It was a good thought to me that he had found these friends in captivity; that he had started on this fatal journey from so cordial a farewell. He had broken his parole for his daughter: that he should ever live to reach her sick-bed, that he could continue to endure to an end the hardships, the crushing fatigue, the savage cold, of our pilgrimage, I had early ceased to hope. I did for him what I was able, — nursed him, kept him covered, watched over his slumbers, sometimes held him in my arms at the rough places of the road. ‘Champdivers,’ he once said, ‘you are like a son to me — like a son.’ It is good to remember, though at the time it put me on the rack. All was to no purpose. Fast as we were travelling towards France, he was travelling faster still to another destination. Daily he grew weaker and more indifferent. An old rustic accent of Lower Normandy reappeared in his speech, from which it had long been banished, and grew stronger; old words of the patois, too: Ouistreham, matrassé, and others, the sense of which we were sometimes unable to guess. On the very last day he began again his eternal story of the cross and the Emperor. The Major, who was particularly ill, or at least particularly cross, uttered some angry words of protest. ‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur le commandant, mais c’est pour monsieur,’ said the Colonel: ‘Monsieur has not yet heard the circumstance, and is good enough to feel an interest.’ Presently after, however, he began to lose the thread of his narrative; and at last: ‘Qué que j’ai? Je m’embrouille!’ says he, ‘Suffit: s’m’a la donné, et Berthe en était bien contente.’ It struck me as the falling of the curtain or the closing of the sepulchre doors.
Sure enough, in but a little while after, he fell into a sleep as gentle as an infant’s, which insensibly changed into the sleep of death. I had my arm about his body at the time and remarked nothing, unless it were that he once stretched himself a little, so kindly the end came to that disastrous life. It was only at our evening halt that the Major and I discovered we were travelling alone with the poor clay. That night we stole a spade from a field — I think near Market Bosworth — and a little farther on, in a wood of young oak trees and by the light of King’s lantern, we buried the old soldier of the Empire with both prayers and tears.
We had needs invent Heaven if it had not been revealed to us; there are some things that fall so bitterly ill on this side Time! As for the Major, I have long since forgiven him. He broke the news to the poor Colonel’s daughter; I am told he did it kindly; and sure, nobody could have done it without tears! His share of purgatory will be brief; and in this world, as I could not very well praise him, I have suppressed his name. The Colonel’s also, for the sake of his parole. Requiescat.
CHAPTER XV — THE ADVENTURE OF THE ATTORNEY’S CLERK
I have mentioned our usual course, which was to eat in inconsiderable wayside hostelries, known to King. It was a dangerous business; we went daily under fire to satisfy our appetite, and put our head in the loin’s mouth for a piece of bread. Sometimes, to minimise the risk, we would all dismount before we came in view of the house, straggle in severally, and give what orders we pleased, like disconnected strangers. In like manner we departed, to find the cart at an appointed place, some half a mile beyond. The Colonel and the Major had each a word or two of English — God help their pronunciation! But they did well enough to order a rasher and a pot or call a reckoning; and, to say truth, these country folks did not give themselves the pains, and had scarce the knowledge, to be critical.
About nine or ten at night the pains of hunger and cold drove us to an alehouse in the flats of Bedfordshire, not far from Bedford itself. In the inn kitchen was a long, lean, characteristic-looking fellow of perhaps forty, dressed in black. He sat on a settle by the fireside, smoking a long pipe, such as they call a yard of clay. His hat and wig were hanged upon the knob behind him, his head as bald as a bladder of lard, and his expression very shrewd, cantankerous, and inquisitive. He seemed to value himself above his company, to give himself the airs of a man of the world among that rustic herd; which was often no more than his due; being, as I afterwards discovered, an attorney’s clerk. I took upon myself the more ungrateful part of arriving last; and by the time I entered on the scene the Major was already served at a side table. Some general conversation must have passed, and I smelled danger in the air. The Major looked flustered, the attorney’s clerk triumphant, and three or four peasants in smock-frocks (who sat about the fire to play chorus) had let their pipes go out.
