by Tom Sharpe
‘They’re bound to have some system for watching the roads,’ he told Peregrine, ‘and for signalling when someone suspicious puts in an appearance, and once we find out what that is we can bypass it.’
‘Yes, but we’re not on the road,’ said Peregrine. ‘I should have thought the simplest thing would be to swim the river and shin up the cliff … What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ said Glodstone when he could bring himself to speak. ‘And when do you propose we do this? In broad bloody daylight?’
‘Well, no, we’d have to do it after dark.’
Glodstone gnawed on the stem of his pipe and tried to control himself. ‘Listen,’ he said finally, ‘if you’re seriously suggesting that we try to climb what amounts to the north face of the Eiger, on a miniature scale, in pitch darkness, you must have less between the ears than I thought you had. We’ve come here to save the Countess, not to commit bloody suicide. Why do you think the Château is walled on three sides but there’s only a balustrade above the river?’
Peregrine considered the question thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it’s very safe to build a high wall on top of a cliff,’ he said. ‘I mean, you never know with cliffs, do you? I’ve an auntie in Dorset and she’s got a bungalow near some cliffs and she can’t sell it because some of the other bungalows are slipping over and—’
‘To hell with your blasted aunt,’ said Glodstone, savaging a can of corned beef with a tin-opener. ‘The reason there’s no wall on this side is because they don’t have to protect it. Only a blithering idiot would try to scale that precipice.’
‘Clive did,’ said Peregrine unabashed.
‘Clive? What on earth are you talking about now?’
‘When he captured Quebec. He sailed his—’
‘Wolfe, for God’s sake. Can’t you get anything right?’
‘All right, Wolfe then. I never was much good at history.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Glodstone, skewering bits of corned beef into the billycan. But Peregrine hadn’t finished.
‘Anyway, it’s not really a cliff. And we wouldn’t have to start at the bottom. There’s a ledge near the top and we could get on to it from the drive.’
‘Which they’ve left unguarded just to make things easier for us, I suppose,’ said Glodstone.
‘We could always make our way round to the south and climb up there,’ Peregrine continued. ‘That way we’d be coming down the drive from the top instead of the other way round. They’d never expect us to do that.’
‘I’ll grant you that,’ said Glodstone, putting the billycan on the Calor-gas stove and lighting it, ‘and if I were in their shoes I wouldn’t expect anyone to do such an asinine thing either.’
‘Then once we’re on that ledge—’ He stopped and stared at the smoking billycan. ‘I say, I’ve never seen corned beef cooked like that before. Shouldn’t you stir it round a bit?’
Glodstone wrenched the pan off the stove and burnt his hand in the process. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he said lividly.
‘I didn’t make you do it,’ said Peregrine, ‘all I said was—’
‘Once we were on that bloody ledge. That’s what you said. Well, let’s get something straight. We’re not going anywhere near that ledge. That cliff is unclimbable and there’s an end to the matter.’
‘What I meant was I didn’t tell you to fry that corned beef like that. Major Fetherington always taught us to put cans in hot water and heat them that way. You open them first, of course, otherwise they might explode.’
‘And doubtless he also taught you to climb cliffs in the middle of the fucking night too,’ said Glodstone, resorting to foul language as a safety valve against exploding himself.
‘Well, actually, yes,’ said Peregrine. ‘Mind you, we used tampons.’
‘You used what?’ demanded Glodstone, momentarily diverted from his burnt hand by the extraordinary vision this conjured up.
‘Steel things you hammer into the rock,’ said Peregrine.
‘For your information they’re called crampons. Otherwise known as climbing-irons.’
‘That’s not what the Major calls them. He said always to call them tampons because if you didn’t ram them into some bleeding crack really tight you’d end up looking like a jam-rag yourself. I don’t know what he meant by that.’
‘I do,’ said Glodstone miserably.
These revelations of the Major’s revolting teaching methods were having an adverse effect on his morale. He had come on an adventure to rescue a noble lady and already the idyll was turning into an unnerving and sordid experience. To get some temporary relief he told Peregrine to shut up, crawled back to the lookout and went through the notes he’d made on the occupants of the Château as he had observed them during the day in an attempt to discern some sinister pattern to their movements.
