Time Travel Omnibus, page 312
ON THE journey back through the caverns Clive estimated the distance to be less than two hundred yards. He also discovered that it had taken them only thirty minutes to make the round trip, although it had seemed like days had elapsed in passing through the zone of blue light:
They lost no time in getting back to the truck, and were soon speeding toward town. At first the musketeers showed signs of uneasiness which might have been construed as fear, had it been anyone else, at the “tremendous” speed of the tanker. Soon, however, they became accustomed to the speed, and became as enthusiastic as children over their first ride, even wanting Clive to race a car that had just passed the truck.
Clive’s first stop upon reaching town was at the local clothing store.
“Fix these fellows up with some Levis and shirts and things, George,” he said to the storekeeper. “I’ll be back in about an hour to pick them up. Incidentally, they don’t speak English.” He then called upon the sheriff who informed him that the four horses had gone to the ranch of Bill Price, the breeder of fancy horses, who had asked the sheriff to try to find the owners as he would like to acquire the beautiful animals. Clive couldn’t have asked for better luck, and he soon had closed a deal with the rancher who paid him enough for the horses and their furnishings to completely equip the expedition. The musketeers reluctantly parted with the noble beasts, realizing, however, that it would be impossible to take the horses with them.
The five motorcycles had to be ordered from Las Vegas—to be delivered in the morning—and in the meantime many other preparations had to be made. Clive then purchased five rifles and an equal number of .38 revolvers, and all the ammunition in town that could be used in these firearms. He also purchased a large quantity of hemp rope. His next call was upon the tinsmith, where he had a tin box made in which to pack the firearms, ammunition, and clothing, as well as the picture and priceless documents that d’Artagnan was carrying. Finally he had a sledge built upon which a motorcycle could be firmly mounted.
As a gesture to his own vanity Clive got out the dress saber that had been presented to him as Cadet Colonel of the R.O.T.C. in college, and had the edge honed to razor sharpness. He felt that this weapon might stand him in good stead, since he had been captain of the varsity fencing team in his undergraduate days.
That evening Clive spent several hours in explaining the principle of the operation of the motorcycles and firearms to the musketeers, so that when the motorcycles arrived next morning they required very little coaching.
The last thing Clive did was pack the tin box. In it he placed the firearms and ammunition, as well as their swords, the French clothes of the musketeers, his own R.O.T.C. uniform, a few medical instruments and a first aid kit, a few cans of food, and finally the picture and documents. He then soldered the lid down so that the box was perfectly waterproof, and loaded it upon a truck he had hired for the occasion, along with the sledge, rope, and a number of five-gallon cans of gasoline. They were now ready to start.
THEY found it a fairly simple matter to drive the motorcycles up the stream bed, and the driver of the truck was able to bring the load within a half mile of the waterfall by driving through the water. Here they unloaded the truck, and sent it back to town. They found that they could fasten the sledge behind two of the motorcycles and drag it to the box canyon, together with the cans of gasoline. The tin box was dragged by a third motorcycle while the fourth and fifth brought the large coils of rope.
When they had their equipment all assembled at the waterfall, Clive melted some paraffin that he had brought with him, and applied a generous coat to all parts of the motors that might be injured by water. While he was doing this, Athos, Porthos and Aramis took the end of one of the ropes and started through the cavern. D’Artagnan “fed” the rope out to them as they proceeded, and watched for prearranged jerk signals. He soon received the signal that indicated the others had reached the other end, and he fastened the rope to the sledge at this point. Clive and d’Artagnan then securely clamped one of the motorcycles to the sledge, and fastened another rope to the other end of the sledge. D’Artagnan gave the rope a jerk and in a movement the sledge began moving toward the falls. The two men accompanied this first load as far as the entrance to the cavern, in order to get it started right, and then returned to wait for the signal to pull the empty sledge back.
