‘Let’s not be too violent, gentlemen, or we will deny our rats a worthy opponent.’
Bartholomew’s words calmed the men holding him, and they pushed their charge towards the sound of the voice. Harry shook his head to clear his brain, before looking up. Bartholomew, along with a dozen others, was standing on a raised platform which ran round the outside of a huge wine barrel. They pushed him up onto this step, so that he could see inside. It had been cut in half, and the bottom formed a compact arena.
‘We have provided you with a good quantity of sand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After all, we would not wish you to suffer from pained knees.’
Everyone else in the room laughed at this, and Harry heard the sound of coins as they placed their bets on him succeeding or dying. He looked at Bartholomew, whose eyes had returned to their half bored, half amused way of drooping indifference.
‘Why?’
‘You don’t know, Ludlow?’
‘No, I don’t. And I would dearly like to.’
The place fell silent, as though Harry wasn’t the only one waiting for an answer. Bartholomew leant forward, and spoke to Harry alone. ‘No, Ludlow. Not now. But rest assured, just before you die, I shall whisper it very softly in your ear.’
He raised his voice. ‘Now come and have a good look at your opponents.’
Harry looked down into the arena. Four large rats scurried about, fruitlessly looking for somewhere to hide. Their panic seemed to increase with the noise around them, as all those in the room crowded on to the step to see.
‘Beldeau assured me that they’re famished. You can of course refuse to take them on. I shall start my watch and give you the command to jump in. If you don’t and the ten minutes elapse, I shall, regardless of how it disappoints my fellows, take you out into the street and hang you.’
Harry pushed himself up on to the edge. Hands still held him and he pressed back against them, using that to keep himself upright. He saw Crosby across the other side of the barrel, and the malignant grin that he gave in return was enough to convince Harry that he was looking at the cause of his misfortune. Crosby made a show of exchanging money with his neighbour. Harry’s own money! Fairbairn stood behind him, making no attempt to peer into the arena. He looked ill, but, there again, he always did.
The men behind were grinning, sensing his fear, and were quite happy to hold him there for a while. But they wouldn’t do it once Bartholomew started his timing, and if Harry didn’t jump, they’d probably push him. He looked down at the rats. Two of them had stopped running, and instead were scrabbling in the sand trying to find a place to hide. Perhaps they sensed danger too. Who could tell?
‘On the count of three, Ludlow.’ Bartholomew tallied off the number, and Harry, after he had said three, hesitated for a fraction of a second then leapt into the barrel, straight for the burrowing rats. He tried to get two of them but one was too swift, scurrying away from his foot. But the other, intent on digging, sensed his approach too late and he landed on it with his right foot, the entire weight of his body crushing the creature beneath him. He knew he had to be bold, to take the initiative, for it was a major challenge to kill three rats in ten minutes, and he didn’t doubt Bartholomew’s words. The man would hang him. Staying alive was imperative. There was always the chance of escape, but the end of a rope was no way out of this. He dropped to his knees and went straight for the rat he’d missed, calculating that it was the least ferocious, since it had tried digging to escape the noise above.
The barrel was a problem, because he really needed a corner where he could box them in. The others had got as far away from him as possible, and he dived across the sandpit to try and pin his target, cracking his head on the side of the barrel. He felt the fur of the animal slip through his teeth, but he just managed to get a grip on its tail as it tried to escape. The rat spun round and bit at his cheek, but Harry pulled himself up and swung the rat at the side of the barrel trying to stun it. It took him four attempts and he suffered four painful bites before he got it right. The rat went limp, dazed but not dead. He could hear the yelling of the crowd in his ears, some egging him on, others braying for the rats to go for his throat. He stood up and stamped on the dazed rat as it lay in the sand, crushing its head. Almost at the same moment he was boxed around the ears, only remembering as he fell Bartholomew’s strictures about standing.
