“A thousand thunders of heaven!” he cried. “What was it that happened then?”
“Your leather has gone too.”
“Two stirrup leathers in five minutes? It is not possible.”
“It is not possible that it should be chance,” said the American gravely, swinging himself off his horse. “Why, what is this? My other leather is cut, and hangs only by a thread.”
“And so does mine. I can feel it when I pass my hand along. Have you a tinder-box? Let us strike a light.”
“No, no; the man who is in the dark is in safety. I let the other folk strike lights. We can see all that is needful to us.”
“My rein is cut also.”
“And so is mine.”
“And the girth of my saddle.”
“It is a wonder that we came so far with whole bones. Now, who has played us this little trick?”
“Who could it be but that rogue Jacques! He has had the horses in his charge. By my faith, he shall know what the strappado means when I see Versailles again.”
“But why should he do it?”
“Ah, he has been set on to it. He has been a tool in the hands of those who wished to hinder our journey.”
“Very like. But they must have had some reason behind. They knew well that to cut our straps would not prevent us from reaching Paris, since we could ride bareback, or, for that matter, could run it if need be.”
“They hoped to break our necks.”
“One neck they might break, but scarce those of two, since the fate of the one would warn the other.”
“Well, then, what do you think that they meant?” cried De Catinat impatiently. “For heaven’s sake, let us come to some conclusion, for every minute is of importance.”
But the other was not to be hurried out of his cool, methodical fashion of speech and of thought.
“They could not have thought to stop us,” said he.
“What did they mean, then? They could only have meant to delay us.
And why should they wish to delay us? What could it matter to them if
we gave our message an hour or two sooner or an hour or two later?
It could not matter.”
“For heaven’s sake—” broke in De Catinat impetuously.
But Amos Green went on hammering the matter slowly out.
“Why should they wish to delay us, then? There’s only one reason that I can see. In order to give other folk time to get in front of us and stop us. That is it, captain. I’d lay you a beaver-skin to a rabbit-pelt that I’m on the track. There’s been a party of a dozen horsemen along this ground since the dew began to fall. If they were delayed, they would have time to form their plans before we came.”
“By my faith, you may be right,” said De Catinat thoughtfully. “What would you propose?”
“That we ride back, and go by some less direct way.”
“It is impossible. We should have to ride back to Meudon cross-roads, and then it would add ten miles to our journey.”
“It is better to get there an hour later than not to get there at all.”
“Pshaw! we are surely not to be turned from our path by a mere guess. There is the St. Germain cross-road about a mile below. When we reach it we can strike to the right along the south side of the river, and so change our course.”
“But we may not reach it.”
“If anyone bars our way we shall know how to treat with them.”
“You would fight, then?”
“Yes.”
“What! with a dozen of them?”
“A hundred, if we are on the king’s errand.”
Amos Green shrugged his shoulders.
“You are surely not afraid?”
“Yes, I am, mighty afraid. Fighting’s good enough when there’s no help for it. But I call it a fool’s plan to ride straight into a trap when you might go round it.”
“You may do what you like,” said De Catinat angrily.
“My father was a gentleman, the owner of a thousand arpents of land, and his son is not going to flinch in the king’s service.”
“My father,” answered Amos Green, “was a merchant, the owner of a thousand skunk-skins, and his son knows a fool when he sees one.”
“You are insolent, sir,” cried the guardsman. “We can settle this matter at some more fitting opportunity. At present I continue my mission, and you are very welcome to turn back to Versailles if you are so inclined.” He raised his hat with punctilious politeness, sprang on to his horse, and rode on down the road.
Amos Green hesitated a little, and then mounting, he soon overtook his companion. The latter, however, was still in no very sweet temper, and rode with a rigid neck, without a glance or a word for his comrade. Suddenly his eyes caught something in the gloom which brought a smile back to his face. Away in front of them, between two dark tree clumps, lay a vast number of shimmering, glittering yellow points, as thick as flowers in a garden. They were the lights of Paris.
“See!” he cried, pointing. “There is the city, and close here must be the St. Germain road. We shall take it, so as to avoid any danger.”
“Very good! But you should not ride too fast, when your girth may break at any moment.”
“Nay, come on; we are close to our journey’s end. The St. Germain road opens just round this corner, and then we shall see our way, for the lights will guide us.”
He cut his horse with his whip, and they galloped together round the curve. Next instant they were both down in one wild heap of tossing heads and struggling hoofs, De Catinat partly covered by his horse, and his comrade hurled twenty paces, where he lay silent and motionless in the centre of the road.
CHAPTER XVI.
“WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES.”
