A BARRED WINDOW
How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards knew. He was sick
and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for little Will, and all
but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food; and though he dozed a
great deal, it was not restful sleep. Life seemed terribly hard to get
through. He often envied Will.
The Colonel who had spoken to him that day spoke again often, when they
met in the yard; and Roy was grateful. But he could not rouse himself.
He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard,
and always kept as far as possible from where the exposure of the
murdered boys had taken place.
His one longing was to know how the other poor lads in the hospital
were, but accounts were unreliable.
About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against
the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring.
He noticed a man coming towards him carrying a large basket or hotte,
piled up with loose wood; not a gendarme, but evidently one employed
about the fortress on manual work. He was broad-shouldered and
long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. At the moment that he
came close to Roy, the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of
wood upon the ground.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Roy.
The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick
up the scattered wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had
been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as
usual. Roy good-naturedly bent to help the man, and their faces came
together.
"Hist!" was whispered cautiously. Roy started. "Hist!" again. "Does
monsieur know me? But not a word!"
Roy drew one quick breath. Then he tossed more bits of wood into the
hotte. He cast another glance at the man, his whole being on the alert.
In an instant he saw again the small French town, the crowd in front of
the hôtel de ville, the released conscript, the old mother clinging to
Denham's hands, and Den's pitying face.
"Jean Paulet!" he breathed.
"Oui, m'sieu. Hist!"
Jean piled some of the wood together with unnecessary noise.
"Will m'sieu not betray that he knows me?"
"Oui." Roy threw two more pieces of wood into the hotte. Then he stood
up, yawned, and gazed listlessly in another direction. After which he
hung lazily over the hotte, as if to play with the wood. A touch of
cold steel came against his left hand.
"Hist!" at the same instant, as Roy grasped the something, and slipped
it instantly out of sight. His right hand still turned over the wood.
"Bon!" murmured Jean, making a clatter. "Listen! If m'sieu will file
away the bar of his window—ready to be removed—I will be there,
outside, to-morrow night, after dark. When m'sieu hears a whistle—hist!
But truly this weight is considerable—oui, m'sieu, and a poor man like
me may not complain."
Jean hitched up the big hotte, now full, and passed on, grumbling
audibly, while Roy strolled back to his former position. His heart
was beating like a hammer, and to return to his former attitude of
dejection was not easy, with new life stirring in every vein. He
managed, however, to avoid observation, and when two o'clock came it
was a relief to be alone in his cell. He could safely there fling his
arms aloft in a frenzy of delight.
If only little Will might have escaped with him!
But there was no leisure for regrets. He had a task to accomplish in a
given time. Often he had examined the massive iron bar, wedged firmly
in across the small window. If that could be removed, he might squeeze
himself through; but to take out the bar, or at least to wrench it on
one side, meant first to file nearly through it—quite through, indeed,
for the noise of breaking it might not be risked. He could only guess
what would lie on the other side, down below. The deep embrasure
within, and the thickness of the wall without, prevented him from
seeing.
At stated intervals the gendarmes visited him, and he could reckon
upon their visits; yet he knew well that he was never secure against
a sudden interruption. He had to toil in a difficult and cramped
position, supporting himself in a corner of the slanting embrasure,
and filing very lightly, that no sound might reach the ears of any
passer-by.
[Illustration: He had to work at the bar in a difficult and cramped
position.]
One narrow escape of detection he had. Absorbed in his toil, he failed
to note the preliminary click of the lock, and the door began to open.
Roy flung himself to the ground, reckless of bruises, and the noise
of his fall was happily lost in the creak of the door. The gendarme,
entering, found a sleepy prisoner. Roy wondered that the thumping of
his heart did not betray him.
Thoughtful Jean had provided him with three files. Two of them broke.
The third held out to the end.
Through a good part of the night he worked, fearing lest the task
should not be done in time. In the morning, after the usual visit from
a gendarme, he was up again in the embrasure. Before midday he had
worked his way through the heavy bar. He stirred it cautiously. Yes, it
yielded. One good wrench, and it could be forced aside.
That was all he had now to do. The bar would remain in position till
the latest moment. He cleared away every speck of iron filing; and
then he had to go into the yard. What if the gendarmes should examine
the window during his absence? What if, before Jean came, Roy himself
should be removed elsewhere? Then came another question,—What if his
mother's prayers were being answered?
At last the afternoon had waned, without any mischance, and the
gendarme's evening call had been paid. The window had not been
examined; and Roy was left for the night, with his allowance of food.
He wisely disposed of it, knowing that he would need all his strength.
Then he waited, minute after minute, in a suspense hardly to be
described.
A slight faint whistle, close to the window.
In a moment Roy was up in the slanting embrasure. Jean's hand met his;
and together, noiselessly, they wrenched the bar aside.
"Hist! Be still as death!" whispered Jean.
Roy worked himself through the opening, Jean's grasp steadying him.
He found his feet to be resting on the topmost rung of a ladder. Jean
whispered one or two directions; then he went down himself, and held it
firm while Roy followed. Little need was there to bid the boy be quiet
in his movements. The slightest sound might betray them.
No sooner had they reached the bottom than Jean's hand gripped Roy's
wrist, and led him away. The ladder had to remain where it was. Its
removal would have meant too great a risk. Roy could not see where they
were. Pitch darkness surrounded them; but Jean moved with confidence,
though with extreme care.
Soon they had to pass near a sentry, and a sharp challenge was heard.
Roy's heart leaped into his mouth; and Jean promptly replied with the
password for the night. Veiled by the darkness, they went by in safety.
