Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  He wandered down the passage, listening outside doors as he went, but gaining no useful information until he came to the end, where he found a door ajar. He gently pushed it, and made the discovery that it opened upon a narrow staircase. He peered down and ascertained that this led to the kitchen and to the garden at the back of the inn. He realised to his dismay that this back staircase formed an emergency exit of whose existence he had been in ignorance. Was it possible that while he had been wasting his time in that room on the right, the landlord, smoking his business, had got the plotters away?

  He turned and came thoughtfully back. And now he perceived the host coming upstairs again. Straight towards him came Maclean.

  “Is your friend a tall, elderly gentleman with a red face?” he asked.

  “Ay,” said the spy. “He answers that description.”

  “Then he is in the taproom below there.”

  The spy thanked him, and descended, leaving the host upon the landing. But it is not to be supposed that the fellow was imposed upon. He simply availed himself of this petard of Maclean’s to hoist Maclean himself. He turned into the taproom. But the next instant he had thrust out his head to see what course Maclean was taking, and he was just in time to see the landlord again vanish into that room on the left where earlier he had surprised him.

  The messenger flung out of the house at once to his men who sat sipping their ale at one of the trestle tables. He was a shrewd, calculating fellow, and he made not the slightest doubt about what must follow. He took his six bullies round to the pleasant garden at the back, and bestowed them and himself very carefully behind a hedge of laurel, the gathering dusk assisting his manoeuvre.

  Meanwhile Maclean had, at last, penetrated to the inner chamber where the conspirators were gathered, and had announced to them that beyond all doubt the Bow Street messenger was seeking themselves, having gone the length of asking for Sir Thomas Leigh by name.

  “There’s a pack of ruffianly fellows outside, and it’s not a doubt but they will be his followers. Ye must take t’other way — by the back; and now is your opportunity, whilst the spy is gone on a fool’s errand for me.”

  They were on their feet at once, ready and anxious to be gone.

  “Your horses are ready for you in the stables, and my lad awaits you there. Come, sirs.”

  They moved at once, but Captain Gaynor detained them yet a moment.

  “We part here,” he said. “I will wait until you are safely away. If I succeed afterwards in making my own escape, I shall be found at ‘White’s’ at noon tomorrow.”

  “Will you not go first, Captain?” suggested Mr Partridge.

  “No, no,” he answered. “I have something yet to do ere I can run the risk of capture. Away with you, then, and good luck go with you.”

  When they had departed, Captain Gaynor took a taper from the overmantel, lighted it and reduced to ashes certain papers which he carried between the leathers of his sword-belt. He sighed over the act, for it marked the end of the business upon which he was come. Since that was discovered there was an end for the present to the need of such papers, and since his own arrest perhaps impended, their destruction was imperative.

  Leaving a little heap of ashes in the grate, he quitted the chamber in his turn, went swiftly across the outer room, and, having assured himself with due precaution that the coast was clear, he stepped out into the corridor, and made his way to the door at the head of the back staircase.

  He reached it without encountering anyone, and having pushed it open he was on the point of descending when a sudden uproar below brought him sharply to a halt. Above the din of voices rang the call: “In the King’s name! Surrender! In the King’s name!” Lastly came a cry of: “Hold there, or I fire!”

  Gaynor rapped out an oath. His friends, it was plain, had walked into a trap. The house, he concluded, was surrounded, or, at least, both back and front were being watched. He was thankful for the others’ sake as much as for his own that he had not accompanied them. He caught the sound of a scuffle; a pistol-shot cracked suddenly and was followed by a cry: Then the din gradually receded.

  But there was now commotion within doors, for the inmates of the house had been disturbed by these sounds of battle. He heard steps and voices in the corridor behind him, and he was grateful to the gloom that gave him cover. He must not be found there; that was of the first importance now, and it would be more than probable that there were other tipstaves in the approaching company.

  There was a door on the captain’s right. Unhesitatingly he turned the handle. It yielded. He slipped in, closed the door softly and turned the key, which he was thankful to find on the inside. Then he faced about to make the discovery that he was in a bedroom. It was untenanted at the moment but there was no lack of evidence that it possessed a tenant.

  A cloak was thrown over the back of a chair, and under it stood a pair of feminine shoes with high French heels. On the bed lay a petticoat and a wrap. A valise gaped on the floor, its contents bulging, and among these the Captain noted a prodigious display of laces and ribbons.

  Through the window, facing eastwards towards London, he had a glimpse of trees and fields and hedgerows, backed by the fine grey pile of Beaufort House, all very soft and mellow in the evening light.

  And then, from a curtained alcove hitherto unperceived by him, came a clear, young voice to freeze him where he stood by its unexpectedness.

  “Is that you at last, Henry?”

  His recovery was instantaneous. Reflecting that Henry was indeed his name, he had no hesitation in answering the question with the shortest affirmative in the language.

