Antonio tried to restrain him:
“Let’s think of something. There must be a porthole in the cabin.”
“Too late. She will have killed herself by then. We must act at once.”
He reflected for a moment, then suddenly began to run along the deck and, reaching the hatch of the companion-way, jumped to the bottom. The gangway began with a wider landing where the sentry sat playing cards and drinking.
They rose. One of them commanded:
“Halt! No passage here!”
“All hands on deck! Every man to his post,” shouted Simon, repeating Rolleston’s words. “At the double! And no quarter! The gold! The rain of gold has started again!”
The men leapt to their feet and made off up the companion. Simon darted down the gangway, ran into one of the two women, whom his shouts had attracted, and flung the same words at her:
“The gold! The rain of gold! Where’s the chief?”
“In his cabin,” she replied. “Tell him!”
And she made off in her turn.
The other woman, who held the cord, hesitated. Simon felled her with a blow on the point of the chin. Then, without troubling about Lord Bakefield, he rushed to the cabin. At that moment, Rolleston opened the door, shouting:
“What’s up? The gold?”
Simon laid hold of the door to prevent his closing it and saw Isabel, at the back of the cabin, alive.
“Who are you?” asked the villain, uneasily.
“Simon Dubosc.”
There was a pause, a respite before the struggle which Simon believed inevitable. But Rolleston fell back, with haggard eyes:
“M. Dubosc? . . . M. Dubosc? . . . The one who was killed just now?”
“The same,” said a voice in the gangway. “And it was I who killed him, I, Antonio, the friend of Badiarinos whom you murdered.”
“Ah!” groaned Rolleston, collapsing. “I’m done for!”
He was paralysed by his drunkenness, by his state of stupor and even more obviously by his natural cowardice. Without offering the least resistance, he allowed himself to be knocked down and disarmed by Antonio, while Simon and Isabel rushed into each other’s arms.
“My father?” murmured the girl.
“He’s alive. Don’t be afraid.”
Together they went to release him. The old lord was at the end of his forces. It was all that he could do to kiss his daughter and press Simon’s hand. Isabel too was on the verge of swooning; shaken with a nervous tremor, she fell into Simon’s arms, faltering:
“Oh, Simon, you were just in time. I should have killed myself! . . . Oh, what degradation! . . . How shall I ever forget?”
Great as was her distress, she had nevertheless the strength to check Antonio’s hand when he raised it to stab Rolleston:
“No, please don’t. . . . Simon, you agree, don’t you. We haven’t the right. . . .”
Antonio protested:
“You’re wrong, Miss. A monster like that has to be got rid of.”
“Please! . . .”
“As you will. But I shall get him again. We have an account to settle, he and I. M. Dubosc, lend me a hand to tie him up!”
The Indian lost no time. Knowing the ruse which Simon had employed to remove the guards, he expected them to return at any moment, no doubt escorted by their comrades. He therefore shoved Rolleston to the other end of the corridor and bundled him into a dark cupboard.
“Like that,” he said, “his accomplices won’t find their chief and will look for him outside.”
He also bound and locked up the big woman, who was beginning to recover from her torpor. Then, despite the exhausted condition of Lord Bakefield and his daughter, he led them to the companion.
Simon had to carry Isabel. When he reached the deck of the Ville de Dunkerque, he was astounded to hear the rattling sounds and to see the great sheaf of pebbles and water spurting towards the sky. By a lucky coincidence, the phenomenon had occurred just as he announced it and caused an excitement by which he had time to profit. Isabel and Lord Bakefield were laid under the tarpaulin, that part of the wreck being deserted. Then Antonio and Simon went to the companion in quest of news. A band of ruffians came pouring down it, shouting:
“The chief! Where’s Rolleston?”
Several of them questioned Antonio, who pretended to be equally at a loss:
“Rolleston? I’ve been hunting for him everywhere. I expect he’s at the barricades.”
