The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard - How the Brigadier Held the King Part 2

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Part II of Chapter III of The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The man whom I had injured had been carried in and placed upon the top of a barrel, his helpless legs dangling about in front of him, and his cat's eyes still darting glances of hatred at me. I understood, from the snatches of talk which I could follow between the Chief and him, that he was the lieutenant of the band, and that part of his duties was to lie in wait with his smooth tongue and his peaceful garb for travellers like myself. When I thought of how many gallant officers may have been lured to their death by this monster of hypocrisy, it gave me a glow of pleasure to think that I had bought his villainies to an end, though I feared it would be at a price of a life which neither the Emperor nor the Army could well spare.
As the injured man still supported upon the barrel by two comrades, was explaining in Spanish all that had befallen him, I was held by several of the villains in front of the table at which the chief was seated, and had an excellent opportunity of observing him.
I have seldom seen any man who was less like my idea of a brigand, and especially of a brigand with such a reputation that in a land of cruelty he had earned so dark a nickname. His face was bluff and broad and bland, with ruddy cheeks and comfortable little tufts of side whiskers, which gave him the appearance of a well-to-do grocer at the Rue Saint-Antoine. He had not any of those flaring sashes or gleaming weapons which distinguished his followers, but on the contrary he wore a good broad cloth coat like a respectable father of a family, and save for his brown leggings there was nothing to indicate a life among the mountains. His surroundings too corresponded with himself, and beside his snuff box upon the table there stood a great brown book which looked like a commercial ledger. Many other books were ranged along a plank between two powder casks, and there was a great litter of papers, some of which had verses scribbled upon them. All this I took in while he, leaning indolently back in his chair, was listening to the report of his lieutenant. Having heard everything, he ordered the cripple to be carried out again, and I was left with my three guards waiting to hear my fate. He took up his pen and, tapping his forehead with the handle of it, he pursed up his lips and looked out of the corner of his eyes at the roof of the grotto. I suppose, said he at last, speaking very excellent French, that you are not able to suggest a rhyme for the word covilla? I answered him that my acquaintance with the Spanish language was so limited that I was unable to oblige him. It is a rich language, said he, but less prolific in rhymes than either the German or the English. That is why our best work has been done in blank verse, a form of composition which is capable of reaching great heights. But I fear that such subjects are somewhat outside the range of a hussar. I was about to answer that if they were good enough for a gorilla, they could not be too much for the light cavalry. But he was already stooping over his half-finished verse. Presently he threw down the pen with an exclamation of satisfaction and declaimed a few lines which drew a cry of approval from the three ruffians who held me. His broad face blushed like a young girl who receives her first compliment. The critics are in my favour, it appears, said he. We amuse ourselves in our long evenings by singing our own ballads, you understand. I have some little facility in that direction, and I do not at all despair of seeing some of my poor efforts in print before long, and with Madrid upon the title page, too. But we must get back to business. May I ask what your name is? Etienne Gerard. Rank. Colonel. Corpse. The third hussars of Conflan. You are young for a Colonel. My career has been an eventful one. Tuts, that makes it the sadder, said he, with his bland smile.
I made no answer to that, but I tried to show him by my bearing that I was ready for the worst which could befall me. By the way, I rather fancy that we have had some of your corpse here, said he, turning over the pages of his big brown register. We endeavour to keep a record of our operations. Here is a heading under June 24th. Have you not a young officer named Suburron? A tall, slight youth with light hair? Certainly. I see that we buried him upon that date. Poor lad! I cried. And how did he die? We buried him. But before you buried him? You misunderstand me, Colonel. He was not dead before we buried him. You buried him alive? For a moment, I was too stunned to act. Then I hurled myself upon the man, as he sat with that placid smile of his upon his lips, and I would have torn his throat out had the three wretches not dragged me away from him. Again and again, I made for him, panting and cursing, shaking off this man and that, straining and wrenching, but never quite free. At last, with my jacket torn nearly off my back and blood dripping from my wrists, I was hauled backwards in the bite of a rope, and cords passed round my ankles and my arms.