CHAPTER XIII
The night was pitch-dark, and the three detachments marched out inperfect silence. The Spaniards had no suspicion of an attack until thefirst division was directly at the outer line of fortifications. Thenthe sentries quickly gave the word, the drums beat the alarm, and thecamp of fourteen thousand men was roused in an instant. The firstonslaught, however, of the British was irresistible. They overpoweredthe guard, and the work of firing and destroying the guns andfortifications immediately began. Before the Spanish Commander-in-Chief,in the darkness and confusion, could get his troops under arms theblowing up of the magazines had begun, and whole batteries of guns hadbeen spiked. The bastions and gabions were fired, and so rapid andthorough were the British in their work that it was all over before theSpaniards realized what was happening, and the British were making forthe Land Port gate.
The Spanish camp had been thrown into the greatest confusion, and theirfirst line of fortifications was now past saving. The noise and thebursting out of flames and the explosions of powder were dreadful, butall were between the British and their foes. The losses of thedetachment had been trifling, and Archy Baskerville had found nothing todo except to stand off and watch the quick progress of events. But whilethe three divisions were retreating rapidly and in good order to thegate, he saw in a ditch in front of him an officer lying on his side andgroaning with agony.
HE SAW AN OFFICER LYING IN A DITCH]
"Help here!" cried Archy; and in another moment Judkins was at his side,and the two had the officer on a stretcher and were carrying him with arush towards the British lines, the officer meanwhile feebly protesting.
"No, no," he cried; "let there be one Spaniard to die with honor at hispost."
And in a moment more, by the light of burning timbers and burstingbombs, Archy saw that he was the young Walloon officer, Von Helmstadt,whom he had seen months before at the time of his first effort to getout of the fortress. Day was breaking as they carried him fainting intothe hospital. The surgeons managed to revive him, and then, examininghim, told him he must lose his leg.
"No, no," he cried; "better to die at once! Why did not that braveyoung man leave me to my fate? All would have been over by this time."
Archy could stand no more, but rushed out and up to Europa Point, wherehe found Mrs. Curtis watching and waiting.
"I have not been in my bed this night," she said. Archy, with a burstingheart, told her of Von Helmstadt. He had a deep feeling of sympathy forthe young Walloon officer, so far from home, and in such heart-breakingstraits. There was, however, little else but rejoicing on the Rock thatday, for the result of the sortie was in the highest degree favorable tothe besieged. The Spaniards saw in two hours the complete destruction ofwhat had cost them months of labor and millions of money to construct.They seemed paralyzed by their loss, and for a while the besieged had arespite.
But there was no respite in the blockade. The supplies left by Rodney'sfleet were beginning to grow very scant, and although all eyes in thegarrison every morning for months scanned the sea for the sails of aBritish fleet, none appeared. As the year 1780 drew to a close theprospects of the garrison grew darker. The sufferings of the sick wereacute, and none more so than those of poor Von Helmstadt, who daily grewworse. He resisted the taking-off of his leg, which the doctors told himwas the only means of saving his life, until at last General Eliothimself went to his bedside and begged him to submit.
"I have a reason, sir," replied Von Helmstadt. "I am engaged to marry abeautiful and charming girl. If I lose my leg and live, how can I askher to tie herself to a mutilated creature, as I shall be, for life? YetI know her constancy so well that I am sure she will be the moredetermined on fulfilling her promise to me."
"But your duty to your country," argued General Eliot, "and your duty toyour family? Have you not a mother, a father--some one whose heart wouldbe broken if you sacrifice your life to this?"
Von Helmstadt remained silent for a moment.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, while his eyes filled with tears, "I havea mother and a father, too. You are right, General. It is my duty tolive, even if I live mutilated."
The whole garrison took the deepest interest in this brave young man.The best of their poor supplies was reserved for him, and nothing wastoo much to be done for him in the hope, at least, of lessening hissufferings. Archy and Judkins became heroes as his rescuers. Every dayArchy visited him, and was received affectionately by him, even in hisutmost misery. His patience was so touching, his courage so unbroken,that often Archy would leave the bedside completely unmanned by thesight of Von Helmstadt's sufferings, and the sorrowful conviction thatall was in vain. Nor was the heroic young officer forgotten by his ownfriends, and daily flags of truce came to inquire after him and to bringmessages and letters from his comrades.
