full height, and stood proudly to see, as he put it, the lastof himself. Not a quiver of his haughty features showed the bodily painthat racked him, nor a flinch of his deep eyes confessed the tumultmoving in his mind and soul. He pulled out his watch and laid it on thetop rail of the old oak fence: there was not enough light to read thetime, but he could count the ticks he had to live. Suddenly hope flashedthrough his heart, like the crack of a gun, like a lightning fork--a bigrat was biting an elbow of the yarn where some tallow had fallen uponit. Would he cut it, would he drag it away to his hole? would he pull ita little from its fatal end? He was strong enough to do it, if he onlyunderstood. The fizz of saltpetre disturbed the rat, and he hoisted histail and skipped back to his home.

  The last thoughts of this unhappy man went back upon his early days; andthings, which he had passed without thinking of, stood before him likehis tombstone. None of his recent crimes came now to his memory todisturb it--there was time enough after the body for them--but trifleswhich had first depraved the mind, and slips whose repetition had madeslippery the soul, like the alphabet of death, grew plain to him. Thenhe thought of his mother, and crossed himself, and said a little prayerto the Virgin.

  * * * * *

  Charron was waiting by the old yew-tree, and Jerry sat trembling, withhis eyes upon the castle, while the black horse, roped to a branch, wasmourning the scarcity of oats and the abundance of gnats.

  "Pest and the devil, but the coast is all alive!" cried the Frenchman,soothing anxiety with solid and liquid comforts. "Something has gonewrong behind the tail of everything. And there goes that big Stoobar,blazing with his sordid battery! Arouse thee, old Cheray! The time toolate is over. Those lights thrice accursed will display our little boat,and John Bull is rushing with a thousand sails. The Commander is mad.They will have him, and us too. Shall I dance by a rope? It is the onlydancing probable for me in England."

  "I have never expected any good to come," the old man answered, withoutmoving. "The curse of the house is upon the young Squire. I saw it inhis eyes this morning, the same as I saw in his father's eyes, when thesun was going down the very night he died. I shall never see him more,sir, nor you either, nor any other man that bides to the right side ofhis coffin."

  "Bah! what a set you are of funerals, you Englishmen! But if I thoughthe was in risk, I would stay to see the end of it."

  "Here comes the end of it!" the old man cried, leaping up and catchingat a rugged cord of trunk, with his other hand pointing up the hill.From the base of the castle a broad blaze rushed, showing window andbattlement, arch and tower, as in a flicker of the Northern lights. Thenup went all the length of fabric, as a wanton child tosses his Noah'sark. Keep and buttress, tower and arch, mullioned window and battlement,in a fiery furnace leaped on high, like the outburst of a volcano. Then,with a roar that rocked the earth, they broke into a storm of ruin,sweeping the heavens with a flood of fire, and spreading the sea witha mantle of blood. Following slowly in stately spires, and calmlyswallowing everything, a fountain of dun smoke arose, and solemn silencefilled the night.

  "All over now, thank the angels and the saints! My faith, but I made upmy mind to join them," cried Charron, who had fallen, or been felled bythe concussion. "Cheray, art thou still alive? The smoke is in my neck.I cannot liberate my words, but the lumps must be all come down by thistime, without adding to the weight of our poor brains. Something fell inthis old tree, a long way up, as high as where the crows build. Itwas like a long body, with one leg and one arm. I hope it was not theCommander; but one thing is certain--he is gone to heaven. Let us praythat he may stop there, if St. Peter admits a man who was selling thekeys of his country to the enemy. But we must do duty to ourselves, myCheray. Let us hasten to the sea, and give the signal for the boat. LaTorche will be a weak light after this."

  "I will not go. I will abide my time." The old man staggered to a brokencolumn of the ancient gateway which had fallen near them, and flung hisarms around it. "I remember this since I first could toddle. The ways ofthe Lord are wonderful."

  "Come away, you old fool," cried the Frenchman; "I hear the tramp ofsoldiers in the valley. If they catch you here, it will be drum-headwork, and you will swing before morning in the ruins."

  "I am very old. My time is short. I would liefer hang from an Englishbeam than deal any more with your outlandish lot."

  "Farewell to thee, then! Thou art a faithful clod. Here are five guineasfor thee, of English stamp. I doubt if napoleons shall ever be coined inEngland."

  He was off while he might--a gallant Frenchman, and an honest enemy;such as our country has respected always, and often endeavoured to turninto fast friends. But the old man stood and watched the long gap, wherefor centuries the castle of the Carnes had towered. And his sturdy faithwas rewarded.

  "I am starving"--these words came feebly from a gaunt, ragged figurethat approached him. "For three days my food has been forgotten; andbad as it was, I missed it. There came a great rumble, and my walls felldown. Ancient Jerry, I can go no further. I am empty as a shank bonewhen the marrow-toast is serving. Your duty was to feed me, withinferior stuff at any rate."

  "No, sir, no;" the old servitor was roused by the charge of neglectedduty. "Sir Parsley, it was no fault of mine whatever. Squire undertookto see to all of it himself. Don't blame me, sir; don't blame me."

  "Never mind the blame, but make it good," Mr. Shargeloes answered,meagrely, for he felt as if he could never be fat again. "What do I seethere? It is like a crust of bread, but I am too weak to stoop for it."

  "Come inside the tree, sir." The old man led him, as a grandsire leads afamished child. "What a shame to starve you, and you so hearty! But theSquire clean forgotten it, I doubt, with his foreign tricks coming tothis great blow-up. Here, sir, here; please to sit down a moment, whileI light a candle. They French chaps are so wasteful always, and alwaysgrumbli
ng at good English victual. Here's enough to feed a familyCaptain Charron has throwed by--bread, and good mutton, and pretty nearhalf a ham, and a bottle or so of thin nasty foreign wine. Eat away, SirParsley; why, it does me good to see you. You feeds something like anEnglishman. But you know, sir, it were all your own fault at bottom, forcoming among them foreigners a-meddling."

  "You are a fine fellow. You shall be my head butler," PercivalShargeloes replied, while he made such a meal as he never madebefore, and never should make again, even when he came to be the RightHonourable the Lord Mayor of London.