Monsieur de Vivonne had laid his ambuscade with discretion. With a closed carriage and a band of chosen ruffians he had left the palace a good half-hour before the king’s messengers, and by the aid of his sister’s gold he had managed that their journey should not be a very rapid one. On reaching the branch road he had ordered the coachman to drive some little distance along it, and had tethered all the horses to a fence under his charge. He had then stationed one of the band as a sentinel some distance up the main highway to flash a light when the two courtiers were approaching. A stout cord had been fastened eighteen inches from the ground to the trunk of a wayside sapling, and on receiving the signal the other end was tied to a gate-post upon the further side. The two cavaliers could not possibly see it, coming as it did at the very curve of the road, and as a consequence their horses fell heavily to the ground, and brought them down with them. In an instant the dozen ruffians who had lurked in the shadow of the trees sprang out upon them, sword in hand; but there was no movement from either of their victims. De Catinat lay breathing heavily, one leg under his horse’s neck, and the blood trickling in a thin stream down his pale face, and falling, drop by drop, on to his silver shoulder-straps. Amos Green was unwounded, but his injured girth had given way in the fall, and he had been hurled from his horse on to the hard road with a violence which had driven every particle of breath from his body.
Monsieur de Vivonne lit a lantern, and flashed it upon the faces of the two unconscious men. “This is a bad business, Major Despard,” said he to the man next him. “I believe that they are both gone.”
“Tut! tut! By my soul, men did not die like that when I was young!” answered the other, leaning forward his fierce grizzled face into the light of the lantern. “I’ve been cast from my horse as often as there are tags to my doublet, but, save for the snap of a bone or two, I never had any harm from it. Pass your rapier under the third rib of the horses, De la Touche; they will never be fit to set hoof to ground again.” Two sobbing gasps and the thud of their straining necks falling back to earth told that the two steeds had come to the end of their troubles.
“Where is Latour?” asked Monsieur de Vivonne. “Achille Latour has studied medicine at Montpellier. Where is he?”
“Here I am,
your excellency. It is not for me to boast, but I am as handy a man with a lancet as with a rapier, and it was an evil day for some sick folk when I first took to buff and bandolier. Which would you have me look to?”
“This one in the road.”
The trooper bent over Amos Green. “He is not long for this world,” said he. “I can tell it by the catch of his breath.”
“And what is his injury?”
“A subluxation of the epigastrium. Ah, the words of learning will still come to my tongue, but it is hard to put into common terms. Methinks that it were well for me to pass my dagger through his throat, for his end is very near.”
“Not for your life!” cried the leader. “If he die without wound, they cannot lay it to our charge. Turn now to the other.”
The man bent over De Catinat, and placed his hand upon his heart. As he did so the soldier heaved a long sigh, opened his eyes, and gazed about him with the face of one who knows neither where he is nor how he came there. De Vivonne, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and muffled the lower part of his face in his mantle, took out his flask, and poured a little of the contents down the injured man’s throat. In an instant a dash of colour had come back into the guardsman’s bloodless cheeks, and the light of memory into his eyes. He struggled up on to his feet, and strove furiously to push away those who held him. But his head still swam, and he could scarce hold himself erect.
“I must to Paris!” he gasped; “I must to Paris! It is the king’s mission. You stop me at your peril!”
“He has no hurt save a scratch,” said the ex-doctor.
“Then hold him fast. And first carry the dying man to the carriage.”
The lantern threw but a small ring of yellow light, so that when it had been carried over to De Catinat, Amos Green was left lying in the shadow. Now they brought the light back to where the young man lay. But there was no sign of him. He was gone.
For a moment the little group of ruffians stood staring, the light of their lantern streaming up upon their plumed hats, their fierce eyes, and savage faces. Then a burst of oaths broke from them, and De Vivonne caught the false doctor by the throat, and hurling him down, would have choked him upon the spot, had the others not dragged them apart.
“You lying dog!” he cried. “Is this your skill? The man has fled, and we are ruined!”
“He has done it in his death-struggle,” gasped the other hoarsely, sitting up and rubbing his throat. “I tell you that he was in extremis. He cannot be far off.”
“That is true. He cannot be far off,” cried De Vivonne. “He has neither horse nor arms. You, Despard and Raymond de Carnac, guard the other, that he play us no trick. Do you, Latour, and you, Turberville, ride down the road, and wait by the south gate. If he enter Paris at all, he must come in that way. If you get him, tie him before you on your horse, and bring him to the rendezvous. In any case, it matters little, for he is a stranger, this fellow, and only here by chance. Now lead the other to the carriage, and we shall get away before an alarm is given.”
The two horsemen rode off in pursuit of the fugitive, and De Catinat, still struggling desperately to escape, was dragged down the St. Germain road and thrust into the carriage, which had waited at some distance while these incidents were being enacted. Three of the horsemen rode ahead, the coachman was curtly ordered to follow them, and De Vivonne, having despatched one of the band with a note to his sister, followed after the coach with the remainder of his desperadoes.
The unfortunate guardsman had now entirely recovered his senses, and found himself with a strap round his ankles, and another round his wrists, a captive inside a moving prison which lumbered heavily along the country road. He had been stunned by the shock of his fall, and his leg was badly bruised by the weight of his horse; but the cut on his forehead was a mere trifle, and the bleeding had already ceased. His mind, however, pained him more than his body. He sank his head into his pinioned hands, and stamped madly with his feet, rocking himself to and fro in his despair. What a fool, a treble fool, he had been! He, an old soldier, who had seen something of war, to walk with open eyes into such a trap! The king had chosen him of all men, as a trusty messenger, and yet he had failed him — and failed him so ignominiously, without shot fired or sword drawn. He was warned, too, warned by a young man who knew nothing of court intrigue, and who was guided only by the wits which Nature had given him. De Catinat dashed himself down upon the leather cushion in the agony of his thoughts.
