The hours crawled past and he struggled on doggedly until the voices were louder and seemed to come from every direction at once. Panic took him then. He ran with the strength of desperation until he fell, sobbing and gulping for breath like a hunted animal. It came to him that this must be how poor Quentin Chandler had felt when he and that hound Joseph Montgomery had tracked the wounded Jacobite down. He gave a faint, ironic laugh. The way of the hero … as he’d always known. A fine pickle he’d got himself into!
It must have been noon when he dragged himself up a slope and at the top the ground suddenly fell away. He rolled helplessly and lay sprawled in the mud at the foot, too tired to lift a finger. The stubborn flame of hope was quenched at last. He was finished, he knew, and he was so exhausted and spent he was almost glad. Heavy feet were running to him; a harsh, exultant voice rang and echoed in his ears. It would be Lambert, of course so he must find the strength to reach the pistol. He fought to drag the weapon from his pocket, cursing when it resisted his efforts. At last it was in his hand. It was very heavy. He saw the running boots now, and swung it upward. The boots halted.
Mathieson whispered, “Maman … Je vous demande … pardon …” And he closed his eyes, pressed the muzzle to his temple and pulled the trigger.
There was a click, nothing more. The powder, of course, was wet. What a sorry fool not to have realized it!
The boots were beside him. He blinked up into a rage-contorted face, saw the glitter of a high-swung bayonet, then was gasping to the sharp agony of goring steel.
The last thing he heard was Lambert … raving …
18
Life, reflected Benjamin Hessell, was a bitter pill. What’s more, it was fulla meanness and trickery. Here he’d wheedled and stole and trudged his way clear up to Liverpool and back again, thinking as that there Otton was on to something good at last. And what had it got him? An empty belly, a perishing cold, and he’d damn near been scragged by that wicked and evil Brooks Lambert—may he rot! Bitta luck he’d cadged a ride with that carter, even if it had only got him this far. At least he was not much more than thirty-five mile from home. Give or take a mile.
He interrupted his gloomy introspection to look around the tap. Perishing farmers. All wot they could talk abaht was cows and corn, cows and corn! Cor! Enough ter make yer sick! The ale wasn’t too bad though, considering as this was such a small tavern, on the north fringe of Cricklade which wasn’t exactly no roaring city. Lor’, but he hated the country! Give him the Big Smoke any day!
He fumbled in his pocket, wondering if he had enough coins to pay for another tankard. He’d gotta think of dinner. Might be able ter prig something, but you couldn’t always count on it. He wouldn’t’ve been able ter buy himself the sausage and pickles or the first tankard, if he hadn’t of earned a shilling loading a river barge fer two days. A fine thing when a man had to work fer his vittles! He found himself the possessor of a groat, a ha’penny, three farthings and the silver button Otton had given him. At least, it looked to be silver. He eyed the host thoughtfully. Wonder if the fat old clown would buy it—or take it in exchange fer—
A commotion from outside cut into his musings. A steady drumbeat, many horses, and a confusion of catcalls and whistles. That’d be soldiers. Likely they’d caught some slippery Jakeybite. Together with the other occupants of The Swan, he stood and hurried to the door.
Outside, it was drizzling and cold. A troop of horse was coming along the tree-lined lane, well accompanied by urchins. The officer in the lead drew an awed, “Oooh! Ain’t he handsome!” from the barmaid, but sent Hessell dodging back into the shadows with a whispered, “Lambert!”
“Oh! Poor man!” said the barmaid a minute later, her tone so sympathetic now, that Hessell’s curiosity awoke. Lambert had passed, so he was safe. He shoved his way to the fore, jostling the barmaid, who turned a shocked face.
“What’s got yer shivering, me pretty?” he leered.
“I think that’s cruel,” she said indignantly. “He’s hurt—see, his sleeve’s all bloody. And to drag him along like that! It ain’t right!”
