The Historical Nights' Entertainment - Rafael Sabatini (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📗

man. But, actuated by fear and discretion, he

permitted himself tamely to be led away.

 

Along the stone-flagged corridor he went, and on every hand beheld

his fellow-prisoners in the same plight, being similarly dragged

from their cells and similarly hurried below. At the head of the

stairs one fellow, perfectly drunk, was holding a list, hiccupping

over names which he garbled ludicrously as he called them out. He

was lighted in his task by a candle held by another who was no less

drunk. The swaying pair seemed to inter-support one another

grotesquely.

 

Leroy suffered himself to be led down the stairs, and so came to

the porter’s lodge, where he beheld a half-dozen Marats assembled

round a table, with bumpers of wine before them, bawling, singing,

cursing, and cracking lewd jests at the expense of each prisoner

as he entered. The place was in a litter. A lamp had been smashed,

and there was a puddle of wine on the floor from a bottle that had

been knocked over. On a bench against the wall were ranged a number

of prisoners, others lay huddled on the floor, and all of them

were pinioned.

 

Two or three of the Marats lurched up to Leroy, and ran their hands

over him, turning out his pockets, and cursing him foully for their

emptiness. He saw the same office performed upon others, and saw

them stripped of money, pocket-books, watches, rings, buckles, and

whatever else of value they happened to possess. One man, a priest,

was even deprived of his shoes by a ruffian who was in want of

foot-gear.

 

As they were pinioning his wrists, Leroy looked up. He confesses

that he was scared.

 

“What is this for?” he asked. “Does it mean death?”

 

With an oath he was bidden to ask no questions.

 

“If I die,” he assured them, “you will be killing a good republican.”

 

A tall man with an inflamed countenance and fierce, black eyes, that

were somewhat vitreous, now leered down upon him.

 

“You babbling fool! It’s not your life, it’s your property we want.”

 

This was Grandmaison, the fencing-master, who once had been a

gentleman. He had been supping with Carrier, and he had only just

arrived at Le Bouffay, accompanied by Goullin. He found the work

behind time, and told them so.

 

“Leave that fellow now, Jolly. He’s fast enough. Up and fetch the

rest. It’s time to be going … time to be going.”

 

Flung aside now that he was pinioned, Leroy sat down on the floor

and looked about him. Near him an elderly man was begging for a cup

of water. They greeted the prayer with jeering laughter.

 

“Water! By Sainte Guillotine, he asks for water!” The drunken

sans-culottes were intensely amused. “Patience, my friend -

patience, and you shall drink your fill. You shall drink from the

great cup.”

 

Soon the porter’s lodge was crowded with prisoners, and they were

overflowing into the passage.

 

Came Grandmaison cursing and swearing at the sluggishness of the

Marats, reminding them - as he had been reminding them for the last

hour - that it was time to be off, that the tide was on the ebb.

 

Stimulated by him, Jolly - the red-capped giant with the black

mustaches - and some others of the Marat Company, set themselves

to tie the prisoners into chains of twenty, further to ensure

against possible evasion. They were driven into the chilly

courtyard, and there Grandmaison, followed by a fellow with a

lantern, passed along the ranks counting them.

 

The result infuriated him.

 

“A hundred and five!” he roared, and swore horribly. “You have been

here nearly five hours, and in all that time you have managed to

truss up only a hundred and five. Are we never to get through with

it? I tell you the tide is ebbing. It is time to be off.”

 

Laqueze, the porter of Le Bouffay, with whose food and wine those

myrmidons of the committee had made so disgracefully free, came to

assure him that he had all who were in the prison.

 

“All?” cried Grandmaison, aghast. “But according to the list there

should have been nearer two hundred.” And he raised his voice to

call: “Goullin! Hola, Goullin! Where the devil is Goullin?”

 

“The list,” Laqueze told him, “was drawn up from the register. But

you have not noted that many have died since they came - we have

had the fever here - and that a few are now in hospital.”

 

“In hospital! Bah! Go up, some of you, and fetch them. We are

taking them somewhere where they will be cured.” And then he

hailed the elegant Goullin, who came up wrapped in a cloak. “Here’s

a fine bathing-party!” he grumbled. “A rare hundred of these swine!”

 

Goullin turned to Laqueze.

 

“What have you done with the fifteen brigands I sent you this

evening?”

 

“But they only reached Nantes to-day,” said Laqueze, who understood

nothing of these extraordinary proceedings. “They have not yet

been registered, not even examined.”

 

“I asked you what you have done with them?” snapped Goullin.

 

“They are upstairs.”

 

“Then fetch them. They are as good as any others.”

 

With these, and a dozen or so dragged from sick-beds, the total was

made up to about a hundred and thirty.

 

The Marats, further reinforced now by half a company of National

Guards, set out from the prison towards five o’clock in the morning;

urging their victims along with blows and curses.

 

Our cocassier found himself bound wrist to wrist with a young

Capuchin brother, who stumbled along in patient resignation, his

head bowed, his lips moving as if he were in prayer.

