Wrath of the Lion

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Fleur de Lys rolled her slim length into the wind, plunging over a wave as water broke across her prow. In the wheelhouse Mallory leaned over the chart table. Behind him the wheel clicked to one side eerily to compensate as the vessel veered to starboard, the automatic pilot in control.

The Admiralty charts he had found in the flat drawers underneath the table were very comprehensive. The one which covered the Pointe du Chateau coastline and the Gironde Marshes told him everything he needed to know.

The door of the saloon companionway swung open and Guyon appeared. He wore a yellow oilskin jacket and carried a large mug of coffee in each hand.

“How are we doing?”

Mallory checked his watch. “Almost noon. Not long now. We’re doing about fifteen knots.”

“I heard the weather forecast on the radio in the galley just before I came up,” Guyon said. “It wasn’t good. Winds increasing and fog indicated in the coastal area.”

“We’re running into it already.”

Mallory drank some of his coffee and Guyon peered through the window. In the distance the fog waited like a damp shroud and heavy grey skies dropped towards the sea. Already the waves were lifting into whitecaps in the northwest.

“How far would you say we’re behind L’Alouette now?” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “Submerged, she only has half our speed. Allowing for the start she had, it’s going to run things a little close.”

He leaned over the chart again. “She’ll have to surface inshore of lie de Yeu before moving into the main creek flowing out of the marshes.”

“What depth is it there?”

Mallory traced its course with a pencil. “Four or five fathoms. Strong tidal currents constantly changing. Not to be relied on. I know what that means. One day there’s a sandbank. The next, six fathoms of clear water. These tidal marshes are all the same.”

“But we could get in with Fleur de Lys?”

“I think so. Probably not as far as the central island where the cottage is. It’s marked on the chart. Half a mile in.”

Guyon straightened and the inimitable wry grin twisted his mouth. “Things might get interesting, eh?”

“I think you could say that.”

Gradually the mist enfolded them until they were running through a strange, enclosed world and Mallory took over the wheel and reduced speed to ten knots. About thirty minutes later they emerged into a patch of clear water and saw the coastline of Pointe du Chateau no more than half a mile to port.

As they approached, a string of rocks and small islands lifted out of the sea, running parallel to the coast, trailing away towards the great hog-back of the lie de Yeu, looming out of the mist in the distance.

Mallory called to Guyon to take over the wheel and went back to the chart. When he straightened, his eyes glittered strangely.

“I think we can save a little time here, but it means taking a chance. L’Alouette will have to use the inshore passage. She has no other choice. This side of lie de Yeu there’s another passage marked between the island and the reef. Three fathoms.”

“We might take the bottom out of her,” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “It’s de Beaumont’s boat, not mine.1

Guyon grinned tightly. “Then I suggest you take the wheel.”

Mallory changed course a point and the young Frenchman went down the saloon companionway. When he returned he carried two lifejackets.

“When I was a child a gypsy woman told my mother I must always beware of water. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but unfortunately my Breton blood says otherwise. I’d hate to prove her right at this stage.”

Mallory changed to the automatic pilot, slipped his arms through the straps of the lifejacket and took over the wheel again. They were running parallel with the islands now and Fleur de Lys rocked in the turbulence, waves slapping solidly against her hull.

Rain hammered against the window, cascading in a sheet which blurred the outlines of all solid objects, adding a strangely dreamlike quality to the whole scene, ile de Yeu was very close and he could see white water boiling in a frenzy across the jagged spine of the reef.

He swung the wheel hard to port. Fleur de Lys shuddered protestingly, a wave slammed against her hull and the deck tilted. Guyon was thrown across the wheelhouse and Mallory fell to one knee. The wheel started to spin, but already his hands were back in position. As he brought her head round she lurched forward towards the narrow band of clear water between the reef and the island.

He gave her everything the engines had to offer and the boat responded magnificently. The passage rushed towards them at a seemingly impossible speed and then they were into it, water crashing across great rocks on either side, white, curling fingers reaching out to enfold them.

All around, boulders were appearing and disappearing, waves foaming over them and Raoul Guyon hung on to the chart table, his face white.

Strange, swirling currents snatched at the rudder and for one agonising moment Fleur de Lys slewed to port. Mallory heaved on the wheel. There was a slight, audible shudder that ran through the entire craft as she slid across a sandbank, and then they were into clear water.

Fog rolled from the land in patches and they could smell the foetid odour of the marshes that was carried towards them on the offshore breeze. Mallory reduced speed and they moved in, the engines rumbling protestingly on a low note.