Hessell shrugged, and turned an indifferent eye on the prisoner who staggered and reeled behind the sergeant’s horse, his bound hands secured to the rope that pulled him along. Hessell’s eyes sharpened. The black hair of the prisoner straggled wetly about haggard, beard-stubbled features; the drenched clothes were a far cry from anything he would ever have expected to see upon that usually elegant individual. But he’d know Roland Otton anywhere. His astonished gasp was drowned by several other exclamations as the prisoner fell to his knees and then toppled, to be dragged unmercifully.
The catcalls had ceased by this time and now several angry shouts went up. The officer glanced over his shoulder, then raised a gauntletted hand and the troop halted. A command was called. A sergeant dismounted, tossing his reins to a corporal. He went back and dropped to one knee beside the sprawled figure, then rolled the prisoner onto his back.
“Get him on his feet!” shouted the lieutenant.
Expressionless, the sergeant hauled the limp figure up, and let go. There was some laughter but more indignation from the small crowd as the prisoner crumpled and fell headlong again.
The lieutenant reined around, leaned down and spoke a few pithy words to the sergeant, who flushed and motioned to a trooper. Between them, they lifted the prisoner and slung him face down across the trooper’s saddle. Another brief conference, then the sergeant mounted up again and troop and prisoner went on at a slower pace.
The trooper however, remained, and pushed his way through the knot of people at the door. He glanced around the tap. He was a clean-cut, good-looking youth, and when he spoke his voice was educated. “Is there a doctor hereabouts, host?”
The barmaid sidled over to him. “There’s the apothecary,” she cooed. “Last cottage at the end of the lane ’fore you turns into Cricklade, m’dearie.”
The trooper’s young face reddened. He touched his tricorne, gave her a shy smile and hurried out.
“Mind you come back again, Colonel,” she called after him. And when he was gone and the laughter had died down, she murmured, “I wonder they bother. That poor fella they caught looked proper done for.”
“‘That poor fella’ is likely one o’ them murdering rebs, my girl,” said the host sternly. “And they’re not about to let him die till they’re done with questioning him.”
She looked frightened and retreated into the back of the tap.
Hessell sat down again and stared at the button he still held. So Lambert had caught up with Captin Otton, or Mathieson, or whatever his real name was. And if they was looking fer a sawbones it might mean they’d be told they must let their prisoner rest here for a day or so afore hauling him orf to London and the questioning. Poor perisher. He had no love for Captin Slippery Otton, but—cor! he wouldn’t wish that lot on no one! He wouldn’t give much fer his own chances neither, if horrid Lambert saw him here. He’d best be getting—
“Want to sell that?” The host had wandered up and was looking at the button.
“Might,” said Hessell, craftily nonchalant.
The host picked up the button and inspected it closely. With a grin he asked, “Acquainted wi’ his Grace, is you?”
“Wot grace?”
“The duke. Marbury. Them’s his arms. I know, ’cause I used to work on his estate.”
Hessell, playing his cards cautiously, laughed. “You’re wrong there, mate. This was give ter me by a young fella name of Otton—or Mathieson, and—”
“Right you are, then.”
Hessell gaped at him.
“Mathieson’s the family name,” explained the host, willing to air his knowledge of the Quality. “Clifford Augustus Fairleigh Mathieson, Earl of Nettering, Earl of Mathie, and dozens of more titles—Duke of Marbury. That’s the old man.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t know there was another one of ’em. Come to think on it, there was a son, I heard. Long time ago, though. I’ll give
you a tanner.”
His eyes very bright, Hessell scooped up the button and restored it with great care to his greasy pocket. “No thanks, mate. Fancy you working on a great estate, though. Cor! In London, was it?”
“I never did see the London house. Very grand, I heard. No, I worked at Dominer. Now that’s a palace if you ever wanta see one!”
“A palace, eh?” Hessell’s hopes rose with every second. “I wouldn’t mind having a look. You think this duke cove would be there?”
“Hmmnn. October … He might. He’s got a lot of houses. I dunno for sure. I heard he was in Sussex a week or so ago, but—he might. Why? You thinking to take a dish of Bohea with him?”
