The motive force of a fixed idea is very great. In the case of Scevola
it was great enough to launch him down the slope and to rob him for the
moment of all caution. He bounded amongst the boulders, using the handle
of the stable fork for a staff. He paid no regard to the nature of the
ground, till he got a fall and found himself sprawling on his face,
while the stable fork went clattering down until it was stopped by a
bush. It was this circumstance which saved Peyrol’s prisoner from being
caught unawares. Since he had got out of the little cabin, simply
because after coming to himself he had perceived it was open, Symons had
been greatly refreshed by long drinks of cold water and by his little
nap in the fresh air. Every moment he was feeling in better command of
his limbs. As to the command of his thoughts, that was coming to him
too, rather quickly. The advantage of having a very thick skull became
evident in the fact that as soon as he had dragged himself out of that
cabin he knew where he was. The next thing he did was to look at the
moon, to judge of the passage of time. Then he gave way to an immense
surprise at the fact of being alone aboard the tartane. As he sat with
his legs dangling into the open hold he tried to guess how it came about
that the cabin had been left unlocked and unguarded.
He went on thinking about this unexpected situation. What could have
become of that white-headed villain? Was he dodging about somewhere
watching for a chance to give him another tap on the head? Symons felt
suddenly very unsafe sitting there on the after-deck in the full light
of the moon. Instinct rather than reason suggested to him that he ought
to get down into the dark hold. It seemed a great undertaking at first,
but once he started he accomplished it with the greatest ease, though he
could not avoid knocking down a small spar which was leaning up against
the deck. It preceded him into the hold with a loud crash which gave
poor Symons an attack of palpitation of the heart. He sat on the keelson
of the tartane and gasped, but after a while reflected that all this did
not matter. His head felt very big, his neck was very painful and one
shoulder was certainly very stiff. He could never stand up against that
old ruffian. But what had become of him? Why! He had gone to fetch the
soldiers! After that conclusion Symons became more composed. He began to
try to remember things. When he had last seen that old fellow it was
daylight, and now--Symons looked up at the moon again--it must be near
six bells in the first watch. No doubt the old scoundrel was sitting in
a wine shop drinking with the soldiers. They would be here soon enough!
The idea of being a prisoner of war made his heart sink a little. His
ship appeared to him invested with an extraordinary number of lovable
features which included Captain Vincent and the first lieutenant. He
would have been glad to shake hands even with the corporal, a surly and
malicious marine acting as master-at-arms of the ship. “I wonder where
she is now,” he thought dismally, feeling his distaste for captivity
grow with the increase of his strength.
It was at this moment that he heard the noise of Scevola’s fall. It was
pretty close; but afterwards he heard no voices and footsteps heralding
the approach of a body of men. If this was the old ruffian coming back,
then he was coming back alone. At once Symons started on all fours for
the fore end of the tartane. He had an idea that ensconced under the
foredeck he would be in a better position to parley with the enemy and
that perhaps he could find there a handspike or some piece of iron to
defend himself with. Just as he had settled himself in his hiding-place
Scevola stepped from the shore on to the after-deck.
At the very first glance Symons perceived that this one was very unlike
the man he expected to see. He felt rather disappointed. As Scevola
stood still in full moonlight Symons congratulated himself on having
taken up a position under the foredeck. That fellow, who had a beard,
was like a sparrow in body compared with the other; but he was armed
dangerously with something that looked to Symons either like a trident
or fishgrains on a staff. “A devil of a weapon that,” he thought,
appalled. And what on earth did that beggar want on board? What could he
be after?
The new-comer acted strangely at first. He stood stock still, craning
his neck here and there, peering along the whole length of the tartane,
then crossing the deck he repeated all those performances on the other
side. “He has noticed that the cabin door is open. He’s trying to see
where I’ve got to. He will be coming forward to look for me,” said
Symons to himself. “If he corners me here with that beastly pronged
affair I am done for.” For a moment he debated within himself whether it
wouldn’t be better to make a dash for it and scramble ashore; but in the
end he mistrusted his strength. “He would run me down for sure,” he
concluded. “And he means no good, that’s certain. No man would go about
at night with a confounded thing like that if he didn’t mean to do for
somebody.”
Scevola, after keeping perfectly still, straining his ears for any sound
from below where he supposed Lieutenant Réal to be, stooped down to the
cabin scuttle and called in a low voice: “Are you there, lieutenant?”
Symons saw these motions and could not imagine their purport. That
excellent able seaman of proved courage in many cutting-out expeditions
broke into a slight perspiration. In the light of the moon the prongs of
the fork, polished by much use, shone like silver, and the whole aspect
of the stranger was weird and dangerous in the extreme. Who could that
man be after, but him, himself.
