The Surgeon's Mate

  The sound of boots at last: light round the door: the grind of keys and in the sudden glare, the renewed buzz of innumerable flies, he made out a sergeant's guard. They marched him back to the room where he had been questioned and there, his eyes accustomed to the light, he saw a general officer, his aide-de-camp, the deputy-governor of the Temple, and the original figurehead colonel, now pale with anxiety.

  'Is this your prisoner?' asked the general.

  'Yes, sir,' said the governor.

  'Then take him back to the Temple. Colonel, you will report to the secretary's office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.'

  It was a silent drive. The governor seemed worn, anxious, old, depressed; the aide-de-camp was preoccupied with his sword-knot, which had caught in the carriage door.

  'There you are, Stephen!' cried Jack. 'There you are at last. By God, we have been so—'

  Stephen held up his hand and stood for some moments with his ear to the door. 'Listen, Jack,' he said when the ancient silence had returned, 'is it possible to expedite matters, at all? Johnson is in Paris. He has identified me.'

  'Is he, though?' said Jack, and picking up the candle he strode into the jakes. He had everything ready for the coming of his purchase, of blocks stouter than those which had come with their dinner, everything but the breaking of their furniture, whose wood must provide the necessary chocks and wedges; and even that he had already prepared with deep hidden cuts, made by one of Poupette's knives, nicked into a saw. The massive cross-stones of the privy lay bare, loose in their beds: their free ends were still concealed by masonry, carefully arranged, but this masonry could be swept away in a moment and the long deep slabs only waited the application of a mechanical force to raise them. With the blocks he hoped for it would be a fairly easy task to swing them silently in, one after another; he had a good hold-fast in the two lintels, and the line, though thin, was immensely strong. Even with what he had it was not impossible. 'Whip upon whip, double rove, might do it,' he said. 'It all depends on the pins.' He took the pulleys out of his pocket and looked at them again: the axles upon which the little wheels revolved were not above three sixteenths of an inch across; they would have to sustain a very great load; and in all likelihood they were no more than soft iron. 'Lord, what pins,' he said. 'What landsman's pins. But at least the sheaves are strong, and the shells don't signify.' He called to Jagiello to hold the candle and as there was not room for three in the little recess Stephen sat on the bed and watched them.

  Jack was a big man, but he moved quickly, neatly, working fast with sure, knowing hands. He was extremely reluctant to cut the line, both on principle and because silk was a treacherous stuff to splice, and in time he had woven the whole into a spider's web, an extraordinarily intricate piece of rigging with cunning knots, stoppers and beckets, the whole designed to concentrate two men's strength on the raising of the left-hand side of the farther slab: although he was never still, to a watcher his work seemed endless, needlessly finical, obscure. At last, at last he checked over the whole array to make sure that all was set up with the correct tension throughout and that the resultant motion came true for a perfectly vertical lift. Then he backed out, took their best stool, broke a leg into short lengths and split them. 'Now Stephen,' he said, 'pray go in there, kneel by the crosspiece, and if it rises, whip these under it.'

  Stephen crept through the web and took up his post. He heard Jack say 'Clap on to the fall, Jagiello. Haul after me, keeping time. Handsomely, now. Handsomely does it.'

  Lines in all directions tightened, straightened; the quadruple strand above Stephen's head came down to his nose in a general and musical sound of stretching; the little wheels, clear in the candlelight, revolved. The strain came on, gradually stronger, stronger; the musical sound mounted and still the strain increased. 'Handsomely, handsomely,' murmured Jack, and with a sighing groan the great crosspiece rose three inches, half clear of its granite bed. 'She rises,' said Stephen as he thrust wood into the gap. The whole assemblage of lines began to vibrate, uttering the strangest quivering sound in that silence, and the stone sank back, crushing the wood. 'Something is wrong,' called Stephen.

  'Belay,' said Jack. He came into the privy, took the candle, and said 'Yes: the pins have gone.' They looked at him with appalled faces. 'I shall have to unship all this,' he said. 'They are not snatch-blocks, you see.'

  At half past the hour he had the wretched little pulleys free; by midnight he had driven out the broken pins and replaced them with the steel tail of a file, struck off short. 'They ain't pretty,' he said, 'but they may answer. I shall reduce the pull to the power of three, to spare the thinner one.'

