The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 05

by Anthology

  "Very well, you shall have him here in a moment," said Adams, getting up and leaving the room as he spoke.

  In a couple of minutes he came back, accompanied by a man of medium height and middle age, whose dark olive complexion, black hair, and somewhat deep-set black eyes betrayed his southern origin at a glance. His face showed a curious mixture of shrewdness and openness, but there was something about the square brow and the squarer jaw which gave Sir Harry and Mr. Austen the impression that he was the sort of man whom it would be better to have for a friend than an enemy.

  "Now, M. Berthauld," said Adams politely, motioning him to a chair, "these are the two gentlemen of whom I spoke to you. Take a cigar, and help yourself to whisky, and then oblige us by telling your story over again, in order that they may understand all the particulars better than they might understand them from me. This is Sir Harry Milton, and this is Mr. Frederick Austen."

  The stranger bowed to Sir Harry and Mr. Austen in turn, with that natural grace which, among the peoples of the South, seems to supply the place of aristocratic breeding, helped himself to a cigar from a box on the table, while Adams mixed him a glass of whisky and water, and then, with the air of a man who has something important to say and doesn't want to waste any time in saying it, settled himself in the chair and began his story forthwith in French, after being assured that all his hearers would understand him-

  "Gentlemen, I am a Corsican. My name, as you already know, is René Berthauld, and I was born thirty-four years ago at Porta Vecchio, in Corsica. I had an elder brother named Victor, three years older than I, who, after the death of my father, became head of our family. Six years ago, or thereabouts, my brother, who, I may say, without disrespect to his memory, was a man of more imagination than education, and a man, too, whom fate had not treated very kindly, became disgusted with the order of things as they are arranged in Europe; and I may say, too, without offence to you gentlemen, that that order of things presses somewhat hardly upon those who have nothing but a pair of hands at the end of fairly strong arms for their patrimony in life.

  "My brother became a Socialist through listening to the lectures of those who find it easier to talk than to work, and from that he became a member of the Mala Vita, which, as you know, is an Italian secret society, whose hand is against every man's. But this did not content him for long, and at last he joined the anarchists. He was suspected of being concerned in the bomb outrage in the Liceo Theatre in Barcelona, which you gentlemen will, no doubt, remember, and from Spain he fled to London- the universal refuge of all anarchists and criminals who have made their own countries too hot to hold them.

  "I corresponded with him from Rome, where I had got employment in the municipal electric lighting works, and in all my letters I exhorted him to cut off his connection with the anarchists and return to a decent way of life, for I am a practical man myself, and I have no faith in these theories for undoing the work of hundreds of years at a single stroke.

  "At last my letters seemed to have some effect upon him. He told me that he had determined to forsake the anarchists; but he said that he was, by this time, so far implicated in their doings, that, unless he could win the pardon of the authorities, by some great stroke against the anarchists, it would be impossible for him to live, except in constant fear for his life or liberty. Then, after that, he hinted at some great blow that was to be delivered by the members of the Group that he belonged to.

  "It was Autonomie Group No. 7, which had its headquarters somewhere in London, though, of course, he would never tell me where, and he said that he would foil this great design, and save Europe from such a shock as it had never had before. In this letter he mentioned one name as that of the leading spirit of the Group. It was a name that you gentlemen and all the world now know too well- Max Renault."

  The Corsican paused for a moment, and Sir Harry and Mr. Austen said in a breath-

  "Ah, now, that's getting interesting. Go on, please. We are listening with all our ears."

  "It is even so," said Berthauld. "But it shall be more interesting before I have done. That was the last letter that I ever had from my brother. I wrote to him at his lodgings, and the letter came back, marked 'Gone Away,' through the English post office. Victor had never failed to answer a letter of mine before; but before my letter came back to me, all Europe was ringing with the assassination of President Carnot by Caserio Santo.

  "Now I knew Santo slightly, and he knew that I had a brother who was an anarchist, and it was from him I learnt that, although these people profess to act entirely as their own minds prompt them, they are really under the direction of a governing Group, and that Group is always in London, because that is the only place where they can be safe.

  "As soon as I learnt this, I put two and two together, as you say. My brother had told me of the great blow that was to fall on Europe, and said that he would prevent it, but the blow had fallen, and my brother bad disappeared. From that it did not take much reasoning for me to convince myself that Victor had betrayed himself, or had been betrayed in some way, and that the anarchists had killed him as a traitor.

  "I gave notice at the works, and drew what wages were due to me, and with these and my savings I went to London, but not before I had become a member of the Cette Group of anarchists, to which Santo himself belonged. I gave my name as Gabriel Malato, and under that name I travelled to London, with credentials from the Cette Group. I can tell you I was not in London very long before I made the acquaintance of several of the London anarchists, and not very much longer before I met one Rolland, who introduced me to Max Renault himself as a candidate for membership of the Group No. 7.

  "You may be sure that I was put through a pretty searching examination, but my brother's letters had told me so much about the anarchist organisation that what I had learned from them, together with my passports from the Cette Group, satisfied even Renault himself at last, and so I was admitted. On the night of my admission, Renault told me that, in the very room in which I took the oath, he had with his own hand shot a traitor named Victor Berthauld, who had almost betrayed the plans for the assassination of President Carnot.

