Harry dared not stop again. His face very white, he gazed back. “My God … Jerry … dear old boy.…” He saw a trooper stop and dismount beside that sprawled figure, and he drove home his spurs, suddenly finding it difficult to see clearly. With grief a knife blade in his breast, he rode on, whispering, “Dear old Jerry! Shot down by one of our own lads … our own good men.… My God!”
Chapter 18
The sun became warmer in the afternoon, shining brightly on the lush green of the meadows and waking glittering sparkles from the stream that hurried through the woods. At the centre of the trees, seven horses grazed in a small clearing. Their seven riders, disposed about in various attitudes of weariness, felt slightly restored in body by reason of the bread, cold roast beef, and cheese that Charity had carried with her, but their spirits were low. They numbered several deep and enduring friendships among them, but Jeremy Bolster was beloved by all, and the silence was crushing.
Sir Harry, his back propped against a tree trunk, at length voiced the thought that was uppermost in all their minds. “He’s not dead, of course,” he said. “Old Jerry’s indestructible. They couldn’t kill him at Badajoz, though they gave it a jolly good … try. And if Boney couldn’t snuff the straw-topped idiot, you cannot think that slimy little Claude … could.…” The words shredded and he said no more. Jeremy had looked dead. There had been blood on his face as he fell, and he had looked so terribly finished.…
Huddled on the upthrusting root of a solitary oak, Charity bowed her head into her hands. “First Diccon … then poor Guy. Then Major Tyndale and the Reverend Langridge. Now … dear Jeremy. Oh—how could they? How could they?” And she wept softly.
Leith said, “We cannot blame the troopers. They were only doing what they conceived to be their duty.”
“I know.” She sniffed and wiped fiercely at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t … but it’s just … that evil, evil man!”
Mitchell drawled, “Those dutiful troopers of yours, Leith, drove us in circles for the better part of an hour. I do not question your refusal to return their fire, or your evasive actions, but do you know where we are now? Damned if I do.”
Devenish, who had been stretched out with his head on his saddle, sat up and peered around. “We’ve been riding north, eh, Tris?”
“I’m afraid we have. It was the only way to throw ’em off.”
“And west, dammit,” said Strand.
“Oh, Lor’!” exclaimed Lion. “I’d s’posed them hills was the North Downs.”
Leith sighed. “I wish to God they were. They’re the Cotswolds.”
“And we’ve gone at least ten miles out of our way,” said Sir Harry, glumly.
Leith stood, stretched, then went to help Charity from her impromptu chair. “Can you face more riding, dear?” he asked kindly.
She managed to smile, but she was thinking that Mitchell had been very quiet and withdrawn ever since they’d left Coventry. He had not approached her when they’d dismounted here, and it had been Justin who’d lifted her down and who had insisted she have this most comfortable of the “seats” they’d found. She had likely made a fool of herself with a man who was notorious for his many lights o’ love.
Lion came up, leading her saddled horse. Settling herself after he threw her into the saddle, she wondered drearily if rakes were rakes because they were incapable of enduring devotion. She looked across at Mitchell, but he was engaged in an apparently grim conversation with his brother and avoided her gaze.
When they were all mounted, Leith glanced around. “Seven,” he thought, “including a boy and a lady.” He took out his timepiece. “Ten minutes past two o’clock…” he announced soberly.
Charity thought an appalled, “Two o’clock … Tuesday!” She walked her horse to Mitchell and held out her hand. He took it, his eyes sober, then glanced down at the notebook in his hand. He looked up at her. She smiled, but he stared at her sombrely and did not return the smile.
Again, they stayed clear of major roads, riding across country for the most part, heading ever south and east. They soon discovered that their clearing had been not far from Burford, their enforced detour having carried them almost twenty miles out of their way. They crossed the Thames above Abingdon and came at sunset into the high Down country. They were entering Berkshire, the fields lush and green about them, when Harry, glancing back, shouted, “Dammit! We’re found again!”
