Chapter XXXII The Prisoner at Bayonne
Running the Gauntlet—A Bait—Figments—Prophecy—Judas—At Large
“You will excuse a little delay, monsieur le colonel. The letter from Monsieur le Maréchal Lannes is somewhat—indeed I may say very—unusual. We must assure ourselves that everything is en règle—a mere formality, but in official business we live by rule and regulation. Monsieur will understand.”
The lieutenant-general in command of the port of Bayonne leaned back in his chair and smiled deprecatingly, at the same time eying his visitor with no little keenness. The stranger was a Spanish officer in the French service, and as such to be distrusted; and although his manner lacked nothing in ease and assurance, there was something in his bearing and expression that added to the Frenchman’s instinctive suspicion. But from motives of prudence he forbore to explain that he was detaining his visitor until an aide-de-camp had ransacked the archives for an undoubted autograph of Marshal Lannes with which the letter brought by the Spaniard could be compared. For nearly half an hour the two chatted on indifferent subjects, the Spaniard growing more and more impatient, the Frenchman more and more apologetic. At last the aide-de-camp entered, and handed a document to the general, which the latter keenly scrutinized.
“I am glad to say, monsieur,” he said, rising, “that I find his excellency’s letter perfectly in order. I am delighted to make the acquaintance of one who, as the marshal informs me, has done good service to the emperor and to France, and, let us hope, to Spain. Captain Broussier will see that you are granted the most complete facilities for a private interview with the man José Pinzon. I understand that he is at present delirious—fever, monsieur, carries off too many of our prisoners,—but he has lucid intervals. For any service I may be able to render you, command me.”
Captain Broussier led the way from the general’s quarters near the Place d’Armes, across the St. Esprit bridge that spanned the Adour, to the grim citadel in which some hundreds of prisoners, Spanish, Portuguese, and English, were immured. Passing under the massive archway, they entered the great courtyard in which the unhappy captives were allowed to take exercise; some were sitting, the picture of dejection; others maintaining the semblance of cheerfulness; many endeavouring to add, by basket-weaving and similar light occupations possible within prison walls, to the wretched subsistence allowance doled out to French prisoners of war. A group of Spaniards, looking up as the two officers passed through the courtyard, caught sight of the afrancesado, and as they did so their attitude underwent an instant and extraordinary change. Listlessness gave place to the most intense interest; every man showed, each in his own way, the most passionate hatred of the new-comer. But for the presence of the two French sentries in the courtyard, and half a dozen more in the guard-house beyond the gate, they would have thrown themselves upon him as he passed. He caught the look of murder in their eyes and paled visibly, shrinking as if for protection closer to his companion, who noted the action and its cause, and smiled questioningly.
“Some men of—the opposite party—in Saragossa. Misguided, but dangerous; they bear me no good-will.”
“If appearances go for anything, monsieur, those basket knives of theirs would have some pretty work to do but for the bayonets of our men yonder.”
The Spaniard winced. He was clearly relieved when they passed from the courtyard into a long corridor leading to the room used as a hospital for the prisoners. There were several occupants, many in the last stage of disease, and the captain, having directed that a screen should be placed round the bed of the patient whom the visitor had come to see, left hastily. A visit to the hospital of the citadel was not without its dangers, for prison fever was no respecter of persons.
Upon a low truckle-bed in one corner of the room a man, shrunken to a skeleton, lay stretched, apparently at the point of death. He was conscious, for the light in his eyes was clear although dim, but so weak was his breathing, so wasted his figure, that at any moment it seemed the wan flame of life might flicker out. He turned his gaze slowly upon the stranger as he approached; then there came into his eyes the same look of inextinguishable hatred that had transfigured the wretched prisoners in the courtyard.
“Traidor!”
It was a mere movement of the lips, from which no sound issued; but the visitor, already unnerved, started as if stung; his face flushed, bringing into relief the livid scar across his brow. Then, collecting himself with an effort, he said, ignoring the unspoken insult:
“It pains me, my good José, to find you thus—sick and a prisoner. I have come a long way to see you, to bring you freedom—for the sake of old times. Fortunately I am not too late. A few more days in this place would have killed you; but we shall soon see what liberty and good nursing will do, eh, my friend?”
An eager light came into the sick man’s eyes. In his feeble state he was unable to grasp the full import of what his visitor was saying. He was only capable of mastering one idea at a time. The word “liberty” had sent a sudden flash of colour into his cheek. The mere prospect of freedom, dim though it was, had banished for a brief moment his mortal antipathy to the man beside him. The walls of his prison-house fell asunder; he saw himself once again among his own people, the trusted servant of a beloved mistress whom he had sworn to serve, and whom his capture had left unprotected, exposed to all the dangers of a besieged city. The other, watching him keenly, was quick to note the changed expression of his face; and without giving the weakened intelligence time for ordered thought, he continued in the same tone of kindly interest:
“But I must first give you news of the señorita. I know, my good José, you care nothing for yourself. It is of her you think. I honour your fidelity; it is because of that that I am here.”
“What of her? Tell me!” whispered the sick man. The voice was scarcely audible, but the eyes showed an agony of doubt and apprehension; he had wholly forgotten his distrust. He moved as if to raise himself; but he was unable to lift his head from the pillow.
“Make your mind easy; she is well, quite well. I left her with the wife of the old porter. She is a worthy woman, and devoted to the señorita. My influence with the government of King Joseph ensured the safety of your mistress after the fall of the city. She sends you the kindest messages. When you did not return from that brave sortie, she feared you were dead, and she grieved. But I learnt that you were a prisoner, and when I told her she clasped her hands and cried for joy, and bade me come at once to find you. ‘Tell my good José that I shall know no peace until I am assured of his safety. I pray for him. He is much in my thoughts.’”
