21 Out of the Chateau

I fell asleep in a short time, and far in the night I was awakened by a slight scratching noise, as if made by a cat. There were no cats in the Chateau de St. Maur. At least I had never seen nor heard of any, and I sat up and listened for the noise again. I heard it, and very distinctly, too, but I could not tell whence it came. It seemed to be all around. Could some wild animal have got into my room? That was scarce possible in the center of the city of Quebec.

It was so dark that I could not see the walls of the room, but a little light came in at the high dormer window. This light fell like a shaft on a spot in the center of the floor. Suddenly the shaft of light disappeared, and then in a moment it reappeared. Then it disappeared again. I looked up at the window. It had been blotted out, and now I was able to place the scratching noise. It proceeded from the window.

Some one was on the roof and was trying to enter my room through the window.

I had no doubt that my theory was correct from the moment it flashed upon me. Who could it be? It might be Savaignan seeking a way in which he could murder me for revenge, and then escape without leaving evidence against himself. But a little cool reflection made me put aside that guess. It was too improbable.

It was easy enough to wait and see what would happen, and I slipped softly off my bed and withdrew into the darkest corner of my room. If it were an assassin I would give him as little chance as possible to do me harm.

A hand’s breadth of light appeared again at the window, and the scratching became louder. This lasted for a minute or two, and then the window was closed again entirely. But my eyes had now grown more accustomed to the dusk of the room, and I saw that a human body had been thrust through the window. A pair of long slender legs dangled and kicked about as if feeling for a footing. Then a pair of shoulders followed, and the figure dropped lightly to the floor, landing as softly as if it were a cat and not a man.

The man stood for a moment in the attitude of one listening, and with his hand in his belt, as if it clutched a weapon. It was too dark for me to see the face, but I was devoured with curiosity to know the meaning of this strange visitation and the identity of my visitor.

“Leftenant! leftenant! Where are you? Where are you?”

I barely checked a cry of amazement, for the sharp whisper was that of Zeb Crane.

“Here I am, Zeb!” I said, walking to the center of the room. “How in the name of all that is miraculous have you managed to get here?”

“Set down on the bed there, leftenant,” said Zeb authoritatively; “I want to talk to you.”

“What is it?” I asked, obediently taking my seat.

“Waal, in the first place,” said Zeb complainingly, “I want to say you have got a mighty poor window in your room up there. I think I took a splinter with me as I came through, an’ I don’t like it”

“Never mind the window,” I said impatiently.

“But I do mind it,” said Zeb, “an’ I wanted to speak of it right now afore other things made me forget it. Leftenant, I’ve crawled through your window there to help you escape.”

“Thank you, Zeb,” I replied. “When shall we attempt the escape?”

“This very minute,” he said. “We’ve got to hurry, leftenant, if you want to be in at the great battle.”

“A great battle!” I exclaimed. “We’re hardly ready for that yet, are we?”

“It may come any day,” he replied. Then he explained to me hurriedly, but in more detail than I had been able to obtain from Father Michel and the others, that we had a strong fleet and army before Quebec and a real commander at last.

“We’re goin’ to give the Frenchman his beatin’,” said Zeb in sanguine tones.

“Zeb,” I said, “we must escape from this house immediately.”

“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you,” said Zeb. “Come on.”

Zeb’s enthusiasm had added to my desire of escape.

“Your window up there ain’t a fine one or a big one,” said Zeb, “but it’ll do. If you look close you’ll see a rope hangin’ down. I’ll help you up it, an’ then I’ll come up it myself. I can do it easy.”

“You are risking a lot for me, Zeb,” I said.

Zeb’s only reply was to thrust a pistol into my hand, saying:

“Take this, leftenant, in case we have trouble. I’ve got another, and, besides, my rifle is layin’ on the roof out there, along with some clothes that’s waitin’ for you. Tarnation, what made that noise?”

The door of my room swung open, and Pierre, holding a small lantern in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, entered.

“Who in thunder have we here?” asked Zeb.

He spoke in English, but Pierre must have guessed the nature of his inquiry, for he responded in his own language:

“I look after monsieur here, who is our prisoner, and I have come in time to prevent his escape. Give me your weapons or I fire.”

“Does he understand our language?” asked Zeb.

“No.”

“Then the minute I grab him you shut the door, but don’t make any noise.”