This time their pursuers were greater in number, their exultant shouts leaving no doubt of their identity. The chase was on again. Leith led them at the gallop up hill and down, mile after mile, trying desperately to elude the dozen or so who strove just as desperately to come up with them. Through streams and across culverts they went, leaping ditches and racing full-tilt down slopes they would have taken with caution at any other time. After an especially mad dash down a steep hill, a village loomed up, drowsing peacefully in the sunset. Turning anxiously, Charity saw that the pursuit was far behind now. Encouraged, she started to call to Devenish, who rode beside her. By the warm crimson glow she saw that he was bowed over his horse’s mane, his eyes closed, his face twisted with anguish. “Dev!” she screamed.
He looked at her dazedly. “Sorry … m’dear…” he gasped. A faint twitching smile faded fast. “Can’t … ride no more. Awfully … sorry,” and he slid from the saddle.
“Tris!” shrieked Charity.
Leith reined back, saw Devenish lying very still beside the path and shouted “Lion! Hide him!”
The youth, who had brought up the rear beside Mitchell, was already dismounting. Mitchell glanced down at Devenish, but rode on, increasing his speed so as to catch up with Leith and Charity. He could see tears on the girl’s pale face. He thought, “Only five, now.”
On they rode, a grim and subdued group, past villages and hamlets preparing for the evening, with open doors allowing a brief glimpse of cosy parlours or tables set for dinner in neat, whitewashed cottages. Past great manors secure behind their gates and parks, with lamps beginning to glow in many windows. Past fields and labourers coming home, bowed with weariness, yet raising a hand to wave at these five riders who came up so fast and passed with a thunder of hooves, creak of leather, and the flapping of the lady’s rumpled habit. And the workers, returning to hearth and home, sat down to table and enjoyed their meal in peace and comfort. While the five who rode pushed on, desperate to elude the pursuers who clung so tenaciously mile after mile, until it was dark and the rising moon often hidden behind drifting clouds.
They passed a lonely graveyard, but Leith suddenly circled around and led the way through the tumbledown gates and in amongst the sagging headstones. And here, at last, he called a halt. They all dismounted, Strand lifting Charity down, patting her shoulder fondly as she sagged against him and leading her to where she might rest against a marble slab. Harry and Mitchell came over and sat down beside them, and Leith stood with his head slightly tilted, listening intensely.
“By God,” he sighed at last, “I think we gave ’em the slip when we turned west at that last crossroads.”
For a moment no one responded, each of them so exhausted as to find even words beyond them.
Leith sank down onto the marble slab and leaned back against the headstone, closing his eyes. Charity huddled against her brother; Harry, his head downbent, was breathing hard; Mitchell, elbows resting on his knees, wondered dully whether he would be able to mount up again and dared not close his eyes.
It was very quiet, the only sounds the hard blowing breaths of the horses who stood with heads down and shoulders splattered with foam.
After a minute, Mitchell pointed out wearily, “They’re liable to be … waiting for us … up ahead.”
“True,” Leith acknowledged. “But if we don’t stop for food … and rest, none of us will reach Brighton.”
Looking ready to topple from his cold perch, Justin Strand said, “Stuff! We’re almost there, Tris. Gad, we must be!”
“The last … hundred miles…�
� said Sir Harry, “is the hardest. Can we get through, d’you suppose, Leith?”
“Not unless we split up. They’re all around us now.”
“No choice,” Strand agreed.
“You’ll want to stay with Charity, Justin,” said Leith.
Pulling up her heavy head, Charity mumbled feebly, “And … Mitchell.”
Leith nodded. “Of course, dear. Now, we’re just north of Farnborough and should—”
“Are we, by Jupiter!” said Strand, brightening. “Then Guildford cannot be more than twelve or so miles distant, and from there it’s a straight run to Brighton!”
Very aware that the horses were close to foundering, that they all were at the edge of collapse, and that death lurked all about them, Leith asked, “Well, Sir Harry? Are you game for that straight run?”
Harry, used to forced marches, was finding it difficult to focus his eyes and wondered how poor old Mitch, who’d had by far the worst time of it, was staying awake. He replied cheerfully that he could scarcely wait to begin.
