HOW LONGSWORD STRUCK HOME
Shortly after daybreak next morning John Paul Jones left the Ranger in
charge of his first officer, who had come on board; and then he and
Ethan and Longsword took horse and started upon the road to Paris.
“The French seem hungry for news,” said Captain Jones, as they rode
along.
“I suppose the British ministry has received tidings of Burgoyne’s
disaster before this,” said Ethan. “It will set them in a panic when it
does come, anyway, and they’ll be ready to grant some concessions, I
dare say.”
“Nothing succeeds like success,” remarked the captain of the Ranger.
“For a nation to be free she must first be strong and show a
disposition to use her strength.”
“I don’t think,” spoke the boy shrewdly, “that this turn of affairs
will hurt the hoped-for alliance with France. I fancy that France has
held off as much through desire not to commit herself as anything
else. The loss of the great colonies across the sea would weaken
England; and France wants her weakened. Rather than see a peace made
with the states still as colonies and a source of strength to her foe,
France will cast her sword into the scale and it will be in our favor.”
“A good thought,” smiled the captain. “You have not sat at the feet of
Mr. Jefferson for nothing, I see.”
“Mr. Jefferson is a great man,” replied Ethan.
“A very great man,” returned John Paul Jones. “It takes a crisis like
this present one to bring out the quality of a people; and then the
temper of a few is bound to ring true.”
The horses upon which they were mounted were good ones and they put the
miles behind them rapidly.
“This country of France,” observed Captain Jones during the course of
the day, “is a fine one, but the people of the peasant class seem an
overworked, underfed lot.”
“They do indeed,” agreed Ethan. “Look at that group there,” pointing
to an aged man, a young woman, apparently his daughter, and a few
children, who stood together in a cottage door to see them ride by.
“There has been little else but want and gloom in those lives, I’ll
venture to say. Freedom is not worshiped here, no matter how much the
French say they admire the desire for it in us.”
“I always thought,” observed Longsword as they passed a row of
miserable huts, “that the poor people of Ireland were the worst housed
in the world. But, faith, the French beat them. Sure a Galway beggar
would turn up the nose of him at a house like one of those.”
“The people seem to lack spirit, too,” observed Ethan. “They are sullen
and lowering in their looks sometimes, but they have the appearance of
having given up all hope of betterment, long ago.”
“I don’t think they ever possessed even the shadow of a hope,” said
the captain, “nor their fathers nor grandfathers before them, for that
matter. However, a betterment will come some day; and then let the
gilded idlers, who crushed this people into the earth and brutalized
them so, beware! That day will dawn red, I think, and will leave a gory
mark upon the pages of history.”
Evening had already come on when they halted at an inn and applied for
accommodations. The landlord was a small ferret of a man with a furtive
manner and a sidelong look; he received them with smiles, but his
little red eyes seemed to be calculating how much they would willingly
pay for supper and lodgings.
“The groom will take your horses, monsieurs,” fawned he, as a stout
looking lout came forward, from a tumble down building with a rotten
looking roof of thatch. “He will feed them corn, monsieurs, and give
them dry beds and a rubbing that will make them feel like colts.”
“I’ve seen better-favored fellows than this spalpeen run away wid a
horse before now,” remarked Longsword, who knew no French, and only
understood what was being said by the movements of the others. “Do you
think we’d better trust them to him, Master Ethan?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” said Ethan. “They’ll be safe enough.”
“I don’t believe they have a bed in the place that’s fit to sleep on,”
grumbled the old dragoon, as they entered the inn. “And look at that
little fox of a fellow wid his smirks and his smiles. Faith, I’ll see
to me bit of money while I’m here, so I will. I never yet trusted one
of these sugary villains that ye meet by the roadside. He may be the
biggest thief in all France for all we know.”
John Paul Jones laughed good humoredly at this.
“Well, O’Moore,” said he, “it’s fortunate that our host does not
understand English; he’d not be at all flattered at your estimate of
him, could he do so.”
The food provided them was poor, coarse and ill served. The landlord
hovered about while they ate and told them what a splendid place the
inn was when his grandfather was its owner.
“It’s sorry enough I am,” remarked Longsword as he looked with distaste
at the piece of sour, black bread which he held in his hand, “that your
grandfather is not here to see how you are ruining the reputation he
worked so hard for. Sure this bread was made widout salt, and the grain
must have been mixed wid sawdust and gravel.”
