“This is rare, Bobby!” said he, as the lieutenant joined him.
Then, suddenly restraining himself, “What have we lost, Mr. Wharton?”
“Our maintopsail yard and our gaff, sir.”
“Where’s the flag?”
“Gone overboard, sir.”
“They’ll think we’ve struck! Lash a boat’s ensign on the starboard arm of the mizzen cross-jack-yard.”
“Yes, sir.”
A round-shot dashed the binnacle to pieces between them. A second knocked two marines into a bloody palpitating mash. For a moment the smoke rose, and the English captain saw that his adversary’s heavier metal was producing a horrible effect. The Leda was a shattered wreck. Her deck was strewed with corpses. Several of her portholes were knocked into one, and one of her eighteen-pounder guns had been thrown right back on to her breech, and pointed straight up to the sky. The thin line of marines still loaded and fired, but half the guns were silent, and their crews were piled thickly round them.
“Stand by to repel boarders!” yelled the captain.
“Cutlasses, lads, cutlasses!” roared Wharton.
“Hold your volley till they touch!” cried the captain of marines.
The huge loom of the Frenchman was seen bursting through the smoke. Thick clusters of boarders hung upon her sides and shrouds. A final broad-side leapt from her ports, and the main-mast of the Leda, snapping short off a few feet above the deck, spun into the air and crashed down upon the port guns, killing ten men and putting the whole battery out of action. An instant later the two ships scraped together, and the starboard bower anchor of the Gloire caught the mizzen-chains of the Leda upon the port side. With a yell the black swarm of boarders steadied themselves for a spring.
But their feet were never to reach that blood-stained deck. From some where there came a well-aimed whiff of grape, and another, and another. The English marines and seamen, waiting with cutlass and musket behind the silent guns, saw with amazement the dark masses thinning and shredding away. At the same time the port broadside of the Frenchman burst into a roar.
“Clear away the wreck!” roared the captain. “What the devil are they firing at?”
“Get the guns clear!” panted the lieutenant. “We’ll do them yet, boys!”
The wreckage was torn and hacked and splintered until first one gun and then another roared into action again. The Frenchman’s anchor had been cut away, and the Leda had worked herself free from that fatal hug. But now, suddenly, there was a scurry up the shrouds of the Gloire, and a hundred Englishmen were shouting themselves hoarse: “They’re running! They’re running! They’re running!”
And it was true. The Frenchman had ceased to fire, and was intent only upon clapping on every sail that he could carry. But that shouting hundred could not claim it all as their own. As the smoke cleared it was not difficult to see the reason. The ships had gained the mouth of the estuary during the fight, and there, about four miles out to sea, was the Leda’s consort bearing down under full sail to the sound of the guns. Captain de Milon had done his part for one day, and presently the Gloire was drawing off swiftly to the north, while the Dido was bowling along at her skirts, rattling away with her bow-chasers, until a headland hid them both from view.
But the Leda lay sorely stricken, with her mainmast gone, her bulwarks shattered, her mizzen-topmast and gaff shot away, her sails like a beggar’s rags, and a hundred of her crew dead and wounded. Close beside her a mass of wreckage floated upon the waves. It was the stern-post of a mangled vessel, and across it, in white letters on a black ground, was printed, “The Slapping Sal.”
“By the Lord! it was the brig that saved us!” cried Mr. Wharton. “Hudson brought her into action with the Frenchman, and was blown out of the water by a broadside!”
The little captain turned on his heel and paced up and down the deck.
Already his crew were plugging the shot-holes, knotting and splicing and mending. When he came back, the lieutenant saw a softening of the stern lines about his eyes and mouth.
“Are they all gone?”
“Every man. They must have sunk with the wreck.”
The two officers looked down at the sinister name, and at the stump of wreckage which floated in the discoloured water. Something black washed to and fro beside a splintered gaff and a tangle of halliards. It was the outrageous ensign, and near it a scarlet cap was floating.
“He was a villain, but he was a Briton!” said the captain at last.
“He lived like a dog, but, by God, he died like a man!”
THE END
THE REFUGEES
This 1893 historical novel revolves around Amory de Catinat, a Huguenot guardsman of Louis XIV, and Amos Green, an American who comes to visit France. Major themes include Louis XIV’s marriage to Madame de Maintenon, retirement from court of Madame de Montespan, the revoking of the Edict of Nantes and the subsequent emigration of the Huguenot de Catinats to America.
One of the original illustrations
THE REFUGEES
A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN FROM AMERICA.
CHAPTER II.
A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE.
CHAPTER III.
THE HOLDING OF THE DOOR.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FATHER OF HIS PEOPLE.
