“General, if I’m not mistaken, the middle road leads straight to the abbey.”
“That’s the way; but we’re going to need a light to go down into the vaults.” Monck turned around. “Ah ha! Digby followed us anyway, it appears. All the better; he can get us what we need.”
“Yes, General, a man has been shadowing us for quite a while.”
“Digby!” cried Monck. “Digby! Come here, please.”
But, instead of obeying, the shadow started as if in surprise and then withdrew instead of advancing, crouching and making off to the left toward the riverbank and the little camp where the fishermen were lodged.
“It seems it wasn’t Digby,” said Monck.
The pair observed the shadow as it disappeared, but it wasn’t strange to see someone moving around at eleven o’clock at night in a camp of ten to twelve thousand men, and Athos and Monck weren’t alarmed by this apparition.
“Well, we’re going to need some kind of light, a lantern or a torch, so we can see where we’re putting our feet, so let’s find one,” said Monck.
“General, any soldier we meet can light our way.”
“No,” said Monck, thinking he saw a way to determine if there was any complicity between the Comte de La Fère and the fishermen. “No, I’d rather have one of those French sailors who came in tonight to sell me their fish. They leave in the morning and they’ll take the secret with them. If the rumor spread through the Scottish army that there were treasures hidden in Newcastle Abbey, my Highlanders will think there’s a million under every flagstone and they won’t leave one brick standing on another.”
“As you wish, General,” replied Athos in a tone so natural it was clear that, soldier or sailor, it was all the same to him, and he had no preference.
Monck took the left causeway, beyond which the man he’d mistaken for Digby had disappeared, and encountered a patrol that, going around the bivouac, was returning toward headquarters. The soldiers stopped him and his companion, Monck gave the password, and they continued on their way.
Another soldier, awakened by the exchange, rose draped in plaid to see what was going on. “Ask him where the fishermen are,” said Monck to Athos. “If I speak to him, he’ll recognize me.”
Athos approached the soldier, who pointed out the right tent. Monck and Athos went toward it. It seemed to the general that as they approached a shadow like the one they’d seen before slipped into the tent, but when he looked within he realized he must have been mistaken, for everyone there was asleep, lying pell-mell with legs and arms across each other. Athos, thinking he might be suspected of colluding with these other Frenchmen, stayed outside.
“Holà!” said Monck in French. “Wake up in there.” Two or three sleepers sat up. “I need a man to light my way,” continued Monck.
Everyone stirred at that, some rising and standing. The captain had risen first. “Your Honor can count on us,” he said, in an accent that made Athos start. “Where do you want to go?”
“You’ll find out. A lantern, who has one? Quickly, now!”
“Yes, Your Honor. Would Your Honor like me to accompany him?”
“You or whoever, I don’t care, so long as someone lights my way.”
Strange, thought Athos. What a distinctive voice that fisherman has.
“A light, there,” cried the captain. “Move it!” Then, whispering to one of his nearby companions, “Take the lantern, Menneville,” he said, “and be ready for anything.”
One of the fishermen struck flint to steel, ignited a piece of tinder, and with this match lit a lantern. The whole tent was instantly illuminated. “Are you ready, Monsieur?” said Monck to Athos, who had turned so his face wasn’t exposed to the light.
“Yes, General,” Athos replied.
“Ah! That French gentleman,” whispered the fishermen’s captain. “Peste! It’s a good thing I thought to give you the job, Menneville, as he might recognize me. Light their way!”
This was spoken at the far end of the tent, and so low that Monck didn’t hear a syllable; in any event, he was talking with Athos. Menneville was gathering what he needed while listening to his chief’s orders.
“Well?” said Monck.
“Be right there, General,” said the fisherman.
Monck, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent. Impossible, thought Athos. What could I have been thinking?
“Go ahead, and take the middle path,” said Monck to the sailor. “Stretch those legs!”
They hadn’t gone twenty paces before the same shadow once more emerged from the tent, and, crawling along parallel to the causeway, behind a fence of hanging nets, kept a curious eye on the general’s progress.
All three disappeared into a rising mist. They were walking toward Newcastle Abbey, whose white stones appeared out of the gloom like sepulchers. After standing for a few seconds under the portico, they went through the gate. The door had been splintered by axes. Inside, a squad of four men was sleeping soundly in a corner of the court, so certain were they that there was no chance of attack on this flank.
“The presence of these men doesn’t bother you?” said Monck to Athos.
“On the contrary, Monsieur, they can help us roll out the barrels, if Your Honor will permit it.”
“Very well.”
These sentries, asleep though they were, awoke when they heard their visitors advancing through the brambles and grass that grew in the outer court. Monck gave the password and they went into the abbey’s interior, led by the man with the lantern. Monck came last, watching Athos’s every movement, his naked dirk in his sleeve, ready to plunge it to the hilt into the French gentleman at the first sign of betrayal. But Athos unhesitatingly marched on through the halls and corridors with a sure step.