The van he had seen drive up at 7 a.m. had left twenty minutes later; at 8 a young man in a track suit had come out on to the terrace, had run round it thirty-eight times and had then touched his toes fifty times, done twenty-two press-ups, had lain on his back and raised his feet in the air too erratically for Glodstone to keep count, and had finally wandered exhaustedly back to the door in the round tower on the right under the watchful eye of a portly woman in a floral dressing-gown who had appeared on the balcony above. Glodstone had switched his own observations to her but she had disappeared before he could deduce anything very sinister from her appearance except that she seemed to be wearing haircurlers. At 8.30 an old man with a watering-can had ambled from the gate tower and had made some pretence of watering several flowerbeds which, considering the rain there had been through the night, Glodstone found distinctly suspicious.
But it was only at 10 that Glodstone’s interest was genuinely aroused. A group of men came out on to the terrace engaged in heated argument. They were joined presently by the woman he had seen on the balcony. Training the binoculars on her, he hoped she wasn’t the Countess. His image of her had been more petite and vulnerable. On the other hand, the men lived up to his expectations.
‘That’s as unpleasant a bunch as I’ve seen in a long while,’ he told Peregrine, handing him the binoculars. ‘Take a good look at the bald-headed bastard with the moustache and the co-respondent shoes.’
‘The what?’
‘The … the two-tone shoes. It’s my guess he’s the leader of the gang.’
‘He seems to be having a row with a swine in a grey suit.’
‘Probably because they lost us on the road. I wouldn’t like to cross his path.’
Peregrine thought this over. ‘But we’re bound to,’ he said at last. ‘That’s what we’ve come for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Glodstone. ‘Yes, it is. I just meant … Never mind. I’m just pointing him out as a particularly nasty piece of goods.’
‘It’s a pity we didn’t bring a rifle,’ said Peregrine a few minutes later. ‘I could have picked a couple of them off from here with no trouble.’
‘Doubtless. And given our position away into the bargain. For goodness’ sake, try to understand we mustn’t do anything to put the Countess’s life in danger. When we strike we’re only going to get the one chance. Miss it and she’s done for.’
‘I’d have done for some of them too. Anyway, I don’t miss.’
‘Thank God we didn’t bring a rifle,’ said Glodstone. ‘And now let’s go and have some lunch. They’re going in and I’m feeling peckish myself.’
They crawled back to the dell and settled down to a meal of stale French bread and overripe Camembert washed down with vin très ordinaire. ‘You’d think they’d have some sentries posted,’ said Peregrine as Glodstone lit his pipe.
‘No doubt they have. But not here. They’ll be on the roads or on the far side of the Château. It’s nice and flat over there and it’s the direction they’d expect an attack to come from.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’d—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ said Glodstone, ‘I’m go
ing to take a kip and I’d advise you to do the same. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.’
He climbed into the sunlight and lay looking up at the cloudless sky. If it hadn’t been for Peregrine’s lust for action and preferably for killing people at the drop of a hat, he’d have been perfectly happy. He’d have to keep him under control. With this thought in mind he drifted off to sleep. But when he awoke it was to find Peregrine squinting up the barrel of a revolver.
‘It’s nice and clean and I’ve oiled them both.’
Glodstone asserted his authority. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘tonight’s expedition is simply a recce. It’s highly unlikely we’re going to find an easy way in. We’re going to check every avenue … Yes, I know there’s only one fucking avenue of walnut trees. Just keep your trap shut and listen. We’re going to see how many ways there are of getting into the place. And only when we’ve worked out a definite and foolproof plan will we act. Get that clear in your head.’
‘If you say so,’ said Peregrine. ‘All the same, I’d have thought we—’
‘I am not interested in what you think. I’m in charge and those are my orders.’ And without waiting for an answer, Glodstone went back to the lookout. That ought to keep the stupid bastard quiet, he thought. It did.
