Chapter XVIII A Squire of Dames
In the Casa Ximenez—Cut Off—Ways and Means—A Race with Time—The Bridge Perilous—Into the Abyss—A Deserted House—Through the Streets—Adios—Señor
Near the convent of San Agustin, at the south-eastern end of Saragossa, there stood, in the year 1809, an old, large, gloomy house known as the Casa Ximenez. It was not in the best part of the city, but it had an air of high respectability, and in truth had been for many years the town residence of a prosperous burgher family, whose name stood for all that was solid and dignified in civic and commercial life.
On February 1st in the aforesaid year the spacious rooms of the mansion were empty—all but one. In the gilded sala on the first floor, a chamber large enough to contain fifty or sixty persons as well as its massive antique furniture, sat two ladies, one old, the other in the heyday of youth. Though it was early morning, the room would have been in pitch darkness but for two candles which, set in the cups of a silver candelabra on the table, threw a glimmering illumination upon the panelled walls. The sulphurous fumes of gunpowder hung heavily in the air. The deep, square windows were shuttered on the outside; there was no crack or aperture through which the light of day could enter save a hole in one of the shutters, and that at this moment was blocked by a long Spanish musket, behind which stood a middle-aged man in the sober costume of an upper servant.
Within the house all was silent, but from without, penetrating the thick walls and the iron-clamped shutters, came dull, heavy, thunderous sounds that shook the air, set the candle flames quivering, and caused the elder of the two ladies to start and shudder and moan as if in pain. At intervals the man at the window withdrew the musket, letting in for a few moments a streak of daylight that lay white across the yellow glimmer from the candles. With silent deliberation he charged his weapon, passed it through the aperture with a downward slant, and pulled the trigger, going through the same series of movements time after time with clock-work regularity.
The old lady watched him as if fascinated. She was small and thin; the hair beneath her elaborate cap was white. With the long bony fingers of one hand she clasped her mantilla closely about her shrunken frame; the other was held in the strong, warm hands of the younger lady, who sat on the floor by the elder’s chair and spoke to her alternately in soothing and in urgent tones.
“You really must come, Auntie,” she was saying. “It is not safe here. Hark! there is another gun! They will break in before long, and then—oh! come, come now; you can walk if you only try.”
The old lady, still with her eyes fixed on the servant, shook her head and clutched her mantilla convulsively.
“Does he kill—every time?” she said in a thin quavering voice.
“How can we tell? And if he does kill, it only makes our position worse, for they will find out where the shots come from, and they will burst in, and you—we—oh! Auntie, it is our only chance. See, I will support you; if you lean on my arm you will walk quite well, and I will never leave you. Come!”
“I will not go,” said her companion. “I will not, will not. The French may kill me, I have not long to live; but you, Juanita, you can escape. Francisco will shoot and kill until the very end; he and I will remain in the old house, in the old house—”
“They are coming nearer, Señorita,” said Francisco, his respectful tone as quiet and unperturbed as though he were announcing a visitor.
“You hear that? You must come, Auntie. I will not leave you here!”
Springing suddenly to her feet, she stooped, threw her arms around her aunt’s body, and lifted her from her chair.
“Francisco,” she said, turning to the servant, “go on firing. If I do not return, come after me in ten minutes.”
Then, straightening her back, she went to the open door, bearing easily the wasted form of her aunt, who did not resist, but moaned and muttered in helpless impotence. Out into the corridor, down the broad staircase, the strong girl carried the feeble woman. She reached the patio; then, instead of turning towards the great iron-studded gate at the front of the house, she made her way to the smaller but still strong gate at the back. In the open patio the sounds of musket shots were tenfold louder than they had been in the house above; they were mingled with the shouts of men afar off, the sudden shocks of explosions, and the crackle of flames. A pungent smell of smoke filled the air. The girl hastened her steps towards the rear of the house, where the noises came less distinctly to the ear. Arriving at the gate, she set her burden down gently upon a bench, quickly drew the bolts, and, promising to return in a few moments, slipped out, closing the gate behind her.