Hessell laughed dutifully at this witticism, but his mind was busy. Otton might be a nephew or some sorta relation, and the old man might pay fer a mouth kept shut about the disgraceful arrest. The Quality didn’t like real scandal in the family. It was, he decided, worth a try. “And where might this here Domino o’yours be, me clever covey? Not bloomin’ France, I hopes?”
The host grinned. “No, not that far off, mate. And it’s Dominer—not Domino. About ten miles this side of Bath. Matter of fact—” He checked, eyeing Hessell thoughtfully. “If you’re really thinking of going down there, I got a waggon-load of bricks to get to Bath. My sons make ’em, but my eldest boy’s hurt his back, so my fourteen-year-old’s loading now and he’ll be off in a hour or so. I’d as soon he didn’t drive, but we’re already late delivering. If you’d be willing, I can offer a good meal ’fore you start, a free ride, and sixpence if you help him load now, and unload at t’other end. He could put you down near Dominer on the way back, if you’d like. What d’you say?”
Hessell hemmed and hawed, and with inner jubilation accepted the offer.
Trooper Willhays propped his musket against the barn door, took off his tricorne and mopped his brow. The afternoon was warm and the rains of yesterday had left the air damp, the resulting sultriness not pleasing when one wore a red uniform coat with a high-buttoned collar. He flinched slightly as a faint cry from within the barn reached his ears, and he knew that he did not sweat entirely because of the heat. He snatched up the musket hurriedly and began to pace up and down, keeping his gaze on the farmhouse and trying not to hear those occasional sounds of pain, or the lieutenant’s harshly repeated questions. He whipped about as Lambert’s enraged voice broke into a flood of cursing. The door to the barn fairly burst open and Sergeant Patchett exploded through it, his face mottled with wrath. He charged past the trooper, halted beyond a nearby beech tree and swore at it with fire and fluency until he ran out of breath.
Trooper Willhays ventured closer and watched the sergeant unhappily. “I—haven’t heard the whip this time,” he muttered.
The sergeant glared at him and tore open the buttons at his throat. “Lovely Lambert don’t need it now. He’s already cut that poor fella to ribbons. He’s got a new trick.”
“Oh,” said the trooper, wishing he’d joined the navy.
“He’s got him strung up to the beams by his wrists,” snarled the sergeant, twirling ferociously at a button. “With his feet just off the floor.”
Willhays blanched. “But—but what about that—hole in his arm?”
“You know what. All the lovely Lambert has to do is hit him now and then—not very hard—just so as he—swings.” He spat savagely.
“Oh, Lor’ …” The trooper glanced at the barn in horror. “Sarge—I didn’t know we had to—to do this er, sort of thing. I mean—I don’t mind fighting a cove when I’ve got a sabre in my hand and he’s got a sabre in his. But—this! It—fair turns my stomach! Sarge—oughtn’t we to be taking the poor rebel gentleman to the Tower? Or to the barracks?”
“Yes, we should. But we ain’t. And we won’t. You know why? Because that pretty sod in there’s got a score to settle. I heard him telling the poor cove. Proper gloating he was. I’ll swear to God he loves every minute of this!” He ground his teeth, then added sharply, “And don’t you let the dear lieutenant hear you call the prisoner a gentleman. He’s got a funny little turn of mind that says he’s one. Hah! That poor cove he’s killing a inch at a time is more a gentleman than—” He swore again as a roar emanated from the barn. “Your superior officer wants a bucket of water, me lad. Hurry up. He don’t like to be kept waiting while he’s playing his nasty little games.”
Willhays asked hesitantly, “Did the reb faint again, then?”
“Not—exactly.” The sergeant’s grin was mirthless. “The lieutenant said his knuckles was getting skinned, and it was too hot to put his glove on. Poor chap. So he invited me to have a swipe at the reb. Nice of him, eh?”