He bore the agony of amputation with extraordinary bravery, but after aday or two of hope he grew very ill, and soon it was seen that the endwas near.
Never had Archy Baskerville in his life felt so painful an interest asin this gallant young man, whom he had helped to save from one deathonly to see him die in a more lingering and distressing manner. Theywere the only two souls within the gates of the beleaguered fortress whohad not common cause with the besieged. At last, after four weeks ofsuffering, the end came on Christmas Eve. The time itself was solemninstead of joyful, and it was made more sad by the death of the braveyoung prisoner for whom every one in the fortress felt such tendersympathy. The Spaniards were notified immediately that the body would becarried to them the next day with military honors.
Never could Archy Baskerville forget the Christmas of 1780. It was abeautiful, mild day, but to those brave souls imprisoned and fightingfor their lives on the Rock of Gibraltar there was a melancholy glory inthe day which seemed to make their situation the more poignant. Want andscarcity prevailed in all things except the implements of war anddestruction. There was no Christmas cheer, but the congregations thatassembled in the garrison chapel and the Catholic church in the townwere quiet and resigned, like people who have ever before them theprospect of death and bereavement. As soon as the morning services wereover the sad procession was formed to carry Von Helmstadt's body to theSpaniards. It was determined to take it by water, and all the boats inthe little squadron were drawn up at the new mole for the escort, whileon the Spanish side a similar procession was waiting to move.
The flag on the hospital was at half-mast, and a large detachment oftroops, with all the highest officers of the garrison, and a body ofseamen and marines under Captain Curtis's command, was formed toreceive the body when it was brought out. Archy Baskerville, as the onewho had brought the young Walloon officer in, was given a place amongthe mourners who followed the gun-carriage on which the coffin lay,wrapped in the Spanish flag.
To the solemn strains of the dead-march and the booming of minute-gunsthe procession moved, followed by General Eliot as chief mourner, withmany officers of high rank, and Archy Baskerville, the youngest personamong them, walking in the last line. They reached the new molepresently, where the body was transferred to the first cutter of the_Enterprise_, and Captain Curtis then took command. At the same momentthat the boats put off from the British side the procession started fromthe Spanish side. Midway in the bay they met, when the Spaniardsreceived the body, and the British cutters turned back. Out of respectto the Spaniards, who would not have understood the custom, the Britishrefrained from playing the lively airs with which they endeavor tolighten the hearts of the men returning from a comrade's funeral, andslowly and solemnly they pulled back to their own ground.
Never had the prospects of Archy Baskerville's reaching France seemedmore improbable than on that melancholy Christmas night of 1780. Yetwithin twenty-four hours he found himself far beyond both the Britishand Spanish lines, and free--free to take his desperate chances ofescape through a country where he might at any moment be mistaken for anEnglishman, and where an Englishman could expect no mercy.
The evening of Christ
mas Day was one of mist and gloom. Archy had spentthe early part of the afternoon in the hut at Europa, where they hadmade a little festival, such as their poor means allowed, for Dolly, andshe and Judkins had sung them a Christmas hymn; and then, as people willin sad times, they had sat around the scanty fire and told of happyChristmas-times in the past. Archy felt strangely unhappy. Besides thesorrows of their own condition, he had heart-breaking anxieties abouthis country and the mortal struggle in which she was engaged, and evenhis hopeful and buoyant spirit gave way under the misery and monotony ofthe long months of the siege.
About eight o'clock they separated--Captain Curtis and Langton to returnto their ship, and Archy, out of pure restlessness, going down to theshore with them. Mrs. Curtis's last words spoke the hope andcheerfulness which seemed to dwell in every one of the heroic women onthe Rock.
"Good-night, Archy," she said. "All will be bright in the morning," andDolly swung round his neck, asking:
"Why don't you laugh, Archy, and be merry, and make us all laugh, as youalways do?"
"Because I can't now, Dolly," answered Archy, kissing her and puttingher down. "But next time you see me I will be just as gay as a bird."
