The path wound upwards, and after ten minutes’ hard trudging they emerged into an open space floored with an outcrop of rock, in the crevices of which only mosses and small plants could find enough soil to maintain a foothold. On the inland side of this clearing a tangle of great boulders sloped up to a twelve-feet high cliff, overlapped with verdure where the forest began again; at its far end the cliff continued, curving and rising to a sheer wall over fifty feet in height. Below this high cliff lay the pool, on the edge of which had been erected a long-armed gibbet. To the seaward side of the open ground trees again towered skyward and between them the dense jungle cut off any view of the bay below.
Several score of people had already congregated to see the sport, and the prisoners were led through them to the pool’s edge. It was roughly oval and lay in a deep hollow so that the water was some eight feet below the rocky floor of the clearing. Near the place where the boulders stopped a small waterfall tumbled down from the cliff to feed it, and the overflow was carried off, after passing through an iron grille by another that fell into a gully leading down to the sea. From the clearing the only exit, other than that by which they had entered it, was across the gully by a plank bridge beyond which another track opened leading further up into the forest.
Men and women were still crowding into the clearing and jostling one another for the best places to sit up on the boulders, where they could get a good view of the proceedings. Some of the slaves had already secured good positions there, but were being roughly dispossessed by the pirates and their molls and herded with their fellow slaves on the opposite side of the clearing. It was to that side, too, that the prisoners had been brought; and, with the exception of Roger, they were all thrust back by their escorts towards the gap in the rim of the pool where its water poured off down the deep gully. Hoping for a word with Amanda, Roger tried to follow them, but, on a harsh order from Cyrano, he was pulled up short by the man who held the cord tying his wrists. In the wide circle that had now been cleared about the gibbet, he stood between them with every eye in the eager, murmuring throng upon him.
Staring back, he searched the great ring of cruel or indifferent faces for Dan’s, still hoping again all reason that his old friend might yet make a last minute attempt at rescue, but he could not see him. That was hardly surprising as in some places the crowd was four deep. Neither could he see Tom, but he caught sight of Monsieur Pirouet. The plump Frenchman was standing a few feet behind Dr. Fergusson; but on meeting Roger’s desperate glance, he looked quickly away.
Roger was already suffering a minor torment from the bites mosquitoes had inflicted on him during his many hours in the dungeon, and never in his life had he cut so poor a figure. Gone was all semblance to the debonair Mr. Brook of Whites Glub or the elegant M. le Chevalier de Breuc who in other days had supped and danced at the courts of half a dozen continental monarchs. His clothes were torn and stained, his stockings laddered; his hair was matted under a dirty bandage, his face mottled by stings and his eyes dull from sleeplessness. Even when he had played the part of a sans-culotte, for all the filth of his apparel, his bearing singled him out as a man of vigour and determination; whereas now he stood with slack limbs and hunched shoulders, so that the pirates, fearing he would show them only poor sport, began to jeer at him for cowardice.
Actually he was now endeavouring to close his mind against coherent thought, so that terror might not drive him to some desperate futile act which could only cause even greater distress to Amanda and the others than they were already suffering. For their sakes, too, he wanted to conserve every atom of mental resistance he could muster; so that when the ordeal came, even if he could not manage to remain silent, at least he would not wring their hearts by screaming.
A murmur of excitement and a few cheers heralded the approach of the Vicomte. The crowd parted, forming a ragged lane through which he advanced, a tall malacca cane in one hand, the other resting lightly on the arm of his blond mignon, who in the sunlight looked more than ever like a slightly negroid young Viking. As they came up beside Roger, de Senlac pointed to the long-armed gibbet and said:
‘You need fear no mishap, Monsieur, for you are not the first to afford us this type of entertainment, and practice has enabled us to perfect our arrangements. The harness dangling from the arm of the gibbet will be strapped about your shoulders, and the main post turns upon a pivot so that you may be swung out over the pool. Then we shall lower you by inches until your feet are near enough to the water for my pets to snap off your toes.’
