The Iron Cross: a story

Front matter

THE IRON CROSS The Isoji Choss S3 BY ROBERT H. SHERARD Author of " Rogues," ' Jacob Niematut,' etc. LONDON C. ARTHUR PEARSON LIMITED HENRIETTA STREET W.C. TO MY DEAR WIFE CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE I. "V Anglos" i II. At the Presbytery n III. Some Gentlemen from Bayonne ... 24 IV. The Magpie House 36 V. Walter Pughe's Occupation 49 VI. Between Light and Shade 63 VII. La Corrida 77 VIII. La Deshonrada 94 IX. Disturbing Influences 105 X. Carmela de Campos 114 XI. Preliminary Skirmishes 131 XII. The Yellow Roses 144 XIII. Sword and Fire 163 XIV. Pas dArgent— Pas de 186 XV. A Midnight Quest 202 XVI. What Was Beneath the Hearthstone 219 XVII. Some Information Concerning It ... 234 XVIII. Uncle Christopher's Treasure ... 253 XIX. Further Emotions 277 XX. The Last ANS une societe qui ne se contente pas daccorder a I'argent sa valeur, mais lui donne un rang au-dessus de toutes les autres, il itait utile qu'un romancier vint I'attaquer et en dtvoiler U influence funeste.

Chapter I

"I! Anglos!' The words L' Anglos mean in the dialect, or patois, of the Landes department of France, " the Englishman." It was by this name that the Englishman, Walter Pughe, who had arrived one November night five or six years ago, coming from Bayonne, was universally known in and around Capbreton. Capbreton is a fishing village in the Landes, situated on the coast of the Bay of Biscay, about ten miles to the north of the mouth of the Adour river, and thirty miles from the Spanish frontier. At the time when the Landes formed a part of the Duchy of Guyenne, the former Aquitaine, and the Duchy of Guyenne, brought in dowry to Henry Plantagenet by Eleonora, the divorced wife of Louis VII. of France, was an English province, Capbreton was a place of some importance. Several old houses, built at the time of the English occupation, may still be seen in various parts ofthe village, whilst, abutting the church, is a high watchtower, forming a steeple, which is known as " The Tower of the English."

From its summit a magnificent view of the surrounding country, and of a long sea-board, may be obtained ; it also acts as a landmark to ships at sea. Guyenne was formerly much attached to the English crown, and it is a matter of history that, after this fine province was lost to us in 1453, owing to the successes of Charles VII., surnamed the Victorious, the inhabitants of the Duchy revolted several times against their new masters. This feeling of attachment to England and the English has, however, long since died out, and, on the contrary, there is to-day, perhaps, no part of France where foreigners in general — and Englishmen in particular — are more cordially disliked than in that part of the former Duchy of Guyenne which is known as the Landes department. At the same time, the character of the modern Gascon is profoundly hypocritical and dissembling, so that when Walter Pughe wrote home to England, after his first week's stay in Capbreton, that " it was quite a pleasure to see how popular an Englishman, because he is an Englishman, becomes, in even a short time, in this village so full of reminders of England's beneficent rule in Aquitaine," he was convinced ofthe sincerity of the friendly demonstrations with which he was greeted.

As a matter of fact, on the very evening on which he wrote this letter home, from his room in the one inn of the village, he and his business were being discussed at length in the ugly Landais patois by a number of " L'ANGLOS." 3 men who were sitting, drinking white wine, in a neighbouring tap-room. " You may say what you like," cried one of the drinkers, a man named Rougeaud, who quite recently had come out of Mont de Marsan gaol, where he had been serving a sentence of six months' imprisonment for theft. " For my part, I consider his visit most suspicious. What can an Englishman want here in the middle of winter ? It's surely not the sea-bathing that he is after. As to shooting, he has brought no gun with him. He is always down on the beach at the mouth of the canal, writing things in a pocket-book.

My idea is that he is a spy." " Your idea is all the more plausible," remarked a dissipated-looking old man, called Lesta, who some years previously had been put on the retired list of the French Navy on account of incorrigible intemperance, " that there is a good deal to spy out here. You know that there is every chance that Capbreton will be selected by the Chamber of Deputies as the Atlantic port of the Two Seas Canal, joining the Atlantic and the Mediterranean ; and you can imagine whether the English know this or not. Of course they are anxious to have all particulars about the district, in view of the fact that it will be strongly fortified when the canal is commenced, and it is my conviction that this Mr. Pughe has been sent here to make maps and plans, and send reports. I heard at the post-office that he sends off bulky letters every day."