*
Later that night they set out. Peregrine was grimly silent. ‘We’re going up-river,’ Glodstone told him, ‘I’ve an idea we’ll find some shallows there.’
Peregrine said nothing but when half an hour later they scrambled down the hillside and crossed the road to the water’s edge it was obvious that Glodstone had been mistaken. The Boose ran darkly past and curved away towards the cliff at the top of which the Château loomed weirdly against the starlit sky. Not even Glodstone’s imagination could endow the place with anything more romantic than grim menace and when a car swept round the bend in the road above them, its headlights briefly illuminating the river, he was frankly shocked. Dark swirls of water indicated that the Boose was both deep and fast-flowing.
‘Well, at least one thing is clear,’ he said. ‘We know now why they’re not watching this side. It’s too well protected. The river sees to that.’
Beside him, Peregrine merely grunted.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Glodstone.
‘You told me to keep my trap shut and just listen,’ said Peregrine. ‘Those were your orders and that’s what I’m doing.’
‘And I suppose you don’t agree with me?’ said Glodstone.
‘About what?’
‘That it’s impossible to get across here,’ said Glodstone, and immediately regretted it.
‘I could swim across easily enough if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s not a risk I’m prepared to allow you to take. We’ll have to try further on.’
But though they stumbled along the bank for half a mile the river grew wider and less inviting. Glodstone had to admit defeat. ‘We’ll just have to look for another route downstream in daylight tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I don’t see why you won’t let me swim across with the rope,’ said Peregrine. ‘I could tie it to something on the other side and you could haul yourself over on it.’
‘And what about the guns and the equipment in the rucksacks? They’d get soaked.’
‘Not necessarily. Once you’re over I can come back and get them. The Major—’
But Glodstone had had enough of Major Fetherington’s methods. ‘If you get across.’
‘I shall,’ said Peregrine, and taking the coil of rope and winding it round his waist he waded into the river.
Left to himself, Glodstone sat disconsolately in the darkness. To conjure up some courage he concentrated his thoughts on the Countess. She had warned him that the affair would be hazardous and she had obviously been telling the truth. On the other hand, she had taken a terrible risk herself in writing to him. Above all, she had appealed to him as a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t flinch in the face of a mere river. After all, his father had fought at Jutland and a maternal great-uncle had assisted in the bombardment of Alexandria in 1881. There had even been a Midshipman Glodstone at Trafalgar. With such a nautical tradition in the family he couldn’t fail in his duty now. And in any case it would never do to show the slightest fear in front of Peregrine. The brute was cocky enough as it was.
All the same, he was decidedly disappointed when Peregrine returned with the news that there was nothing to it. ‘A bit of a current, that’s all, but it’s all right if you swim upstream, and anyway, you’ll have the rope.’
Glodstone took off his boots and, tying the laces together, looped them across his shoulders. The main thing was to act quickly and not to think. Even so, he hesitated as he took hold of the wet rope. ‘You’re absolutely certain you saw nothing over there? The last thing we want is to walk into a trap.’
‘I didn’t see anything except rocks and things. And anyway, you said they’re not watching this side because—’
‘I know what I said. You don’t have to keep repeating it all the time. Now as soon as I’m over I’ll give a tug on the rope as a signal. Have you got that straight?’
‘Yes,’ said Peregrine. ‘But shouldn’t I get the rope taut and tied to something?’
Glodstone didn’t hear him. He had already plunged into the river and was experiencing to the full what Peregrine had described as ‘a bit of current’. To Glodstone’s way of thinking – not that he had much opportunity for thought – the lout didn’t know a current from a maelstrom. And as for swimming upstream … Desperately fighting to keep his head above water and failing (tying his boots round his neck had been a ghastly mistake, the bloody things had filled with water and acted as sinkers), holding his breath when he went under and spouting when he came up, Glodstone clung to the rope for dear life and was swept downstream at a rate of knots. Only the rope saved him and just as he knew he was drowning, he banged into a rock, found himself bobbing in some slightly less turbulent water, and his feet touched ground. For a moment he lay there before scrambling up on to a rock ledge. It was still below water but it served as a seat and when the water had drained from his eye he saw that he was at the base of the cliff. He hadn’t much use for cliffs but in the circumstances they were infinitely preferable to the swirling river. Glodstone edged himself away from it and stood up. As he did so he gave a tug on the rope.