‘Give you good evening, sir!’ said the attorney’s clerk to me.
‘The same to you, sir,’ said I.
‘I think this one will do,’ quoth the clerk to the yokels with a wink; and then, as soon as I had given my order, ‘Pray, sir, whither are you bound?’ he added.
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘I am not one of those who speak either of their business or their destination in houses of public entertainment.’
‘A good answer,’ said he, ‘and an excellent principle. Sir, do you speak French?’
‘Why, no, sir,’ said I. ‘A little Spanish at your service.’
‘But you know the French accent, perhaps?’ said the clerk.
‘Well do I do that!’ said I. ‘The French accent? Why, I believe I can tell a Frenchman in ten words.’
‘Here is a puzzle for you, then!’ he said. ‘I have no material doubt myself, but some of these gentlemen are more backward. The lack of education, you know. I make bold to say that a man cannot walk, cannot hear, and cannot see, without the blessings of education.’
He turned to the Major, whose food plainly stuck in his throat.
‘Now, sir,’ pursued the clerk, ‘let me have the pleasure to hear your voice again. Where are you going, did you say?’
‘Sare, I am go-ing to Lon-don,’ said the Major.
I could have flung my plate at him to be such an ass, and to have so little a gift of languages where that was the essential.
‘What think ye of that?’ said the clerk. ‘Is that French enough?’
‘Good God!’ cried I, leaping up like one who should suddenly perceive an acquaintance, ‘is this you, Mr. Dubois? Why, who would have dreamed of encountering you so far from home?’ As I spoke, I shook hands with the Major heartily; and turning to our tormentor, ‘Oh, sir, you may be perfectly reassured! This is a very honest fellow, a late neighbour of mine in the city of Carlisle.’
I thought the attorney looked put out; I little knew the man!
‘But he is French,’ said he, ‘for all that?’
‘Ay, to be sure!’ said I. ‘A Frenchman of the emigration! None of your Buonaparte lot. I will warrant his views of politics to be as sound as your own.’
‘What is a little strange,’ said the clerk quietly, ‘is that Mr. Dubois should deny it.’
I got it fair in the face, and took it smiling; but the shock was rude, and in the course of the next words I contrived to do what I have rarely done, and make a slip in my English. I kept my liberty and life by my proficiency all these months, and for once that I failed, it is not to be supposed that I would make a public exhibition of the details. Enough, that it was a very little error, and one that might have passed ninety-nine times in a hundred. But my limb of the law was as swift to pick it up as though he had been by trade a master of languages.
‘Aha!’ cries he; ‘and you are French, too! Your tongue bewrays you. Two Frenchmen coming into an alehouse, severally and accidentally, not knowing each other, at ten of the clock at night, in the middle of Bedfordshire? No, sir, that shall not pass! You are all prisoners escaping, if you are nothing worse. Consider yourselves under arrest. I have to trouble you for your papers.’
‘Where is your warrant, if you come to that?’ said I. ‘My papers! A likely thing that I would show my papers on the ipse dixit of an unknown fellow in a hedge alehouse!’
‘Would you resist the law?’ says he.
‘Not the law, sir!’ said I. ‘I hope I am too good a subject for that. But for a nameless fellow with a bald head and a pair of gingham small-clothes, why certainly! ’Tis my
birthright as an Englishman. Where’s Magna Charta, else?’
‘We will see about that,’ says he; and then, addressing the assistants, ‘where does the constable live?’
‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried the landlord, ‘what are you thinking of? The constable at past ten at night! Why, he’s abed and asleep, and good and drunk two hours agone!’
‘Ah that a’ be!’ came in chorus from the yokels.
The attorney’s clerk was put to a stand. He could not think of force; there was little sign of martial ardour about the landlord, and the peasants were indifferent — they only listened, and gaped, and now scratched a head, and now would get a light to their pipes from the embers on the hearth. On the other hand, the Major and I put a bold front on the business and defied him, not without some ground of law. In this state of matters he proposed I should go along with him to one Squire Merton, a great man of the neighbourhood, who was in the commission of the peace, the end of his avenue but three lanes away. I told him I would not stir a foot for him if it were to save his soul. Next he proposed I should stay all night where I was, and the constable could see to my affair in the morning, when he was sober. I replied I should go when and where I pleased; that we were lawful travellers in the fear of God and the king, and I for one would suffer myself to be stayed by nobody. At the same time, I was thinking the matter had lasted altogether too long, and I determined to bring it to an end at once.
