The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  There was a silence. He heard Greene start to speak, and stop. The old man’s breathing was easier. He became aware that the old man was watching him with his steady light-blue eyes.

  “Gentlemen,” said Grandpa Breen, “you leave this yere to me. There’s been enough goin’s on to attract attention. I’ll gladly mind this yere.”

  There was no doubt of his meaning or any doubts that the major took his meaning. The major was buttoning his coat with steady, rapid fingers.

  “There’s a time,” the old man said, “and a place for everything under the sun. Take him to the kitchen and tie him to the hick’ry chair. I’ll fetch rope.”

  “Major,” said Greene, “you take him.”

  “Oh,” the major said, “let’s get out of this! Come on!”

  The major was a good hand with the ropes. He lashed Scott to the kitchen chair so efficiently that there was no chance of moving. Just above his head, where he could not see it, the clock was ticking, and the kettle was bubbling on the stove. Once he was alone, he found himself searching the pine floor for a speck of dust. They were in the parlour, talking. He could hear the murmur of their voices.

  “…soon’s it’s dark,” he heard the old man say.

  “Major!” he shouted. “Here, you, Major!”

  The door from the entry opened, he remembered, and the major stood there pulling on his gloves.

  “Johnny,” he said, “you keep your nerve.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Scott, “I’ve got my nerve. I simply wish to ask you, are you leaving me alone?”

  “Yes,” the major said. “Johnny, keep your nerve.”

  Their glances met, but only for a fraction of a second, as though they saw something indecent in each other’s eyes.

  “I’m not letting your friend come in,” the major said.

  “You tell him good-bye,” said Scott.

  “Good-bye,” the major said. “I should have shot you, Johnny, when you were rolling on the floor.”

  Then the kitchen door opened, letting in warm air that was sweet with the scent of hay. Old Mr. Breen, still in his shirt sleeves, was standing in the doorway with a shovel in his hand. The homeliness of the kitchen and the peaceful warmth from outdoors made everything grotesque.

  “Brother,” said Mr. Breen to the major, “the hosses are ready. You’d best be gittin’ on….And you, young man, I wish you no pain, but I know what you are figurin’. It won’t do no good to holler. No one’ll hear who cares. It won’t do no good to tip over in the chair. I made it. It won’t break. But I’ll be near if you should call.”

  Scott Mattaye did not speak again, and the door slammed shut. He tried to move, but he was as helpless as a hog tied by the legs. First the dogs were yelping, and then there was a sound of hoofs outside the door, and then the place was still except for the humming of the kettle and the ticking of the clock, and in back of everything was that almost soundless vibration of cannon a long way off. He closed his eyes, but even when he closed them he could see Mr. Breen.

  He had no proper sense of sequence, for his mind was like a sick man’s; but there was one thing in his thoughts, Scott Mattaye remembered. He could not divide an hour from the next when his mind was carrying him to a hundred places. Bits of his life would whirl about him. He was shooting wild turkey at Deer Bottom; he was with the cavalry again; but there was one thing on his mind. He must not let the old man know that he was in deathly fear.

  The light was growing softer outside the kitchen windows when the kitchen door opened again and Mr. Breen came in. Clay was smeared on his hands and over his gaunt, bare arms. He walked past the chair and began washing at the kitchen sink.

  “Young man,” said Mr. Breen, “do you need water?”

  “No,” said Scott….“So you’re going to kill me, mister?”

  The old man walked in front of him with a clean towel in his hands.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m the Lord’s poor instrument. Young man, are you afraid?”

  “No,” said Scott, “but if I were you, I reckon I’d be afraid.”

  Old Mr. Breen stared down at him and began to wipe his hands.

  “Did your people fear,” he asked, “when they sent an anointed saint to heaven?”

  “Mister,” said Scott—and he kept his voice even—“I’d be pleased to know, for the comfort of my mind, when you propose to kill me.”

