“In the hollow interior of my walking-stick. Do you have it still?”
Without a word, Mr. Hill rose and went to a cupboard near the hearth at the rear of the room. He withdrew a slender parcel wrapped in white cloth, and unwrapped it reverently.
“The catch is designed to open at my hand,” observed LaForge, turning the stick dexterously in his elegant fingers. “I do not believe the Marines of Wool House have even considered of it. There!”
The silver knob fell off into his palm, and a tight roll of yellowed papers slid from the tube. “If you will guarantee me safe passage to London, I shall carry the papers there myself.”
“London!” said Frank, with an eye for Mr. Hill. “That is bearing the viper straight to Sir Francis's breast.”
“Sir Francis is as yet in Southampton,” returned Mr. Hill pointedly. “But I cannot be easy in Monsieur LaForge's safety. Sir Francis will know, even now, of the fire on the prison hulk; he shall enquire, and he is not a fool, as to the fate of LaForge.”
“Perhaps it would be better for us all if LaForge had died,” I said slowly. “Then the eyes of enquiry should turn elsewhere, and leave us all in peace.”
Mr. Hill stared at me in surprise and consternation. Then he seized my meaning, and his looks altered.
“A fortunate death?”
“With a certificate affirming the hour and cause, penned by a reputable surgeon.”
—One who had seen the patient often in his care,” Frank said quickly, “and must be trusted to know the man and his condition. It is imperative the news of the Frenchman's death be published at once.”
Etienne LaForge thrust himself to his feet, his headless stick held before him like a sword. His face had drained of colour.
With a sudden movement, Jeb Hawkins placed himself between the Frenchman and my brother; in his hand was the seaman's knife he had used to cut my dreadful knot
There'll be no murder done tonight, gentlemen,” he said warningly, “unless it's your blood I shed in defence of a brave man.”
Frank gaped—Mr. Hill nearly choked—but I burst out in shaky laughter.
“Not murder, Mr. Hawkins—only its parody,” I told him. “We mean to hide our friend in the surest way we know, by declaring him dead, and smuggling him out of the city.”
The Bosun's Mate went still. He considered my words an instant then let out a low, admiring whistle. “The lads at the dockyard allus said as the Cap'n was a rare fighting gentleman, miss—but you're no dithering ninny, neither.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Hawkins. Will you put up your knife, and fetch a hackney chaise? My brother, I am certain, will bear the charge.”
1“… fall between Charybdis and Scylla.” This is similar to the English phrase “between a rock and a hard place,” or “out of the frying pan, into the fire.”—Editor's note.
2LaForge refers here to Hortense de Beauharnais (1783-1837), the daughter of Empress Josephine's first husband, a nobleman guillotined in the Revolution; Hortense was forcibly married in 1802 to Louis Napoleon, brother of the Emperor, and her third son, Charles-Louis Napoleon—whom court rumor identified as Buonaparte's—eventually became Napoleon III. He ruled France from 1852 to '71.—Editor's note.
Chapter 22
In Gaoler's Alley
Sunday,
1 March 1807,
cont.
~
THE BOSUN'S MATE HAD ONLY TO COMPREHEND WHAT was wanted, to devise a suitable plan.
“Yon Frenchman is not fit to take the mail to London,” he decided. “He's as weak as a newborn lamb, and that's a fact. And though he speaks the King's English to admiration, he's not without the sound of foreign parts; there'd be those as were curious how a Frenchie came to travel our roads as free as a lord.”
“A private hack might answer,” said Frank impatiently.
“—but for the powers of Sir Francis,” persisted Jeb Hawkins. “That roguish gentleman has only to learn of the Captain's hiring a conveyance at the Dolphin, to have the chaise followed and waylaid on the road.”
“But he shall believe Monsieur LaForge is dead,” I pointed out.
“He'll hear as much,” said Hawkins grimly, “but don't you be certain, ma'am, as he'll believe the same, without the sight of the corpus in his own eyes. If you wish to safeguard the mon-sewer's life, you could do worse than to trust Giles Sawyer.”
“Giles Sawyer?” said my brother blankly.
“He's a coffin-builder in the town, Cap'n, and a rare mate o' mine. He'd be sailing with the Hearts of Oak still, if it weren't for Boney having taken off his leg. Giles'd be agreeable, I reckon, to shifting the Frenchie in