The marshes drifted out of the fog, dark and sinister, waiting to receive them, and overhead a long wavering skein of geese passed like wind-blown spirits of the dead. Long, narrow sandbanks lifted out of the water and, landward, miles of rough grass marsh, a maze of creeks, waterlogged mud and wavering barriers of reeds.

They turned the end of a long sandbar and the mouth of the creek opened before them. Guyon leaned forward with a cry of alarm. Squatting just inside the entrance like some land-blown whale was L’Alouette, her grey-black plates shining with moisture. Fenelon stood in the conning tower with Jacaud and below three sailors were fitting an outboard motor to the stern of a large rubber dinghy.

Mallory took Fleur de Lys forward in a surge of power, her bow wave cascading across the hull of the submarine, knocking one of the sailors into the water. There was a startled cry and as they passed there was no more than ten feet between them. Mallory was aware of the shocked dismay on Feelings face, of Jacaud frowning in disbelief, and then they were through and safe in the fog.

He reduced speed to five knots and opened the window. Fog was sucked in, sharp and cold, the taste of it bitter as death. He strained his eyes into the gloom, watching the reeds drift by. A few minutes later they slid gently to a halt with a slight jar.

Mallory quickly reversed the engines. For a moment nothing seemed to be happening and then quite suddenly Fleur de Lys slid backwards.

“That settles that,” he said. “We obviously aren’t going to get any further.”

He cut the engines, went out on deck and climbed on top of the wheelhouse. The reeds were very thick at this point, but to the left was a small lagoon, circular in shape and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter.

He pointed to it as Guyon scrambled up beside him. “Our one chance.”

He jumped to the deck, went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. As they rumbled into life he spun the wheel and crashed the boat into the reeds as she gathered speed.

For a moment they seemed an impenetrable barrier and then they slowly parted and Fleur de Lys passed through into the lagoon. Mallory cut the engines and she moved slowly to the far end and came to a halt, her prow grounding gently against a sandbank.

“No time to waste,” he said. “One of us stays with the boat. The other goes for Granville and his wife.”

“That had better be me,” Guyon said. “We have mutual acquaintances. I think he would trust me.”

Mallory pulled the chart forward. “You’ll do better by going on foot and swimming the intervening channels.” He opened a drawer and produced a pocket compass. “Keep due west and you can’t miss the central island. About a quarter of a mile away.”

“Getting Granville back here might be difficult,” Guyon said. “He’s an old man.”

“But used to these marshes. That’s why he comes here, remember. You’ll have to make out the best way you can.” Mallory produced the revolver he had taken from the young sailor at the castle and held it out. “Not much, but better than nothing.”

Guyon pushed it into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and went out on deck quickly. He jumped from the prow to the sandbank and plunged into the reeds.

Mallory lit a cigarette and stood on deck in the quiet rain. Perhaps five minutes later he heard the sound of an outboard motor passing along the main channel. It moved into the distance, muffled by the fog, and then there was only silence.

As Guyon went through the reeds a curlew whistled hauntingly somewhere to the left and wildfowl called as they lifted from the water, disturbed by his passing. He came out on higher ground, checked the compass and ran forward, alone in a land of shining mudflats, lonely creeks and everywhere the reeds.

He came to the end of solid ground and waded across a narrow creek, his feet sinking into soft mud. He could taste the salt on his lips and it stung his eyes painfully, but he kept on moving, pushing through the reeds into the grey shroud.

Gradually the ground became firmer again until he was able to run across sand and coarse marsh-grass. A few moments later he stood on the banks of a shallow lake and the house loomed out of the fog on its island fifty yards away.

The evil, scum-covered waters reached out to meet him as he moved forward, and he took out the revolver and held it above his head. It was not likely that the water would affect it, but there was no point in taking chances.

It was surprisingly easy going, the mud giving way to hard sand, and he was soon moving up on to dry land again. As he ran towards the single-storeyed house a narrow wooden jetty loomed out of the fog and he paused abruptly. No boat was moored there, not even a marsh punt. He stood there, a frown on his face, considering the fact, then turned and went towards the house.

He could smell wood smoke and saw it lifting in a blue tracer from the rough stone chimney. He went up rickety wooden steps to the porch, opened the door and went in.

The room was furnished simply but comfortably, loose 160 rugs scattered across the polished wooden floor. There were several bookcases, all filled, a sofa and two easy chairs in front of the fireplace.

Logs smouldered fitfully on the stone hearth, heavily banked with ashes that they might not burn too quickly. They told Guyon all he needed to know. Henri Granville and his wife were not there. But, then, they should have always counted on that as a possibility.

Ornithology was the old man’s great hobby. He had even written a book on the subject. It was quite obvious that at this moment he and his wife were sitting in their boat somewhere among the reeds which covered so many square miles of the marshes, probably even in some bird-hide since dawn taking photos.