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you tarried so long?” came the voice again, and it contained a note of petulance. “You knew that I stayed for you. And I am hungry, and—”

  Quite suddenly she appeared between the parted curtains, her speech cropped short at sight of him. It had been his dread lest she should be in an incomplete condition of toilet, in which case he thought that outraged modesty combined with alarm would most surely set her screaming. To his relief, however, she appeared before him fully dressed, save for a slight and very charming disorder of her hair and the absence of tucker from her alabaster neck.

  She was a handsome, regal woman, and she made a very engaging picture standing there between the parted curtains of red velvet. But it was a picture which, however delightful in itself, delighted Captain Gaynor not at all. Before she could give expression to the alarm that stared in her eyes and blenching face, the Captain bowed low and most reassuringly.

  “Most profoundly do I crave your indulgence for my error, ma’am,” said he.

  His voice was so serene and courteous, his air and manner so much that of the fine gentleman that her fears sank down a little; but not quite.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice vibrating. “What do you here?”

  “I am just a blunderer who has strayed into the wrong room,” he explained.

  “You have locked the door,” she accused him, and her alarm appeared to rise once more.

  “’Twas that I desired to be alone,” he answered.

  “You” — her voice was growing shrill— “you answered to the name of Henry,” she remembered.

  “My name is Henry, ma’am,” he assured her.

  There fell a pause. She stood with knitted brows and quickened bosom, waiting. At last— “Why do you stay, then?” she challenged him, and as she spoke she came forward towards where the bell-rope hung.

  “I but await your leave to go,” he answered her.

  “My leave?” said she, pausing in her amazement. “Depart at once, sir.”

  “At once, ma’am,” said he submissively. But on the words, greatly to her alarm, he advanced resolutely into the room. “By your leave,” said he quite coolly, “I should prefer to go by the window.”

  “By the window?” she echoed, and began to wonder was he mad. Along the passage outside the door sped hurrying feet; a murmur of
voices reached them through the panels.

  “You hear, madam,” he said, waving a hand in that direction. “I hope I am not so utterly lost to consideration for the fair name of a lady as to permit myself to be seen issuing from her chamber. You will agree, I am sure, that the window is most opportune.”

  She eyed him narrowly, barring now his way. And he admired her spirit as much as the ripe beauty of her.

  “Do you know who I am, sir?” she asked. “I am Lady Tresh. My husband is Sir Henry Tresh, one of the Middlesex justices.”

  “Sir Henry is a man to be envied, ma’am,” said he, no whit abashed. Indeed, the situation was becoming humorous. He made her a leg, his hat upon his heart. “I should have preferred, ma’am, that we had met under circumstances more auspicious to myself. But even so, I am honoured — profoundly honoured.” And he bowed again. He was in no haste to depart either by door or window. Indeed, the longer he delayed, the better would it suit him. Already, he observed, the sounds in the corridor were receding.

  “Unlock that door, sir,” she commanded, standing before him like a queen of tragedy, with one arm out-flung to emphasise her stem command.

  “It were so unwise,” he deprecated. “And the window is so very opportune. It cannot be more than a dozen feet above the ground.”

  Her queenly bosom heaved in agitation. “Will you tell me who you are?” she demanded once more.

  He shrugged, his eyes smiling ruefully. He was on the point of answering truthfully, accounting that perhaps the best course might be to cast himself upon her mercy, when suddenly he saw a fresh alarm leap into her eyes and one hand fly to her bosom.

  Down the corridor came a heavy, lumbering step — a step to which she was listening and which was known to her. It paused at the door, and the handle turned with a rattle. Then a double knock rapped on the panel and a gruff voice called: “Kate!”

  “My husband!” She no more than breathed the words.

  The Captain spread his hands, and his face showed concern for her. “You see,” he whispered back, “that the window becomes more opportune than ever.”

  She wrung her hands. Her eyes were upon him in a look that was between distress and anger.

  “I am undone!” she moaned.

  “Nay, nay!” He tiptoed past her to the window, and flung it open.

  Raps more numerous, louder and more insistent came again upon the panel. Again the handle of the door was rattled. “Kate!” that gruff voice was yelling now.

  “It is you, Henry?” she called back. The intruder was already astride of the sill.

  “Whom else were you expecting?” growled the voice. “Damme! Why must women for ever be locking themselves in?”

  She crossed the room leisurely, and fumbled an instant at the key. Captain Gaynor had vanished.

  He dropped from the window — a good fourteen feet to the ground — and landed somewhat shaken. But he did not stay to consider it. He found himself in the stable-yard, and he sped across it like a hare, to find cover in the stable itself. He gained it before Sir Henry had crossed the threshold of the room above. He found there young Maclean in a state of considerable perturbation.

  The young Scot muttered a short thanksgiving at sight of the Captain.

  “Your horse is ready,” was his greeting. “Come, sir.”

  From him now Captain Gaynor learnt that his five friends had all been taken. They were gone in hackney carriages to London with the tipstaves. Sir Thomas Leigh had drawn his sword, and had been shot through the arm in consequence. Mr Dyke, too, had attempted to resist the messengers, and had received a broken crown. Maclean the elder, his son assured the fugitive, need occasion the Captain no concern; he would know how to answer any awkward questions he might he asked.

