Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Stay where you are,” da San-Germain ordered him.

  “He’ll freeze if we don’t get him out,” the coachman said, stopping as soon as he reached the surface of the bridge.

  “Secure the hands of these two first,” said da San-Germain. “Then you may go alone to pull him out of the stream, if he’s unable to manage that for himself.” The thrashing from the water, accompanied by coughs and obscenities, grew more purposeful. “Here are some cords,” he said, holding out a few.

  The coachman took them, and went to tie the Guards’ hands. “What about the postilion?” he asked.

  “When the coach is empty, put him inside and bind his hands.”

  “He’s losing blood,” the coachman observed.

  “The head bleeds heavily, but it will clot,” said da San-Germain; he saw that Roger had tied the hands of the third coachman and was about to do the same to the two mounted Guards between the second and third coaches. “You can help him down, if you want. He’ll do better on the ground. Then you may attend to … Gui, is it?”

  “I have to help Gui first,” said the coachman, still showing no outward signs of distress. “I’ll attend to Sancoeur when Gui is out of the water. I’ll bring Gui onto the bank, but may need help getting him up to the road.” He went to the end of the bridge and looked down into the stream, listening intently. “He’s sliding toward the river: he can’t swim, you see.” With a nod to da San-Germain, he let himself down the bridge-footing, and was quickly lost in the fog.

  Roger had got the two mounted Guards out of their saddles and onto the rutted road; he called to the eight men who had huddled together at the side of the third coach. “You. Five of you take the Guards’ horses and ride out from here at once. Don’t go home. Don’t take main roads. Don’t stay together; you’ll attract too much attention. Get as far away from here as you can. If you make for the coast, avoid Calais.” Then he ordered the coachman to come down from his box. The coachman reached to secure the reins and grabbed his whip, letting the lash uncurl. Before he could swing it, the duck’s-foot barked, and the coachman fell onto the road, a messy tear in his shoulder; the prisoners hurried to catch the horses and mount up. “You three,” Roger shouted to the remaining men, “tie the postilion’s hands and get him on the ground.”

  Feo was busy securing the hands of the two Guards between the first and second coaches, keeping a wary eye on the driver of the second coach. “Dismount,” he said, helping the two Guards to get down. “We have two more horses free.”

  “Good,” said Roger. “You men, take them.”

  “May God bless you, good men, though you’re Germans,” said one of the freed prisoners as he reached for the reins of one of the horses. He glanced around at the others, then said, “What are we waiting for? Mount up.” In the next breath, he had vaulted into the saddle and gathered the reins and was headed back the way they had come at a rapid trot, bravery mixed with panic in his flight.

  One of the younger men called out, “Oui, Monsieur le Marquis,” and stepped away from the coach. “God be with you!”

  “Mind the ruts,” Roger warned them all. “Hold to a trot until the road improves; a broken leg or strained tendons will not help you escape.” He held his duck’s-foot up and made sure those around him saw it. “You Guards. Step aside.”

  The hesitation that had kept the rest milling by the coach faded. The six men who had horses to ride scrambled into the saddles and, while Feo struggled to open the double latch on the door of the second coach, followed the first of their number back along the muddy road, into the thickening fog.

  “Don’t stay together!” Roger shouted after them as they vanished, and then motioned to the one remaining man. “See if the coachman is still alive,” he said. “We’ll have a horse for you shortly, and you can be off.”

  “But where should I go?” he asked in bewilderment.

  Roger looked down at him. “Away from here. Try for the coast, and look for an American ship. You might be able to work off your passage.”

  “Misericordia, Domini,” the man mumbled, crossing himself.

  Feo came up beside the driving-box of the second coach and pointed his pistol at the coachman. “You saw what happened to your comrade. Secure the reins and get down. Tie the hands of the postilion, then step to the side of the road.”

  The coachman glared at him. “You’re freeing monsters.”

  “I may be,” said Feo. “Better than helping to murder the innocent.”

