Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “On my word, father,” said Louis, glancing with a bitter smile at his

  Jesuit confessor, “I shall have to pick the cadets of the household from

  your seminary, since my officers have turned casuists and theologians.

  So, for the last time, you refuse to obey my request?”

  “Oh, sire—” De Catinat took a step forward with outstretched hands and tears in his eyes.

  But the king checked him with a gesture. “I desire no protestations,” said he. “I judge a man by his acts. Do you abjure or not?”

  “I cannot, sire.”

  “You see,” said Louis, turning again to the Jesuit, “it will not be as easy as you think.”

  “This man is obstinate, it is true, but many others will be more yielding.”

  The king shook his head. “I would that I knew what to do,” said he.

  “Madame, I know that you, at least, will ever give me the best advice.

  You have heard all that has been said. What do you recommend?”

  She kept her eyes still fixed upon her tapestry, but her voice was firm and clear as she answered: —

  “You have yourself said that you are the eldest son of the Church. If the eldest son desert her, then who will do her bidding? And there is truth, too, in what the holy abbe has said. You may imperil your own soul by condoning this sin of heresy. It grows and flourishes, and if it be not rooted out now, it may choke the truth as weeds and briers choke the wheat.”

  “There are districts in France now,” said Bossuet, “where a church is not to be seen in a day’s journey, and where all the folk, from the nobles to the peasants, are of the same accursed faith. So it is in the Cevennes, where the people are as fierce and rugged as their own mountains. Heaven guard the priests who have to bring them back from their errors.”

  “Whom should I send on so perilous a task?” asked Louis.

  The Abbe du Chayla was down in a instant upon his knees with his gaunt hands outstretched. “Send me, sire! Me!” he cried. “I have never asked a favour of you, and never will again. But I am the man who could break this people. Send me with your message to the people of the Cevennes.”

  “God help the people of the Cevennes!” muttered Louis, as he looked with mingled respect and loathing at the emaciated face and fiery eyes of the fanatic. “Very well, abbe,” he added aloud; “you shall go to the Cevennes.”

  Perhaps for an instant there came upon the stern priest some premonition of that dreadful morning when, as he crouched in a corner of ‘his burning home, fifty daggers were to rasp against each other in his body. He sunk his face in his hands, and a shudder passed over his gaunt frame. Then he rose, and folding his arms, he resumed his impassive attitude. Louis took up the pen from the table, and drew the paper towards him.

  “I have the same counsel, then, from all of you,” said he,—”from you, bishop; from you, father; from you, madame; from you, abbe; and from you, Louvois. Well, if ill come from it, may it not be visited upon me! But what is this?”

  De Catinat had taken a step forward with his hand outstretched. His ardent, impetuous nature had suddenly broken down all the barriers of caution, and he seemed for the instant to see that countless throng of men, women, and children of his own faith, all unable to say a word for themselves, and all looking to him as their champion and spokesman. He had thought little of such matters when all was well, but now, when danger threatened, the deeper side of his nature was moved, and he felt how light a thing is life and fortune when weighed against a great abiding cause and principle.

  “Do not sign it, sire,” he cried. “You will live to wish that your hand had withered ere it grasped that pen. I know it, sire. I am sure of it. Consider all these helpless folk — the little children, the young girls, the old and the feeble. Their creed is themselves. As well ask the leaves to change the twigs on which they grow. They could not change. At most you could but hope to turn them from honest folk into hypocrites. And why should you do it? They honour you. They love you. They harm none. They are proud to serve in your armies, to fight for you, to work for you, to build up the greatness of your kingdom. I implore you, sire, to think again before you sign an order which will bring misery and desolation to so many.”

  For a moment the king had hesitated as he listened to the short abrupt sentences in which the soldier pleaded for his fellows, but his face hardened again as he remembered how even his own personal entreaty had been unable to prevail with this young dandy of the court.

  “France’s religion should be that of France’s king,” said he, “and if my own guardsmen thwart me in such a matter, I must find others who will be more faithful. That major’s commission in the mousquetaires must go to Captain de Belmont, Louvois.”

