JUST IN TIME
Moments are precious at such a time. The negro, goaded by shame, rage,
and alcohol, had drawn his breath for a spring, when a loud cheer was
heard outside, followed by two or three dropping shots, and the ring of a
hearty English voice exclaiming—
“Hold on, mates! Don’t ye shoot wild a-cause of the ladies. It’s yard-arm
to yard-arm, this spell, and we’ll give these here black devils a taste
of the naked steel!”
In another moment Slap-Jack was in the passage, leaving a couple of
wounded ruffians on the stairs to be finished by his comrades, and
cutting another down across the very door-sill of the Marquise’s
bed-chamber. Ere he could enter it, however, his captain had dashed
past him, leaping like a panther over the dead negroes under foot, and
flashing his glittering rapier in the astonished eyes of the Coromantee,
who turned round bewildered from his prey to fight with the mad energy of
despair.
In vain. Of what avail was the massive iron crowbar, wielded even by the
strength of a Hercules, against the deadliest blade but one in the Great
Monarch’s body-guard?
A couple of dazzling passes, that seemed to go over, under, all round the
clumsier weapon—a stamp—a muttered oath, shut in by clenched, determined
teeth, and the elastic steel shot through Hippolyte’s very heart, and out
on the other side.
Spurning the huge black body with his foot, Captain George withdrew his
sword, wiped it grimly on the dead man’s woolly head, and, uncovering,
turned to the ladies with a polite apology for thus intruding under the
pressure of so disagreeable a necessity.
He had scarcely framed a sentence ere he became deadly pale, and began to
stammer, as if he, too, was under the influence of some engrossing and
incontrollable emotion.
The two women had shrunk into the farthest corner of the room. With the
prospect of a rescue, Madame de Montmirail’s nerves, strung to their
utmost tension, had completely given way. In a state of mental and bodily
prostration, she had laid her head in the lap of Cerise, whose courage,
being of a more passive nature, did not now fail her so entirely.
The girl, indeed, pushing her hair back from her temples, looked wildly
in George’s face for an instant, like one who wakes from a dream; but
the next, her whole countenance lit up with delight, and holding out
both hands to him, she exclaimed, in accents of irrepressible tenderness
and self-abandonment, “_C’est toi!_” then the pale face flushed crimson,
and the loving eyes drooped beneath his own. To him she had always been
beautiful—most beautiful, perhaps, in his dreams—but never in dreams nor
in waking reality so beautiful as now.
He gazed on her entranced, motionless, forgetful of everything in the
world but that one loved being restored, as it seemed, by a miracle,
at the very time when she had been most lost to him. His stout heart,
thrilling to its core from her glance, quailed to think of what must have
befallen had he arrived a minute too late, and a prayer went up from it
of hearty humble thanksgiving that he was in time. He saw nothing but
that drooping form in its delicate white dress, with its gentle feminine
gestures and rich dishevelled hair; heard nothing but the accents of that
well-remembered voice vibrating with the love that he felt was deep and
tender as his own. He was unconscious of the cheers of his victorious
boat’s crew, of the groans and shrieks uttered by wounded or routed
negroes, of the dead beneath his feet, the blazing rafters overhead,
the showers of sparks and rolling clouds of smoke that already filled
the house; unconscious even of Madame de Montmirail’s recovery from her
stupor, as she too recognised him, and raising herself with an effort
from her daughter’s embrace, muttered in deep passionate tones, “C’est
lui!”
But it was no time for the exchanges of ceremonious politeness, or the
indulgence of softer emotions. The house was fairly on fire, the negroes
were up in arms all over the island. A boat’s crew, however sturdy, is
but a handful of men, and courage becomes foolhardy when it opposes
itself voluntarily at odds of one against a score. Slap-Jack was the
first to speak. “Askin’ _your_ pardon, ladies,” said he, with seamanlike
deference to the sex; “the sooner we can clear out of this here the
better. If you’ll have the kindness to point out your sea-chests, and
possibles, and such like, Bottle-Jack here, he’ll be answerable for their
safety, and me an’ my mates we’ll run you both down to the beach and have
you aboard in a pig’s whisper. The island’s getting hot, miss,” he added
confidentially to Cerise, who did not the least understand him. “In these
low latitudes, a house afire and a hundred of blacks means a bobbery,
just as sure as at home four old women and a goose makes a market!”
“He is right,” observed the Captain, who had now recovered his presence
of mind. “From what I saw as I came along, I fear there is a general
rising of the slaves through the whole island. My brigantine, I need not
say, is at the disposal of madame and mademoiselle (Cerise thanked him
with a look), and I believe that for a time at least it will be the only
safe place of refuge.”
Thus speaking, he offered his hand to conduct the Marquise from the
apartment, with as much courtliness and ceremony as though they had been
about to dance a minuet at Versailles, under the critical eye of the late
king. Hers trembled violently as she yielded it. That hand, so steady but
a few minutes ago, while levelling its deadly weapon against the leader
of a hundred enemies, now shook as if palsied. How little men understand
women. He attributed her discomposure entirely to fright.
