Part 19 (1/2)
De Courval followed the men and women, presuming that they were going to a cafe. If he learned nothing there, he would go back to the s.h.i.+p.
Pus.h.i.+ng carelessly by a group of refugees on the outside of the ”Cocoanut,” the party went in, and one, an official, as he seemed to be, sat down at a table with the woman. De Courval, following, took the nearest table, while the other companion of the woman went to the counter to give an order. The woman sat still, humming a coa.r.s.e Creole love-song, and the vicomte looked about him. The room was dimly lighted, and quite half of it was occupied by the same kind of unhappy people who lay about on the streets, and may have paid for leave to sit in the cafe. The unrestrained, noisy grief of these well-dressed women amazed the young man, used to the courage and self-control of the women of his own cla.s.s. The few tables near by were occupied by small parties of officers, in no way interested in the wretchedness about them. A servant came to De Courval. What would he have? Fried fish there was, and baked yams, but no other dish. He asked for wine, paid for it, and began to be of a sudden curious about the party almost within touch. The woman was a handsome quadroon. Pinned in her high ma.s.ses of black hair were a dozen of the large fireflies of the tropics, a common ornament of a certain cla.s.s of women. From moment to moment their flas.h.i.+ng lanterns strangely illuminated her hair and face. As he watched her in wonder, the man who had gone to the counter came back and sat down, facing the crowd.
”Those _sacres enfants_,” he said, ”they should be turned out; one can hardly hear a word for the bawling. I shall be glad to leave--”
”When do you go, Commissioner?” said the woman.
”In a day or two. I am to return to France as soon as possible and make our report.”
De Courval was startled by the voice, and stared at the speaker. The face was no longer clean-shaven, and now wore the mustache, a recent Jacobin fas.h.i.+on. The high-arched eyebrows of the man of the Midi, the sharp voice, decided him. It was Carteaux. For a moment Rene had the slight vertigo of a man to whose intense pa.s.sion is forbidden the relief of physical action. The scene at Avignon was before him, and instantly, too, the sense of need to be careful of himself, and to think solely of his errand. He swallowed his wine in haste, and sat still, losing no word of the talk, as the other man said:
”They will unload the American s.h.i.+p to-morrow, I suppose.”
”Yes,” said Carteaux; ”and pay in good republican _a.s.signats_ and promises. Then I shall sail on her to Philadelphia, and go thence to France. Our work here is over.”
De Courval had heard enough. If the s.h.i.+p went to the States, there he would find his enemy. To let him go, thus unpunished, when so near, was obviously all that he could do. He rose and went out. In a few minutes he had left the town behind him and was running along the beach, relieved by rapid action. He hailed the boat, lying in wait off the sh.o.r.e, and had, as he stood, the thought that with his father's murderer within reach, duty had denied him the privilege of retributive justice.
It was like the dreams with which at times he was troubled--when he saw Carteaux smiling and was himself unable to move. Looking back, as the boat ran on to the beach, he saw a red glow far away, and over it the pall of smoke where hundreds of plantations were burning, with everywhere, as he had heard, ruin, ma.s.sacre, and ruthless executions of the revolted slaves set free. Such of the upper cla.s.s as could leave had departed, and long since Blanchelande, ex-governor, had been sent to France, to be remembered only as the first victim of the guillotine.
The captain, uneasy, hurried De Courval into the boat, for he had been gone two hours. There was a light, but increasing wind off sh.o.r.e to help them and before them a mile's pull. As they rowed to the s.h.i.+p, the captain heard De Courval's news. ”We must make sure it is our s.h.i.+p,”
said the captain. ”I could row in and see. I should know that old tub a hundred yards away--yes, sir, even in the night.”
”The town, Captain, is in confusion--full of planters, men, women, and children lying about the streets. There is pretty surely a guard on board that s.h.i.+p. Why not beat in closer without lights, and then, with all the men you can spare, find the s.h.i.+p, and if it is ours, take her out?”
”If we can. A good idea. It might be done.”
”It is the only way. It must be done. Give me the mate and ten men.”
”What! Give you my men, and sit down and wait for you? No, sir. I shall go with you.” He was of a breed which has served the country well on sea and land, and whose burial-places are battle-fields and oceans.
It was soon decided to wait to attack until the town was asleep. In the interval De Courval, in case of accident, wrote to his mother and to Schmidt, but with no word of Carteaux. Then for a while he sat still, reflecting with very mingled feelings that success in carrying the s.h.i.+p would again cut him off from all chance of meeting Carteaux. It did seem to him a malignant fate; but at last dismissing it, he buckled on his sword, took up his pistols, and went on deck.
At midnight the three boats set out with m.u.f.fled oars, and after a hard pull against an off-sh.o.r.e wind, through the warm tropic night, they approached the town.
The captain whistled softly, and the boats came together.
”Speak low,” he said to De Courval. ”It is the _George Was.h.i.+ngton_ and no mistake. They are wide-awake, by ill luck, and singing.”
”Yes, I hear them.”
”But they are not on deck. There are lights in the cabin.” The ”ca Ira”
rang out in bits across the water. The young n.o.ble heard it with the anguish it always awakened; for unfailingly it gave back to memory the man he longed to meet, and the blood-dabbled mob which came out of the hall at Avignon shouting this Jacobin song.
The captain said: ”We will board her on this side, all together. She is low in the water. Pull in with your boat and secure the watch forward and I will shut the after hatches and companionway. Look out for the forecastle. If her own men are on board, they will be there.”
De Courval's heart alone told him of the excitement he felt; but he was cool, tranquil, and of the temperament which rises to fullest competence in an hour of danger. A minute later he was on deck, and moving forward in the silence of the night, came upon the watch. ”Hus.h.!.+” he said; ”no noise. Two to each man. They are asleep. There--choke hard and gag.
Here, cut up this rope; a good gag.” In a moment three scared sailors awoke from dreams of their Breton homes, and were trussed with sailor skill.
”Now, then,” he said in French, ”a pistol ball for the man who moves.
Stay by them, you Jones, and come, the rest of you. Rouse the crew in the forecastle, mate. Call to them. If the answer is in French, let no man up. Don't shoot, if you can help it.”