  “Very good, sire.”

  “And De Catinat’s commission may be transferred to Lieutenant

  Labadoyere.”

  “Very good, sire.”

  “And I am to serve you no longer?”

  “You are too dainty for my service.”

  De Catinat’s arms fell listlessly to his side, and his head sunk forward upon his breast. Then, as he realised the ruin of all the hopes of his life, and the cruel injustice with which he had been treated, he broke into a cry of despair, and rushed from the room with the hot tears of impotent anger running down his face. So, sobbing, gesticulating, with coat unbuttoned and hat awry, he burst into the stable where placid Amos Green was smoking his pipe and watching with critical eyes the grooming of the horses.

  “What in thunder is the matter now?” he asked, holding his pipe by the bowl, while the blue wreaths curled up from his lips.

  “This sword,” cried the Frenchman—”I have no right to wear it! I shall break it!”

  “Well, and I’ll break my knife too if it will hearten you up.”

  “And these,” cried De Catinat, tugging at his silver shoulder-straps, “they must go.”

  “Ah, you draw ahead of me there, for I never had any. But come, friend, let me know the trouble, that I may see if it may not be mended.”

  “To Paris! to Paris!” shouted the guardsman frantically. “If I am ruined, I may yet be in time to save them. The horses, quick!”

  It was clear to the American that some sudden calamity had befallen, so he aided his comrade and the grooms to saddle and bridle.

  Five minutes later they were flying on their way, and in little more than an hour their steeds, all reeking and foam-flecked, were pulled up outside the high house in the Rue St. Martin. De Catinat sprang from his saddle and rushed upstairs, while Amos followed in his own leisurely fashion.

  The old Huguenot and his beautiful daughter were seated at one side of the great fireplace, her hand in his, and they sprang up together, she to throw herself with a glad cry into the arms of her lover, and he to grasp the hand which his nephew held out to him.

  At the other side of the fireplace, with a very long pipe in his mouth and a cup of wine upon a settle beside him, sat a strange-looking man, with grizzled hair and beard, a fleshy red projecting nose, and two little gray eyes, which twinkled out from under huge brindled brows. His long thin face was laced and seamed with wrinkles, crossing and recrossing everywhere, but fanning out in hundreds from the corners of his eyes. It was set in an unchanging expression, and as it was of the same colour all over, as dark as the darkest walnut, it might have been some quaint figure-head cut out of a coarse-grained wood. He was clad in a blue serge jacket, a pair of red breeches smeared at the knees with tar, clean gray worsted stockings, large steel buckles over his coarse square-toed shoes, and beside him, balanced upon the top of a thick oaken cudgel, was a weather-stained silver-laced hat. His gray-shot hair was gathered up behind into a short stiff tail, and a seaman’s hanger, with a brass handle, was girded to his waist by a tarnished leather belt.

  De Catinat had been too occupied to take notice of this singular individual, but Amos Green gave a shout of delight at the sight of him, and ran forward to greet him. The other’s wo
oden face relaxed so far as to show two tobacco-stained fangs, and, without rising, he held out a great red hand, of the size and shape of a moderate spade.

  “Why, Captain Ephraim,” cried Amos in English, “who ever would have thought of finding you here? De Catinat, this is my old friend Ephraim Savage, under whose charge I came here.”

  “Anchor’s apeak, lad, and the hatches down,” said the stranger, in the peculiar drawling voice which the New Englanders had retained from their ancestors, the English Puritans.

  “And when do you sail?”

  “As soon as your foot is on her deck, if Providence serve us with wind and tide. And how has all gone with thee, Amos?”

  “Right well. I have much to tell you of.”

  “I trust that you have held yourself apart from all their popish devilry.”

  “Yes, yes, Ephraim.”

  “And have had no truck with the scarlet woman.”

  “No, no; but what is it now?”

  The grizzled hair was bristling with rage, and the little gray eyes were gleaming from under the heavy tufts. Amos, following their gaze, saw that De Catinat was seated with his arm round Adele, while her head rested upon his shoulder.