There is a second nature, an acquired instinct in the habits of
good-breeding, irrepressible even by the gravest emergency. Captain
George, conducting Madame de Montmirail down her own blazing staircase,
behaved with as ceremonious a politeness as if they had been descending
in accordance with etiquette to a formal dinner-party. Cerise, following
close, hung no doubt on every word that came from his lips, but it must
be confessed the conversation was somewhat frivolous for so important a
juncture.
“I little thought,” said the Captain, performing another courtly bow,
“that it was Madame la Marquise whom I should have the honour of
escorting to-night out of this unpleasant little _fracas_. Had I known
madame was on the island, she will believe that I should have come ashore
and paid my respects to her much sooner.”
“You could not have arrived at a more opportune moment, monsieur,”
answered the lady, whose strong physical energy and habitual presence
of mind were now rapidly reasserting themselves. “You have always been
welcome to my receptions; never more so than to-night. You found it a
little hot, I fear, and a good deal crowded. The latter disadvantage
I was remedying, to the best of my abilities, when you announced
yourself. The society, too, was hardly so polite as I could have wished.
Oh, monsieur!” she added, in a changed and trembling voice, suddenly
discarding the tone of banter she had assumed, “where should we have been
now, and what must have become of us, but for you? _You_, to whom we had
rather owe our lives than to any man in the world!”
He was thinking of Cerise. He accepted the kind words gratefully,
happily; but, like all generous minds, he made light of the service he
had rendered.
“You are too good to say so, madame,” was his answer. “It seemed to me
you were making a gallant defence enough when I came in. One man had
already fallen before your aim, and I would not have given much for the
life of that ugly giant whom I took the liberty of running through the
body without asking permission, although he is probably, like myself, a
slave of your own.”
The Marquise laughed. “Confess, monsieur,” said she, “that I have a
steady hand on the pistol. Do you know, I never shot at anything but a
playing-card till to-night. It is horrible to kill a man, too. It makes
me shudder when I think of it. And yet, at the moment, I had no pity,
no scruples—I can even imagine that I experienced something of the wild
excitement which makes a soldier’s trade so fascinating. I hope it is
not so; I trust I may not be so cruel—so unwomanly. But you talk of
slaves. Are we not yours? Yours by every right of conquest; to serve and
tend you, and follow you all over the world. Ah! it would be a happy lot
for her who knew its value!”
The last sentence she spoke in a low whisper and an altered tone, as if
to herself. It either escaped him or he affected not to hear.
By this time they were out of the house, and standing on the lawn to
windward of the flames, which leaped and flickered from every quarter
of the building; nor, in escaping from the conflagration, had they by
any means yet placed themselves in safety. Captain George and the three
trusty Jacks, with half-a-dozen more stout seamen, constituting a boat’s
crew, had indeed rescued the ladies, for the moment, from a hideous
alternative; but it was more than doubtful, if even protected by so brave
an escort, they could reach the shore unmolested. Bands of negroes,
ready to commit every enormity, were ere now patrolling all parts of
the island. It was too probable that the few white inhabitants had been
already massacred, or, if still alive, would have enough to do to make
terms for themselves with the infuriated slaves.
A slender garrison occupied a solitary fort on the other side of the
mountains, but so small a force might easily be overmastered, and even
if they had started on the march it was impossible they could arrive for
several hours in the vicinity of Port Welcome. By that time the town
might well be burned to the ground, and George, who was accustomed to
reason with rapidity on the chances and combinations of warfare, thought
it by no means unlikely that the ruddy glare, fleeting and wavering on
the night-sky over the blazing roof of Montmirail West, might be accepted
as a signal for immediate action by the whole of the insurgents.
Hippolyte had laid his plans with considerable forethought, the result,
perhaps, of many a crafty war-path—many a savage foray in his own wild
home. He had so disposed the negroes under his immediate orders, that
Madame de Montmirail’s house was completely surrounded in every direction
by which escape seemed possible. The different egresses leading to the
huts, the mills, the cane-pieces, were all occupied, and a strong force
was posted on the high road to Port Welcome, chiefly with a view to
prevent the arrival of assistance from that quarter. One only path was
left unguarded; it was narrow, tangled, difficult to find, and wound up
through the jungle, across the wildest part of the mountain.
By this route he had probably intended to carry off Mademoiselle de
Montmirail to some secure fastness of his own. Not satisfied with the
personal arrangements he had made for burning the house and capturing
the inmates, he had also warned his confederates, men equally fierce and
turbulent, if of less intelligence than his own, that they should hold
themselves in readiness to take up arms the instant they beheld a glare
upon the sky above _Cash-a-crou_; that each should then despatch a chosen
band of twenty stout negroes to himself for orders; and that the rest of
their forces should at once commence the work of devastation on their own
account, burning, plundering, rioting, and cutting all white throats,
without distinction of age or sex.
That this wholesale butchery failed in its details was owing to no fault
of conception, no scruples of humanity on the part of its organiser. The
execution fell short of the original design simply because confided to
several different heads, acted on by various interests, and all more or
less bemused with rum. The ringleader had every reason to believe that
if his directions were carried out he would find himself, ere sunrise,
at the head of a general and successful revolt—a black emperor, perhaps,
with a black population offering him a crown.