Scevola, receiving no answer, remained in a stooping position. He could
not detect the slightest sound of breathing down there. He remained in
this position so long that Symons became quite interested. “He must
think I am still down there,” he whispered to himself. The next
proceeding was quite astonishing. The man, taking up a position on one
side of the cuddy scuttle and holding his horrid weapon as one would a
boarding pike, uttered a terrific whoop and went on yelling in French
with such volubility that he quite frightened Symons. Suddenly he left
off, moved away from the scuttle and looked at a loss what to do next.
Anybody who could have then seen Symons’ protruded head with his face
turned aft would have seen on it an expression of horror. “The cunning
beast,” he thought. “If I had been down there, with the row he made, I
would have surely rushed on deck and then he would have had me.” Symons
experienced the feeling of a very narrow escape; yet it brought not much
relief. It was simply a matter of time. The fellow’s homicidal purpose
was evident. He was bound before long to come forward. Symons saw him
move, and thought, “Now he’s coming,” and prepared himself for a dash.
“If I can dodge past these blamed prongs I might be able to take him by
the throat,” he reflected, without, however, feeling much confidence in
himself.
But to his great relief Scevola’s purpose was simply to conceal the fork
in the hold in such a manner that the handle of it just reached the edge
of the after-deck. In that position it was of course invisible to
anybody coming from the shore. Scevola had made up his mind that the
lieutenant was out of the tartane. He had wandered away along the shore
and would probably be back in a moment. Meantime it had occurred to him
to see if he could discover anything compromising in the cabin. He did
not take the fork down with him because in that confined space it would
have been useless and rather a source of embarrassment than otherwise
should the returning lieutenant find him there. He cast a circular
glance around the basin and then prepared to go down.
Every movement of his was watched by Symons. He guessed Scevola’s
purpose by his movements, and said to himself: “Here’s my only chance,
and not a second to be lost either.” Directly Scevola turned his back
on the forepart of the tartane in order to go down the little cabin
ladder, Symons crawled out from his concealment. He ran along the hold
on all fours for fear the other should turn his head round before
disappearing below, but directly he judged that the man had touched
bottom, he stood on his feet and catching hold of the main rigging swung
himself on the after-deck and, as it were in the same movement, flung
himself on the doors of the cabin, which came together with a crash. How
he could secure them he had not thought, but as a matter of fact he saw
the padlock hanging on a staple on one side; the key was in it, and it
was a matter of a fraction of a second to secure the doors effectually.
Almost simultaneously with the crash of the cabin door there was a
shrill exclamation of surprise down there, and just as Symons had turned
the key the man he had trapped made an effort to break out. That,
however, did not disturb Symons. He knew the strength of that door. His
first action was to get possession of the stable fork. At once he felt
himself a match for any single man, or even two men, unless they had
fire-arms. He had no hope, however, of being able to resist the soldiers
and really had no intention of doing so. He expected to see them appear
at any moment led by that confounded marinero. As to what the farmer man
had come for on board the tartane he had not the slightest doubt about
it. Not being troubled by too much imagination, it seemed to him obvious
that it was to kill an Englishman and for nothing else. “Well, I am
jiggered,” he exclaimed mentally. “The damned savage! I haven’t done
anything to him. They must be a murderous lot hereabouts.” He looked
anxiously up the slope. He would have welcomed the arrival of soldiers.
He wanted more than ever to be made a proper prisoner, but a profound
stillness reigned on the shore and a most absolute silence down below in
the cabin. Absolute. No word, no movement. The silence of the grave.
“He’s scared to death,” thought Symons, hitting in his simplicity on the
exact truth. “It would serve him jolly well right if I went down there
and ran him through with that thing. I would do it for a shilling, too.”
He was getting angry. It occurred to him also that there was some wine
down there too. He discovered he was very thirsty and he felt rather
faint. He sat down on the little skylight to think the matter over while
awaiting the soldiers. He even gave a friendly thought to Peyrol
himself. He was quite aware that he could have gone ashore and hidden
himself for a time, but that meant in the end being hunted among the
rocks and, certainly, captured; with the additional risk of getting a
musket ball through his body.
