Across the Salt Seas

CHAPTER XVIII.

BETRAYED

"His name is Carstairs? Humph!" Juan said to me when the last sound of the wheels had died away, and we no longer heard the rumbling of the great Berlin upon the stones of the roughly paved street outside. "Carstairs!"

"That is the name under which he was entered as a passenger in the papers of La Mouche Noire," I answered. Then continued, looking at the boy as a thought came to my mind. "Why! have you ever seen him before, Juan, or have you any reason to suppose it is anything else than Carstairs?"

For the thought that had come to me, the recollection which had suddenly sprung to my mind, was the memory of the words Captain Tandy had used when first we discussed the old man. "'Tis no more his name than 'tis mine or yours."

Also I recalled that he had said, after meditation, that he was more like to have been one Cuddiford than anybody else.

And now it seemed as though this stripling who had become my companion, this boy whose years scarce numbered eighteen, also knew something of him-disbelieved that his name was Carstairs.

"Do you think," I went on, "that it is something else? Cuddiford, say?"

"Nay," he replied. "Nay. Not that. Not that. I have heard of Cuddiford, though. I think he was brought to London and tried. But-but-oh!" he exclaimed, breaking off, "it cannot be!"

"What cannot be?"

"If," he said, speaking very slowly, very gravely now, "if it were not eight years since I last set eyes on him, when I was quite a child; if he had a beard down over his chest instead of being close shaven, I should say, Mervan, that this was the ruffian I have come to England to seek; the villain who robbed me of the fortune my father left me-the scoundrel, James Eaton."

"James Eaton!" I exclaimed. "The man you asked me about; thought I might be like to know?"

"The same."

"Had he, this Eaton, been a buccaneer? for I make no doubt that man has." I said. "The captain of La Mouche Noire thought so-and-and-his ravings and deliriums seemed to point that way."

"I know not," Juan said. "Eaton was a villain-yet-yet-I can scarce suppose my father would have trusted him with a fortune if he had known him to be such as that."

"Who was your father, Juan?"

"I-I," he answered, looking at me with those clear starry eyes-eyes into which none could gaze without marvelling at their beauty-"I do not know."

"You do not know! – yet you know he bequeathed a fortune to you and left it in the man Eaton's hands."

"Mervan," he said, speaking quickly, "you must be made acquainted with my history-I will tell it you. To-night, when we ride forth again; but not now. See, our horses are ready, they are bringing them from the stables. When we are on the road I will tell you my story. 'Twill not take long. Come, let us pay the bill, and away."

"I will pay the bill," I said; "later we can regulate our accounts. And as you say, we had best be on the road. For if that old man has seen me, or if his black servant has done so-it-it-may be serious."

"Serious!" he repeated. "Serious! For you, my friend?" And as he spoke there was in his voice so tender an evidence that he thought nothing of any danger which could threaten him, but only of what might befall me, that I felt sure, now and henceforth, of the noble, unselfish heart he possessed. "Oh! not serious for you."

"Ay," I replied. "Ay. Precious serious! Remember, he knows I went ashore in Lagos bay, that I sailed in the English fleet to Vigo. What will happen, think you, if he warns them at Lugo that such a one as I-an Englishman-who assisted at the taking of the galleons, is on the road 'twixt here and there?"

"My God!" the boy exclaimed, thrusting his hand through the curls clustering over his eyes-as he always did when in the least excited. "It might mean-"

"Death," I said, "sharp and swift; without trial or time for shrift; without-"

"But-whether he be Eaton-or-Carstairs-he is English himself."

"Ay, and so he is." I answered, "But be sure he has papers-also he can speak Spanish well, will doubtless pass for a Spaniard. Also, unless I am much mistook, had a cargo in one of those galleons-for what else has he followed up here? For what-but the hopes of getting back some of the saved spoil which has been brought to Lugo? That alone would give him the semblance of being Spanish-would earn him sympathy. Meanwhile, what should I be deemed? A spy! And I should die the spy's death."

"What then to do next?" Juan asked, with a helpless, piteous look.

