Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  When we were at Salzburg, Mansel had purchased some excellent large-scale maps, and we passed our first morning at Wagensburg studying these. So we divided our frontier into three parts. And this we did with three pencils—red and blue and green. The red were the portions commanded by frontier posts; the blue were the portions which were, on the face of it, hopeless, because of the opposition of monstrous heights; the green were the portions by which a way might be found.

  Our greatest hope was, of course, to strike some smugglers’ way.

  That afternoon Mansel wrote a letter for Diana to send to Friar, as well as a letter to Palin, which I will set out.

  Dear Palin,

  Please leave for London at once. When you are there, please leave at once for Trieste. There is a hotel at Trieste, called The Heart of Gold. A letter will go to you there, telling you what next to do. When you are in London, go to St. James’s Street and buy the best maps of the Italo-Austrian frontier that you can buy. Study these carefully.

  Yours ever,

  JONATHAN MANSEL

  PS. Say nothing to the Ferrers. Just go.

  When the light was failing, Carson left for Villach, taking the Rolls. He was to post the letters and to call at The Sickle, in case some letter or message was lying there. He was to be very careful in all he did. He was to leave the Rolls in a thicket without the town and to make his way in on foot, keeping, so far as he could, to the meaner ways.

  I confess that from ten o’clock on I could not keep my eyes from my watch, for Villach was not very far, and if the Rolls had been taken, our cake was dough. But Mansel refused to worry, “for Carson,” he said, “will never walk into a trap.” Sure enough, soon after eleven, the Rolls stole into the yard, and two minutes later Carson made his report.

  This was significant.

  “I posted the letters, sir, but I couldn’t touch The Sickle; it’s practically cordoned off. There’s plain-clothes men all round it—I counted five. They’ve trestles across the roads in, and they’re stopping all cars.”

  Mansel looked very grave.

  “Where did you post the letters?”

  “At the post office in the square, sir. I watched my chance.”

  “I’m sure you did. What I’m getting at is this. There’s a proper hotel in the square—I forget its name. Were there police about that?”

  “So far as I saw, sir, not one. I specially looked for them. Then there’s another hotel on the opposite side. I’ll swear there was no one there.”

  Mansel looked at me.

  “Who knew we were going to The Sickle?”

  “The Ferrers, Diana, and Palin.”

  “Exactly. And when did they know?”

  “We told them,” I said, “after dinner on Monday night.”

  “And the Boche arrived two hours later. We said we were going on Thursday—and this is Thursday night. Who told the Boche we were going to The Sickle on Thursday?”

  “There’s only one answer,” I said.

  “I quite agree,” said Mansel. “But what a show! And that is the Boche all over. He deals himself a truly beautiful hand. But he doesn’t know how to play it. . . Diana Revoke is his agent. He puts her on to Friar, and she picks us up. Luck of the devil himself. We make her free of our plans and she passes them on. He saw her that night, of course, while we were abed. And then he strikes too soon— and ruins everything. If he’d held his hand. . . if he hadn’t struck tonight. . . Well, at least we’ve looked over his shoulder.”

  (It is, of course, elementary that a house should be watched, before a raid is made.)

  “She had me on,” I said.

  “Not your fault,” said Mansel. “Your eyes were on Friar. But what a lovely hand! And the fellow’s thrown it away. We must write to Ferrers at once and tell him to let her go.”

  “Where to?” said I.

  Mansel shrugged his shoulders.

  “Report to us at Spittal—wait till we come. But after the washout at Villach, they may be shy. Still, she’ll have to leave Hohenems. And since I got her in, it’s for me to get her out.”

  “And Friar?”

  “God knows,” said Mansel, and laughed. “If he finds out, heaven help her. But that is her affair. The point is that, thanks to Carson, we are now wise.”

  I put a hand to my head.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “She’s an English girl.”

  Mansel fingered his chin.

  “I suppose she is,” he said. “But what was she doing in Salzburg? And why does she run with the Boche? Oh, I’ve got it, William. I’ll lay her mother was German—which means that, as like as not, her father was, too.”

  I went to my bed that night, a sobered man.

  The next morning, before it was light, we entered the Rolls and drove out. Within the hour, Mansel and Bell and I had been dropped at three different points, and Carson drove back to the castle, with orders to keep the house and to fetch us when dusk had come in. Each of us bore a map and was to explore the district which neighbored the frontier as best he could. He was to avoid observation at any cost, and was to be back to meet Carson not later than eight o’clock.

  I was set down some thirty miles from Wagensburg, and if the map was true, almost exactly three miles from the frontier itself. But that was as the crow flies.

  I made at once for a beechwood, as offering cover from view, and once within this shelter, I threw a look round.

  The dawn was coming up, and the country was taking shape. Color was stealing into a lovely world, shading the exquisite contours in black and green, turning from gray to white the magic of falling water and changing from pall to quilt the glory of forests that hung on the mountainsides.