It's possible that you are right," added a third B drinker, whose name was Robineau, a retired inspector of roads and bridges, who wore the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour ; " though, for my part, I have thought, ever since he came here, that he was on some smuggling business. Why is he always wandering about on the sea-shore, if not to look out for some good landing-place ? You know what enormous profits can be made on Spanish alcohols ; and as to his correspondence, it's a fact that most of his letters are addressed to some place in Spain. I have mentioned my suspicions to the coastguards, and they have promised to keep their eyes open." " Oh, if that were all," cried Lesta, pushing back his beret, the Tam-o'-Shanter cap which is the invariable head-gear of the male Basque or Landais, " I, for one, would leave I'Anglos alone.

Anybody helping to cheapen alcohol is not my enemy, and I enjoy a good trick played on the Government. But, God's thunder, let us have no spies at work ! I could strangle a spy with my own hands." " Had it not been for the spies before 1870, do you think we should have been defeated by the Prussians ? " exclaimed Rougeaud. " Never ! Never ! " " It seems to me," said Robineau, " that as Frenchmen and good patriots, we ought to try and find out what this fellow's business here really is. I am going to see the Mayor to-morrow. I shall tell him what is being said in the village, and point out to him that he ought to make some in quiries. Who is this Englishman ? What are his " l'anglos. 5 means of existence ? Where does he come from ? What is he doing here ? " " If the Mayor weren't a fossil," cried Lesta, " he would have made those inquiries long ago.

But he's too much taken up with his little glasses of Armagnac brandy." " Oh, there you're wrong," interrupted thegarde champctre, or village constable, who had just entered the tap-room, " M. le Maire did have in quiries made as soon as he heard that the stranger intended to stay here some time. I interrogated him myself and saw his papers." " His papers were sure to be in order," sneered Rougeaud. " So they were," said the constable. " He had a passport issued by the British Ambassador in Madrid. I could not understand what was on it ; but there was a splendid coat-of-arms at the top — a lion and a beast with one horn." " And did he say what he had come here for ? " " Yes, for his pleasure. To breathe the sea air and the aroma of the pines." Lesta laughed ironically and winked at Rou geaud, who shrugged his shoulders.

" Did you ask him," continued Robineau, " what were his means of existence ? " " I had no right to do so. That's none of our business. But I may tell you that when he opened his pocket-book to show me his passport, I saw that it contained a fat wad of bank-notes." " All that is very suspicious," opined Lesta. " That beast with one horn and the wad of bank notes. To be sure he's a spy." " Well, if he is," said the garde-champetre, speaking with authority, " he will soon be found out, and then so much the worse for him." Then, changing the subject, he added : " The cure has just come back from Paris. He arrived from Labenne this afternoon. They say he has got the money he wanted for church repairs." " There was no reason to fear that he wouldn't," said Robineau. " There's always money for church purposes to be found, and our cure, small as he is, isn't stupider than another."

" There's a man about whom I wouldn't care if thirty years could be added to his age, provided thirty years were taken off mine," cried Lesta, who was constantly bemoaning his old age and offering " thirty years of the life of a cure " in exchange for some personal advantage — dis respect for the ministers of the Catholic Church being as fashionable in Capbreton as in any other part of Republican France. " Cure or no cure," cried Rougeaud, who was gradually becoming intoxicated, " I must have another bottle of white wine." Whilst the landlord was serving the bottle, the garde-champetre, who had strolled to the door of the tap-room and was looking down the road, turned round and said : " Ah, there goes V Anglos. He's got a letter in his hand. I expect he's going to post it." " I'd give ten years ofthe life of a cure," cried " L' ANGLOS." 7 Lesta, looking over his shoulder, " to know what's in that letter.

Some more spyings doubtless." " It's a pity if he's a spy," remarked the landlord's daughter, a pretty girl, whose fresh com plexion and ruddy hair might have warranted the supposition that vestiges of England's three-century occupation of Aquitaine could be found elsewhere than in the architecture of the towns and villages. " Yes, a pity, for he's a fine young fellow, strong and tall, and I always liked black hair and blue eyes. They go so well together." " That doesn't prevent me from repeating that I should very much like to know what is in that letter," said Lesta. It is to be feared that could his wish have been gratified, the old drunkard's curiosity would not have been greatly contented. The letter was addressed to Lady Oliver Pughe, Milton Hall, Grantham, England, and its contents were as follows : " Capbreton, Aquitaine, " Nov. 7th, 1892.

