“Good!” said Caillard. “Now will Your Excellency have the goodness to warn this man of his approaching departure?”
“Colonel Caillard,” said the Governor, “has come to take you and your first lieutenant, Mistaire—Mistaire Bush, to Paris.”
“Bush?” blazed out Hornblower, moved as not even the loss of his sword could move him. “Bush? That is impossible. Lieutenant Bush is seriously wounded. It might easily be fatal to take him on a long journey at present.”
“The journey will be fatal to him in any case,” said Caillard, still with the mirthless smile and the gleam of white teeth.
The Governor wrung his hands.
“You cannot say that, Colonel. These gentlemen have still to be tried. The Military Commission has yet to give its verdict.”
“These gentlemen, as you call them, Your Excellency, stand condemned out of their own mouths.”
Hornblower remembered that he had made no attempt to deny, while the admiral was questioning him and preparing his report, that he had been in command of the Sutherland the day she wore French colours and her landing party stormed the battery at Llanza. He had known the ruse to be legitimate enough, but he had not reckoned on a French emperor determined upon convincing European opinion of the perfidy of England and cunning enough to know that a couple of resounding executions might well be considered evidence of guilt.
“The colonel,” said the Governor to Hornblower, “has brought his coach. You may rely upon it that Mistaire Bush will have every possible comfort. Please tell me which of your men you would like to accompany you as your servant. And if there is anything which I can provide which will make the journey more comfortable, I will do so with the greatest pleasure.”
Hornblower debated internally the question of the servant. Polwheal, who had served him for years, was among the wounded in the casemate. Nor, he fancied, would he have selected him in any case; Polwheal was not the man for an emergency—and it was just possible that there might be an emergency. Latude had escaped from the Bastille. Was not there a faint chance that he might escape from Vincennes? Hornblower thought of Brown’s bulging muscles and cheerful devotion.
“I would like to take my coxswain, Brown, if you please,” he said.
“Certainly. I will send for him and have your present servant pack your things with him. And with regard to your needs for the journey?”
“I need nothing,” said Hornblower. At the same time as he spoke he cursed himself for his pride. If he were ever to save himself and Bush from the firing party in the ditch at Vincennes he would need gold.
“Oh, I cannot allow you to say that,” protested the Governor. “There may be some few comforts you would like to buy when you are in France. Besides, you cannot deprive me of the pleasure of being of assistance to a brave man. Please do me the favour of accepting my purse. I beg you to, sir.”
Hornblower fought down his pride and took the proffered wallet. It was of surprising weight and gave out a musical chink as he took it.
“I must thank you for your kindness,” he said. “And for all your courtesy while I have been your prisoner.”
“It has been a pleasure to me, as I said,” replied the Governor. “I want to wish you the—the very best of luck on your arrival in Paris.”
“Enough of this,” said Caillard. “My orders from His Majesty call for the utmost expedition. Is the wounded man in the courtyard?”
The Governor led the way out, and the gendarmes closed up round Hornblower as they walked towards the coach. Bush was lying there on a stretcher, strangely pale and strangely wasted out there in the bright light. He was feebly trying to shield his eyes from the sun; Hornblower ran and knelt beside him.
“They’re going to take us to Paris, Bush,” he said. “What, you and me, sir?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a place I’ve often wanted to see.”
The Italian surgeon who had amputated Bush’s foot was plucking at Hornblower’s sleeve and fluttering some sheets of paper. These were instructions, he explained in faulty Italian French, for the further treatment of the stump. Any surgeon in France would understand them. As soon as the ligatures came away the wound would heal at once. He had put a parcel of dressings into the coach for use on the journey. Hornblower tried to thank him, but was interrupted when the surgeon turned away to supervise the lifting of Bush, stretcher and all, into the coach. It was an immensely long vehicle, and the stretcher just fitted in across one door, its ends on the two seats.