  The weaving once more, into a slightly different pattern this time, and before the distant clock struck one he said again, 'Clap on to the fall.' Again the whole complication of lines straightened, stretching fiddle-string taut, but this time the little wheels jibbered and squeaked as they turned and the network trembled uneasily. It gave little impression of strength. Yet as the tension rose to such a pitch that Stephen felt all must very soon give way, he saw the slab-heave gently up. Up and up, and he filled the space with wood. 'It is clear this end,' he called.

  'Belay,' said Jack. He came and looked keenly at the stone. 'Very well,' he said. 'It is very well: and if the pins hold we shall do it. But I have been thinking: my plan was to walk the slab inboard, each end in turn. But that means shifting the purchase each time, and even if the pins hold I doubt we can do both slabs much before dawn. Yet if we raise and lower this left-hand end while you wedge the other, first with the cold chisel and then with stone, the right-hand end must pivot clear of its bed and fall free. The only thing is the noise of its fall. It would save some hours; it would spare the pins; but there is the noise. What do you say?'

  Stephen considered. 'I have heard a good many pieces fall from the tower where they were working in the day,' he said. 'Then again, the place is almost empty. We have scarcely had a night-patrol this last week and more. I think we should risk the noise. Show me what I must do.'

  Jack showed him, changed the angle of the lift, and returned to Jagiello. 'Handsomely, handsomely,' he said, and now the stone rose in a deliberate even movement, at much the pace of a seconds hand. Stephen placed his wedges under the right-hand face, said 'Lower away,' and the descending stone crept grating sideways across its bed. More wedges in the upper, the horizontal gap. 'Pull now,' he said, and as it rose so the slab also continued its sideways motion, creeping towards the edge of vacancy. Up, down: up, down. And still the sideways movement, the wedges growing larger every time.

  'It is about—' he began, but he had not time to say 'to go' before there was a void where he had been staring, no stone, nothing but night air below the candlelight and a great twanging web of lines above his head, skipping up and down. Silence for a heart-beat, and then a most shocking crash below, a shattering roar that seemed to fill the room, the whole tower.

  They stared at one another, never moving until for some reason Jagiello blew out the candle. Time passed. St Théodule's struck the quarter; repeated it. No other sound at all.

  At length, at great length, Jack whispered 'Strike a light,' and first Jagiello and then Stephen endeavoured to do so. 'What a couple of lubbers you are, to be sure,' said Jack, showing a certain testiness for the very first time. 'Give it here.' He took the tinder-box, struck hard, blew on the living spark, lit the candle, and inspected the gap and the line. 'Six inches more, and a thin man could slip through,' he said. 'With the next we should be well away. But this time I shall pudden the bight with Jagiello's shirt, to prevent it from chafing.'

  Once more the whole system changed place to bring the hoist over the inner stone, and once more Stephen watched them. Now that the gate to freedom was half open he could no longer control his heart and as the long process ran its cpurse he felt exasperation, impatience, impotent frustration rise to an almost unbearable pitch. He was confident that the half-demolished, encumbered moat would present no difficulty and that o
nce they were clear of the Temple they could lie up safely in any of the half dozen refuges he knew: all this, if only they could begin to move. From there he could get into touch with La Mothe and Valençay. He was as nearly as possible certain that Duhamel's proposal was genuine, but even so it would be better to be out of his power before making the final arrangements. In any case there was no question of remaining in the Temple another day with Johnson abroad. Quite apart from the question of Clapier's personal revenge, the value of the American connection was such that he would certainly sacrifice the prisoners, taking them from the Temple by main force if need be; he could easily justify himself after the event. Only too easily. And he would surely act soon: dawn was the usual time for such measures, or a little before it. But then again, what would be the effect of Johnson's arrival on Valençay? An absurd question; for if Valençay's plan succeeded there would be no point in any American connection, no point at all; and no concessions would be called for. It was Diana's position that tormented him: again and again he asserted that with La Mothe's protection, her wide and influential acquaintance, and her political nullity she could not be in danger, particularly as he was convinced that Johnson had only just arrived; and again and again he replied that he was only reassuring himself, that his conjectures had no solid basis. To avoid at least some part of this intolerable, incessant arguing to and fro he collected their few possessions and heaped them into a cloth bundle; he even fed the mice, that had come out from under their door, quite amazed.

