Believe me when I tell you that I slid out of the stirrup and into the hay as I heard that fellow approach. His horse, alone, came into the stable before him; he had been there before – he knew his way. I could not see him; he was of the colour of the darkness, an iron-shod shadow, only I heard him walking and breathing.
Also, I heard the rider knocking upon the back door of the inn, and calling in a kind of subdued shout: ‘Morkens, Morkens!’ There was no answer. He came stumbling and splashing back, cursing at the end of his teeth, and I heard him call the name of Cornelys. The rain washed most of his voice away; all the same, I heard him between the drops … ‘Cornelys! … Cornelys! …’
Here, you may say, was the time to get out. So it was. But you know that there are times when curiosity is somewhat stronger than the desire to live. I had guessed that this night-bird, since he was in the confidence of Morkens, who was a cut-throat, must be some sort of highway robber – especially since he came quietly by night, on an exhausted horse. I wanted to know more, quite simply; therefore I waited, particularly after I heard him call for Cornelys the blacksmith, who was another thorough-going rascal.
Cornelys came soon, with a lantern. By the sound of him I knew that he was booted and spurred: a nice way for a simple blacksmith to be, at that time of night, on a lonely road! Furthermore, his voice had changed somewhat since last I had heard it; now he spoke hard and tight. Following the newcomer into the stable, Cornelys said: ‘What’s this? What’s the matter with Morkens and Marie?’
He spoke in Flemish, and in Flemish the other man replied: ‘Dead drunk in the kitchen.’
‘Impossible,’ said Cornelys. ‘Can’t be. Not now!’
‘No? Go and see.’
He went, but soon returned, grunting incredulously: ‘This night of all nights!’ The other man groaned. ‘What’s the matter with you, Klaes? Are you hurt?’ asked Cornelys.
‘No; tired, dead tired, Cornelys. Dropping where I stand,’ said the man who had been addressed as Klaes. Indeed, he sounded tired.
‘Makes no difference,’ said Cornelys the blacksmith. ‘In any case, it was I who was to carry the word. I am ready…. Well?’
‘Well,’ said the man called Klaes, speaking very deliberately, like a man who is drunk or used up. ‘Get it right the first time, Cornelys, because I swear I’m in no condition to repeat it … oh, dear God, how tired I am! … Listen carefully, now; the password is the English word, Ditch. Have you got that?’
‘Ditch,’ said Cornelys.
‘You will pass that word to Collaert’s vedettes,’ said Klaes.
‘Where?’ asked Cornelys.
‘Between here and Braine le Comte,’ Klaes said.
‘I will pass the word Ditch to Collaert’s vedettes between here and Braine de Comte,’ Cornelys said. ‘And then?’
‘Then you will be conducted at once to General Collaert of the cavalry, by his aide-de-camp, Brigadier de Beukelaer, who will have a fresh horse waiting. You will tell your message to Collaert in person. This is what you will say: That you come from Jan Klaes (that, of course, is myself). That Klaes has been compelled to take devious roads because he has been shadowed. That Jan Klaes has been forty-eight hours in the saddle, and therefore sends you to deliver to Collaert a message which should have gone in advance to Wellington at Brussels. … Is this fixed in your mind?’
Cornelys repeated it, word-perfect. He was not the fool that he pretended to be…. Or was he? I don’t know. I have known congenital idiots, and nagging women, who had that same curious knack of repeating, with just such exactitude, precisely what vibrated the nerves of their ears. Empty domes throw back the most perfect echoes…. This Cornelys repeated the very inflection of the man Klaes, who, in something between a groan and a yawn, expressed approval, and then went on.
‘Excellent. You will say this to Collaert, then: Our man de Wissembourg, whom Collaert knows, has taken the place of Lacoste, as Napoleon’s guide. Napoleon is completely ignorant of the terrain around St Lambert. It is reasonably certain that the Emperor will deploy his cavalry before the plateau of Mont St Jean. This force of cavalry will consist mainly of Milhaud’s cuirassiers – twenty-six squadrons, supported by Lefebre Desnouette’s division. Altogether, between three and four thousand of the cream of Napoleon’s heavy cavalry…. Have you got that?’
‘I have. Continue.’
‘Good. Listen again: ‘If Wellington makes a show of English infantry on the plateau of Mont St Jean, behind a light covering fire of canister from the masked batteries on the Nivelles road, the odds are that Napoleon will make one of his master-strokes – his heavy cavalry, en masse, will charge the English infantry line, with a view to smashing it and cutting the Allies in two, before the German reinforcements arrive; Blücher and Bülow being already delayed…. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly clear – not that I understand. Go on. It is written in my head as on a slate.’
‘You are neither expected nor required to understand, only to remember. Listen again: Before the French cavalry can reach the English infantry, therefore, they must cross a certain little road that runs across the plain from Ohain to Mont St Jean——’
‘Cross it, how?’ said Cornelys. ‘I know the Ohain road. Road? It is a ditch, twelve feet deep, banked up steep on either side. Mountaineers cross such a road, not cavalry. I know the Ohain road.’
‘All the better. Tell Collaert so, and answer clearly any questions he may ask. Meanwhile, remember again: If Wellington, having arranged his foot-guards above the Ohain road, draws the main charge of Napoleon’s heavy cavalry, he will break the head off Napoleon’s sledge-hammer, and break off the jaws of his tongs, too. It is Jan Klaes who says so, having received word from de Wissembourg, alias Lacoste, Napoleon’s own guide…. For God’s sake, is all I have said impressed upon your memory, Cornelys?’
‘Every word,’ said the blacksmith, ‘firm as print, clear as ink – aie – aie! What’s this?——’ He had put out his hand, instinctively stroking and stroking as blacksmiths will, feeling the back of the mare Cocotte. ‘– Why, may I die, if Morkens hasn’t saddled the Englishman’s mare!’
‘What Englishman? What mare?’ Klaes asked.
‘A bony dapple-grey, sixteen hands. I shod her myself today. Fed like a fighting-cock. Broken to shafts and saddle, and good for anything; a horse for a lady or a gentleman.’
‘What Englishman?’
‘Oh, a millionaire, a nabob. He left the horse as a tip for his valet; simple as that! Not to go into details: I guess that Morkens had her saddled and ready, knowing that my little gelding is a little too light for my weight. This dapple-grey will carry two hundred pounds over fifty miles of mud. A good idea!’ said Cornelys.
‘The Englishman is gone. And the valet?’ Klaes asked.
Cornelys said: ‘I think the valet won’t be needing the dapple-grey tonight.’ I almost felt the darkness contract and expand as he winked unseen.
‘Good,’ said Klaes. ‘To horse and away, hell for leather! Be off!’
But now Cornelys became insolent and, quoting some clownish proverb, ‘Patience, fleas, the night is long!’ he then said: ‘Those two sots have left the best part of half a bowl of punch, eh?’
‘Hurry,’ said Klaes.
But Cornelys insisted: ‘A stirrup-cup first, and then we’re off!’ – and splashed back to the house.
Crouching in the hay with my hands on my pistols, I was almost sorry then for the man Klaes, squatting on his truss of straw; for I perceived the weary misery of him when (believing himself to be alone in the dark) he moaned ‘… Oh Lord, Lord, Lord! … Is it for me to choose Your instruments? … I can no more, I have done my best….’ Wow, but that man was tired!