“WHO ARE YOU, JOHN ARMITAGE?”
“_Morbleu, Monsieur_, you give me too much majesty,” said
the Prince.—_The History of Henry Esmond_.
“These gentlemen doubtless wish to confer—let them sequester
themselves!” and Armitage waved his hand to the line of empty
sleeping-rooms. “I believe Monsieur Durand already knows the way
about—he may wish to explore my trunks again,” and Armitage bowed
to the two men, who, with their wrists tied behind them and a strap
linking them together, looked the least bit absurd.
“Now, Claiborne, that foolish Oscar has a first-aid kit of some sort that
he used on me a couple of weeks ago. Dig it out of his simple cell back
there and we’ll clear up this mess in my shoulder. Twice on the same
side,—but I believe they actually cracked a bone this time.”
He lay down on a long bench and Claiborne cut off his coat.
“I’d like to hold a little private execution for this,” growled the
officer. “A little lower and it would have caught you in the heart.”
“Don’t be spiteful! I’m as sound as wheat. We have them down and the
victory is ours. The great fun is to come when the good Baron von Marhof
gets here. If I were dying I believe I could hold on for that.”
“You’re not going to die, thank God! Just a minute more until I pack this
shoulder with cotton. I can’t do anything for that smashed bone, but
Bledsoe is the best surgeon in the army, and he’ll fix you up in a
jiffy.”
“That will do now. I must have on a coat when our honored guests arrive,
even if we omit one sleeve—yes, I guess we’ll have to, though it does
seem a bit affected. Dig out the brandy bottle from the cupboard there in
the corner, and then kindly brush my hair and straighten up the chairs a
bit. You might even toss a stick on the fire. That potato sack you may
care to keep as a souvenir.”
“Be quiet, now! Remember, you are my prisoner, Mr. Armitage.”
“I am, I am! But I will wager ten courses at Sherry’s the Baron will be
glad to let me off.”
[Illustration: With their wrists tied behind them, they looked the
least bit absurd]
He laughed softly and began repeating:
“‘Why, hear you, my masters: was it for me to kill the heir apparent?
Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as
Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince.
Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the
better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou
for a true prince.’”
Claiborne forced him to lie down on the bench, and threw a blanket over
him, and in a moment saw that he slept. In an inner room the voices of
the prisoners occasionally rose shrilly as they debated their situation
and prospects. Claiborne chewed a cigar and watched and waited. Armitage
wakened suddenly, sat up and called to Claiborne with a laugh:
“I had a perfectly bully dream, old man. I dreamed that I saw the ensign
of Austria-Hungary flying from the flag-staff of this shanty; and by
Jove, I’ll take the hint! We owe it to the distinguished Ambassador who
now approaches to fly his colors over the front door. We ought to have a
trumpeter to herald his arrival—but the white and red ensign with the
golden crown—it’s in the leather-covered trunk in my room—the one with
the most steamer labels on it—go bring it, Claiborne, and we’ll throw it
to the free airs of Virginia. And be quick—they ought to be here by this
time!”
He stood in the door and watched Claiborne haul up the flag, and he made
a mockery of saluting it as it snapped out in the fresh morning air.
“The Port of Missing Men! It was designed to be extra-territorial, and
there’s no treason in hauling up an alien flag,” and his high spirits
returned, and he stalked back to the fireplace, chaffing Claiborne and
warning him against ever again fighting under an unknown banner.
“Here they are,” called Claiborne, and flung open the door as Shirley,
her father and Baron von Marhof rode up under the billowing ensign. Dick
stepped out to meet them and answer their questions.
“Mr. Armitage is here. He has been hurt and we have sent for a doctor;
but”—and he looked at Shirley.
“If you will do me the honor to enter—all of you!” and Armitage came out
quickly and smiled upon them.
“We had started off to look for Dick when we met your man,” said Shirley,
standing on the steps, rein in hand.
“What has happened, and how was Armitage injured?” demanded Judge
Claiborne.
“There was a battle,” replied Dick, grinning, “and Mr. Armitage got in
the way of a bullet.”
Her ride through the keen morning air had flooded Shirley’s cheeks with
color. She wore a dark blue skirt and a mackintosh with the collar turned
up about her neck, and a red scarf at her throat matched the band of her
soft felt hat. She drew off her gauntlets and felt in her pocket for a
handkerchief with which to brush some splashes of mud that had dried on
her cheek, and the action was so feminine, and marked so abrupt a
transition from the strange business of the night and morning, that
Armitage and Dick laughed and Judge Claiborne turned upon them
frowningly.
