The man thought hard. ‘Towards Langres, I reckon; follow that road, and you might come on them and then again you might not.’
It summed up the situation with discouraging accuracy, Vincent thought, changing over to the now rested chestnut and turning its head down the little country lane the man had indicated. It would be little short of a miracle if he found either the convoy, or the two girls, supposing they had really decided to stay with the carriage. But—could they have been so mad? Admit—they might have. The carriage contained everything they possessed in the world. But the risk did not bear thinking of. If only he could stop thinking.
At least, the soldier’s directions seemed to have been surprisingly accurate. There was the barn he had spoken of, and here the windmill. Near it, he met a considerable body of Austrian troops, ground his teeth over the inevitable delay while their officer examined his papers and once again put his question.
‘The diplomats?’ The man sounded amused. ‘Yes, they spent the night with us, and are off this morning to join the Emperor at Dijon. I suppose they would very likely spend tonight at Langres. The rate they were traveling they’ll be lucky if they get there. As to ladies—there were some with them, that I do know, but that’s all I know. Oh yes, I can tell you where we spent the night all right, and a damned uncomfortable one it was too.’
Once again, Vincent listened carefully to the directions he was given and turned his horse’s head down the rough farm track the officer indicated. ‘It shouldn’t take you more than half an hour,’ were his last, encouraging words. ‘We’ve done nothing but go round in circles this morning.’
Riding quickly along the track, Vincent allowed himself to hope a little. If the girls had insisted on staying with their carriage, he might well find them still on the site of the bivouac. If, on the other hand, they had accepted a lift, he assumed from Lady Burgersh, he should easily be able to catch them before they reached Langres. Then he checked his rising hopes. He might be on a complete wild goose chase; it might be some quite different ladies. He set his teeth and tried not to think of a story an Austrian friend of his had told him. This man, an officer, had seen a French lady, obviously well born, being carried off by Cossacks. He had rescued her and she had explained, gratefully, that she had been following her husband who was in Napoleon’s army. He had left her in charge of his servant, only to learn, later, that the Cossacks had returned, in force, and carried her off again. No amount of inquiry had discovered her, though he had appealed to the Czar himself. Her fate did not bear thinking of and he had kept the story from Sonia and Elizabeth for fear of alarming them unduly. Now, he wished he had told them… At least it might have prevented their even thinking of staying with their baggage. Not much good either to try and console himself with the thought that, theoretically, the Cossacks were on their side. When it came to pillage, Cossacks were on no one’s side but their own. Even their own officers could not always control them.
Hurry… Hurry… He must be near the site of the bivouac now. It should, by his instructions, be on the far side of this little wood. And on the thought, from that very direction, the sound of shots. No time now for hope or fear. He set spurs to his horse and rode through the wood at a dangerous gallop, only slackening his pace as he reached its fringe to reconnoiter before emerging. The firing had stopped, but he could hear a confused noise of shouting.
In the field beyond the wood, a little group of Frenchmen were attacking a Cossack who seemed to be defending the body of a companion. And beyond them—Vincent’s heart gave a leap—stood the familiar carriage with Sonia close beside it, her face white and set, her little gun in her hand. During their travels, he had done his best to improve her shooting, and now with a warm little thrill of pride, he saw her take aim, steadily, as he had taught her, and fire. Amazingly, one of the Frenchmen fell and two of his comrades turned to advance on Sonia. Vincent urged his horse forward, turning, as he left the wood, to shout an order to an imaginary body of men. The ruse worked; as he threw himself into the fray, the Frenchmen turned to flee pell-mell down the road. But the second Cossack had fallen now across the Frenchman Sonia had shot, who lay helplessly shouting oaths at his vanishing comrades. To Vincent’s relief, they took no notice, but continued their headlong flight and had soon vanished over the brow of the hill.
Sonia was coming towards him, the little gun still in her hand. ‘That was timely.’ Her white face and trembling hand gave the lie to her casual tone.
