PRISON BOAT NUMBER FOUR
Paul Durand was confined in the prison at Tours. The prison was so
crowded that he had to be placed in a small room at the top of the
building adjoining the quarters occupied by the jailer and his family.
Paul was paler than usual, the result of fatigue from the long, rapid
ride from La Haye, but he showed no signs of fear and held up his head
bravely as the jailer entered the room. The latter carried a bundle
under his arm.
"You are to take these clothes," he said, "go into the adjoining room,
and put them on in place of the garments you have on."
Paul took the bundle and went into the next room. For fifteen minutes
the jailer sat upon the one chair the room contained, humming and
jingling his bunch of keys. Then the door into the outer corridor was
thrown open and a large man entered. The jailer sprang to his feet with
alacrity.
"Where's the prisoner, Potin?" demanded the newcomer in a harsh voice.
"In the next room, Citizen Leboeuf," replied Potin.
Leboeuf strode toward the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
"I beg your pardon, Citizen Leboeuf, but the prisoner may not be ready
to receive you."
"Well, there's no particular reason to be squeamish, is there?" asked
Leboeuf, screwing his fat face into a leer.
"If you will wait another minute I think the prisoner will come out,"
suggested Potin deferentially, jingling his keys.
"Bah, you show your lodgers too much consideration, citizen jailer; you
spoil them." Nevertheless Leboeuf allowed his hand to drop from the
latch and took a few impatient strides across the floor.
The door opened and, turning, Leboeuf saw Mademoiselle de Rochefort
standing on the threshold. She was thinner than when she left La
Thierry: but her eyes had lost none of their fire, and she looked
Citizen Leboeuf in the face without flinching. His dull eyes kindled
while he looked at her some moments without speaking.
"Do you know who I am?" he inquired in his thick, husky voice.
"Yes, I overheard the jailer call you Citizen Leboeuf."
"Right. I am Citizen Leboeuf; and do you know why you have been
brought here?"
"A paper was read to me last night which pretended to give some
explanation," was her quiet rejoinder.
"In order to save time and expense your trial will take place at Tours,
rather than at Paris. I am one of the judges of this district."
Mademoiselle Edme looked at him with an expression of indifference.
"You do not appear to be afraid."
"I am not afraid," was the quiet reply.
Leboeuf eyed her with evident admiration.
"Why did you put on boy's clothes?" he asked abruptly.
"In order to avoid detection," she answered frankly, coming forward and
seating herself in the chair which Potin had vacated upon her entrance.
Leboeuf was standing before her, hat in hand, an act of politeness he
had not shown to any one for years.
"And you did it well," he said. "You threw them off the track
completely. Had it not been for me, your hiding-place would never have
been discovered. It was a splendid trick you played upon those bunglers
from Paris." And he slapped his thigh in keen appreciation of it, and
laughed hoarsely.
"I will take your boy's clothes with me," he continued as he prepared to
leave the room, "lest you should be tempted to put them on again from
force of habit. We don't want you turning into a boy any more. No, you
make too pretty a woman." Then going up to the jailer he said something
to him in a low voice which Edme could not hear. Potin seemed to be
remonstrating feebly. Leboeuf scowled, and from his manner appeared to
insist upon the point at issue.
"Are you sure you are not afraid?" he said again abruptly to Edme as he
went to the door and stood with one hand on the latch looking back into
the room.
"No!"
He looked at her admiringly.
"Remember you are a woman now and have a perfect right to be afraid;
also to kick and scream when anything is the matter."
Edme made no reply.
"In case you should ever feel afraid," he said significantly, "just send
for Leboeuf, that's all," and with this he left the room.
Edme remained in Potin's charge for two days. The jailer treated her
with great consideration, and she congratulated herself upon having
fallen into such kindly hands. She momentarily expected to be summoned
before the Tribunal. She did not know what the result would be; but she
looked forward to her trial with impatience. In any event it would end
the suspense in which she was living.
On the afternoon of the second day Potin entered her room, accompanied
by one of his deputies.
"You must prepare to go with this man, citizeness," said the little
jailer.
"Has the Tribunal sent for me? she inquired.
"Not yet. But you are to be transferred to another prison."
