It occurred to him that the one French word nearly every smuggler knew was Customs—and that he might have been talking too loudly. It was just after he had said something about Philip being of the Douane that the voice had cried, “It is he!” and the shooting had started.
“Philippe!” he shouted, reaching for him but missing. He had underestimated the distance in the dark.
Pierre was not as young as he had been, and dashing around in ditches after a scrambling climb was telling on him. If Philip heard, he gave no sign. Pierre was close enough to see him dimly. He was working the lever of one of the Lorenzonis—presumably the other was already loaded. Hastily Pierre leapt and grabbed, but Philip had already moved. Pierre’s foot came down on a stone that shifted, and he fell headlong, just as a gun went off nearly in his ear.
He did not see what happened next but knew from the results. Before he could get to his feet, another gun went off, very close, and a heavy weight smashed him flat. Apparently some fool, seeing both Philip’s pistols go off, had run down to the edge of the ditch to shoot him at point-blank range, assuming he couldn’t reload in time. That was his last mistake. The Lorenzoni repeaters could fire twelve shots each at only two- to five-second intervals. Nonetheless this was a near disaster. Pierre heaved frantically at the dead weight pressing him down into the glutinous mud. With no one to protect his back, it would not be long before Philip was shot down despite his superior guns.
It was a devil of a job to get out from under the body. The ditch was narrow and the weight could not be thrust off by rolling over. Gasping for breath, Pierre tried to crawl out from under by going forward. He had just freed his head and shoulders when he heard a woman shriek briefly in surprise, two more shots, a hoarse gobbling, an agonized male scream that went on too long and broke too abruptly, some alarmed shouts—and then silence.
Chapter Twelve
The confusion immediately after the precipitous departure of the remaining ambushers was little less than the confusion of the gun battle itself. Philip shouted both Meg’s name and Pierre’s, not knowing which one to succor first. Pierre’s hoarse bellow that he was all right sent Philip in the direction he wanted to go—and almost got him killed because John grabbed him, not recognizing him in the dark. Megaera had to fling herself right on top of John, and even at that she only saved Philip a broken neck because her weight knocked John’s hands loose.
When that little fracas was over, it took a few minutes to calm John, who was weeping with fright at nearly having killed his only friend and displeased his “goddess”. Then they were able to look for Pierre, who had sensibly stopped struggling as soon as he realized the attack was over. John heaved the body off him at once and helped him to his feet and out of the ditch. There were a few more incoherent sounds while everyone made sure everyone else was unhurt.
“Lunatic!” Pierre exclaimed, as soon as he was sure son fils was intact. “Why did you return their fire after my warning shot? Why did you not give me a chance to say we were not Customs agents?”
“Customs? Good God, I never thought about it. I assumed it was Black Bart after Meg again.”
There was a moment of silence. Meg shuddered and Philip held her close. Pierre emitted a low whistle.
“Of that I had not thought,” he admitted. “I do not think ‘e know this place, but we ‘ad better see if we ‘ave the good fortune to ‘it ‘im, or if anyone is alive ‘oo tell us what was this about. Our lantern is in the ditch somewhere. Do you ‘ave one, Mees Meg?”
“John dropped it, I think. It must be somewhere, but I suppose the oil is all spilled.”
After they wiped the lantern so the whole thing would not catch fire, there was still enough oil to burn for a little while. The body John had heaved out of the ditch obviously had no life in it and was not recognizable. One whole side of the head had been blown away. Megaera choked and hid her face in Philip’s breast. He swallowed hard himself and looked away. Pierre shrugged and moved on to where a shadow lay, darker than the road surface. When Pierre shone the light on it, his breath drew in sharply. He had seen many, many dead men in his life, but there was something terribly wrong with this body. It was crushed and twisted in a most peculiar fashion, all out of shape like a bug that had been stepped on.
Just as he was about to move away, the eyes opened. Stifling his pity and revulsion, Pierre knelt down. “‘Oo were you trying to get?” he asked urgently, quite loud. Sometimes the dying will respond to something far outside their own concerns when there is enough force in the question.