‘Thank God, yes.’ No time now for the thousand things he wanted to say. Instead, to the wounded Frenchman: ‘Stay still, sir, if you wish to live.’ And then, to Sonia, with an effort at her lightness: ‘Good shooting, urchin. Now, keep him covered will you, while I disarm him? But where’s Elizabeth?’
Something changed in her face. ‘Ill, in the carriage. But—the poor Cossacks?’
‘Dead, I’m afraid, both of them. And as for you—’
The Frenchman was sitting on the ground, bleeding heavily from a wound in his leg. ‘God damn them,’ he said dispassionately after his vanished comrades. And then, to Vincent, ‘I assure you, sir, the fight was none of my seeking. This young lady will tell you that I did my best to dissuade those fools from attacking. I’m a civilian—you can see from my dress—I was merely acting in self-defence.’
‘It looked a pretty violent kind of self-defence to me,’ said Vincent. ‘Did he really try and dissuade them, Sonia?’
‘Yes, indeed he did. He kept saying something about his papers.’
‘Papers, eh? By your leave, sir, I’d best have a look at them. No, I wouldn’t resist, if I were you. You might get hurt.’ He found the papers concealed in a secret pocket of the man’s greatcoat. ‘Keep him covered, Sonia, while I take a look.’ And then, ‘Good God, no wonder he didn’t want to get involved in a wayside broil. Here’s a letter from Napoleon to his wife.’ He looked through it hurriedly. ‘With a description of his plans. Sonia, can you help me get him into the carriage? We must not lose a minute. He’s too weak, I think, to give trouble, and we can hardly leave him here. I warn you, sir, if you try anything, I’ll kill you.’ He meant it and the Frenchman, now very pale, allowed them to help him along towards the carriage, which, Vincent had seen with relief, had already been extricated from the mud into which it had sunk. ‘But Elizabeth,’ he asked now, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know: a chill, perhaps, caught last night—we camped out, you know, with the army. Or—I don’t know—maybe just nerves.’
‘Nerves? Elizabeth? Surely not’
‘You expect us to be made of iron, don’t you, Charles? Flattering, I suppose, that you think us so well able to take care of ourselves.’
‘I’ve been worried to death about you, Sonia. You must know that.’
‘Must I? More worried than about your beloved Bourbons?’
‘Of course. What I feel for them is duty…loyalty…’
‘And for us?’ Her eyes were large and bright in her pale face.
‘For you! Sonia—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘But what happened to Haverton? Why was he not there to take care of you?’
‘He left Châtillon with urgent dispatches for his cousin just before the order came to move. You thought we were safe with him, did you, Charles?’
‘And Lord Aberdeen… Lady Burgersh—’ They had nearly reached the carriage. He looked at Sonia across the drooping body of the Frenchman. ‘No, I won’t make excuses; I can’t bear to have failed you like this, Sonia. If anything had happened to you, I’d never have forgiven myself.’
‘No?’ She reached up to open the carriage door. ‘Look who’s here, Elizabeth. Charles to the rescue—better late than never.’
Elizabeth was huddled in a corner of the carriage, very white, and shivering convulsively. ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Are you all right, Sonia?’
‘Oh, absolutely; there’s nothing I like better than a mid-morning shooting match. And here, please note, is my victim. You will not mind having him for companion
, Elizabeth? He is quite quiet now.’
The Frenchman began a feeble protest. ‘Surely you will bandage my wound before we go. Look how it bleeds.’
‘And give your companions time to come back for you,’ said Charles. ‘I think not, sir.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Sonia. ‘Your companions are a long time coming, Charles.’
‘Are they not?’ No use admitting in front of their prisoner that he was alone, but Sonia’s quick glance told him she had understood. ‘Where’s your coachman?’
‘Ran like a hare, when the French attacked,’ said Sonia. ‘If it had not been for those brave Cossacks—I’ll never say another word against them. Were they quite dead, Charles?’
‘Quite, I’m afraid.’ He propped the protesting Frenchman in the corner of the carriage. ‘I shall have to drive. Keep him covered, Sonia, and shoot to kill if he makes the slightest move. You know what a capable shot she is, sir.’ And then, to Elizabeth: ‘I am so sorry to find you thus. Will you be able to bear the motion of the carriage, do you think?’