  "Gentlemen, what better proof did I want than that? The Fates had led me to London, and had placed me face to face with my brother's murderer, and, more than that, the murderer had confessed to me with his own lips. But Max Renault, clever as he is, made a mistake when he confessed that to me, in his boasting way, to warn me of the doom that would be mine if I turned traitor.

  "He thought that Victor Berthauld was a Frenchman, and that Gabriel Malato was an Italian. He did not know that Victor Berthauld and Gabriel Malato were brothers and Corsicans. Now, gentlemen, you will understand why I became an anarchist in profession, and joined the Group No. 7. You have heard of the Vendetta. Look you, look at this!" and as he spoke, the Corsican bared his right arm to the elbow, and showed on his forearm a livid scar in the form of a cross.

  "That is the sign of the Vendetta. You know what it means. Blood for blood. The night that Renault confessed that my brother had died by his hand, I went home and cut that cross with my dagger, and as the blood came out, I kissed the sign, and swore that his life and those of his companions should pay for Victor's, and so they shall.

  "Without betraying my name, I gave information to the police in London, which led, as perhaps you know, to the club being raided,- he club with which they used to cover their meetings,- and four of them were arrested. Max Renault himself and Franz Hartog, the German who commanded the Destroyer, and Rolland, and an Italian named Cassano were captured. You know what happened. This stupid English justice let them go again, because they had a clever advocate, and because they could not prove, for the satisfaction of a stupid jury, that they had made bombs or actually stabbed the President, and so, for that time, my vengeance was defeated.

  "But I was not discouraged. The group broke up, and Renault went away to your island of Utopia, where he got the air-ship, and Hartog went to Germany to build the boat which he
stole, and Lea Cassilis, Renault's sweetheart, disappeared, and afterwards came out in Paris as Madame Cora Dail-"

  "Good heavens! you don't mean to say that that pretty little woman was really his sweetheart?" broke in Sir Harry. "O Lord! what fools she made of us at the theatre that night, and of me in particular! Well, never mind; go on, please. It can't be helped now."

  "There is not much more to tell," continued the Corsican. "I kept friends with Rolland, and when Renault returned, I was able to learn all that was going on. Now, I know the agents of these anarchists and their plans; and, more than that, I know where their hiding-place is; and if you will take me on board one of your air-ships, I will lead you to it, up near the summit of Mount Prieta, in the Cantabrian Mountains, and you shall destroy it.

  "Mind, gentlemen, I am not an anarchist, nor am I a spy or a traitor. I am a Corsican, and Max Renault killed my brother. I will have blood for blood, according to the creed of my race, so help me God, and the Holy Virgin, by this sign!"

  And, so saying, he pressed his lips once more to the sign on his arm, and looked up at them with hungry eyes, waiting for them to speak.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  TURNING THE TABLES.

  THERE was a pause of silence for some moments after the Corsican had done speaking. His three hearers looked at him as they might have looked at some half-wild animal endowed with speech, for it was the first time that any of them had been brought face to face with the personified passion of revenge, which is the concrete form of all that is implied by the terrible word Vendetta.

  There was no possibility of mistaking the absolute sincerity of Berthauld for any skilfully simulated pretence for gaining their confidence with a view to betraying their plans to the enemy. The man's whole frame seemed vibrating with the passionate frenzy into which he had worked himself during the telling of his story. Hate and blood-hunger blazed out of his eyes, and his lips were drawn back from his long white teeth, like those of an animal ready to spring at the throat of its prey; and then on his arm, which he still kept bared before them, was the livid cross scored in the flesh, the visible sign-manual of his oath and his resolve.

  By tacit consent, the other two waited for the oldest man to speak first, and at length Mr. Austen said in a cold, almost judicial tone-

  "Mr. Adams has told us that you have already satisfied him of the truth of your story and the sincerity of your intention; and for myself, I may also say that I am satisfied. Sir Harry Milton will speak for himself."

  Sir Harry nodded, and said briefly-

  "You may speak for me too, Mr. Austen. If you are satisfied, I am."

  "Very well, then," continued Mr. Austen, turning again to Berthauld. "I may cut matters short by saying that, under the extraordinary circumstances of the case, we will accept your assistance. You will, of course, understand that we have nothing whatever to do with your private enmity to Renault, or with the motives which lead you to desire revenge upon him; and I must also tell you, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, that if Renault is not killed in battle, and if, as I think very unlikely, we capture him alive, we shall hand him over to the proper authorities for execution, of course taking proper precautions to prevent a second escape."

  "I have sworn to kill him with my own hand if I can," said Berthauld, with the hungry gleam still in his eyes, "and if the opportunity offers, I shall do so. But if you take him prisoner, I will forego that, and only ask that you will make me one of his guards until he is handed over to the hangman, for if you take him, he will be yours, not mine; but if I take him, I will kill him, as I have sworn to do. Does that content you?"

