The Curious Rogue (22 page)

“Where they shall safely await us. The family owes me a favour. If we left the horses tied on the street, they would have been stolen before we had time to turn about. We shall reach the prison soon. Remember to do as I say.”

“Would it not help if I knew what was going to happen?”

“It is a very simple plan. We are going to collect our brother who has taken the pox,” Martin told her. “Do not speak with anyone... your accent would betray us.”

Excitement grew as they jostled through the streets. Fear tightened a band about Elizabeth’s heart. She saw the prison loom before them.

“Arrêtez!”
One of the guards barred their way at the entrance.

Smoke from the oil-soaked torches standing about the arched entry made Elizabeth to choke and cough as a breeze wafted it across the cart.

A second guard swaggered up to the cart. “What is your business?”

Martin handed a crumpled piece of paper to him. “We be told by the priest in our village that this says we must come and take our brother home. That he has taken the pox,” he whined, bobbing a bow. “Jacques here be sick also.”

“You may enter.” The guard motioned the one before the cart to move aside after the briefest of glances at the paper.

“Where be he found?” Martin asked as the two men returned to the jugs of wine by the wall.

“You’ll find someone who can tell you where he is in the right side of the quadrangle. Don’t bother stopping when you leave,” he snarled and raised a bottle to his lips.

“
Oui.
” Martin bobbed another hasty bow and flicked the reins. Halting the cart in the far right corner of the quadrangle, he jumped down and tied the team, then motioned for Elizabeth to follow.

All about the open courtyard in the inner colonnade, parties of off-duty guards and their women drank and danced. Some sprawled in drunken sleep, others sat gambling and drinking. Picking their way through these, Martin led Elizabeth to an office where a guard sat with his head upon the desk, loudly snoring.

“Stay here,” Martin whispered. “Let me know if anyone comes.” Stealing to the desk, he rifled through the papers on it and then through the drawers. He smiled when he found a listing of prisoners. Halfway through the second page he found young Jeffries’ name. Noting the section of the prison he was in, Martin returned the papers to the drawer.

“Let’s go.” He brushed past Elizabeth.

She ran after him, following as he wended through corridors and finally down a series of stairs to ever deeper levels. Smokey torches provided the only light in the damp, stench-ridden corridors. Elizabeth shivered at the moans and groans filled the air.

“
Arrêtez
!” The guard’s voice froze her in her steps. Daring to peer around Martin’s back, she saw an iron gate and the two men stood before it.

“We be told to fetch the body of a man called Jeffries,” Martin told them. He twisted his hands twisting nervously as he bowed. “They said to give ye this.” He fumbled in his coat and withdrew a glass bottle, holding it forth with a shaking hand.

“When was ye told there was a body?” one of the guard’s demanded, grabbing the bottle.

“‘Twas early in the morn, but we had many bodies to take up. The pox be bad again.” Martin shrugged worriedly.

“Go ahead. Next time come when word is sent. The guard at the end of the corridor to the right’ll know where the body be. These English aren’t proving very hardy,” he laughed.

Martin shuffled forward with Elizabeth doing likewise. She kept her eyes fast on the foul, straw-strewn stones.

Repeating the same tale, Martin gave another bottle to the next guard, and waited while he thumbed through a grimy, smeared sheaf of papers. The man grunted and picked up the huge ring of keys on his desk. “Ye be in luck I ken read,” he told them. “Else ye’d ‘ave to search through all the cells till ye found ‘im.” Halting before a door, he unlocked it and pushed it open. “Ye go ‘n find ‘im.”

They ducked through the doorway and waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Elizabeth gagged, confronted by the stench and the horror of the dank, dark open cell. Rats scurried away from them as they walked forward. All about them prisoners sprawled in their own wastes. Rotting and putrid flesh mingled with the other odours.

Martin gripped Elizabeth’s arm as she swayed. “Steady.” He drew her forward, took the smoking torch from the centre column, and worked through the prone forms that had once been proud soldiers and sailors.

Elizabeth shrank from the sight and smell. “He cannot be here.”

“We won’t know if you don’t look,” Martin’s cold voice stiffened her.

Clenching her fists, she followed his steps. “Morton,” she called out softly. “Morton Jeffries.”