Upstream, Peregrine responded. He’d been having some difficulty getting his hands on the cord in the darkness but had finally found it. And now came the signal that Glodstone was safely across. Peregrine dragged on the rope. So, for a moment, did Glodstone, but the imminent prospect of being hauled back into that infernal torrent combined with his inability to stand upright on the slimy rock proved too much for him. With a groan he slumped down and let go. He knew now with a terrible certainty that he should never have brought Peregrine. ‘The bloody moron,’ he muttered, before realizing that his only hope lay in the moron realizing what had happened. It was a faint hope but he clung to it as desperately as he did to the rock. As usual he was wrong. Peregrine was busy devising a method of carrying the guns and rucksacks across without getting them wet. On their way up the river he had noticed what looked like a rubbish tip. Worming his way along the bank he made a number of other interesting discoveries, among them an ancient bedstead, a rotted garden frame, several plastic sacks filled with garbage, something that felt and smelt like a dead dog and finally an old oil drum. This was just what he needed. He dragged it back and was about to put the rucksacks in when it dawned on him that it wouldn’t float upright unless weighted down. After searching around for some rocks he climbed back to the road and brought down a painted concrete block which marked the verge. He dumped it in and, tying the drum to the rope, let it out. The thing stayed upright. Only then did he put the guns and rucksacks in and, wedging the thing against the bank, undid the rope from the tree.
Five minutes later he was on the opposite bank. ‘I’ve got everything ready to pull across,’ he whi
spered. There was no reply. Crouching down, he stared up the rocky hillside and was wondering where Glodstone had got to when something moved and a boulder rolled down to his left followed by a cascade of small stones. Evidently Glodstone had gone ahead to recce, and as usual was making a bad job of it. Presumably he’d be back in a minute or two and in the meantime the equipment had to be brought across.
Setting his back against the slope and bracing his feet against a large rock, Peregrine grasped the rope and began to haul. For a moment the oil drum seemed to resist his efforts and then with a surge it was out into the mainstream and swirling away almost as fast as Glodstone. Certainly it followed the same course, and Glodstone, who had just taken his sodden pipe out and was sucking it morosely, was suddenly aware that a new and possibly more dangerous element than the river itself had entered his limited domain. With a metallic thud the drum slammed into the rock he was crouching on and it was only by throwing himself to one side that he avoided having his legs crushed. Then as he glared at this latest threat, the thing moved away upstream, leaving him to ponder on its purpose. Clearly whatever it was that had attempted to kill him couldn’t be making headway against the current unless it was being pulled … Glodstone got the message but it was too late to grab the drum. In any case the notion that Peregrine’s idea of trying to rescue him consisted of letting heavy metal objects batter the ledge he was on suggested that the lout was insane. Standing well back against the cliff he waited for the next attempt. It never came.
Having pulled the drum up the bank Peregrine hurriedly unloaded it, untied the rope and stowed it on the rocks. Only then did he begin to wonder what to do next. If Glodstone had gone ahead he would presumably come back or send a signal for Peregrine to join him. But as the minutes went by and nothing happened a new and more ominous thought came to mind. Perhaps Glodstone had walked into a trap. He’d said they wouldn’t be watching this side of the Château because it was too well protected but that was just the opposite of what Major Fetherington had taught. ‘Remember this,’ he had said, ‘the one place you don’t expect the enemy to attack is the one they’ll choose. The secret of strategy is to do what your opponent least expects.’ But Glodstone hadn’t seen it that way. On the other hand, why hadn’t they waited to capture him too? Again Peregrine found an easy answer: the swine had thought Glodstone was on his own and didn’t know there were two of them. Besides, his fieldcraft was hopeless and you could hear him coming a mile off. And he’d definitely got across because there had been that tug on the rope.