"I prefer to stay here," she said. "Cannot you ask them to allow me to
remain?"
"You have no choice in the matter, nor have I; I have only my orders."
"From whom did the order come? From that man Leboeuf who came here the
other day?" she demanded quickly.
"I am not at liberty to say," replied Potin, shifting his feet uneasily.
"Are you forbidden to tell me where I am to be taken?" was her next
question.
"To prison boat Number Four. The city prisons are so full," he
continued, in answer to her look of surprised inquiry, "that great
numbers have to be lodged in the boats anchored in the river. Number
Four is one of the largest," he added as if by way of consolation.
In company of the deputy Edme was conducted to the floating prison on
the Loire. As they stepped over the side they were met by a little
round-shouldered man with splay feet. His face was wrinkled and brown
almost to blackness; his dress showed that he had a fondness for bright
colors, as he wore a purple shirt with a crimson sash, a bright yellow
neckcloth, and a red cap. The deputy turned over his charge to him,
received his quittance, and went away.
Edme was conducted to a room in the stern of the vessel. It was a small
room and to her surprise she found it furnished comfortably, almost
luxuriously. On a table in the centre stood a carafe of wine and a
basket of sweet biscuit. Two or three chairs and a couch completed the
equipment of the room. At the extreme end, the porthole had been
enlarged into a window which looked out over the river. This window was
closed by wooden bars. Otherwise the place looked more like the
comfortable quarters of some ship's officer than a jail.
"Is this where I am to remain?" she asked of her new jailer.
The man nodded and withdrew, locking the door after him.
Edme threw herself into a chair. It was intended that she should at
least be comfortable while in prison, and this thought helped to keep up
her spirits. She rose, took a glass of wine and some of the biscuit, and
then after finishing this refreshment, feeling fatigued, she lay down
upon the couch and fell asleep.
It was nearly dark when she awoke. Lying on the couch she could see the
dying light of the short December day shining feebly in at the window,
reflected by the metal of a swinging lamp over the table. As she lay
there she became aware of a noise that had evidently awakened her. It
was the sound of wailing and lamentation, accompanied by the creaking of
timber and the swash of water.
Rising from the bed she went to the window and looked out over the
river.
Going down the stream were two other prison boats. They were scarcely
fifty yards away and proceeded slowly with the current, the water
lapping against their black sides. They were old vessels, and creaked
and groaned as if they were about to fall apart from very rottenness.
From between their decks came the sound of human voices raised in cries
of fear, despair, and lamentation; all mingled in a strange, horrible
medley, which, borne over the water by the sighing night wind, struck a
chill into Edme's heart.
The vessels, stealing down the river with their sailless masts against
the evening sky, looked like phantom ships conveying cargoes of
unrestful, tortured spirits into darkness. The sight so fascinated Edme
that she stood watching them until they drifted out of sight and the
cries of those on board grew fainter and fainter in the distance. So
absorbed had she been as not to hear the lock click in the door and a
man enter the room. She only became aware of his presence on hearing a
heavy sigh just behind her, and turning her head she saw Leboeuf's
heavy face at her shoulder. She gave a startled cry and stepped nearer
the window.
"It is a sad sight, is it not," he remarked, with a look of sympathy
ill-suited to the leer in his eyes, "and one that might easily frighten
the strongest of us."
"It is your sudden appearance, when I thought I was entirely alone, that
startled me," replied Edme, regaining her composure with an effort. "I
was so intent upon looking at those boats that I did not hear you come
in."
"I see you didn't. I may be bulky, but I'm active and can move quietly,"
and he gave a chuckle.
Edme thought him even more repulsive than at the time of his visit to
the prison. His face seemed coarser and more inflamed, and his eyes, so
dull and heavy before, shone as if animated by drink.
"Where are they taking those poor people?" she asked; "for I presume
those are prison boats."
"They are," was the reply in a thick utterance. "Just like this. Are you
sure that you want to know where they are being taken?"
"Would I have asked you otherwise?"
"Are you sure you won't faint?"
Edme gave a shrug of contempt. She saw that he was trying to work upon
her fears, and felt her spirit rise in antagonism.
The look of admiration that he gave her was more offensive than his
pretended sympathy. Leaning forward he whispered, "They are going down
the river for about two miles. There they will get rid of their
troublesome freight and return empty."