By late afternoon they had transferred all of the equipment to the French end of the cavern. Clive took a farewell look at the twentieth century landscape, and followed d’Artagnan into the cavern, headed for seventeenth century adventures even wilder than he could imagine.
“Are your friends still out there?” Clive asked, as once again the five men were reunited on the banks of the stream within the cavern.
“Yes, they are still there,” said Athos, “but they are showing signs of restlessness—they don’t make much pretense of hiding themselves, and they have openly changed guard three times today.”
“If it is a fight they are looking for they won’t have to wait much longer,” muttered d’Artagnan.
“Fight you say? Mordieu, I’d fight an army now to get back to the inn for a bite to eat,” said Porthos.
“Fortunately,” said Clive; “you won’t have to fight an army for something to eat, as I brought a few cans along that we can open.” He opened the large tin box, and withdrew the canned food, as well as the clothing he had packed in the box. They were soon dressed, and Clive demonstrated the marvel of the twentieth century, the can-opener, to the wondering musketeers.
“You must truly have some wondrous plants in your country, to grow this kind of fruit,” remarked Porthos as he picked up a can of beans that Clive had just opened. “That’s odd,” he remarked after tasting the contents; “They taste just like beans after you get that hard shell opened. Say—that shell is metal.” This last remark was prompted by a closer scrutiny of the can. The others burst into a roar of laughter that echoed through the cavern like a peal of thunder.
THE sound of their own laughter reminded the musketeers of their indiscretion, and they immediately turned toward the cavern entrance, to see whether the guards outside had heard them.
“I don’t see what you were laughing at,” said Porthos; “and like as not the cardinal’s guards heard you, because they seem to be preparing to attack us.”
“There must be thirty of them out there,” said Aramis.
“A mere handful,” replied d’Artagnan.
“Protect yourselves, Messieurs, they appear to be preparing to fire blindly into the cavern with their muskets, and as you know, fate is a more deadly marksman than the cardinal’s guards,” Athos warned.
As he finished these words a volley of musket shots staccatoed outside, and Clive heard the whine of musket balls uncomfortably near. He quickly distributed the arms that he had brought in the tin box, while the others occupied themselves drying up the excess moisture on the motorcycles.
The guards outside moved up ten paces and fired another volley with their muskets.
“It is du Bois that is leading them,” muttered Aramis, a suggestion of contempt in his voice; “I would know his swaggering form even if he wore a mask, instead of hiding behind his high collar.” Clive could not see that this man swaggered any more than any one of his four companions, and he smiled inwardly.
The guards still advanced, pausing every ten paces to fire a volley blindly into the cavern, while the five men inside were preparing for a rapid departure. They each fastened a five gallon can of gasoline behind the seat, and when the ammunition was divider up among them, each put his allotment in the saddle bags on the motorcycles. They mounted their machines, and just as the guards gained the entrance to the cavern all five motors “took hold” at once. The surprise of the guards was wondrous to see, but none stayed to investigate. Not wishing to be encumbered by any excess baggage they dropped their muskets, hats and a surprising array of personal equipment as they fled for the bushes, the motorcycles right at their heels. Directly in his path, Clive saw a beautiful sword that had been dropped by one of the fleeing guards, and without thinking of any possible consequences he reached down and picked it up as he swept by.
The musketeers were well out of range before any of the guards had recovered his faculties enough to retrieve his musket and fire after the vanishing quarry. The latter were now approaching the outskirts of Amiens, and as they proceeded peasants along the way were deeply impressed. Some of the women became hysterical, others collapsed, still others dropped to their knees and prayed, while the greatest number of people ran until they felt they were safe, and then gazed after the “monsters,” with protruding eyes, and mouths agape. The effect upon domesticated animals along the way was practically universal—they wanted to leave, and without delay.
“Let us stop at the inn and inquire about our lackeys,” shouted Porthos. The others agreed, much to Clive’s surprise, for he knew that the musketeers believed the lackeys to be under arrest by the cardinal’s guards, and the inn would probably be swarming with guards.
