Memoirs of a Hoyden (15 page)

My fingers were completely numb, making it difficult to free them. They felt like sausages, that fat with blood, and that useless. I concluded that my attacker was Nel, and with my mind centered on her, the next conclusion was obvious. Nel was the one who had received the letter from the spies. She had behaved rather strangely when we first came to Longville Manor, as I considered it. She had arrived with suspicious promptitude at the little parlor where the butler had sequestered us—almost as though she had been waiting for someone to come.

Then she had dismissed the butler, and turned that brightly questioning look on Ronald. She had asked what had been done with our “personal things”—had gone herself to see them, and looked surprised that we had no luggage. No letter; that was what surprised her. She had thought either Ronald or I to be her contact.

Oh, she had been careful, in case she was mistaken, but she had mentioned she and I could be “alone” in her room. I thought at the time it was a strange thing to say. When I didn’t produce the letter, she went hopping off to Ronald, hoping he might have it. I remembered seeing her come from his room after I changed. The ninny was working with Bernard Kemp to smuggle secrets to Boney. She went to London with her papa, and must rifle his secret correspondence there. And when she couldn’t rifle, she discovered from her papa when orders were on the way to the army, and informed Bernard, who set out spies to steal them.

Who would have thought it of that witless creature? Even Bernard called her stupid. He was only using her, of course. But she couldn’t be totally unaware of what she was doing. The pains she had gone to that night to smuggle his letter to him ... Oh lord! She had smuggled the letter through me! That was what was wrapped up in that satin handkerchief case. And I, like a gossoon, delivered it straight into his hands. I might very well be charged for conspiracy if it were ever found out.

In my agitation I gave a harder yank at my hands and got one free. The other soon pulled loose as well. My fingers ached like the very devil. They were hot and stinging, with a million needles prickling them. After massaging them a minute, I could grasp my little dagger and cut my feet free, and eventually my body from the willow trunk. When circulation had returned to all my limbs and I was able to stand, I peered through the willow branches. All was quiet beyond. I parted the branches and slipped out into fresh air.

On the far side of the public road, there was an escarpment leading down to the beach. Below, the ocean spread off into the distance, a glittering, wimpled sheet of silver, ruffled to whitecaps by the wind. Though the moon was invisible, some beams penetrated the cloud blanket, conferring a metallic sheen to the surface. Where I stood, the descent was impossible by foot. Rock cliffs fell sheer to the sea. The same condition prevailed to my right. I glanced to the left, and saw this was the way I must go.

There the rock cliff was broken into huge boulders, juts of smooth rock but with smaller ones between, allowing a foothold to the shingled beach below. Between the darkness and the distance, it was impossible to tell whether there was any human life lurking there, but I could see clearly enough there were no smuggling boats nor any other vessels on the ocean.

With the moon casting that eerie light, the ocean reminded me of the Bedouin desert at night. The sand will gleam like that when the moon is full, and if there has been a wind that day, the surface is rippled into solid waves. Something of the same feeling of vast emptiness, a haunting intimation of eternity. It was awe-inspiring, almost a holy feeling. I personally never felt anywhere near so close to God in church. I sent a silent prayer heavenward.

Shaking away this vague sense of desolation, I examined the left cliff more closely, choosing my route and hoping for a sight of Ronald or Kestrel. Or less happily, of Bernard Kemp sneaking up behind them. Reluctantly, my fingers closed over the dagger. I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

My position atop the cliff in open terrain was not a safe one. I ducked my head down and scampered along till I reached a spot where descent seemed possible, though far from easy. The size of those boulders was deceptive from the distance. At closer range, they proved to be huge—some of them the length of my body, and the same width. If I lost my footing, not unlikely in the slippery-bottomed red slippers I still wore, I would plunge down the rock scree to my death. This was not the time to lose courage. I sat on the edge of the cliff, turned my body around by putting my weight on my hands, and hoisted myself off the edge, facing the cliff. I got a toehold and began the descent. It occurred to me that if I had chosen the wrong spot to go down, I would have the devil’s own time ever getting back up again.