Not a single door or window was intact. The doors had been burned, some while still on their hinges, where they stood blackened by the fire but only partly consumed, the flames having burned out before they could devour the great oak slabs held together by iron hasps and nails. As for the windows, every inch of glass had been broken out, and night birds, frightened by the lantern light, fled out through the gaping frames. Meanwhile above great bats began to circle the intruders, the lantern light casting their shadows fitfully against the naked walls. Thinking about it, Monck found this spectacle reassuring, as the presence of the animals meant there were no men lurking deeper in the abbey.
After traversing many rubble-strewn chambers and tearing down more than one vine that had grown across a doorway, Athos arrived at the great hall under the central tower, with its chapel built over the vaults below. There he stopped. “Here we are, General,” he said.
“Have you found the right slab?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed, I see this flagstone has a ring, but it’s mortared down flat.”
“We need a lever.”
“That’s easily gotten.” Looking around, Athos and Monck spotted an ash sapling three inches in diameter growing up in a corner, toward a window now filled by its branches. “Do you have a knife?” Monck asked the fisherman.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Hack down this tree, then.”
The fisherman drew a cutlass and obeyed, though not without notching its blade. When the trunk was stripped, it served as a lever, and the three men opened the crypt. “Wait there,” said Monck to the fisherman, pointing to a corner of the chapel. “We have black powder to dig up, and your lantern would be dangerous.”
The man recoiled in fear and retreated to the spot assigned to him, while Monck and Athos turned back to the crypt, where luckily a beam of moonlight fell directly on the stone that the Comte de La Fère had come so far to find.
“There it is,” said Athos, showing the general the slab with its Latin inscription.
“Indeed,” said Monck. Then, offering the Frenchman one final opportunity to give up his pretense, he said, “Have you noticed, lining the chapel, the number of broken statues?”
“Milord, you have no doubt he
ard of the religious practice of the Scots whereby they erect statues of the deceased to protect the valuable objects they had in life. Some soldiers no doubt thought those statues might conceal treasure beneath them, so they overthrew the statues and cracked open their pedestals. But the tomb of the venerable canon before us was never distinguished by a monument, protected instead by your Puritans’ superstitious fear of sacrilege; not an inch of this tomb has been chipped.”
“That’s true,” said Monck.
Athos took up his makeshift lever.
“Do you want any help?” asked Monck.
“Thank you, Milord, but I don’t want Your Honor to put your hand to work on any labor that you might not wish to take responsibility for later, once you knew the consequences.”
Monck raised his head. “What do you mean by that, Monsieur?” he asked.
“What I mean is… wait, that man.”
“Right,” said Monck. “I understand what you fear, so let’s put him to the test.”
Monck turned toward the fisherman, whose silhouette was outlined by the light of his lantern. “Come here, friend,” he ordered the man in English.
The fisherman didn’t budge.
“It’s fine,” he continued, “he doesn’t understand English. Speak in English, if you please, Monsieur.”
“Milord,” replied Athos, “I have known men who, under certain circumstances, are able to pretend not to answer a question posed in a language they supposedly don’t understand. The fisherman may be more cunning than we think. Please dismiss him, Milord.”
No doubt about it, thought Monck, he wants me alone in this vault with him. No matter, let’s see this to the end; he’s only one man, and I should be a match for him.
“My friend,” Monck said in French to the fisherman, “wait for us outside the entrance, and make sure no one comes in to disturb us.”
The fisherman moved to obey.
“Leave your lantern,” said Monck. “It will just reveal your location and might attract a stray musket shot.”
The fisherman seemed to appreciate this advice, set down his lantern, and disappeared under the arch of the entrance.
Monck went and took up the lantern, which he brought down into the crypt. “So!” he said. “There’s a fortune hidden in this tomb?”
“Yes, Milord, and in five minutes you will cease to doubt it.”
And saying this, Athos used the ash lever to strike a violent blow on the surface of the plaster, which cracked and split. He inserted the lever into the crack and pried up whole slabs of plaster, which split and fell aside. Then the Comte de La Fère resorted to his hands, tearing off hunks of mortar with a strength one would never have suspected in such delicate fingers.
“Milord,” said Athos, “this is the concealing masonry of which I told Your Honor.”
“Yes, but I don’t yet see any barrels,” said Monck.
“If I had a dagger,” said Athos, looking around, “you’d see them sooner. Unfortunately, I forgot mine in Your Honor’s tent.”
“I’d offer you mine,” said Monck, “but the blade isn’t strong enough for what you have in mind.”
Athos seemed to hunt around for an object that would serve the purpose he desired. Monck watched every movement of his hands, every expression of his eyes. “Why don’t you ask that fisherman for his blade?” said Monck. “He has a cutlass.”
“Ah, quite so!” said Athos. “The one he used to cut down that tree.” He went to the staircase. “My friend,” he called to the fisherman, “toss me your cutlass, if you please, I need it.”
The weapon clanged down the steps.
“Take it,” said Monck. “It looks to me like a solid enough instrument, and a firm hand could make good use of it.”
Athos seemed to accord to Monck’s words only the natural and simple meaning in which they were couched. He also didn’t notice, or didn’t seem to notice, that when he returned toward Monck, Monck stepped back, putting his left hand on the butt of his pistol; the right hand already held his dirk. Athos set to work, turning his back toward Monck and putting his life in his hands. He made a few sharp and adroit blows on the connecting plaster that separated it into two parts, and Monck could then see two barrels placed end to end encased in a chalky shell.