He moved outside and went down to the jetty. Faintly, through the mist, came the sound of an outboard motor. Jacaud and his men. For them the solution would be obvious. They would simply wait for Granville to put in an appearance. No need even to go looking for him.

There was only one answer to the problem and Guyon waded into the lake and pushed towards the other side. He moved up on to high ground and ran along the shore towards the sound of the motor.

In spite of the clammy cold of the marshes sweat trickled from Feelings armpits. Ever since that first moment of shock when Fleur de Lys had passed them in the mouth of the estuary he had felt sick and frightened. And then de Beaumont’s message over the radio, the mind numbing as the operator decoded it.

The message was quite plain. Under the circumstances they were to return at once. But that hadn’t been good enough for Jacaud. He had insisted on going on into the marsh and Fenelon had wilted under his cold fury.

The reeds lifted like pale ghosts on either hand, the only sound the steady rattle of the outboard motor. He sat in the stern at the tiller, two sailors in the centre with rifles. Jacaud sat on the edge of the rounded prow, his sub-machine-gun slung around his neck as he gazed into the fog like some great bird of prey.

He turned, his granite, brutal face running with moisture. “We must be almost there. Cut the motor. We’ll start paddling.”

“You’re wasting your time, Jacaud,” Guyon called gaily. “I beat you to it. By now Henri Granville and his wife are well on their way out of here.”

As the dinghy drifted forward, a sandbank reached out from the reeds like a pointing finger. Guyon stood on a small hillock at the far end. His hand swung up and he fired twice. One of the sailors groaned and went over the side, still clutching his rifle.

Jacaud slipped the sub-machine-gun over his head. It came up in a long, stuttering burst of fire, slicing through the reeds. He was too late. Guyon had disappeared like a ghost into the fog. He laughed mockingly somewhere near at hand and then there was silence.

The remaining sailor leaned over the side to pull in his comrade. Jacaud turned and struck up his arm. “Leave him. We haven’t time.”

The sailor recoiled from the killing fury, the devil’s face that confronted him. The curious thing was that when Jacaud spoke his voice was quite calm.

“Back to L'Alouette and give that motor everything it’s got. Mallory’s got to return to lie de Roc. He’s no choice. His girl-friend’s still there. If we’re lucky we can catch them on their way out to sea.”

To Mallory the rattle of gunfire in the distance was like a physical blow and he walked the deck in impotent fury, hoping desperately that whatever had gone wrong Guyon had been able to handle it. Perhaps ten minutes later he heard the sound of the outboard motor returning along the creek. He stood very still, one foot on the rail, listening as it passed downstream.

He clambered on top of the wheelhouse and looked towards the west, straining into the fog. It was a good fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of brent geese calling bitterly as they lifted from the reeds. As the beating of their wings subsided, he was aware of movement towards the left.

He took a chance, cupped his hands and called: “Raoul! Over here!”

A couple of minutes later Guyon emerged from the fog and stumbled across the sandbank. Mallory ran to the prow and hauled him on board. Guyon was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold, his face pale and drawn.

“Have they passed yet?”

Mallory nodded. “What happened?”

Guyon explained briefly, shivering repeatedly as the wind cut through his damp clothes. “What do we do now?”

“Get to hell out of here and fast,” Mallory said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken Jacaud will wait for us at the estuary. If we can get down there fast enough we might stand a chance of getting out to sea before they’re ready.”

“And back to lie de Roc?”

“That’s the general idea. You’d better go below. Find yourself some dry clothes and a drink. I’ll get things moving up here.1

He went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. When he put them into reverse Fleur de Lys parted easily from the soft mud and he swung the wheel hard over, bringing her prow round until she pointed towards the wall of reeds that barred them from the creek.

He took her forward with a burst of speed, repeating his earlier manoeuvre. Once again it proved successful. The reeds parted protestingly and the boat burst into the creek. He turned the wheel to starboard and she swung round, grazing the mud of the opposite bank.

He took her downstream slowly, the engines a murmur in the rain. Guyon came up from the saloon wearing khaki slacks, rubber boots and a heavy- white sweater with a turtle collar. In one hand he carried a bottle of brandy, in the other a tin mug.

“How do you feel?” Mallory said.,

Guyon grinned and held up the brandy. “How would you expect? It’s Gourvoisier. Like some?”

“I certainly would.”

Mallory took the brandy down in two quick gulps. As a warm glow started to seep through his entire body he took out the packet of Gauloise that Marcel had given them and threw them to Guyon.

“Better have one while the going’s good. Things might get pretty warm within the next ten minutes.”