After I had descended more than fifty feet, there seemed a distinct possibility that I would be plastered to the rock wall for the rest of my life—which wouldn’t be very long either. I had got myself into an impossible position, clinging for my life to a sheer wall of cliff, with no foothold available below, and not much possibility of being able to hoist myself back up to the top to start over again at some other spot.

In short, I was stranded. I hardly dared turn my head, lest that bit of motion should dislodge my cramped fingers. After staring at the wall for a minute, with beads of perspiration popping out on my forehead and all along my spine, I finally did carefully turn my head to the right. Ranging about three yards distant in that direction, the descent appeared easier. The large boulders had crumbled to smaller rocks. If I could work my way sideways, I thought I could make it down to the beach without undue threat to life or limb.

I slid one foot to the right, and felt a nice strong bulge. It took my weight without giving way. I jiggled my right foot over on the bulge to make room for the left. I was proceeding nicely to the safer passage at the right. Another ledge of stone met my searching foot. I moved again. Before long, I found myself safely ensconced amidst the smaller rocks, ready to scamper down.

From the safety of my new perch, I turned to scan the ocean. A ship had come into view. It was a low, dark lump in the water—what they call a lugger, I believe. It had three masts, and square sails hanging obliquely. It bore no lights but advanced secretively in the dark, as a smuggling boat would do. I watched a moment to gauge its direction. It was ploughing straight for shore, toward a little inlet about fifty yards along the beach. My heart was hammering like a drum in my chest. The critical moment approached, and I was alone, with only a dagger to face a whole smuggling band of spies. Where were Ronald and Kestrel? Had Kemp overtaken them? Did they lie somewhere on the rocks, with their throats slit? This line of thought was mere weakness. I reminded myself that the better part of valor was discretion, and remained discreetly motionless, looking all around.

The lugger had lowered her sails and stopped several yards from the beach. As heads appeared on deck, the beach was suddenly peopled with a dozen or more men. They popped out as if by magic from cracks and crevices where they had been waiting. The men on board hoisted barrels into the water, and those on the beach waded out to recover them. The breeze carried a low murmur of muted voices, indistinguishable, but they were happy, carefree voices, not the murderous accents of killers.

Was this nothing more than a band of the Gentlemen at work? I fervently prayed it was so. As I watched from my perch, I saw three of the men on the lugger clamber overboard, wade to the beach, and walk off apart from the others. I watched, horrified, as they approached the beach immediately below me. Then they began to climb up the cliff.

Chapter Ten

For about sixty seconds I just clung to my rock. My instinctive response at the smugglers’ approach was to hide. It seemed an easy enough thing to do, surrounded by loose rocks and stones as I was. The incline at this lower level was not precariously steep, nor was it very likely they would see me, as their attention was concentrated on the chore of climbing.

Once I was cowering safely behind a large rock, however, I realized I had behaved like the veriest poltroon. Was I not to lift a finger to stop them, after having come this far? Was this the behavior of a woman who had almost single-handedly quelled an Arab revolt—and worse, bragged of it to Kestrel? I must tackle this new enemy, let the harvest be what it might. While this fit of heroics was upon me, I eased my head out from behind my rock and peeped down at the men climbing up.

What I saw reminded me, in retrospect, of a French farce, though at the time it was far too dangerous a sight to conjure up so frivolous an image. Spread out below me, and seen at an angle as though I were looking down a long staircase to the ground, was a series of people in hiding along a long stone ledge, littered with rocks. Advancing up the cliff were the three heads and shoulders of the Frenchies from the smuggling vessel. Awaiting them at a level between the beach and myself was Kestrel, hiding behind a rock, with his pistol drawn.

My first surge of relief at seeing him was short-lived. A few feet behind Kestrel was Bernard Kemp, also armed and ready for action. But where was Ronald? It took me another minute to decide that the skulking shadow a few yards behind Kemp was Ronald, also armed.

Though cheered to realize help was at hand, the thought occurred to me that Kestrel was unaware of Kemp’s presence, while the reverse was not true. Of course, there was Ronald for a backup, but whether he was swift enough to shoot Kemp before Kemp shot Kestrel was a matter of grave doubt. And all the time the Frenchies kept climbing like billy goats up the cliff. A deadly confrontation would occur within minutes if I didn’t do something to prevent it.