Brown was there now, with Hornblower’s valise in his hand. The coachman showed him how to put it into the boot. Then a gendarme opened the other door and stood waiting for Hornblower to enter. Hornblower looked up at the ramparts towering above him; no more than half an hour ago he had been walking there, worn out with doubt. At least one doubt was settled now. In a fortnight’s time perhaps they would all be settled, after he had faced the firing party at Vincennes. A spurt of fear welled up within him at the thought, destroying the first momentary feeling almost of pleasure. He did not want to be taken to Paris to be shot; he wanted to resist. Then he realized that resistance would be both vain and undignified, and he forced himself to climb into the coach, hoping that no one had noticed his slight hesitation.
A gesture from the sergeant of gendarmerie brought Brown to the door as well, and he came climbing in to sit apologetically with his officers. Caillard was mounting a big black horse, a spirited, restless creature which champed at its bit and passaged feverishly about. When he had settled himself in the saddle the word was given, and the horses were led round the courtyard, the coach jolting and heaving over the cobbles, out through the gate and down to the road which wound under the guns of the fortress. The mounted gendarmerie closed up round the coach, a whip cracked, and they were off at a slow trot, to the jingling of the harness and the clattering of the hoofs and the creaking of the leatherwork.
Hornblower would have liked to have looked out of the windows at the houses of Rosas village going by—after three weeks’ captivity the change of scene allured him—but first he had to attend to his wounded lieutenant.
“How is it going, Bush?” he asked, bending over him.
“Very well, thank you, sir,” said Bush.
There was sunlight streaming in through the coach windows now, and here a succession of tall trees by the roadside threw flickering shadows over Bush’s face. Fever and loss of blood had made Bush’s face less craggy and gnarled, drawing the flesh tight over the bones so that he looked unnaturally younger, and he was pale instead of being the mahogany brown to which Hornblower was accustomed. Hornblower thought he saw a twinge of pain cross Bush’s expression as the coach lurched on the abominable road.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, trying hard to keep the helplessness out of his voice.
“Nothing, thank you, sir,” whispered Bush.
“Try and sleep,” said Hornblower.
Bush’s hand which lay outside the blanket twitched and stirred and moved towards him; he took it and he felt a gentle pressure. For a few brief seconds Bush’s hand stroked his feebly, caressing it as though it was a woman’s. There was a glimmer of a smile on Bush’s drawn face with its closed eyes. During all the years they had served together it was the first sign of affection either had shown for the other. Bush’s head turned on the pillow, and he lay quite still, while Hornblower sat not daring to move for fear of disturbing him.
The coach had slowed to a walk—it must be breasting the long climb which carried the road across the roots of the peninsula of Cape Creux. Yet even at that speed the coach lurched and rolled horribly; the surface of the road must be utterly uncared for. The sharp ringing of the hoofs of the escorts’ horses told that they were travelling over rock, and the irregularity of the sound was a clear indication of the way the horses were picking their way among the holes. Framed in the windows Hornblower could see the gendarmes in their blue uniforms and cocked hats jerking and swaying about with the rolling of the coac
h. The presence of fifty gendarmes as an escort was not a real indication of the political importance of himself and Bush, but only a proof that even here, only twenty miles from France, the road was unsafe for small parties—a little band of Spanish guerilleros was to be found on every inaccessible hill-top.
But there was always a chance that Claros or Rovira with their Catalan miqueletes a thousand strong might come swooping down on the road from their Pyrenean fastnesses. Hornblower felt hope surging up within him at the thought that at any moment, in that case, he might find himself a free man again. His pulse beat faster and he crossed and uncrossed his knees restlessly—with the utmost caution so as not to disturb Bush. He did not want to be taken to Paris to face a mockery of a trial. He did not want to die. He was beginning to fret himself into a fever, when common sense came to his rescue and he compelled himself to sink into a stolid indifference.