  “After dark,” said Mr. Breen. “I don’t aim to lug you out for burial in daylight. I’m pleased you ain’t afraid. I ain’t afraid, and I’ll die presently. There’s somethin’ gits me—here.”

  Suddenly his eyes were childlike, Scott remembered. He was drawing his hand across his chest.

  “Mister,” said Scott quickly, “I’ve seen a heap of illness. Step here and show me where.”

  “Young man,” said Mr. Breen, “I can read your mind, I guess. You want to tip your chair and yourself atop me. No, young man. I’ll be goin’, but I’ll be ready in case you call.”

  The light outside the kitchen windows was growing soft and mellow, and he could hear the cannon. The time was going past him like a flood again, leaving him motionless like a rock against that flow. For a long while he was entirely alone. As the dusk came down he heard the lowing of cows and the clatter of the milk pails which had stood beside the barn. It must have been when the old man had started milking that the little girl came in through the doorway from the entry. The door squeaked and opened just a crack at first.

  “Why, hello, honeybee,” said Scott. “Come in. Don’ go away. Sholy I can’t hurt you, honeybee.”

  She came tiptoeing towards him. He did not blame her for being frightened.

  “Honeybee,” he said—the child was not attractive, but he could see she liked the name—“I’m powerful thirsty. Could you fetch a cup of water from the sink?”

  “I’m scared,” the little girl whispered.

  “Why, shucks!” said Scott. “You scared—a saucy girl like you? You fetch that cup now, honeybee. Isn’t your grandpop milking? How’ll he know?…There…And I’ve got something for you in my coat. Just ease this rope off my hand so I can reach—”

  “No,” she whispered, “I’m too scared.”

  He could hear his own voice still, not like his own, with its undercurrent of appeal beneath its ridiculous pretence at playfulness, as he pleaded for life. He was ashamed of that moment always—his begging from a child so that one hand could be free.

  “I dassent,” she whispered, but he knew better. She would dare, because there was something inside his coat. All the repression of her life gleamed in her pale blue eyes in little points of light.

  “Honeybee,” said Scott, “it’s something mighty fine—something you won’t guess.”

  There was no sound which made him look up, but he had the sense that there was something different in the gathering of the dusk. The dusk seemed to settle over him like a blanket thrown about his head. He looked up to see the old man, standing in the doorway, watching. There was something in the way he stood that made Scott sure that he had planned that scene for his own pleasure. He must have been there for several minutes, as inevitable as the figure with the hourglass and the scythe.

  “Mary Breen,” the old man said, “you step away. Now, Mary Breen, you fetch the papers by the wood box….So. Now lay ’em on the floor around the chair—under it….You’d best lay on some more. And now go up to your chamber and close your door tight shut.”

  They were silent for a while. Old Mr. Breen seemed taller in the dark—more like an immense abstraction than a man.

  “It’s gittin’ dark,” he said. “Young man, I’ll leave you five minutes to say your prayers.”

  He turned on his heel silently, walked out and closed the door.

  “Time,” the clock was whispering, “time!”

  Inside the stove a piece of wood sna
pped sharply. He could see the glow of coals through the lids on top. The homely smells of the kitchen came round him in a rush. He strained sideways at his ropes, and the heaviness of his breathing drowned every other sound.

  “Help!” he shouted.

  The dogs in the yard began to bark, so that his shout mingled with the wave of barking.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Murder!”

  He hitched forward, and the chair fell forward, throwing him headfirst into the dusk whiteness of the paper on the floor. The blow on his head must have stunned him, but he could not have been out long. There was still a little daylight when he found himself, lying sideways, still lashed to the kitchen chair.

  “Mister soldier!” someone was calling. “You hear me, mister soldier?” It was the little girl in the gingham dress again.

  “Yes,” he said, “I hear you, honeybee.”

  “It’s grandpop,” she was sobbing. “He’s took again. He’s flopped flat down right on the parlour floor. When you hollered, he flopped down.”

  “Yo’ get a knife and cut me loose,” said Scott. “I reckon I can help your grandpop then.”