“Agent,” the broken body sighed.
Pierre grimaced angrily, it had been a mistake, and three men were dead because of it. He hesitated a moment, fumbling for his knife. This poor creature could not survive long and it was senseless to let him suffer. “French agent…said papers for Boney…not…” The thread of a whisper finally stopped.
Knife in hand, Pierre waited, bending still lower. Then he sat back on his heels and slid his knife back into its sheath. There was no need to use it. The open eyes still stared at him, but they were empty with death now. So it had not been a mistake after all, and it was fortunate indeed that Philip had reacted as he did. The attempt had been meant to take Philip. Pierre did not need elaborate explanations to understand that the real agent had reversed his and Philip’s roles and had hired men to kill Philip. Both men he had examined were local hired help. He moved on to the last body and his breath drew in again, but not because of the wounds—one in the shoulder and the second in the throat. It was pleasure that made him breathe deeply this time. For once luck seemed to be with them. This was no local hired man; he was dressed like a gentleman.
“Philippe, come ‘ere,” Pierre called. “We were both wrong. Eet was not a gang after Customs men nor Black Bart after Mees Meg.”
Philip tried to make Meg stay with John, but she clung to him and perforce he brought her with him. She began to shake when she saw the body. This was the man who had run right into her pony, waving a gun. She had shot him in frightened reaction, her pistols being drawn and cocked because she had heard gunfire and also heard Pierre shout Philip’s name. It was only after she had fired that she realized the man had not been attacking her but had been running away from the battle behind him Then, before she could do anything, John had grabbed another man and broken him.
It was horrible! She felt sick and weak, and then she heard Philip exclaim, “Jean! Good God, Jean de Tréport. But what—”
“The dying man said they ‘ad been hired to kill a French spy—’e can only ‘ave meant you, Philippe.”
“God in Heaven! I felt there were two of them that first time in my room, but when I killed the one on the road and no one tried to help him, I thought I was mistaken. I can hardly believe… But he knew I was no spy. Yet you must be right. It was my name, not the fact that you mentioned Customs. Do not cry, Meg, my love. You have saved my life.”
“You mean that man—those men were trying to kill you, Philip?”
“It looks that way,” he said grimly. “Jean knew me. I thought, in fact, that we were friends. Now, I suppose it was because—” He hesitated, unwilling to say too much but realizing he must give Meg some explanation, “Because I knew too much about him and would not give him information.”
“Oh!” Meg exclaimed, having absorbed what Philip had said. “Oh, the monster!” She pulled herself more erect, no longer trembling. “I am sorry I only shot him twice!” she said ferociously.
Philip and Pierre both burst out laughing. “Twice ees enough, Mees Meg,” Pierre chortled. “’E could not be more dead if you ‘ad shot ‘im a ‘undred times.”
“No, and it is a shame to waste powder and ball,” Philip remonstrated with mock seriousness.
Indignation had completely eliminated any shred of sickness or remorse. Megaera looked at the corpse with the cold, indifferent, glance she would have bestowed upon a rat in a barn. “Do you want John to get rid of the bodies by dumping them off the pier, or should we jus
t leave them here?” Then something odd struck her, and she looked toward the huddle of huts. “But where is everyone? It sounded like a war was going on when I was riding down the road.”
“That is just why it is so quiet,” Pierre pointed out, grinning. “People ‘ere do not intrude on other people’s wars. And yes, Mees Meg, eef the poor John can take away the bodies, eet would be better for all. Those ‘ere, as I said, do not wish to draw the attention. They would be angry with us for causing so much inconvenience.”
“No, we cannot drop them off the pier,” Philip said, “at least not de Tréport. He must be found. I will go with John while you and Pierre finish your business, Meg. I will take them across to the main road. That will be a nice neutral place, not too close to any village.”