‘See here,’ said I, getting up, for till now I had remained carelessly seated, ‘there’s only one way to decide a thing like this — only one way that’s right English — and that’s man to man. Take off your coat, sir, and these gentlemen shall see fair play.’ At this there came a look in his eye that I could not mistake. His education had been neglected in one essential and eminently British particular: he could not box. No more could I, you may say; but then I had the more impudence — and I had made the proposal.
‘He says I’m no Englishman, but the proof of the pudding is the eating of it,’ I continued. And here I stripped my coat and fell into the proper attitude, which was just about all I knew of this barbarian art. ‘Why, sir, you seem to me to hang back a little,’ said I. ‘Come, I’ll meet you; I’ll give you an appetiser — though hang me if I can understand the man that wants any enticement to hold up his hands.’ I drew a bank-note out of my fob and tossed it to the landlord. ‘There are the stakes,’ said I. ‘I’ll fight you for first blood, since you seem to make so much work about it. If you tap my claret first, there are five guineas for you, and I’ll go with you to any squire you choose to mention. If I tap yours, you’ll perhaps let on that I’m the better man, and allow me to go about my lawful business at my own time and convenience, by God; is that fair, my lads?’ says I, appealing to the company.
‘Ay, ay,’ said the chorus of chawbacons; ‘he can’t say no fairer nor that, he can’t. Take off thy coat master!’
The limb of the law was now on the wrong side of public opinion, and, what heartened me to go on, the position was rapidly changing in our favour. Already the Major was paying his shot to the very indifferent landlord, and I could see the white face of King at the back-door, making signals of haste.
‘Oho!’ quoth my enemy, ‘you are as full of doubles as a fox, are you not? But I see through you; I see through and through you. You would change the venue, would you?’
‘I may be transparent, sir,’ says I, ‘but if you’ll do me the favour to stand up, you’ll find I can hit dam hard.’
‘Which is a point, if you will observe, that I had never called in question,’ said he. ‘Why, you ignorant clowns,’ he proceeded, addressing the company, ‘can’t you see the fellow’s gulling you before your eyes? Can’t you see that he has changed the point upon me? I say he’s a French prisoner, and he answers that he can box! What has that to do with it? I would not wonder but what he can dance, too — they’re all dancing masters over there. I say, and I stick to it, that he’s a Frenchy. He says he isn’t. Well then, let him out with his papers, if he has them! If he had, would he not show them? If he had, would he not jump at the idea of going to Squire Merton, a man you all know? Now, you are all plain, straightforward Bedfordshire men, and I wouldn’t ask a better lot to appeal to. You’re not the kind to be talked over with any French gammon, and he’s plenty of that. But let me tell him, he can take his pigs to another market; they’ll never do here; they’ll never go down in Bedfordshire. Why! look at the man! Look at his feet! Has anybody got a foot in the room like that? See how he stands! do any of you fellows stand like that? Does the landlord, there? Why, he has Frenchman wrote all over him, as big as a sign-post!’
This was all very well; and in a different scene I might even have been gratified by his remarks; but I saw clearly, if I were to allow him to talk, he might turn the tables on me altogether. He might not be much of a hand at boxing; but I was much mistaken, or he had studied forensic eloquence in a good school. In this predicament I could think of nothing more ingenious than to burst out of the house, under the pretext of an ungovernable rage. It was certainly not very ingenious — it was elementary, but I had no choice.
‘You white-livered dog!’ I broke out. ‘Do you dare to tell me you’re an Englishman, and won’t fight? But I’ll stand no more of this! I leave this place, where I’ve been insulted! Here! what’s to pay? Pay yourself!’ I went on, offering the landlord a handful of silver, ‘and give me back my bank-note!’