 

“Can you guess what they are going to do with us?” murmured Leroy.

 

He caught the faint gleam of the Capuchin’s eyes in the gloom.

 

“I do not know, brother. Commend yourself to God, and so be prepared

for whatever may befall.”

 

The answer was not very comforting to a man of Leroy’s temperament.

He stumbled on, and they came now upon the Place du Bouffay, where

the red guillotine loomed in ghostly outline, and headed towards

the Quai Tourville. Thence they were marched by the river the whole

length of the Quai La Fosse. Fear spreading amongst them, some

clamours were raised, to be instantly silenced by blows and

assurances that they were to be shipped to Belle Isle, where they

were to be set to work to build a fort.

 

The cocassier thought this likely enough, and found it more

comforting than saying his prayers - a trick which he had long

since lost.

 

As they defiled along the quays, an occasional window was thrown

up, and an inquisitive head protruded, to be almost instantly

withdrawn again.

 

On the Cale Robin at last they were herded into a shed which opened

on to the water. Here they found a large lighter alongside, and

they beheld in the lantern-light the silhouettes of a half-dozen

shipwrights busily at work upon it, whilst the place rang with the

blows of hammers and the scream of saws.

 

Some of those nearest the barge saw what was being done. Two great

ports were being opened in the vessel’s side, and over one of these

thus opened the shipwrights were nailing planks. They observed that

these ports, which remained above the water-line now that the barge

was empty, would be well below it once she were laden, and conceiving

that they perceived at last the inhuman fate awaiting them, their

terror rose again. They remembered snatches of conversation and

grim jests uttered by the Marats in Le Bouffay, which suddenly

became clear, and the alarm spreading amongst them, they writhed

and clamoured, screamed for mercy, cursed and raved.

 

Blows were showered upon them. In vain was it sought to quiet them

again with that fable of a fort to be constructed on Belle Isle.

One of them in a frenzy of despair tore himself free of his bonds,

profited by a moment of confusion, and vanished so thoroughly that

Grandmaison and his men lost a quarter of an hour seeking him in

vain, and would have so spent the remainder of the night but for a

sharp word from a man in a greatcoat and a round hat who stood

looking on in conversation with Goullin.

 

“Get on, man! Never mind that one! We’ll have him later. It will

be daylight soon. You’ve wasted time enough already.”

 

It was Carrier.

 

He had come in person to see the execution of his orders, and at

his command Grandmaison now proceeded to the loading. A ladder was

set against the side of the lighter by which the prisoners were to

descend. The cords binding them in chains were now severed, and

they were left pinioned only by the wrists. They were ordered to

embark. But as they were slow to obey, and as some, indeed, hung

back wailing and interceding, he and Jolly took them by their

collars, thrust them to the edge, and bundled them neck and crop

down into the hold, recking nothing of broken limbs. Finding this

method of embarkation more expeditious, the use of the ladder was

neglected thenceforth.

 

Among the last to be thus flung aboard was our cocassier Leroy.

He fell soft upon a heaving, writhing mass of humanity, which only

gradually shook down and sorted itself out on the bottom of the

lighter when the hatches overhead were being nailed down. Yet by

an odd chance the young Capuchin and Leroy, who had been companions

in the chain, were not separated even now. Amid the human welter

in that agitated place of darkness, the cries and wails that rang

around him, Leroy recognized the voice of the young friar exhorting

them to prayer.

 

They were in the stern of the vessel, against one of the sides, and

Leroy, who still kept a grip on the wits by which he had lived, bade

the Capuchin hold up his wrists. Then he went nosing like a dog,

until at last he found them, and his strong teeth fastened upon the

cord that bound them, and began with infinite patience to gnaw it

through.

 

Meanwhile that floating coffin had left its moorings and was gliding

with the stream. On the hatches sat Grandmaison, with Jolly and two

other Marats, howling the “Carmagnole” to drown the cries of the

wretches underneath, and beating time with their feet upon the deck.

 

Leroy’s teeth worked on like a rat’s until at last the cord was

severed. Then, lest they should be parted in the general heaving

and shifting of that human mass, those teeth of his fastened upon

the Capuchin’s sleeve.

 

“Take hold of me!” he commanded as distinctly as he could; and the

Capuchin gratefully obeyed. “Now untie my wrists!”

 

The Capuchin’s hands slid along Leroy’s arms until they found his

hands, and there his fingers grew busy, groping at the knots. It

was no easy matter to untie them in the dark, guided by sense of

touch alone. But the friar was persistent and patient, and in the

end the last knot ran loose, and our cocassier was unpinioned.

 

It comforted him out of all proportion to the advantage. At least

his hands were free for any emergency that might offer. That he

depended in such a situation, and with no illusions as to what was

to happen, upon emergency, shows how tenacious he was of hope.

 

He had been released not a moment too soon. Overhead, Grandmaison

and his men were no longer singing. They were moving about.

Something bumped against the side of the vessel, near the bow,

obviously a boat, and voices