She found herself in a narrow irregular street. On the other side was a row of smaller houses, the upper stories of which projected over the roadway. At each end the street opened to wider thoroughfares, and the Casa Ximenez was nearer the northern extremity. Juanita gave a quick glance each way. The house at the end of the street on her left was in flames. Nobody was to be seen, but she heard fierce shouts, apparently in all directions, growing ever louder. She paused but for an instant, then ran across the street to a door opposite and hammered with her fists upon the wood. She waited; there was no answer, no sound of movement within. She knocked again with greater force, bruising her knuckles until they bled. Still no response. She stepped back a pace and looked up at the windows; all were shuttered. She struck the door with repeated blows, and cried to any who might be within to open it. A shout to her left caused her to start and look round with apprehension in her eyes. A French soldier, armed with a pike, had just turned the corner, and behind him were others, some armed with muskets. At sight of them the girl turned to run back to the gate of the Casa Ximenez. Glancing in the other direction, she saw a figure hastening from the nearer end of the street—a figure in the long cloak and low hat of a Spaniard. He caught sight of the French and stopped short.
“Señor,” she cried, “help us for the love of God! My poor aunt!”
“What is it, Señorita?” he said, running towards her. “What can I do for you?”
She pushed open the gate and sprang through the narrow entrance. The stranger followed her, slammed the gate behind him, and shot the two stout bolts into their sockets.
“My aunt,” said the girl, “is an invalid; I was trying to save her. The French are at the front; what are we to do?”
She spoke with decision, in rapid tones that conveyed no impression of fear, but rather of courage and determination. The young Señor looked at the huddled, helpless figure of the old lady on the bench.
“Señora,” he said quickly to her, “we leave you for a little. Take me into the house, Señorita.”
As she led the way the youth threw quick glances to right and left, taking his bearings.
“Is anyone in the house?” he asked.
“Francisco; all the other servants have fled.”
“Where is he?”
“In the sala.”
“Take me to him.”
Afterwards he remembered the peremptoriness of his speech; at the moment neither noticed it.
Entering the room, he saw the servant loading and firing as imperturbably as before his mistress departed.
“That’s right; go on firing,” said the stranger. “Now upstairs, Señorita.”
She led him to the top of the house. The windows at the back overlooked the tiled roofs of the lower houses opposite, slightly above the level of the parapet. The street below was filling with French soldiers, who were battering and firing at the doors, without for the moment doing much damage. From the barricaded and loopholed windows on the other side shots flashed at intervals; the houses were evidently defended in some force, and the throng below were taken aback by the deadly cross-fires from above. The stranger measured with his eye the distance across the street from house to house.
“Have you any boards, tables, anything, about fifteen feet long?” he asked.
“I do not know. Francisco will know.”
They ran downstairs.
“Can you bring the Señora up?” asked the youth.
“Yes, I carried her down.”
“Please do.”
Juanita hastened to the patio below; Jack went into the sala.
“Stop firing now, hombre,” he said to the servant. “There is one chance of escape, from window to roof. Are there any planks?”
Francisco put down his musket, and glanced keenly at the speaker, with a touch of surprise at his urgent manner.
“None, Señor, but the boards of the floor.”
“No time to tear those up.”
He glanced round the room. He saw that the heavy curtains were enclosed at the top within an ornamental wooden framework, square-cut, massive, and ugly.
“Steps? A ladder?” he said.
“In the press at the head of the stairs, Señor.”
“Quick! bring them here; and a hammer.”
In a few moments Jack was standing on a short ladder, hammering the planks of the framework apart. Extending over both windows and the wall between, they were about sixteen feet in length. A few hard blows wrenched the fastenings, and two planks an inch thick lay on the floor. Side by side they measured three feet across.
“Now, ropes, cords!” cried Jack.
A long, stout bell-pull hanging from the ceiling caught his eye. Tearing it down, by the time Francisco returned with a length of rope Jack had lashed the planks together at one end. Soon the other ends were bound as firmly together.
