Wrath of the Lion

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

mallory struggled across a great slippery mass of rounded stones and paused on top of a natural escarpment. He had never felt greater loneliness in his entire life. On each side stretched the sea, and before him, clear in the moonlight, the sinister, twisted maze of jagged rocks and great boulders that made up the reef.

At high water the escarpment upon which he was now standing would be a good five fathoms deep, and he moved on, slipping and stumbling across a morass of slimy seaweed, sinking up to his knees in places.

It had taken him three-quarters of an hour to get half-way along the reef. With each passing moment it became more and more apparent that unless he could increase his rate of progress the tide would sweep back in to pound him across these cruel rocks.

He came out on to a strip of wet sand shining in the moonlight, and started to run. For perhaps a hundred yards the sand held true and then petered out into gravel and broken stone.

He entered a forest of dark pointing fingers which lifted into the moonlight like some strange prehistoric monument and wasted ten minutes finding his way through. As he struggled out along a shelving bank of seaweed he paused and looked down at moonlight shining on the waters of the Middle Passage.

It stretched before him, a dark tunnel with at least twenty feet of headroom at low water. The wind blowing in from the sea, scattering spray in his face, decided him. At his present rate of progress he was certain to be caught. There was only one remaining chance of beating the tide and he slid over the.edge.

Strangely enough, when he entered the water he wasn’t aware of the cold and his lifejacket worked perfectly. He turned on to his back and started to swim, using both arms in a powerful back stroke.

The passage was shadowy in the moonlight and very still and the sound of the sea outside seemed to come from another place. He remembered what lay beneath him, fathoms deep in the darkness, and pushed the thought away, concentrating all his strength on the task in hand.

It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that he became aware of a different note outside and spray foamed through the crannies above his head, splashing across his face. The water-level started to rise at once and with every passing minute the roof came nearer.

Pie turned on his face and swam forward, thrashing wildly with his feet. A few moments later he came out into a jagged basin. As a swell lifted him up he grabbed for a ledge and hauled himself out of the water.

The tide was already moving in, licking hungrily at the rocks, and far out to sea a flash of sheet lightning illuminated the sky. He came to the end of the main body of the reef and before him a long, thin spine of rock and gravel stretched three hundred yards to St. Pierre.

He started to run, aware of the roaring of the sea, hungry for him as she swept in to drown the land, erupting with phosphorescence, blue-green lights dancing on the water, dissolving as rapidly as they appeared.

To the right, lightning flared again and a dark band of shadow moved across the sky, snuffing out the stars. He came to a long strip of shingle and started to run.

Half-way across, the sea splashed in knee-deep. He struggled forward, aware of its strength as it tugged at him. It was already at his waist when he reached the sprawling mass of boulders heaped at the base of the island. As his feet missed bottom, he thrashed forward, grabbed for a ledge and hauled himself out.

Still the sea rose, and he moved on, aware only of the menace behind. He skirted the base of the cliffs and finally reached a point of jagged rock no more than twenty feet from the entrance to the cave.

He jumped into the water and started to swim desperately, but there was no need. The tide swept him into the entrance on the crest of a great swell. A moment later he bumped against the wall of the jetty at Foxhunter’s stern. He swam round to a flight of stone steps and climbed out of the water.

He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life, and the roaring of the sea seemed to have got inside his head. He pulled off his lifejacket, padded across the jetty and went up the steps, keeping to the wall. When he reached the landing all was quiet. He opened the door cautiously and moved forward.

There were three doors on this section of the corridor, all leading to rooms used as quarters by L’Alouette’s crew. He searched them quickly, hoping for a weapon, but found nothing.

As he emerged from the last he heard the muffled reports of several gunshots fired close at hand. He stood listening intently. Another shot sounded. He went along the passage, every sense alert, and paused at the end.

Behind him a door opened. He whirled round, hands coming up, and Hamish Grant stepped into the light.

The great hall was a place of shadows. No fire burned in the hearth and a single light at the far end gave the only illumination. Mallory moved out of the doorway and stood listening, but there was no sound, and he moved forward followed by Guyon and Hamish Grant.

There was a small lamp bracketed to the wall of the gallery and for some reason it seemed to grow dimmer as he went upstairs. He paused, swaying a little, and Guymon’s anxious voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“Are you all right?”

Mallory opened his eyes, nodded and moved on, putting one foot in front of the other mechanically. It was only when they reached the door to the tower and he pushed it open that he realised how exhausted he was. There was no strength left in him at all.

Guyon and the old man crowded into the narrow hall and Mallory bolted the door. “Whatever happens now, no one else gets in,” he said, and the words seemed to be spoken by someone else.