" My Dearest Mother, — " You will be surprised to read my new address, for no doubt you have forgotten that such a place as Capbreton exists. However, let me remind you that it is a little fishing village near Bayonne, where, according to the legend in our family, grandpapa's brother, who was in Welling ton's army in the Peninsula, came after his desertion before Vittoria, and where he is supposed to have died. Grandpapa, you know, was so disgusted with him for his cowardly conduct that he ceased all communication with him, and don't you re member with what shame poor papa used to speak of his Uncle Christopher, ' the only Pughe,' as he said, ' who had ever disgraced the name, and who, for his eternal punishment, was buried in France ' ? Papa seemed to think that no punishment could be greater for an Englishman than to be buried in a foreign country, and especially in France.

"Well, when I came to Biarritz, I had no idea that I was anywhere near the place where Uncle Christopher died, and it was only a week ago that a Frenchman, who was dining with me at table d'hote, at the Hotel d'Angleterre, informed me that there was a place called Capbreton within two hours' journey of Biarritz. I at once remembered the name, and, on asking some further questions, was told that it was a ' real hole,' but not without some picturesque features, that the Capbreton girls were renowned for their intelligence and their good looks — (don't show this to Millie, if she is still with you) — that there was a ' Tower of the English ' there, and a number of cottages built at the time of the Plantagenets, and that one could live comfortably and cheaply. These inducements tempted me, and, at the same time, I thought I should like to see if I could find any traces of ' the only Pughe, who,' &c, &c. So I packed up my traps, and came here by " L'ANGLOS." 9 way of Bayonne.

The inn at which I am staying is of a very primitive order, but the food is good and plentiful, and I enjoy the white wine which they drink here, and the roaring wood fires in the old fashioned kitchen. I only pay six francs a day, all included, and this is a consideration ; for, until the agricultural depression in England ceases, or until I have written the great book, which is to make us all millionaires, I must be careful, especially as I behaved rather foolishly at Biarritz, and lost money at the Casino. " I won't describe the place as yet, because first impressions are not always fair, nor will I speak of my fellow villagers ; but I may say that it is quite a pleasure to see how popular an Englishman, because he is an Englishman, becomes, in even a short time, in this village, so full of reminders of England's beneficent rule in Aquitaine.

Everybody seems to like me here. " Of Uncle Christopher, as yet, not a trace. The truth is I have been too much occupied in exploring the country to give any time to the primary object of my visit here. Besides, the cure, to whom I look for information, as he is, probably, the only man of any intelligence in the place, has been away in Paris. He returned this afternoon, so they tell me at the inn, and I mean to call on him to-morrow. If I succeed in discovering uncle's grave, which is not very likely, I will send you a sketch of it. Poor uncle ! It was a dismal ending to die in this ' real hole,' with such a disgrace at heart. " I will write^again soon. " Your ever affectionate son, " Walter Pughe. " P.S. — Don't put Aquitaine on your letter. Capbreton, Landes, is the right address. I say Aquitaine because I am a ' romantique ' — the very last, no doubt."

The perusal of the above letter will have shown how utterly ill-founded were the suspicions of the gossips of Capbreton with reference to the young English stranger, and that, in stating the purpose of his visit to this village, he had only spoken the truth. Your modern Gascon is, however, so inveterate a liar himself, that he never imagines that anybody else can speak the truth. Walter Pughe might have brought every proof to show that he was a young English gentleman of good education and artistic tastes, a member of a good family, and although not rich, fully able and willing to pay his way ; not one of the Gascon gossips would have believed him. No, it was very clear that he was a spy, or, at least, a very suspicious character.

Chapter II

At the Presbytery. On the morning of the day after the one on which he had posted his letter to Grantham, Walter Pughe called at the presbytery, and asked to see the cure. He was immediately admitted, and found the old gentleman at table, making a hearty, but frugal, meal off bread and potted pork. A large jug of water, from which the cure helped himself liberally, stood on the table. " Be welcome, sir," said the priest, rising, as Walter entered, " and excuse me for receiving you at table." " Oh, it is I who ought to excuse myself," said the Englishman. " I am interrupting your meal." " No, no ; not at all. In fact, I like to talk whilst eating. It helps the digestion. Not that I have any complaints to make on that score. You wouldn't say, to look at me, that I am in my seventy-ninth year ?

