Jacob's ladder
Chapter 4: Flight

As Blatsov left the room, Luis turned and found the innkeeper staring at him in surprise. Remembering Charles suggestion to ask for his help, he closed the door carefully, but when he was about to speak, the owner of the house took the lead:

“These men are looking for you.”

“Did you understand them? Do you speak French?”

“No, but your face told me.”

Luis sighed: he had hoped he would be able to hide his feelings better.

“You are right,” he said. “I must get off here without their seeing me. Can you help me?”

“What about your companion?”

“He has decided to stay and face them.”

“Then follow me.”

The innkeeper took a candle, lifted a wooden hatch, which evidently led to a cellar where he kept his victuals, and went down the dilapidated stairs. The underground space was small, clogged with barrels, strings of sausages, cured hams and other animal and vegetable products. The innkeeper went to the furthest and darkest corner and said:

“Help me move this barrel.”

Pushing together, they made it roll and disclosed the mouth of a horizontal tunnel which, after a short distance, disappeared in the darkness.

“During the war with the French, I built this secret passage to help us get away in an emergency. We have never used it. It ends in a nearby grove, where the ground is craggy. The exit is invisible from the house. Ciudad Rodrigo is less than a mile towards the sunset. You can get a horse there. I wish you luck.”

Luis thanked the innkeeper and went in the tunnel. When the man pushed the barrel again in its original position, hiding the entrance, he found himself in total darkness. He had to grope, but the way was easy, even and straight, and the tunnel was high enough. In a few steps he saw a faraway point of light which grew as he walked on. He found the exit blocked with brush, and estimated the length of the tunnel as one hundred and fifty yards. Before getting out, he watched cautiously for French soldiers around, but saw nobody. He got out, arranged the shrubs in their place and walked fast toward the West, keeping out of sight from the inn.

A quarter of an hour later, he was in Ciudad Rodrigo. In the purse which Charles had given him was enough money to buy a good horse, a warm traveling rug and food for two weeks, with a little left for extras. At noon, he was riding toward Portugal.

Up to that point, the urgency of his flight had not left him time to think. Once on the way, he had more than enough. Three things had shaken him most in what he had overheard: first, seeing Pierre in the hands of their enemies; second, the knowledge that Charles owned a title: they had called him count Philippe; finally, Blatsov’s mysterious words about Nikomakos and his army of living dead, together with the news that the Russian wanted him, rather than Charles.

The first was also a relief: Pierre would be company for Charles; at least he wouldn’t be alone. What would Gérard do when he discovered that his tutor no longer had Jacob’s ladder in his possession? Would he torture or kill Charles? He didn’t want to think about it.

The second increased his feeling that Charles had not treated him fairly. Almost every day he had been discovering something new which his tutor had hidden. Charles must obviously be one of the many aristocrats who had fled France at the beginning of the revolution. He had rebuilt his life in another country, hiding his rank for shame at having gone down the social ladder. It was also a reasonable precaution, on the face of possible reprises by the revolutionaries or by Bonaparte. The abduction and execution of the duke of Enghien was too recent to be forgotten. In any case, whatever his excuses, he regretted his tutor’s lack of trust, the suspicion that he was considered a child.

The third made him feel such panic, that he could scarcely think about it. He was not afraid of Gérard, who would probably pursue him as soon as he guessed that Jacob’s ladder was in his possession, but he was horrified by the discovery that he was Blatsov’s target. He knew that the man in black would follow him as soon as his flight was discovered, even before Gérard had time to question Charles.

How much start had he? That would depend on the precise time when Gérard would call for his presence: a few hours, in the best case. His fear of Blatsov was such, that he had few hopes of being able to mislead him. The way in which he had followed them from Salamanca to Ciudad Rodrigo invested him with a magic quality, as though he would be able to locate Luis at a distance. This feeling was dangerous; it could bring him to desperation, so he tried to fight it and refused to think about Blatsov and the possibility of being overtaken. He glanced back continuously, fearing to see a black rider following his tracks, but the way back was always empty.

As time went by, his trust grew and his fear decreased. On the second day, he crossed the frontier to Portugal and dared hope he would reach Lisbon before being overtaken by Gérard or Blatsov. On the fourth day, he dared think seriously that his enemies had lost his traces. He knew Charles well enough to know that he would not be compelled by the worst tortures to confess where he had sent Luis. From the direction of their previous movements, they could infer that they were going to Portugal, but there were twenty cities beside Lisbon where they could have been going. Porto, for instance, was a big harbor and much nearer. He had tried not to leave tracks, by sleeping outdoors and eating only what he carried. The weather had been fine, although the nights were cold, but he was wearing winter clothes and his new blanket had been extremely useful. Blatsov was probably by now on his way to Porto.

