The Crimson Sign / A Narrative of the Adventures of Mr. Gervase Orme, Sometime Lieutenant in Mountjoy's Regiment of Foot

by S. R. Keightley

He knew that in a short time the pursuit would be hot after him and that there was not a moment to be lost. But to hasten was another matter; his feet were torn and bleeding, and so painful that he could hardly put them to the ground. While he sat down to rest his head swam like one in a vertigo. But if he was to carry out his mission he could not rest now. He tore off a piece of his shirt which he wrapped tightly round his wounded feet, and set off again. The only way in which he could make certain that he was travelling in the right direction was by keeping close to the river, which he caught sight of from time to time through the trees. But his motion was necessarily slow; it was terrible work picking his way over the fallen branches and rough stones that jarred his nerves whenever he set his feet upon them. But the fate of the city was on his shoulders and the hope of the woman he loved.

It seems strange to me, the writer, and may seem strange to you who read, but the last words of his sweetheart restored his drooping heart and renewed his failing strength whenever he thought of them through this adventurous journey.

The night was nearly over and the dawn was coming up, when he still found himself in the wood, dragging one foot slowly after another. How far he had gone he could not tell, but he knew that he must have travelled several miles, and could not be far from his destination. He feared to leave the shelter of the wood, but he knew that he could not spend the day here, for he was already becoming weary and was consumed by a raging thirst. After a while the wood broke and there was a stretch of fields before him, with farther on some growing timber and a ruined building.

But with awakened hope he could now see the ships where they rode at anchor some two miles away. While it was yet a grey light he determined to take advantage of it, and gladly left the tangle of the wood for the soft, green turf that gave him some relief in walking. Then he came to a running water where he quenched his thirst and bathed his wounds. Following the course of the stream would bring him to the beach where there was standing a house, probably a fisherman´s cottage, surrounded by a fence and a few fruit trees growing about it. It was yet probably too early for the inmates to be astir, and the hope dawned upon him that he might perhaps be able to find a boat upon the beach, for he knew that any thought of swimming was now out of the question. There was a further advantage in following the little stream, for the briars grew thick along its course and would afford him shelter, while the country was open beyond. He did not hesitate, but set off with as much speed as he could make. His destination was now in sight and his chance of escape had considerably increased. If he had only another half hour of twilight, he thought; but this was not to be, for it was rapidly growing lighter, and as he came down to the cottage it was already broad day.

He had just gained the fence that surrounded the cottage, when looking back he saw a body of dragoons beating the edge of the wood that he had left half an hour before. They had not caught sight of him for their attention was fixed on the fern and briars that skirted the wood, but he had not a moment to lose. He could not retrace his steps and so gain the friendly shelter of the little stream, nor could he now make for the beach as had been at first his intention. But crushing his way through the thorn hedge, he came into a little garden. The door of the house was lying open, and he saw what he had not noticed before, that the inmates must be already astir, for a thick smoke was rising into the morning air. He knew that his pursuers could not fail to find him in the garden, and he determined to take his chance, and to trust to the humanity of the people in the cottage to conceal him. This resolution he had taken not without some hope of finding friends, for there was a homeliness and air of comfort in the place that seemed to him little in keeping with the character of the Celt.

When he entered the door he found himself in a spacious kitchen. A woman was standing on the hearth cooking some fish that gave forth an appetizing smell. As she heard him coming in she dropped the frying pan, and running over to the corner of the dresser, seized an old musket that was lying against it.

“For God´s sake, hear me,” cried Gervase; “do not shoot.”

“What do you want?” she said, still holding the weapon ready for use and looking at him with a doubtful air. Her speech at once assured him that he had found a friend.

“I have come from the city,” he said; “I have been travelling all night and am trying for the ships. The dragoons are after me now, and if you do not help me, I will be taken.”

She dropped the musket, and running over took hold of him by both hands. “My poor lad, my poor lad,” she cried, “you are but a woeful sight. If they haven´t seen you coming in I think I can save you. My good man lay a day in the loft and they couldn´t find him, though they searched high up and low down. He´s in the city like yourself and now--but I would like to ask you a question or two. Where are they now?”