He took a deep breath, summoning together every final resource of body and mind, and led the way up the stairs. The walls spiraled round, the night sky gleaming through the slotted windows, and somewhere thunder rumbled menacingly.

When they emerged on the first landing the door to the radio room stood open and there was no one there. Mallory moved across to the set and switched it on. There was a faint crackling of static. He picked up the microphone and high in the tower three shots were fired in rapid succession. A moment later Fiona Grant screamed.

Jacaud paused on the landing, took the Liiger from the pocket of his reefer coat and removed the clip. It was by no means full, he could tell that by the weight, but there was no time to reload. He slammed it back into the butt, replaced the Liiger in pocket and opened the door.

De Beaumont was sitting at his desk writing, his hair silver in the soft light. He blotted the sheet of paper carefully, put down his pen and looked up.

A frown appeared on his face. “What’s happened, Jacaud? Where are General Grant and Guy on?”

“Marcel is taking care of them now,” Jacaud said calmly.

“Taking care of them? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you, my brave colonel?” Jacaud laughed harshly. “Did you really think I’d stand to one side and allow you to fly off to Paris to play le grand seigneur, a de Beaumont to the end?”

“How dare you!” de Beaumont said hoarsely.

“For you it’s always been a game,” Jacaud said. “A great and wonderful game with bugles blowing and standards flying in the breeze like some medieval set-piece. That’s the way you’ve lived and that’s the way you want to die, but not this time, Colonel. They’ll squeeze you so hard you’ll tell them everything that’s ever happened to you since you were three years old. Unfortunately for you, that includes me.”

De Beaumont grabbed a glass paperweight, hurled it with all his force and reached for the handle of the drawer containing his revolver. Jacaud jumped to one side, the paperweight smashing against the wall, and fired.

The bullet caught de Beaumont in the left shoulder, spinning him round, and Jacaud fired again twice, the impact driving de Beaumont forward. He clutched at the mantelpiece, the linen material of his jacket bursting into flames, and reached up towards the old battle standard. He started to fall, his fingers catching at the fringe, and it fluttered down to cover him like a scarlet shroud.

The door of the turret room opened and Anne and Fiona Grant appeared. The young girl screamed once, her hands going up to her face. Jacaud ignored them. He walked slowly across the room and stood looking down at de Beaumont, a dazed expression in his eyes.

Behind him the door swung open with a crash. As he turned, Raoul Guyon hurled himself forward. Jacaud’s first bullet chipped the wall beside the door, his second caught Guyon just above the left breast, stopping him in his tracks. Guvon groaned and fell to one knee. Jacaud raised the Liiger, took careful aim and fired again.

As the hammer fell on an empty chamber, Anne Grant flung herself forward, grabbing at his arm. He hit her backhanded, slamming her against the wall, and reached into his pocket for some spare rounds.

Mallory seemed to fill the doorway, the eyes dark shadows in a face that was lined with fatigue. He started forward, swaying slightly from side to side, eyes never leaving Jacaud, no expression on his face, a dead man walking.

Jacaud dropped the Liiger, seized the heavy brass poker from the fireplace and weighed it in his hand, a savage smile on his face.

“Come on!” he said. “Come on, you bastard!”

Mallory stood there, hands hanging loosely at his sides, fatigue washing over his face, and Jacaud sprang forward, the brass poker swinging down, gleaming in the lamplight.

To Mallory that blow was like a branch swaying in the wind. As the poker came down he grabbed for the wrist, twisting the arm up and out to one side, taut as a steel bar, using the same terrible grip he had used on the jetty at Southampton so long ago.

Jacaud screamed, dropping the poker, and the muscles of his shoulder started to tear. Mallory reached for the wrist with his other hand and twisted it round and up.

Again there was a tearing sound as muscle gave and Jacaud screamed again. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Mallory ran him head first across the room towards the great window. It dissolved in a snowstorm of flying glass and Jacaud dived into darkness, his last cry swept away on the wind like some departing spirit.

Raoul Guyon was propped against Fiona’s knee, his face hollow with pain, and Hamish Grant stood in the doorway. When Mallory turned, blood on his face from the flying glass, they were all looking towards him strangely.

He started to fall and strong arms caught him, easing him down to the floor, and he looked up at Anne Grant, that dark, dear face so full of love for him.

“Raoul?” he said. “How’s Raoul? Is it serious?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

There was something else, something important. He frowned desperately and then remembered. “The radio room – downstairs. We must call Jersey. There are three motor torpedo boats just waiting for the right signal.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Everything’s all right. We’ll take care of it.”

She pillowed his head against her breast, her arms about him. He turned into their softness, the sound of the sea in his ears, and slept.