But then came a return of that common-sense which lies so very closely beneath the impetuosity of the Celt. The matter was done now, and he must see if it could not be mended. Amos Green had escaped. That was one grand point in his favour. And Amos Green had heard the king’s message, and realised its importance. It was true that he knew nothing of Paris, but surely a man who could pick his way at night through the forests of Maine would not be baulked in finding so well-known a house as that of the Archbishop of Paris. But then there came a sudden thought which turned De Catinat’s heart to lead. The city gates were locked at eight o’clock in the evening. It was now nearly nine. It would have been easy for him, whose uniform was a voucher for his message, to gain his way through. But how could Amos Green, a foreigner and a civilian, hope to pass? It was impossible, clearly impossible. And yet, somehow, in spite of the impossibility, he still clung to a vague hope that a man so full of energy and resource might find some way out of the difficulty.
And then the thought of escape occurred to his mind. Might he not even now be in time, perhaps, to carry his own message? Who were these men who had seized him? They had said nothing to give him a hint as to whose tools they were. Monsieur and the dauphin occurred to his mind. Probably one or the other. He had only recognised one of them, old Major Despard, a man who frequented the low wine-shops of Versailles, and whose sword was ever at the disposal of the longest purse. And where were these people taking him to? It might be to his death. But if they wished to do away with him, why should they have brought him back to consciousness? and why this carriage and drive? Full of curiosity, he peered out of the windows.
A horseman was riding close up on either side; but there was glass in front of the carriage, and through this he could gain some idea as to his whereabouts. The clouds had cleared now, and the moon was shining brightly, bathing the whole wide landscape in its shimmering light. To the right lay the open country, broad plains with clumps of woodland, and the towers of castles pricking out from above the groves. A heavy bell was ringing in some monastery, and its dull booming came and went with the breeze. On the left, but far away, lay the glimmer of Paris. They were leaving it rapidly behind. Whatever his destination, it was neither the capital nor Versailles. Then he began to count the chances of escape. His sword had been removed, and his pistols were still in the holsters beside his unfortunate horse. He was unarmed, then, even if he could free himself, and his captors were at least a dozen in number. There were three on ahead, riding abreast along the white, moonlit road. Then there was one on each side, and he should judge by the clatter of hoofs that there could not be fewer than half a dozen behind. That would make exactly twelve, including the coachman, too many, surely, for an unarmed man to hope to baffle. At the thought of the coachman he had glanced through the glass front at the broad back of the man, and he had suddenly, in the glimmer of the carriage lamp, observed something which struck him with horror.
The man was evidently desperately wounded. It was strange indeed that he could still sit there and flick his whip with so terrible an injury. In the back of his great red coat, just under the left shoulder-blade, was a gash in the cloth, where some weapon had passed, and all round was a wide patch of dark scarlet which told its own tale. Nor was this all. As he raised his whip, the moonlight shone upon his hand, and De Catinat saw with a shudder that it also was splashed and clogged with blood. The guardsman craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the man’s face; but his broad-brimmed hat was drawn low, and the high collar of his driving-coat was raised, so
that his features were in the shadow. This silent man in front of him, with the horrible marks upon his person, sent a chill to De Catinat’s valiant heart, and he muttered over one of Marot’s Huguenot psalms; for who but the foul fiend himself would drive a coach with those crimsoned hands and with a sword driven through his body?
And now they had come to a spot where the main road ran onwards, but a smaller side track wound away down the steep slope of a hill, and so in the direction of the Seine. The advance-guard had kept to the main road, and the two horsemen on either side were trotting in the same direction, when, to De Catinat’s amazement, the carriage suddenly swerved to one side, and in an instant plunged down the steep incline, the two stout horses galloping at their topmost speed, the coachman standing up and lashing furiously at them, and the clumsy old vehicle bounding along in a way which threw him backwards and forwards from one seat to the other. Behind him he could hear a shout of consternation from the escort, and then the rush of galloping hoofs. Away they flew, the roadside poplars dancing past at either window, the horses thundering along with their stomachs to the earth, and that demon driver still waving those horrible red hands in the moonlight and screaming out to the maddened steeds. Sometimes the carriage jolted one way, sometimes another, swaying furiously, and running on two side wheels as though it must every instant go over. And yet, fast as they went, their pursuers went faster still. The rattle of their hoofs was at their very backs, and suddenly at one of the windows there came into view the red, distended nostrils of a horse. Slowly it drew forward, the muzzle, the eye, the ears, the mane, coming into sight as the rider still gained upon them, and then above them the fierce face of Despard and the gleam of a brass pistol barrel.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 377