The telegraph station at the semaphore was a little, square, stone
hut, roofed with slate, perched high on the cliffs. A sun-scorched,
wooden signal-tower rose in front of it; behind it a line of telegraph
poles stretched away into perspective across the moors. Beyond the
horizon somewhere lay the war-port of Lorient, with its arsenal, armed
redoubts, and heavy bastions; beyond that was war.
While we plodded on, hip deep, through gorse and thorn and heath, we
cautiously watched a spot of red moving to and fro in front of the
station; and as we drew nearer we could see the sentry very
distinctly, rifle slung muzzle down, slouching his beat in the
sunshine.
He was a slovenly specimen, doubtless a deserter from one of the three
provincial armies now forming for the hopeless dash at Belfort and the
German eastern communications.
When Speed and I emerged from the golden gorse into plain view the
sentinel stopped in his tracks, shoved his big, red hands into his
trousers pockets, and regarded us sulkily.
"What are you going to do with this gentleman?" whispered Speed.
"Reason with him, first," I said; "a louis is worth a dozen
kicks."
The soldier left his post as we started toward him, and advanced,
blinking in the strong sunshine, meeting us half-way.
"Now, bourgeois," he said, shaking his unkempt head, "this won't do,
you know. Orders are to keep off. And," he added, in a bantering tone,
"I'm here to enforce them. Allons! En route, mes amis!"
"Are you the soldier Rolland?" I asked.
He admitted that he was with prompt profanity, adding that if we
didn't like his name we had only to tell him so and he would arrange
the matter.
I told him that we approved not only his name but his personal
appearance; indeed, so great was our admiration for him that we had
come clear across the Saint-Yssel moor expressly to pay our
compliments to him in the shape of a hundred-franc note. I drew it
from the soiled roll the Lizard had intrusted to me, and displayed it
for the sentinel's inspection.
"Is that for me?" he demanded, unconvinced, plainly suspicious of
being ridiculed.
"Under certain conditions," I said, "these five louis are for you."
The soldier winked. "I know what you want; you want to go in yonder
and use the telegraph. What the devil," he burst out, "do all you
bourgeois want with that telegraph in there?"
"Has anybody else asked to use it?" I inquired, disturbed.
"Anybody else?" he mimicked. "Well, I think so; there's somebody in
there now--here, give your hundred francs or I tell you nothing, you
understand!"
I handed him the soiled note. He scanned it with the inborn distrust
of the true malefactor, turned it over and over, and finally,
pronouncing it "en règle," shoved it cheerfully into the lining of
his red forage cap.
"A hundred more if you answer my questions truthfully," I said,
amiably.
"'Cré cochon!" he blurted out; "fire at will, comrade! I'll sell you
the whole cursed semaphore for a hundred more! What can I do for you,
captain?"
"Who is in that hut?"
"A lady--she comes often--she gives ten francs each time. Zut!--what
is ten francs when a gentleman gives a hundred! She pays me for my
complaisance--bon! Place aux dames! You pay me better--bon! I'm yours,
gentlemen. War is war, but money pulls the trigger!"
The miserable creature cocked his forage-cap with a toothless smirk
and twisted his scant mustache.
"Who is this lady who pays you ten francs?" I asked.
"I do not know her name--but," he added, with an offensive leer,
"she's worth looking over by gentlemen like you. Do you want to see
her? She's in there click-clicking away on the key with her pretty
little fingers--bon sang! A morsel for a king, gentlemen."
"Wait here," I said, disgusted, and walked toward the stone station.
The treacherous cur came running after me. "There's a side door," he
whispered; "step in there behind the partition and take a look at
her. She'll be done directly: she never stays more than fifteen
minutes. Then you can use the telegraph at your pleasure, captain."
The side door was partly open; I stepped in noiselessly and found
myself in a small, dusky closet, partitioned from the telegraph
office. Immediately the rapid clicking of the Morse instrument came to
my ears, and mechanically I read the message by the sound as it
rattled on under the fingers of an expert:
"--Must have already found out that the signals were not authorized
by the government. Before the _Fer-de-Lance_ returns to her station
the German cruiser ought to intercept her off Groix. Did you arrange
for this?"
There was a moment's silence, then back came rattling the reply in the
Morse code, but in German:
"Yes, all is arranged. The _Augusta_ took a French merchant vessel
off Pont Aven yesterday. The _Augusta_ ought to pass Groix this
evening. You are to burn three white lights from Point Paradise if a
landing-party is needed. It rests with you entirely."
Another silence, then the operator in the next room began:
"You say that Lorient is alarmed by rumors of Uhlans, and therefore
sends the treasure-train back to Brest. The train, you assure me,
carries the diamonds of the crown, bar-silver, gold, the Venus of
Milo, and ten battle-flags from the Invalides. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"The insurgents here, under an individual in our pay, one John
Buckhurst, are preparing to wreck the train at the Lammerin trestle.
"If the _Augusta_ can reach Point Paradise to-night, a landing-party
could easily scatter these insurgents, seize the treasures, and
re-embark in safety.
"There is, you declare, nothing to fear from Lorient; the only thing,
then, to be dreaded is the appearance of the _Fer-de-Lance_ off Groix.
She is not now in sight; I will notify you if she appears. If she does
not come I will burn three white lights in triangle on Paradise
headland."
A short pause, then:
"Are there any Prussian cavalry near enough to help us?"
And the answer:
"Prussian dragoons are scouting toward Bannalec. I will send a
messenger to them if I can. This is all. Be careful. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," clicked the instrument in the next room. There was a
rustle of skirts, a tap of small shoes on the stone floor. I leaned
forward and looked through the little partition window; Sylvia Elven
stood by the table, quietly drawing on her gloves. Her face was
flushed and thoughtful.
Slowly she walked toward the door, hesitated, turned, hurried back to
the instrument, and set the switch. Then, without seating herself, she
leaned over and gave the station call, three _S's_.
"I forgot to say that the two Yankee officers of military police,
Scarlett and Speed, are a harmless pair. You have nothing to fear from
them. Good-bye."
And the reply:
"Watch them all the same. Be careful, madame, they are Yankees.
Good-bye."
When she had gone, closing the outer door behind her, I sprang to the
key, switched on, rattled out the three S's and got my man, probably
before he had taken three steps from his table.
"I forgot to say," I telegraphed, using a light, rapid touch to
imitate Sylvia's--"I forgot to say that, in case the treasure-train
is held back to-night, the Augusta must run for the English Channel."
"What's that?" came back the jerky reply.