CHAPTER V.
CHILDREN OF BELIAL.
CHAPTER VI.
A HOUSE OF STRIFE.
CHAPTER VII.
THE NEW WORLD AND THE OLD.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RISING SUN.
CHAPTER IX.
LE ROI S’AMUSE.
CHAPTER X.
AN ECLIPSE AT VERSAILLES.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SUN REAPPEARS.
CHAPTER XII.
THE KING RECEIVES.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE KING HAS IDEAS.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE LAST CARD.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MIDNIGHT MISSION.
CHAPTER XVI.
“WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES.”
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NIGHT OF SURPRISES.
CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE KING’S CABINET.
CHAPTER XX.
THE TWO FRANCOISES.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE MAN IN THE CALECHE.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SCAFFOLD OF PORTILLAC.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FALL OF THE CATINATS.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE START OF THE “GOLDEN ROD.”
CHAPTER XXV.
A BOAT OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST PORT.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A DWINDLING ISLAND.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN THE POOL OF QUEBEC.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE VOICE AT THE PORT-HOLE.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE INLAND WATERS.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE HAIRLESS MAN.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LORD OF SAINTE MARIE.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE SLAYING OF BROWN MOOSE.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE MEN OF BLOOD.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE TAPPING OF DEATH.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE TAKING OF THE STOCKADE.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE COMING OF THE FRIAR.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE DINING HALL OF SAINTE MARIE.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE TWO SWIMMERS.
CHAPTER XL.
THE END.
NOTE ON THE HUGUENOTS AND THEIR DISPERSION.
NOTE ON THE FUTURE OF LOUIS, MADAMS DE MAINTENON, AND MADAME DE MONTESPAN.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN FROM AMERICA.
It was the sort of window which was common in Paris ab
out the end of the seventeenth century. It was high, mullioned, with a broad transom across the centre, and above the middle of the transom a tiny coat of arms — three caltrops gules upon a field argent — let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from which hung a gilded miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeaked with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between were the cobble-stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clatter of innumerable feet.
Inside, the window was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the curtains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spectacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy.
Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favoured pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a suggestion of purity and innocence, that one would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of colour. Her features were delicate and sweet, and her blue-black hair and long dark eyelashes formed a piquant contrast to her dreamy gray eyes and her ivory skin. In her whole expression there was something quiet and subdued, which was accentuated by her simple dress of black taffeta, and by the little jet brooch and bracelet which were her sole ornaments. Such was Adele Catinat, the only daughter of the famous Huguenot cloth-merchant.
But if her dress was sombre, it was atoned for by the magnificence of her companion. He was a man who might have been ten years her senior, with a keen soldier face, small well-marked features, a carefully trimmed black moustache, and a dark hazel eye which might harden to command a man, or soften to supplicate a woman, and be successful at either. His coat was of sky-blue, slashed across with silver braidings, and with broad silver shoulder-straps on either side. A vest of white calamanca peeped out from beneath it, and knee-breeches of the same disappeared into high polished boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him completed a costume which was a badge of honour to the wearer, for any Frenchman would have recognised it as being that of an officer in the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim, dashing soldier he looked, with his curling black hair and well-poised head. Such he had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thousands of the valiant lesser noblesse who had flocked into the service of the king.
They were first cousins, these two, and there was just sufficient resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the relationship. De Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost his parents early he had joined the army, and had worked his way without influence and against all odds to his present position. His father’s younger brother, however, finding every path to fortune barred to him through the persecution to which men of his faith were already subjected, had dropped the “de” which implied his noble descent, and he had taken to trade in the city of Paris, with such success that he was now one of the richest and most prominent citizens of the town. It was under his roof that the guardsman now sat, and it was his only daughter whose white hand he held in his own.
“Tell me, Adele,” said he, “why do you look troubled?”
“I am not troubled, Amory,”
“Come, there is just one little line between those curving brows. Ah, I can read you, you see, as a shepherd reads the sky.”
“It is nothing, Amory, but—”
“But what?”
“You leave me this evening.”
“But only to return to-morrow.”
“And must you really, really go to-night?”
“It would be as much as my commission is worth to be absent. Why, I am on duty to-morrow morning outside the king’s bedroom! After chapel-time Major de Brissac will take my place, and then I am free once more.”
“Ah, Amory, when you talk of the king and the court and the grand ladies, you fill me with wonder.”
“And why with wonder?”
“To think that you who live amid such splendour should stoop to the humble room of a mercer.”
“Ah, but what does the room contain?”