As Harry crawled across the pit on his knees, towards the two remaining rats, they didn’t run. They stood their ground, their small glittering eyes holding his. He went for the one on his left, thumping his head on the barrel again as he missed. It didn’t try to escape. Instead the rodent bit into his chin and held on. Harry shook his head like a terrier, trying to dislodge it. He managed at cost of half an inch of skin, and as it fell he followed it down, his mouth closing around its neck. Again he shook his head like a dog, and he heard the bone break and the animal go limp. A perfect kill.
There was no time to feel triumphant. He set off after the other one. It ran around the barrel, occasionally turning to confront him, but always slipping away as he attacked. He made a false lunge, and as it ran off he threw his whole body at it, trying to trap the creature between his back and the wood. Success, but at the cost of more flesh and blood, as the rodent trapped beneath him sought to escape. He pressed hard, forcing his body against the barrel despite the pain. Then he rolled over to attack. The rat, weakened by the crushing it had endured, was too slow to get away. It was in his teeth, but he’d missed the vital neck. Harry bit down hard, and he felt the warm blood run over his mouth and the rat struggled frantically in its death agony. When it was still, he stood up, and spat the creature at Bartholomew.
If he had hoped to dent the man’s malice he was sadly disappointed. Bartholomew merely looked at his watch, and pronounced that Harry had seen off the four rats in six minutes. Some cheered, others groaned. What upset Harry, as he looked through the haze that covered his eyes, was the way Beldeau was smiling at him. That lop-sided grin told him that the rats he’d just fought were not his best. He would have stronger, bigger, and perhaps hungrier rats to come.
‘I think decency allows for a short break, Ludlow. We shall return you to your abode, while we go and have a wet.’
Harry was back in the dark again, and he heard the sound of voices fade away. He dragged his mind away from thoughts of the wounds he’d suffered, though they nipped like the devil, trying instead to think of ways to get out of this trap. But on another level his mind was also working on ways to kill rats. No doubt he’d be back in the pit before long, and this time with five rats to fight. He wouldn’t get the chance to kill the first one in the same way. They wouldn’t allow him the opportunity. But that action with his body had proved a success, and if he could get them by the tail he had the chance to dash their brains out.
Again he cast his mind back, trying to recall if he’d ever heard anyone telling him how to do this. People talked of such things without ever having experienced it, so their information was, at best, second-hand. But it was generally held that there was a way of fixing rats with a stare, a method that froze them just long enough to give the man a decided advantage. But he had a vague memory that this was accompanied by a serious risk, for if you fixed the rat with your eyes, when they attacked, that’s the part they went for. So be it. For he had to survive, and however many rats he fought and killed, and however many bites he sustained, that was paramount.
The sound of voices coming back alerted him, and he wondered how long they’d been gone. Not long enough for him to achieve anything in the way of an escape. He had no way of calculating the time. But it must be the middle of the night. It had been after midnight when he left the Toraglia villa. Surely that was a couple of hours ago? These men, regardless of how much they liked this sport, had to sleep sometime. If he could just get through to that point, it would at least give him a longer period of peace. Then he might be able to do something about getting away from here. A slim hope, but in such a situation you grasp w
hat you can.
The door was opened again, this time cautiously. Harry waited for them to come and get him, resisted them as they dragged him out, and made his way as slowly as possible towards the pit. He was glad to see that his audience was in no hurry. They were still drinking, placing their bets, examining him, then looking into the pit before exchanging odds. Bartholomew stood in the same place, his watch in his hand. Harry climbed up on to the step, making a great show of weariness.
‘I insist upon a fair contest,’ he said.
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise, as though Harry was in some way insulting his integrity. Given what he was about, Harry wondered if the man was sane. ‘I have no way of knowing if your watch is accurate.’
Bartholomew gave a small laugh. ‘If I didn’t despise you, I’d admire your effrontery, Ludlow. I wonder how Mr Hunter of Bond Street would take it, hearing you questioning the accuracy of his timepiece.’
‘You say it’s a Hunter?’ snapped Harry.
