“Give me your instructions!” I cried.
“I can only spare you one man, for already I can hardly pull round the
yards,” said he. “One of the boats has been lowered, and this man will
row you ashore and await your return. The light which you see is indeed
the light of Longwood. All who are in the house are your friends, and
all may be depended upon to aid the Emperor's escape. There is a cordon
of English sentries, but they are not very near to the house. Once you
have got as far as that you will convey our plans to the Emperor, guide
him down to the boat, and bring him on board.”
The Emperor himself could not have given his instructions more shortly
and clearly. There was not a moment to be lost. The boat with the seaman
was waiting alongside. I stepped into it, and an instant afterward we
had pushed off. Our little boat danced over the dark waters, but always
shining before my eyes was the light of Longwood, the light of the
Emperor, the star of hope. Presently the bottom of the boat grated upon
the pebbles of the beach. It was a deserted cove, and no challenge from
a sentry came to disturb us. I left the seaman by the boat and I began
to climb the hillside.
There was a goat track winding in and out among the rocks, so I had no
difficulty in finding my way. It stands to reason that all paths in St.
Helena would lead to the Emperor. I came to a gate. No sentry--and
I passed through. Another gate--still no sentry! I wondered what had
become of this cordon of which Fourneau had spoken. I had come now to
the top of my climb, for there was the light burning steadily right in
front of me. I concealed myself and took a good look round, but still I
could see no sign of the enemy. As I approached I saw the house, a long,
low building with a veranda. A man was walking up and down upon the path
in front. I crept nearer and had a look at him.
Perhaps it was this cursed Hudson Lowe. What a triumph if I could not
only rescue the Emperor, but also avenge him! But it was more likely
that this man was an English sentry. I crept nearer still, and the man
stopped in front of the lighted window, so that I could see him. No; it
was no soldier, but a priest. I wondered what such a man could be doing
there at two in the morning. Was he French or English? If he were one of
the household I might take him into my confidence. If he were English he
might ruin all my plans.
I crept a little nearer still, and at that moment he entered the house,
a flood of light pouring out through the open door. All was clear for me
now and I understood that not an instant was to be lost. Bending myself
double I ran swiftly forward to the lighted window.
Raising my head I peeped through, and there was the Emperor lying dead
before me.
My friends, I fell down upon the gravel walk as senseless as if a bullet
had passed through my brain. So great was the shock that I wonder that I
survived it.
And yet in half an hour I had staggered to my feet again, shivering in
every limb, my teeth chattering, and there I stood staring with the eyes
of a maniac into that room of death.
He lay upon a bier in the centre of the chamber, calm, composed,
majestic, his face full of that reserve power which lightened our hearts
upon the day of battle. A half-smile was fixed upon his pale lips, and
his eyes, half-opened, seemed to be turned on mine. He was stouter
than when I had seen him at Waterloo, and there was a gentleness of
expression which I had never seen in life. On either side of him burned
rows of candles, and this was the beacon which had welcomed us at sea,
which had guided me over the water, and which I had hailed as my star
of hope. Dimly I became conscious that many people were kneeling in
the room; the little Court, men and women, who had shared his fortunes,
Bertrand, his wife, the priest, Montholon--all were there. I would have
prayed too, but my heart was too heavy and bitter for prayer. And yet
I must leave, and I could not leave him without a sign. Regardless of
whether I was seen or not, I drew myself erect before my dead leader,
brought my heels together, and raised my hand in a last salute. Then I
turned and hurried off through the darkness, with the picture of the wan,
smiling lips and the steady grey eyes dancing always before me.
It had seemed to me but a little time that I had been away, and yet the
boatman told me that it was hours.
Only when he spoke of it did I observe that the wind was blowing half
a gale from the sea and that the waves were roaring in upon the beach.
Twice we tried to push out our little boat, and twice it was thrown back
by the sea. The third time a great wave filled it and stove the bottom.
Helplessly we waited beside it until the dawn broke, to show a raging
sea and a flying scud above it. There was no sign of the Black Swan.
Climbing the hill we looked down, but on all the great torn expanse of
the ocean there was no gleam of a sail. She was gone. Whether she had
sunk, or whether she was recaptured by her English crew, or what strange
fate may have been in store for her, I do not know. Never again in this
life did I see Captain Fourneau to tell him the result of my mission.
For my own part I gave myself up to the English, my boatman and I
pretending that we were the only survivors of a lost vessel--though,
indeed, there was no pretence in the matter. At the hands of their
officers I received that generous hospitality which I have always
encountered, but it was many a long month before I could get a passage
back to the dear land outside of which there can be no happiness for so
true a Frenchman as myself.
And so I tell you in one evening how I bade good-bye to my master, and
I take my leave also of you, my kind friends, who have listened so
patiently to the long-winded stories of an old broken soldier. Russia,
Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and England, you have gone with me to
all these countries, and you have seen through my dim eyes something of
the sparkle and splendour of those great days, and I have brought back
to you some shadow of those men whose tread shook the earth. Treasure it
in your minds and pass it on to your children, for the memory of a great
age is the most precious treasure that a nation can possess. As the tree
is nurtured by its own cast leaves so it is these dead men and vanished
days which may bring out another blossoming of heroes, of rulers, and of
sages. I go to Gascony, but my words stay here in your memory, and long
after Etienne Gerard is forgotten a heart may be warmed or a spirit
braced by some faint echo of the words that he has spoken. Gentlemen, an
old soldier salutes you and bids you farewell.