  'I think that will do,' said Jack at last—they had long since been speaking in natural voices. 'But we shall have to heave hearty this time: the angle is not so good, the multiplication less. I hope to God the pins bear it. Jagiello, wrap a handkerchief round your hands. Stephen, carry on.'

  Now Stephen had something real to do: now just beneath him lay a rectangle of the free night: he squatted there, his pale eyes glittering, his cold chisel and his pile of wedges at hand. And as the full strain came on, Jack and Jagiello grunting as they heaved, it occurred to him that his strength, such as it was, would ease the perilous load on the pins. He straddled the crosspiece, clasped his hands beneath it and hoisted, hoisted until the stone cut into his arms on either side, until his sight was blurred with the pounding of his heart, and until he felt the slab give a releasing jerk and yield. 'She rises,' he said in a gasping croak and skipped free to set his wedges with intense blundering activity.

  Jack saw him and smiled. He also saw the door, the unknown door, the mouse's door swing wide. Four men with a lantern.

  'Good evening, gentlemen,' said the leader.

  'Jack, do not move,' cried Stephen, for he and Jagiello were upon their spring, as dangerous as tigers. 'Gentlemen, good evening. Pray walk in.' He stepped forward and fell into the free night up to his waist. Jack and Duhamel leapt across and plucked him out, each by a hand: they hoped he was not hurt. 'Not at all, I thank you,' said Stephen, mopping his shin—it gave him an extreme though superficial agony. 'Gentlemen,' he said somewhat sharply, 'please to state your business.'

  'You will not remember me, Dr Maturin,' said the first man, advancing. 'D'Anglars: I had the honour of meeting you when I was attached to the suite of Monsieur de Talleyrand-Périgord during his embassy to London; and I believe we have several common friends.'

  'I remember you perfectly, sir,' said Stephen, 'and of course I recall his Excellency with the greatest esteem. I had the pleasure of seeing him a little while ago. Neither of you has changed at all.' This was not quite true as far as d'Anglars was concerned; he was now but an aged beauty and even by lantern-light the rouge showed plain on his intelligent, lively, but ravaged face. On the other hand, Stephen did have an affectionate admiration for the Bishop of Autun, or the Prince de Bénévent as he was now styled: a pillar of falsehood, a prodigy, a phoenix of-duplicity, but excellent company, and by a certain standard quite sound.

  'You are too, too kind,' said d'Anglars with a turn of his person that reminded Stephen of La Mothe, who was in fact one of their common friends. 'I see you are busy,' he went on, 'but perhaps we might have a word together? You will excuse us,' he said, bowing to Captain Aubrey and Jagiello.

  'By all means,' said Jack, returning the civility; and glancing beyond him Stephen observed that d'Anglars' companions were Duhamel, of course, an officer whose cloak only partly hid a very splendid uniform, and a man in black whose face, in spite of an eye-shade, he connected with the foreign ministry, the upper reaches of the foreign ministry.

  They walked into Jagiello's room with the candle, now very low, and sat in the window-seat. 'Duhamel has told us your conditions,' said d'Anglars. 'We agree on all points but one. You require the restitution of the stone, the Blue Peter; and the stone alas we cannot produce immediately. But here is a pledge of its eventual restoration.' He brought out an episcopal ring set with a huge amethyst: Stephen looked at it with some curiosity but not much liking; he did not seem pleased and he did not reply. 'On the other hand,' d'Anglars went on, 'we can produce the stone's owner, ready and indeed eager to travel, as you put it.' His voice was urgent, ingratiating, uncertain. Stephen still did not answer, but turned the amethyst over and over in the candlelight. 'And as for compensation,' said d'Anglars, more confident now, 'I have draughts here on Drummond's . . .'

  'No, no,' said Stephen. 'That would complicate matters, and I have always avoided complication. Tell me, what guarantees do you offer?'

  'We three will go with you to the cartel at Calais, and cross to England if you wish. Our life, or at least our liberty, will be in your hands: you may carry what weapons you choose.'

  'Very well,' said Stephen. 'My companions come with me, of course?'

  'Captain Aubrey and young Apollo?'

  'Just so.'

  'Certainly.'

  'Then let us go.'