  Having heard all that the young man could tell him, the Captain took his decision. He would leave his horse where it was until he called for it again. In its place he desired to be supplied with a post-horse.

  The bitterness which had assailed Captain Gaynor when first he had learnt of the shrewd blow with which the Government had demolished for the present any Jacobite development was now dispelled. It would return, no doubt, anon, and be the sharper perhaps for this respite. But for the moment he rode in a spirit of elation born of the adventure upon which he was now set.

  He reached Charing Cross some time after nightfall, and having surrendered his horse at the post-house, he disappeared to execute the project in his mind.

  A half-hour later he was leaning in the shadow of a tree near Whitehall steps, observing with interest a watchman who, with lanthorn and staff, was pacing the river-front not far from his hutch. Captain Gaynor produced from his breast-pocket a flask containing close upon half-a-pint of brandy, which he had procured at parting from young Maclean. He drank rather less than half, poured the remainder into his waistcoat, and flung the flask into the river. Then he reeled forth until he was level with the watchman’s box. Into this he hurtled, sat down and — apparently fell fast asleep. At least he was discovered to be breathing stertorously a minute later.

  The watchman swore at him, prodded him with his staff, shook him and bellowed in his ear, to all of which the Captain remained as insensible as a stone image.

  From these signs and from the overpowering fumes of brandy which the fellow exhaled, the watchman came to the conclusion that he was very drunk. Now there was an Act promulgated under the late queen which accounted all drunkards to be disturbers of the peace, and enjoined upon watchmen their apprehension and consignment to gaol. If you were not drunk beyond all speech, you might for a shilling or two obtain instead that the watchman should abandon his post to escort you to your residence. But in such a case as the Captain’s there was but one course to pursue, and that course this member of the law pursued.

  He very carefully picked the Captain’s pockets as a preliminary, a proceeding which yielded him a profit so disproportionate with the Captain’s dress and appearance — the Captain having previously bestowed his valuables beyond the reach of prying fingers — that the old rascal was forced to conclude that those pockets had been picked already. Then he whirled his rattle and brought up the constable and a posse of other watchmen, besides a small crowd of watermen from the riverside and several loiterers. Into the hands of his brethren he delivered the inanimate body of the Captain, informing the constable in a whisper of the state of the gentleman’s pockets, so as to save the constable the trouble of going through them on his own account.

  Thus Captain Gaynor was carried off to the Gatehouse at Westminster, which was the nearest prison. There he was flung into a dank, noisome chamber, tenanted already by some dozen of the very foulest scourings of the streets. These would have gone over the Captain’s person for the sake of any pickings that the constable and watchman might have left, but that the Captain, growing partly sobered as the first filthy fingers touched him, roused himself sufficiently to crash his fist into the face of their owner. The fellow sank down with a howl that turned into an agonising cough. His few remaining teeth had been loosened by the blow.

  Thereafter the Captain was left in peace. For a man who could smite such blows when too drunk to stand must be terrible indeed when sober, and they might so have to reckon with him did they abuse his present condition.

  He reclined, then, against the wall with his legs stretched straight before him; and thus he spent one of the most horrible nights of his existence. But to comfort him he had the knowledge that all had fallen out precisely as he had planned, and that there remained but little doubt that its sequel in the morning would fully compensate him for his present discomforts.

  Chapter 10. TWO LETTERS

  Mr Second Secretary Templeton sat at breakfast in the dining-room of his stately mansion in Old Palace Yard. It was a spacious, sunny chamber, panelled in white with an abundance of gilding, and its long French windows stood open to the terrace, over whose grey stone balustrade surged a riot of roses and geraniums.

  The statesman was at his ease in a be
d-gown of blue brocade, his cropped head swathed in a silk kerchief, whose rich colouring exaggerated the sallowness of his long, aristocratic face. Facing him across the round table sat Mrs Templeton, short, long-waisted and inclining to stoutness. Like her husband, she was dark-complexioned, and age had rendered masterful and rather too aquiline a face that in youth had been accounted beautiful. Between them sat the Second Secretary’s cousin, Sir Richard Tollemache Templeton, returned but yesterday from his foreign travels.

  Although the baronet was quite ten years the statesman’s junior — Sir Richard cannot have been more than thirty at the time — Mr Templeton, whose manner was patronising with all the world, treated him with the deference due to the head of a family into which he accounted it his greatest honour to have been born. Family was a religion with Mr Templeton, and before the head of his own he unbent to a most extraordinary degree; upon occasion he went even the length of courting his approval and sympathy. He was courting them this morning. He made philosophy for the purpose.

  “In this world, my dear Tollemache,” he was saying — he considered “Richard” a form of address much too familiar to be used towards one who occupied his cousin’s exalted position— “in this world the truly great but too seldom receive the recognition that is their due. The vulgar — ah — undiscerning crowd will ever believe what it is told. It has no judgment, no — ah — percipience of its own. It considers great those who proclaim themselves great, without reflecting that to true greatness such — ah — such a proclamation must be in the last degree repugnant — in the last degree repugnant.”