Wrath of the Lion

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

the oars dipped and rose and Mallory pulled with all his strength, but his arms were tired and already there was a blister in one palm from a splinter in the rough handles.

It was more than an hour since Fleur de Lys had gone down and he had rowed steadily for most of that time, making little progress. The fog still hung low over the water in long, wraithlike patches. On one occasion he seemed to hear a faint cry. When he looked back there was a brief flash of yellow on top of a wave as one of the submarine’s rubber dinghies was swept out to sea.

After a while he stopped and rested on the oais. lie de Roc was still half a mile away and it was quite obvious that the run of the tide was sweeping him on a parallel course with the island that would eventually take him out to sea.

Even if he fetched up in the steamer lane that ran up-Channel from Ushant it would be dark in another hour. He was under no illusions about his ability to survive a night in the Channel in such a frail craft.

There were two good doubles left in the bottle of Courvoisier. He took them down slowly and tossed the empty bottle into the sea. As a thin rain drifted down on the wind he reached for the oars and started to row again.

The freshening wind dispelled the last traces of fog and an ugly chop formed on the water. He pulled steadily, staring into the gathering twilight, his mind a blank, everything he had of brain and muscle concentrated on his impossible task.

When he paused twenty minutes later and looked over his shoulder he saw to his astonishment that he was now quite close to the island. There was a slapping sound against the keel of the dinghy and it swung round, swirling past a long finger of rock, moving in fast, caught by some inshore current.

He bent to the oars with renewed vigour, forgetting the pain in his right hand, the blood that dripped steadily down. The current helped, carrying him closer inshore every minute. The waves were higher now as they pounded in over the rocks and water started to slop across the dinghy’s stern.

He heaved on the oars, trying to keep her head round, but it was too much for him. He let them go, knelt in the bottom and waited, holding on with both hands.

The cliffs were very close now, the surf white as it crashed in across the narrow beach, breaking over ledges of rock. Behind Mallory a great, heaving swell rolled in, gathering momentum, sweeping him in before it. A sudden rending crash jarred his spine. Water foamed around, spray lifting high into the air. The dinghy ground forward across jagged rocks, her boards splintering, and came to a halt, the prow wedged into a crevasse.

Mallory hung on, and as the sea receded with a great sucking noise he scrambled out of the dinghy and stumbled across the final line of rocks. A moment later he was safe on the strip of beach at the base of the cliffs.

He sat down, holding his head in his hands, and the world spun away. The taste of the sea was in his throat and he retched, bringing up a quantity of salt-water.

After a while he got to his feet and turned to examine the cliffs behind. They were no more than seventy or eighty feet high and sloped gently backwards, cracked and fissured by great gullies.

It was an easy enough climb and he scrambled over the edge a few minutes later and turned to look out to sea. The fog had disappeared completely now, but darkness was falling fast and the moon was already rising above the horizon.

He hurried through the wet grass, following the slope in a gentle curve that brought him over the edge of the hill ten minutes later on the far side of the harbour from the Grants” house.

The cove looked strangely deserted, no smoke rising from the chimney of the hotel. He was aware of Guymon’s launch, of the shooting brake tilted against a rock, the long skid-marks trailing back up the grassy slope to the road. He went down the slope on the run.

He \walked round to the front of the hotel, calling loudly without receiving any reply. When he opened the door and stepped into the bar he was already prepared for something out of the ordinary, some evidence of a struggle at least.

Jagbir and Juliette Vincente still crouched together by the bar, a pool of dried blood spreading into the rush matting.

It was very quiet, too quiet, and for a moment Mallory seemed to hear the sea roaring in his ears and there was an element of unreality to it all. It was as if none of this were really happening, and he turned and stumbled outside.

He wasted five minutes in going down to the jetty in the forlorn hope that Guymon’s launch might be seaworthy. It was almost completely dark when he breasted the hill and trotted towards the Grants” house.

He went in through the kitchen and quiet enveloped him, that strange, secret stillness a house wraps about itself when no one is there, and an overwhelming loneliness surged through him.

He spoke aloud, his voice hoarse and broken: “Anne?”

But only the house listened to him and the quiet ones. He stumbled into the sitting-room, opened the cabinet and poured himself a brandy. He stood there, sipping it quietly, remembering her here by the fireside in the soft lamplight a thousand years ago.

The darkness seemed to move in on him with a strange whispering, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting the panic, the despair which rose inside him. The moment passed. He put down the glass and went out through the French windows.

The moon was clear and very bright, stars strung away to the horizon. When he topped the hill on the western side of the island St. Pierre and the castle were etched out of black cardboard, breathtakingly beautiful like something from a child’s fairy-tale.

Beneath him the tide was already on the turn, white water breaking across the great reef, rocks thrusting their heads into the moonlight. Minute by minute the water would continue to drop until for one brief hour a jagged causeway linked the two islands. One hour only and then the tide would come roaring in. But there was no point in thinking about that. Such had been his haste since landing from the dinghy that he had not even had time to rid himself of his lifejacket. He touched it mechanically, moved along the cliffs till he came to a sloping ravine that slanted to the beach below, and started down.