“There is the greatest wonder of all. That you who pass your days amid such people, so beautiful, so witty, should think me worthy of your love, me, who am such a quiet little mouse, all alone in this great house, so shy and so backward! It is wonderful!”
“Every man has his own taste,” said her cousin, stroking the tiny hand. “It is with women as with flowers. Some may prefer the great brilliant sunflower, or the rose, which is so bright and large that it must ever catch the eye. But give me the little violet which hides among the mosses, and yet is so sweet to look upon, and sheds its fragrance round it. But still that line upon your brow, dearest.”
“I was wishing that father would return.”
“And why? Are you so lonely, then?”
Her pale face lit up with a quick smile. “I shall not be lonely until to-night. But I am always uneasy when he is away. One hears so much now of the persecution of our poor brethren.”
“Tut! my uncle can defy them.”
“He has gone to the provost of the Mercer Guild about this notice of the quartering of the dragoons.”
“Ah, you have not told me of that.”
“Here it is.” She rose and took up a slip of blue paper with a red seal dangling from it which lay upon the table. His strong, black brows knitted together as he glanced at it.
“Take notice,” it ran, “that you, Theophile Catinat, cloth-mercer of the Rue St. Martin, are hereby required to give shelter and rations to twenty men of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons under Captain Dalbert, until such time as you receive a further notice. [Signed] De Beaupre (Commissioner of the King).”
De Catinat knew well how this method of annoying Huguenots had been practised all over France, but he had flattered himself that his own position at court would have insured his kinsman from such an outrage. He threw the paper down with an exclamation of anger.
“When do they come?”
“Father said to-night.”
“Then they shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall have an order to remove them. But the sun has sunk behind St. Martin’s Church, and I should already be upon my way.”
“No, no; you must not go yet.”
“I would that I could give you into your father’s charge first, for I fear to leave you alone when these troopers may come. And yet no excuse will avail me if I am not at Versailles. But see, a horseman has stopped before the door. He is not in uniform. Perhaps he is a messenger from your father.”
The girl ran eagerly to the window, and peered out, with her hand resting upon her cousin’s silver-corded shoulder.
“Ah!” she cried, “I had forgotten. It is the man from America.
Father said that he would come to-day.”
“The man from America!” repeated the soldier, in a tone of surprise, and they both craned their necks from the window. The horseman, a sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven and crop-haired, turned his long, swarthy face and his bold features in their direction as he ran his eyes over the front of the house. He had a soft-brimmed gray hat of a shape which was strange to Parisian eyes, but his sombre clothes and high boots were such as any citizen might have worn. Yet his general appearance was so unusual that a group of townsfolk had already assembled round him, staring with open mouth at his horse and himself. A battered gun with an extremely long barrel was fastened by the stock to his stirrup, while the muzzle stuck up into the air behind him. At each holster was a large dangling black bag, and a gail
y coloured red-slashed blanket was rolled up at the back of his saddle. His horse, a strong-limbed dapple-gray, all shiny with sweat above, and all caked with mud beneath, bent its fore knees as it stood, as though it were overspent. The rider, however, having satisfied himself as to the house, sprang lightly out of his saddle, and disengaging his gun, his blanket, and his bags, pushed his way unconcernedly through the gaping crowd and knocked loudly at the door.
“Who is he, then?” asked De Catinat. “A Canadian? I am almost one myself. I had as many friends on one side of the sea as on the other. Perchance I know him. There are not so many white faces yonder, and in two years there was scarce one from the Saguenay to Nipissing that I had not seen.”
“Nay, he is from the English provinces, Amory. But he speaks our tongue. His mother was of our blood.”
“And his name?”
“Is Amos — Amos — ah, those names! Yes, Green, that was it — Amos Green. His father and mine have done much trade together, and now his son, who, as I understand, has lived ever in the woods, is sent here to see something of men and cities. Ah, my God! what can have happened now?”
A sudden chorus of screams and cries had broken out from the passage beneath, with the shouting of a man and the sound of rushing steps. In an instant De Catinat was half-way down the stairs, and was staring in amazement at the scene in the hall beneath.
Two maids stood, screaming at the pitch of their lungs, at either side. In the centre the aged man-servant Pierre, a stern old Calvinist, whose dignity had never before been shaken, was spinning round, waving his arms, and roaring so that he might have been heard at the Louvre. Attached to the gray worsted stocking which covered his fleshless calf was a fluffy black hairy ball, with one little red eye glancing up, and the gleam of two white teeth where it held its grip. At the shrieks, the young stranger, who had gone out to his horse, came rushing back, and plucking the creature off, he slapped it twice across the snout, and plunged it head-foremost back into the leather bag from which it had emerged.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 363