A wiry figure rose from the shadows. “Who are you?” the bearded scarecrow questioned.

“You cannot be Morton,” Elizabeth gasped, looking at the tattered form with the large, deeply sunken eyes.

“No, I am Captain James Paraton. Jeffries is back here.” He motioned behind him.

Stepping in that direction, Martin waved the torch until he located the emaciated figure lying on a heap of befouled straw.

“Morton,” Elizabeth said softly, easing past Martin. “Morton Jeffries?”

The man nodded weakly.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, laying a hand on his feverish forehead.

“I’ve done what I could for him,” Captain Paraton told Martin. “Who are you? Why have you come?”

“Never mind who we are.” Martin handed the torch to him. Kneeling beside Morton, he drew a slim case from his coat. With swift motions he opened the jars within it and expertly applied their contents to Morton’s hands, chest, and face.

Elizabeth stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“He has the pox, remember? We must make him look it.” Finished, he closed the jars, put them in the case, and returned it to his jacket. “Are you strong enough to help carry him?” he asked the captain.

“Yes.”

“Is there another officer here? Get him,” Martin commanded.

Paraton returned quickly with another a man. “This is Captain Herrick. He’s only been here three months.”

“Listen closely, Captain. I am taking Jeffries and Paraton with me. Wait for a half hour, then all who are able can make a try for freedom. Agree to this or I’ll see the door is locked when we go.”

“Why shouldn’t we all go now?”

“Because then none of us would have a chance. The alarm would be raised before we reached the air. The way I suggest means that some of you will make it. They think we are removing a dead man and are not suspicious. There are only two guards on the gate at the corridor. I will take care of them. Most of the others are drunk.

“Let us get away. Jeffries has no chance if we have to fight our way out,” Martin said persuasively.

“A half hour and no more,” Herrick agreed. “But how am I to know when it is past?”

“Here is a timepiece.” Martin placed it in his hand. “Good fortune be yours.”

“And to all of you,” Herrick returned, shaking his hand.

Motioning for Elizabeth and Paraton to carry Morton, Martin went to the door and pounded on it. “Let us out,” he called.

“We’ve found him,” he told the guard when the door opened. Stepping out, he sprang at the man, his arm about his throat. Martin slammed the guard’s head against the stone wall and let him fall to the floor. “Lay him down,” he whispered, closing the door when the others were out. “Help me.”

Paraton and Martin stripped the clothes from the unconscious figure. “Put them on,” he instructed the captain as he tied the guard’s hands and feet.

Waiting until this was done, he ordered, “Go straight down the centre of the corridor. I’ll follow right behind you.” He picked up the man’s short sword.

Elizabeth could hear her heart pounding in her ears as they approached the security gate. One of the guards turned the key and opened it. She walked forward and kept going even when she heard one exclaim, “What’s this?” The clang of sword against sword echoed in the corridor.

“Let’s stop,” Paraton told her. “I must help him.”

Glancing back, Elizabeth saw Martin fighting fiercely with the two men. She took in the awful smile that covered his features.
Why, he enjoys this,
she realized, shocked.

One guard fell, cut down by the sword; the other backed away, fear gripping him. It was no match and he also fell.

A dreamlike state descended over Elizabeth as Martin rushed forward, the bloodied sword in his hand. “Hurry,” he urged.

Somehow they made their way back to the cart. Everything seemed unreal as Martin had Paraton lay in the cart. They laid Morton atop him. Then she was on the plank beside him and they were driving through the gate, then moving through the city.

 Once outside it, they substituted the worn-out nags for sound horses, setting the former free. By dawn they had returned to the abandoned cottage.

After hiding the cart and horses, Martin returned to the cottage and came to the pallet where Morton lay. “How does he fare?” he asked Elizabeth.

“He is very weak, nearly starved to death. Captain Paraton was right about his having a putrid infection of the lungs.”

Morton groaned and went into a fit of coughing.

“We must get him someplace where we can find the food he needs, the proper medicines. It will take more than the simple powders I have brought. The skill I have is far too little to save him,” Elizabeth said, lifting her eyes to his.