“Help me upstairs with it.”
They reached the topmost room, whither the girl had already carried her feeble, whimpering aunt. The extemporized bridge was long enough to rest on the ledge of the opposite parapet, with a foot each way to spare. But it could not be thrown across without a support at the other end; its weight would more than counterbalance any pressure that could be exerted on the end in the room.
“Another rope!” cried Jack.
He had noticed a strong staple in the attic roof above the window. Francisco came back in two minutes with a long rope. Jack lashed it round the end of the planks, sprang on the window-sill, and pulled the rope through the staple.
“Now let it out steadily as I push the bridge across.”
Juanita stood with shining eyes, watching the young stranger as he pushed the planks across the street, while Francisco stolidly paid out the rope. The bridge rested on the parapet.
“Hold this end firmly against the sill,” said Jack to Francisco.
Juanita held her breath as the young fellow mounted a chair, stepped out of the window, and walked cautiously to the middle of the bending bridge. In a moment he was back again in the room.
“It will bear,” he cried. “I go first with the Señora.”
He lifted the old lady carefully; she was too much dazed to have any consciousness of what was before her, and lay inert in Jack’s arms, moaning “Ay de mí! Ay de mí!” incessantly.
“Wait till I return,” he said to Juanita, who stood, her cheeks flushed with excitement and hope, within the room.
Step by step he slowly bore the old lady across the creaking, swaying planks, till he reached the other side; then he laid her gently down behind the parapet at the foot of the gable. Then he sped back.
“Now it is your turn, Señorita,” he said, preparing to lift the girl.
“I can go alone,” she said without hesitation. “I can,” she repeated resolutely as Jack sought to detain her.
Springing lightly on to the planks, she paused for an instant, caught her skirt in one hand, bit her lips, and then ran across as lightly as a hare, Jack watching her with a tense feeling of anxiety mingled with admiration. He gave a gasp of relief.
“Now, hombre,” he said, turning to the old servant, who had held the planks steady without uttering a word.
“Not so, Señor,” he said; “I go last.”
“Nonsense! I am responsible for this. Get on at once.”
There were loud shouts from below.
“I am old, Señor. The Frenchmen in the street have seen us now; they will shoot; it matters little if I die.”
“No more. You must go. The ladies require you.”
From the parapet opposite Juanita was looking at them. Her cheeks were very pale.
“Come, Francisco,” she said in a tone of authority that brooked no denial.
The man hesitated no longer. He mounted the bridge, and walked with slow, firm step towards his mistress. An upward shower of shots pelted all around him. One struck him in the leg; he stumbled, nearly wrenching the planks from Jack’s grasp, and Juanita uttered a cry as the poor man fell headlong into the street.
Jack saw that there was no time to be lost. A few dexterous shots from below might destroy the bridge. He must run the gauntlet. He mounted at his end. At the same moment Juanita, with great presence of mind, seized the other end, and held it firmly against the parapet. Three bounds, amid flying shots, and Jack reached the parapet in safety. Then, catching up the planks, he hurled them down upon the crowd.
“You are not hurt, Señorita?” he said.
“Poor Francisco!” was her reply. There was a tremor in her voice, not from fear, as her next words showed. “I am ready, Señor; tell me what we are to do now.”
There was a trap-door a yard away, opening inwards. Jack tried this with his foot; it was bolted, but the bolt rattled, and could evidently be forced with little exertion. Without hesitating he sprang heavily on to the wood; it gave and fell in with a crash. Jack’s body had almost disappeared into the opening, when as he fell he caught the ledge with both hands, and though the sudden stoppage gave his muscles a severe wrench, he managed to maintain his grip, and hung on with legs dangling.
“Señorita,” he said, “come and look down and tell me what the drop is. I cannot see, myself.”
