CHAPTER ONE
THE VALLEY OF THE GOLO
IN the glimmer of early dawn, the big boat swung slowly into the harbour. Under the lightening sky the steel grey waters changed to steel blue; and the dark mysterious land smiled into friendliness. The grey cubes piled against the mountain brightened into tall houses still locked in sleep. Presently, with a fore-glow of citron, the clear rim of the sun cut the sea-line; and the sea became jade green. The air was diamond pure; the mountains took on colour; and Bastia awakened to another careless day.
High caserne-like houses, massive-walled and stucco-fronted; shabby shops half a century behind the times; mustiness and age; cigarettes, vendetta knives, and goat-flesh,—these were some of Hugh’s first impressions of Bastia.
He found a room in a tall hotel near the upper end of the town. It had vast rambling corridors with many doors, none of which were numbered, and to find his room he had to count each time the doorways from the head of the staircase. The interiors of all the rooms were alike in their simplicity. Each had high yellow walls, and a ceiling painted with a design of flowers and fruit, a bed, a commode with water-jug, two cane bottomed chairs.
Bastia soon bored Hugh. It’s streets seemed gloomy and sordid, its people sunk in tradition. There was nothing to do. The first morning he wandered up and down buying the numerous brands of local cigarettes. In the afternoon he craved a cup of tea, but it seemed to be unknown. Finally at a big café he found a brew which tasted like tisane. A single gulp sufficed.
At his hotel the food was very bad. The place was run on casual lines by a family of Corsicans, swarthy, hairy, oily, with a suavity that signified nothing. At his special request they procured him butter, but it looked so much like axle-grease that he did not have the courage to discover what it tasted like. At dinner he had a ragout of very young lamb that tasted quite good, until the smallness of the bones suggested to him that the lamb had been still-born, then he ate no more.
In his overwhelming loneliness he thought that he would write to Margot. He went to the so-called salon, dipped a rusted pen hopefully into a dusty ink-bottle. Alas! it was dry. Discouraged, he rose and sought the streets again. A few cheap cinemas were open, the bills displaying cowboy pictures,—strong, silent, wooden-faced men and romping, sunny-haired heroines. The streets were badly lighted and suggested nocturnal adventure; but the frequent display of the vendetta knife in the shop windows was an incentive towards virtue. He found a big, dingy café, and, ordering a liqueur, fell to sampling one after another the various brands of cigarettes he had purchased. He was abysmally bored. Bastia was the finest place in the world, he decided, to pass through without stopping.
Then he went home to his hotel. Sitting on his bed in the candlelight, he read his little guide-book. Suddenly he had an idea. He was fit, foot-loose, free,—why not walk across the island? Yes, that was it. He would tramp from Bastia to Agaccio.
Next morning he bought a small, cheap valise and packed in it the few clothes he needed, also his sketching materials, as he might want to make some colour notes on the way. He planned to take about a fortnight to the trip, jogging along easily, studying the people, perhaps fishing a little, and generally enjoying himself.
This cheerful prospect reconciled him to another day in Bastia. He made the acquaintance of a tourist party that were stopping at his hotel. They were nearly all women, and their great subject of conversation was not the beauties of the island but Food,—the feasts that awaited them of fresh trout, black-birds and passionate pink wine.
“Ah! you are English!” said a vivacious French girl to Hugh. “There are so many English in Corsica, very aristocratic English. They have been coming here for years, and seem to think they have discovered the place. They rather resent us ordinary tourists. There is another Englishman in the hotel. Perhaps you have seen him. He has the room next to yours. Or he may be an American, he is so tall and clean-shaven, and he wears those funny big round tortoise-shell spectacles. They make people look like owls, I think. Do you know him? I ask because he seems so quiet, so retiring. I am quite curious about him.”
“No, I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been near my room all day. If I see him I’ll speak to him, and allay your curiosity about him.”
That evening he passed the tall man in the gloom of the corridor. Hugh was about to accost him when the man brushed past him and disappeared hurriedly into his room.
“Can’t be an American, after all,” thought Hugh, “or he’d be more sociable. I’ll look up his name in the register.”
When he did look it up, he found it was Wilbur P. Hoffmann, Jersey City; that settled it.
The next morning, before starting out, he sought the proprietor of the library where he had bought his guide-book, and inquired the best road for his journey.
“But, monsieur,” said the man, “it would be better to take the train to Cassamozza; it is very flat and uninteresting as far as that. There the mountains begin, and you go up the valley of the Golo. The train starts in half an hour. You have just time to catch it, if you hurry.”