"There is but one thing for me to do," I replied. "One thing alone. As I told you ere we set out from Viana, my task is to ride on straight, unerringly, to my goal-on to Flanders, through every obstacle, every barrier; to crash through them, if heaven permits, as Hopson crashed through that boom at Vigo-to reach Lord Marlborough or to fall by the wayside. That is my duty, and I mean to do it."

"Mervan! Mervan!" he almost moaned.

"'Tis that," I went on. "But-think not I say it unkindly, with lack of friendship or in forgetfulness of our new found camaraderie-for you the need does not exist."

"What!"

"Hear me, I say, Juan. I speak but for your safety. For you there is no duty calling; the risk does not exist. You are free-a traveller at your ease."

"Silence!" he cried-his rich, musical voice ringing clear through the vast sala in the midst of which we now stood once more; and as he spoke he raised his hand with a gesture of command. "Silence, I say! By the body of my dead and unknown father, you do not know Juan Belmonte. What! Set out with you and turn back at the first sign of danger, and that a danger to you alone! Oh!" he exclaimed, changing his tone again, emotional as ever. "Oh! Mervan, Mervan."

"I spoke but for your sake," I said, sorry and grieved to see I had wounded him. "For that alone."

"Then speak no more, never again in such a strain. I said I would never quit your side till Flanders is reached; no need to repeat those words. Where you go I go-unless you drive me from your side."

And now it was my turn to exclaim against him, to cry: "Juan! you think I should do that!" Yet even as I spoke, I could not but add: "The danger to you as well as me may be terrible."

"No more," he said. "No more. We ride together until the end comes-for one or both of us. Now, let us call the reckoning and begone. The horses are there," and he strode to the window and made a sign to the stable-man to be ready for us. Yet ere the landlord came, he spoke to me again.

"Remember," he said, "that beyond our camaraderie, of which you have spoken-ay! 'tis that and more, far more-beyond all this, I do believe the old man whose face I saw as the great lamps shone full on it is James Eaton. I have come to Europe, to this cold quarter of the world, to find him. Do you think with him not half a league ahead that I will be turned from the trail? Never! I follow that man to Lugo-since his beard is gone I cannot pluck him by that, but I can take his throat in my hands, thrust this through his evil heart," and he rapped the quillon of his sword sharply as he spoke. Then added: "As I will. As I will."

"You do not think he has recognised you, too? Seen you, though unseen himself, while we have been in this house, passing through these passages and corridors? as I doubt not either he saw me, or that negro of his."

He thought a moment after I said this, then suddenly emerged from his meditation and laughed a bright, ringing laugh, such as I had learnt to love the hearing of.

"Nay," he replied. "Nay," and still he laughed, "He has not-could not recognise me. No! No! No! When I present myself to him he-will-he will be astonished."

And once more he laughed.

What a strange creature it was, I thought. As brave as a young lion; as emotional and variable as a woman.

In answer to our pealing at the bell, to our calls also, the landlord came in at last, not hurrying himself at all, as it seemed to us, to bring the bill. Indeed, we had observed him, as we looked forth from the window, engaged in a conversation with two of the townspeople-shrouded in the long cloaks which Spaniards wear-their heads as close together as if they were concocting a crime, though, doubtless, talking of nothing more important than the weather.

"The bill," I said, "the bill. Quick. Our horses await us, and we have far to ride."

"Ay," he replied. "Ay," and flinging down a filthy piece of paper on the table, added: "There is the bill"; and he stood drumming his fingers on the table while I felt for the coins with which to pay it. Yet, even as I did so, I noticed that the fellow's manner was quite changed from what it had been hitherto. His obsequiousness of the morning had turned to morose surliness, which he took no trouble to conceal. And, wondering if Juan, who was standing by, fastening his spur strap, had observed the same thing, I glanced at him and saw his eyes fixed on the man.

"There are two pistoles," I said, flinging them on the table. "They will more than pay our addition; give the rest to the servants."

"Ay!" he replied. "Ay!" but with no added word of thanks.

"Is't not enough?" Juan asked.

"It is enough." Then he turned to me and said: "You are riding to Lugo to-night?"

"That is our road," I replied, feeling my temper mount at the man's changed manner. "What of it? Does that route displeasure you, pray?"