Shirley had been awake much of the night. On returning from the ball at
the inn she found Dick still absent, and when at six o’clock he had not
returned she called her father and they had set off together for the
hills, toward which, the stablemen reported, Dick had ridden. They had
met Oscar just outside the Springs, and had returned to the hotel for
Baron von Marhof. Having performed her office as guide and satisfied
herself that Dick was safe, she felt her conscience eased, and could see
no reason why she should not ride home and leave the men to their
council. Armitage saw her turn to her horse, whose nose was exploring her
mackintosh pockets, and he stepped quickly toward her.
“You see, Miss Claiborne, your brother is quite safe, but I very much
hope you will not run away. There are some things to be explained which
it is only fair you should hear.”
“Wait, Shirley, and we will all go down together,” said Judge Claiborne
reluctantly.
Baron von Marhof, very handsome and distinguished, but mud-splashed, had
tied his horse to a post in the driveway, and stood on the veranda steps,
his hat in his hand, staring, a look of bewilderment on his face.
Armitage, bareheaded, still in his riding leggings, his trousers splashed
with mud, his left arm sleeveless and supported by a handkerchief swung
from his neck, shook hands with Judge Claiborne.
“Baron von Marhof, allow me to present Mr. Armitage,” said Dick, and
Armitage walked to the steps and bowed. The Ambassador did not offer his
hand.
“Won’t you please come in?” said Armitage, smiling upon them, and when
they were seated he took his stand by the fireplace, hesitated a moment,
as though weighing his words, and began:
“Baron von Marhof, the events that have led to this meeting have been
somewhat more than unusual—they are unique. And complications have
arisen which require prompt and wise action. For this reason I am glad
that we shall have the benefit of Judge Claiborne’s advice.”
“Judge Claiborne is the counsel of our embassy,” said the Ambassador. His
gaze was fixed intently on Armitage’s face, and he hitched himself
forward in his chair impatiently, grasping his crop nervously across his
knees.
“You were anxious to find me, Baron, and I may have seemed hard to catch,
but I believe we have been working at cross-purposes to serve the same
interests.”
The Baron nodded.
“Yes, I dare say,” he remarked dryly.
“And some other gentlemen, of not quite your own standing, have at the
same time been seeking me. It will give me great pleasure to present one
of them—one, I believe, will be enough. Mr. Claiborne, will you kindly
allow Monsieur Jules Chauvenet to stand in the door for a moment? I want
to ask him a question.”
Shirley, sitting farthest from Armitage, folded her hands upon the long
table and looked toward the door into which her brother vanished. Then
Jules Chauvenet stood before them all, and as his eyes met hers for a
second the color rose to his face, and he broke out angrily:
“This is infamous! This is an outrage! Baron von Marhof, as an Austrian
subject, I appeal to you for protection from this man!”
“Monsieur, you shall have all the protection Baron von Marhof cares to
give you; but first I wish to ask you a question—just one. You followed
me to America with the fixed purpose of killing me. You sent a Servian
assassin after me—a fellow with a reputation for doing dirty work—and
he tried to stick a knife into me on the deck of the _King Edward_. I
shall not recite my subsequent experiences with him or with you and
Monsieur Durand. You announced at Captain Claiborne’s table at the Army
and Navy Club in Washington that I was an impostor, and all the time,
Monsieur, you have really believed me to be some one—some one in
particular.”
Armitage’s eyes glittered and his voice faltered with intensity as he
uttered these last words. Then he thrust his hand into his coat pocket,
stepped back, and concluded:
“Who am I, Monsieur?”
Chauvenet shifted uneasily from one foot to another under the gaze of the
five people who waited for his answer; then he screamed shrilly:
“You are the devil—an impostor, a liar, a thief!”
Baron von Marhof leaped to his feet and roared at Chauvenet in English:
“Who is this man? Whom do you believe him to be?”
“Answer and be quick about it!” snapped Claiborne.
“I tell you”—began Chauvenet fiercely.
“_Who am I_?” asked Armitage again.
“I don’t know who you are—”
“You do not! You certainly do not!” laughed Armitage; “but whom have you
believed me to be, Monsieur?”
“I thought—”
“Yes; you thought—”
“I thought—there seemed reasons to believe—”
“Yes; and you believe it; go on!”
Chauvenet’s eyes blinked for a moment as he considered the difficulties
of his situation. The presence of Baron von Marhof sobered him. America
might not, after all, be so safe a place from which to conduct an Old
World conspiracy, and this incident must, if possible, be turned to his
own account. He addressed the Baron in German:
“This man is a designing plotter; he is bent upon mischief and treason;
he has contrived an attempt against the noble ruler of our nation—he is
a menace to the throne—”
“Who is he?” demanded Marhof impatiently; and his eyes and the eyes of
all fell upon Armitage.
“I tell you we found him lurking about in Europe, waiting his chance, and
we drove him away—drove him here to watch him. See these things—that
sword—those orders! They belonged to the Archduke Karl. Look at them and
see that it is true! I tell you we have rendered Austria a high service.