"What do you mean?" asked Edme. "Where do they land the prisoners?"
"They don't land them, they water them," and he gave a low, inward
laugh. "They drown every prisoner on board. Tie them together in
couples, man and woman, and tumble them overboard by the score."
Edme gave a cry of horror. "It is too horrible to be true. I don't
believe it!"
"Why not?" asked Leboeuf; "drowning is an easy death, and every one of
them has been fairly and honestly condemned. This boat is to follow in
its turn. Every prisoner here has looked upon the sun for the last time,
though not one of them knows just when he is to die."
The idea of such wholesale murder seemed so utterly impossible to her
that in her mind she set down Leboeuf's whole account as a fiction of
his drink-besotted brain, called up to frighten her. Yet at the moment
when she turned from him in disgust to look out of the window, she saw
that their own vessel had begun to move slowly through the water.
"We have started," said Leboeuf, as if he were mentioning a matter of
the smallest consequence.
"You say that every one upon this boat is a condemned person," said Edme
quietly, repressing her terror with an effort.
Leboeuf nodded.
"But I am not. I have not even had a hearing."
"No?" exclaimed Leboeuf in a tone of surprise. "Then those jailers
have made another mistake."
Edme advanced toward him one step, and in a tone which made the huge man
draw back, said:--
"I was brought here by your order!"
"Oh, no, I knew nothing of the change. It was that villain Potin."
"I was brought here by your order," she repeated. "I demand that I be
taken where I can have a trial."
"Potin has made another mistake," was all Leboeuf would vouchsafe in
reply.
"If there has been any mistake, it is yours. I demand that you set it
right."
"It is too late!"
"There must be some one aboard this vessel who has the power to do it,
if you have not. I will go and appeal for aid," and she took a step
toward the door.
Leboeuf interposed his bulky body between her and the means of exit;
closed and locked the door on the inside.
"I will cry aloud. Some one will hear me," she said in desperation.
"Who will hear you above all that noise?" he inquired tersely.
The prisoners on the boat, now fully aware that their time of execution
had come, were crying out against their fate,--some praying for mercy,
some calling down the maledictions of heaven upon their butchers, while
others wept silently.
"Merciful Virgin, protect me. I have lost all hope," cried Edme, turning
from Leboeuf and sinking despairingly upon her knees.
"Ah, now you are frightened!" exclaimed Leboeuf, "admit that you are
frightened!"
"If it is any satisfaction to have succeeded in terrifying a woman
unable to defend herself, I will not rob you of the pleasure, but know
that it is not death, but the manner of it, that I fear."
"But you are afraid; you have confessed to it at last, and now Leboeuf
will see that they do not harm you." He gave a grim chuckle as if he
enjoyed having won his point. Rapidly pushing the table to one side,
turning back the rug that covered the floor, he stooped; and to Edme's
astonished gaze lifted up a trap door in the floor of the cabin. Edme
drew back from the black hole at her feet.
"It is large enough to afford you air for several hours," Leboeuf
said. "By that time I will get you out again. Quick, descend the steps."
Edme, fearing further treachery, drew back in alarm. "I prefer to meet
my fate here."
Leboeuf struck a light and by the rays of the lamp a ladder was
revealed.
"I tell you it is certain death to remain here fifteen minutes longer.
Even I could not save you then. The more they throw into the water the
more frenzied they become for other victims. They will ransack the
entire boat; but they won't find you down there. Leboeuf alone knows
this place. Quick! If you would live to see the sun rise to-morrow, go
down the steps of that ladder."
He took her by the shoulder to assist in the descent. His touch was so
distasteful to her that she threw off his hand and went down the ladder
unaided. "Make not the slightest sound, whatever you may hear going on
up here above you, and wait patiently until I come to release you."
With these words the door was shut down and Leboeuf went out and up to
the deck alone.
The vessel had reached a point in the river just outside the city. Here
the stream narrowed and ran swiftly between the banks.