‘Do you doubt it?’ Bartholomew shoved the watch under Harry’s nose, which allowed him to see that it was near three o’clock. At best, he calculated that the first fight, from taking him out of his confinement, to the start of this one, must run at near an hour. If he could drag them out, it would be daylight before he had to fight seven rats. With the drink and the smoke in the room, plus the time, there was some hope that his audience would tire. Then he realised with a shock what that meant. He would have to fight one more rat than the Negro, and that fellow, an expert, took eight minutes to despatch six of them.
‘Given your undoubted talents at this sport, Ludlow, we’ve decided to bring matters forward a little.’
Harry turned away from Bartholomew’s smile and looked down into the pit, which had been cleared of the dead rats, and raked over to hide the blood. Now it contained seven rats, much bigger than the ones he’d already killed. Was his imagination exaggerating their size? More to the point, they were still, watching each other rather than the crowd above. It was the stillness of a threatened attack, not of fear, and Harry knew that these were some of Beldeau’s finest. Large, vicious, and already cannibals of their own kind. He also knew that protest would be useless.
The level of sound was rising as the wagers were agreed. Harry was hoisted onto the barrel this time, and thrown in as soon as Bartholomew gave the signal. He went straight down on his knees to avoid the blows being aimed at his head by those who’d bet against him. That wasn’t the only thing different. These creatures didn’t wait. Three of them, starving and smelling blood, went for him right off, one catching him in the arm, and another on the back as he bent forward to engage the third. This rat froze and stared at him. Harry could feel the pain as the other rats bit him repeatedly, but he ignored it and held the gaze of the one he was facing. Two seconds can seem like a lifetime at a moment like this, and they gazed, the man and the rodent, into each other’s eyes. The rat suddenly leapt for his left eye. Harry jerked his head, and with what could only have been luck, caught the animal. He didn’t stop moving and the jerk of his head that broke its neck was one continuous action.
No time to congratulate himself on finding the true method of successful rat fighting. He slammed sideways trapping the rat on his arm against the barrel, slamming it repeatedly. It fell into the sand and Harry stood, ignoring the blows aimed at his head, and stamped on it before it could recover. The third rat was still clinging to his back, and he fell away from a particularly vicious swipe and felt the creature go into a frenzy of biting as it was crushed against the side. He rolled his body to and fro, trying to get extra purchase with his feet in the sand. It stopped biting, and as Harry pulled himself away it fell to the ground, twitching. It wasn’t dead, but it was hurt enough to leave while he fought the others.
The other four had stayed out of the battle, and as luck would have it, two of them were now fighting each other, trying in their starvation to make a meal of their fellow creature. Harry ignored them and threw himself towards another one which adopted the same pose as the first, freezing in its position as it stared him in the eye. Again that pause before the rat leapt. This one was quicker, or he was slower. No matter, Harry felt the thin skin of his eyelid tear as he jerked his head to get rid of it. The rat landed on all fours and turned to face him again. He saw out of the corner of his blooded eye that the two others were still fighting. He tried to locate the last one but he couldn’t see it. Then he felt it running up his back. He ignored that and faced his opponent again. This time, when it leapt, he was the quicker, but he didn’t get it right for its head went right into his mouth. He bit hard through its neck until he felt the bone, keeping up the pressure till it went limp.
It was still in his mouth, its blood running down his chin, when he stomped on the two who were fighting each other. The last rat was savaging the back of his neck and he spun and twisted to dislodge it. The sound outside the pit had reached a crescendo, mingled cheers and cries of unfair. Finally he managed to jerk it off and Harry dropped back on to his knees, following it down as it twisted and fell. He didn’t go for it, knowing that if he did it would simply scurry away, wasting valuable time. He waited, inching closer and looking it in the eye.