Marcel unbolted the heavy door and de Beaumont moved inside. There was no window, but the room was brightly illuminated by a naked bulb which hung from the centre of the low ceiling. Guyon and Hamish Grant sat on a couple of old packing cases, talking in low tones.

They came to their feet, the old man leaning on his walking stick. Guyon was very pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the gash on his forehead was red and angry.

“It seems I must congratulate you, Captain Guyon,” de Beaumont said calmly.

Guyon shook his head. “No need. You were doomed from the beginning. A pity you didn’t realise that a few lives ago.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. The game isn’t over yet.”

“It will be the moment Colonel Mallory makes land.”

“And what if he doesn’t? From what I hear, Fleur de Lys was in a sinking condition when last seen.”

“You’re forgetting Granville and his wife. They must have contacted the authorities now. The sands are running out, de Beaumont. You were wrong from the start, always have been. We don’t need you and your bully-boys to tell us how to govern France.”

Marcel took a step forward and de Beaumont pushed him back. “Let him go on.”

“A country’s greatness lies in the hearts of her people, not in the size of her possessions, and France is people. In one way or another, blood and suffering is all they’ve been given since 1939 and they’ve had enough. But not you, Colonel. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to.”

“Anything I have done I have done to the greater glory of France,” de Beaumont said.

“Or the greater glory of Philippe de Beaumont? Which is it? Can you tell the difference? Have you ever been able to?”

De Beaumont’s face seemed to sag, and for the first time since Guyon had known him he looked like an old man. He turned and walked out. Marcel hesitated and then followed him. The door closed and the bolts rasped into place.

“Quite a speech,” Hamish Grant said out of the long silence which followed.

“Accomplishing precisely nothing,” Guyon said wearily, and sat down, his head in his hands.

“Worth hearing, though.” The old man patted him gently on the shoulder, resumed his seat and they waited.

De Beaumont stood in front of the great glass window of the tower room and looked out over the sea. Far, far to the west the rim of the ocean was tipped with orange fire, He de Roc dark against the sky.

The beauty of it was too much for a man and he opened the casement and inhaled the good salt air and out beyond the island the lights of a ship seemed very far away.

Life was a series of beginnings and endings, that much at least he had learned. He remembered Dien-Bien-Phu, standing on the edge of a foxhole in the rain as the tricolour was hauled down and little yellow peasants from the rice fields had swarmed over the broken ground to take him and what was left of his men.

And then Algeria. Years of bloodshed. Of death in the streets and death in the hills. He had believed implicitly that the end justified the means, but what if that end was never realised? What if one were left only with the blood on the hands? Blood which had been shed to no purpose, which could never be washed off.

He felt curiously sad and drained of all emotion. A small wind moaned around the tower and then there was only the silence. In that single moment the heart turned to ashes inside him. Looking out over the moonlit sea he knew with a bitter certainty that he had been wrong. That in the final analysis all that he had done came to nothing. That everything Raoul Guyon had said was true.

He walked to the fireplace and looked up at the old battle standard for a long moment. He nodded, as if coming to some secret, hidden decision.

He picked up the telephone and pressed an extension button. When the receiver was lifted at the other end he said briefly, “Send up Jacaud.”

He replaced the phone, moved across to a narrow door, opened it and stepped into the small turret bedroom. Anne Grant sat in a chair by the window. Fiona lay on the bed.

They got to their feet and faced him. He bowed courteously and stood to one side. “If you would be so kind.”

They hesitated perceptibly, then brushed past him. He closed the door, moved to the fire and turned.

“What have you done with my father?” Fiona demanded.

“There is no need to alarm yourself. He will come to no harm. I give you my word.”

“And Raoul Guyon?”

De Beaumont smiled faintly. “A great deal has taken place of which you are not aware. Captain Guyon is at this moment with General Grant. Except for a nasty cut on the head he seemed in fair condition when I saw him an hour ago.”

“You haven’t mentioned Colonel Mallory,” Anne said carefully.

De Beaumont shrugged. “All I can say with truth, my dear, is that at this precise moment I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Jacaud entered. He came forward and waited, the cold eyes in the brutal, animal face giving nothing away.

“Have Foxhunter refueled and made ready for sea,” de Beaumont said.

“I’ve already seen to it. Are we leaving?”

“I should imagine it would be the sensible thing to do. Even if Mallory hasn’t managed a landfall yet Granville must certainly be in touch with the French authorities by now. Admittedly they will then have to contact British Intelligence, but I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before we’re faced with some sort of official delegation.”

“Where are we going – Portugal?”

