Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

The door was thrust wide, and Crawford backed into the passage, his left arm hooked about the throat of Seraphine, who struggled futilely, with rolling eyes; and in his right hand, an upraised gun, that trembled with a cowardly anxiety.

So much? saw, before I brought the butt of Lord Harold's pistol down upon his skull, with all the force in my slender frame and a guttural yell that shocked even my overwrought senses — and Crawford swayed a moment on his feet, then crumpled to the ground.

What hullabaloo did then ensue! It was Sidmouth first who vaulted into the passage, followed swiftly by one or two men I judged to be French, and in their train, Lord Harold Trowbridge, with something very like amazement on his narrow face, and a touch of amusement in his cold grey eyes. Seraphine had sprung free, and thrown herself in Sidmouth's arms; but it was to me he looked, over her golden head, and spoke all his astonished gratitude.

As for myself — the apprehension of the moment having given way to energetic activity, I found myself with tremors now renewed, and a shaking at the knees, and all but crumpled to the insensible Mr. Crawford's side; but found support, at the last, in the strong arm of a French stranger, who helped me from the tunnel and into the comparative freedom of the cavern's depths.

“My compliments, Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said briefly, joining us. “Mademoiselle — the signal?”

“The boy has it,” Seraphine managed, from the folds of Sidmouth's shirt.

Trowbridge turned to Toby, who leaned in a shadow on his crutches, and held out his hand for the spout lant-horn. He waited only for the striking of a match, and was as swiftly gone to the beach.

A groan, and I turned to observe Mr. Crawford regaining his wits; and saw that he was firmly trussed in rope, with his hands bound behind.

“Leave him,” Sidmouth tersely ordered his companions. “Lord Harold shall deal with him. Let us bear Philippe to the beach. If the dragoons come before the boat, at least we may make our stand in the open, and die nobly at the last.” He gave a shake to Seraphine, who released him with a sigh, and bent to the task of removing her brother, who lay on a litter in the very midst of the cave. I drew a deep breath, and passed a hand over my draggled locks. The flight had been planned with extreme simplicity; a few sacks only lay about the floor, filled, I supposed, with but a change of dress and provisions against the journey. I reached for one, and carried it to the cavern's mouth.

Trowbridge stood upon the shingle, careless of all who might observe him, a pocket glass to his eye, his every fibre straining towards the horizon. “The boat!” he cried. “It advances!”

The rain that had begun perhaps a half-hour before had become a veritable storm — smugglers’ weather, I recalled with a half-smile — and the suspense that characterised the skiff's approach was such as I hope never to endure again. Twice, it was nearly capsized, but for a manful pulling at the oars, as it attempted to breast the surf at the bar; and once, an oarsman was swept overboard with a terrible cry, and was only retrieved by his mates with difficulty, at the loss of several moments’ precious time. But at last it achieved the beach, with Lord Harold and Sidmouth running into the surf to their thighs’ height to aid its approach; and the Frenchmen bent to Philippe's litter.

At that moment, Seraphine gave a cry. I turned to observe her uplifted hand, pointing back along the cliff's edge; what seemed an army of men was descending the road to the fossil works, swarming over the beach and heading in our direction. The men sprang to the boat; Lord Harold heaved with all his wiry strength at the prow, and Sidmouth swung Seraphine to safety amidships. He turned, half-standing, half-kneeling, in the boat, and searched for my face.

“Jane!” he cried. “What we owe, nothing might repay! God keep you, all the days of your life! And may you find the happiness denied to me, with your loss—”

I could not answer, for the tears streaming down my face, and slowly raised a hand in salute. Lord Harold surged out into the waves; the oarsmen bent to their burden, and with an agonising slowness, the boat turned towards the open water beyond the bar, fighting, fighting, against the storm.

A ball whistled over my head, and in some shock and surprise, I turned towards the shot. A rough hand pulled me backwards, and Lord Harold dragged me to the cavern's mouth.

“This time, Miss Austen, I beg you will do me the honour of respecting what I say,” he said, with much labour of breathing, the result of his exertions. “Stay here, and do not make a sound, and if we are very fortunate, you may survive this debacle.”

25 September 1804, cont.

A VERY FEW WORDS WILL SUFFICE TO CONCLUDE MY TALE.

The dragoons attempted, and failed, to impede the flight of Sidmouth's boat. After a frantic quarter-hour of firing poorly-sighted blunderbusses across a heaving sea, they gave up the effort, and stood at the water's edge in a degree of ill-humour and rainswept soddenness, that should have been amusing to behold, did not I find myself in so precarious a position. I espied Roy Cavendish, on the periphery of his troops. The Customs man's arms were folded, his hat brim dripped with the dispiriting rain, and there was an expression of dismay on his countenance. I suspected his foul temper would descend upon my head, did I appear.

It was then that Lord Harold advanced upon them.

He had left me at the mouth of the cave, confident that the dragoons might persuade me to caution where his influence could not. With customary coolness, he had torn a length of rag from his white shirt, and affixed it to his pistol end; then he hauled poor Crawford to his feet, and forced the man to serve as shield for their advance through the pelting showers. It remained only to wait until the dragoons” fury was spent, and Sidmouth safely out of the way; and so Lord Harold did.

“Ahoy there!” he cried, waving his makeshift flag of truce as he thrust the reluctant Crawford before him. “Your commander, I pray!”

Cavendish started from his abject ruminations, and stepped forwards to meet the men; and a parley ensued, in the lowest of tones, that seemed to invert the Customs officer's very world. Disbelief o'erspread his features, and something very like shock; and he took a step backwards from Cholmondeley Crawford in utter amazement.

Roy Cavendish was not a man of the Crown for nothing, however — and in a few moments, he had dispatched a squadron of dragoons from their fruitless position on the beach, to retrieve what dignity they might, in a search of Crawford's fossil site; and they discovered there a quantity of silk and other fine stuff, all imported without benefit of the King's custom — and perhaps, most important, a set of horseshoes made crudely on the fossil forge, and marked clearly with the initials GS.

The intelligence thus obtained, and a few low words regarding statecraft, and His Majesty's government, from Lord Harold Trowbridge, ensured that no Naval cutter should be loosed in pursuit of Sidmouth and his party. But all this it was my privilege to learn later, once Crawford was borne away to the Lyme gaol (all threat of fire in that quarter being now contained), and the dragoons dispersed. At Lord Harold's suggestion, Roy Cavendish made it his business to inform the justice of the peace, Mr. Dobbin, of Cholmondeley Crawford's murderous deceit.

It was then that Lord Harold retrieved me from my place of seclusion, and looked with concern upon my sodden clothes and ravaged face.

“Miss Austen! I have been wretchedly in neglect,” he said, with the first suggestion of anxiety I had ever observed throughout the length of our acquaintance. He doffed his dripping hat and held it awkwardly over my bedraggled curls. “You shall catch your death of cold from your exposure this e'en.”