"Ho!" he grunted; "for that, it makes no matter to me." Then added: "The horses are there," in so insolent a tone that I had a difficulty in restraining myself from kicking or striking him. But I remembered that, before all else, our safety had to be consulted, and that naught should be done to cause delay to our progress; wherefore, I swallowed my ire as best I might.

Yet, as we rode out of the courtyard, I saw at once that Juan's own thoughts tended exactly in the same direction as mine, since he said to me:

"That fellow has been told something by the old man-doubtless, that you are English-that we both are. Por Diôs! Suppose he has informed him that you were in the English fleet!"

"I have no doubt that the man has been told so," I replied. "But no matter. If it were not for you I should not care a jot."

Then once more I saw the dark eyes turned on me, and wished that I had held my tongue-at least as regarded the latter part of my speech.

It seemed as if the town had gone to bed already. The great square was deserted-except that the geese and pigs were still in it, huddled together around the fountain, and severally cackled and grunted as we trotted by them; down the long street, as we rode, we saw no signs of any one being outside the doors.

Yet, as we neared the extremity of both the town and the street, and came to where the latter ended off into a country road stretching along a dreary-looking plain, over which the moon had risen, we saw that such was not precisely the case. At the end of the street, that which was the last building was a little, low, whitewashed chapel; above its black door there was a figure in a little niche, with, burning in front of it, a candle in a miserable red-glassed lantern; and, feeble as were the rays cast forth from this poor, yet sacred, lamp, they were sufficient to show us three men on horseback, all sitting their steeds as rigidly as statues.

Judging by their long black cloaks and the tips of steel scabbards which protruded beneath them, and which were plainly enough to be seen, even in that dim, cloudy light, I imagined these men to be the town gendarmerie-though doubtless they had some other name to denominate them-and supposed this was a comfortable position which they probably selected nightly. Also, the position was at both an exit and an entrance to the place, therefore a natural one.

"A fine night, gentlemen," one remarked, and next I heard him say something to Juan, which he replied to; in both of their remarks the name of Lugo being quite distinct to my ears. But, beyond this, nothing else passed, and, a few moments later, we were riding at a smart trot across the dreary, moor-like plain.

"They asked," Juan said, in answer to my question, "if our destination was Lugo. That was all."

"So I thought I heard," I said. And added: "Until we were past them I felt not at all sure they might not be on the lookout for us. Might, perhaps, intend to stop us. If Carstairs, or Eaton, or whatever his name is, blew upon me to the landlord, he would be as like to do it to the authorities also. However, we are in the open now, and all is well so far."

By this time the moon was well up, and we could see the country along which we were riding; could perceive that 'twas indeed a vast open plain, with, however, as it seemed to me, a forest or wood ahead of us, into which the road we were on trended at last. Could see, too, the snow lying white all around, as far as the moor stretched, and looking beneath the moonbeams like some dead sea across which no ship was trying to find its way.

"A mournful spot," I said to Juan, as, half an hour later, we had almost reached the entrance to the great forest, which we had observed drawing nearer to us at every stride our beasts took; "'tis well we made a full meal ere we set out. We are not very like to come across another ere we reach Lugo."

I spoke as much to hearten up my companion as for any other reason, since I feared that, in spite of his bravery and firm-fixed determination to never leave my side, he must be very much alarmed at the thoughts of what might happen to us ere we had gone many more leagues.

But, remarking that he made no answer to my idle words, I glanced round at him and perceived that his head was turned half way back toward whence we had come, and that upon his face was a look of intense eagerness-the look of one who listens attentively for some sound.

"What is it, Juan?" I asked.

"Horses' hoofs on the road behind us," he said, "and coming swiftly, too. Hark! do you not hear?"

And even as he spoke I did hear them. Heard also something else to which my soldier's ears had made me very well accustomed: The clank of steel-scabbarded swords against horses' flanks.

"It is the men we passed by the chapel," I said, "following us now. Yet, if 'tis us they seek, why not stop us ere we left the town? They could do as much against us there as here."

"They were but three then," the lad answered, calmly as though he were counting guineas into his palm instead of the hoof-beats of those on-coming horses; "now there are more-half a dozen, I should say. If 'tis us they follow, they have waited to be reinforced."

