The night was pitch-dark, and the three detachments marched out in
perfect silence. The Spaniards had no suspicion of an attack until the
first division was directly at the outer line of fortifications. Then
the sentries quickly gave the word, the drums beat the alarm, and the
camp of fourteen thousand men was roused in an instant. The first
onslaught, however, of the British was irresistible. They overpowered
the guard, and the work of firing and destroying the guns and
fortifications immediately began. Before the Spanish Commander-in-Chief,
in the darkness and confusion, could get his troops under arms the
blowing up of the magazines had begun, and whole batteries of guns had
been spiked. The bastions and gabions were fired, and so rapid and
thorough were the British in their work that it was all over before the
Spaniards realized what was happening, and the British were making for
the Land Port gate.
The Spanish camp had been thrown into the greatest confusion, and their
first line of fortifications was now past saving. The noise and the
bursting out of flames and the explosions of powder were dreadful, but
all were between the British and their foes. The losses of the
detachment had been trifling, and Archy Baskerville had found nothing to
do except to stand off and watch the quick progress of events. But while
the three divisions were retreating rapidly and in good order to the
gate, he saw in a ditch in front of him an officer lying on his side and
groaning with agony.
[Illustration: HE SAW AN OFFICER LYING IN A DITCH]
"Help here!" cried Archy; and in another moment Judkins was at his side,
and the two had the officer on a stretcher and were carrying him with a
rush towards the British lines, the officer meanwhile feebly protesting.
"No, no," he cried; "let there be one Spaniard to die with honor at his
post."
And in a moment more, by the light of burning timbers and bursting
bombs, Archy saw that he was the young Walloon officer, Von Helmstadt,
whom he had seen months before at the time of his first effort to get
out of the fortress. Day was breaking as they carried him fainting into
the hospital. The surgeons managed to revive him, and then, examining
him, told him he must lose his leg.
"No, no," he cried; "better to die at once! Why did not that brave
young man leave me to my fate? All would have been over by this time."
Archy could stand no more, but rushed out and up to Europa Point, where
he found Mrs. Curtis watching and waiting.
"I have not been in my bed this night," she said. Archy, with a bursting
heart, told her of Von Helmstadt. He had a deep feeling of sympathy for
the young Walloon officer, so far from home, and in such heart-breaking
straits. There was, however, little else but rejoicing on the Rock that
day, for the result of the sortie was in the highest degree favorable to
the besieged. The Spaniards saw in two hours the complete destruction of
what had cost them months of labor and millions of money to construct.
They seemed paralyzed by their loss, and for a while the besieged had a
respite.
But there was no respite in the blockade. The supplies left by Rodney's
fleet were beginning to grow very scant, and although all eyes in the
garrison every morning for months scanned the sea for the sails of a
British fleet, none appeared. As the year 1780 drew to a close the
prospects of the garrison grew darker. The sufferings of the sick were
acute, and none more so than those of poor Von Helmstadt, who daily grew
worse. He resisted the taking-off of his leg, which the doctors told him
was the only means of saving his life, until at last General Eliot
himself went to his bedside and begged him to submit.
"I have a reason, sir," replied Von Helmstadt. "I am engaged to marry a
beautiful and charming girl. If I lose my leg and live, how can I ask
her to tie herself to a mutilated creature, as I shall be, for life? Yet
I know her constancy so well that I am sure she will be the more
determined on fulfilling her promise to me."
"But your duty to your country," argued General Eliot, "and your duty to
your family? Have you not a mother, a father--some one whose heart would
be broken if you sacrifice your life to this?"
Von Helmstadt remained silent for a moment.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, while his eyes filled with tears, "I have
a mother and a father, too. You are right, General. It is my duty to
live, even if I live mutilated."
The whole garrison took the deepest interest in this brave young man.
The best of their poor supplies was reserved for him, and nothing was
too much to be done for him in the hope, at least, of lessening his
sufferings. Archy and Judkins became heroes as his rescuers. Every day
Archy visited him, and was received affectionately by him, even in his
utmost misery. His patience was so touching, his courage so unbroken,
that often Archy would leave the bedside completely unmanned by the
sight of Von Helmstadt's sufferings, and the sorrowful conviction that
all was in vain. Nor was the heroic young officer forgotten by his own
friends, and daily flags of truce came to inquire after him and to bring
messages and letters from his comrades.