Juanita went down on hands and knees, and peered into the darkness. For a moment her eyes could discern nothing; then, as they became accustomed to the obscurity, she said that the trap-door opened into an attic room, and that the floor was not far below. Jack instantly let go, and dropped. The distance was but ten feet. Regaining an erect posture, he found, after a little groping, a short ladder in a corner of the attic. He placed this in the opening, and went up into the light again. It was the work of only a few minutes to carry the old lady down the ladder. Juanita followed, and instantly busied herself with her half-fainting aunt.
“Wait here, Señorita,” said Jack, “while I go down into the house and see if the way is open for escape.”
The attic door was not locked. Jack went out, down the stairs, through the house from top to bottom, and found every room empty, every window barricaded, and the outer doors locked. Unlike the occupants of the other houses on this side of the street, the inhabitants of this had clearly not stayed to defend it. The front door was bolted on the inside; at the door of a yard at the back the bolts were drawn, showing that escape had been made that way. Jack pulled at the door; the lock held firmly; it was impossible to force it; the only means of exit was over the wall. Hastening upstairs again, he explained the position to Juanita, who looked at him with the same quiet self-possession.
“Do you know any house in the centre of the city, Señorita,” asked Jack, “where you can take refuge? Your own house is now, without doubt, in the hands of the French.”
“Yes, Señor, we have friends in the Calle del Coso with whom we can stay.”
“Then, if you will allow me I will escort you thither. I do not know the town very well, but I know the Calle del Coso.”
“Yes, we will go. But how can we take my aunt, Señor?” asked the girl. “Helpless as she was half an hour ago, she is prostrate now. You could not carry her all the way.”
“I think I know of a plan. The first thing is to take her downstairs, and I am strong enough for that.”
In a few minutes all three were at the yard door. Jack returned to the attic for the ladder, and having placed that against the wall, he carefully carried the old lady to the top, where he sat with her until Juanita had also mounted, drawn up the ladder, and let it down on the other side. They were now in a narrow lane, in which nobody was to be seen, though they knew by the shouts and the gunshots that fighting was going on at no great distance. Leaving the old lady in Juanita’s charge, Jack went back into the house, and soon returned with a large chair and two short props he had found in the patio. Placing the old lady in the chair, he passed the props through the legs on each side.
“If you will hold them at the back, Señorita,” he said, “I will take them in front, and then we shall be able to carry the Señora between us.”
Thus burdened, they walked slowly down the lane, turned to the right, and found themselves in a street filled with soldiers and citizens, among whom were many women and priests. Almost all, even the priests, were armed, and many were hastening in the direction of the Augustine convent, where the French, after a desperate struggle, had just succeeded in forcing an entrance to the town. Barricades had been erected at various parts of the street. No one showed any surprise at the sight of an old lady carried on a chair. Strange incidents of the siege were happening every day. Every hour some new family was obliged to quit its dwelling and seek safety in flight. Unnoticed and unmolested, Jack and his companions in a few minutes reached the house in the Calle del Coso to which Juanita had referred. They were admitted immediately to the patio. There Juanita found her friends eating a meal the frugality of which spoke only too plainly of the straits to which the city was now reduced. The exhausted condition of the old lady demanded instant attention, and while the group of friends gathered about her solicitously, Jack took a hurried farewell of her niece.
“Now that you are in safety, Señorita, I can leave you and go to fulfil an errand I have. I trust the Señora will soon recover from her weakness and terror, and that you will not suffer from the strain of this frightful morning.”
“Señor, you have the heart-felt thanks of my aunt and myself. But for your timely help—I dare not think of it. And poor Francisco! To think of him dead, killed by those horrible French!... We can never thank you enough.”
Jack was conscious of some constraint in the young lady’s manner, which he ascribed to the reaction from her excitement and the peril recently gone through.
“I am only too glad that I happened to be passing at that moment, Señorita,” he said. “And now, farewell!”
He bowed. The young lady looked at him with a curiously scrutinizing expression in her eyes; then, returning his bow with somewhat more formality, Jack thought, than the occasion required, she said:
“Adios—Señor!”