Fatigue enveloped Charity like a crushing weight. Remotely, she felt someone grip her arm and realized she was trying to sit up and making a sorry business of it. “I’m so … sorry,” she muttered, and added a confused, “You must not stop … only for my sake.”
They all stared at her, then at each other, and appreciative grins flickered over four weary faces.
“Please do let us stop just for a minute, love,” said Mitchell, not caring whether that upset Justin Strand or not.
Charity peered at him eagerly, saw the expression in his eyes, and her heavy heart soared.
Leith said, “Strand, I want you to turn west to Basingstoke.”
“The devil! It’s miles out of our way!”
“Yes. You can get fresh horses there, and food. Rest until dawn, then swing gradually southeast through the Downs until you reach Brighton.”
“Next week!” Mitchell put in indignantly. “If you don’t mind, Leith, I prefer to—”
“I do not give a tinker’s damn what you prefer!” growled Leith. “We are not here for you—or for me, or even for your gallant lady. We are here for England. Harry and I will make a dash for the Pavilion. If we should fail, you will be approaching Brighton from a direction Claude may not expect.”
Mitchell nodded. “My apologies. We shall do as you say, of course, Colonel.” He turned to his brother and put out his hand. “Good luck, mon sauvage.”
Sir Harry pushed aside his hand and pulled him into a crushing hug. “Don’t forget what I told you, halfling. And take care of your little wife.”
Mitchell grinned at him. “Yes, Sir Captain.”
Charity embraced Leith, and he gripped his brother-in-law’s hand firmly. Then the two weary, dishevelled, but still resolute little groups mounted up, waved their goodbyes, and blended into the night.
* * *
The innkeeper was annoyed. He had waited up until eleven o’clock on the off-chance that some luxurious coach and four might pull into his yard, and no sooner had he sought out his warm bed and settled his nightcapped head onto the pillows than this scruffy lot had pounded at his door. Two gents, looking like death, and one with a bullet graze across his head or he’d never seen one; and a lady in so sorry a condition he could only fancy they was running from something or somebody, which meant trouble with a capital T!
“I’m not at all sure as I’ve a room will suit,” he muttered.
“We need two rooms,” Mitchell said, managing to level a frigid glare.
The accent was Quality, the tilt of the chin was intimidating, the glint in the red-rimmed eyes was familiar. Reassured, the innkeeper said, “I’ve two fine chambers, sir. ’Course, me rates ain’t exactly low, but—”
“We’ll pay,” Mitchell snapped. “My wife is very tired. Show us up, if you please, so that—”
“It’s that damned dog again,” Strand declared irritably.
Surprised, the innkeeper argued, “I didn’t hear no dog, sir.”
His arm about Charity’s wilting form, Mitchell said sharply, “Strand? Wake up!”
Justin rounded on him, flushed with fury. “I didn’t kill Jeremy! Do not dare accuse me!”
That high-pitched, querulous voice reached through the fog of exhaustion that had possessed Charity. She fought her head up. Justin’s eyes glittered and at the edges of his high colour he was deathly white. “Oh, my God!” she gasped and, taking his hand, said soothingly, “It’s all right, dearest. Everything is all right now.”
Strand peered at her. “Lisette…?” he said, puzzled.
“What the deuce…?” Mitchell asked.
“Gawd!” gasped the landlord. “Only look how he shakes! I can’t have him here, sir! Sorry, but—”
Strand sighed and crumpled to the floor.
The landlord gave a squeak of fright and backed away.
Kneeling beside her brother, Charity cried, “Justin! Oh, poor darling!”
“Get him away! Get him away!” shrilled the landlord.
Mitchell ignored him and slipped a hand onto Charity’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Malaria.” She looked up at him in anguish. “He near died of it last year, but he’s been so well, I didn’t think … I suppose, when—when he got so cold and wet…”
Mitchell stood motionless, trying to force his brain to work. “Be still, sir!” he snapped, turning angrily on the gabbling landlord. “The gentleman’s illness is not catching, and you will be well paid for your trouble, I do assure you. Now, wake a servant and send him for the nearest doctor at once.”
His panic subsiding when he realized there was no direct threat to his own health, the landlord hesitated.