Ethan had translated the landlord’s remarks for the Irishman’s benefit;
the ferret-like Frenchman seemed to understand that Shamus was not
pleased with the fare, and proceeded:
“In the old days, monsieurs, the ‘Burgundian King’ was most
magnificent! But that was when this road was used by the nobles in
their grand chariots. For a slight service they would fling one a
golden Louis as round as that,” drawing a circle in the palm of one
hand with the forefinger of the other. “And the ‘King’ was in good
repair and very much larger than it is now. At times, monsieurs, and I
tell you no falsehood, we’ve had dukes and princes of the blood sleep
under this roof.”
The host waited for some expression of wonderment at this news; but as
none came he ceased; and a short time later the three withdrew into a
smaller room in which a good fire was burning.
Through the open door Longsword could see the landlord and his people
moving about their affairs; he fancied that he caught them whispering
and casting sidelong looks now and then, and began to feel troubled for
the safety of the horses. At last he could stand it no longer and arose
to his feet.
“I believe,” said he, “I’ll go out and give an eye to the cattle.
Something tells me that they are not as safe as they might be.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trouble, Shamus, if I were you,” said Ethan. “They’ll
do very well out there. You’re prejudiced against these poor people,
that’s all.”
“It’s not their poverty that prejudices me against them, then. It’s
their looks and their ways. I’ve come across thieving rogues a-plenty
in my time, sir, and these have the same look, so they have--and worse.”
Captain Jones and Ethan sat for some time engaged in conversation
relating to the struggle for independence; they had been at the inn for
some hours and the night had fallen long since, black and complete. As
they talked they caught the sound of hoofs approaching along the road
toward the hostelry.
“More guests,” said the captain, crossing his legs comfortably before
the fire, and enjoying the pleasant warmth.
The host and his helpers seemed surprised; two parties of travelers
to stop at the Burgundian King in one evening was an unusual thing,
indeed. In a short time the arriving horsemen had dismounted, been
bidden welcome, and came stamping into the supper room. The night was
cold and had turned to snow. The men wore heavy cloaks wound about them
and fur caps pulled low over their eyes; they crossed to a side of
the room which was not swept by the door of the inner room, and here
removed their mufflings.
“A cold night, landlord,” said one of them, in perfect French.
“It is, indeed, monsieur,” answered the host of the Burgundian King.
“And it is growing colder.”
“We’d like supper and beds,” said the guest.
“Yes, monsieur, with great pleasure. We are rather crowded to-night,
but the King can accommodate you, I’m sure.”
Supper was provided for the newcomers, and they ate it with much low
grumbling.
“O’Moore would be pleased to hear that,” smiled Ethan.
“No doubt,” answered the captain. “But listen.”
He held up one warning finger and bent forward so that he might be
able to hear the better. The conversation between those in the other
room was very low; but Ethan fancied that now and then he detected an
English expression.
“Why,” whispered he, “they seem to be talking English.”
“That is what I thought,” said the captain. “Can you make out what they
are saying?”
Ethan listened for a moment, then shook his head.
“No,” said he. “But oddly enough I imagine that I recognize familiar
voices among them. There, do you hear that one rather lighter than the
rest? It sounds to me something like the voice of a boy whom I knew in
Philadelphia. His name was Wheelock, and his family were Tories.”
John Paul Jones appeared to be greatly interested.
“I had fancied the same thing myself,” admitted he. “There is one
voice among them that I’ve thought sounded strangely like--whom do you
think?”
Ethan leaned over and grasped his arm tightly.
“Not Blake!” whispered he.
The captain of the Ranger nodded.
“Yes, Blake,” he answered. “Then you too, have thought the same! It
must be he.”
“I’ll see in a moment,” and the boy started to his feet.
“Sit down,” said John Paul Jones. “Before we betray our presence here
let us consider what it might mean.”
“You are right, sir.” Ethan took his seat once more, and waited for the
other to go on.
“I think we spoke of a directing mind that Siki would probably meet
in France--the plotter that commanded him to enlist on the Ranger and
endeavor to steal the secret dispatch.”
“We did.”
“I think that the Lascar and his master have met, and that they have
not yet given up hope of succeeding.”
Just then a voice from the supper room spoke out sharp and full.
“Siki did well, Blake. And if you had given him any aid my plans would
have carried.”
“You see,” whispered John Paul Jones, “I am right. Siki is there, and
that was the voice of the master.”
Blake was heard to grumble out some reply; but the other man silenced
him instantly.
“That will do,” said he. “Excuses will not answer at this stage of the
proceedings. To put yourself back in my good graces you must do more
than invent reasons why you failed in your part of the plan. Rather
than remain and guard the way against the surprise which came, you went
ashore, and so ruined all.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled Blake, “put it all on me, if you will.”
“You are the one to bear the blame, and bear it you shall. Unless you
do something that will lead to our securing this secret paper, you
shall not receive a shilling of that which I promised you.”