  “Mister,” she sobbed, “please, you won’t hurt him?”

  “No,” he answered, “I won’t hurt him.”

  Once he was loose, his arms and legs were useless for a while. They burned and ached, once the blood came back, until tears stood in his eyes.

  “Strike a candle light,” he said, “and help me up. I’m very pressed for time.”

  He hobbled through the entry. Old Mr. Breen was lying on the parlour floor, face up, flat out. The candle which the girl was holding made a frame about the high head and the flowing beard. He was conscious, in great pain, staring up at Scott Mattaye. Scott’s own ivory-handled revolver was lying on the floor, where it must have fallen from old Breen’s hand. He stooped painfully and picked it up, but for half a minute no one spoke.

  “Your heart, sir?” said Scott. He was incomprehensibly courteous and polite, but the old man did not speak.

  “Something gits him right across the chest,” said Mary Breen. “It pulls him down.”

  “Set that candle on the table,” Scott was speaking gently. He saw his belt and sabre in the corner. He walked over and strapped on his belt.

  “Sir,” he said, still gently, “I’m sorry to leave you in distress, but you and I don’t matter. You’ve a horse in the barn, I recall yo’ saying. I’m leaving you a hundred dollars on this table for the horse. I’ll call at a neighbour’s to send you help….And now good night.”

  * * *

  —

  He was in the barnyard among the snarling dogs, holding a stable lantern. There was a heavy smell from hay and from the soft, warm breath of cattle. There was a drumming in his ears like the hurry of the clock.

  “Time,” it was saying, “time.”

  He heard himself speaking to Mary Breen, and then he was mounted and in the yard again. The horse was coarse and wild.

  “Scuse me,” Mary Breen was calling. “Ain’t you forgot—somethin’ in your pocket?”

  He pulled out the rest of his bills. “There,” he said, “take ’em, honeybee.”

  He saw the house like a sharp, ungainly blot against the sky where a deep-red gash of something burning in the west made the outline clear. As he moved down the lane towards that distant glow, he did not know what he felt or thought, except that he must hurry, but suddenly he leaned forward on the neck of the farm horse. He felt sick—deathly sick.

  * * *

  —

  There he was, sitting at his table at Deer Bottom, too old by any right to feel the force of memory. The wings of death were hovering near him, but no such death as that. He had the consolation from the knowledge he had gained that life was all dirt cheap.

  “Only two things,” he said, “matter—accident and time. Now, Gettysburg—all that mattered were accident and time.”

  His mind was back on the night again. It always seemed to him that most of the Gettysburg affair was night—mistaken roads and Union pickets, and other roads choked by ammunition trains and infantry, and wounded moving back—two crawling, passing lines. Though the discipline was good, roads were always confused in the rear of a line of battle. There was the vagueness of a dream when one rode at such a time. There was no hope in haste or wishing.

  “You come from Stuart?” someone said. “Well, it’s too late for cavalry until we drive ’em. Where’ve you been? We’ve been fighting here since yesterday.”

  The night was never clear, but when he saw the leader of the army that was clear enough. He reported to General Lee at a quarter before ten in the morning, outside a half-demolished house on the outskirts of the town of Gettysburg.

  Couriers were holding horses, and staff officers were standing a few paces back, so that he always thought of the general as entirely alone. He could remember a tall, solitary man with a greying beard and deep, dark eyes whose face was passionless. He was looking, Scott remembered, across a valley of green fields to a long, gentle slope, which was held by the Union lines about half a mile away.

  He was speaking to a dusty, worried officer, Scott remembered, unhurriedly, except for one short gesture, and Scott could hear the words:

  “Is he ready to attack, sir?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well,” the general said. “Hurry back; tell him he’s very late already.”