He took one himself and opened the window of the wheelhouse. Rain kicked into his face and there was a slight wind blowing in from the sea across the marshes, lifting the fog into weird shapes.

Visibility was down to thirty or forty yards, but the reeds were beginning to drop back and the channel widened perceptibly. The water lifted in long swelling ripples and waves kicked against the bottom of the boat. They were almost there now and as a curving sandbank appeared a few yards to port he cut the engines and the current carried them in. There was a slight shudder and they stopped.

“What’s the idea?” Guyon asked.

“I’d like to know what the opposition are up to. You stay • here. I shanty be long.”

Mallory jumped to the sandbank, landing knee-deep in water, waded out and followed its length into the fog until he could no longer see Fleur de Lys. A few minutes later he stood at the end, water splashing in across the sand, and looked out towards He de Yeu. There was no sign of L’Alouette and he turned and ran back the way he had come, splashing through the shallows as the tide began to lift over the sandbank.

Fleur de Lys was already swinging out into the deepening channel and he took Guymon’s proffered hand and scrambled over the rail.

“Not a sign of them. As far as I’m concerned I’m going to give her everything she’s got and head out to sea. They’ll have to come up with something pretty good to stop us.”

He went into the wheelhouse, started the engines and reversed into the channel. Visibility was becoming rather better as the fog lifted and Fleur de Lys roared down the centre of the channel, her bow wave surging across the water on either side.

The mouth of the estuary appeared, clear and open to the sea, and Mallory swung the wheel to port to negotiate the great sandbank fifty yards beyond the entrance. As they turned the point, the current pushing against them, they found L’Alouette waiting.

Jacaud was in the conning tower, a heavy machine-gun mounted on a swivel pin. The moment they came into view he started to fire. Bullets swept across the deck and Mallory ducked as glass shattered in the wheelhouse.

Guyon crouched in the doorway, resting the revolver across one raised arm, trying for a steady shot, but it was impossible. As bullets hammered into their hull, Mallory spun the wheel and the young Frenchman lost his balance.

It was the fog which saved them, a long, solid bank rolling in across the reef before the wind, and it swallowed them in an instant. Guyon picked himself up and stood listening to the impotent chatter of the machine-gun as Jacaud continued to fire. After a while there was silence.

He turned to face Mallory, his breath easing out in a long sigh. “I’d say that called for another drink.”

As they emerged from the fog-bank, Mallory took them out to sea, giving the engines full power. He turned with a grin. “Nothing wrong there, thank God.”

Guyon went into the saloon and returned with the Courvoisier. “He’s made one hell of a mess down there. Holes all over the place. I don’t think de Beaumont will be pleased.”

Mallory swallowed some of his brandy and lit a cigarette. “We’ll find out about that soon enough.”

Guyon went into the saloon and Mallory inhaled deeply on his cigarette with a conscious pleasure. Everything was going to be all right, he was certain of that. Sometimes one got these feelings. The wind had freshened even more and spray spattered against the shattered windows of the wheel-house. He pulled down the helmsman’s seat and sat.

Some time later Guyon came in with sandwiches and hot coffee and Mallory switched to the automatic pilot. “Want me to take over?” Guyon asked.

Mallory shook his head. “In these conditions it should only take us two hours at the most to get there.”

It was perhaps half an hour later that he became aware that they were slowing perceptibly. His attempts to adjust the controls met with no success and he switched to automatic pilot and went below.

Guyon was lying on one of the saloon divans, his head on his hands, eyes closed. As Mallory entered, he opened them and sat up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“God knows,” Mallory said, “but we’re losing speed badly and she isn’t answering to the wheel like she should."

The Fleur de Lys heeled to starboard and there was a great rushing of water beneath their feet. He dropped to one knee, pulled back the carpet and peered inside. When he looked up his face was grave.

“There must be two dozen bullet holes along the waterline. We’re leaking like a sieve. No wonder the damned thing’s slowed down.”

They went on deck quickly and into the wheelhouse. The electric pump was housed in a cupboard in one corner and the condition of the doors, splintered by bullets, told him what he would find.

He surveyed the smashed and twisted metal briefly, then turned, his face grim. “You’ll find a hand-pump aft of the main engine housing. Do the best you can with that. Stick it as long as you can and I’ll spell you.”

“I see,” Raoul Guyon said. “Things look bad, eh?”

“Only if L’Alouette catches us in this condition,” Mallory said grimly.

Guyon moved out along the deck without a word and a moment later Mallory became aware of the harsh, rhythmic clangour of the hand-pump. He looked out of the window at the brownish-white stream of water gushing across the deck, took over the wheel and waited for Fleur de Lys to lighten.