Brown was sitting opposite him, primly upright with his arms folded. Hornblower almost grinned, sympathetically, at sight of him. Brown was actually self-conscious. He had never in his life before, presumably, had to be at such close quarters with a couple of officers. Certainly he must be feeling awkward at having to sit in the presence of two such lofty individuals as a captain and a first lieutenant. For that matter, it was at least a thousand to one that Brown had never been inside a coach before, had never sat on leather upholstery with a carpet under his feet. Nor had he had any experience in gentlemen’s service, his duties as captain’s coxswain being mainly disciplinary and executive. There was something comic about seeing Brown, with the proverbial adaptability of the British seaman, aping what he thought should be the manners of the gentleman’s gentleman, and sitting there as if butter would not melt in his mouth.
The coach lurched again, quickening its pace and the horses broke from a walk into a trot. They must be at the top of the long hill now, with a long descent before them, which would bring them back to the seashore somewhere near Llanza, where he had stormed the battery under protection of the tricolour flag. It was an exploit he had been proud of—still was, for that matter. He had never dreamed for one moment that it would lead him to Paris and a firing party. Through the window on Bush’s side he could see the rounded brown slopes of the Pyrenees soaring upwards; on the other side, as the coach swung sickeningly round a bend, he caught a glimpse of the sea far below, sparkling in the rays of the afternoon sun. He craned his neck to look at it, the sea which had played him so many scurvy tricks and which he loved. He thought, with a little catch in his throat, that this would be the last day on which he would ever see it. Tonight they would cross the frontier; to-morrow they would plunge into France, and in ten days, a fortnight, he would be rotting in his grave at Vincennes. It would be hard to leave this life, even with all its doubts and uncertainties, to lose the sea with its whims and its treacheries, Maria and the child, Lady Barbara—
Those were white cottages drifting past the windows, and on the side towards the sea, perched on the grassy cliff, was the battery of Llanza. He could see a sentry dressed in blue and white; stooping and looking upwards he could see the French flag at the top of the flagstaff—Bush, here, had hauled it down not so many weeks ago. He heard the coachman’s whip crack and the horses quickened their pace; it was still eight miles or so to the frontier and Caillard must be anxious to cross before dark. The mountains, bristling here with pines, were hemming the road in close between them and the sea. Why did not Claros or Rovira come to save him? At every turn of the road there was an ideal site for an ambush. Soon they would be in France and it would be too late. He had to struggle again to remain passive. The prospect of crossing into France seemed to make his fate far more certain and imminent.
It was growing dark fast—they could not be far now from the frontier. Hornblower tried to visualize the charts he had often handled, so as to remember the name of the French frontier town, but his mind was not sufficiently under control to allow it. The coach was coming to a standstill; he heard footsteps outside, heard Caillard’s metallic voice saying, “In the name of the Emperor,” and an unknown voice say, “Passez, passez, monsieur.” The coach lurched and accelerated again; they were in France now. Now the horses’ hoofs were ringing on cobblestones. There were houses, one or two lights to be seen. Outside the houses there were men in all kinds of uniforms, and a few women picking their way among them, dressed in pretty costumes with caps on their heads. He could hear laughter and joking. Then abruptly the coach swerved to the right and drew up in the courtyard of an inn. Lights were appearing in plenty in the fading twilight. Someone opened the door of the coach and drew down the steps for him to descend.
Chapter Four
Hornblower looked round the room to which the innkeeper and the sergeant of gendarmerie had jointly conducted them. He was glad to see a fire burning there, for he was stiff and chilled with his long inactivity in the coach. There was a truckle bed against one wall, a table with a white cloth already spread. A gendarme appeared at the door, stepping slowly and heavily—he was the first of the two who were carrying the stretcher. He looked round to see where to lay it down, turned too abruptly, and jarred it against the jamb of the wall.
“Careful with that stretcher!” snapped Hornblower, and then, remembering he had to speak French, “Attention! Mettez le brancard là. Doucement!”
Brown came and knelt over the stretcher.
“What is the name of this place?” asked Hornblower of the innkeeper.