  “Innocent?” The coachman laughed angrily. “Them? Little you know.” He folded his arms, his chin up defiantly.

  “Get down, or I will knock you down,” Feo warned him.

  The coachman took a moment to decide, then set the reins and swung down from the box. As he reached the road, he stumbled on the ruts and leaned against Feo’s horse, holding Feo’s leg, seeming to steady himself.

  “Back!” Feo ordered, kicking out at the coachman. He immediately realized his mistake as he felt a knife-blade slide along his thigh, digging deeply into the inner muscles; a welling of wet heat told him the wound was serious. Without thinking, he shot the coachman in the face and pulled in his horse as the dead coachman plicated into a heap underneath the coach’s step. Staring down at his leg, Feo saw darkness spreading down toward his boot, steaming.

  Roger called out to him. “Are you—?”

  “He got me. With a knife.” Feo answered, ending in a shout as the pain sank into him.

  “Can you manage the second coach?” da San-Germain asked loudly; he was assisting two of the prisoners from the first coach to get out of it.

  “If I can get a bandage around my leg, I can,” Feo told him, then came up to the postilion, gesturing with his pistol. “Get down. Move the body off the road. Open the door of the coach, then stand back.” He felt hot and cold at once, and he knew that he was badly hurt. “Move. Now.”

  The postilion did as he was ordered, torn between ire and fear.

  “I’ll help,” said one of the men from the first coach. “We need to be gone from here, and soon.”

  “That you do. Help move the body, and tie the hands of the postilion,” da San-Germain said, and pressed his mare forward toward the second coach, already worried for Feo. “How deep is the wound?”

  “Deep enough,” said Feo through clenched teeth; he was becoming more aware of the cold, and realized this was a troubling sign.

  “Then as soon as we get a bandage around your thigh, lead the released men to the meadow and put them on horses. Get them on their way as quickly as you can. Then bring the rest of the horses here for the women.” He signaled to Roger. “Do you have a good length of cotton with you?”

  “But—” Feo protested.

  One of the Guards lurched to his feet and attempted to run. He fell almost immediately, and in an instant, the prisoner from the first coach was on him, pummeling him, and tearing at his shirt. Roger made a move in an attempt to get between them, but without success.

  Da San-Germain reached down and pulled the door on the second coach open, releasing its occupants so precipitously that the first woman out nearly fell onto the body of the coachman.

  From beneath the bridge there was a sudden flailing, and a loud gasp. “I couldn’t find him!” the first coachman shouted. “The current’s taken him! Gui’s gone!”

  “Climb back up and lend a hand!” da San-Germain ordered, helping the two older women to get out of the coach. The third woman took his proffered hand, and said quietly, “Thank you,” as she alighted on the road.

  “You are most welcome,” he said to Madelaine de Montalia, his voice more mellifluous than it had been.

  The prisoner on top of the Guard yelled in triumph and offered Feo a strip of the Guard’s shirt. “Bind your wound with this.”

  Feo took a little time to wrap the length of cotton around the top of his leg and knot it tightly, determined to stay alert, for as much as he was enjoying himself, the wound was a bad one. “You men, come with me,” he
called out while the coachman from the first coach clambered up the bank and back onto the end of the bridge. “It’s not far. You’ll be away before half an hour passes.”

  The men began to straggle around him, some pausing to look at the three coaches, others refusing to do so.

  A fourth woman descended from the second coach, and then two men, both of whom were old and moved with difficulty.

  The coachman came up to da San-Germain. “He’ll drown because of you.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” da San-Germain said, making his German accent particularly strong. “But such things happen.” There was no way for the coachman to see the compassion in da San-Germain’s dark eyes.

  “You’ll lose your head for this,” the coachman promised.

  “Only if we’re caught,” said da San-Germain, testing the knot on Feo’s bandage. “Good enough. Take the men to the horses. You have time, so don’t rush, and don’t exert yourself.” He paused. “All but these two will go with you now; bring horses for them. Six horses,” he added, indicating the old men and the women. He then looked at the drenched coachman. “Get a blanket and wrap up in it. Then you may attend to your foolish postilion.”