The first gun of the _Amelia_ lifted him to his feet as though he had
been snatched up by the hair of his head. He intended to give a
resounding cheer, but produced only a feeble gurgle in his throat. His
ship was talking to him. They hadn’t given him up. At the second report
he scrambled ashore with the agility of a cat--in fact, with so much
agility that he had a fit of giddiness. After it passed off he returned
deliberately to the tartane to get hold of the stable fork. Then,
trembling with emotion, he staggered off quietly and resolutely with the
only purpose of getting down to the seashore. He knew that as long as he
kept downhill he would be all right. The ground in this part being a
smooth rocky surface and Symons being barefooted, he passed at no great
distance from Peyrol without being heard. When he got on rough ground he
used the stable fork for a staff. Slowly as he moved, he was not really
strong enough to be sure-footed. Ten minutes later or so Peyrol, lying
ensconced behind a bush, heard the noise of a rolling stone far away in
the direction of the cove. Instantly the patient Peyrol got on his feet
and started towards the cove himself. Perhaps he would have smiled if
the importance and gravity of the affair in which he was engaged had not
given all his thoughts a serious cast. Pursuing a higher path than the
one followed by Symons, he had presently the satisfaction of seeing the
fugitive, made very noticeable by the white bandages about his head,
engaged in the last part of the steep descent. No nurse could have
watched with more anxiety the adventure of a little boy than Peyrol the
progress of his former prisoner. He was very glad to perceive that he
had had the sense to take what looked like the tartane’s boathook to
help himself with. As Symons’ figure sank lower and lower in his descent
Peyrol moved on, step by step, till at last he saw him from above
sitting down on the seashore, looking very forlorn and lonely, with his
bandaged head between his hands. Instantly Peyrol sat down too,
protected by a projecting rock. And it is safe to say that with that
there came a complete cessation of all sound and movement on the lonely
head of the peninsula for a full half-hour.
Peyrol was not in doubt as to what was going to happen. He was as
certain that the corvette’s boat or boats were now on the way to the
cove as though he had seen them leave the side of the _Amelia_. But he
began to get a little impatient. He wanted to see the end of this
episode. Most of the time he was watching Symons. “Sacré tête dure,” he
thought. “He has gone to sleep.” Indeed Symons’ immobility was so
complete that he might have been dead from his exertions: only Peyrol
had a conviction that his once youthful chum was not the sort of person
that dies easily. The part of the cove he had reached was all right for
Peyrol’s purpose. But it would have been quite easy for a boat or boats
to fail to notice Symons, and the consequence of that would be that the
English would probably land in several parties for a search, discover
the tartane.... Peyrol shuddered.
Suddenly he made out a boat just clear of the eastern point of the cove.
Mr. Bolt had been hugging the coast and progressing very slowly,
according to his instructions, till he had reached the edge of the
point’s shadow where it lay ragged and black on the moonlit water.
Peyrol could see the oars rise and fall. Then another boat glided into
view. Peyrol’s alarm for his tartane grew intolerable. “Wake up, animal,
wake up,” he mumbled through his teeth. Slowly they glided on, and the
first cutter was on the point of passing by the man on the shore when
Peyrol was relieved by the hail of “Boat ahoy!” reaching him faintly
where he knelt leaning forward, an absorbed spectator.
He saw the boat heading for Symons, who was standing up now and making
desperate signs with both arms. Then he saw him dragged in over the
bows, the boat back out, and then both of them tossed oars and floated
side by side on the sparkling water of the cove.
Peyrol got up from his knees. They had their man now. But perhaps they
would persist in landing, since there must have been some other purpose
at first in the mind of the captain of the English corvette. This
suspense did not last long. Peyrol saw the oars fall in the water, and
in a very few minutes the boats, pulling round, disappeared one after
another behind the eastern point of the cove.
“That’s done,” muttered Peyrol to himself. “I will never see the silly
Hard-head again.” He had a strange notion that those English boats had
carried off something belonging to him, not a man but a part of his own
life, the sensation of a regained touch with the far-off days in the
Indian Ocean. He walked down quickly as if to examine the spot from
which Testa Dura had left the soil of France. He was in a hurry now to
get back to the farmhouse and meet Lieutenant Réal, who would be due
back from Toulon. The way by the cove was as short as any other. When he
got down he surveyed the empty shore and wondered at a feeling of
emptiness within himself. While walking up towards the foot of the
ravine he saw an object lying on the ground. It was a stable fork. He
stood over it asking himself, “How on earth did this thing come here?”
as though he had been too surprised to pick it up. Even after he had
done so he remained motionless, meditating on it. He connected it with
some activity of Scevola, since he was the man to whom it belonged, but
that was no sort of explanation of its presence on that spot, unless ...
“Could he have drowned himself?” thought Peyrol, looking at the smooth
and luminous water of the cove. It could give him no answer. Then at
arm’s length he contemplated his find. At last he shook his head,
shouldered the fork, and with slow steps continued on his way.