He bore the agony of amputation with extraordinary bravery, but after a
day or two of hope he grew very ill, and soon it was seen that the end
was near.
Never had Archy Baskerville in his life felt so painful an interest as
in this gallant young man, whom he had helped to save from one death
only to see him die in a more lingering and distressing manner. They
were the only two souls within the gates of the beleaguered fortress who
had not common cause with the besieged. At last, after four weeks of
suffering, the end came on Christmas Eve. The time itself was solemn
instead of joyful, and it was made more sad by the death of the brave
young prisoner for whom every one in the fortress felt such tender
sympathy. The Spaniards were notified immediately that the body would be
carried to them the next day with military honors.
Never could Archy Baskerville forget the Christmas of 1780. It was a
beautiful, mild day, but to those brave souls imprisoned and fighting
for their lives on the Rock of Gibraltar there was a melancholy glory in
the day which seemed to make their situation the more poignant. Want and
scarcity prevailed in all things except the implements of war and
destruction. There was no Christmas cheer, but the congregations that
assembled in the garrison chapel and the Catholic church in the town
were quiet and resigned, like people who have ever before them the
prospect of death and bereavement. As soon as the morning services were
over the sad procession was formed to carry Von Helmstadt's body to the
Spaniards. It was determined to take it by water, and all the boats in
the little squadron were drawn up at the new mole for the escort, while
on the Spanish side a similar procession was waiting to move.
The flag on the hospital was at half-mast, and a large detachment of
troops, with all the highest officers of the garrison, and a body of
seamen and marines under Captain Curtis's command, was formed to
receive the body when it was brought out. Archy Baskerville, as the one
who had brought the young Walloon officer in, was given a place among
the mourners who followed the gun-carriage on which the coffin lay,
wrapped in the Spanish flag.
To the solemn strains of the dead-march and the booming of minute-guns
the procession moved, followed by General Eliot as chief mourner, with
many officers of high rank, and Archy Baskerville, the youngest person
among them, walking in the last line. They reached the new mole
presently, where the body was transferred to the first cutter of the
_Enterprise_, and Captain Curtis then took command. At the same moment
that the boats put off from the British side the procession started from
the Spanish side. Midway in the bay they met, when the Spaniards
received the body, and the British cutters turned back. Out of respect
to the Spaniards, who would not have understood the custom, the British
refrained from playing the lively airs with which they endeavor to
lighten the hearts of the men returning from a comrade's funeral, and
slowly and solemnly they pulled back to their own ground.
Never had the prospects of Archy Baskerville's reaching France seemed
more improbable than on that melancholy Christmas night of 1780. Yet
within twenty-four hours he found himself far beyond both the British
and Spanish lines, and free--free to take his desperate chances of
escape through a country where he might at any moment be mistaken for an
Englishman, and where an Englishman could expect no mercy.
The evening of Christmas Day was one of mist and gloom. Archy had spent
the early part of the afternoon in the hut at Europa, where they had
made a little festival, such as their poor means allowed, for Dolly, and
she and Judkins had sung them a Christmas hymn; and then, as people will
in sad times, they had sat around the scanty fire and told of happy
Christmas-times in the past. Archy felt strangely unhappy. Besides the
sorrows of their own condition, he had heart-breaking anxieties about
his country and the mortal struggle in which she was engaged, and even
his hopeful and buoyant spirit gave way under the misery and monotony of
the long months of the siege.
About eight o'clock they separated--Captain Curtis and Langton to return
to their ship, and Archy, out of pure restlessness, going down to the
shore with them. Mrs. Curtis's last words spoke the hope and
cheerfulness which seemed to dwell in every one of the heroic women on
the Rock.
"Good-night, Archy," she said. "All will be bright in the morning," and
Dolly swung round his neck, asking:
"Why don't you laugh, Archy, and be merry, and make us all laugh, as you
always do?"
"Because I can't now, Dolly," answered Archy, kissing her and putting
her down. "But next time you see me I will be just as gay as a bird."