For the first time Roger forced himself to look at the water rippling eight feet below him. The sun had now gone down behind the hill and no reflected light flickered from it, but the splashing of the little waterfall kept it in perpetual motion so that he could not see beneath its surface. But on the far side of the pool a narrow sickle-shaped beach shelved up to the cliff-face and, half submerged in the water close to it, there floated several long shapes whose rough texture gave them the appearance of rotting tree trunks.
De Senlac pointed with his cane. ‘There are a few of my beauties. Although we talk of them as crocodiles they are, more strictly speaking, a type of alligator and in these parts called caymen. Let us rouse them up for the treat they are about to be given.’
Turning, he beckoned to the elder Herault, who was standing a few yards off with two negroes beside him, both of whom carried big wicker baskets on their heads. When the baskets were set down Roger saw that they contained pigs’ trotters, cows’ hocks and other offal. Selecting half a calf’s head Herault père threw it into the middle of the pool. It had scarcely touched the surface when the water was broken in a score of places. Snouts with knobbly ends were thrust up, long lean jaws gaped open showing rows of strong fang-like teeth, little eyes gleamed evilly, and scaly tails that could have knocked a man off his feet, threshed the water into foam. In a moment the leaping and plunging of the ferocious creatures had churned the pool into a seething cauldron.
Herault continued to throw lumps of offal to them until he had half emptied one of the baskets, then the Vicomte checked him by crying: ‘Enough! We must not take the edge off their appetites. You can give them the rest of their meal afterwards.’
But now they had been excited by the food the great reptiles did not settle down. Eager for more they splashed and wallowed, snapping their jaws, lashing their tails, and in their disappointment turning on one another. As Roger watched them with horrified fascination he wished for the twentieth time since the capture of the Circe that he had been caught six months earlier with Athénaïs, and suffered with her the clean swift death of the guillotine.
De Senlac gave Jean Herault’s arm a gentle pat, nodded towards the gibbet and said with the smile of an elderly roué giving a present to a young woman he wished to please: ‘For you, dear boy, I have reserved the pleasure of fastening the harness upon him. But take care that the straps beneath his arms are tight; otherwise he might slip out of it, and deprive me of my full revenge by making a quick end of himself.’
As the tall youth walked past the Vicomte to the gibbet, the man behind Roger untied the cord that bound his wrists. It had been tied so tightly that for a moment his hands hung numb and useless. Flexing his fingers, he glanced wildly round. Amanda and Jenny were on their knees praying for him. Clarissa stood with bowed head and one arm thrown across her face. Georgina, white as a sheet under her tan, was staring at him, all the love that she had borne him through her life in her big eyes. Neither Tom nor Dan was anywhere to be seen.
Jean Herault turned the pivot of the gibbet so that its long arm swung towards the pool’s edge. At Roger’s side the Vicomte stood watching the graceful movements of the young sangmêlé with a doting leer. As he reached for the harness Roger acted.
Taking one pace back he brought his right knee up with all his force. It struck de Senlac a violent blow on the bottom. With eyes starting from their sockets and mouth agape he lurched forward. For a second he tottered, his arms flailing wildly
, on the very edge of the pool. Then unable to recover his balance, he pitched head-foremost into it.
His terrified yell was cut short as he hit the water. With the speed and strength exceeding that of tigers the caymens leapt upon him, tearing him limb from limb, until his blood made a great red streak across the heaving surface of the pool.
Roger did not see his enemy’s ghastly end. His desperate stroke had given him an outside chance to break away through the ring of spectators and plunge into the forest. If he could succeed in that the dense vegetation would swallow him up. Even a penetration of a dozen yards might be enough to enable him to escape recapture; but it was now or never.