One death—one death—at Vienna—and this son of a madman would be king!
He is Frederick Augustus, the son of the Archduke Karl!”
The room was very still as the last words rang out. The old Ambassador’s
gaze clung to Armitage; he stepped nearer, the perspiration breaking out
upon his brow, and his lips trembled as he faltered:
“He would be king; he would be king!”
Then Armitage spoke sharply to Claiborne.
“That will do. The gentleman may retire now.”
As Claiborne thrust Chauvenet out of the room, Armitage turned to the
little company, smiling.
“I am not Frederick Augustus, the son of the Archduke Karl,” he said
quietly; “nor did I ever pretend that I was, except to lead those men on
in their conspiracy. The cigarette case that caused so much trouble
at Mr. Claiborne’s supper-party belongs to me. Here it is.”
The old Ambassador snatched it from him eagerly.
“This device—the falcon poised upon a silver helmet! You have much to
explain, Monsieur.”
“It is the coat-of-arms of the house of Schomburg. The case belonged to
Frederick Augustus, Karl’s son; and this sword was his; and these orders
and that cloak lying yonder—all were his. They were gifts from his
father. And believe me, my friends, I came by them honestly.”
The Baron bent over the table and spilled the orders from their silver
box and scanned them eagerly. The colored ribbons, the glittering jewels,
held the eyes of all. Many of them were the insignia of rare orders no
longer conferred. There were the crown and pendant cross of the
Invincible Knights of Zaringer; the white falcon upon a silver helmet,
swung from a ribbon of cloth of gold—the familiar device of the house of
Schomburg, the gold Maltese cross of the Chevaliers of the Blessed
Sacrament; the crossed swords above an iron crown of the Ancient Legion
of Saint Michael and All Angels; and the full-rigged ship pendant from
triple anchors—the decoration of the rare Spanish order of the Star of
the Seven Seas. Silence held the company as the Ambassador’s fine old
hands touched one after another. It seemed to Shirley that these baubles
again bound the New World, the familiar hills of home, the Virginia
shores, to the wallowing caravels of Columbus.
The Ambassador closed the silver box the better to examine the white
falcon upon its lid. Then he swung about and confronted Armitage.
“Where is he, Monsieur?” he asked, his voice sunk to a whisper, his eyes
sweeping the doors and windows.
“The Archduke Karl is dead; his son Frederick Augustus, whom these
conspirators have imagined me to be—he, too, is dead.”
“You are quite sure—you are quite sure, Mr. Armitage?”
“I am quite sure.”
“That is not enough! We have a right to ask more than your word!”
“No, it is not enough,” replied Armitage quietly. “Let me make my story
brief. I need not recite the peculiarities of the Archduke—his dislike
of conventional society, his contempt for sham and pretense. After living
a hermit life at one of the smallest and most obscure of the royal
estates for several years, he vanished utterly. That was fifteen years
ago.”
“Yes; he was mad—quite mad,” blurted the Baron.
“That was the common impression. He took his oldest son and went into
exile. Conjectures as to his whereabouts have filled the newspapers
sporadically ever since. He has been reported as appearing in the South
Sea Islands, in India, in Australia, in various parts of this country. In
truth he came directly to America and established himself as a farmer in
western Canada. His son was killed in an accident; the Archduke died
within the year.”
Judge Claiborne bent forward in his chair as Armitage paused.
“What proof have you of this story, Mr. Armitage?”
“I am prepared for such a question, gentlemen. His identity I may
establish by various documents which he gave me for the purpose. For
greater security I locked them in a safety box of the Bronx Loan and
Trust Company in New York. To guard against accidents I named you jointly
with myself as entitled to the contents of that box. Here is the key.”
As he placed the slim bit of steel on the table and stepped back to his
old position on the hearth, they saw how white he was, and that his hand
shook, and Dick begged him to sit down.
“Yes; will you not be seated, Monsieur?” said the Baron kindly.
“No; I shall have finished in a moment. The Archduke gave those documents
to me, and with them a paper that will explain much in the life of that
unhappy gentleman. It contains a disclosure that might in certain
emergencies be of very great value. I beg of you, believe that he was not
a fool, and not a madman. He sought exile for reasons—for the reason
that his son Francis, who has been plotting the murder of the new
Emperor-king, _is not his son_!”
“What!” roared the Baron.
“It is as I have said. The faithlessness of his wife, and not madness,
drove him into exile. He intrusted that paper to me and swore me to carry
it to Vienna if Francis ever got too near the throne. It is certified by
half a dozen officials authorized to administer oaths in Canada, though
they, of course, never knew the contents of the paper to which they swore
him. He even carried it to New York and swore to it there before the
consul-general of Austria-Hungary in that city. There was a certain grim
humor in him; he said he wished to have the affidavit bear the seal of
his own country, and the consul-general assumed that it was a document of
mere commercial significance.”