John had followed them, and Meg signed swiftly that he was to go with Philip and obey him. She gave Philip one long look, but he was not standing on ceremony because of Pierre, and took her in his arm and kissed her. He could not see her face clearly, but he felt the warmth of her blush and he kissed her nose and murmured that she should not be such a goose. It was an enormous relief to him to know that the attack had not been directed against her. Doubtless the Black Bart man had left the area when she threatened him.
Pierre took Megaera away, and Philip set about his cleanup job briskly. He and John loaded two of the bodies on the pony which, being of placid disposition, had not run far. John slung the third corpse over his shoulder, as indifferently as if it were a sack of wheat. When they reached the road, Philip went through Jean’s pockets, but he found nothing of significance. He had hoped there would be some clue as to whether Jean was working on his own or for someone else. He accepted the lack of evidence philosophically, however. On an adventure one cannot have everything handed out on a platter. The fact that he had been able to recognize Jean was very good luck. He could pass the information along to his father, and all of Jean’s associates would be most carefully watched and scrutinized.
It was only a mile as the crow flies to the main road north of The Mousehole, but finding a path passable to the laden pony took them almost a full mile out of their way. By the time he got back to the inn, a little more than an hour later, Megaera had become very nervous, although Pierre kept telling her it was impossible for Philip to cover the distance in less time. Between what had happened and the exertions and lack of sleep the previous night, she looked wan and exhausted.
Philip took her hand and held it tightly while he assured her that all had gone well. Then he explained about “a man he knew” who had considerable influence in the government and gave her the letter to his father and the one that explained how to use it, both wrapped in blank covers. Next he told her what to do with the letter to Roger and that it was explained more clearly under the cover. Last he got a dirty but usable sheet of paper and some gritty ink from the landlord. With these he wrote a brief, sputtery note to Roger, not describing what had happened—that would have taken too long—but telling him he had discovered Jean de Tréport was an agent for Bonaparte, that the man was now dead—he would explain when he saw his father—and his friends and associates should be watched.
This he gave to Megaera when they were outside the inn, pressing a gold piece into her hand and telling her to arrange for the letter to go express. “Find a way to get it on the earliest mail, love,” he begged. “It is very important.”
“Yes, I will,” she assured him. “Don’t worry about the letter. And you mustn’t worry about me either, Philip. I will be very careful, I promise. I wish you could promise the same.”
“But I can, sweet, really I can. It is not dangerous, what I am about to do, only perhaps, time-consuming. Wait for me, Meg. I will come.”
“Yes, but now you will go,” Pierre said. “Philippe, we will miss the tide. Come.”
There was no arguing with tides. Philip did not dare pause even to kiss Meg. That, he was afraid, could not be done briefly. With one last look over his shoulder, he walked down to the pier where Pierre’s boat was waiting to take them back to the Bonne Lucie. He was glad the parting had been so abrupt. It was easier that way. He was also much easier in his mind. Probably Meg was right and there was virtually no chance of the law catching up with her, but should that odd chance happen, his father would get her out of trouble. There were a lot of strings in Roger’s capable hands, and he had a powerful pull.
Neither Philip nor Megaera gave Black Bart a second thought, and if Pierre did, he was far too wise to mention that just as the lovers parted. The same could not be said the other way around. There was nothing Bart could think of besides Meg and Philip. He could not believe his bad luck. Who could imagine that the man Treeport wanted should appear. He had been furious when Treeport precipitated the attack. It had been Bart who shouted, “No!“ after Jean fired the first shot. The last thing in the world that Bart wanted was for Pierre to be hurt. He was aware that Pierre did not like or trust him, but he believed the smuggler would do business with him when there was no one else.
Once Pierre had returned the fire, however, the men who were scarcely a disciplined group, simply did what was natural to them. They were beyond Black Bart’s control, and he knew it. The best he could do was hold his fire and hope he would be able to kill the one Jean had said was a French agent. Bart was indifferent to Philip’s reputed treasonable activities, but he wanted to finish the shooting before Red Meg heard it and was warned off. However, he could not even accomplish that purpose. The “French” devil never seemed to have to stop to reload, and killed the man who seemed to have a perfect shot at him.