At length the outer wall was gained—that same wall which the middies
had reached in their attempted escape, though at a different part of
it. Jean had chosen this mode of escape, not daring to take Roy under
the eyes of sentries at the gates, where, despite his command of the
password, the prisoner would almost certainly have been found out.
In a quiet corner, where nobody seemed to be near, Jean drew down
the end of a stout rope, already secured at the top of the wall, and
knotted loosely out of easy reach. This had been his doing after dark,
before he went to Roy's cell. With the help of the rope they made
their way to the top, Roy first, Jean next, pulling it after them, and
lowering it on the other side. Then together they trusted their weight
to it.
As they hung over the depth, Roy recalled the cold-blooded act of two
or three weeks earlier. If any man had obtained an inkling of Jean's
intentions, or had discovered the rope, the same tragedy might now be
repeated on a smaller scale. One clear cut would do the business. He
and Jean would fall heavily downward; and in an instant he too, like
Will, might be in that Land where dungeons and cruel separations are
things of the past.
These thoughts came to Roy unbidden, even while his whole attention
was bent to the task of working himself hand under hand, swiftly and
noiselessly, down the rope. Already his hands were torn and strained,
yet under the excitement of the moment he felt no pain.
The rope remained taut. There was no sudden yielding from above, no
helpless plunge earthward. He and Jean arrived in safety on firm ground.
Again Jean gripped his wrist. "Now, m'sieu—hist!" was whispered. As
fast as might be, yet with extreme caution, they hurried away from that
grim surrounding wall.
Roy could not see where they were in the darkness. He could only trust
himself blindly to Jean's guidance, and Jean seemed to know well what
he was doing.
During the first half-hour or so, excessive caution was needful; and
more than once Jean had to make use of the password, which he had
somehow learned. Once well away from Bitche, discovery became a less
imminent danger. The chief aim then was to put as wide a space as
possible between themselves and the fortress before morning. That was
as much as Roy had in mind. Jean's object was more definite. But for a
while he attempted no explanations. All breath was required for getting
along.
So soon as Roy's disappearance should become known, the gendarmes would
be off in hot pursuit. At present they had a clear field, favoured by
darkness and by the fact of a world mainly asleep.
Roy's powers were severely taxed, as the hours of that night went by.
Excitement kept him going; but he had slept and eaten little during the
past thirty hours, and after eight months without proper exercise he
was direfully out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so
soon began to pant, as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought
doggedly onward, making no complaint.
At first they followed bypaths or kept to fields, for greater safety;
but by and by Jean struck into the highroad, and here advance was
easier.
As hour passed after hour, and they made uninterrupted progress, Roy
grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold, gnawing
hunger—all these were as nothing, compared with the fact that he was
free. No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him
ruthlessly in.
From time to time a short halt was necessary, and Roy was allowed to
fling himself flat on the icy ground for some minutes; after which he
could always start afresh with redoubled energy.
"Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?" he said after one
such break.
"M'sieu, I had a friend at Bitche."
"Somebody in the fortress?"
"Oui, m'sieu. Un soldat. M'sieu will perhaps refrain from putting
many questions. It is a friend from my boyhood. He was taken in the
conscription, and no kind messieurs were at hand to help to buy
him off. And his poor mother became imbecile. La pauvre femme! See
what might have come to my mother also, but for the goodness of ces
messieurs."
"She became imbecile because he had to go to the war?"
"Oui, m'sieu. What wonder? For see—it was not a common parting.
Hundreds, thousands, go thus in the armies of the Emperor, and never
return. They vanish from their homes, and no more is heard of them.
Here or there, far-away, they have died and have been buried—hélas!—and
that is the end."
"A soldier's end!" the boy said proudly.
"Oui, m'sieu, sans doute. But not all men have a taste for soldiering.
I myself, for one—"
"You didn't want to fight?"
"I had no wish to leave my home, m'sieu. Of late, it is true, I have
had thoughts of entering the army, after all. Le petit Caporal is no
such bad leader for a man to follow, when he has not ties to bind him
down."
"But your mother—what would she say?"
"M'sieu, I should not be leaving my mother. It is she who has left me.
Le bon Dieu has called her away to another place."
Roy gave a glance of sympathy, which he could not well put into words.
"But to the last she had her Jean. She did not die alone, forsaken and
desolate. For that I shall be eternally grateful to ces messieurs—that
her last days were in peace."
"I remember now, Jean, you said you would like some day to do something
for my father and for Captain Ivor. And this is for them. If they could
thank you—"
"M'sieu, if I could thank them—!" interjected Jean. Then again they
pressed on in silence. Morning had begun to break, and they plodded
forward still. Roy had pleaded for another halt, for the boy was almost
at the end of his powers, but Jean refused.
"Courage, m'sieu, courage. But a little further, and we will rest. To
stop here, if the gendarmes come, would be fatal. See, the day dawns,
and soon they will scour the country round. Courage! A little further
yet."
"All right," panted Roy, dragging along his leaden-weighted limbs.
"Shall we hide all day?"
"Mais, oui. A little cottage in a wood belongs to a friend of mine, and
he has made ready for us. Once there, all will be well. The danger now
increases each minute. Can m'sieu increase his speed? M'sieu will soon
be able to rest. At nightfall we shall start again, refreshed."
"Will you come with me still? Jean, you are a good fellow!" gasped Roy.
"If I can see m'sieu safe off French ground, then I will let ces
messieurs at Verdun know, and it will gladden their hearts."
A few minutes later they entered a wood, and Jean's look of anxiety
lessened as the trees closed around them. He consented to a slight
relaxation of their speed, though reiterating his "Courage, m'sieu! The
worst is done."