The scene enacting itself in my head was as sharp as though it were played out on a stage. When the three smugglers reached Kestrel’s level, Kemp would walk out with his pistol in Kestrel’s back to join his colleagues. Ronald would have to contend with the four of them, for Kestrel would be helpless, if indeed he was still alive at all. Much help I and my little dagger would be, perched ten or twelve feet above the fray. I must draw closer, before the smugglers reached Kestrel.

Between a realization of the danger and the great speed required, I moved too hastily. I lost my footing and came careening down the cliff in a shower of stones and pebbles and shrieks. In the resulting commotion, Kemp jumped out to see what was going on, Kestrel turned and drew his pistol on Kemp, then discovered who it was who had landed in so unexpectedly and, for a few seconds, lost his wits.

“Marion!” He bolted forward, forgetful of more important duties, to rescue me. Though gratified at his chivalry, I deeply regretted his rashness.

A few seconds was long enough for Kemp to take advantage of the interruption. He dragged me up from the rock by my neck and held me in front of him for a shield. I was gasping for breath. In that first instant, taking inventory of my bones for breakage took precedence over anything else. They appeared to be intact, though my hide was thoroughly damaged in various places.

Kemp turned a triumphant stare on Kestrel and pulled me toward the edge of the cliff, as though about to push me off. “If you ever want to see this hellion alive again, I suggest you hand me your pistol. Turn the muzzle toward yourself, and give it to me by the handle—very carefully.’’

Kestrel, wearing a face like a tiger who had just swallowed a live coal, did as he was told.

Kemp now held a pistol in either hand, still carefully hiding himself behind my skirts. By this time, the three smugglers had finished their climb and joined us. Of Ronald there was no sign, but he wasn’t the sort to desert his comrades in distress. He would be there, wildly planning some impracticable scheme of rescue.

The ensuing conversation was in French, peppered with gross obscenities. I shall put it into English that anyone might read without blushing, unless an asterisk will set him off. The tallest of the French smugglers spoke for his group. He was a swarthy man with a black toque pulled low over his eyes. His face was merely a blur of ugliness, and his voice was rough.

“What * * * have we here, Kemp?” he asked laughing. “A little * * * for the men?” His oily black eyes examined me at this sally.

When Kemp had Kestrel under control again after his outbreak at this description of me, he replied, “They’re welcome to the * * *. You’d be doing England a favor— and France, too—if you’d drop her in the Channel after you * * * her.”

I didn’t have to wonder whether Kestrel spoke French. He was once again thrown into a bluster of futile action. I regretted that he should hear me described as * * * flotsam.

“You have the money, and the letter?” the Frenchman asked.

Kemp handed the Frenchie one of his pistols. “Watch the * * *,” he said. Then he removed the letter from his inner pocket and handed it over. The satin wrapping had been removed, but the odor of violets lingered. During this transaction, Kemp was careful to keep me between himself and Kestrel. Kestrel hadn’t made any successful move yet, but his eyes were alert, wary, waiting for the moment to do something brave, and get us both killed.

The Frenchie and Kemp went on talking a moment about the * * * brandy and the * * * money to be paid for it. Their profanity wasn’t limited to me by any means. Had it not been for the other two smugglers, standing as eager for mischief as a pair of foxes in the chicken coop, I am sure Kestrel would have made some move. I know I would have.

Having failed in my mission was hard to accept, but having failed, the next order of business was to at least escape alive, and preferably not to escape as the plaything of a band of smuggling rogues. Bad as that would be, I feared Kestrel’s fate would be worse. Kemp couldn’t let him live to tell tales, and the Frenchies would hardly take an English lord along for their amusement. What they would do was break his neck and push him over the cliff, to wash up as an “accidental” victim of drowning.

Our last hope, Ronald, was nowhere in evidence. There hadn’t been a sign of him since I fell off the cliff. I sincerely hoped he hadn’t gone for help. We’d be only a memory by the time he got back.