The Blind Beak
Page 23
‘Now shall you have the secret of your mission when you reach America,’ he read, ‘and of my design to recompense you on the one hand for the hurt I once caused you, on the other hand to serve my own purpose. You must know then your Comtesse Chagrin de l’Isle’ — Nick caught his breath as he read that magical name, and suddenly it was as if the Blind Beak stood beside him, his soft sibilant voice in his ear — ‘was released from the Bastille and is herself in America, there to exercise her talents and beauty spying for General Lafayette behind the British lines. Your objective, therefore will straight-way be apparent to you. Win her over to our side (and you are not the resolute Nick Rathburn I know if you cannot). For your encouragement, during her sojourn in the Bastille I made it my business to ensure she was the recipient of intelligence that you were not solely blameworthy for her situation. I am blind enough but, thanks be to He who is all-seeing, not without foresight. Long had I visualized the advantage of securing the allegiance of one placed at the core of the enemy’s camp. Such would be your Comtesse. The sure way of prevailing upon her to shift her loyalty would be through you. So you see, Nick, the power of the Blind Beak (as I am led to understand I am sometimes dubbed) is employed not invariably to destroy in hate and enmity.’
At the conclusion followed a postscript from Mr. Bond, wherein confidentially he expressed his growing concern for Sir John’s health. Sir John had taken no rest despite his experiences during the riots, and he wished he could be persuaded to pause from his daily toil awhile, but on no account would he. But every particle of Nick’s attention could not help but be concentrated for the moment and to the exclusion of all else upon the words that danced before his eyes in letters of flame. Shaken to the depths of his soul, the blood racing through his veins he read and re-read: ‘...Chagrin... is herself in America...’
It could not be, it could not be, and yet here it was writ down for him to read and trust in, and as his imagination hung upon the memory of that exquisite wraith from the past who was, of a sudden, part of his future, once more he could now look back and grasp how consummately had the Blind Beak fitted this final piece of the tortuous puzzle into place. How he must have relished, Nick thought, hugging to himself the secret he planned to spring upon him, and back there in Bow Street he would be thinking of him now, as he had promised he would be, when he was outward bound, those plump, bland enigmatic features transformed by a gentle mysterious smile... ‘and this time your orders are: win her over to your side...’
Slowly he folded the letter and could not entirely control the trembling of his fingers, returning it to his pocket, the Blind Beak’s words rocking his brain:
‘is herself in America...’ A score of questions milled around in his thoughts. How had she been assured he alone was not blameworthy for her tribulation? How had Sir John got into communication with her behind the Bastille’s forbidding ramparts? But he cared not now what the answers might be, all that concerned him was the innermost knowledge that he would search the entire Americas for her, to win her for himself and for Sir John’s cause. As his heart, exulting at the new splendid vision ahead, which he had thought for ever lost and put behind him, and every voice within him crying out he could make the dream come true, the strains of a sea-shanty were borne to his ear upon the freshening breeze:
‘Hurrah, we be outward bound:
To Portsmouth Town we bid adieu,
To Sal, and Sue and Kitty too,
The anchor weigh’d, the sail unfurl’d,
All for across the wat’ry world:
Hurrah, we be outward bound...’
The sky was a smoky amber streaked with long, thin fingers of pale scarlet reaching up from the dark, silvery horizon, growing dusky purple as it merged into the sea whose waters spread towards the ship smooth and green from deepest olive to lightest emerald and everywhere reflecting the everchanging colours of the sky, the gulls wheeling and plunging at the gentle swell in silvery splashes and crying as they rose to wheel and circle and plunge downwards once more. Behind him Portsmouth lay dark and no single glimmer of light appeared. Then, above the great white spreading sails and where the larboard light glowed like a goblet of red wine, he saw the solitary star, brilliant and diamond-glittering, that had of a sudden made its appearance as if cast up and magically held against the vivid curtain now descending upon the day that was over.
‘Oh, star, my lucky star, watch over and keep her for me. You shall guide us together once more in enduring love and enchantment.’ And his heart was lifted up with a boundless rejoicing in the surety of knowing that, wherever she may be, however distant he must journey, he would find her and cherish her always. And the Swiftsure sailed on into the enfolding shadows, while that tall, black-garbed figure, the white streak in his dark hair ruffled by the salt sea-spray, remained on deck, until the ship swung into the English Channel, the Isle of Wight curled low to starboard, and set her course westwards, the sailors chanting:
‘All for across the wat’ry world; Hurrah, we be outward bound...’
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