Then, with Captain Curtis and Langton, he started for the shore. At the
mole the _Enterprise_ boat was waiting, and the last that Archy heard in
the darkness of a misty night was a cheery "Good-night--good-night!"
from Captain Curtis and Langton. Long time was it to be before he was to
hear those well-loved voices again. Archy walked along the shore towards
the isthmus in the dusky evening. He kept close to the shore, listening
to the boom of the waves, and so absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts
that he scarcely noticed where he was going. The shore was well
patrolled, and it was common enough for him to walk there in the
evening.
At one point within the English lines a number of small boats were tied
to a huge stake, and into one of these Archy stepped and seated himself.
The sentry who was passing looked curiously at him, and then, saluting,
went on. He was a man in the garrison who knew Archy personally, and he
did not think it strange that the young American midshipman should pause
in his walk and rest a while in the boat.
The mist was gathering fast, and the wind was sweeping in from the
Mediterranean, and it was growing very dark. Archy was roused by hearing
the nine-o'clock gun fired. He lifted his head and the thought came--
"I shall have to communicate with Captain Curtis, so as to pass the
sentries and get back to Europa."
He turned to spring ashore, but he found the line had parted, and the
boat had drifted out a considerable distance. He felt in the bottom for
oars. There were none. The darkness had descended like a pall, and the
wind suddenly became a gust. He could see nothing, but he knew that wind
and tide were driving him towards the Spanish lines. He was by nature
well-equipped to meet danger, and in a moment his brooding
depression--the rarest of moods for him--gave place to coolness,
calmness, and perfect self-possession. He was a good swimmer, and
quickly determined that his best chance lay in swimming ashore as soon
as the boat drifted near enough. He took off his jacket and shoes,
fastened them into a bundle under his arm, and, fixing his eyes on the
lights on shore, quietly waited until they grew nearer.
All at once a flood of black rain descended that blotted out everything.
The wind seemed to blow from all quarters at the same instant, and the
boat's head swung round. The lights both on sea and shore disappeared,
and Archy was drifting he knew not where.
He reflected that he was in no great danger of being upset, and if he
drifted far enough he would be in the midst of the Spanish fleet. But in
the darkness he had no idea how fast the boat was moving--he only knew
the tide was swift and strong. Nor could he measure very well the time
he had been in the boat. He listened intently for the striking of the
bells in the little English squadron, but after straining his ears for
an interminable time it seemed to him, as he sat in the little boat that
rushed through the seething water in the blackness of darkness, the
conviction came to him that he was far out of reach of that friendly and
encouraging sound.
He could see neither to the right nor to the left of him, and at that
moment he had an almost overpowering impulse to jump out of the boat and
swim, so trying were the sitting still and being swept he knew not
where; but he said to himself:
"If I were swimming about in the darkness, how glad I would be if my
hand struck this boat--how eagerly I would climb in! No; I'll stick to
the boat until I can see more than ten feet ahead of me."
Ages passed, it seemed to him, for every hour is an age in such
circumstances. He thought the day would never come. At last, when the
dawn seemed as far off as ever--it was really only two o'clock in the
morning--the rain ceased, and the atmosphere cleared enough for him to
see that he was near the shore; and oh, joy! there was a light! He felt
sure that he was far beyond the Spanish lines.
As his sharp eyes pierced the dim and unearthly light, which was
increased by the declining moon that shone fitfully out of a still
stormy sky, he saw that he was on a broken and irregular coast, and a
black mass, from which he could faintly discern the light, he took to be
buildings. He saw that he was being carried closer to the shore every
moment, and in a little while he was near enough to jump overboard, not
forgetting his jacket and shoes, and a few bold strokes landed him once
more on hard earth.
His first impulse was of sincere thankfulness. One of the great lessons
he had learned of his immortal commander, Paul Jones, was that man
should recognize his Maker, and he had never seen that great man either
go into or come out of any danger without commending himself to the Most
High; and having done this, Archy proceeded to follow Paul Jones's
example further by taking the most active and energetic measures on his
own account. He saw that he was approaching a homestead, large and
imposing, with numerous outbuildings, and when he was close to it he saw
that the light came from a small addition to the main pile, which was
built around a court-yard, after the Spanish fashion.
