‘Three-quarters of an hour.’
‘Thanks,’ shouted Roger, and wheeling his mare, he sped out of the town along the road to Totton.
It was his man without a doubt. Moreover, his prospects of overtaking him were far better than he had ever dared to hope. It could not have taken over two hours for his enemy to reach Lyndhurst and have his horse reshod; he must have halted on the way, either at Lymington or Brockenhurst, to take a meal at one of the inns before setting out for London. That argued his complete confidence that he would elude any hue and cry that might be raised after him by making for the capital instead of one of the ports. He could not have known, either, that Roger’s father would return so soon and release him, and probably thought that his victim would remain trussed in the stable until someone found him in the morning. All the odds were now that, without the least suspicion that he was being pursued, the Frenchman was riding on at quite a moderate pace. And he was only three-quarters of an hour ahead. His heart high with elation, Roger spurred on his mare, and rode all out along the springy turf that bordered the road across the more open part of the forest, east of Lyndhurst.
He reached Totton a quarter of an hour before midnight and flung himself off his steaming mount in the yard of the posting-house. The night ostler told him that the traveller for whom he inquired had changed horses there half an hour earlier. His description of the Frenchman was as vague as that of the smith. He could only remember that he had been tall and sickly looking. But Roger felt it pointless to waste time in pressing for details. He had enough to go on and felt certain now that his enemy was one of M. de Crosne’s agents, and that he would not know him even if he saw him. How de Crosne, or his man, had known that the home of the Englishman they were pursuing was at Lymington remained a mystery over which Roger continued to puzzle his wits in vain; and, had he needed any added incentive to overtake his enemy the prospect of solving the problem would have provided it. But he needed none. Having had his saddle transferred to a mettlesome grey from the posting-stables, he left the address to which his own mare was to be returned, and pushed on.
In his first stage he had covered fourteen miles; his next, to Winchester, was fifteen. At first the road ran up and down a series of switchback hills then through flattish farm country. The weather had cleared and the September moon had risen above the trees. The grey proved a good steed and Roger was in no mood to spare him. He was fond of horses but fonder of his country and he was now determined to catch his man, even if he had to kill several of his mounts under him. Just before one in the morning he rode over the chalk hills into Winchester.
At the Black Swan he inquired again. His man had changed horses there and trotted out of the yard only ten minutes before his arrival. While his saddle was being changed from the exhausted grey to a bay mare he took stock of the situation. He had little doubt now that he could catch his unsuspecting enemy on the next lap; but it was as good as certain that the Frenchman would be armed. Jim had put a pair of pistols into Roger’s holsters as a normal precaution against his encountering a highwayman; and he was not afraid to face any man in a fight. But in this case if he came off worst it was not only himself, but his country, that would be the loser. He positively dared not risk being left wounded in a ditch while his enemy got clean away with the letter. In consequence, he decided that the time had now come when he must make use of his father’s warrant. Winchester was a garrison town so he felt that there would be no difficulty in securing military aid there.
Mounting the bay he rode at a quick trot to the barracks of the Hampshire Regiment. The sentry at its gate called the Sergeant of the guard. The Sergeant said that he thought some of the officers were still up, and, having handed his mount over to an orderly, Roger hurried with him to the mess.
After an infuriating wait of five minutes in the hall a heavily-moustached Captain, who was half-seas-over, came out to see him. Roger did not mince matters. Politely but swiftly he stated his business, produced his warrant, and requested that a mounted escort should be furnished for him with the minimum possible delay.
The Captain sobered up at once, and said: ‘This is an infantry barracks, so normally I’d only be able to help you by asking some of the officers to turn out with their grooms. But ’tis your good fortune that we’ve been on manœuvres recently, and a squadron of Dragoons are quartered here as our guests. Have the goodness to wait here a few moments and I’ll fetch one of their officers. He is having the devil’s own luck at the cards tonight, so you’ll be doing us a favour, Sir, if you’ll relieve us of him and prevent his further inroads on our pockets.’