“Perhaps you, but not me, Jacaud.” Philippe de Beaumont extracted a cigarette from his case and fitted it carefully into his holder. “We leave in half an hour for Jersey. When you have landed me in St. Helier you are a free man. You and the others may go where you please.”

Jacaud’s eyes narrowed. “Jersey? Why would you want to go there?”

“Because they possess a more than adequate airport, my dear Jacaud, and an early-morning flight to Paris. I intend to be on it.”

“You must be mad. You couldn’t walk ten yards along the Champs Elysees without somebody recognising you.”

“No need,” de Beaumont said calmly. “You see, I intend to place myself in the hands of the authorities.”

For once Jacaud’s iron composure was shattered. “Give yourself up? You’d face certain execution.”

“That would be for the court to decide.” De Beaumont shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Jacaud. We all have. I thought I wanted what was best for France. I see now that what I really wanted was what was best for me. Further bloodshed and violence would accomplish nothing. The events of the past few days have taught me that.”

“And what about the women and the old man? What do we do with them?”

“We can release them before we leave. They’ll be picked up before long.”

“And Guyon?”

“Him we will also leave.”

Rage erupted from Jacaud’s mouth in a growl of anger. “I’ll see that one on his back if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth. God in heaven, I could have left him to drown.”

“Sergeant-Major Jacaud!” De Beaumont’s voice was like cold steel. “I have given you certain orders. You will see that they are carried out. Understand?”

For a dangerous moment the fire glimmered in Jacaud’s eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he – subsided. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon.”

“Accepted. Release Captain Guyon and General Grant and bring them up here. We leave in half an hour.”

Jacaud opened the door and went out. De Beaumont sighed, and said almost to himself: “Twenty-three years of blood and war. Too much for any man.”

It was Anne who answered him, her face very pale. “Before God, Colonel de Beaumont, I pity you.”

He took her hand and kissed it gently, then crossed to the door to the turret room and opened it. “Perhaps you would wait in here?”

They walked past him. He closed the door and went to the fireplace. He looked up at the standard for a long moment, then sat down at his writing desk and picked up a pen.

Marcel sat at the table in his tiny room, a bottle of cognac in front of him. He was reading an old magazine, turning the pages slowly, his mind elsewhere. They should have been out of this place the moment Jacaud had returned with the news of the loss of L’Alouette, so much was obvious. He wondered what de Beaumont had wanted, and raised his glass to his lips. Behind him the door crashed open and Jacaud entered.

His face was white, the skin drawn tightly over the prominent cheekbones, and there was a strange, smoky look in his eyes that made Marcel’s flesh crawl.

“What is it? What happened up there?”

Jacaud grabbed the glass, filled it with cognac and swallowed it down. “He wants us to take him to Jersey. From there he intends to fly to Paris to hand himself over to the authorities.”

“He must be mad.” Marcel’s face turned a sickly yellow colour. “Are you going to let him?”

“Am I hell. If they get him they get all of us. It would only be a matter of time.”

“What about the prisoners?”

“He’s going to release them.”

Marcel jumped up in alarm. “We’ve got to get out of here. This whole thing’s going sour.”

“We’re getting out of here all right, but on our own,” Jacaud said. “Just you and me. Everyone else can go to the devil. But first I’ve got to settle with de Beaumont. He knows too much for his own good.”

“And Guyon?”

“I’ll have to forgo that pleasure. You take care of him and the old man. I’ll see you on the jetty in fifteen minutes.”

He went out and Marcel raised the bottle of cognac to his lips, swallowed deeply and tossed it into a corner.

It was quiet in the corridor and he moved quickly along to the end and paused outside a stout wooden door. He took a revolver from his pocket and checked it quickly. There were four rounds in the cylinder and he unbolted the door, kicked it open and moved inside.

Raoul Guyon and General Grant rose to meet him. Marcel closed the door behind him and moved forward.

"You first, Captain,” he said, and his hand swung up.

Guyon flung himself to one side and the bullet chipped stone from the wall. In the same moment Hamish Grant slashed at the light with his walking stick, plunging the room into darkness.

Marcel cried out sharply and fired twice. He was aware of a shadow moving over towards the right in the split-second flash and fired twice again. The second time the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He flung the useless weapon into the darkness with a sob and reached for the door.

There was the scrape of a foot behind him and a great arm slid around his neck. He was aware of the pain, of the relentless brute strength, and struggled wildly. Hamish Grant increased the pressure, his fingers locked together like steel bands, and the Frenchman went limp.

The old man dropped him to the floor and said hoarsely, “Raoul, where are you?”

There was a movement in the darkness beside him. “Here, General.”

Hamish Grant put out a hand and touched him on the shoulder. “Are you hit?”

“Not a chance,” Guyon said. “But let’s get out of here. We must find the girls.”

The old man opened the door cautiously and walked into the passage. Something moved, a dark shadow against the light. He reached out, a snarl rising in his throat, and his wrists were gripped tightly.

A tired, familiar voice said: “All right, General. It’s me.”