FOLLOWING d’Artagnan, they rode their motorcycles right into the main dining hall of the inn. The occupants of the room had scarcely more courage than had the peasants along the road, and in a moment the room was a shambles. In the confusion Clive looked up and saw a uniformed guard on a balcony at the end of the room unlimber a musket and point it in the direction of the musketeers. In true western fashion Clive whipped out his revolver, it spoke twice and on the second shot the guard fell to the floor. Soon other guards had muskets in their hands, and were falling under the poorly aimed but effective revolver shots of the musketeers. Although the guards were seasoned warriors, picked from among the best in France, this onslaught with deadly revolvers was more than a match for their awkward muskets, and they quickly withdrew. This respite for the five men was short-lived, however, for scarcely had the last man vanished through the rear door than a number of guards that had been at another inn charged in the front door with swords drawn. Clive leveled his revolver and pulled the trigger, but he had already fired the sixth shot.
“Your sword,” he heard Athos cry; “defend yourself,” and the musketeer stepped in front of him in time to intercept an onrushing guard, giving Clive a chance to draw his saber.
Clive’s heart was pounding wildly as he stepped in line with the musketeers, and crossed swords with one of the guards; he realized that this time not the reputation of his alma mater, but his own life was at stake, and he tried to calculate his chances of winning against a seasoned swordsman. Much to his own surprise he found himself parrying the thrusts of his opponent, and as he gained confidence he assumed the offensive, while his opponent was forced to fall back to a strictly defensive technique.
“After all,” he told himself; “the art of fencing has had three hundred years to improve itself since this fellow learned how,” and he sprang with double enthusiasm at his opponent. This last thrust disarmed the latter, and before he could recover his sword Clive had picked it up. The guard stood with folded arms:
“Slay me Monsieur, or return my sword, for I will not surrender.”
To Clive this was an awkward situation. He tried to remember from his readings what was done in a case like this. He glanced at his companions, and saw that d’Artagnan and Aramis were each engaging two opponents, and at that moment Athos and Porthos eliminated their men with thrusts through the body. This left one guard apiece for the musketeers, and Clive turned back to his man.
“I hate to do this, brother,” he said in English; “but as the old saying goes, ‘it’s for your own good,” and he floored the guard with a right to the chin. Acting quickly, he reloaded the revolvers of the musketeers, and then taking his rifle from the scabbard that hung on his motorcycle he stood guard over the two doors to the room, while the musketeers completed their business.
Athos was first to dispatch his adversary, and going to the kitchen he dragged the inn-keeper from the floor where he had fallen, trembling, at the beginning of the engagement. Giving him a preliminary shaking he said:
“If you value your beggarly life you will tell what has become of our lackeys.”
“They set out on their horses yesterday, shortly after Monsieur and his companions left.”
“You lie,” said Athos, getting a firmer grip abut the fellow’s throat, and shaking him even more vigorously than before. “Tell me the truth or I shall, see that your head parts company with your body.”
“Mercy, Monsieur, mercy!” groaned the poor fellow. “They said they would kill my little ones.” Athos discontinued the shaking.
“Quick, fool, lead me to our servants or your little ones will lose their father.”
BY THIS time d’Artagnan and Aramis had joined Athos, and the three followed the inn-keeper to the cellar. Clive and Porthos remained in the main dining room of the inn to prevent any further interruptions.
“What sword is that you have so carefully fastened to your machine?” asked Porthos, indicating the sword Clive had picked up as he left the cavern. Clive removed the sword from its improvised scabbard, explaining where he got it. Porthos contemplated the sword for a moment, and then speaking as though to himself:
“Du Bois is very proud of that sword, and perhaps the sword should be proud of its master. Outside of the ranks of the musketeers there isn’t a better swordsman in all France,” and then to Clive: “After the way you conducted yourself in the affair with the guards you will, perhaps, be a match for him.”
“A match for him?”
“Of course, when you present him with his sword. You knew, didn’t you, that what you have done constitutes a challenge to duel?”