Archy's quick mind had grasped the fact that if he spoke English he
would at once be taken for either a spy or a deserter, and as he did not
relish figuring in either of these characters, he determined to rely
upon his small stock of French, and still smaller stock of Spanish,
which last he had picked up while at Gibraltar.
Wet and shivering, and carrying his drenched jacket and shoes, he
cautiously approached the small, unshuttered window from which the light
proceeded, and peered in. The room was very humble, apparently that of
an upper servant. A lamp had been left burning, and on the hearth fire
still smouldered. A wooden platter with some food on it was on the
hearth. The room was quite empty, and Archy shrewdly suspected that it
was, perhaps, the quarters of some privileged servant, who had gone out
for a time, expecting to return, and had not come back. As food and fire
were what he most wanted then, he concluded that it was the part of
wisdom to help himself; so he softly raised the window and climbed in,
only to find, on trying it, that the door was open, and he might have
entered that way.
He thought it best not to fasten either the door or window, but to
proceed and make himself comfortable. A pile of fagots lay in a corner,
and in half a minute he had a roaring fire. He had no great fancy for
sitting in wet clothes, and seeing a cupboard in a corner, he opened it,
expecting to find probably a footman's outfit. But, instead, there was a
handsome and complete costume of a Spanish peasant--a green velvet
jacket, brown cloth knee-breeches with silver buttons, leggings, shoes,
and a red cap.
Archy, promptly stripping off his drenched clothing and hanging it at
the fire to dry, after removing his money, watch, and pocket-knife,
proceeded to array himself in the warm, dry garments before him; and
then, surveying himself in a piece of cracked mirror on the wall, he
could not suppress a grin, thinking:
"I wonder what Pedro, or Sancho, or whatever his name is, will say when
he finds I have appropriated his Sunday clothes!"
In the same cupboard was a small skin of the sour wine used by the
peasantry. Archy made a wry face over the uninviting draught, but drank
some, and then cleaned the platter neatly of a vast quantity of
garlic-and-onion dressed stuff, which he relished exceedingly--after
which he felt quite himself again. He concluded to sally forth and make
a reconnoissance of his position, and, closing the door softly behind
him, was again under the murky night sky. In another small room he saw
lights and heard faint sounds of carousing. The servants were evidently
making a night of it. In the huge, dim court-yard a large
leather-covered coach stood where the mules had been unhitched from it.
While Archy was looking at this vast old machine he saw the door open
from which the sounds of subdued merrymaking had come, and several
servants sallied forth. Archy involuntarily opened the coach door softly
and got in, and, the better to hear, he laid himself almost flat on the
long and broad front seat of the coach, which was piled with cloaks and
blankets, and through a crack in the leather curtain could see and hear
everything.
"I wish Don Miguel was not in such a hurry to start for Madrid in the
morning. Going off before sunrise and travelling until dark doesn't suit
my constitution," grumbled one of them.
"Never mind, Pedro. That comes of living with grand people like Don
Miguel de Lima. They are always more trouble than any others. Thank the
saints that _my_ people are plain country gentlemen and ladies. _They_
don't travel any. They haven't been thirty miles from home in thirty
years."
Pedro, leaning up against the coach wheel, continued to grumble:
"And Don Miguel, because he was bred in the army, likes everything done
at double-quick. I don't believe he even takes a siesta. And he can't be
worried and fretted into giving up his own way, as some masters and
mistresses can. He is the coolest old martinet I ever saw--I don't
believe the devil himself could disconcert him."
The servants seemed to have no notion of going to bed, but continued to
gossip in whispers. Archy listened with all his ears. Madrid! That meant
liberty! If only he could get to Madrid with Don Miguel--but how could
it be managed? At all events, he meant to strike out for the French
frontier when daylight came--at the worst, he could only be caught and
imprisoned again. Possibly he might lose his life--but Archy's was a
mind which harbored hope and drove fear out of the window. He remembered
his wet clothes by the fire, and dreaded to see Pedro or Sancho go
towards the back of the house. It was cold in the coach. So Archy
covered himself up warmly as he lay and awaited events. He never felt
more wide awake in his life, but the warmth, the rest, the food, and the
sour wine were too much for him, and he suddenly fell into a deep and
dreamless sleep.