“Tell him I slept nicely, if you please, sir,” said Bush.
“I am delighted to hear it,” said the Count. “Now in the matter of this gendarme—”
Hornblower brought forward a chair for him. He would not allow it to be thought that his impatience overrode his good manners.
“Thank you, Captain, thank you. You are sure I will not be intruding if I stay? That is good of you. The gendarme came to tell me—”
The narrative was prolonged by the need for interpreting to Bush and Brown. The gendarme was one of those posted at Nevers; every available man in that town had been turned out shortly before midnight by a furious Colonel Caillard to search for the fugitives. In the darkness they had been able to do little, but with the coming of the dawn Caillard had begun a systematic search of both banks of the river, seeking for traces of the prisoners and making inquiries at every house and cottage along the banks. The visit of the gendarme had been merely one of routine—he had come to ask if anything had been seen of three escaped Englishmen, and to give warning that they might be in the vicinity. He had been perfectly satisfied with the Count’s assurance upon the point. In fact, the gendarme had no expectation of finding the Englishmen alive. The search had already revealed a blanket, one of those which had been used by the wounded Englishman, lying on the bank down by the Bec d’Allier, which seemed a sure indication that their boat had capsized, in which case, with the river in flood, there could be no doubt that they had been drowned. Their bodies would be discovered somewhere along the course of the river during the next few days. The gendarme appeared to be of the opinion that the boat must have upset somewhere in the first rapid they had encountered, before they had gone a mile, so madly was the river running.
“I hope you will agree with me, Captain, that this information is most satisfactory,” added the Count.
“Satisfactory!” said Hornblower. “Could it be better?”
If the French should believe them to be dead there would be an end to the pursuit. He turned and explained the situation to the others in English, and they endeavoured with nods and smiles to indicate to the Count their gratification.
“Perhaps Bonaparte in Paris will not be satisfied with this bald story,” said the Count. “In fact I am sure he will not, and will order a further search. But it will not trouble us.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, and the Count made a deprecatory gesture.
“It only remains,” he said, “to make up our minds about what you gentlemen would find it best to do in the future. Would it be officious of me to suggest that it might be inadvisable for you to continue your journey while Lieutenant Bush is still unwell?”
“What does he say, sir?” asked Bush—the mention of his name had drawn all eyes on him. Hornblower explained.
“Tell his lordship, sir,” said Bush, “that I can make myself a jury leg in two shakes, an’ this time next week I’ll be walking as well as he does.”
“Excellent!” said the Count, when this had been translated and expurgated for him. “And yet I cannot see that the construction of a wooden leg is going to be of much assistance in our problem. You gentlemen might grow beards, or wear disguises. It was in my mind that by posing as German officers in the Imperial service you might, during your future journey, provide an excuse for your ignorance of French. But a missing foot cannot be disguised; for months to come the arrival of a stranger without a foot will recall to the minds of inquisitive police officers the wounded English officer who escaped and was believed to be drowned.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. “Unless we could avoid all contact with police officers.”
“That is quite impossible,” said the Count with decision. “In this French Empire there are police officers everywhere. To travel you will need horses certainly, a carriage very probably. In a journey of a hundred leagues horses and a carriage will bring you for certain to the notice of the police. No man can travel ten miles along a road without having his passport examined.”
The Count pulled in perplexity at his chin; the deep parentheses at the corners of his mobile mouth were more marked than ever.
“I wish,” said Hornblower, “that our boat had not been destroyed last night. On the river, perhaps—”
The idea came up into his mind fully formed and as it did so his eyes met the Count’s. He was conscious afresh of a strange sympathy between him and the Count. The same idea was forming in the Count’s mind, simultaneously—it was not the first time that he had noticed a similar phenomenon.
“Of course!” said the Count, “the river! How foolish of me not to think of it. As far as Orleans the river is unnavigable; because of the winter floods the banks are practically deserted save at the towns, and there are few of those, which you could pass at night if necessary, as you did at Nevers.”
“Unnavigable, sir?”
“There is no commercial traffic. There are fishermen’s boats here and there, and there are a few others engaged in dredging sand from the river bed. That is all. From Orleans to Nantes Bonaparte has been making efforts to render the river available to barges, but I understand he has had small success. And above Briare the new lateral canal carries all the traffic, and the river is deserted.”
“But could we descend it, sir?” persisted Hornblower.
“Oh, yes,” said the Count, meditatively. “You could do so in summer in a small rowing boat. There are many places where it would be difficult, but never dangerous.”
“In summer!” exclaimed Hornblower.
“Why, yes. You must wait until the lieutenant here is well, and then you must build your boat—I suppose you sailors can build your own boat? You cannot hope to start for a long time. And then in January the river usually freezes, and in February come the floods, which last until March. Nothing could live on the river then—especially as it would be too cold and wet for you. It seems to be quite necessary that you should give me the pleasure of your company until April, Captain.”
This was something entirely unexpected, this prospect of waiting for four months the opportunity to start. Hornblower was taken by surprise; he had supposed that a few days, three or four weeks at most, would see them on their way towards England again. For ten years he had never been as long as four months consecutively in the same place—for that matter during those ten years he had hardly spent four months on shore altogether. His mind sought unavailingly for alternatives. To go by road undoubtedly would involve horses, carriages, contact with all sorts of people. He could not hope to bring Bush and Brown successfully through. And if they went by river they obviously would have to wait; in four months Bush could be expected to make a complete recovery, and with the coming of summer they would be able to dispense with the shelter of inns or houses, sleeping on the river bank, avoiding all intercourse with Frenchmen, drifting downstream until they reached the sea.
“If you have fishing rods with you,” supplemented the Count, “anyone observing you as you go past the towns will look on you as a fishing party out for the day. For some reason which I cannot fully analyse a fresh water fisherman can never be suspected of evil intent—except possibly by the fish.”
Hornblower nodded. It was odd that at that very moment he too had been visualizing the boat drifting downstream, with rods out, watched by incurious eyes from the bank. It was the safest way of crossing France which he could imagine.
And yet—April? His child would be born. Lady Barbara might have forgotten that he ever existed.
“It seems monstrous,” he said, “that you should be burdened with us all through the winter.”