The instant de Senlac jerked forward on to his toes Roger swung about. He had deliberately refrained from using his hands, in order that he might have his fists already clenched. One stride brought him within a yard of the man who had just untied him. His right fist caught, the man beneath the jaw and sent him sprawling. He was flat on his back even before the sound of the splash made by the Vicomte’s body cut short his yell.
Roger’s actions had been so swift that only the nearer members of the crowd had yet grasped the full significance of them. While they remained motionless and gaping in astonished silence he seized the opportunity to shout with all the power of his lungs:
‘Dan! Tom! Old Circe men! Help!’ Then he yelled in French: ‘Slaves! Free yourselves! The Tyrant is dead! Take courage! Rally to me!’
His last words were drowned in a pandemonium of shoutings yells and curses. As though the tension had been released by a spring, every figure in the clearing leapt into motion. The younger Herault whipped out a knife and ran at him from one side, the elder from the other. Catching the sangmêlé’s wrist he gave it a violent twist. He let out a screech of pain; but his father had seized Roger round the waist in a trained wrestler’s grip and, with surprising strength for a man of his age, threw him off his balance.
As he went down he caught a glimpse of the women. Amanda and Jenny were on their feet again. The former was clawing the eyes out of her guard and his cheeks were scored with bloody furrows, where her nails had gashed them. The latter was still struggling with hers and beating at his face with her clenched fists. Clarissa had broken free and was running towards him. Georgina had snatched a knife from her guard’s belt and was stabbing with it at his stomach.
Roger hit the ground with a thump. Next moment, despite the gallant diversions created by the women, he thought the game was up. Both the Heraults were about to throw themselves upon him and out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of Cyrano brandishing a cavalry sabre.
When the mêlée started de Senlac’s Lieutenant had been talking to some men half way along the ridge of boulders. As his back was turned he had not seen Roger knee the Vicomte into the pool, and owing to the agony he was suffering from his knee he had made poor speed in recrossing the clearing. Yet now he was only a few yards off, his long curved sword held high ready to deliver a deadly stroke. Roger, prone on his back, could do nothing to evade the flashing blade. His bid for freedom had started so well, but it seemed he had made it in vain.
Help came from an unexpected quarter. The report of a musket rang out above the shouting of the crowd. Cyrano’s eyes started in his head, his jaw went slack. Shot through the back, he crashed forward on to this face, his right arm still outstretched so that the tip of his sabre struck a spark from the rock only six inches short of Roger’s head.
It was Dan who had saved him. The ex-smuggler and Tom were lying hidden in the undergrowth on the edge of the low cliff above the boulders. Thinking it certain that Roger’s hands would be untied before he was bound up afresh in the harness attached to the gibbet, Dan had been waiting for that moment intending, as soon as Roger once more had the use of his fists, to shoot the Vicomte. But Roger had forestalled him with de Senlac so he had to hold his fire until he could aim at a worthwhile target without risk of hitting his master.
Again the element of surprise stood Roger in good stead. As Cyrano fell within a few yards of them, both the Heraults took their eyes from him to stare around in swift apprehension, wondering whence the shot had come, and fearing to be the next target.
Rolling over, Roger jumped to his feet, struck Jean a glancing blow with his fist and kicked the older man in the groin. With a screech père Herault doubled up and staggered back clutching at his genitals. His son landed a kick on Roger’s thigh which again sent him sprawling.
Two more pirates were running to the young man’s assistance but once more Roger was saved by a new diversion. A bang like that of a small cannon sounded above the din. Tom had discharged a blunderbuss loaded with old nails and scraps of iron into a tightly packed group of pirates and their molls on a flat-topped boulder just below him.
At such close range every fragment from the terrible weapon found a lodgment in human flesh. Screams, curses, groans rent the air. Next moment Dan and Tom, cutlasses in hand, leapt down on to the ledge and were laying about them among the survivors. Those up on the boulder offered no resistance and, scrambling down on to the flat floor of the clearing, the two stalwarts began to hack their way towards Roger.