The sick man’s eyes filled with tears. He would have lifted his hand to dash them away, but his strength was unequal to the effort. The visitor continued, his accent carefully modulated, gentle, persuasive:
“But, alas! my good friend, she is poor, very poor. The house in Saragossa is destroyed, burned during the siege. The house at Morata is pillaged by brigands. There is no rent from the estate; the people are all dispersed; and the good aunt is dead. The worthy porter and his wife have scarcely enough to keep themselves. It is terrible, this war; would that all good Spaniards thought with me that it is best to make peace with the king!”
The speaker bent forward, intently watching the effect of these words. As he had expected, a look of keen distress crossed the prisoner’s face. Again he strove to rise, as if by raising himself he could shake off his intolerable weakness. He was suffering acutely. The visitor was silent for a while, giving the imagination of the sick man full play. Then he continued:
“I, alas! can do little to help. I am poor, my good José, miserably poor. I have sacrificed all—you will know how. I would willingly share my last crust with the señorita, but in this fatal war so many things may happen. I begged her to take shelter in a convent, but she would not; brave girl, she would stay to help her people! ‘José,’ she said, ‘could assist us if only he were free. He alone knows what my poor father has done to provide for me. Go to him, Miguel; tell him of our distress; he will find a means of helping us.’”
“What would you wish me to do?”
The visitor, bending low, caught the whispered words. The man’s clear eyes were upon him, and he checked the involuntary expression of satisfaction that crossed his face. But, instantaneous though it was, the sick man, strangely sensitive to shades of tone and manner, seemed to be instinctively aware of it, and the other was clearly ill at ease under his searching gaze.
“Well, my good José,” he said hesitatingly, “your illness places us in a difficulty. I have here an order for your release” (he drew from his pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); “I hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You could have then placed the señorita beyond the reach of want; for from what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan that I can think of is that you send the señorita instructions where she can find her property—you can either write her a letter or give me the message,—and I will see that you are released and nursed back to health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel.”
The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering:
“I must not tell—anything. I swore it.”
“Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don Fernan’s wish that the señorita should be allowed to—to starve while her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by circumstances—by common sense.”
The other winced, but still replied: “I cannot; I swore it. Not till the war is over.”
Then, a ripple of impatience showing above his suave manner, the visitor said hastily:
“Certainly, but the war is over; the fall of Saragossa finished the war. Joseph is again king in Madrid.”
“You are mistaken, Señor. If what you say is true, the war is only just beginning.” There was a light in the man’s eyes, a fierce energy in his whispered words, that seemed first to embarrass, then to anger his visitor.
“Well, my friend, if you will not listen to reason, if you prefer to allow your mistress to starve, I can do nothing more. I will give her your message.” He rose from his seat. “And I shall at least have the satisfaction of being able to add that such an ungrateful rascal is dead; for in this hole you won’t live another week, and you can’t expect me to do anything for your release.”
“Stay!”
The afrancesado caught the word and halted expectantly as he was turning away. With a supreme effort the sick man had raised himself on his elbow, and, struggling hard for breath, gasped out:
“Liar! Traitor! Spy! Do you think—I do not—do not see you—for what you are? Go back—go back, accursed afrancesado, to those who have—bought you. Out of my sight! The price of blood!—Judas!—the doom of Judas—awaits you—the doom—of—Judas!”
The afrancesado recoiled as at the stroke of a lash; then an ugly look crossed his face, and his hand sought the hilt of his knife. But even as it did so the man sank back half insensible, the gleam of fierce rage faded from his face, and while Miguel was hesitating whether to stay or go, the prisoner began to talk in a low but distinct voice, as repeating a lesson he had learned by heart.
“Yes, Señor, dear master, I swear it. I will watch over the señorita as long as I have life; I swear it. None shall ever know except the señor Ingles. In the garden—the old—”
His voice was dying away again into a whisper; the afrancesado bent eagerly over him to catch the feeble tones, and when he rose a look of mingled greed and malignant triumph shone in his eyes. He waited for a while longer, while the sick man continued to babble in the same strain, his voice occasionally rising so that it could plainly be heard by the sufferers in the neighbouring beds. Murmurs arose, and, helpless as they were, their mutterings struck the heart of the afrancesado with a cold chill of dread. Rising, and throwing one hurried backward glance at the now silent figure on the bed, he hastened from the room, pursued by the vengeful glance of all who were conscious enough to recognize him.
An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though fearing to meet once more the traitor’s malign glance.
“What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a señorita?” whispered the prisoner in the next bed.
“Saying! When?” he asked with a note of mortal anguish.
“Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?”
The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had fainted.
The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended. Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a prisoner.
“Nonsense!” he said; “la prisoner! What have you against me?”
“The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur—”
“Is he dead?” asked Miguel eagerly.
“He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he escaped by swimming the Adour—a marvellous feat for a man in his condition.”
“Escaped!” screamed Miguel, starting up. “I must go, I must go at once, before it is too late!”
“Then you did not arrange the escape, monsieur?” said the Frenchman, surprised at the other’s violence.
“Arrange it! Am I a fool? Am I mad? Arrange the escape of my worst enemy! I must go! He has gone to rob me; he will ruin me; I must go, before it is too late!”
His agitation was so sincere that, after a consultation among the French officers, the afrancesado was permitted, a few days later, to depart with his servant, and they rode southward out of Bayonne at a furious pace, the stones clattering, the dust flying behind, and all who saw them staring after them in amazement.