The Blue Pavilions by Arthur Quiller-Couch (leveled readers .TXT) 📕

proved to be the best meal that Tristram had swallowed since his misfortunes began, there being a pint of soup to each man in addition to the usual brown bread. After devouring it, Tristram sat with his back to the wall, wondering if the three ruffians would renew their attack; but they appeared to have forgotten their resentment, and even his presence. Some of his fellow-miserables fell to chatting; others to plaiting ropes out of the straw on which they lay; while some occupied themselves in keeping a look out for the rats that swarmed everywhere and stole out in the dim light to gnaw the pieces of bread which the prisoners saved and hid away for future use.

About four in the afternoon the great door was flung open again and the chief jailer appeared, with four turnkeys and the soldiers of the prison guard, all armed to the teeth with pistols, swords and bayonets. Their object, it turned out, was to examine the four walls and the floor very minutely, to see if the prisoners were making any holes or planning any attempt to escape. They spent a full half an hour in routing out the prisoners and searching high and low with their lanterns, using great roughness and the most abominable talk. Tristram watched their movements for some time, but at length curled himself up in his corner, which had already been explored. He was closing his eyes, and putting a finger in each ear to shut out the riot, when a smart blow descended across his thighs.

One of the soldiers was belabouring him with the flat of a sword, as a hint to stand up.

Tristram did so, and now observed that a dozen of the men with whom he had marched during the two previous days were collected in a little group by the door. He was taken by the arms and hustled forward to join them. As he came close and could see their faces in the dingy twilight, he saw also that, though big, strapping fellows, the most of them were weeping, and shivering like conies in a trap.

He was still wondering at the cause of their agitation when the jailer reopened the door and they were marched out, down the stone stairs, then sharply to the right and along a narrow corridor. A lamp flickered at the farther end, over a small door studded with iron nails; and before this door another small company of soldiers was drawn up in two rows of six, with their backs to either wall of the corridor. Between them the prisoners were forced to defile, still cringing and weeping, as the small door opened and they passed into the chamber beyond.

And now for the first time Tristram felt thoroughly alarmed. The chamber was narrow and lofty, and without any window that he could perceive. But just now it was full of a red light that poured out through the eyes of a charcoal brazier in the far corner. Two grim figures in leathern aprons stood over this brazier, with the glare on their brutal faces—the one puffing with a pair of bellows till the room was filled with suffocating vapours, the other diving a handful of irons into the glowing centre, wherein five or six already glowed at a red heat.

Beside them, and watching these operations with a business-like air, stood a gentleman in a handsome suit and plumed hat.

"Premiree fournee!" announced the sergeant in a loud tone, marshalling the prisoners along the wall. Four or five of them had by this time broken out into loud sobs and cries for mercy. The gentleman scarcely turned his head, but continued to watch the heating of the irons. At length, satisfied that all was ready, he turned and walked in front of the line, examining each prisoner attentively with an absolutely impassive face.

Coming to Tristram—who by this time was committing his fate to Heaven—he paused for a moment, and beckoning the sergeant put a question or two. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and spread out both palms apologetically. Then the gentleman addressed a sentence to Tristram, and receiving no answer but a shake of the head, cast about for a moment and began again in English.

"You are Englishman?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not French deserter?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what the devil you do here?"

This was a question that seemed to require a deal of answering. While Tristram was perpending how best to begin, his interrogator spoke again:

"Speak out. I am M. de Lambertie, Grand Provost of Flanders. You had better speak me the truth."

Our hero began a recital of his woes, condensing as well as he could. After a minute, M. de Lambertie interrupted him.

"I beg your pardon. I speak the English ver' well; but mordieu if I can comprehend a word as you speak it! Tenez donc—You are a spy?"

"Not a bit."

"Well, well," said the Grand Provost, altogether gravelled, "you must be something—come!"

He called the sergeant again; who plainly could give no information, and was quite as plainly surprised that any fuss should be made over an affair so trivial. Indeed, the sergeant ventured to suggest that Tristram should be branded on the off-chance of its turning out for his good.

"But no," said M. de Lambertie, "I am a man of justice and of logic. It is incredible that a youth who cannot speak a word but English should be a deserter from our Majesty's army. Moreover, I am a physiognomist, and his face is honest. Therefore," concluded the man of logic, "he shall go to the galleys."

This was interpreted to Tristram, who found the argument fallacious, but fell on his knees and kissed M. de Lambertie's hand.

"Take him away," said the Grand Provost. He was dragged to his feet and led to the door, followed by the desperate eyes of his comrades. He heard their sobs and outcries renewed above the steady pant of the bellows. Then the door clanged. The soldiers took him upstairs and cast him back into the great dungeon.

The next morning he started in a chain of thirty-five slaves for the galleys at Dunkirk.

 

CHAPTER XI. THE GALLEY "L'HEUREUSE."