Then, with Captain Curtis and Langton, he started for the shore. At themole the _Enterprise_ boat was waiting, and the last that Archy heard inthe darkness of a misty night was a cheery "Good-night--good-night!"from Captain Curtis and Langton. Long time was it to be before he was tohear those well-loved voices again. Archy walked along the shore towardsthe isthmus in the dusky evening. He kept close to the shore, listeningto the boom of the waves, and so absorbed in his own melancholy thoughtsthat he scarcely noticed where he was going. The shore was wellpatrolled, and it was common enough for him to walk there in theevening.
At one point within the English lines a number of small boats were tiedto a huge stake, and into one of these Archy stepped and seated himself.The sentry who was passing looked curiously at him, and then, saluting,went on. He was a man in the garrison who knew Archy personally, and hedid not think it strange that the young American midshipman should pausein his walk and rest a while in the boat.
The mist was gathering fast, and the wind was sweeping in from theMediterranean, and it was growing very dark. Archy was roused by hearingthe nine-o'clock gun fired. He lifted his head and the thought came--
"I shall have to communicate with Captain Curtis, so as to pass thesentries and get back to Europa."
He turned to spring ashore, but he found the line had parted, and theboat had drifted out a considerable distance. He felt in the bottom foroars. There were none. The darkness had descended like a pall, and thewind suddenly became a gust. He could see nothing, but he knew that windand tide were driving him towards the Spanish lines. He was by naturewell-equipped to meet danger, and in a moment his broodingdepression--the rarest of moods for him--gave place to coolness,calmness, and perfect self-possession. He was a good swimmer, andquickly determined that his best chance lay in swimming ashore as soonas the boat drifted near enough. He took off his jacket and shoes,fastened them into a bundle under his arm, and, fixing his eyes on thelights on shore, quietly waited until they grew nearer.
All at once a flood of black rain descended that blotted out everything.The wind seemed to blow from all quarters at the same instant, and theboat's head swung round. The lights both on sea and shore disappeared,and Archy was drifting he knew not where.
He reflected that he was in no great danger of being upset, and if hedrifted far enough he would be in the midst of the Spanish fleet. But inthe darkness he had no idea how fast the boat was moving--he only knewthe tide was swift and strong. Nor could he measure very well the timehe had been in the boat. He listened intently for the striking of thebells in the little English squadron, but after straining his ears foran interminable time it seemed to him, as he sat in the little boat thatrushed through the seething water in the blackness of darkness, theconviction came to him that he was far out of reach of that friendly andencouraging sound.
He could see neither to the right nor to the left of him, and at thatmoment he had an almost overpowering impulse to jump out of the boat andswim, so trying were the sitting still and being swept he knew notwhere; but he said to himself:
"If I were swimming about in the darkness, how glad I would be if myhand struck this boat--how eagerly I would climb in! No; I'll stick tothe boat until I can see more than ten feet ahead of me."
Ages passed, it seemed to him, for every hour is an age in suchcircumstances. He thought the day would never come. At last, when thedawn seemed as far off as ever--it was really only two o'clock in themorning--the rain ceased, and the atmosphere cleared enough for him tosee that he was near the shore; and oh, joy! there was a light! He feltsure that he was far beyond the Spanish lines.
As his sharp eyes pierced the dim and unearthly light, which wasincreased by the declining moon that shone fitfully out of a stillstormy sky, he saw that he was on a broken and irregular coast, and ablack mass, from which he could faintly discern the light, he took to bebuildings. He saw that he was being carried closer to the shore everymoment, and in a little while he was near enough to jump overboard, notforgetting his jacket and shoes, and a few bold strokes landed him oncemore on hard earth.
His first impulse was of sincere thankfulness. One of the great lessonshe had learned of his immortal commander, Paul Jones, was that manshould recognize his Maker, and he had never seen that great man eithergo into or come out of any danger without commending himself to the MostHigh; and having done this, Archy proceeded to follow Paul Jones'sexample further by taking the most active and energetic measures on hisown account. He saw that he was approaching a homestead, large andimposing, with numerous outbuildings, and when he was close to it he sawthat the light came from a small addition to the main pile, which wasbuilt around a court-yard, after the Spanish fashion.