The ruffians streamed back again, scampering up on deck. At the foot of the platform they held a conference, after which some ran towards the enclosing fence, while others, following Rolleston’s example, shouted:
“Every man to his post! No quarter! Shoot, can’t you, down there?”
“What’s happening?” whispered Simon.
“They’re wavering,” said Antonio, “and giving way. Look beyond the enclosure. The crowd is attacking at several points.”
“But they’re firing on it.”
“Yes, but in disorder, at random. Rolleston’s absence is already making itself felt. He was a leader, he was. You should have seen him organize his two or three hundred recruits in a few hours and place each man where he was best suited! He didn’t only rule by terror.”
The eruption did not last long and Simon had an impression that the rain of gold was less abundant. But it exercised no less attraction upon those whose work it was to collect it and upon others who, no longer encouraged by their leader’s voice, were abandoning the barricades.
“Look,” said Antonio. “The attacks are becoming fiercer. The enemy feels that the besieged are losing hold.”
The slope was invaded from every side; and small bodies of men pushed forward, more numerous and bolder as the firing became less intense. The machine-gun, whether abandoned or destroyed, was no longer in action. The chief’s accomplices, who had stood in front of the platform, finding themselves unable to enforce their authority and restore discipline, leapt into the arena and ran to the trenches. They were the most resolute of the defenders. The assailants hesitated.
So, for two hours, fortunes of the fight swayed to and fro. When night fell, the battle was still undecided.
Simon and Antonio, seeing the wreck deserted, collected the necessary arms and provisions. They intended to prepare for flight at midnight, if circumstances permitted. Antonio went off to reconnoitre, while Simon watched over the repose of his two patients.
Lord Bakefield, although fit to travel, was still badly pulled down and slept, though his sleep was disturbed by nightmares. But Simon’s presence restored to Isabel all her energy, all her vitality. Sitting side by side, holding each other’s hands, they told the story of those tragic days; and Isabel spoke of all that she had suffered, of Rolleston’s cruelty, of his coarse attentions to her, of the constant threat of death which he held over Lord Bakefield if she refused to yield, of the nightly orgies in camp, the bloodshed, the tortures, the cries of the dying and the laughter of Rolleston’s companions. . . .
She shuddered at certain recollections, nestling against Simon as though she feared to find herself once more alone. All around them was the flash of fire-arms and the rattle of shots which seemed to be coming nearer. A din at once confused and terrific, made up of a hundred separate combats, death-struggles and victories, hovered above the dark plain, over which, however, a pale light appeared to be spreading.
Antonio returned in an hour’s time and declared that flight was impossible:
“Half the trenches,” he said, “are in the hands of the assailants, who have even penetrated into the enclosure. And they won’t let any one pass, any more than the besieged will.”
“Why?”
“They’re afraid of gold being taken away. It seems that there’s a sort of discipline among them and that they’re obeying leaders whose object is to capture from the besieged the enormous booty which they have accumulated. And, as the assailants are ten or even twenty to one, we must expect a wholesale massacre!”
> The night was full of tumult. Simon observed that the dense layer of clouds was breaking up in places and that gleams of light were falling from the starry sky. They could see figures darting across the arena. Two men first, then a number of others boarded the Ville de Dunkerque and went down the nearest companion way.
“Rolleston’s accomplices returning,” murmured Antonio.
“What for? Are they looking for Rolleston?”
“No, they think he’s dead. But there are the bags, the bags filled with coin, and they are all going to fill their pockets.”
“The gold is there, then?”
“In the cabins. Rolleston’s share on one side; his accomplices on the other.”
Below deck quarrels were beginning, followed almost immediately by a general affray, which was punctuated by yells and moans. One by one the victors emerged from the companion way. But shadows crept down it all night long; and the newcomers were heard searching and destroying.
“They’ll find Rolleston in the end,” said Simon.
“I don’t care if they do,” said Antonio, with a grin which Simon was to remember thereafter.
The Indian was getting together their arms and ammunition. A little before daybreak, he awoke Lord Bakefield and his daughter and gave them rifles and revolvers. The final assault would not be long delayed; and he calculated that the Ville de Dunkerque would be the immediate objective of the assailants and that it would be better not to linger there.