The archers, or constables, in charge of the slaves took them through Ypres and Furnes; and as the distance is about twelve leagues, it was not till the third day that Tristram saw the spires and fortifications of Dunkirk rising against the greyish sea. But in that time he learnt much, being tied to a brisk rotund Burgundian, the cheerfullest of the gang, who had made two campaigns with the English Foot Guards in Turenne's time, and had picked up a smattering of their language. He knew, at any rate, enough English to teach Tristram some rudiments of French on the road, and gave him much information that went far to alter his notions of the world.

Tristram was deeply shocked at the sight of one or two of the men whom he had left in the hands of M. de Lambertie. He now ceased to wonder at the agony of apprehension they had exhibited, and, while compassionating their horrible case, did not forget to thank God for having interposed to save him from a similar fate.

"Ah, yes," said his comrade tranquilly; "they are deserters. Formerly they used to have their noses cut off, as well as their ears; but this was found to breed infection, and now they are merely slit—besides, of course, being branded with the fleur-de-lis on either cheek. But what matters their appearance to them, seeing that their sentence is for life?"

Tristram shuddered. "This King of yours," said he, "must be the first-cousin to the devil."

"They are all alike, mon cher. What, for instance, has your King done for you? But speak not so loud." He took a few steps in silence, and added: "After all, one must distinguish between crimes. If the poor faussoniers are treated to the galleys it is absurd to suppose that nothing worse must befall a deserter."

"What is a faussonier?"

"There is one yonder, comrade—that young peasant who walks like a calf and seems to know not whither he is bound. He is condemned because he bought some salt for his young wife, who was ill."

"Is that a crime?"

"It depends where you buy it. You must know, my friend, that in most of the provinces of France salt is very dear. A pint will cost you four francs and a little over. Therefore the poor cannot afford it for their soup, and some, for lack of it, go fasting most of the week. So they starve and languish and fall sick, as did this young man's wife. But in my native Burgundy—blessed be its name!—and also in the country of Doubs, salt is cheap enough. Now this young man dwelt close on the frontier of Burgundy—I have seen him times and again at the vintage work—and because he was very fond of his wife, and could not bear to see her die, he ventured across the frontier to buy salt cheaply; and, being taken, he has been condemned to the galleys for six years. In the meantime his wife will perish. But the King's taxes must be paid. Else how shall we exterminate his enemies?"

"But," Tristram exclaimed, trembling with indignation, "how can you be cheerful in this fearful land?"

"What! I? Well, I am cheerful, to begin with, because my nose is not slit."

"That appears to me a very slight reason."

"You would not say so if you had run so near it as I."

"Are you a deserter, then?"

"Thanks for your good opinion, comrade! No. I was never guilty of disloyalty to King Lewis, But I killed my wife's mother, pardieu!— which the judge seemed to think almost as vile, till I sent a friend to grease his palm with the last sou of my patrimony. And, by good fortune, it became greasy enough to let me slip out of the worst."

"A murderer!" gasped our innocent youth, drawing away from his side.

"She was talkative," the little man explained, with composure. "But let us converse upon other subjects. Only I must warn you that on board the galleys, whither we are bound, a man can recoil from his neighbour but just so far as his chain allows."

In such converse they beguiled the way, talking low whenever an archer drew near, and whispering together at night until they dropped asleep in the filthy stables where they were packed, their chains secured at either end to the wall, and so tightly that they had barely liberty to lie down, and none to turn, or even stir, in their sleep. By degrees Tristram grew even to like this volatile and disreputable comrade, whose conscience was none of his own growing, but of the laws he lived under.

On reaching Dunkirk, however, they were parted, Tristram being assigned to the galley L'Heureuse, while the Burgundian was told off to La Merveille, then commanded by the Chevalier de Sainte-Croix.

"You are in luck, comrade," he said, as they parted under the Rice-bank fort, beside the pier; "L'Heureuse is the Commodore's galley, and the only one in which a poor devil of a slave has an awning above his head to keep the rain and sun off. Ah, what it is to have six feet of stature and a pair of shoulders!"

It turned out as he said. L'Heureuse, commanded by the Commodore de la Pailletine, was the head of a squadron of six galleys then quartered in the port of Dunkirk. But it is necessary here to say a word or two about these strange vessels which the Count de Tourville had recently brought round to the north coast of France from Marseilles and the ports of the Mediterranean. They were narrow craft, ranging from 120 feet to 150 feet long, and from eighteen feet to twenty feet by the beam. In the hold they were not more than seven feet deep; so that, with a full crew on board, the deck stood less than a couple of feet from the water's edge; for the number of men they held was prodigious. The Commodore's galley alone was manned by 336 slaves, and 150 men of all sorts, either officers, soldiers, seamen, or servants. This, however, was the biggest complement of all; for while L'Heureuse had fifty-six oars, with six slaves to tug at each, none of the rest carried more than fifty, with five rowers apiece. The prow of each galley was of iron, pointed like a beak, and so sharp that when rowed at full speed against a hostile ship it was like to sink her, or at least to drive deep and hold on while