Then he had missed his chance to kill Red Meg too. Because he was so sure she would be warned off by the gunfire, he had not been watching for her. When she appeared with blazing pistols and had killed one man and, a moment later, John had killed still another, Bart decided that the ambush had somehow been betrayed to her and a counter-trap had been set for him. He had all the money Jean had given him in his pocket, having found very good reasons not to pay the men in advance.
Crouching low, gasping curses and curses and curses, Bart ran to where the horses had been hidden. This time he would have to get out of west Cornwall, at least for a while. Red Meg would not be content with a warning this time. She would start a hunt for him, put pressure on the law—after all, she already paid them to turn a blind eye to her deliveries; she could pay them a little more to catch him on some charge. Sure, they would take him for smuggling. The men in Meg’s gang would give evidence. The Customs men and the JP would be able to show the officials higher up that they were not corrupt. Hadn’t they caught and convicted a smuggler?
Weeping with fury and frustration, Bart whipped his horse viciously. It was a miracle that the beast did not stumble in the dark and throw him, but it carried him over the headland and back to the road a safe distance away. Horse and saddle had been rented; remembering that gave Bart his single spark of satisfaction. Jean had rented the horses. He had told Bart to do it, but he was too smart for that. It would serve the idiot right to have to pay for the animal. Long before he reached Penzance, Bart turned off the road and headed north. Sooner or later he would strike a track that would take him east. He had heard there was a lively smuggling trade in Polperro and Looe. That should be far enough that Red Meg’s dogs couldn’t sniff him out.
Henri d’Onival was also on the road—or rather, beside it. When the first shot had been fired, he had screamed with terror. That was the cry that made Pierre think his random, warning shot had hit someone. However, Henri’s only pain had been an agony of fear. Without thought he had run across the road, away from the terrifying sounds of gunfire. Blind with panic he had stumbled and fallen into the ditch on the other side and had lain there throughout the whole fight, shivering. He had heard Megaera’s pony coming down the road but had not recognized it for what it was. To his fearful mind the sound was magnified into a whole army coming to attack them from behind.
The two shots Meg fired and the two screams—hers and t
hat of the man John crushed—convinced Henri that his position was little safer than those of the men who were still fighting. He crawled forward in the ditch as fast as he could, ignoring bruised knees and torn hands and then when silence had fallen, he got to his feet and ran. He ran until he fell from exhaustion. By the time his driven body had recovered, his absolute panic had receded. Now Henri remembered the horses hidden not far from the road. But to get a horse he would have to return to the scene of the battle. He shuddered convulsively and began to walk. Nothing would make him go back. Nothing would make him remain another day. Nothing would make him continue this horrible enterprise. Whatever Jean said or did, Henri determined he would not listen. He would return to London. He might be penniless, but be would still be alive. He would find some other way to pay his debts.
It was nearly morning by the time Henri made his way back to the inn in Penzance. On the way he had had another terrible fright. The sound of horses had sent him cowering into the brush by the side of the road. He feared it was the “law”, or whoever else had come down the road and attacked them from behind, searching for survivors. In fact it was the survivors themselves. Henri was lucky in his fear, however; the hired men were angry enough to kill him. ‘They thought they had been tricked into an attack on Red Meg’s gang, and they would not have waited to listen to any explanations. Had they seen him, Henri would have been killed and delivered to Red Meg as a burnt offering—a token, of good faith that they had been tricked and had not intended to start an intergang war.
Although he was a little afraid of Jean, Henri was so much more afraid of being involved, in another situation like the one he had just escaped, that he knew he could outface his partner. And during the long, walk home he had conceived a brilliant idea. He did not need to complete the job to be paid. All he had to do was to threaten to expose d’Ursine—a nice show of indignation at being asked to spy against the country that had sheltered him and his parents Yes, d’Ursine would pay—and pay.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 22