Again Roger had to submit to seeing a few more precious moments slip away. Then one of the big double doors of the ante-room opened again and the Captain returned, accompanied by a thick-set, red-faced young man with a crop of ginger curls. To Roger’s amazement he found himself face to face with his old enemy of Sherborne days, George Gunston.
Recognition was mutual for, at that second, Gunston cried: ‘Why, damn my soul! If it isn’t Bookworm Brook!’
Roger flushed slightly and replied: ‘I have no time for exchanging compliments, but if you have a mind to it I will find plenty later on at any time and place you may suggest.’
‘I see that you are already acquainted,’ murmured the Captain, a trifle uneasily.
‘By God! The fellow’s challenging me!’ exploded Gunston, going redder in the face than ever.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Roger sharply. ‘The Captain, here, will have told you what’s afoot. I am on the King’s service and require a troop of horse to accompany me instantly. I pray you, Mr. Gunston, let our personal prejudices lie dormant for this night, at least; and give me your aid without demur.’
‘On the King’s service,’ muttered Gunston, bringing his heels together with a click and bowing. ‘So be it, Mr. Brook. Be pleased to come with me.’
Much as Roger disliked Gunston he had to admit that he was a good officer. Within twelve minutes he had his troop of Dragoons roused from their sleep, out of their barrack room and mounted. He gave a sharp word of command and, with Roger beside him, wheeled his horse. With the clatter of hooves and the jingling of sabres behind them, they trotted out of the barrack gates and took the London road.
Roger reckoned that his enforced delay to secure an escort had cost him a little over twenty minutes, so his enemy now had half an hour’s lead over him again; but he thought that with luck they might catch up with him before he reached Alton.
The road ahead lay through water meadows, and on their right meandered the river Itchen, in which Roger’s father had occasionally taken him, while still a boy, to fish for the wily brown trout.
For the first mile or so they held their pace while Roger satisfied Gunston’s curiosity as briefly as he decently could. Then, when he had described the foreigner that he was endeavouring to catch, Gunston shouted an order and the whole troop settled down to get the best out of their chargers.
For ten miles they rode hard, without exchanging a word, and, going at a steady canter, mounted the long slope that lies some way to the south of Alton. As they breasted its crest a mile of open country lay before them. Simultaneously Roger and George caught sight of a solitary horseman walking his horse half a mile ahead. The bright moonlight showed quite plainly that he was the man they were after. Even at that distance they could make out the lankiness of his figure, the heavy collared riding-coat and his truncated, steeple-crowned hat.
Having visualised just such a situation, Roger had intended that the troop should reduce its pace to a trot, ride up alongside the unsuspecting Frenchman as though about to pass him, halt, wheel and surround him; thus taking him prisoner before he even had a chance to attempt to escape.
But Lieutenant George Gunston had very different ideas. With the instinct of a born fox-hunting squire he instantly rowelled his horse and gave vent to a loud: ‘Tally ho! Tally ho! Tally ho!’
Taken completely by surprise Roger could only choke back his fu
ry. His mount automatically leapt forward beside its companion, while the whole troop of Dragoons followed their excited officer with wild shouts of enthusiasm and glee.
The man ahead turned to throw one glance over his shoulder, then set spurs to his horse. The hunt was up, and there was nothing that Roger could do about it now but to crouch low over his mare’s neck and attempt, with the rest, to ride down his quarry.
As he had foreseen the attempt was a failure. The Frenchman had too good a lead, and the road now sloped down towards some beech woods. Urging his steed on to the grass at the side of the road he veered off to the right at a gallop and, a few minutes later, was lost to sight in the deep shadow of the woods.
After their ten miles at a pressing pace, and final mile-long burst of speed, the horses were now badly winded; and, as they reached the valley bottom where the thick beechwoods came right up to both sides of the road, Gunston threw up his hand to halt his men. Then, as the sweating horses stumbled to a standstill, he called in an aggrieved tone to Roger: ‘Damme! The Frog has cheated us of our sport. He’s gone to earth!’
