The Bronze Eagle (42 page)

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The forest was full of sounds: of running men and horses, the rattle of
wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that
awesome background of persistent cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw
nothing save the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now
ambled leisurely, and from time to time—when he looked down—the pale,
haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved.

At one moment Maurice opened his eyes and murmured feebly: "Where am I?"

"On the way to Brussels," Bobby contrived to reply.

A little later on horse and rider emerged out of the wood and the
Brussels road stretched out its long straight ribbon before Bobby
Clyffurde's dull, uncomprehending gaze.

Close by at his feet the milestone marked the last six kilomètres to
Brussels. Only another half-dozen kilomètres—only another hour's ride
at most! . . . Only!!! . . . when even now he felt that the next few
minutes must see him tumbling head-foremost from the saddle.

Far away beyond the milestone on his right—in a meadow, the boundary of
which touched the edge of the wood—women were busy tossing hay after
the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being
enacted so close to them: their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round
their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of colour against the
dull grey landscape beyond. A couple of haycarts were standing by:
beside them two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with
the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing
across the meadow.

And even now the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant
volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running
toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless, or
dragging broken gun-carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that
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stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to
Ghent: not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell
for the Empire of France.

Bobby had drawn rein on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest,
and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them
to turn back—there was no occasion to run—to see what had been done,
to take a share in that glorious, final charge for victory. But his
throat was too parched for a shout, and as he watched, he saw in among a
knot of mounted men—fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of
mien and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and
has got to be saved—he saw a man in the same uniform that St. Genis
wore—a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons—who stared at him,
persistently and strangely, as he rode by.

The face though much altered by three days' growth of beard, and by the
set of the shako worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a
familiar one. Bobby—stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking
powers, through sheer exhaustion and burning pain—taxed his weary brain
in vain to understand the look of recognition which the man in the black
uniform cast upon him as he passed.

Until a lightly spoken: "Hullo, my dear Clyffurde!" uttered gaily as the
rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of "Victor de
Marmont!" to Bobby's quivering lips.

And just for the space of sixty seconds Fate rubbed her gaunt hands
complacently together, seeing that she had brought these three men
together—here on this spot—three men who loved the same woman, each
with the utmost ardour and passion at his command—each even at this
very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness.

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Behind them in the plains of Waterloo the cannon still was roaring: de
Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he
worshipped and to win imperial regard, imperial favours, fortune and
glory wherewith to conquer a girl's obstinacy. St. Genis—pale and
unconscious—seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any
rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of
caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and
he had both equally at heart and by his very helplessness now he seemed
to prove that he could do no more than he had done and that he had the
right to claim the solace and comfort which her girlish lips and her
girlish love had promised him long ago.

Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save
devotion—his hope, his desire and his love were bounded by her
happiness. And since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he
had dragged out of the jaws of Death, what greater proof could he give
of his love than to lay down his life for him and for her?

De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance: he threw a
quick look of savage hatred on St. Genis and cast one of contemptuous
pity on Clyffurde. Then with a shrug of the shoulders and a light,
triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away.

Bobby's lack-lustre eyes followed horse and rider down the road till
they grew smaller and smaller still and finally disappeared in the
distance. For a moment he felt puzzled. What was de Marmont doing in
this stream of senseless, panic-stricken men? What was he doing in the
uniform of one of the Allied nations? Why had he laughed so gaily and
appeared so triumphant in his mien?

Did he not know then that his hero had fallen along with his mighty
eagle? that the brief adventure begun in the gulf of Jouan had ended in
a hopeless tragedy on the
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field of Waterloo? But why that uniform? Poor
Bobby's head ached too much to allow him to think, and time was getting
on.

The road now was deserted. The last of the fugitives formed but a cloud
of black specks on the line of the horizon far off toward Brussels. From
the hayfield there came the merry sound of women's laughter, while far
away cannon and musketry still roared. And over the long, straight
road—bordered with straight poplar trees—the setting sun threw
ever-lengthening shadows.

Maurice opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked again.

"Close to Brussels now," replied Bobby.

"To Brussels?" murmured St. Genis feebly. "Crystal!"

"Yes," assented Bobby. "Crystal! God bless her!" Then as St. Genis was
trying to move, he added: "Can you shift a little?"

"I think so," replied the other.

"If you could ease the pressure on my leg . . . steady, now! steady!
. . . Can you sit up in the saddle? . . . Are you hurt? . . ."

"Not much. My head aches terribly. I must have hit it against something.
But that is all. I am only dizzy and sick."

"Could you ride on to Brussels alone, think you?"

"Perhaps."

"It is not far. The horse is very quiet. He will amble along if you give
him his head."

"But you?"

"I'd like to rest. I'll find shelter in a cottage perhaps . . . or in
the wood."

St. Genis said nothing more for the moment. He was intent on sliding
down from the saddle without too much assistance from Bobby. When he had
reached the ground,
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it took him a little while to collect himself, for
his head was swimming: he closed his eyes and put out a hand to steady
himself against a tree.

When Maurice opened his eyes again, Bobby was sitting on the ground by
the roadside: the horse was nibbling a clump of fresh, green grass.

For the first time since that awful moment when stumbling and falling
against a pile of dead, with Death behind and all around him, he had
heard the welcome call: "Can you pull yourself up?" and felt the
steadying grip upon his elbow—Maurice de St. Genis looked upon the man
to whom he owed his life.