And I felt sure that he had guessed right, since the very thought which he expressed had already risen in my own mind.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE SECOND FIGHT

We had entered the forest five minutes later, and be very sure, we wasted no more time in waiting for those behind to come up, since, if 'twas us they followed, we might as well be in its shadow as in the open. For if we were outnumbered the trees themselves would afford us some shelter, make a palisade from behind which we might get a shot at them if 'twas too hot for a hand-to-hand encounter. At any rate, I had sufficient military knowledge to know that 'tis best to fight against unequal odds with a base, or retreat, to fall back on, than to be without one.

Yet as we rode into this forest I loosened my blade in its sheath, and felt with my thumb to see that the priming of my pistols was ready; also bade Juan do the same; likewise to keep behind me as much as might be.

"For," said I, "if they mean attack I will give them no chance of beginning it. The first hostile word, and I force my horse between them, cutting right and left, and do you the same, following behind me. Thereby you may chance to take off those whom I miss."

And I laughed-a little grimly, perhaps-as I spoke, for I thought that if there were, indeed, six men behind us, my journey toward Flanders was already as good as come to an end. Yet, all the same, I laughed, for, strange though it may seem to those who have never known the delights of crossed steel, a fight against odds had ever an exhilarating effect upon me; which was, perhaps, as it should be with a knight of the blade.

Juan, however, did not laugh at all, though he told me he would follow my orders to the utmost, and, indeed, was so silent that I asked him if his nerves were firm. To which he replied that I should see when the moment came.

And now upon the crisp night air we heard the clang of those on-coming hoofs ringing nearer and nearer; a rough or deadened kind of sound told us the iron shoes were on the fallen leaves which covered all the track from where the wood began; the scabbards of the riders flapped noisily now against spur and horses' flanks; bridles jangled very near.

Then they were close upon us-five of them! – and a voice called out:

"Halt, there! You are Englishmen-one a sailor and a spy passing through the land."

"You lie!" rang out Juan's voice, in answer. "We are not Englishmen."

That his reply in fluent Spanish-the Spanish, too, of a gentleman, and not of a common night patrol-astonished them, I could see. The leader, he who had spoken, glanced round at his four comrades, and, an instant after, spoke again:

"Who are you, then, and why does not the big man answer?"

"He speaks French. I am Spanish. Molest us not."

"Molest! Cuerpo di Baco! We are informed you are English. Produce your papers!"

"We have none. They are lost."

"Ho! ho! ho!" the leader replied. "Very well, very well. 'Tis as I thought. That man is English; he is denounced this night. As for you, the accursed English have many possessions wherein our tongue is spoken. We understand."

And he gave, as I supposed, some order, since all advanced their animals a few paces nearer, while, as they did so, Juan whispered to me in the French: "Be ready, but do nothing yet."

"You will return to Chantada with us," the spokesman said, sitting his horse quietly enough, yet with the blade of his drawn sword glistening in the moonbeams as it lay across the creature's neck-as, I observed, did the blades of all the others. "That finishes our affair. For the rest you will answer to the Regidór."

"We shall not return. Our way lies on."

"So be it. Then we must take you," and, as he spoke, I saw a movement of his knee-of all their knees-that told me they meant to seize us.

And I knew that the time had come.

"At them!" cried Juan at the same moment. "Advance, Mervan!"

A touch to the curb, and my beast fell back-'twas a good animal, that! had, I believe, been a charger in its day, so well it seemed to know its work-then a free rein and another touch of the heel, and I was amongst them, my sword darting like lightning around. Also, at my rear, came the jennet's head; near me there flashed the steel of Juan's lighter weapon; and in a moment we had crashed through them-they fell away on either side of us like waves from a ship's forefoot! – fell away for a moment, though closing again in an instant.

"Return and charge!" I cried to Juan, still in French. "At them again! See, one has got his quietus already!" As, indeed, he had, for the great fellow was hanging over his horse's neck, in a limp and listless fashion, which showed that he was done for. But now those four closed together as we went at them, Juan stirrup to stirrup with me in this second charge, and our tactics had to be changed. We could no longer burst through them, so that it was a hand-to-hand fight now; they had pistols in their holsters, but no chance to use them; they could not spare a hand to find those holsters-could not risk our swords through their unguarded breasts; wherefore we set to work, blade to blade.