  "Yes," replied Mr. Austen, "there can be no fault found with that, though I think the point is hardly worth discussing, for I cannot believe that he will ever allow himself to be taken alive. He will blow his ship to atoms first with his own hands. But now, as regards yourself. You understand, I suppose, that you give yourself as a hostage for your own sincerity."

  "Yes," said the Corsican, rising to his feet, and stretching out his arm with the gesture of a man who voluntarily surrenders his liberty. "Until this is accomplished, I am yours, body and soul. Do with me as you please. I have no arms, not even a knife, and I want none. You may search me and see. You may guard me night and day on board your air-ship, and shoot me if you even suspect me. I ask nothing but that you will let me help you to hunt this Renault down, and when he is dead, set me free to go about my business."

  "That is enough," said Mr. Austen. "You will go on board Mr. Adams' ship as soon as we have decided what is to be done first. And now tell us, if you know, how Renault and his accomplices managed to get their air-ships built."

  "Yes, I can do that," said the Corsican. "The North German Lloyd liner, Bremen, which they captured, Renault and Hartog transformed into a floating dockyard. They kept her in the South Atlantic, cruising constantly east and west a few degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn and between the tenth and thirtieth meridians. This, as you no doubt know, is midway between the two great steamship tracks to South America on the one side, and the Cape of Good Hope and Australia on the other. The Destroyer acts as a sort of tender to her, and keeps her supplied with coals and provisions, which she takes from the cargo steamers. They have never been discovered, because they have never left anyone alive to tell tales. When they have got all they want out of a steamer, they send her to the bottom with all hands on board."

  "The scoundrels!" exclaimed Sir Harry and Mr. Austen in a breath; and Sir Harry, bringing his open hand down with a slap upon his knee, said angrily, "Ordinary justice has no punishment for crimes like that. I begin to see now the reason for the Vendetta."

  "It is more just than your justice," said the Corsican quietly. "Think of the friends and kindred, the mothers and the wives and the lovers of those poor fellows whose bones have been picked by the fish in the South Atlantic, and you will see why I want my revenge on Renault.

  "But I must go on with my story. The last air-ship that is built on board the Bremen always remains by her till the next one is finished, to guard against the accident of being discovered by a war-ship, then the other takes her place, and she goes to the camp at Mount Prieta to join the fleet. More than this, they have establishments for stores and depots for treasure and arms and ammunition at an inlet on the African coast, south of Cape Bojador; another on one of the keys of the Bahamas; another in one of the bayous of Florida; another in the island of Trinidad, in the Atlantic; and another at your island of Utopia, which I suppose you know they have taken possession of."

  "We didn't know it, but we expected it," said Adams. "But we can very soon turn them out of there. And now, M. Berthauld, we can get to work, I think. I propose that the War-Hawk and the Volante shall go in company first to Trinidad, destroy the depot there, then you will guide us to the Bremen and the Destroyer, and we will sink them, and after that- But stop a minute-there is something else. How do the anarchists get their material for building the air-ships, and their ammunition and guns, to the Bremen?"

  In answer to this question, the Corsican described the Pilgrim and her work, and added, with a laugh, "This gentleman's yacht, as everyone believes her to be, was lying quietly in Plymouth only a few days ago."

  "And where is she now?" asked Sir Harry.

  "She had then a full cargo on board, and I believe it was intended for the Bremen. If that is so, she would sail for the South Atlantic, probably for Trinidad first. May I ask, gentlemen, how many ships you will take with you on the expedition?"

  "Only the two that are here," replied Adams. "They can fly nearly two hundred miles an hour, and their armaments are much more powerful than anything the anarchists have, if what we saw in the north last night is any guide."

  "Yes, they will be quite enough," said Berthauld. "Renault has about twenty-five ships altogether now, but none of them are as fast as yours. With those two you could fight the whole fleet, and beat it. And now, may I ask when you propose to start, gentlemen?"

  "There is n
othing to stop us starting at once," said Adams. "And the sooner we are off the better. The Volante is quite ready, and I suppose the War-Hawk will have filled up her fuel magazines by this time."

  "Oh yes, she'll be quite ready; and we ought to get afloat as soon as possible, so as to be well out of the way before the light gets too strong."

  In less than half an hour the two air-ships were afloat again, and flying at sixty miles an hour on a course a little to the west of south. An elevation of four thousand feet was kept, and as the light increased, a bright look-out was kept for steamers corresponding to the description which Berthauld had given of the Pilgrim. As far as they had been able to calculate, she ought by this time to be about a thousand miles on her way, supposing she had taken the route to the South Atlantic, and was steering, as in that case she would do, a direct course for the island of Trinidad.

  The whole ocean, however, seemed deserted, except far away to the northward, where a few faint smoke hazes betokened the presence of the Atlantic liners and their convoys. The speed was therefore increased, first to a hundred, and then to a hundred and fifty miles an hour; and at length, towards four o'clock in the afternoon, Adams, who was scanning the ocean through his glasses from the conning-tower, made out a faint wreath of smoke coming from some solitary steamer far away on the southern horizon.