But this delusion had been dispelled by one thrust of Captain George’s
rapier, and the Coromantee’s dark body lay charring amongst the glowing
timbers of Madame de Montmirail’s bed-chamber.
The dispositions that he had made, however, accounted for the large
force of negroes now converging on the burning house. Their shouts
might be heard echoing through the woods in all directions. When George
had collected his men, surrounded the two ladies by a trusty escort of
blue-jackets, and withdrawn his little company, consisting but of a
dozen persons, under cover of the trees, he held a council of war as to
the best means of securing a rapid retreat. Truth to tell, the skipper
would willingly have given the whole worth of her cargo to be once more
on her deck, or even under the guns of ‘The Bashful Maid.’
Slap-Jack gave his opinion unasked.
“Up foresail,” said he, with a characteristic impetuosity: “run out the
guns—double-shotted and depressed; sport every rag of bunting; close in
round the convoy; get plenty of way on, and run clean through, exchanging
broadsides as we go ahead!”
But Smoke-Jack treated the suggestion with contempt.
“That’s wot I call rough-and-tumble fighting, your honour,” he grumbled,
with a sheepish glance at the ladies; for with all his boasted knowledge
of their sex, he was unaccustomed to such specimens as these, and
discomfited, as he admitted to himself, by the “trim on ’em.” “Them’s
not games as is fitted for such a company as this here, if I may make
so bold. No, no, your honour, it’s good advice to keep to windward of
a nigger, and it’s my opinion as we should weather them on this here
tack; get down to the beach with a long leg and a short one—half-a-mile
and more below the town—fire three shots, as agreed on, for the boat,
and so pull the ladies aboard on the quiet. After that, we might come
ashore again, d’ye see, and have it out comfortable. What say _you_,
Bottle-Jack?”
That worthy turned his quid, and looked preternaturally wise; the more
so that the question was somewhat unexpected. He was all for keeping the
ladies safe, he decided, now they had got them. Captain Kidd always did
so, he remembered, and Captain Kidd could sail a ship and fight a ship,
&c.; but Bottle-Jack was more incoherent than usual—utterly adrift under
the novelty of his situation, and gasping like a gudgeon at the Marquise
and her daughter, whose beauty seemed literally to take away his breath.
George soon made up his mind.
“Is there any way to the beach,” said he, addressing himself rather to
Cerise than her mother, “without touching the road to Port Welcome? It
seemed to me, as we marched up, that the high road made a considerable
bend. If we could take the string instead of the bow we might save a good
deal of time, and perhaps escape observation altogether.”
The Marquise and her daughter looked at each other helplessly. Had they
been Englishwomen, indeed, even in that hot climate, they would probably
have known every by-road and mountain path within three leagues of their
home; but the ladies of France, though they dance exquisitely, are not
strong walkers, and neither of these, during the months they had spent at
_Cash-a-crou_, had yet acquired such a knowledge of the locality as might
now have proved the salvation of the whole party.
In this extremity a groan was heard to proceed out of the darkness at a
few paces’ distance. Slap-Jack, guided by the sound, and parting some
shrubs that concealed her, discovered poor Fleurette, more dead than
alive, bruised, exhausted, terrified, scarcely able to stand, and shot
through the ankle by a chance bullet from the blue-jackets, yet conscious
enough still to drag herself to the feet of Cerise and cover them with
kisses, forgetting everything else in her joy to find her young mistress
still alive.
“You would serve me, Fleurette, I know,” said Mademoiselle de Montmirail,
in a cautious whisper; for, to her excited imagination, every shrub that
glistened in the moonlight held a savage. “I can trust you; I feel it.
Tell me, is there no way to the sea but through our enemies? Must we
witness more cruelties—more bloodshed? Oh! have we not had fighting and
horrors enough?”
The black girl twined herself upwards, like a creeper, till her head
was laid against the other’s bosom; then she wept in silence for a few
seconds ere she could command her voice to reply.
“Trust me, lilly ma’amselle,” said she, in a tone of intense feeling that
vouched for her truth. “Trust poor Fleurette, give last drop of blood
to help young missee safe. Go to Jumbo for lilly ma’amselle now. Show
um path safe across Sulphur Mountain down to sea-shore. Fleurette walk
pretty well tank you, now, if only buckra blue-jacket offer um hand. Not
so, sar! Impudent tief!” she added, indignantly, as Slap-Jack, thoroughly
equal to the occasion, at once put his arm round her waist. “Keep your
distance, sar! You only poor foretopman. Dis good daddy help me along
fust.”
Thus speaking, she clung stoutly to Bottle-Jack, and proceeded to guide
the party up the mountain along a path that she assured them was known
but to few of the negroes themselves, and avoided even by these, as being
the resort of Jumbo and several other evil spirits much dreaded by the
slaves. Of such supernatural terrors, she was good enough to inform them,
they need have no fear, for that Jumbo and his satellites were fully
occupied to-night in assisting the “bobbery” taking place all over the
island; and that even were they at leisure they would never approach
a party in the centre of which was walking such an angel of light as
Ma’amselle Cerise.