  As they walked back, Stephen limping, d'Anglars said pleasantly, nodding at the dislocated jakes, 'I am concerned that you should have had so much trouble; but nothing could serve our purpose more prettily: wonderfully a propos: the perfect alibi. This way, by the door.'

  'Captain Aubrey, Mr Jagiello,' said Stephen, 'we will go with these gentlemen, if you please.'

  Politeness over precedence at the open door, locked behind them, then down and down the spiral staircase, a long passage, a courtyard they had never seen, a wicket with two dark figures that stood aside for them to pass, then the street, wonderfully open and ordinary: two coaches and two horses led. The man in black and the cloaked officer mounted. Jack, Duhamel and Jagiello stepped into the first coach, Stephen and d'Anglars into the second, and they drove off at a steady trot through the quiet dark streets—a warm, covered night—down towards the river.

  'Where do we take up the lady?' asked Stephen.

  'Why, at the Hôtel de La Mothe,' said d'Anglars, surprised.

  'Indeed? You are as sure as that?'

  'Oh yes,' said d'Anglars, and it was clear from his voice that he was smiling.

  'She has not been molested?'

  'Not really. There was an American gentleman, a newly-arrived American gentleman, enquiring for a compatriot with whom he thought she might have some connection; but she has not been molested.'

  On the Pont au Change Stephen said, 'It is understood, is it not, that she will believe this release to be entirely her own doing?'

  'Certainly,' said d'Anglars. 'Certainly.' And he added, 'Anything else would be folly, from our point of view.'

  The rue de Grenelle, and already a few market-waggons, one piled high with flowers. The Hôtel de La Mothe, and Diana was waiting for them there in the courtyard, slender under her hooded cloak, with a group of menservants by another coach loaded with trunks. Stephen leapt out and limped up to her, she running to meet him; they kissed and he said 'Dearest Diana, how profoundly I thank you: but I have cost you the Blue Peter.'

  'Oh how happy I am to see you,' she said, holding his arm. 'Be damned to the necklace: you will be my diamond.' Then, 'Stephen, you have torn your stocking?
??your leg is all covered with blood.'

  'Sure, I just barked my shin. Tell, how do you do, my jewel? I heard from Baudelocque that you were not quite well.'

  'Stephen,' she said, looking at him under the lamp, 'I did not do it, I promise you. I kept my word: I took great care: I was amazed—amazed. Dr Baudelocque said it could not be helped, upon my honour.'

  'There was no help for it,' he said, nodding, 'that I know very well. Give me your hand, put your foot on the step, and we are away: with the blessing.'

  Away and away, with the sky lightening on the right hand of the road. At Beaumont le Château they changed carriages in a great silent house far down its avenue of limes. Duhamel seemed to be the somewhat incongruous master of the place and he led them in to shave, to put on civilian clothes, and to breakfast. As they were trying on their coats Stephen said, 'Listen, Jack, you must know that Diana gave her great diamond to a minister's wife for our release.'

  'Did she, by God?' cried Jack, motionless, one arm in his sleeve. 'Handsome—damn my soul if that ain't handsome. But Stephen, she was so pleased and proud of it—nothing finer in the Tower—a king's ransom—how can I thank her? She was always a thoroughbred, but this . . . Sophie will be so eternally grateful: so am I, upon my sacred honour, so am I.' He ran into the high gaunt echoing room where breakfast stood on a trestle-table, seized her in his powerful grasp, kissed her heartily on either cheek and said, 'Cousin Diana, I am so grateful. I am proud, oh so proud, to call you kin, as proud as Lucifer, upon my soul. God bless you, my dear.'

  In their new coach, a vast machine with six horses, he said she must live at Ashgrove Cottage; neither Sophie nor he would hear of a refusal; and as they sped through Picardy they talked of Stephen at length. He was now in the leading carriage with d'Anglars and Duhamel, in close discussion of the documents he was to carry and to comment upon in London. Any plan for bringing Buonaparte down had his wholehearted support, however wild it might be; and this was very far from wild. He made suggestions for rendering it more acceptable to English feelings, but these were changes of tone or of shading, never of substance: he thought the whole proposal admirably well conceived. Keen, intelligent, analytical minds had been at work, and he cordially hoped they might succeed—that they might meet with equal intelligence in London and at Hartwell.