Archy's quick mind had grasped the fact that if he spoke English hewould at once be taken for either a spy or a deserter, and as he did notrelish figuring in either of these characters, he determined to relyupon his small stock of French, and still smaller stock of Spanish,which last he had picked up while at Gibraltar.
Wet and shivering, and carrying his drenched jacket and shoes, hecautiously approached the small, unshuttered window from which the lightproceeded, and peered in. The room was very humble, apparently that ofan upper servant. A lamp had been left burning, and on the hearth firestill smouldered. A wooden platter with some food on it was on thehearth. The room was quite empty, and Archy shrewdly suspected that itwas, perhaps, the quarters of some privileged servant, who had gone outfor a time, expecting to return, and had not come back. As food and firewere what he most wanted then, he concluded that it was the part ofwisdom to help himself; so he softly raised the window and climbed in,only to find, on trying it, that the door was open, and he might haveentered that way.
He thought it best not to fasten either the door or window, but toproceed and make himself comfortable. A pile of fagots lay in a corner,and in half a minute he had a roaring fire. He had no great fancy forsitting in wet clothes, and seeing a cupboard in a corner, he opened it,expecting to find probably a footman's outfit. But, instead, there was ahandsome and complete costume of a Spanish peasant--a green velvetjacket, brown cloth knee-breeches with silver buttons, leggings, shoes,and a red cap.
Archy, promptly stripping off his drenched clothing and hanging it atthe fire to dry, after removing his money, watch, and pocket-knife,proceeded to array himself in the warm, dry garments before him; andthen, surveying himself in a piece of cracked mirror on the wall, hecould not suppress a grin, thinking:
"I wonder what Pedro, or Sancho, or whatever his name is, will say whenhe finds I have appropriated his Sunday clothes!"
In the same cupboard was a small skin of the sour wine used by thepeasantry. Archy made a wry face over the uninviting draught, but dranksome, and then cleaned the platter neatly of a vast quantity ofgarlic-and-onion dressed stuff, which he relishe
d exceedingly--afterwhich he felt quite himself again. He concluded to sally forth and makea reconnoissance of his position, and, closing the door softly behindhim, was again under the murky night sky. In another small room he sawlights and heard faint sounds of carousing. The servants were evidentlymaking a night of it. In the huge, dim court-yard a largeleather-covered coach stood where the mules had been unhitched from it.
While Archy was looking at this vast old machine he saw the door openfrom which the sounds of subdued merrymaking had come, and severalservants sallied forth. Archy involuntarily opened the coach door softlyand got in, and, the better to hear, he laid himself almost flat on thelong and broad front seat of the coach, which was piled with cloaks andblankets, and through a crack in the leather curtain could see and heareverything.
"I wish Don Miguel was not in such a hurry to start for Madrid in themorning. Going off before sunrise and travelling until dark doesn't suitmy constitution," grumbled one of them.
"Never mind, Pedro. That comes of living with grand people like DonMiguel de Lima. They are always more trouble than any others. Thank thesaints that _my_ people are plain country gentlemen and ladies. _They_don't travel any. They haven't been thirty miles from home in thirtyyears."
Pedro, leaning up against the coach wheel, continued to grumble:
"And Don Miguel, because he was bred in the army, likes everything doneat double-quick. I don't believe he even takes a siesta. And he can't beworried and fretted into giving up his own way, as some masters andmistresses can. He is the coolest old martinet I ever saw--I don'tbelieve the devil himself could disconcert him."
The servants seemed to have no notion of going to bed, but continued togossip in whispers. Archy listened with all his ears. Madrid! That meantliberty! If only he could get to Madrid with Don Miguel--but how couldit be managed? At all events, he meant to strike out for the Frenchfrontier when daylight came--at the worst, he could only be caught andimprisoned again. Possibly he might lose his life--but Archy's was amind which harbored hope and drove fear out of the window. He rememberedhis wet clothes by the fire, and dreaded to see Pedro or Sancho gotowards the back of the house. It was cold in the coach. So Archycovered himself up warmly as he lay and awaited events. He never feltmore wide awake in his life, but the warmth, the rest, the food, and thesour wine were too much for him, and he suddenly fell into a deep anddreamless sleep.