The landlord, following his usual policy of obliging everybody, offered no opposition to my design. The position of my adversary was now thoroughly bad. He had lost my two companions. He was on the point of losing me also. There was plainly no hope of arousing the company to help; and watching him with a corner of my eye, I saw him hesitate for a moment. The next, he had taken down his hat and his wig, which was of black horsehair; and I saw him draw from behind the settle a vast hooded great-coat and a small valise. ‘The devil!’ thought I: ‘is the rascal going to follow me?’
I was scarce clear of the inn before the limb of the law was at my heels. I saw his face plain in the moonlight; and the most resolute purpose showed in it, along with an unmoved composure. A chill went over me. ‘This is no common adventure,’ thinks I to myself. ‘You have got hold of a man of character, St. Ives! A bite-hard, a bull-dog, a weasel is on your trail; and how are you to throw him off?’ Who was he? By some of his expressions I judged he was a hanger-on of courts. But in what character had he followed the assizes? As a simple spectator, as a lawyer’s clerk, as a criminal himself, or — last and worst supposition — as a Bow-street ‘runner’?
The cart would wait for me, perhaps, half a mile down our onward road, which I was already following. And I told myself that in a few minutes’ walking, Bow-street runner or not, I should have him at my mercy. And then reflection came to me in time. Of all things, one was out of the question. Upon no account must this obtrusive fellow see the cart. Until I had killed or shook him off, I was quite divorced from my companions — alone, in the midst of England, on a frosty by-way leading whither I knew not, with a sleuth-hound at my heels, and never a friend but the holly-stick!
We came at the same time to a crossing of lanes. The branch to the left was overhung with trees, deeply sunken and dark. Not a ray of moonlight penetrated its recesses; and I took it at a venture. The wretch followed my example in silence; and for some time we crunched together over frozen pools without a word. Then he found his voice, with a chuckle.
‘This is not the way to Mr. Merton’s,’ said he.
‘No?’ said I. ‘It is mine, however.’
‘And therefore mine,’ said he.
Again we fell silent; and we may thus have covered half a mile before the lane, taking a sudden turn, brought us forth again into the moonshine. With his hooded great-coat on his back, his valise in his hand, his black wig adjusted, and footing it on the ice with a sort of sober doggedness of manner, my enemy was changed almost beyond recognition: changed in everything but a certain dry, polemica
l, pedantic air, that spoke of a sedentary occupation and high stools. I observed, too, that his valise was heavy; and, putting this and that together, hit upon a plan.
‘A seasonable night, sir,’ said I. ‘What do you say to a bit of running? The frost has me by the toes.’
‘With all the pleasure in life,’ says he.
His voice seemed well assured, which pleased me little. However, there was nothing else to try, except violence, for which it would always be too soon. I took to my heels accordingly, he after me; and for some time the slapping of our feet on the hard road might have been heard a mile away. He had started a pace behind me, and he finished in the same position. For all his extra years and the weight of his valise, he had not lost a hair’s breadth. The devil might race him for me — I had enough of it!
And, besides, to run so fast was contrary to my interests. We could not run long without arriving somewhere. At any moment we might turn a corner and find ourselves at the lodge-gate of some Squire Merton, in the midst of a village whose constable was sober, or in the hands of a patrol. There was no help for it — I must finish with him on the spot, as long as it was possible. I looked about me, and the place seemed suitable; never a light, never a house — nothing but stubble-fields, fallows, and a few stunted trees. I stopped and eyed him in the moonlight with an angry stare.
‘Enough of this foolery!’ said I.
He had tamed, and now faced me full, very pale, but with no sign of shrinking.
‘I am quite of your opinion,’ said he. ‘You have tried me at the running; you can try me next at the high jump. It will be all the same. It must end the one way.’
I made my holly whistle about my head.
‘I believe you know what way!’ said I. ‘We are alone, it is night, and I am wholly resolved. Are you not frightened?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not in the smallest. I do not box, sir; but I am not a coward, as you may have supposed. Perhaps it will simplify our relations if I tell you at the outset that I walk armed.’
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 248