This one was not to be tempted so easily, and they stared at each other for several seconds. Harry reckoned that if he blinked it would attack, trying to get him in the fraction of a second his eye was closed. Time? How much had he left? He went for the rat quickly, and this seemed to surprise the animal, for it was slow to try and get out of the way. But it did succeed in leaping sideways and attacking his exposed cheek. Again Harry had to raise himself and shake his head to dislodge it, losing another half an inch of skin. Then he was on his knees again, holding its gaze. This time the rat didn’t wait, but went straight for him. Harry caught it beautifully, and in one sweeping movement despatched it. It went limp, but he held its fur in his teeth while he killed off the other rats that lay wounded around the arena. Again he stood up and looked Bartholomew in the eye, thinking there was a neck he would like to get his teeth into.
‘Seven minutes for seven rats, Ludlow.’ There was no admiration in the voice, more irritation. He looked over the pit towards Beldeau. ‘I think you claim too much for your creatures, Beldeau. You’d better sort out something more ferocious for the morrow.’
Bartholomew turned his attention back to Harry, glancing at his watch. ‘We shall begin earlier tonight, Ludlow, and rest assured that we shall carry on until the game is done. For I must sail on the ebb the day after, and when I do, you shall be either blind or dead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HARRY’S head ached abominably, both from the blows he’d received and those he’d inflicted on himself by bashing his head against the side of the barrel. At least they’d untied him, although that had led to a painful period as the blood rushed back into his hands. He was drifting in and out of sleep as he tried to think of some way out of this prison. Nothing came. The sound of voices made him jerk himself into life and his heart sank. Surely his time hadn’t elapsed so quickly? Harry pressed his ear against the staves. Voices yes, but not the sound of a crowd. Two people, perhaps three, in quiet conversation. The thud was quite audible, and Harry heard the scrabbling sound as someone tried to open the door. He braced himself to attack, and as the door swung open his fist was halfway to Fairbairn’s face. By the time Harry had pulled his punch, the strength was out of the blow. But it was still sufficient to knock the skeletal surgeon flat on his back. Harry, carried forward by his momentum, followed him out through the doorway, landing right on top of the man and driving the wind out of his body. Looking sideways he found himself staring into the sightless eyes of a sailor, no doubt placed to guard him. His body was sprawled untidily on the floor, the back of his skull a bloody mess. A cooper’s hammer lay beside him.
Fairbairn was trying to get to his feet, and Harry instinctively grabbed at him to help. He then picked up the hammer, looking around to see if there was a more potent wea
pon laying about. The surgeon was shaking like a leaf, and as he pointed towards the sailor on the floor his finger trembled alarmingly. He spoke in short bursts, gulping great breaths of air as he did so. ‘Couldn’t let it pass. Barbarians. I fear I’ve killed the poor fellow.’
He was no poor fellow to Harry; more likely he was one of the people who’d stood on the step and swiped at him in the pit. He grabbed Fairbairn, who seemed frozen, staring at the corpse, and dragged him towards the doorway that led into the alley. Pulling it open, he pushed Fairbairn through. Hands grabbed him immediately. So did Harry, catching the surgeon by the collar and attempting to drag him back into the warehouse. Fairbairn became the object of an uncomfortable tug of war which Harry, in his weakened state, was bound to lose.
He swung the hammer, knowing that he was as likely to harm his rescuer as those holding him. He caught one of the hands gripping the surgeon, causing the man to let go with a cry of pain. But he was still being hauled out into the alley. He would either have to surrender Fairbairn, or take his chances in the open. The choice was taken from him. Another, much larger, pair of hands grabbed the surgeon, and gave him such a powerful tug that Harry was catapulted out through the door, tripping and falling to his knees.
‘Christ Almighty,’ cried Pender. ‘Let the poor bastard go!’
He grabbed Harry and hauled him to his feet. No time for words to explain what his servant was doing here. Lubeck, who had pulled both of them out of the doorway with apparent ease, hoisted Fairbairn easily and then ran off down the alley, not stopping till they were well away from the warehouse. Harry, gasping for breath, counted the rescue party. It was still dark but he could see their faces in the moonlight. Ten men. Where were the rest of his crew?
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