‘And whose fault is that?’ snarled Roger, white with rage. ‘You besotted oaf! What the hell did you expect, having given him ten minutes’ warning?’
‘Hey!’ Gunston bellowed back. ‘King’s business or no, I’ll not have anyone hold such language to me. I take you up in earnest now on your invitation to meet you at another time and place.’
Roger’s lip curled. ‘That suits me well. I’ve a long score to settle with you that I’ve not forgot. And God help you if you cannot use a sword or pistol better than you do your head.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Gunston snapped. ‘Send me your seconds when your business in town is done; and I’ll show you that I can use either as well as I do my fists. But since you are in command here at the moment, what are your wishes now that we have lost our man?’
‘Please to remain here with your men, and have them scour the woods till dawn,’ Roger replied coldly. ‘I fear the odds are now very great against your making a find, but should you catch him take instant action to secure the document that he carries before he can destroy it; then bring him on to London. As I act under Naval orders ’twould be best if you deliver him and the paper to the Admiralty. I shall ride on alone, and if I have no luck, I will call there later in the day to learn if there is news of you.’
Swivelling his mare, Roger flogged the poor brute into a trot and rode on into Alton. Already, while galloping at a breakneck speed after the vanishing Frenchman, he had decided that if, through Gunston’s folly, he lost his quarry, the best course would be for him to ride on as fast as possible. It was certain that his man would lie up in the woods for a bit before venturing back on to the road, so by passing him while he hid and getting to the capital first there was still a chance that he might be headed off before he could reach the French Embassy.
At Alton Roger changed his exhausted mare for another bay and continued on, now through flattish country, towards Farnham. The middle of the stage was about halfway between Lymington and London and he was already feeling the strain. Yet he dared not let up for a moment. He had never been to London and had no connections there upon whom he could call at a moment’s notice. If his last card was to be of any value careful arrangements would have to be made for the playing of it and, as he would have to appeal for help to strangers, that would take time. He did not even know where the French Embassy was situated; and his man, now thoroughly alarmed, would probably approach it by a circuitous route, so he reckoned that if an effective ambush was to be organised he must reach the capital at least an hour ahead of his quarry.
He got to Farnham at three-thirty, changed his horse again and cantered up the slope on to the Hog’s Back. The road now ran along the crest of a high ridge and the sinking moon lit a weird and splendid panorama of pine forests stretching away into the distance. But he had no eyes for it and swaying automatically with his mount pressed on to Guildford.
As his horse walked him up the steep high street of the old city he decided that, having covered two-thirds of his journey, he must rest for a while, at least. While his saddle was being changed to a piebald in the yard of the White Hart, he went inside and asked the serving man to bring him some coffee laced with rum. It seemed days ago since he had woken on the barque that morning, but he was thankful now that he had slept on till eleven o’clock. He was not feeling the least tired mentally, but his back and thighs were protesting strongly at the strain his sixty-mile ride had put upon them.
It was a quarter to five by the time he had drunk his coffee and two minutes later he was on his way to Cobham. To his intense annoyance the piebald proved an awkward brute, being one of those mounts that always seem reluctant to break cleanly from a trot to a canter and vice versa. The jolting he received during the ten-mile stretch took it out of him more than his hard ride with Gunston over a longer distance had done; and he was much relieved when he was able to change it at Cobham for the fourth bay that he had ridden that night.
The Ladies’ Mile on to Esher offered him a good clear gallop but by the time he reached Kingston he felt terribly done. There, he changed horses for the last time and set out on the final eleven-mile stage. His mount was a good one but he was no longer capable of getting the best out of it. Yet he continued to do his damnedest.
He knew that his enemy had ridden at leisure for the first half of the journey and so must be in much better shape than himself. The odds were that within half an hour of taking to the woods the Frenchman would have regained the road and was now riding all out behind him. He had thought of endeavouring to prevent him being furnished with relays, but to do so would have meant stopping at each posting-house while somebody in authority was found to whom he could show his father’s warrant, and he had decided that he dared not risk such a series of delays.