  The wood’s recesses were dark, but by keeping close to its edge, I was able to see. Very soon I was climbing sharply, and on my left, a valley followed me round. Looking south, from behind a tree, I saw the sun touching a summit a mile ahead. From this, it was clear, I should get a most excellent view, and so I set out to get there before I did anything else.

  It was nearly two hours before I had my way, for the going was very severe and I had to make more than one detour and then come back to my line. Add to this that I never moved into the open until I was pretty well sure that no one was there to see. But in the end I got there, to find my reward.

  I was commanding the length of a valley system which ran clean across the frontier and into Italy. Of this there could be no doubt, for the map declared that the summit upon which I was lying was little more than two miles from the border itself. And I could see further than that. As though to confirm this conclusion, several cigarette butts and two or three empty tins were insisting that others had found it much to their taste. In a word, it was an observation post; and such posts overlook ways by which frontiers may be crossed.

  The valley I had seen on my left, when I was skirting the wood, gave to another valley which ran southeast; this, in turn, gave to another, which ran southwest. More, I could not make out, but by then you were over the border.

  This was all to the good, but when such a pass is unguarded, as I have said before, that is, as a rule, because nature guards it herself. I could not see much water, although I could hear the falls, but I had little doubt that it was water that barred this way. Still, it was well worth proving, and after a little I put my binocular up, and after a careful look round, began to go down.

  I should, I think, have done better to make my way back to the wood, but after three dreadful hours, I reached the valley I sought. This was the second valley, which ran southeast.

  I was now in the midst of the waters. On the floor of the valley itself, a boisterous torrent was raising its organ voice, and this was fed by waterfalls right and left. Some were stout heads of water, snaking their way down a mountain and every now and then plunging over some steep; some were cascades as fine as a maiden’s hair, that seemed to turn into smoke when they reached the ground; and some leaped from ledge to ledge—bow upon bow of blue and white and sun
shine, which no painter could ever capture, but only a poet could serve.

  But water, lovely to look at, bears a sting. Some can be crossed with care, but some of it no man can cross, except by a bridge.

  And then I saw the footprint. . . .

  In my exultation, I think that I shouted aloud, but such was the music of the waters, no ear could have heard my cry.

  A man had gone by this way a few hours back—in all likelihood a smuggler—to show that there was a passage from here into Italy.

  The footprint was pointing due south, and I took the line which it gave me without delay. Be sure I moved with care, but here I could not be seen from the observation post.

  Soon I found another, which led me up to an eddy at which I could cross a fall; but then, though I peered, I could find no further traces and had to work out my progress as best I could.

  It was after noon when I came to a barrier. This was no less than a gorge, about which there were no footprints, within which a mighty fountain was having its violent way. No man could ever have crossed it without a bridge; and after wasting some time in moving beside its brink, I hastened back to the footprint which had led me over the fall. For it seemed pretty clear that I had lost the line. Sure enough, after two or three casts, I found another print which was pointing toward the main torrent that raged in the valley’s bed.

  For nearly an hour I sought for a way to cross this savage water. But for the footprint, I should have thrown in my hand; but the man that had made it had been going down to the torrent, for here the latter was making a miniature horse-shoe bend, and the footprint which I had found was within its heels.

  And then, at last, I saw how my man had gone by.

  From the opposite side, a handsome beech was leaning over the water, and on to one of its arms was fastened a rope. Its end was now coiled and seemed to be tucked away in a fork of the tree; and, of course, I could not use it, because it was out of my reach. No one, I think, who had not been seeking, as I had, and had not been sure, as I had, that the torrent could be crossed, would ever have noticed the rope, for the leaves about it were thick, and only by lying down by the edge of the furious water was I able to see the hitch which had been drawn tight on the bough.

  Still, though I could go no further, I was content, for I had now no doubt that I had done as we hoped and had hit on a smuggler’s way. To make sure, I searched the bushes upon my side of the flood; and there, sure enough, was a staple, of which but an inch was protruding, which had been driven into the cleft of a rock.

  From the other side of the water, taking a very short run, a man could swing himself over the boisterous flood; as soon as he landed, he fastened his rope to the staple for his return; on his return, he had only to swing himself back and then restore his rope to its hiding place in the beech.

  I have said that I was content, and so I was. If I was a mile from the frontier, I was no more; and I was ready to swear that my movements had not been seen. I confess that I did not relish the thought of this leap in the dark, and I hoped that I might be able to make it by day, for the bellow of the water was angry, as though the torrent was resenting the contemplation of such lèse-majesté. But that was “frightfulness.” To a strong man, the venture was nothing, for, if he failed to land, he had only to climb the rope and come down by the tree.

  And there I saw the “snag,” which, had I not been so jubilant, I should have seen before. In a word, I was on the wrong side.

  The way was there, plain enough, for me to take; I could take it with hardly a thought, for in my time I had trodden more perilous paths; but I could only take it, when the rope was attached to the staple which I had found.