Then with a jump which was more like the leap of a panther than of a man the boy sprang upon the old servant. His action was of such suddenness that Pierre could not discharge his pistol. Zeb seized his pistol arm with one hand and his throat with the other. I flew to the door and closed it. When I returned Zeb had crowded Pierre against the wall and his hand was set like iron in his throat. Pierre was gasping and growing black in the face. I felt pity for him.

“Do not kill him, Zeb!” I exclaimed. “He was but doing his duty.”

“An’ I’m doin’ mine,” said the strange boy. “But don’t be afraid, leftenant; I’m not goin’ to murder him. I’m just showin’ him a quick way of goin’ to sleep.”

He released his hold and Pierre slid to the floor, where he lay insensible.

“He ain’t hurt, but he won’t come to for some time,” said Zeb. “It was a mighty awk’ard time for him to be a-comin’ in here, an’ since he come he had to stand what happened. It’s a little way of shuttin’ off a man’s breathin’ that I learned from the Iroquois. I guess we’d better tumble him in the corner.”

We dragged him to one side, and then I grasped the rope that hung from the window. Zeb gave me a strong push, and in a moment or two I was squeezing through the narrow aperture. Zeb followed up the rope with the agility of a sailor, and presently both of us lay flat on the roof.

“Keep close,” whispered Zeb, “’cause the night ain’t so powerful dark that some one might not see us on the roof, and that would make a pesky lot of trouble for us.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“’Bout two in the mornin’,” he said, “an’ there ain’t many stirrin’ besides the sentinels. But there’s a power of them, an’ they’re watchin’ mighty close now that the English are so nigh.”

A soldier passed presently, his arms jingling, but he did not look up and see the two blotches on the roof of the Chateau de St. Maur.

“We want to get over on the other side,” said Zeb. “That’s the back side, an’ we won’t be seen there.”

We climbed over the comb of the roof to the other side, which we found to face some outhouses and other little buildings. The eaves reached so near to the ground that we dropped down without making any noise. We slunk along among the outbuildings, Zeb carrying his rifle and the bundle that had lain beside it on the roof.

“Leftenant, I think you’d better change your clothes now an’ turn Frenchman for awhile,” said Zeb when we stopped in the shadow of one of the buildings.

Then I noticed for the first time that Zeb’s own attire was that of a Canadian huntsman.

“Do you talk their language?” I asked.

“Certain,” he replied, as he proceeded to unroll the bundle. “As good as you do, leftenant. I could fool old Montcalm himself. I haven’t been livin’ along the Canadian border so long for nothin’.”

From the bundle he quickly produced a uniform much like his own. I divested myself of my outer clothing and put it on.

Zeb took my discarded garments and cast them into one of the outhouses.

“There’s a cow in there,” he said. “I hear her chawin’ the cud. Maybe she’ll take a notion to chaw up your old clothes, an’ if she does she’s welcome to ’em.”

Which was a curt way of disposing of the sightly uniform of which I had once been so proud.

“Now you don’t forget what we are?” said Zeb.

“You have not yet informed me on that point,” I said.

“Waal, we’re Canadian scouts just come into Quebec, an’ we’re tryin’ to get out ag’in to see what mischief the enemy are plottin’. Don’t forget, for we may be asked troublesome questions.”

I made up my mind in case we were questioned to let Zeb do all the talking.

We took a look at our weapons to see that they were ready for any emergency that might arise, and went into the street. Quebec was surrounded by high and thick stone walls, and I knew that the only way for us to get out was to pass through one of the gates. What Zeb’s plan was I could not guess.

There seemed to be more stir now. Many soldiers were about. Occasionally officers galloped by, their horses’ feet ringing loud and clear on the hard stones. But nobody paid any attention to us for some time, as, indeed, there was small cause for them to do, since there was a plenty of our apparent kind in the city. I was strolling along a bit behind Zeb when some one struck me a sound blow on the back.

“What service are you on to-night, comrade? Are you going to have a shot at the English?” asked a hearty voice.

Two French regulars—at least they wore the uniform of regulars—had come up behind us and had taken this abrupt manner of accosting us. They were somewhat in liquor, and wished to be friendly.

“No,” said Zeb, who had turned around and who spoke a very fair French. “The English are to rest to-night, so far as we are concerned. But in this barrel I carry the death warrant of a redcoat, ready for my use whenever I choose to serve it.”