“Milord,” said Athos, “you see that my presentiments are proven true.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Monck, “and I have every reason to believe you’re satisfied, do I not?”
“Entirely. The loss of this money would have been a terrible blow to me, but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, would not have allowed us to lose the gold that could let us triumph.”
“Upon my honor, you’re as mysterious in your words as in your actions, Monsieur,” said Monck. “Just now, I didn’t understand what you meant when you said that I might not want to be responsible for the task you just accomplished.”
“I had good reason to say that, Milord.”
“And now you speak of the good cause. What do you mean by those words, the good cause? At present we’re fighting for five or six causes here in England, which doesn’t keep anyone from regarding their own, not only as good, but as the best. Which is yours, Monsieur? Speak frankly, and then we’ll see if on this point, to which you attach such great importance, we are of the same opinion.”
Athos gave Monck one of those penetrating looks as if probing for deception; then, removing his hat, he began to speak in a solemn voice, while his listener, hand to his face, allowed his long, nervous fingers to ply his mustache and beard, while his vague and melancholy gaze wandered aimlessly around the crypt.
XXVI Heart and Mind
“Milord,” said the Comte de La Fère, “you are a noble Englishman and man of integrity, and you speak with a noble Frenchman who is a man of heart. The gold contained in these two barrels, when I told you it was mine, that was wrong; it’s the first deliberate lie I’ve ever told, though it’s true it was only temporary. This gold belongs to King Charles II, exiled from his country, driven from his palace, orphaned at the same time of his father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even the sad consolation of kissing on his knees that stone on which the hands of his murderers inscribed the simple epitaph that cries out for eternal vengeance against them, ‘Here lies King Charles I.’ ”
Monck paled slightly, and an imperceptible shiver rippled his skin and bristled his mustache.
“I,” continued Athos, “the Comte de La Fère, the sole and final remaining loyalist of that poor abandoned prince, have offered to come find the man upon whom the fate of royalty in England today depends. I came and stood in this man’s gaze, placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, and now I say to him, ‘Milord, here is the last resource of a prince whom God made your master, as his birth made him your king, but upon you and you alone depend his life and his future. Will you use this money to console England for the evils she’s suffered under anarchy—that is to say, will you help, or at least not hinder King Charles II in doing it?’
“Here you are the master, you are the king, the all-powerful master and king, because sometimes chance defeats the work of time and God. I am here alone with you, Milord; if the thought of sharing power alarms you, if my complicity disturbs you, you are armed, Milord, and here is a grave already dug. If, on the other hand, the enthusiasm of your cause elevates you, if you are what you seem to be, if your hand, in what it undertakes, obeys your mind, and your mind follows your heart, here is the means of destroying forever the cause of your enemy, Charles Stuart. Kill therefore the man who stands before you, for that man won’t return to the one who sent him without that fortune that Charles I, his father, confided to him, kill him and keep the gold that might be used to carry on the civil war. Alas, Milord, that is the fatal situation of that unhappy prince, that he must either corrupt or kill; for everything resists him, all are against him, yet he is marked with the divine seal of royalty, and to be true to his blood, he must retake the throne or die trying on the sacr
ed soil of his fatherland.
“Milord, you have heard what I have to say. To anyone other than the illustrious man whom I address, I would have said, ‘Milord, you are poor; Milord, the king offers you this million as down payment on a great bargain: take it and serve Charles II as I have served Charles I, and I am sure that God, who listens to us, who sees us, who reads in your heart what is hidden from all human eyes, I am sure that God will grant you a happy eternal life after death.’ But to General Monck, to the illustrious man whose measure I believe I have taken, I say, ‘Milord, there is a brilliant place for you in the history of nations and kings, an immortal and imperishable glory. With no motive but the good of your country and the interest of justice, you can become the prime supporter of your king. Many others have been conquerors or usurpers; you, Milord, will be satisfied to be the most virtuous, honest, and worthy of men; you will have held a crown in your hand and instead of fitting it to your brow, you will have placed it on the head for whom it was made. Oh, Milord! Act thus, and you will bequeath to posterity the most glorious name a mortal can bear.”
Athos stopped. During the whole time the noble gentleman was speaking, Monck hadn’t given the slightest sign of approval or disapproval. Despite this earnest speech, his eyes had scarcely shown even a glint of intelligence. The Comte de La Fère looked at him sadly, and seeing that dull visage, felt discouragement enter his heart.
Finally, Monck stirred, and breaking the silence, said in a soft and solemn voice, “Monsieur, I am going to use your own words to answer you. To anyone other than you, I would respond with expulsion, imprisonment, or worse. Because in fact, you tempt me and at the same time force my hand. But you are one of those men, Monsieur, to whom one can’t refuse the attention and consideration they deserve. You’re a brave gentleman, Monsieur, for I know one when I see one. You mentioned a fortune that the late king set aside for his son; are you not one of those Frenchmen who, as I’ve heard, attempted to rescue Charles from Whitehall?”
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