“A bargain’s a bargain,” said Blake.
“And good faith is good faith,” said the other man.
“You are right, Danvers,” said a boy’s voice.
“You keep still, you pup,” growled Blake. “I don’t see what good you
are in this, anyway.”
“It was my father that found out about the paper and sent for Danvers
to come to Philadelphia so that he might be able to get his hands on
it. Isn’t that so, Danvers?”
“Yes,” replied Danvers. “The information given me was correct, and if
the paper is found you get your full share of the reward.”
“I’ve done all I could to make up for any little lapses which I might
have made,” whined Blake. “Only for me you wouldn’t have known that
Captain Jones came this way.”
Ethan felt a strong pressure upon his arm, and turning found the
commander of the Ranger staring into his face from under frowning brows.
“They have followed us,” said he. “And they intend to stop at nothing
that will bring them success.”
“They realize the value of the papers, or this man Danvers does, at
least; and there is a reward offered, it seems, for their delivery to
the proper persons.”
“This boy who just now spoke,” said Captain Jones, “you said you knew
him, did you not? and that he was of a Tory family?”
“Yes; his name is Wheelock.”
“There must be a leak somewhere, when a Tory could get wind of so
secret a document in time to place himself in communication with an
emissary of the crown. But as matters stand there is only one thing to
do; if we cannot avoid them, we must fight them! The papers must reach
the hands of Mr. Franklin without accident.”
As he spoke the commander of the Ranger drew his sword around so that
it would be nearer his hand and looked to the priming of the pistol
which he carried in his belt. Ethan did likewise, and then they sat
silently before the fire, listening, and waiting for whatever might
happen. The voices of those in the supper room sank lower for a time
and the two could not make out what was being said. At length,
however, Blake cried:
“I tell you they can’t be very far ahead. If this snow had not come up
we would have overtaken them.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Stephen Wheelock, “they might even have stopped
here to-night.”
Silence followed this--a silence that showed the interest which the
remark caused among the newcomers.
“Landlord,” called Danvers, at last.
“Yes, monsieur,” quickly responded that individual, crossing the room.
“Have you seen anything of any travelers to-night?”
“Only the gentlemen who stopped here, monsieurs.”
“Stopped here! Ah!”
Captain Jones and Ethan Carlyle heard a sudden drawing back of stools
and a chorus of sharp, breathless exclamations.
“So,” continued Danvers, in a slightly lower tone, “some travelers
stopped here to-night, did they?”
“They did, monsieur, very fine gentlemen indeed. They honored my poor
house by breaking bread in it, and eating of my excellent potato soup.”
“And when did they leave?”
“Leave, monsieur! They have not left. There are two of the gentlemen in
the very next room.”
There was a sound as though a single person had arisen; then footsteps
slowly crossed the floor, and in a moment a tall, fine looking man with
black hair, and a face of remarkable paleness, stood in the doorway and
regarded the two occupants of the smaller room fixedly. There was a
calm insolence in his air that was peculiarly exasperating, and Captain
Paul Jones rapped out in a peppery tone,
“I trust, sir, that this inspection is affording you as much
satisfaction as it is us discomfort.”
“Your name, sir,” demanded the man with great coolness.
“My name is my own,” returned John Paul Jones, “and I don’t choose to
give it to every fellow that asks it in a public house.”
The man turned and beckoned; in a moment the burly form of Blake was at
his side.
“Is this the captain and the boy of whom you spoke?” asked he.
“Yes, it is, Mr. Danvers,” replied Blake, scowling blackly, to hide his
embarrassment. He did not like the look in his captain’s eye.
“So, sir,” cried the latter, “I find you here, do I? Your leave ashore
was for fifteen hours only.”
“My leave ashore is for good, as far as your old barkee goes,” growled
the Canadian sailor.
“You have deserted, then?” inquired the officer, regarding him intently.
“Call it what you like,” said Blake. “It all comes to the same thing.”
Here Danvers signed for the seaman to go back into the supper room;
when the man had done so the emissary of the British government
advanced calmly to the fire.
“I would scarcely style Blake’s little escapade desertion,” spoke he,
easily, as he held his white, strong-looking hands over the blaze.
“You see, he entered on the books of your ship at my request. It was
only intended that he should sail with you to Nantes.”
“I am quite aware of that,” answered John Paul Jones, leaning back in
his chair and clasping his hands behind his head.
The Englishman seemed surprised.
“Indeed!” said he.
“I am also aware that the Lascar, Siki, was in your pay.”
“You are a person of considerable penetration,” said Danvers, bowing
politely.