  This was serious. When the way is hard and strait, goods are not smuggled on every night of the week. Yet, when the time came, I should have to go at once; I could not watch night after night, waiting on the whim of a smuggler who might not appear for ten days.

  And then it occurred to me that a smuggler’s path should not be a one-way street.

  At once I returned to the staple, at which I had scarcely looked.

  This, as I have said, had been driven into a cleft or crack in the rock. Stouter than the cleft was wide, it was literally jammed in the fissure, which ran at right angles to the stream. Indeed, this ran into the water, some five feet away, growing gradually wider, as it approached the flood.

  Hoping against hope, I felt in the cleft. . . .

  At once my fingers encountered a very fine cord, which, when I drew it out, I saw to be an ordinary fishing line; and when I followed this up, I found it was sunk in the torrent by means of leads. How this was made fast to the rock, I could not see; but I fancy a second staple had been driven into the cleft and out of sight.

  Pull upon this line, I dared not, because I was sure it would bring the rope from its perch; but at least I had proved my theory and, what was more to the point, I had found I could cross the water whenever I pleased.

  Since it was now past one, I sat down and ate my lunch; then I made my way leisurely homeward, that is to say, to the point at which Carson would pick me up. Marking the way as I went and finding seven more footprints, I reached the rendezvous soon after five, and since I had three hours to wait, I crossed the road and entered some pleasant woodland that looked as though it might offer a robing room for him who was chosen to take the smuggler’s way.

  I soon found a very sweet dell but five minutes’ walk from the road, where a man could lie in comfort until it was safe to move. A little lawn was edged by a tumbling rill, and, after the violence of the torrent, the childish speech of the former fell gratefully on the ear. Here I settled myself, and since I had had a short night and a tiring walk, after a very few minutes I fell asleep.

  I awoke, as I sometimes do, in the sudden, certain knowledge that I was not alone.

  A middle-aged man and a girl were standing close to my feet and were looking down upon me with curious eyes.

  I sat up.

  “He would do very well,” said the former. “Ulysses’ clothes would fit him as few men that I have seen.”

  “He is very strong,” said the latter. “No doubt about that.”

  Both wore a “national dress” that I had seen somewhere in France; but the tongue they used was German, and they had the look of being Austrian born. The man, who was fat for his age, had a merry eye and made me think in an instant of one of Shakespeare’s clowns. The girl was slight, but well built; health and sunshine had made up her pretty face, and the thick, fair hair which was curling about her shoulders was crowned by a Juliet cap.

  I smiled.

  “And who is Ulysses?” I said.

  “Alas, he is dead,” said the man. “We buried him two days ago. He was our strong man and could lift incredible weights. But the wine was stronger than he. They had many a bout together, but in the end the wine won. And now our troupe is the poorer, for many can sing and dance—or think they can; but few can bend a crow bar into a hoop.”

  “Few, indeed,” said I. “But why do you wear that dress? It is not Austrian.”

  “Because,” said the man, “I am now in Austria. A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country. So in Austria I am a Frenchman, and when I am on parade, my German is very poor. The same in Italy, for Italy does not like those that are Austrian born. If ever I go to France, I shall wear my own dress.”

  “You move about?” I said.

  “From here to Italy. We have come south from Innsbruck and soon I shall be drinking the beer of Padua. The life is hard in a way, but I would not change it, sir, for any that I have seen.”

  “Nor I,” said the girl. “It is very good to be free.”

  “It is everything,” said the man. “For this reason, I am not so sure that we shall return from Italy in the spring.”

  “Aha,” said I. “You have no use for the Boche?”

  “None,” said the man. “Neither for lord nor for peasant, for matron or for maid. The Boche is no fellow creature. The blood is bad.�
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  “You are perfectly right,” said I. “If Europe is to be safe, the Boche should be behind bars.”

  The fellow turned to the girl.

  “How many times, Colette, have I used those very words?”

  “It is true,” said the girl, smiling. “And Jasper knows Germany.”

  “Before the Great War,” said the man, “I was with a German circus for nearly three years. That is the way, sir, to learn what a people is like; for you pass through the whole of the country, and high and low visit a circus and sit beside the ring.” He drew in his breath. “What the Boche enjoys most of all is another being’s distress—a bear in torment, sir, or a clown that is kicked by a horse. I have seen a dog, short of a paw, that, because he had a great heart, would try to do his tricks with the rest. And when he failed, the dog cried—I saw the tears on his face. And the Germans roared with delight. I could have been ringmaster, but once I had learned my job, I went away.”

  “What was your job?” I said.

  “I was a tumbler, sir. Or, if you like it better, an acrobat. The sand, the rope, and the horse, I learned to master them all.” He sighed. “But after forty, no man can do such work as it should be done. So now I have my own troupe, and I sing a ditty or two and play the fool.”