“I am Sir Harry Redmond,” lied Mitchell and, with a gleam of inspiration took Claude Sanguinet’s ruby ring from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it on the desk. “My wife and my brother-in-law and I were trying to win a wager, but it looks as though fate has intervened. That will secure our expenses. It’s worth the price of ten inns such as this one! Now—move!”
The landlord jumped. This gent was Quality all right, and wasn’t it just typical they’d been wagering? Cor! He snatched up the ruby. It was worth a fortune, all right. His eyes gleaming with avarice, he said eagerly. “Oh, at once, Sir Harry, anything you wish. Just ask—just ask!”
* * *
The physician came with reluctance and grumbled until he encountered Redmond’s haughtily raised eyebrows and the chill, aristocratic manner that could so effectively depress pretension. The ostler who had summoned him had warned of the nature of the illness, so he had brought a supply of the invaluable quinine. He found Strand fretful and feverish, but much to Charity’s relief pronounced that the attack seemed comparatively mild and would likely be of short duration. It was, however, imperative that the patient keep to his bed for several days. The decree infuriated Strand, but he had learned from bitter experience that his affliction was not to be trifled with, and he did not protest when Redmond said that he meant to snatch a few hours’ sleep and press on very early in the morning.
Charity having gone out with the doctor, Strand said wearily, “How I should love to have been in at the finish.” He paused, then added slowly, “You shall have to be careful. Sanguinet will have his whole crew scouring the countryside for you.”
“Perhaps.” Mitchell’s eyes were bleak. “They’ll be looking for several riders—not one man alone.”
Watching him, Strand said, “You think Leith and your brother have drawn most of the action, eh?”
“You should be asleep, my friend.”
Strand’s head tossed fretfully. “D’you fancy they’ve a chance of getting through?”
Mitchell looked at him levelly. “No. No more did they.” He walked to the door, then came back. “Strand,” he said, staring fixedly at a bedpost, “if anything should happen to me … you’ll take care of her?”
Strand’s head was buzzing again, but he managed to point out that until now he had done so to t
he best of his ability.
“There are some things,” Redmond went on, still concentrating on the bedpost, “I should like her to have. I’ll write a few lines to Harry before I leave. I, ah, want Charity treated as befits my, er, relict. You’ll deliver the letter for me?” He glanced up, his face rather red.
Shivering to a new onslaught of chills, Strand nodded and wondered with a sudden deep regret if either of the brothers would survive this mess. “H-have you told her … you’re going on … alone?”
Mitchell grinned wryly. “Ain’t brave enough.”
It was past one o’clock before he was able to lie down, fully clothed except for his jacket, with a loaded pistol ready to hand and his boots close beside the bed. As he had requested, a maid crept in to wake him at half-past four. He was not an easy man to waken, especially when he had enjoyed less than ten hours’ sleep over the past four days. The maid patted his arm, and he mumbled. She shook his shoulder, and he smiled drowsily at her and went back to sleep. In desperation, she grabbed his left arm with both hands and shoved strongly. Mitchell sprang up in bed with a muffled shout and clutched his side.
“Mercy!” cried the startled girl. “Ye said as how ye wanted to be waked now, zur!”
Breathing very fast, he gasped out, “Dreaming … is all. Sorry, lass.”
She sighed with relief, said she had put a pannikin of hot water and shaving articles on the washstand, and crept away.
Half an hour later, washed and shaved, his garments restored insofar as was possible, and thus feeling somewhat more human, Redmond tiptoed into Strand’s bedchamber. The sick man looked hot, and his head tossed restlessly against the pillows, but he was asleep. Turning to put his letter on the mantelpiece, Redmond gave a gasp. Charity was not sleeping in the trundle bed that he had ordered placed in here for her. Instead, she was curled up in a wing chair beside the bed, sleeping soundly. He propped his letter against the clock, but could not resist what he feared might be his last look at her. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was tangled and untidy, but the dim light of his candle awoke gleams of gold from those rumpled curls. He touched one soft strand very gently. “Auf Wiedersehen, Madame Mulot,” he murmured, then he crept from the room.
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