“Cerbêre. Hôtel Iéna, monsieur,” answered the innkeeper, fingering his leather apron.
“Monsieur is allowed no speech with anyone whatever,” interposed the sergeant. “He will be served, but he must address no speech to the inn servants. If he has any wishes, he will speak to the sentry outside his door. There will be another sentry outside his window.”
A gesture of his hand called attention to the cocked hat and the musket barrel of a gendarme, darkly visible through the glass.
“You are too amiable, monsieur,” said Hornblower.
“I have my orders. Supper will be served in half an hour.”
“I would be obliged if Colonel Caillard would give orders for a surgeon to attend Lieutenant Bush’s wounds at once.”
“I will ask him, sir,” said the sergeant, escorting the innkeeper from the room.
Bush, when Hornblower bent over him, seemed somehow a little better than in the morning. There was a little colour in his cheeks and more strength in his movements.
“Is there anything I can do, Bush?” asked Hornblower.
“Yes—”
Bush explained the needs of sick-room nursing. Hornblower looked up at Brown, a little helplessly.
“I am afraid it’ll call for two of you, sir, because I’m a heavy man,” said Bush apologetically. It was the apology in his tone which brought Hornblower to the point of action.
“Of course,” he said with all the cheerfulness he could bring into his voice. “Come on, Brown. Lift him from the other side.”
After the business was finished, with no more than a single half-stifled groan from Bush, Brown displayed more of the astonishing versatility of the British seaman.
“I’ll wash you, sir, shall I? An’ you haven’t had your shave to-day, have you, sir?”
Hornblower sat and watched in helpless admiration the deft movements of the burly sailor as he washed and shaved his first lieutenant. The towels were so well arranged that no single drop of water fell on the bedding.
“Thank ‘ee, Brown, thank ‘ee,” said Bush, sinking back on his pillow.
The door opened to admit a little bearded man in a semi-military uniform carrying a leather case.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, sounding all his consonants in the manner which Hornblower was yet to discover was characteristic of the Midi. “I am the surgeon, if you please. And this is the wounded officer? And these are the hospital notes of my confrère at Rosas? Excellent. Yes, exactly. And how are you feeling, sir?”
Hornblower h
ad to translate, limpingly, the surgeon’s question to Bush, and the latter’s replies. Bush put out his tongue, and submitted to having his pulse felt, and his temperature gauged by a hand thrust into his shirt.
“So,” said the surgeon. “And now let us see the stump. Will you hold the candle for me here, if you please, sir?”
He turned back the blankets from the foot of the stretcher, revealing the little basket which guarded the stump, laid the basket on the floor and began to remove the dressings.
“Would you tell him, sir,” asked Bush, “that my foot which isn’t there tickles most abominably, and I don’t know how to scratch it?”
The translation taxed Hornblower’s French to the utmost, but the surgeon listened sympathetically.
“That is not at all unusual,” he said. “And the itchings will come to a natural end in course of time. Ah, now here is the stump. A beautiful stump. A lovely stump.”
Hornblower, compelling himself to look, was vaguely reminded of the knuckle end of a roast leg of mutton; the irregular folds of flesh were caught in by half-healed scars, but out of the scars hung two ends of black thread.
“When Monsieur le Lieutenant begins to walk again,” explained the surgeon, “he will be glad of an ample pad of flesh at the end of the stump. The end of the bone will not chafe—”
“Yes, exactly,” said Hornblower, fighting down his squeamishness.
“A very beautiful piece of work,” said the surgeon. “As long as it heals properly and gangrene does not set in. At this stage the surgeon has to depend on his nose for his diagnosis.”
Suiting the action to the word the surgeon sniffed at the dressings and at the raw stump.
“Smell, monsieur,” he said, holding the dressings to Hornblower’s face. Hornblower was conscious of the faintest whiff of corruption.
“Beautiful, is it not?” said the surgeon. “A fine healthy wound and yet every evidence that the ligatures will soon free themselves.”
Flying Colours h-9 Page 3