  “Ah, if I but knew their snip-snap, lippetty-chippetty lingo! Saw one ever such a sight! Amos, lad, what is the French for ‘a shameless hussy’?”

  “Nay, nay, Ephraim. Surely one may see such a sight, and think no harm of it, on our side of the water.

  “Never, Amos. In no godly country.”

  “Tut! I have seen folks courting in New York.”

  “Ah, New York! I said in no godly country. I cannot answer for New York or Virginia. South of Cape Cod, or of New Haven at the furthest, there is no saying what folk will do. Very sure I am that in Boston or Salem or Plymouth she would see the bridewell and he the stocks for half as much. Ah!” He shook his head and bent his brows at the guilty couple.

  But they and their old relative were far too engrossed with their own affairs to give a thought to the Puritan seaman. De Catinat had told his tale in a few short, bitter sentences, the injustice that had been done to him, his dismissal from the king’s service, and the ruin which had come upon the Huguenots of France. Adele, as is the angel instinct of woman, thought only of her lover and his misfortunes as she listened to his story, but the old merchant tottered to his feet when he heard of the revocation of the Edict, and stood with shaking limbs, staring about him in bewilderment.

  “What am I to do?” he cried. “What am I to do? I am too old to begin my life again.”

  “Never fear, uncle,” said De Catinat heartily. “There are other lands beyond France.”

  “But not for me. No, no; I am too old. Lord, but Thy hand is heavy upon Thy servants. Now is the vial opened, and the carved work of the sanctuary thrown down. Ah, what shall I do, and whither shall I turn?” He wrung his hands in his perplexity.

  “What is amiss with him, then, Amos?” asked the seaman. “Though I know nothing of what he says, yet I can see that he flies a distress signal.”

  “He and his must leave the country, Ephraim.”

  “And why?”

  “Because they are Protestants, and the king will not abide their creed.”

  Ephraim Savage was across the room in an instant, and had enclosed the old merchant’s thin hand in his own great knotted fist. There was a brotherly sympathy in his strong grip and rugged weather-stained face which held up the other’s courage as no words could have done.

  “What is the French for ‘the scarlet woman,’ Amos?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Tell this man that we shall see him through. Tell him that we’ve got a country where he’ll just fit in like a bung in a barrel. Tell him that religion is free to all there, and not a papist nearer than Baltimore or the Capuchins of the Penobscot. Tell him that if he wants to come, the Golden Rod is waiting with her anchor apeak and her cargo aboard. Tell him what you like, so long as you make him come.”

  “Then we must come at once,” said De Catinat, as he listened to the cordial message which was conveyed to his uncle. “To-night the orders will be out, and to-morrow it may be too late.”

  “But my business!” cried the merchant.

  “Take what valuables you can, and leave the rest. Better that than lose all, and liberty into the bargain.”

  And so at last it was arranged. That very night, within five minutes of the closing of the gates, there passed out of Paris a small party of five, three upon horseback, and two in a closed carriage which bore several weighty boxes upon the top. They were the first leaves flying before the hurricane, the earliest of that great multitude who were within the next few months to stream along every road which led from France, finding their journey’s end too often in galley, dungeon and torture chamber, and yet flooding over the frontiers in numbers sufficient to change the industries and modify the characters of all the neighbouring peoples. Like the Israelites of old, they had been driven from their homes at the bidding of an angry king, who, even while he exiled them, threw every difficulty in the way of their departure. Like them, too, there were none of them who could hope to reach their promised land without grievous wanderings, penniless, friendless, and destitute. What passages befell these pilgrims in their travels, what dangers they met, and overcame in the land of the Swiss, on the Rhine, among the Walloons, in England, in Ireland, in Berlin, and even in far-off Russia, has still to be written. This one little group, however, whom we know, we may follow in their venturesome journey, and see the chances which befell them upon that great continent which had lain fallow for so long, sown only with the weeds of humanity, but which was now at last about to quicken into such glorious life.

  PART II.