The little party therefore set out when the first pale gleams of dawn showed in the sky. They had not set foot on the sand of the arena before the signal for the attack was given by a powerful voice which sounded from the bulk of the submarine; and it so happened that, at the very moment when the final offensive was launched, when the besieged, better armed than the attackers, were taking measures of defense which were also better organized, the roar of the eruption rent the air with its thousand explosions.
Then and there, the enemy’s onslaught became more furious, and the besieged began to retreat, as Simon and Antonio perceived from the disorderly rush of men falling back like trapped animals, seeking cover behind which to defend themselves or hide.
In the middle of the arena, the scorching rain and the showers of falling pebbles created a circular empty space; nevertheless, some of the more desperate assailants were bold enough to venture into it and Simon had a fleeting vision in which he seemed to see — but was it possible? — Old Sandstone running this way and that under a strange umbrella made of a round sheet of metal with the edge turned down.
The mob of invaders was growing denser. They collided with groups of men and women, brandishing sticks, old swords, scythes, hill-hooks and axes, who fell upon the fugitives. Simon and Antonio were twice obliged to take part in the fighting.
“The position is serious,” said Simon, taking Isabel aside. “We must risk all for all and try to find a way through. Kiss me, Isabel, as you did on the day of the shipwreck.”
She gave him her lips, saying:
“I have absolute faith in you, Simon.”
After many efforts and two brushes with some ruffians who tried to stop them, they reached the line of the barricades and crossed it without hindrance. But in the open space outside they met fresh waves of marauders breaking furiously against the defences, including parties of men who seemed to be running away, rather than pursuing a quarry. It was as though they themselves were threatened by some great danger. Fierce and murderous for all that, they plundered the dead and wildly attacked the living.
“Look out!” cried Simon.
It was a band of thirty or forty street-boys and hooligans, among whom he recognized two of the tramps who had pursued him. At sight of Simon, they egged on the gang under their command. By some ill chance Antonio slipped and fell. Lord Bakefield was knocked down. Simon and Isabel, caught in an eddy, felt that they were being stifled by a mass of bodies whirling about them. Simon, however, succeeded in seizing hold of her and levelling his revolver. He fired three times in succession. Isabel did likewise. Two men dropped. There was a moment’s hesitation; then a new onslaught separated the lovers.
“Simon, Simon!” cried the terrified girl.
One of the tramps roared:
“The girl! Carry her off! She’ll fetch her weight in gold!”
Simon tried to reach her. Twenty hands opposed his desperate efforts; and, while defending himself, he saw Isabel pushed towards the barricades by the two tramps. She stumbled and fell. They were trying to raise her when suddenly two shots rang out and both fell headlong.
“Simon! Antonio!” cried a voice.
Through the fray Simon saw Dolores, sitting erect on a horse all covered with foam. Her rifle was levelled and she was firing. Three of the nearest aggressors were struck. Simon contrived to break away, run to Isabel and join Dolores, to whom Antonio at the same time was bringing Lord Bakefield.
Thus the four were together again, but each was followed by the rabble of persistent marauders, and these were reinforced by dozens of others, who loomed out of the fog and doubtless imagined that the stake in such a battle, in which the number of their opponents was so small, must be the capture of some treasure.
“There are more than a hundred of them,” said Antonio. “We are done for.”
“Saved!” cried Dolores, who now ceased firing.
“Why?”
“Yes, we must hold out . . . one minute. . . .”
Dolores’ reply was drowned in the uproar. Their assailants came along with a rush. With their backs against the horse, the little party faced in all directions, firing, wounding, killing. With his left hand Simon discharged his revolver, while with his right hand, which gripped his rifle by the barrel, whirling it to terrible effect, he held the enemy at a distance.