  In the distance, the bells of midnight rang.

  “The Guards?” Roger asked after a single glance in the direction of the bells.

  “Put them in the coaches, along with the postilions and coachmen, and set the latches on the doors.” Da San-Germain could feel Madelaine’s eyes on him, and it was all he could do to keep from dismounting and folding her in his arms; he gave his attention to the prisoners gathering around Feo. “There is a floating bridge over the river about three leagues north of here, if you want to go west, or south. If you go east, stay away from the major roads—there will be warrants for you at all the major crossings. Find some simple clothes to wear, not too dirty, and get rid of the Guards’ saddle-pads; grain sacks will suffice. If you can, choose lesser roads, or, if the weather permits, go across country, and find small villages near the borders, and cross out of France from there. Or find a covered boat and a fisherman’s coat and float down to the sea if riding does not appeal to you.”

  A few of the men nodded, but most of them seemed dazed; they followed Feo with dogged determination as much to have something to do as to get away from the coaches. In little more than two minutes, they topped the slope and disappeared from view.

  “Old friend,” he said to Roger, “would you tie the coachman’s hands once he’s done with the postilion? They can be put in the first coach.”

  The coachman, who was pulling a threadbare blanket around his shoulders, glowered at da San-Germain. “Your masters in Germany will answer for this.”

  “Do you think so?” Da San-Germain gave a slight, ironic bow before taking up a position that allowed him to watch the road in both directions. “I shall warn them of that possibility.”

  While the coachman tended to the postilion, Roger began to move the Guards into the empty coaches, paying little heed to the curses hurled upon him. Those who were injured he treated more gently than their sturdier fellows. He paused to help move Sancoeur, the postilion from the first coach, into it, then tied the coachman’s hands behind him and helped him mount the step into the coach.

  “We can kick the door open; we’ll be out as soon as you’re gone,” the coachman said, looking past Roger to da San-Germain.

  “If you think it would be useful, you may try,” said da San-Germain. “The doors have a double-latch and they’re iron-banded, as you will recall.”

  The coachman spat as Roger shoved a Guard in to join them, saying to da San-Germain, “That’s four.”

  “Very good. We’ll load the third coach now, and leave the middle for last.” He motioned to the four women. “If you would like to move back from the road, you will not get so muddy.”

  “What about … him?” the tallest of the women asked, pointing to the body of the coachman.

  “We will load it into the boot,” da San-Germain said, dismounting and going to pull the corpse of the coachman to the rear of the vehicle. Ordinarily this would not have been difficult, but the wounds in his shoulder and hip were aching badly, and it took him some little time to drag him.

  Roger, who had seen da San-Germain scrambling over the ruts, got all but the last two Guards into the third coach, then came to help. “You’re tired, my master.”

  “In a good cause,” said da San-Germain as he bent to grab the coachman’s shoulders while Roger took his feet. They slung the body into the boot and buckled it in place with leather straps. “We should be away from here shortly. There’s still much to do.”

  “And we’ll need to be back at the inn before dawn,” Roger said, pulling his horse after him. “Are you going to leave the coaches here, or—”

  “Leave them here, I think. They won’t be found before morning, and by then most of the prisoners will be some distance from here.”

  “And traveling alone,” Roger added.

  “If they’re sensible,” da San-Germain added. He was about to say something more, but stopped as Madelaine approached them. He bowed in the German manner. “What may I have the honor of doing for you?”

  “I wanted to thank you for doing this for … us.” She indicated the remaining three women and two men. “We were all certain we would die.”

  “There is still that risk,” da San-Germain said somberly. “But this way, you have a chance.”

  The smile she gave him, while secret, conveyed the depth of her emotion.

  “Do you think the coach horses will get restive once we leave?” Roger asked, deliberately intruding on Madelaine and da San-Germain’s quiet preoccupation.

  “We’ll ask Maffeo as soon as he returns,” said da San-Germain quietly, using Feo’s full name to guard against any accidental identification later.