  IN THE NEW WORLD.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  THE START OF THE “GOLDEN ROD.”

  Thanks to the early tidings which the guardsman had brought with him, his little party was now ahead of the news. As they passed through the village of Louvier in the early morning they caught a glimpse of a naked corpse upon a dunghill, and were told by a grinning watchman that it was that of a Huguenot who had died impenitent, but that was a common enough occurrence already, and did not mean that there had been any change in the law. At Rouen all was quiet, and Captain Ephraim Savage before evening had brought both them and such property as they had saved aboard of his brigantine, the Golden Rod. It was but a little craft, some seventy tons burden, but at a time when so many were putting out to sea in open boats, preferring the wrath of Nature to that of the king, it was a refuge indeed. The same night the seaman drew up his anchor and began to slowly make his way down the winding river.

  And very slow work it was. There was half a moon shining and a breeze from the east, but the stream writhed and twisted and turned until sometimes they seemed to be sailing up rather than down. In the long reaches they set the yard square and ran, but often they had to lower their two boats and warp her painfully along, Tomlinson of Salem, the mate, and six grave, tobacco-chewing, New England seamen with their broad palmetto hats, tugging and straining at the oars. Amos Green, De Catinat, and even the old merchant had to take their spell ere morning, when the sailors were needed aboard for the handling of the canvas. At last, however, with the early dawn the river broadened out and each bank trended away, leaving a long funnel-shaped estuary between. Ephraim Savage snuffed the air and paced the deck briskly with a twinkle in his keen gray eyes. The wind had fallen away, but there was still enough to drive them slowly upon their course.

  “Where’s the gal?” he asked.

  “She is in my cabin,” said Amos Green. “I thought that maybe she could manage there until we got across.”

  “Where will you sleep yourself, then?”

  “Tut, a litter of spruce boughs and a sheet of birch bark over me have been enough all these years. What would I ask better than this deck of soft white pine and my blanket?”

  “Very good. The old man and his nephew, him with the blue coat, can have the two empty bunks. But yo
u must speak to that man, Amos. I’ll have no philandering aboard my ship, lad — no whispering or cuddling or any such foolishness. Tell him that this ship is just a bit broke off from Boston, and he’ll have to put up with Boston ways until he gets off her. They’ve been good enough for better men than him. You give me the French for ‘no philandering,’ and I’ll bring him up with a round turn when he drifts.”

  “It’s a pity we left so quick or they might have been married before we started. She’s a good girl, Ephraim, and he is a fine man, for all that their ways are not the same as ours. They don’t seem to take life so hard as we, and maybe they get more pleasure out of it.”

  “I never heard tell that we were put here to get pleasure out of it,” said the old Puritan, shaking his head. “The valley of the shadow of death don’t seem to me to be the kind o’ name one would give to a play-ground. It is a trial and a chastening, that’s what it is, the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity. We’re bad from the beginning, like a stream that runs from a tamarack swamp, and we’ve enough to do to get ourselves to rights without any fool’s talk about pleasure.”

  “It seems to me to be all mixed up,” said Amos. “like the fat and the lean in a bag of pemmican. Look at that sun just pushing its edge over the trees, and see the pink flush on the clouds and the river like a rosy ribbon behind us. It’s mighty pretty to our eyes, and very pleasing to us, and it wouldn’t be so to my mind if the Creator hadn’t wanted it to be. Many a time when I have lain in the woods in the fall and smoked my pipe, and felt how good the tobacco was, and how bright the yellow maples were, and the purple ash, and the red tupelo blazing among the bushwood, I’ve felt that the real fool’s talk was with the man who could doubt that all this was meant to make the world happier for us.”

  “You’ve been thinking too much in them woods,” said Ephraim Savage, gazing at him uneasily. “Don’t let your sail be too great for your boat, lad, nor trust to your own wisdom. Your father was from the Bay, and you were raised from a stock that cast the dust of England from their feet rather than bow down to Baal. Keep a grip on the word and don’t think beyond it. But what is the matter with the old man? He don’t seem easy in his mind.”