With that stained bandage round his head, dulled and bloodshot eyes,
face blackened with powder and smoke and features drawn and haggard,
Bobby Clyffurde was indeed almost unrecognisable. But Maurice knew him
on the instant. Hitherto, he had not thought of how he had come out of
that terrible hell-fire behind La Haye Sainte—indeed, he had quickly
lost consciousness and never regained it till now: and now he knew that
the same man who in the narrow hotel room near Lyons had ungrudgingly
rendered him a signal service—had risked his life to-day for
his—Maurice's sake.

No one could have entered that awful mêlée and faced the bayonet charge
of Pelet's cuirassiers and the hail of bullets from their tirailleurs
without taking imminent risk of death. Yet Clyffurde had done it. Why?
Maurice—wide-eyed and sullen—could only find one answer to that
insistent question.

That same deadly pang of jealousy which had assailed his heart after the
midnight interview at the inn now held him in its cruel grip again. He
felt that he hated the man to whom he owed his life, and that he hated
himself for this mean and base ingratitude. He would not trust himself
to speak or to look on Bobby at all, lest the ugly
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thoughts which were
floating through his mind set their stamp upon his face.

"Will you ride on to Brussels?" he said at last. "I can wait here . . .
and perhaps you could send a conveyance for me later on. M. le Comte de
Cambray would . . ."

"M. le Comte de Cambray and Mademoiselle Crystal are even now devoured
with anxiety about you," broke in Clyffurde as firmly as he could. "And
I could not ride to Brussels—even though some one were waiting for me
there—I really am not able to ride further. I would prefer to sit here
and rest."

"I don't like to leave you . . . after . . . after what you have done
for me . . . I would like to . . ."

"I would like you to scramble into that saddle and go," retorted Bobby
with a momentary return to his usual good-natured irony, "and to leave
me in peace."

"I'll send out a conveyance for you," rejoined St. Genis. "I know M. le
Comte de Cambray would wish . . ."

"Mention my name to M. le Comte at your peril . . ." began Clyffurde.

"But . . ."

"By the Lord, man," now exclaimed Bobby with a sudden burst of energy,
"if you do not go, I vow that sick as I am, and sick though you may be,
I'll yet manage to punch your aching head."

Then as the other—still reluctantly—turned to take hold of the horse's
bridle, he added more gently: "Can you mount?"

"Oh, yes! I am better now."

"You won't turn giddy, and fall off your horse?"

"I don't think so."

"Talk about the halt leading the blind!" murmured Clyffurde as he
stretched himself out once more upon the soft ground, whilst Maurice
contrived to hoist himself up into the saddle. "Are you safe now?" he
added as the
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young man collected the reins in his hand, and planted his
feet firmly into the stirrups.

"Yes! I am safe enough," replied St. Genis. "It is only my head that
aches: and Brussels is not far."

Then he paused a moment ere he started to go—with lips set tight and
looking down on Bobby, whose pale face had taken on an ashen hue:

"How you must despise me," he said bitterly.

But Bobby made no reply: he was just longing to be left alone, whilst
the other still seemed inclined to linger.

"Would to God," Maurice said with a sigh, "that M. le Comte heard the
evil news from other lips than mine."

"Evil news?" And Bobby, whom semi-consciousness was already taking off
once more to the land of visions and of dreams—was brought back to
reality—as if with a sudden jerk—with those two preposterous little
words.

"What evil news?" he asked.

"The allied armies have retreated all along the line . . . the Corsican
adventurer is victorious . . . our poor King . . ."

"Hold your tongue, you young fool," cried Bobby hoarsely. "The Lord help
you but I do believe you are about to blaspheme . . ."

"But . . ."

"The Allied Armies—the British Army, God bless it!—have covered
themselves with glory—Napoleon and his Empire have ceased to be. The
Grand Army is in full retreat . . . the Prussians are in pursuit. . . .
The British have won the day by their pluck and their endurance. . . .
Thank God I lived just long enough to see it all, ere I fell . . ."

"But when we charged the cuirassiers . . ." began St. Genis, not knowing
really if Bobby was raving in delirium, or speaking of what he knew. He
wanted to ask further questions, to hear something more before he
started for
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Brussels . . . the only thing which he remembered with
absolute certainty was that awful charge of his regiment against the
cuirassiers, then the panic and the rout: and he judged the whole issue
of the battle by what had happened to a detachment of Brunswickers.

And yet, of course—before the charge—he had seen and known all that
Bobby told him now. That rush of the Brunswickers and the Dutch down the
hillside was only a part of the huge and glorious charge of the whole of
the Allied troops against the routed Grand Army of Napoleon. He had
neither the physical strength nor the desire to think out all that it
would mean to him personally if what Bobby now told him was indeed
absolutely true.

He was longing to make the wounded man rouse himself just once more and
reiterate the glad news which meant so much to him—Maurice—and to
Crystal. But it was useless to think of that now. Bobby was either
unconscious or asleep. For a moment a twinge of real pity made St.
Genis' heart ache for the man who seemed to be left so lonely and so
desolate: jealousy itself gave way before that more gentle feeling.
After all, Crystal could only be true to the love of her childhood; her
heart belonged to the companion, the lover, the ideal of her girlish
dreams. This stranger here loved her—that was obvious—but Crystal had
never looked on him with anything but indifference. Even that dance last
night . . . but of this Maurice would not think lest pity die out of his
heart again . . . and jealousy and hate walk hand in hand with base
ingratitude.