We should have won, I do believe. Already I had thrust through and through one man's arm-as luck would have it, 'twas not the sword arm-already they backed before our rain of blows and cuts and thrusts, when, by untoward fate, my horse stumbled on the frosty road and came down; came down upon his haunches, slipping me from the saddle over the cantle and so to the earth; then regained its hind legs once more and dashed out from the fray.

And now our position was mighty perilous. Above I saw Juan on the jennet fencing well with two of the men; over me were the two others cutting down at my head, though, since by God's mercy I had retained my weapon, their blows were up to now unavailing. Yet I knew this could not be for long-nor last-wherefore I cried:

"Save yourself, Juan, save yourself; disengage and flee."

Under my own blade, under those two others that beat upon it so that I wondered it shivered not in my hand, I saw the boy manfully holding his own-once, too, I saw him rip up the jerkin of one of his opponents, and heard the latter give a yell of pain-then, "Great God!" I thought, "what has happened now?"

For there was a fifth man upon the scene. A man, tall and stalwart, mounted on a great, big boned, black horse, who had suddenly sprung from out a chestnut copse by the side of the track; a man in whose hands there gleamed a sword that a second later was laced and entwined with those attacking Juan; a man who hurled oaths in Spanish and French at them-I heard carambas and por Diôs's and other words-which sounded like the rolling of some great cathedral organ as they came from his deep throat-tonneres, ventre-bleus and carrognes I heard.

Heavens! who was this man who beat back those others as a giant might push back a handful of children; whose sword-even as with one hand he grasped Juan round the waist-went through an adversary's neck so that he fell groaning upon me, his blood spurting as if from a spigot? Who was he who laughed loud and long as, with one accord, all those still alive turned and fled back upon the road they had come? Fled, leaving us, thanks be to God and this new arrival, the victors of the fray.

He sat his horse calmly now, looking after their retreating figures, his great sombrero slouched across his face, wiping his blade upon the coal-black creature's mane; then, as their figures disappeared from our view, he said in French:

"Warmer work this, Señor Belmonte, than twanging viols and singing love songs, n'est-ce pas?" and from his throat there came again that laugh.

Glancing up, I saw that which caused me to start, even as I heard Juan say: "You! You here! And in this garb!" – saw that which made me wonder if I had gone demented. For this man who had so suddenly come to our rescue, this fine lame whose thrusts had won the fray for us, was none other than the monk I had seen on board La Sacra Familia, the holy man known there as Father Jaime.

And swiftly as I gazed up at him there came to my recollection old Admiral Hopson's suspicions as to having seen him before, also the imitation pass he had made across the table with the quill at his brother-admiral, and his words:

"'Twas not always the cowl and gown that adorned his person-rather instead the belt and pistols-the long, serviceable rapier, handy."

What did it mean?

Ere he answered either Juan's startled enquiries or my stare of amazement, which he must very well have seen in the moon's rays as I regarded him, he cantered off after my horse, which was standing quietly in the forest side by side with that other animal on whose neck the first wounded man had fallen-he was now lying dead upon the ground! – and brought both back to where we were, leading them by their reins.

"You will want your horse, monsieur," he said, "to continue your journey. Bon Dieu! you both made a good fight of it, though they would have beaten you had I not come up at the moment."

"Believe us, we both thank you more than words can express," I said, while Juan sat his jennet, still breathing heavily from his exertions, yet peering with all the power of those bright eyes at the man before him, "but your appearance is so different from what it was when last we met that-that I am lost in amazement. You were, sir, a holy monk then."

"Cucullus non facit monachum," he replied, in what I recognised to be very good Latin, then added, with a laugh: "In journeying through dangerous places we are not always what we seem to be. To wit: Monsieur was either an English soldier or sailor when I saw him last-an enemy to Spain and France-hating both, as I should suppose. Yet now he is a private gentleman, and, I imagine, desires nothing less than that his real position should be known."