The sky was windy; and between the rifts of the high-banked clouds the
moon shone fitfully. To the east lay the city of Tours, its spires
standing out in sharp silhouette against the sky. On the river bank the
wind swept over the dead, dry grass with a mournful, swaying sound and
rattled the rotting halyards of the old hulk, which with one small sail
set in the bow to keep it steady, made slowly down the river with the
current, hugging the left bank as if fearful of trusting itself to the
swifter depths beyond.
A rusty chain rasped through the hawse-hole, and the vessel swung at
anchor.
In a small and close compartment in the ship's depths, totally without
light, and with her nerves wrought upon by Leboeuf's appalling story,
Edme could only guess at what was happening above her head.
She knew that something terrible was taking place. She could hear a
confusion of cries and trampling of feet; of hoarse shouts and commands;
and she pictured in her imagination scenes quite as horrible as were
actually taking place above her. In every wave that splashed against the
vessel's side she could see the white face of a struggling, drowning
creature, and every sound upon the vessel was the despairing death-note
of a fresh victim. Through it all she could see the large face of
Leboeuf leering at her with his bleary eyes. To have exchanged one
fate for a worse one was to have gained nothing, and in her mental agony
she almost envied those who a short time ago had been struggling
helplessly in the hands of their executioners, and whose bodies now were
quietly sleeping in the waters of the flowing river.
A quiet fell upon the vessel. The last cry had been uttered, the last
command given, and no sound reached Edme's ears but the soft plash of
the water as it struck under the stern of the boat.
Then the remembrance of Leboeuf's face and look became still more
vivid. She feared him in spite of all her courage; in spite of her pride
that was greater than her courage, she feared him. The knowledge that he
was aware of his power and took delight in it made the thought that she
would soon have to face him there alone more terrible than her dread of
the worst of deaths.
A footfall sounded on the floor above her head. That it was not
Leboeuf's heavy tread, Edme was certain. Rather than fall into his
hands again she would trust herself to the mercies of the worst ruffian
among the executioners, and she struck with her clenched hand a
succession of quick knocks upon the trap.
The footsteps ceased, and in the stillness that followed Edme called out
to the man above her and told him where to find the opening. In another
instant the door was lifted up and she came up into the cabin.
"Kill me," she cried out; "throw me into the river if it be your
pleasure, but I implore you, do not let"--
The man's hand closed over her mouth, and lifting her in his arms he
carried her across the cabin. The room was dark; either Leboeuf had
put out the light when he left, or the newcomer had extinguished it, but
Edme saw that he bore her toward the window from which the lattice had
been removed. She closed her eyes to meet the end. She felt herself
swiftly lifted through the window, and then instead of water her feet
struck a firm substance.
"Steady for one moment," said a voice in her ear as she opened her eyes
in bewilderment to find herself standing on the seat of a small skiff, a
man supporting her by the arm. Her face was on a level with the window,
and looking back into the cabin she saw a light at the further end, as
the bulky form of Leboeuf appeared at the door, lantern in hand, his
heavy countenance made more ugly by an expression of surprise and rage.
Voices were heard in hot dispute, then came two pistol shots so close
together as to seem almost one. A figure leaped through the smoke that
poured from the window, and Edme from her seat in the skiff's bow where
she had been swung with little ceremony, saw a man cut the line, while
the other bent over his oars and made the small craft fly away from the
vessel, straight for the opposite shore. The man who had leaped from the
window took his place silently in the stern. Placing one hand on the
tiller, he turned and looked intently over his shoulder at the dark
outline of the prison ship, which was rapidly receding into the gloom.
His hat had fallen off, and in the uncertain light Edme saw for the
first time that it was Robert Tournay.
Before a word could be uttered by any of them, a tongue of flame shot
out from the vessel behind them, followed by a loud and sharp report.
The dash of spray that swept over the boat told that the shot had struck
the water close by them.
The man at the oars shook the water from his eyes and redoubled his
efforts. "Head her down the river a little," he said.
"But the carriage is at least two miles above here," replied Tournay.
"No matter," answered Gaillard. "The shore here is too steep. We must
land a little further down."
Tournay altered their course and steered the boat slantingly across the
current.