The idea was a good one. Hugh hurried back to the hotel, leaped up the two flights of stairs and burst into his room. He grabbed his valise, which he had packed before going out, and rushed down into the street. Within ten minutes he was seated in the train.
The first class carriage in which he found himself was very small and very dirty. He had to rub the windowpane with a newspaper in order to see out. On the walls of the compartment were advertisements of the wine of Cap Corse, a local apéritif, and a liquor called Cederatine. There were three other passengers in the carriage, a fat, spectacled man and two thin, spectacled women. From their accent he thought they were German at first, but later decided they were Dutch. They did not interest him. When the train started he turned his attention to the scenery. A green level stretched away to brown marshes that in turn yielded to the grey of the sea. At the tiny stations, sheltered by eucalyptus trees, peasants laden with baskets got in and out. Hugh attached a strap to the rings of his valise so that he could sling it from his shoulder. He had packed it with bread, cheese and fruit, a tin billy and a packet of tea.
He had decided to walk for two hours after reaching Cassamozza, then lunch in the open, so that it was with a sense of cheerful adventure that he descended at the little station and started out on his long tramp. How hot the way was! As he strode up the valley of the Golo the sun was scorching, the road a dazzling white; below him was a furious torrent, now dashing in dazzling foam amid great boulders, now swirling greenly in gravelly pools. It delighted him; it was so pure, so wild, so free. There was the maquis, too. It rose on either hand, clothing the mountain sides with rich dark green. It was pathless, dense, the best cover in the world. Here in the old days bandits had defied the forces of law and order; but now, doubtless, they were all dead.
With every step he realized more and more that he was advancing into the land of legend and history. He passed a hoary shepherd, who might have stepped from the pages of romance. The old man had a long beard and was dressed in brown corduroy. On his head he wore a picturesque beret, and strapped to his back was a huge blue umbrella and a gun. He was leaning motionless on his long staff, gazing over a flock of black-haired sheep that mottled the hillside. Hugh felt the poetry of it—the mountains soaring to meet the sky, the white torrent roaring in his ears, the solitary shepherd, white-bearded as a patriarch of old.
He was becoming hungry, furiously hungry, and he thought with joy of the simple fare tucked away in his valise. He climbed down to the river, and in the shadow of a great rock made a cheerful fire of driftwood. Now for the tea. Confound it! What was the matter with his valise? His key refused to turn in the lock.
“That is the worst of these cheap bags,” he complained; “the key always jams when you are in a devil of a hurry.”
He was ravenously hungry. His mouth watered even at the thought of bread and cheese. Damn the thing! It was a pity to break the lock but there seemed no help for it. Another effort. There, it was yielding. Bravo! it had suddenly burst open.... Good God!
He stared blankly at what he saw. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, he was not dreaming, he was not mad ... they were there, dozens of them ... packets tightly tied, neatly arranged, numbered.... Thousand franc bank-notes. There seemed to be a hundred to a packet, and there were twenty-eight packets. Nearly three million francs! What could it all mean? Still staring at the wealth in his possession, he sat down and tried to think. The Golo roared in his ears. Between two grim grey boulders it crashed; it swirled and eddied into a great green pool. In those pure depths could be seen the darting shadows of trout.
Three million francs!
He breathed the perfume of the maquis. He saw it carpeting the broad valley, rising to the mountain ridges that met the sky. Yonder like a carved figure the patriarchal shepherd stood motionless by his flock. It was like a dream.
Three million francs.
Yes, there they were in that little valise. He looked closely at it; it was not his valise. It was quite different from the one he had bought, bigger and finer! He had taken it by mistake. How could he have made such a blunder? It had been in his room.... Or had it been in his room? Ah! that was it. In his furious hurry to catch the train he must have entered the wrong room.... But whose? Why, whose but the tall American’s; Wilbur P. Hoffmann’s. Now he was getting at it. He had rushed into the room adjoining his and carried away the American’s valise. It was not such a strange thing to do, after all. The rooms were all alike, the doors unnumbered. He had not examined particularly his valise when he had bought it; and it was little wonder that he had not noticed the difference. Yes, he had carried away another man’s valise containing nearly three million francs. What should he do with it? Go back to Cassamozza and telegraph, of course! The tall American must be in a devil of a stew. But what was Wilbur P. Hoffmann doing packing three million francs around in a hand valise? It was a rum affair....
Hugh realized suddenly his own position. It was dangerous to be carrying such a treasure in this wild, primitive country. Few men would hesitate to kill him to gain possession of it. Even now some one might be watching him. Half fearfully he looked around. Then he closed the valise with a snap. Some one was watching him. It was a peasant lad who had bobbed up from the other side of the big boulder.