‘I shall have to.’ She managed a wavering smile. ‘But where are we going? To Dijon?’
‘Dijon?’
‘That’s where the diplomats have gone,’ explained Sonia. ‘They sleep tonight at Langres.’
‘And that is the way those Frenchmen will think we have gone; if they should decide to come after us. But anyway, I am sorry, Sonia; Elizabeth, forgive me. I have no choice; I must take you to the Czar.’
‘To the Czar!’ Sonia’s voice rose. ‘And where, pray, is he?’
‘At Arcis-sur-Aube; or was yesterday.’ He had been expertly tying the Frenchman’s hands behind him as he spoke. ‘I am sorry, Sonia, but I must take him Napoleon’s letter.’
‘You know, of course, that the French army is very probably between us and Arcis.’ She kept her voice light and low, in the hope that Elizabeth would not hear.
‘Yes. We will get away from here, find some shelter where we can leave him, and lay our plans. Believe me, Sonia, it appals me to have to expose you two to further danger…but I must.’
‘Duty calls, eh, Charles. As usual.’ She settled herself facing the Frenchman, gun in hand. ‘I warn you, sir, I’m in a very bad temper. I shall shoot you without the slightest hesitation. Very well, Charles, drive on, and God help us.’
Chapter Fourteen
Charles whipped up the horses and turned the heavy carriage away from the scene of the fight. They had lost dangerously much time already. But at least the horses were fresh from their night’s rest, and the carriage uninjured. He was able to set forward at a good pace, congratulating himself, as he did so, that the diplomatic convoy had left the muddy road in such a state that it would be quite impossible for any pursuers to pick up the traces of their carriage. Still more important, he had come on a landmark that he remembered. He had come this way, once before, when going to Nancy and had spent the night with a family of passionate royalists in their small château deep in the forest. He remembered the way now, and also that there was a village a few miles this side of the château. Presently he stopped the carriage, jumped down and opened the door by the Frenchman.
‘Out,’ he said. ‘This is as far as you go.’
‘What?’ The man looked at the thick woods through which the road ran. ‘You cannot leave me here. It would be barbarous.’
‘There’s a village a little further on. I shall send you help from there. Be grateful, sir. I might have left you where you fell.’ He propped him against a tree, gave him a flask of wine and a hunk of black bread from the provisions the girls had brought and left him there.
‘You really will send him help?’ Sonia asked.
‘Of course. Do you think me a liar as well as everything else? I shall tell them we saw a man lying wounded back here and promised to send help to him. By the time they hear his story, we shall be safe away.’
‘Where?’
He told her about the royalist château. ‘They will do their best for us, I am sure. You must see that it is essential I take the news of Napoleon’s plans to Allied Headquarters.’ For once, his voice was almost pleading.
‘It’s not much use my arguing, is it?’
‘Frankly, no. But how is Elizabeth?’
‘Not at all well; she does nothing but shiver.’
‘Wrap her in my coat.’ He handed it in to her. ‘I am hopeful that my friends the Loyets will take her in.’
‘And me, I suppose. I might have known it.’
‘We won’t argue the point now.’ He clinched the matter by swinging himself back on to the coachman’s box. A few miles further on, he stopped, as he had promised, in the village and ensured that the Frenchman would indeed be rescued by describing him as prepared to pay well for any help he received. Then before he could be embarrassed by too many questions, he inquired the way to a town in the opposite direction to the Loyets’ château, explained in passing that he was taking his sick wife to the doctor there, and drove out of the village on the road indicated. This meant a considerable detour, but it was still early afternoon when they reached the château. To his relief, it lay quiet in erratic March sunshine: no army had been this way.
He left the girls in the carriage and knocked on the door of the wing of the castle to which long years in opposition had reduced the Loyets. Then, as he had been told to do when he came here before, he stood back in the courtyard so as to be visible from the upstairs windows. After a considerable interval, he thought he saw movements behind one of them, then, at last, the big door swung slowly open.