Yes, seventy-nine. And next Whitsuntide it will be just fifty-four years that I have been cure at Capbreton." " You seem, indeed, my father, to enjoy excellent health." " That's the secret of it," cried the priest, waving his hand over the table. " Plenty of stale bread, not too much relish with it, lots of salt, and as much fresh water as one can drink." Then, with a laugh, he added : " Not that much credit is due to me for my frugality. It's a question of purse. Thirty-six pounds a year, after reserving a part for the poor, won't pay for lobsters and turtle doves." Here the simple old man laughed again, and, lifting up the cracked blue china jug, took a long draught. As he set it down, he cried out : " But it's doubtless not to talk about my bills of fare that you have done me the honour of calling upon me.

Is there anything in which I can be of service to you ? The gentleman is English, and, no doubt, a Protestant, so that " " I beg your pardon, my father," interrupted Walter ; " I am a good Catholic, as all the Pughes were before me. It is not, however, on a question of religion that I wished to see you, but to ask you for a piece of information." " Oh, I am so glad to hear you are a Catholic — a child of Holy Church. You will come to mass, I hope. The villagers here want a good example from the rich. Unfortunately most of the people of any influence in this parish are Republicans, which is tantamount to saying that they are Atheists." " I shall certainly come to mass," said Walter. Then, after a pause.he added : " I am rather anxious to know if, in the church registry here, there is any mention of the burial of a Mr. Pughe, who is supposed to have died here some time between 1815 and 1820."

The cure reflected for awhile, and then, shaking his head, exclaimed : " I don't think so. It would astonish me if it were so. Piou, Piou ? No, I am sure there is not. I know my church registry almost by heart, for, you see, I am constantly being con sulted about it, and I am sure it contains no such name as Piou!' " Perhaps my English pronunciation of the name misleads you," said Walter. " It is spelt P, u, g, h, e, and pronounced Piou." " Ah, Pooghay, Pooghay. Oh, that's different. If it is Pooghay you mean, I have certainly some thing to tell you. Can it possibly be that you are a relation — a representative of the Pooghay ? What was the other name of the Pooghay you are inquiring after?" " Christopher — Christopher Pughe. We pro nounce our name Piou, not Pooghay." " Oh, very well," cried the cure, rising.

" Might I see how you write the name? Yes, yes ; that is it. Well, then I suppose you are the gentleman to whom I must hand what was deposited with my predecessor so many years ago. You are a relation of this Christopher Pughe ? " Walter hesitated. He did not much like to claim kinship with a man who had so shamefully disgraced the family name, and whose sad history was doubtless well-known to the old priest. At the same time his curiosity was aroused as to the nature of the deposit left by Christopher Pughe. Accordingly, when the cure, thinking that, perhaps, he had not understood his question, repeated it, he answered : " Yes, sir. He was my grandfather's brother. Our family never knew how he ended. We only had a general idea that he died at Capbreton." "So he did — in 181 5 — and lies buried in the cemetery here.

I can show you his grave. There is a stone cross to mark it." " Was anything ever known about — about the reason why he came to live here ?" faltered Walter, a slight flush overspreading his cheeks. " No," said the cure ; " though there was some mystery about him. When he came here he gave himself out — so my predecessor told me — as a Wurtemberger. It was only when he was dying that he told the cure that he was an Englishman. It was well for him that he had kept that fact secret till then, or he would surely have been murdered. The English were not greatly beloved in France in 18 14 and 18 15, nor, for the matter of that, are they now." " And this deposit ? " asked Walter. " Oh, it is nothing of any value. It is only a letter, which Christopher Pughe handed to the village priest on his death-bed, asking him to deliver it to his family, if any inquiries were made about him.

He refused to give the address of his family, or any particulars about himself, beyond the fact that he was an Englishman. My predecessor used, however, to say that, in his opinion, the man had something on his conscience. His end was a miserable one, and he refused to confess himself and receive absolution." " And this letter ? " asked Walter, with rising curiosity. " It has remained here ever since," answered the priest. " No inquiries were ever made about the stranger, nor was any attempt made by the cure to find out the address of his family. In fact, Christopher Pughe had made him promise to take no steps in this direction. As he left no property beyond a sum of money which just sufficed to pay for a decent funeral, and he had no debts, nobody had any reason to make inquiries. And, at that time, one had other cats to whip.

When I came to this parish, fifty-four years ago, my predecessor, in installing me, told me what I have related, and handed me the letter, which is lying where I then placed it, in a little drawer in the strong-box, in which I keep the sacred cups." " I should be very glad to see it," said Walter. The cure invited him to follow him into an adjoining room, where there was, let into the wall, a small safe. Having unlocked this and opened a drawer, he took out a large envelope, sealed with five black seals, and handed it to Walter, saying : " There's a letter which has taken more than seventy-five years to reach its destination. I certainly never thought it would be asked for. However, strange things come to pass." Before opening the packet, Walter carefully examined the superscription, which was written both in English and in French, and ran as follows : — " To be handed to any person inquiring after Christopher Pughe, who died at Capbreton, May 17th, 181 5."