“Hullo,” said Hugh.
The lad drew nearer. He carried a long cane fishing-rod and had a canvas wallet slung at his back. He wore an old army tunic on which was sewn the yellow ribband of the military medal. He also limped badly. His age was about that of Hugh, and his face was olive tinted and bold featured.
“How is the fishing?”
“Not bad, monsieur. A little too clear. Still, look....”
Opening his satchel he showed Hugh four fine trout. Suddenly Hugh remembered that he was hungry.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve walked from Cassamozza, and I’ve forgotten to bring anything to eat. I’m dying of hunger. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to cook these?”
“Nothing easier, monsieur. I generally cook a fish or two for lunch. See....”
He took from his wallet a small frying-pan and a bottle of olive oil.
“Already you have a fire made. We will cook these in no time, and you will see how nice they will be.”
He soon had the fish simmering on the fire. He produced a piece of coarse bread and even some salt. When the fishes were cooked Hugh laid them on a flat stone. He ate with his hands, stripping the bones with his fingers. What matter! There was lots of water to wash in afterwards, all the Golo a giant finger-bowl at his feet. He had never tasted fish quite so delicious.
“There! I feel better,” he said at last. “Now for a good drink at the river and a smoke.”
He produced cigarettes and the two smoked comfortably.
“Been at the War?” asked Hugh.
“Yes,” said the lad. “Verdun. I got wounded in the leg there. It still bothers me. Two of my brothers were killed. There’s not a family here but lost some one. You know we Corsicans are brave. There were no braver men in the French army than our regiments. But they don’t like the Corsicans in France. The French generals sacrificed us.”
He shook his head sadly.
“Ah! poor Corsica. It is the forgotten island. So rich, yet so neglected. We are supposed to be savage, but there is no people so kindly. But we are poor, oh, so poor. Look at me. I have not a sou. And I will always be like this, poor, ragged, ignorant. It is hard.”
“What would you do if you had ... say three million francs?”
“Ah, monsieur, you jest. That is all the money in the world. Why, I would buy my old mother the cottage she lives in; then I would go to Paris and get an education. I would live like a fine gentleman. Ah! Paris. I was there once. What a time I had! I shall never forget it. Well, now I must catch some more fish for our supper this night.”
Hugh tried to give him a bill for five francs, but the lad drew back proudly.
“No, monsieur, we are a hospitable people. We do what little we can to make the stranger welcome. I thank you, but I can accept nothing.” He limped away in his rags and Hugh did not see him again.
Once more Hugh climbed to the road. He would go on, he decided, to the next station and telegraph there. What a beastly nuisance! He would have to return to Bastia. That American, who was he? Even in that brief moment in the corridor there had been something vaguely familiar about him. What if he were a criminal fleeing from justice! What if.... Good Heavens!... Hugh stopped short as the great idea flashed on him. Could it be?... Could it be that Wilbur P. Hoffmann was....
He tore open the valise again, and fell to examining the notes. Some pencil markings confirmed his suspicion.... Was it Doctor Bergius? Absurd! Yet why not? Doctor Bergius with his beard shaved off, his head cropped, would not look very unlike Wilbur P. Hoffmann. He had noticed, even in the obscurity, the man’s large, beak-like nose. Conviction grew on him. Yes, the tall American was Doctor Bergius. Here now was a pretty mess. What was he to do? The Casino had been robbed of three million francs. He was alone with the booty in the savage heart of Corsica; he could not return it to the robbers, and to return it to the Casino ... hum! That didn’t quite appeal to him either. He had not much sympathy with the Casino. They could well afford to lose it. It would be better to hand it over to some deserving charity. In the meantime what was to be done? He could not carry the stuff round. He must dispose of it for the moment. That was it. He would hide it. He had been hearing for some time, as he walked, the roar of a great waterfall, and saw it about three hundred yards further on at the head of a very wild and solitary gorge. Climbing over the rocks, he reached the base of the cliff where the white shaft of water plunged into a deep pool. He found that the rock over which it fell shelved back into a low cave. He crawled in; it was quite dry. He took out the bundles of bank-notes, and wrapping them in his waterproof coat, bound the parcel tightly with stout cord. Then he crawled still further into the cave and jammed it into a fissure of the rock.
“There! It’s safe,” he said. “It can remain in that cleft a thousand years and no one will find it.”
He crawled out cautiously, and, after reconnoitring to see that no one had observed him, continued on his way.