As dawn broke he was riding at a slow trot over Putney Heath, then he walked his horse down the slope towards the bridge, crossed the Thames, and began to trot again through the village of Fulham. Nerving himself to a last effort he cantered up the slope beyond Knightsbridge and pulled up at the tollgate on Hyde Park Corner, at eight o’clock.
Having inquired his way to Queen Anne’s Gate, he trotted the last half-mile past Buckingham House and through St. James’s Park, to rein in and almost fall from his saddle in front of Mr. Gilbert Maxwell’s house.
His ring at the door was answered by a smooth-faced servant in plain livery, to whom he said that he must see Mr. Maxwell immediately, on a most urgent matter.
‘I am sorry, Sir,’ the man answered, ‘but Mr. Maxwell has already gone out.’
This was the one thing that Roger had not foreseen, and it came as a desperate blow.
‘Where can I find him?’ he gasped. ‘I come on the King’s business, and ‘twill not wait.’
The servant shook his head regretfully. ‘Mr. Maxwell never leaves word where he is to be found when he walks abroad.’
‘How soon will he be back?’
That is more than I can say, Sir. But if you care to leave your name, or write to him…’
‘I tell you my business is of most desperate urgency,’ Roger cried, ‘and the day would be gone before a letter could be delivered.’
‘Oh, no, Sir,’ the man replied blandly. ‘If you care to enter and write your letter here, I can promise you that it will reach him with very little delay.’
Roger was in no state to ponder this paradox and assess its meaning. Instead he stood leaning against the iron railing for a moment, frantically searching his mind for some other source where he might secure the urgent help he needed. Suddenly he had an inspiration, and asked: ‘Where is Amesbury House?’
‘In Arlington Street, Sir. Just off Piccadilly. You have but to ride north across the Park and you will come to it.’
‘I pray you help me to my horse.’
The man obliged and Roger trotted across Birdcage Walk towards St. James’s Palace. As he did so it crossed hi
s mind that perhaps, after all, Mr. Gilbert Maxwell was at home but, owing to the highly secret nature of his work, made it a rule never to reveal himself to anyone. If so, a note left for him might have produced the required action in time to be effective; but that was only speculation, and Roger’s need was too urgent for him to consider turning back now that he had thought of another possibility.
Outside the Palace he inquired again, of a man in a cocked hat, for the exact situation of Amesbury House, and, on learning it, pushed on up St. James’s Street. Having turned left near its top end another moment brought him into the courtyard of the great mansion he was seeking.
Flinging himself off his horse he stumbled up the steps and shouted to the liveried footman on the door: ‘Lord Edward Fitz-Deverel! Is he at home?’
‘Why, yes, Sir,’ replied the astonished servant. ‘But His Lordship is not yet risen.’
‘No matter! Take me to him!’ panted Roger.
His dishevelled state and bandaged head now proved a talisman. The footman was sensible enough to see that this was no time to stand on ceremony. Acting with an initiative that no French servant would have dared to show, he grabbed Roger by the arm and hurried him up the broad marble staircase, then along a corridor to a heavily-carved door. Banging on it with his fists, he cried: ‘My Lord! There’s a gentleman here who has travelled in great haste to see you.’
‘Let him come in then,’ called a voice; and, throwing open the door, Roger staggered forward towards Droopy Ned.
Droopy did not seem to have grown any older. He still had the curiously ageless look of a young man old before his time. He was dressed in a magnificent flowing robe of Indian silk and wore a turban round his head. With his feet stretched out before him, he reclined at ease on a gilded chaise-longue while toying with a breakfast tray set on a low table at his side.
As his pale blue eyes fell on Roger, he said languidly: ‘Egad, Sir! You seem in a plaguey hurry. Who are you? I seem to know your face.’
The Launching of Roger Brook Page 58