AT VERDUN ONCE MORE
As a heavy stone falling into a pond sends waves circling outward to a
distance, so the death of Sir John Moore sent many a wave of sorrow to
the hearts of men, north and south, east and west.
One such wave slowly found its way to the distant town of Verdun, where
still languished the détenus taken captive in 1803, together with many
prisoners of war on parole sent thither.
News in those days travelled with deliberation, and prisoners travelled
with greater deliberation still. But a day arrived, though not till
many weeks after the Battle of Coruña, when Jack Keene found himself
within the ramparts of Verdun.
It was early spring, and he carried his right arm in a sling. When he
moved, too, a distinct limp might be seen. He had just been to report
himself at the citadel, and he now stood outside, meditating on his
next move.
A young man, with a keen and clever face, passed him quickly, then
pulled up, turning in his direction.
"I beg your pardon. You're English. Have you just arrived here?"
"Yes. Prisoner. You're English too. That's right," said Jack heartily.
"Can I be of any service to you? Have you friends in the place?"
"I hope so. Could you direct me to Colonel Baron's house, or lodgings?"
"Certainly. I know him well. My name is Curtis."
"Ah! I have heard that name from Roy Baron."
"Roy and I were great friends when he was here. Anything you can tell
me about him will be welcome."
Curtis looked questioningly, and Jack answered the look.
"My name is Keene. Roy and I have been through the Campaign in Spain
together. On the retreat I was wounded and taken prisoner."
Curtis held out his hand, to be grasped by Jack's left. "You have
travelled all the way from Spain?"
"With a convoy of prisoners—yes. Been a good while about it too. First
part of the way in a wagon, after that on horseback. Tell me how they
are here. I have heard nothing lately."
"I'll come and show you the way. The Colonel keeps all right. Looks
older than he used, that's all. Mrs. Baron is well. One fancied at the
time that Roy's being sent to Bitche would kill her outright; but it
didn't. Having to devote herself to Ivor was a mercy in disguise, I
don't doubt. Kept her from dwelling on her own trouble. It was a vast
relief to them all when the kind fellow who got Roy away came and told
them he'd seen the boy safe on board a vessel for England. He was well
rewarded by the Colonel, as you may suppose; not that he did it for
reward. But, of course, we don't breathe a word about that in Verdun,
for the fellow's own sake. Only, as I know them well, and as I know you
belong to them—"
Jack made a gesture of assent. "Ivor was ill, was he not?"
"I dare say he would have been so anyhow, after that march from
Valenciennes; but the arrest of Roy was a finishing stroke. You won't
find him looking good for much now. I suppose hardly anything could
have knocked him down like the death of Sir John Moore. It is a fearful
loss to the country. No man living could have been worse spared."
Curtis paused, cast a glance at Jack, and changed the subject.
Presently they reached the house where still the Barons lived, as since
their first arrival in Verdun.
"By the bye, I'm not sure whether you'll find them in," he said. "The
Colonel said at appel that he was going to take Ivor, with his wife,
for a drive in the country, hoping it might do him good. It was worth
trying. But I think they must have returned before now."
"You're allowed to go where you will?"
"Why, no. Douceurs are efficacious, however. Will you let me show you
the way upstairs?" Jack hesitated. "No—I understand. Of course you'd
rather see them alone first; and I did not mean to go in. But you can't
mistake the room. First landing, first door to the right."
Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door
slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly in.
It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man
writing at a side-table. By build and bearing Jack recognised Ivor
instantly; but finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once
to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood
motionless. He had a very good side-view of the other.
Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of
the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the
same, and the fine carriage of head and shoulders remained unaltered;
but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack
painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of
habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made
right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what
the long waiting and patience of these years had been.
Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack's gaze. He laid down his pen,
glanced round, and started up. "Jack! Is it possible?"
"Just arrived," remarked Jack, with an insouciance which he was far
from feeling. "Come across Spain and France. Yes—wounded—but I'm
getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know."
"Where were you taken?"
"On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of
my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a
musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in."
"You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner too! I hardly know how to
believe it."
"Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I've no right to
complain. Had my share, though 'tis a shame to be cut off from more of
it. Den, you are looking very far from well."
Denham did not heed the words. "What of Roy?" he asked. "We have had no
home-news for ages."
"Roy is Ensign in my regiment. Didn't you know even that? Been with me
through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under Moore!" —in a
lower voice. "You have heard—?"
"No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña; and—Tell me all you
can."
"You know that it was victory?"
"I know!" in a stirred deep tone. "Not from the papers. French papers
never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?"
"It never was otherwise! Never once!"
Denham rested his face on both hands.
"Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here."
Jack's information was but partial. Before starting for France he had
been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo, and
thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It
was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor
raised his head, and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame
Jack's fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack
went on resolutely.