“Give him this,” he told her, handing over the flask of brandy. “We go as soon as it is dark.” Martin looked from her to Captain Paraton. “It will be a hard journey, rough and fast, but there is no help for it. They are certain to be out searching,” he explained.

“I will watch him, Elizabeth. Try to sleep for a time. You will need your strength.”

Chapter Twenty-three

The sloop rode gently on the waves as the dinghy neared it. Morton Jeffries was lifted aboard. Elizabeth, Paraton, and Martin scrambled up the rope ladder. After answering Barney’s eager greeting, Elizabeth hurried after her brother, who had been carried to the captain’s cabin.

“Welcome aboard,” Captain Hattern greeted his friend, then shouted orders to get the sloop under sail.

“Glad to be here,” Martin grinned. “This is Captain Paraton,” he introduced the thin, bearded figure at his side. “Of the king’s army despite his present uniform.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to be on an English ship,” Paraton said as the two shook hands.

“The captain could use some hot food and rest,” Martin said. “I imagine he wouldn’t mind a sailor’s suit.”

“Jud,” Hattern shouted, “take Captain Paraton below and see to ‘is needs. Ye can sleep when yer done, cap’n. We’ll wake ye when we come to port.”

“Thank you.” Paraton shook his hand again.

“And you,” he told Martin, and then followed the sailor.

“Have you brought the doctor?” Martin asked.

“Just as ye ordered,” the craggy captain answered. “How be the lad?”

“Poor at best. The journey to the coast didn’t help, but at least we had no trouble. I was surprised there weren’t more soldiers out searching.”

“‘Aven’t ye ‘eard? Bonaparte’s retaken northern Italy. All the troops that could be spared were with ‘im. Now most go to Paris for a jubilee, but they say over five thousand Frenchmen lie dead on the Marengo Plain.”

“When did this happen?”

“A month past by now. Mid-June it were. Bonaparte returned to Paris on the first or second of this month, from what we ‘ave ‘eard.”

“No doubt hailed the hero.” Martin shook his head. “How many more Frenchmen will die before the man is satisfied?” He looked back across the water to France.

“Strange words, Martin. What of we Englishmen? The lad below?”

“What of men? They die no matter what they are called.

“Come.” He clapped Hattern on the back. “I need a cup of your hot grog.”

“It’ll please ye to know Lord Fromby was unpleasantly surprised by the excise men yester morn. ‘Appened to meet a `friend’ this afternoon afore we made our way here,” Hattern explained. “The bloody fool actually went out on ‘is ship fer the run.”

A slow smile spread across Martin’s face. “Let us hope the doctor’s words on young Jeffries’ condition are as pleasing as your news.”

* * * *

Elizabeth leaned on the railing of the sloop. She gazed at the moon’s reflection on the low waves.

“It is beautiful, is it not?”

“Yes,” she answered, not needing to turn to know that Martin stood beside her.

“I am glad to hear your brother’s life is not likely to be forfeited.”

“But he is very seriously ill. The doctor says it will take careful nursing if he is to mend. I... I cannot find words which adequately express my... gratitude for what you have done.”

“You needn’t say anything.” Martin put his hand on her waist and turned her to face him. “Your brother is safe now. There is nothing for you to think of but us.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth put a finger to his lips. “I have thought much of... us. Of you. I do not deny that you have the power to move me, to move me more deeply than I ever thought possible.

“No, listen to me first,” Elizabeth asked as his arms tightened about her and he began to lower his head.

Martin eased his hold, and she turned towards the sea.

“We have little in common, we two,” Elizabeth began after a pause. “And we know little of one another. I dare not question you about the work you do for fear of what the answers would be. I do know you enjoy the excitement of danger. I saw that in the prison corridor when you fought those guards.”

“I do not relish killing,” Martin told her tonelessly.

“I do not think you do, but you do enjoy the challenge of battle, of having your strength tested.”

“What is wrong in that?” he demanded.

“Nothing in itself.” Elizabeth turned to him. “It is just that I am an ordinary woman who wants the ordinary things in life. I cannot see you settling for that.”

“But we need not settle for that.” Martin drew her to him.

“How long would this passion last?” Elizabeth asked searching his face questioningly. “How long has your desire for any one woman lasted?”