They were now nearing the right-hand shore, which rose abruptly from the
river to a height of some twenty feet. The current here was swifter, and
the greatest caution had to be exercised. A second flash flamed out from
the prison ship, a sound of crashing wood, and the little skiff seemed
to leap into the air and then slide from under their feet, while the icy
water of the Loire rushed in Edme's ears,--strangling her and dragging
her down, until it seemed as if the water's weight would crush her. Then
she began to come upward with increasing velocity until at last, when
she thought never to reach the surface, she felt her head rise above the
water and saw the cloudy, threatening sky, which seemed to reel above
her as she gasped for breath.
Another head shot to the surface by her side, and she felt herself
sustained, to sink no more. The words: "Place your right hand upon my
shoulder and keep your face turned down the stream away from the
current," came to her ears as if in a dream. Instinctively she obeyed.
With a few rapid strokes Tournay reached the shore. The bank overhung
the river and under it the water ran rapidly.
With only one arm free he could not draw himself and Edme up the steep
incline. Twice he succeeded in catching a tuft of grass or projecting
root, and each time the force of the current broke his hold upon it, and
twirling them round like straws carried them on down the stream.
Gaillard, who had been struck by a splinter on the forehead, was at
first stunned by the blow, and without struggling was swept fifty yards
down the river. The cold water brought him back to consciousness, and he
struck out for the shore. He noticed, some hundred yards below, a place
where the river swept to the south and where the bank was considerably
lower. Allowing himself to be borne along by the current, he took an
occasional stroke to carry him in toward the shore, and made the point
easily.
Drawing himself from the water by some overhanging bushes, he shook
himself like a wet dog, and sitting on the river's edge proceeded to
bind up his injured eye, while with the other he looked anxiously along
the river-side. Suddenly he bent down and caught at an object in the
water.
"Let me take the girl," he said quickly. "Now your hand on this
bush--there!" And with a swift motion he drew Edme up, and Tournay,
relieved of her weight, swung himself to their side.
For a short time they lay panting on the bank. Gaillard was the first to
get upon his feet.
"We shall perish of cold here," he exclaimed, springing up and down to
warm his benumbed blood, while the wet ends of his yellow neckerchief
flapped about his forehead.
"Can you walk, Mademoiselle de Rochefort?"
Edme placed her hand upon her side to still the sharp shooting pain, and
answered "Yes."
"Good; the road is only a few rods from here, but we must follow it at
least two miles to the west."
"I shall be able to do it!"
As she uttered these words the pain in her side increased. She felt her
strength leave her, and but for the support of Tournay's arm she would
have fallen to the ground.
"She has fainted," cried Tournay in consternation.
"No," she remonstrated feebly, struggling with the numbness that was
overpowering her. "It is the cold. Let me rest for a moment; I shall be
better soon."
"Mademoiselle, you must walk, else you will die of cold," exclaimed
Tournay. "Take her by the arm, Gaillard."
Instead of complying with the request, Gaillard stood with head bent
forward peering up the road into the night gloom.
"Gaillard! man, do you not hear me?"
"The carriage! I hear the rattle of its wheels," cried Gaillard
joyfully. "Agatha can always be depended upon to do the right thing at
the right moment!"
"Hurry to meet her," cried Tournay; "tell her we are here!"
Gaillard sprang rapidly forward, shouting as he ran.
"Courage but a little moment longer," whispered Tournay, and taking Edme
in his arms he followed Gaillard as fast as his burden permitted.
She had not entirely lost consciousness, but cold and fatigue had
combined to enervate and render her powerless of motion.
In a half swoon she felt herself carried she knew not whither. She felt
Tournay's strong arms about her, and a sense of security came over her
as she faintly realized that each step took her further away from the
dreaded Leboeuf.
Tournay hastened toward the carriage. The wind swept freshly over the
marshes, and he held Edme close as if to shield her from the cold. Her
hair blew back into his face, covering his eyes and touching his lips.
As he felt her soft tresses against his cheek his heart throbbed so that
he forgot cold, fatigue, and danger.... Where they blinded him he gently
put the locks aside with one hand in a caressing manner and looked
tenderly down into the white face pressed against his wet coat.
The sound of wheels upon the frozen road came nearer. Lights flashed
around a turn in the road, and Tournay staggered to the carriage door as
the vehicle drew up suddenly.
"Hurrah!" cried Gaillard from the box, where he had taken the reins from
the driver. "We have won!"