"That's about all," he said at length. "As much as I've heard yet ....
He was his own grand self to the last! ... It was the death he would
have chosen to die .... He always wished for it ... On the field, in
the moment of victory! ... But the loss to us—to England! ... The
best!—the noblest—!"
Jack could say no more. Silence followed.
"Soffit is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a
memorial-stone—to him!"
Silence again. Denham had not stirred.
"He saved the Army and balked Napoleon. None except we who were there
could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the
Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men and enough money,
England might have told a very different tale to-day. What could be
done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did."
Renewed silence. Jack watched the other seriously.
"You're not fit for any more of this. When did you hear last from home?
So long! And you didn't know that Roy was in Spain? Smart young officer
too. He came in more than once for particular notice." Jack found
himself verging on another allusion to the name which filled their
thoughts, and he turned to a fresh subject. "This Commandant of yours
at Verdun—Wirion—must be a brute, judging from reports of him in the
English papers."
"He—was."
"Not here now?"
"Courcelles is the present Commandant. Wirion went too far. There were
some scandalous cases—young Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five
thousand pounds."
"What a vile shame!"
"Some of us made a stir, and facts were carried to headquarters. Wirion
was suspended, and he received a hint that he might as well put himself
out of the way. He acted upon the hint."
"You mean that he—"
"Shot himself."
"Present man any improvement?"
"Oppressions are a degree more carefully veiled."
Denham lifted his face from his hands with a sudden movement. "What am
I thinking about? You must be in want of food."
"No; it's all right. I went to a cafe on arrival. Your next meal is
soon enough for me."
The absence of any inquiry after Polly was arousing Jack's wonder. At
first, in the engrossing interest of that other subject, he had not so
much noticed Denham's silence, but now each minute it grew more marked.
Should he speak of Polly himself? No, that would not do. The first
mention ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided, not realising that his
own silence might be misconstrued. Some questions as to his wounds
followed. Denham had moved to the large arm-chair, and was leaning back
with a spiritless look. Jack wondered anew, and at length he could not
resist putting forth a slight feeler.
"Are there no folks at home of whom you would fain hear?"
Ivor took the hint, looked straight at him, and said—"Is Polly married
yet?"
Jack's breath was taken away. He was like one who has received a slap
in the face. This—from Ivor!
"Upon—my—word!" he ejaculated. "You are cool, Denham!"
"I have at least a right to ask the question."
For a moment Jack was very nearly in a passion, but the anger went down
as fast as it had arisen.
"Of course you don't mean—But what in the wide world made you think of
such a thing? Polly married! No; nor like to be!"
"I heard that she was engaged."
"To whom?"
"The Admiral's nephew—Peirce."
"Who told you the lie?"
"Then—it was a lie!"
"You might have known it. Who told you?"
"One whom I should have counted trustworthy."
"When did you hear the tale?"
"The year I was in Valenciennes."
Jack recalled Roy's description of Ivor's return from that absence, and
he began to grasp the state of the case.
"When did you hear last from Polly herself?"
"Over two years ago. A letter which had been written before the date
when she was said to have become engaged."
The last remnants of Jack's anger died out. Two years of silence
following upon such a report!
"You have not writ yourself to Polly this great while?"
"How could I—not speaking of this? And—how speak of it, if it were not
true?"
Silence again. Jack observed slowly, as he watched the other's
colourless lips—
"Den, I'm going to be frank. 'Tis no case for half confidences. There
was a time, I'll confess, when I had a doubt in my own mind of Polly's
constancy. She's a pretty creature, and she has had an uncommon lot of
admiration. But I wronged her, for she has been ever faithful to you,
and she has cared for none other. And the night before I started for
Spain she and I talked together, and she spoke out plainly. She said
that if you but asked her to come to Verdun she would come, and gladly.
She wondered, if indeed you cared for her still, that you had not so
done."
A flush came, and Denham's hand was held hard against his forehead.
"Never!" he said in a low voice.
"You would not wish to have her out?" incredulously.
"Never! If Polly were here, I might be taken from her in a week,—sent
to a dungeon, leaving her unprotected."
"I see. Nay, that would not do. Polly and you must wait a while longer.
But you will know now that she is waiting too."
"It might be better for her—not—" Denham broke off.
"Your head is not often like this, I hope?" Jack said, in a concerned
tone.
"Not much respite lately."
"Have you had medical advice? Can nothing be done?"
"One infallible remedy, if it might be had."
"And that is—?"
"Freedom—and Home."
There was a short breath between the words which said much, for Denham
was not given to sighing. Then voices outside told of the return of
Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Denham stood up, murmured a hasty apology, and
left the room.
"Poor fellow!" Jack said aloud.