‘You!’ Charles Loyet stood, gaunt and haggard in the doorway. ‘Don’t come any nearer, M Vincent, we have the fever.’
‘The typhus?’
‘I fear so. My wife. Wait, and I’ll come out to you. They say it communicates itself less easily in the open air. But keep well away.’ He accepted Vincent’s sympathy, but shrugged aside his offers of help. ‘My wife is beyond it; my son is with her. For myself, I am beyond caring. But you—what can I do for you? You would not be here without a good reason.’
As briefly as possible, Vincent explained his position, ending with the vital question. ‘Is it true that the French army is between here and the Allies?’
‘I am very much afraid so. But—spread out, disorganised; I think it might be possible to get through. And I can help you. Before my wife took ill, I had completed the arrangements to move her and my son to Paris, away from the fighting. I have all the papers; could you not use them?’
‘But you?’
‘Our next journey, I think, will be to the graveyard. Don’t trouble yourself about us; you are on the King’s business. If, by giving you our papers I can shorten this war by even so much as a day—and hasten his return—it will be worth it to die here, where I have lived. Don’t look so concerned, if you could see my wife, you would know there is no question of moving her. But—we must lose no time, nor should you be lingering here to catch the disease.’
They planned, briefly and urgently. Elizabeth would pass as Mme Loyet: ‘If you hint she may have the fever, they will not examine her too closely.’ He gave a brief, grisly list of symptoms to be quoted. Sonia presented a greater difficulty, since the third set of papers were for the Loyets’ nineteen-year-old son. ‘That’s easy,’ said Vincent. ‘She’s dressed as a boy before; lend us some of your son’s clothes, and she must do so again.’
‘Admirable. And as for you; you’ll just have to pray they don’t query your age. It will be dusk, which should help, and a hint of the fever should keep them at arm’s length.’
While Loyet hurried indoors for a suit of his son’s clothes, Vincent returned to the carriage. Elizabeth had nodded off into an uneasy sleep as soon as it stopped and Sonia leaned out of the window to greet him in an anxious whisper. ‘She’s asleep; don’t wake her. What’s the matter? Why were you so long?’
He explained, as quickly as possible. Her reaction was instantaneous: ‘The typhus? Frightful. But should we not do something
to help them?’
‘He says there is nothing to be done, and I believe him.’
‘So you cannot leave us here after all. Poor Charles. Instead, we are to be your cover once again. Is that it?’
‘You could put it that way. At least, it means I can keep you with me.’
‘And you want to? Why, Charles—’
He was looking past her. ‘Here’s M Loyet. Be as quick as you can changing, Sonia. We must be through the French army before morning.’
‘You hope.’ But she was already turning away with the bundle of clothes under her arm to change, as Loyet had suggested, in the deserted main entrance hall of the house. He had chosen the clothes well, and a voluminous greatcoat and large tricorn hat went far to conceal any deficiencies. When she returned, with her own gown and pelisse hanging over her arm, Vincent looked at her with approval. ‘You’ll do,’ he said, ‘in the twilight.’
She made a face at him. ‘Thank you for those encouraging words. I’m glad to think I shall pass—in the dark. But what about the carriage? It has a very German look about it to me.’
‘I shall say I stole it from an Austrian officer.’
‘Enterprising Charles.’ She was about to open the carriage door, but Vincent stopped her.
‘You’ll have to ride on the box with me. No one would risk being shut up with a typhus case. I’ve propped Elizabeth up with all the blankets. She says she’ll do.’
‘You mean, she’ll have to.’
‘This is war, Sonia.’
‘I‘m beginning to realise that…’
Loyet had hardly stayed to listen to their thanks, but hurried back to his wife. Charles helped Sonia up to the high coachman’s seat and settled himself beside her. ‘You’ll have to have a bad throat if we are questioned. Your voice would give you away at once.’
‘How encouraging you are.’ She croaked it at him in the deepest voice she could manage. And then, more naturally: ‘How pleasant it is up here. I’m so glad we lost that rascally coachman. I wonder where he’s got to by now. I suppose you know where we are going?’
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