But the fight was far from over. Seizing Jean by the ankle Roger lugged at it and brought him down. Shooting out a hand he grabbed Roger by the hair. Next moment they were grappling wildly. One of the pirates who had run up held a pistol. Aiming at Roger’s head he fired; but at that second Roger gave a violent jerk to free his hair. The bullet missed him and smashed the sangmêlé’s elbow. In an instant Roger had struck him in the face and he rolled away now hors de combat.
Their struggle had brought them to the edge of the pool. As Roger scrambled to his knees, both pirates came at him together; and a third was now close on their heels. The nearest aimed a heavy kick at his face, with the intention of sending him over the edge. Roger jerked his head aside so that the man’s foot went over his shoulder. Throwing himself forward, he flung his arms round the leg upon which the man was still standing. With a terrific heave he lifted the weighty body straddled above him, then let go. For a moment it was suspended on his back head down and feet in the air. He gave another heave and the man slithered off behind him, with his arms threshing the empty air three feet out from the pool’s rim.
The second pirate had clubbed his pistol, but seeing his comrade’s desperate situation flung it at Roger’s head, then seized the first man’s foot in an endeavour to save him. Roger dodged the pistol, scrambled up and as the third man rushed upon him was just in time to trip this new adversary.
He was gasping as though his lungs would burst; but now, after days of helpless despair, he was his old self again. None of these lumbering brutes was his match for quick wits and agility and he felt that only numbers could overcome him.
The last of the three to go down was a mulatto, and in his hand he still held a short sword. He had hardly hit the ground before Roger brought a heel down on his wrist with such force that both of them heard the bone crunch. Stooping, Roger tore the sword from the nerveless fingers. Of all weapons it was the one he would have chosen for such a fight. He plunged it into the side of the pirate who was trying to drag his comrade back from the pool’s edge. The wounded man gave a horrible gurgle, flung back his head, and let go; the other flopped into the pool with a resounding splash, came up to give one howl that echoed through the clearing, and was dragged under by the caymens.
The mulatto with the broken wrist scuffled off as swiftly as he could. Jean Herault was some way away moaning over his shattered elbow. His father had collapsed and lay writhing on the ground. Cyrano, paralysed from the waist down by a smashed spine, could now only curse feebly between bouts of vomiting blood. But the man whom Roger had knocked unconscious with a right to the jaw was coming round. Stepping forward, he kicked him hard on the side of the head and put him out again.
Now, for the first time since the murderous affray had started, Roger had a chance to get a full look round. The whole of the open space had be
come a scene of wild confusion and desperate fighting. Several major mêlées and a score of individual combats were in progress. Whites and blacks, slaves and pirates, men and women, were all embroiled in life or death struggles. Some were slashing or stabbing at one another, others locked chest to chest strove grimly to strangle or trip their antagonists; a group of negresses had attacked two of the coffee-coloured molls, and were dragging them by the hair towards the pool. Feet stamped, steel clanged on steel, and every moment a pistol shot rang out or a woman gave a piercing scream.
Roger had been facing slightly towards the boulders, and in that direction he saw Dan and Tom. They had half a dozen pirates against them, but were fighting gamely, and had been joined by two of the Circe’s men. Looking quickly to his other side he saw Fergusson slicing with a razor-edged machete at a big negro.
Monsieur Pirouet and Jake had been in the plot with Dan. Their part had been to free the other prisoners. The chef had brought concealed under his jacket a weighty meat chopper. He had been waiting for Dan’s shot as the signal to act, but on seeing Roger deal with the Vicomte he had waited no longer. With two swift strokes of his chopper he had cleaved the necks and the jugular veins of the two guards behind whom he had stationed himself. As they fell Jake had dived forward knife in hand and cut the cords that bound the hands of the Doctor and the Supercargo. Fergusson had grabbed the cane-cutting machete from a nearby slave, and was still making good use of it; but young Wells lay dead with a knife through his chest.
The Dark Secret of Josephine Page 19