But how could they resist the torrent, continually renewed, that rushed upon them. They were submerged. Old Lord Bakefield was struck senseless with a stick; and one of Antonio’s arms was paralysed by a blow from a stone. Any further resistance was out of the question. The hideous moment had come when people fall, when their flesh is trampled underfoot and torn asunder by the enemy’s claws.
“Isabel!” murmured Simon, crushing her passionately in his arms.
They dropped to their knees together. The beasts of prey fell upon them, covering them with darkness.
A bugle sounded some distance away, scattering its lively notes upon the air. Another call rang out in reply. It was a French bugle sounding the charge.
A great silence, heavy with fear, petrified the hoardes of pillagers. Simon, who was losing consciousness, felt that the weight above him was lightened. Some of the beasts of prey were taking flight.
He half-raised himself, while supporting Isabel, and the first thing that struck him was Antonio’s attitude. The Indian, with drawn face, was gazing at Dolores. Slowly and steadily he took a few steps towards her, like a cat creeping up to its prey, and suddenly, before Simon could intervene, he leapt on the crupper behind her, passed his arms under hers and dug his heels into the horse, which broke into a gallop along the barricades, towards the north.
From the opposite direction, through the mist, appeared the sky-blue uniforms of France.
CHAPTER VIII. THE HIGH COMMISSIONER FOR THE NEW TERRITORIES
“MY FAULT! . . . Now aren’t you convinced, as I am, that this is a ramification of my fault, ending in a cul-de-sac? So that all the eruptive forces immobilized in the direction of this blind alley have found a favourable position . . . so that all these forces . . . you grasp the idea, don’t you?”
Simon grasped it all the less inasmuch as Old Sandstone was becoming more and more entangled in his theory, while he, Simon, was wholly absorbed in Isabel and had ears for hardly anything but what she was telling him.
They were all three a little way outside the barricades, among the groups of tents around which the soldiers, in overalls, and fatigue-caps, were moving to and fro and preparing their meals. Isabel’s face was already more peacef
ul and her eyes less uneasy. Simon gazed at her with infinite tenderness. In the course of the morning the fog had at last dispersed. For the first time since the day when they had travelled together on the deck of the Queen Mary, the sun shone in a cloudless sky; and one might almost have thought that nothing had occurred between that day and this to divide them. All evil memories faded away. Isabel’s torn dress, her pallor and her bruised wrists were the reminder merely of an adventure already remote, since the glorious future was opening out before them.
Inside the barricades, a few soldiers scurried round the arena, stacking the dead bodies, while others, farther back, stationed on the wreck of the Ville de Dunkerque, removed the sinister shapes hanging from their gibbets. Near the submarine, in an enclosed space guarded by many sentries, some dozens of prisoners were herded and were joined at every moment by fresh batches of captives.
“Of course,” resumed Old Sandstone, “there are many other obscure points; but I shall not leave this until I have studied all the causes of the phenomenon.”
“And I,” said Simon, laughing, “should very much like to know how you managed to get here.”
This was a question which possessed little interest for Old Sandstone, who replied, vaguely:
“How do I know! I followed a crowd of good people. . . .”
“Good looters and murderers!”
“Oh, do you think so? Yes, it may be . . . it seemed to me, sometimes. . . . But I was so absorbed! So many observations to make! Besides, I was not alone . . . at least, on the last day.”
“Really? Who was with you?”
“Dolores. We made the whole of the last stage together; and it was she who brought me here. She left me when we came in sight of the barricades. For that matter, it was impossible to enter this enclosure and examine the phenomena more closely. Directly I went forward, pom-pom went the machine-gun! At last, suddenly, the crowd burst the dike. But what puzzles me now is that these eruptions seem already to be decreasing in violence, so that we can foresee the end of them very shortly. True, on the other hand. . . .”
But Simon was not listening. He had caught sight, in the arena, of the captain commanding the detachment, with whom he had not been able to exchange more than a few words that morning, as the officer had at once gone in pursuit of the fugitives. Simon led Isabel to the tent, set aside for her, in which Lord Bakefield was resting, and joined the captain, who cried:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 381