  He stared back across the valley as Scott stood waiting. The stones of a cemetery were visible upon the ridge opposite, and an ugly building, which would be some sort of school. The ridge was heavy with troops, throwing up lines of earthworks. Beyond were the dust clouds of more troops moving up, and more. That ridge was a fine position, which was growing stronger every hour. Now and then there would be a burst of rifle fire, but there was no forward movement.

  He stood waiting while the general looked, forgetting his fatigue as he watched. Then Scott saw him strike his hands together in a sudden, swift motion, and he heard him say:

  “It’s too bad—too bad.”

  Scott had a wish to be somewhere else. He felt like an eavesdropper who had heard a dangerous secret, but the general was turning towards him slowly.

  “Well,” he said, “what is it, Captain?”

  “Captain Mattaye, sir,” began Scott, “from General Stuart’s staff—”

  “Yes,” the general stopped him. “When did you leave the general, Captain? How far is he along?”

  “Six o’clock yesterday morning, sir,” said Scott. “General Stuart was at Dover then.”

  For a moment the general looked at him, and it seemed to Scott that the general was very tired, though his expression did not change.

  “Captain,” the general said, “you’re very late.”

  Scott felt his face grow red. “Sir—” he began, but the general stopped him.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Of course, you were delayed.”

  “Sir,” said Scott, “will the general send me back with orders?”

  “No”—the voice was tranquil and very courteous—“General Stuart has his orders. It’s too late to make it better….It would have been too late unless he had come yesterday.” He raised his voice, and Scott knew again that he was thinking of time: “Colonel, send another officer to General Longstreet to find out his delay. And give this officer food and rest. He’s too tired to go on.”

  A BATTLE OF WITS

  EMMUSKA ORCZY

  IT IS EXTRAORDINARY TO NOTE, in view of the fact that she became one of the world’s most successful authors in her time, that Baroness Emmuska Orczy (1865–1947) was born in Hungary and spoke no English until she was fifteen years old. Her family moved to England, she learned the language, and wrote all her novels, plays, and short stories in English.

  To detective fiction aficionados, she is best known as the creat
or of The Old Man in the Corner, an armchair detective who relied entirely on his cerebral faculties to solve crimes. The character who brought her worldwide popularity, although without critical acclaim, was Sir Percy Blakeney, an effete English gentleman who secretly was a courageous espionage agent during the days of the French Revolution, daringly saving the lives of countless French aristocrats who had been condemned to the guillotine.

  Emmuska Orczy was unsuccessful in selling her novel about Sir Percy, so she and her husband converted it into a stage play in 1905; although reviewers were unenthusiastic, audiences loved it. The Scarlet Pimpernel was published as a novel of the same title in the same year, the first of numerous adventures about the thorn in the side of the bloodthirsty citizens of the Committee of Public Safety and the Committee of General Security and the gendarmerie. His success inspired the doggerel:

  We seek him here…

  We seek him there…

  Those Frenchies seek him…

  Everywhere.

  Is he in heaven?

  Is he in h-ll?

  That demmed elusive

  Pimpernel?

  Other novels featuring Blakeney include I Will Repay (1906), The Elusive Pimpernel (1908), Eldorado (1913), and The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel (1922). There have also been numerous screen versions of the Pimpernel saga, beginning with the 1917 silent film, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and the classic motion picture of the same title, released in 1934 and starring Leslie Howard in the title role. The Scarlet Pimpernel took his name from a wildflower that blooms and dies in a single night.

  “A Battle of Wits” was originally published in the March 1919 issue of The Story-Teller; it was first collected in The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Emmuska Orczy (London, Cassell, 1919).

  A BATTLE OF WITS

  EMMUSKA ORCZY

  I

  WHAT HAD HAPPENED was this:

  Tournefort, one of the ablest of the many sleuth-hounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety, was out during that awful storm on the night of the twenty-fifth. The rain came down as if it had been poured out of buckets, and Tournefort took shelter under the portico of a tall, dilapidated-looking house somewhere at the back of St. Lazare. The night was, of course, pitch dark, and the howling of the wind and beating of the rain effectually drowned every other sound.