On the tenth day, Sunday March 26th at mid-morning, he saw Lisbon for the first time on the southwestern horizon. At its left, the estuary of the Tajo River looked like a big lake or a small sea. “In a few hours I’ll be there,” he thought, “although I’ll still have to find Lady Borland, before the sunset, I hope, so I wouldn’t need to find a room to sleep.”

Suddenly he felt impelled to look backwards, toward the part of the way he had just ridden through. A mile and a half behind, a rider in black galloped on a horse of the same color. Though it was impossible to see his face, he shuddered and for some time remained paralyzed with fear, but remembering that he was very near salvation, he spurred his horse and cantered to Lisbon.

The race was memorable. The pursuing charger was better than his own, but more tired, for on the last two days Luis had ridden easily, judging himself safe. Both horses were thus matched. The black rider was gaining distance slowly, but it was difficult to notice.

When he had almost reached the outskirts of Lisbon, Luis observed with horror that his horse was weakening: his under lip was flecked with froth and his gait unbalanced, threatening to stumble and fall. He used the spurs without mercy, until the flank of the poor animal was tinged red, but he could not make it go faster. In the meantime, his pursuer was coming steadily nearer: he was now less than a mile behind.

Finally he reached the first houses in the town. After a few hundred paces, his horse fell dead. By good chance, he was not trapped below the animal. As soon as he touched the ground, without daring to look back, for fear of losing a precious time, he started running through the maze of alleyways and narrow passages of the town.

He ran in zigzag and soon lost all sense of direction. He only wanted to mislead the rider, and it did not even come to his mind that he could ask for the help of the people in the streets, who looked at him in surprise at his haste. Suddenly, at a crossing, he saw his pursuer in the same street, two blocks to the left. He was still riding, but could not gallop in the tortuous city ways and had thus lost part of his vantage.

Up to that point, Luis had kept a thread of hope. Perhaps he had been mistaken; maybe the man in black was not Blatsov. Now that he saw him at short range, no further doubt was possible: he was indeed Blatsov, and he had seen Luis. His terror increased to such a point, that he started running again without knowing whether he was going toward the city center or away from it.

Half an hour later, he stopped. His heart was beating in his throat, his lungs were incapable of breathing and he felt strong jabs in his right flank. He had the impression that Blatsov was about to trap him, that walking another step would cause his death. Leaning on the wall, he looked around, fearing to see him near, but he was alone. Apparently, he had misled his enemy. As hope filled his soul again, he felt able to face any danger.

At last he remembered Lady Borland, the only person who could hide him from Blatsov and give him protection. He stopped several people to ask her address, but none of them knew it. At last he found one who had heard of the lady, informed him that she lived near the cathedral, next to the estuary, and gave him instructions to find the place.

It did not take him long to arrive at the cathedral, which towered above the nearby buildings and could be seen from afar. Now he only had to find the house where Lady Borland lived, and a woman coming from the market pointed at it. Fifty more paces and he would be there.

Suddenly he saw Blatsov a little further, coming from a side street. He was walking, having left his horse to search for his prey more easily. He was looking in the opposite direction, but it couldn’t be long before he turned and saw Luis, who felt as though the earth had opened before his feet: so near salvation, and again in danger!

His only hope was to get in the house before Blatsov overtook him. To do that, he had to walk towards his enemy. He shuddered at the thought. Then he remembered Charles, knew what he had to do and started walking. His legs seemed to have turned into stone, the distance looked infinite and time appeared to have stopped. His movements, however, must have been faster than he thought: when he arrived at the door, Blatsov had still not turned.

Loosing all control, he grasped the knocker and struck several strong blows. He dared not look at Blatsov, whose attention had doubtlessly been attracted by the noise. Suddenly the door opened and he saw the astonished face of a servant. Pushing him, Luis plunged inside and shouted, while he lost his balance:

“Shut the door! Save me!”

The servant obeyed automatically. As the door closed noisily, he found himself in comparative darkness: the windowless hall was scarcely lighted by a single torch. Blatsov was outside: Luis was safe, for the time being.

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