The Baron looked at the key; he touched the silver box; his hand rested
for a moment on the sword.
“It is a marvelous story—it is wonderful! Can it be true—can it be
true?” murmured the Ambassador.
“The documents will be the best evidence. We can settle the matter in
twenty-four hours,” said Judge Claiborne.
“You will pardon me for seeming incredulous, sir,” said the Baron, “but
it is all so extraordinary. And these men, these prisoners—”
“They have pursued me under the impression that I am Frederick Augustus.
Oddly enough, I, too, am Frederick Augustus,” and Armitage smiled. “I was
within a few months of his age, and I had a little brush with Chauvenet
and Durand in Geneva in which they captured my cigarette case—it had
belonged to Frederick, and the Archduke gave it to me—and my troubles
began. The Emperor-king was old and ill; the disorders in Hungary were to
cloak the assassination of his successor; then the Archduke Francis,
Karl’s reputed son, was to be installed upon the throne.”
“Yes; there has been a conspiracy; I—”
“And there have been conspirators! Two of them are safely behind that
door; and, somewhat through my efforts, their chief, Winkelried, should
now be under arrest in Vienna. I have had reasons, besides my pledge to
Archduke Karl, for taking an active part in these affairs. A year ago I
gave Karl’s repudiation of his second son to Count Ferdinand von
Stroebel, the prime minister. The statement was stolen from him for the
Winkelried conspirators by these men we now have locked up in this
house.”
The Ambassador’s eyes blazed with excitement as these statements fell one
by one from Armitage’s lips; but Armitage went on:
“I trust that my plan for handling these men will meet with your
approval. They have chartered the _George W. Custis_, a fruit-carrying
steamer lying at Morgan’s wharf in Baltimore, in which they expected
to make off after they had finished with me. At one time they had some
idea of kidnapping me; and it isn’t my fault they failed at that game.
But I leave it to you, gentlemen, to deal with them. I will suggest,
however, that the presence just now in the West Indies, of the cruiser
_Sophia Margaret_, flying the flag of Austria-Hungary, may be
suggestive.”
He smiled at the quick glance that passed between the Ambassador and
Judge Claiborne.
Then Baron von Marhof blurted out the question that was uppermost in the
minds of all.
“Who are _you_, John Armitage?”
And Armitage answered, quite simply and in the quiet tone that he had
used throughout:
“I am Frederick Augustus von Stroebel, the son of your sister and
of the Count Ferdinand von Stroebel. The Archduke’s son and I were
school-fellows and playmates; you remember as well as I my father’s place
near the royal lands. The Archduke talked much of democracy and the New
World, and used to joke about the divine right of kings. Let me make my
story short—I found out their plan of flight and slipped away with them.
It was believed that I had been carried away by gipsies.”
“Yes, that is true; it is all true! And you never saw your father—you
never went to him?”
“I was only thirteen when I ran away with Karl. When I appeared before my
father in Paris last year he would have sent me away in anger, if it had
not been that I knew matters of importance to Austria—Austria, always
Austria!”
“Yes; that was quite like him,” said the Ambassador. “He served his
country with a passionate devotion. He hated America—he distrusted the
whole democratic idea. It was that which pointed his anger against
you—that you should have chosen to live here.”
“Then when I saw him at Geneva—that last interview—he told me that
Karl’s statement had been stolen, and he had his spies abroad looking for
the thieves. He was very bitter against me. It was only a few hours
before he was killed, as a part of the Winkelried conspiracy. He had
given his life for Austria. He told me never to see him again—never to
claim my own name until I had done something for Austria. And I went to
Vienna and knelt in the crowd at his funeral, and no one knew me, and it
hurt me, oh, it hurt me to know that he had grieved for me; that he had
wanted a son to carry on his own work, while I had grown away from the
whole idea of such labor as his. And now—”
He faltered, his hoarse voice broke with stress of feeling, and his
pallor deepened.
“It was not my fault—it was really not my fault! I did the best I could,
and, by God, I’ve got them in the room there where they can’t do any
harm!—and Dick Claiborne, you are the finest fellow in the world, and
the squarest and bravest, and I want to take your hand before I go to
sleep; for I’m sick—yes, I’m sick—and sleepy—and you’d better haul
down that flag over the door—it’s treason, I tell you!—and if you see
Shirley, tell her I’m John Armitage—tell her I’m John Armitage, John
Arm—”
The room and its figures rushed before his eyes, and as he tried to stand
erect his knees crumpled under him, and before they could reach him he
sank to the floor with a moan. As they crowded about he stirred slightly,
sighed deeply, and lay perfectly still.