The date was filled in French, and in a different hand-writing. The seals were quite plain, without impress of any kind. "This letter has certainly never been opened since it was first sealed up," said Walter, giving expression to a thought which had entered his head whilst he was examining the envelope. Oh ! of that there is no doubt," said the cure. And I may open it ? You give it to me ? " " Certainly. It's yours by right. You see what is written on the envelope. Besides, you are the representative of the family. And now, sir," continued the cure, " I have half an hour to spare, and, if you like, I will accompany you to the cemetery and show you the Englishman's grave." Thanking the priest for his offer, Walter accompanied him to the cemetery, which, situated about two hundred yards from the village, was surrounded on all sides by pine trees, a solemn and secluded spot.

The grave which they had come to see was in a remote corner, and of the mound no traces remained. Only a small stone cross, over grown with moss, marked where Christopher Pughe so many years ago had hidden his shame. " The initials ' C. P.', and the year are on the cross," said the cure, " but are hidden by the green stuff. At a little cost you could have the grave put in order." Then, extending his hand, he added : " You may wish to be alone. I will leave you, for I have my parishioners. Remember, I count on your presence at mass. Your example will be a good one." Walter grasped the old man's hand and thanked him for his kindness. When he was alone, he sat down on a heap of stones which was piled up at the head of the grave, and with a sharp-edged flint began to scrape away the moss on the cross.

Soon the inscription revealed itself. It was as the cure had said ; there were the two initials and the year, and nothing else. A feeling of pity succeeded in the young man's mind to the curiosity which till then had filled it. It was sad to think of the end of the man who lay in this miserable tomb so many hundreds of miles away from his country and his home. He was the only Pughe who lay out of England, and what made this so sad was that England had renounced him just as his family had cast him off. The priest had said that his end had been a wretched one. Walter could well believe it. To be an Englishman and a Pughe and to die in this lonely place amongst strangers and enemies, well knowing that he had disgraced his country and brought shame on his family, that his name would be a by-word in his own place as long as his memory lasted.

There was a portrait of Uncle Christopher at home, at Milton Hall, which had been painted when he was a lad of ten. It hung in the hall over c the dining-room door, and Walter well remembered how often, as a little boy, he had looked at this picture, as he came down the grand staircase, and had wondered about the handsome little fellow. One day he had asked his father whom the portrait represented, and his father had answered him that the picture hung there, not as a portrait, but as a work of art, that but for its value as such it would long since have been consigned to the lumber-room ; that, as a matter of fact, it was the portrait of his uncle, Christopher, a Pughe who had disgraced his name and his country, and for his eternal punishment lay buried in a foreign land. It had been difficult for Walter to learn much more than this about the Uncle Christopher, save that he had been a wild, scapegrace lad, whose bad conduct, culminating in his disgraceful act of treachery, had broken his mother's heart and had filled his father's old age with sorrow.

Here, then, he lay in a very desolate spot, where the wind was always howling in the pine trees, and the booming of the sea afar off could be heard, and where for memorial of him stood a simple cross and an inscription which meant nothing. During all these years not a glance had been cast upon his abandoned tomb, and not a thought, except of contempt, had been vouchsafed him. After musing in this strain for some minutes, Walter rose from his seat and walked from the churchyard. Having left the keys at the presbytery, he returned to his room in the inn, and sat down at his table to examine the letter which had been given him by the cure. " Perhaps the poor old chap says something to justify himself," he cried as he opened the envelope. It contained a second envelope, also fastened with a seal, and in this envelope was a large folded sheet of coarse writing-paper, on which, in very faded ink, were a few lines of writing.

Both writing and spelling were deplorably bad, and it was some time before Walter could make out the meaning of the document. " I had better make a copy of this," he cried, taking up his pen. " If it means anything — it means a great deal. It would be strange if after all the obloquy we have heaped upon Uncle Christopher, he were to be the means of restoring our family to its former splendour." So taking up a pen, and, drawing a sheet of paper towards him, Walter began to write as follows, copying the faded manuscript before him, but changing the spelling wherever it was incorrect : "Capbreton, December, 18 14. " As I feel that my life cannot now last much longer, though young of age, I am weighed down by shame at the things which I have done and the sorrows which I have caused to my dear mother, I leave this statement to be read by any member of my family who may take sufficient interest in my unhappy self to make inquiries about me.