The fosterer and I lost no time in making a hasty toilet—and in five minutes our outer men had assumed as ruffianly an appearance as that of any contrabandista in Biscay. The tower clock of the cathedral struck two; and I remembered that Cammaran had mentioned that this would be the hour on which the garrison would sally. Excepting the hollow moaning of the wind, and the occasional drifting of the rain against the casements, all around was still; and, dark as the night was, I remained gazing at the court-yard expecting the appearance of Rawlings and his associates, with all the intensity of hope and fear which a man will feel, when on the eve of an attempt that will achieve his liberty at once, or rivet his chains more closely than before. All was quiet—no ghost appeared—no tinkle of “the light guitar” was audible—when, suddenly, a dull discharge was heard from La Mota, and a shell, bursting over the bay, “gave signal dread of dire debate,” and announced that the sortie was being made.
Within ten minutes the din of war “disturbed the night’s propriety.” The guns of San Sebastian opened, the Chefre batteries thundered their reply, while a hewy fusilade on the isthmus, pointed to the place where the besieged and the besiegers were fiercely fighting; and where, for a doubtful result, death or distinction, Cammaran played the desperate game a soldier ventures. The fire went rolling forward, therefore, the French gained ground, and so far the surprise had been successful. At the moment a hand touched my shoulder—a voice whispered that “all was ready;” I turned—the speaker was William Rawlings.
Had I stood upon ceremony, and wished to bid Senhor La Pablo, and that comely dame, his lady, “a fair good night,” neither of the parties allowed the opportunity; consequently, I descended at once to the courtyard, and there found two ill-favoured gentlemen in attendance, and, under their guidance, wc proceeded to effect—or at least attempt—our deliverance.
The effort was admirably timed. The sally of the besiegers had been checked, repelled, repulsed; and the spattering fire which had hitherto rolled steadily forward across the suburb of San Roman, now rapidly receded, while, from the trenches, the fusilade became every moment more heavy and more sustained.
On quitting the court-yard of La Pablos, we made a sudden turning, entered a dark lane, and found two men in waiting. A few short sentences were interchanged in low whispers, and we proceeded under the guidance of one who seemed to have undertaken to pioneer the party. The firing every moment became more violent; and, as the scene of strife was on the land-side, the attention of the sentries stationed on the defences next the bay was misdirected. We gained the centre of a curtain connecting two bastions, unperceived; and, by means prepared already for effecting a descent, glided down the wall unchallenged, and reached the beach in safety.
So far the work went bravely on but the most hazardous part of the feat was yet to be performed. Although my poor mother’s secret treasure had been required by the contrabandistas—according to their story to pay for the hire of a chasse-marée, as Jack Falstaff kept “his charge of foot” in light marching order, properly considering that linen was to be found on every hedge, so, our naval contractors prudently declined “taking up a vessel” especially for our transport, when one might as easily be borrowed without troubling the proprietor to become a consenting party to the loan. This arrangement was made known to Rawlings and myself, for the first time, when we had actually reached the water: but the Biscayan assured us that “nearly a dozen chasse-marées were anchored at a stone’s cast from the shore, and beside us there was a small fishing-boat, ready for the launching; we had only to row quietly out, slip into the first vessel we could find, take a peaceable possession, if allowed, and if not, forcibly eject the owners for want of civility; “cut our lucky” and their cable by the same operation, and then stand boldly out to sea.
“Why, honest José,” observed the sailor to the leader of the smugglers, “it appears that we are to pay for our deliverance first, and fight for it afterwards.”
The person addressed returned an evasive answer.
“Well, no matter—it seems the business must be done,” continued Rawlings, “and the sooner we go about it the better. Lend a hand, lads—Softly with the launch! we may be nearer our intended prize than we imagine. How fast the wind rises! Upon my soul, on a darker night or more unpromising weather, men never went on a cutting-out party.”
In another minute the fisher’s boat was in the water, and we embarked. It was one of those small skiffs in which women are frequently seen fishing on the eastern coast, and hence, we were crowded so closely as to render the least movement dangerous, the water reaching to the wash-streak of the boat. As the wind was dead off the beach we had no occasion to use our oars for any purpose but to direct our course, and out we went, drifting in the dark, and upon what the fosterer termed “the devil’s expedition.”