He tapped the barrel of his rifle as he spoke. The Frenchmen laughed.

“You are sharpshooters, I take it?” said one of them.

“Yes,” replied Zeb.

“Were you at Ticonderoga?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Zeb, “and I saw the English go down there like grass before an autumn fire.”

“Alas! I was not there,” said the Frenchman, “and it is the regret of my life. Diable, how I wish I could have had a part in that great victory! Come into this wine cellar, friend, and tell us about it while we quench our thirst.”

A light twinkling in the basement of a stone building indicated the wine shop of which he spoke. Zeb gave me an expressive glance, and we accompanied the soldiers. There was no other customer in the place, and mine host, when he had filled our glasses, returned to his comfortable doze in the corner.

I constituted myself the narrator, and began to tell about Ticonderoga. As I had been there, I did not lack for facts. The whole terrible scene returned, and I found myself describing it with a fluency and force of which I did not deem myself capable. I must have drawn a vivid picture, for one of my auditors exclaimed:

“Bravo! bravo! If he fought as well as he tells of the fight, then he must have been ten times a hero!”

“The story is worthy of more wine,” said the second, and he immediately ordered the landlord to fill up the glasses again. Both Frenchmen were now very much intoxicated.

“We’ll slip away from them presently,” whispered Zeb to me.

“When do you think the English will attack us?” asked one of the Frenchmen.

“It will be too soon for them whenever it may be,” replied Zeb.

“Bravo, comrade!” replied the Frenchman. “That is the spirit of a French soldier!”

The door of the wine shop stood open, and at that moment another man walked in. I gave a start of surprise and alarm when I saw that it was Savaignan. I could not mistake his face, and, moreover, there was the blue and black spot on it that my fist had made. I pushed a little farther back against the wall, hoping he would not see me in the semidarkness there.

He called for some wine and drank it. Then as he turned away his eyes alighted upon me, and I saw the flash of recognition.

“The seigneur’s prisoner!” he exclaimed.

“Men,” he continued, seizing one of the French soldiers by the shoulder, “what are you doing here with this man? He is an escaped English prisoner.”

“You speak false words,” exclaimed the soldier, rousing up, for he had been dropping asleep. “He is a most gallant Frenchman, and he was at Ticonderoga. He has just been telling us a fine story about it.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Savaignan roughly. “He is an English officer, and he must be arrested at once.”

“And I tell you,” said the soldier angrily, “that he is a most valorous comrade and a true Frenchman.”

I saw which way the wind was blowing, and made a swift resolution to take advantage of it. “Comrades,” I said appealingly, “I saw this officer flinch from the enemy’s fire at Ticonderoga. He knows that I saw him, and he hates me for it and would persecute me. Will you help him do it?”

Now I recognized that this was a most flimsy tale, and that the soldiers in ordinary times would not have dared to raise their hands against an officer, even had the tale been a better one. But I had not miscalculated the effects of their drunkenness. They arose in a high state of indignation and announced that I should not be touched, that they had known me all their lives, that we were born in the same village in France, and many other things to similar purpose and effect.

“You are drunken liars!” said Savaignan scornfully. “This man is my prisoner, and he shall go with me.”

Zeb hitherto had been sitting in the comer silent. At this he sprang to his feet and with an appearance of great fury exclaimed:

“What, do you call my comrades liars and drunkards? Dog of an officer, take that!”

He struck Savaignan such a smart blow on the head with his gun barrel that the Frenchman fell bleeding like a pig and half unconscious.

“Run, comrades, run!” exclaimed Zeb, “or we’ll all be in the guardhouse soon.”

This was a fate that the French soldiers courted no more than we, for they knew the consequences of striking an officer, and they dashed out at the open door, followed by Zeb and me. Luckily there was nobody in the street, and when the Frenchmen darted around the corner, thinking of nothing but to get as far as possible from the wine shop, we turned in another direction, and in a minute they were out of sight.

Twas cleverly done,“said Zeb with a chuckle, and that French officer will have a pretty sore head for nigh on to a week. He ’peared to know you, leftenant.”

I explained who Savaignan was.

“Had trouble with him over a gal,” said Zeb tersely. “That’s bad. He’ll follow you an’ try to find you. Leftenant, we must get out of this city just as quick as we can.”

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