“Oh, yes,” Clive said weakly. This was an unexpected turn of events, he had taken the sword more as a college boy prank than for any other reason, and had intended leaving it thrust into a post along the way with a note attached. He knew now that if he was to stay in this country he must fight a duel with du Bois—and win.
Clive’s musings were interrupted by the sound of gunfire coming from the region of the cellar. Porthos immediately sprang toward the cellar door, and Clive was about to follow, but he stopped a moment to listen to the shots. So far only revolver shots had been fired, and he decided that he would be of much greater value guarding the machines and the entrance to the cellar than by mixing in the fight in the crowded basement. This proved to be a wise decision, because the sound of the shooting was attracting considerable attention, and Clive found it necessary to keep the would-be interventionists at bay by means of a few well-placed rifle shots. Between shots he started the motors on all five machines, and in a few moments the sound of firing ceased in the cellar, and almost immediately the sound of heavy boots running up the wooden stairs could be heard.
Four men burst through the cellar door, followed immediately by the musketeers who closed and bolted the door after them, and then made for their respective “mounts.” The lackeys (for it was they who had first appeared) were somewhat bewildered by the machines, and not a little frightened, but at a sign from their masters, and hearing a vigorous pounding coming from the bolted door, they decided the motorcycles were the lesser evil, and mounted ahead of the gasoline can that each machine carried.
It was growing dark when this small, but formidable, group of warriors emerged upon the high road to Paris. The scattering of musket shots that were fired after them, therefore, went wild, and only tended to heighten the spirits of the adventurers. The lackeys soon became accustomed to the “tremendous” speed at which they were traveling, and even began to enjoy the ride, but nevertheless they kept turning around to see if the devil were chasing them to recover his horses.
AS THEY sped through darkened villages lights blinked on in the windows, and looking back the travelers could see lights pour out of houses and dance around like fireflies in the streets. And in those towns there was excited talk about Satan and his legions who had passed through on the way to Paris to wreak vengeance upon the corrupt court. Soon women were found who were possessed of evil spirits, and bells over the countryside began tolling that was to continue all night. Holy men, and women, worked feverishly to cast out the evil spirits, but by morning Satan had taken his toll, and there were many funeral processions in the villages between Amiens and Paris.
Two hours after leaving the inn at Amiens, “Satan’s Legions” entered the heart of Paris. Here they separated, and each made his way to his own quarters. Clive followed Athos, for he apparently was the only one of the musketeers that could furnish adequate lodging—Aramis saying he was expecting a messenger and did not wish to disturb Monsieur Clive, d’Artagnan’s quarters were too small, and Porthos not giving any good excuse. Clive followed Athos, therefore, and as they sped through the practically deserted streets of Paris they evoked almost the same reaction as had occurred on the high road. This was hardly what they wanted, so in order to avoid undue publicity they cut their motors when they turned into the street upon which Athos’ lodgings stood, and coasted to his door. They immediately hustled the machines inside, and closed the door against any prying eyes.
Athos and the lackey were soon asleep, but in spite of the strenuous day Clive was unable to doze off. He lay tossing on his couch, animated by the excitement of the day, and that in prospect. When the first gray blurring of dawn found the one window in the room, Clive pulled a chair up to this seventeenth century facsimile of glass, and attempted to view any activity that might be going on in the street.
“This must be a pretty quiet neighborhood,” he thought. “Looks like it’s deserted.” At that moment he heard a loud pounding coming from the street. Looking in the direction of the sound Clive saw a group of uniformed men standing before the doorway of a house near the intersection where they had cut their motors the preceding night.
“Open up in there!” he heard a voice command. “It’s his Majesty’s Police.” The door was opened by an anxious looking little man who was wearing a night-shirt, and night-cap, and the police entered, pushing him aside. As they disappeared in the doorway, a second group rounded the corner and paused before the door of the next house, where this scene was reenacted.