  The three of them moved apart and returned to the former prisoners waiting for horses. There was an edginess in the air now, and a growing anxiety that was as restively oppressive as the fog. One of the two male prisoners looked up at them. “I want to find a boat. I can be many leagues downstream by dawn. I’m too old for hard rides.”

  “That you can,” da San-Germain said. “There should be a few boats tied up along the bank above and below this stream. If you want a lantern so you can explore?”

  “Yes,” he declared without hesitation. “Josef-Pierre,” he said to one of his companions. “Would you like to come with me?”

  “I would, Geoffroi,” said the other of the remaining male prisoners. “Where is the lantern?”

  From some little distance away there came the sound of trotting horses; all those near the coaches stopped still, listening, preparing to run, then visibly relaxed as the hoofbeats receded.

  Da San-Germain reached up and took one of the coach’s lanterns from its hook on the front of the coach. “Here.” He handed the lantern to Josef-Pierre. “Bon chance, gentlemen, and don’t come to the shore for at least a day.”

  “Thank you,” the two said, and made their way gingerly down the steep slope to the stream, their footsteps fading as they went toward the river.

  “Have you found a place?” Madelaine whispered to da San-Germain in Arabic.

  “For you—yes. You’ll need to stay hidden until tomorrow afternoon,” he answered in the same language.

  She nodded, and glanced at the other women, wondering how much curiosity she had awakened in them; she moved away from da San-Germain, giving him a demi-curtsy as she went.

  A few minutes later there came the sound of approaching horses; the three women hurried to conceal themselves at the side of the road. Roger aimed his duck’s-foot, ready to fire, but then lowered it. “The horses are here.”

  “Very good,” said da San-Germain, and turned to the women. “I fear you’ll all have to ride astride, but it is far safer that way.”

  The most timid of the women looked dismayed, but stood as straight as she could. “If I must, I must.”

  The lead horse
reached the coaches and stopped, as did the string behind. There was a fidgety stillness; then da San-Germain stepped toward Feo’s horse, distressed certainty growing in him. He reached the horse and caught it by the reins below the bit, his dark-seeing eyes revealing to him what he had hoped not to see: Feo was lying forward on the horse’s neck, the lead for the string secured to the saddle. His hat had been lost somewhere between the road and the meadow; blood dripped slowly from the wound in his thigh, and his sightless eyes were fixed on the far distance, a look of puzzlement etched forever on his dead face.

  * * *

  Text of a bill of sale from Roger Gadouin to Marc de Brisac, innkeeper at the Batteau Jaune, four leagues west of Lyon on the Chouans Road.

  Sold to Marc de Brisac by Roger Gadouin on this, the 26th of October, 1792, 3:40 a.m., at the inn, the Batteau Jaune, two horses with tack included, for the sum of 20 louis d’or.

  Vive la France!

  Vive la Revolution!

  Roger Gadouin

  major domo to

  il Conte da San-Germain

  7

  It was past four of the clock and starting to rain by the time da San-Germain entered the kitchen door at the Jongleur and made his way—so quietly that a shadow might make more noise—through the kitchen and painfully up the servants’ stairs to his room, where he put aside his Hungarian clothes in favor of a long dressing-robe in dark-red velvet. He gave himself a little time to review all that had happened that night—the death of Feo and the improvised funeral he and Roger had given him in an old cemetery among the broken tombs, the dispatching of Roger to sell the extra horses, and the place he had found for Madelaine: he had left her in the unused chapel on the outside of the old city walls twenty minutes before, and was satisfied that she would be safe there until the coming evening, when she would depart with him. Looking around the room, he was relieved that Roger had done such a thorough job of packing without making it appear that they would be gone in twelve hours. He was about to climb onto the mattress on top of the chest filled with his native earth, when he heard a sharp knock on his door. He gave the clock on the mantel a quick glance: four-thirty. Chiding himself for being noticed on his return, he went to the door and asked, “Who is it?”