“Not at all. It requires no keenness of wit to overhear a noisy
conversation at an inn. I should have credited the government of Lord
North with more circumspection in the choice of an agent, really.”
The pallor of Danvers disappeared before a sudden flush of resentment;
then he laughed.
“A rather good hit,” commented he, with his white teeth showing. “I
fancied that you might have overheard what was said, when I learned
that you were here.”
Captain Jones crossed his legs and tapped the toe of his boot with his
brass-tipped scabbard.
[Illustration: _“KEEP THEM AT SWORD’S LENGTH,” SAID CAPTAIN JONES_]
“You were in quest of a certain document, were you not?” asked he.
“I was,” admitted Danvers. “And to be perfectly candid in the matter
and avoid mistakes, I am so still.”
“Is there any possibility, do you think, of your securing possession of
it?”
This question was asked in a calm matter-of-fact tone that made Ethan
open his eyes. But Danvers heard it with a self-possession that was
perfect.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “there are only two of you----”
“Three,” corrected Captain Jones.
“And there are four of us,” continued Danvers. Then he made as though
to seat himself in a vacant chair by the fire; but Ethan toppled it
over with his foot, and the man stood glaring at him angrily.
“I think,” said the young American, quietly, “that you had better
stand.”
“Ah! You are the fighting lad who made such sad work of Blake, I take
it.” Danvers favored the boy with an unpleasant smile. “Well, perhaps
you may have an opportunity of using your talent before long.”
Then he turned to Captain Jones, and demanded:
“Will you give up the document, peaceably?”
“The papers are for Dr. Franklin,” answered the commander of the
Ranger, “and not for a British spy!”
Danvers whipped out the sword that he carried and shouted:
“Blake! Siki! Wheelock! This way!”
In response to this call the three persons named darted into the
room; Ethan and the captain leaped up and their blades flashed in the
lamplight, while the chairs in which they had been seated went crashing
to the floor upon the far side. The landlord and his servants also
pressed into the room; it was plain that strife was no new thing within
the walls of the Burgundian King, for each of them had a stout cudgel,
and only seemed to hesitate as to which party they should side with.
Danvers saw this at a glance and cried,
“Landlord, a dozen Louis d’or if you give me your help against these
robbers.”
“It is done, monsieur,” answered the landlord promptly.
“Keep them at sword’s length,” said Captain Jones, in a low voice.
“Right, sir,” answered Ethan.
The next instant four swords and a few stout clubs were raining cuts,
thrusts and blows upon them. At the first onset Ethan spitted Blake
through the fleshy part of the neck; the man writhed for a moment, then
fell back out of reach howling and endeavoring to stanch the flow of
blood. Two of the inn people were badly slashed by Captain Jones, and
now he was engaging the Lascar, who was armed with a murderous looking
knife, Wheelock and the landlord. Danvers and the rest of the inn
people had fixed their attention upon Ethan, and the boy was playing
them desperately.
The spy was a finished swordsman and had a wrist like steel; his
thrusts were rapid and his defense superb. The smashing blows of the
clubs took most of the young American’s attention, and each lunge of
Danvers became more dangerous.
It was very soon evident that the situation was impossible; nine
against two were hopeless odds, and the captain of the Ranger and his
young friend were gradually driven back before the weapons of their
adversaries. Their backs were against the wall; desperation was written
deep upon their faces, and every ray of hope had gone from their
hearts, when the outer door was flung open with a resounding crash,
feet were heard bounding across the floor of the other room, and in
another instant Longsword had flung himself into the fray with a wild
Irish yell!
Like a wheel of flame his huge blade swept about him; the Lascar and
one of the stable louts went down like ninepins; Danvers reeled out of
the fight with a thrust through the shoulder. And with that the others
threw down their weapons and fled.
Breathless, Captain John Paul Jones and Ethan Carlyle leaned upon their
swords; Longsword with his point in one hand and hilt in the other
glared grimly about him. Danvers, his hand pressed to his bleeding
shoulder and his face paler then ever, spoke first.
“I suppose,” said he, in a cold, even voice, “that we are your
prisoners.”
“If this were the United States, or the deck of my ship, you would be,
assuredly,” answered Captain Jones. “As it is, the worst that I could
do would be to bring a charge of assault against you before a French
magistrate. So, rather than that, I shall let you go free. I give you
and your people five minutes in which to take yourselves off.”
Neither Blake nor Siki was badly hurt, and young Wheelock was
uninjured. The latter helped the others out, and their horses were
saddled; well within the time allowed, they were on their way down the
snowy road, while John Paul Jones, Ethan and the Irish dragoon stood in
the door of the Burgundian King and watched the darkness swallow them
up.