The trooper stared, much shocked. “You never did?”
“What, and upset our gentle little Lamb? I done what I was told, like a good soldier.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “Straight to the jaw, hard as I could. Put the poor cove to sleep for a while, at least. Our Lamb was raving! Likely you heard him. And you better hurry up with that water. I’d not put it past him to string you and me up, just like poor Otton!”
“Otton? I thought his name was Mathieson?”
“I dunno, son. Lambert’s got it in his head he was using a false name. Probably was. I fancy he’ll be buried as Roland Otton. Now get along with you!”
The water was cold, drawing Mathieson back towards a consciousness he fought desperately, for to awake was to return to agony, and the everlasting fear of his own weak longing to give up; to tell Lambert what he wanted and be done with it. But the next bucket brought him sobbingly awake again. He had prayed that this time he would be dead. Surely he should be dead after what they had done to him. But he was still tied to the beam … And dear God, but he was one mass of pain. His arm was anguish, and he was so thirsty his mouth felt swollen shut, but his back was the worst. Why didn’t he die? He must die, else there was no doubt he would answer Lambert, for he couldn’t stand any more.
He could hear Lambert shouting something, but he wasn’t being tormented … Was it possible he’d told them? Had he already betrayed his love … his friends …? If Lambert didn’t hurt him anymore, he must have—
He fought a groan as his head was wrenched back. Lambert’s voice hammered at him, asking the same unanswerable questions, just as he’d done since the apothecary had kindly said the prisoner was “doing well enough now.” When had that been? A week ago …? An hour ago …?
“Where are they? … Who is Ligun Doone? … Where is the list?”
And between each question, another blow, another swing that racked his torn and brutalized body and made him dig his teeth into his lacerated mouth to keep from screaming. So he had held out—this far. Lord knows how. But he was not a brave man … ‘Thomas—let me die soon, before I—’
Lambert struck hard and Mathieson could not keep back the cry. It felt as if a rib had gone that time … ‘Oh, Thomas … where are you? Help me! For the love of God—help me!’ Writhing, he tried to speak, but only a cracked whisper sounded, and his head sagged.
Lambert wrenched it up again. “What? Say it louder!”
“Wa … ter … Please … Wa—ter.”
“But of course. Trooper—bring Captain—er, Otton a drink of water.”
Mathieson closed his eyes, trying not to sob as each breath scourged him; waiting, praying, for the water.
“When you’ve told me what I want to know,” purred Lambert and rammed his fist home again.
As the savage moments passed, Trooper Willhays tried to close his ears and blot the scene from his mind. It was dark and stuffy in the old barn; he began to feel sick, and wondered how long it would be before the reb broke. Lord knows, he was a brave man, but—
Lambert said dulcetly, “Trooper. Bring me that lantern.”
His hand trembling, Willhays carried over the lamp. “Careful, sir. That side is nigh red hot.”
“So I see,” smiled Lambert, and turned back to his prisoner.
Willhays looked away quickly, and prayed.<
br />
A moment only. Mathieson groaned one choking word and mercifully sank back into unconsciousness.
Lambert shouted, “What was that? What did he say? Dammitall, I didn’t hear!”
The trooper thought ragefully, ‘You were too busy laughing, you dirty bastard!’ But he answered in a faint but controlled voice, “It was only one word, sir. I don’t know what it meant.”
“Well what was it, damn your eyes?”
“I think he said—‘Retribution.’”
Lambert swore a flood of gutter oaths. “I thought the scum would break before this. Oh—cut him down, blast him! We’ll have to try something else.”
“Sir,” said the trooper, standing on the upended bucket and trying not to see Mathieson’s back, “he’s getting very weak. If he doesn’t have some water, he’ll go mad and die, and the colonel—”
Lambert tensed. “What colonel?”
“Fotheringay, sir.”
“Fotheringay? He’s not up here, you fool. He’s hot after a traitor—in Sussex, I think.”
The apothecary had said Colonel Fotheringay had ridden through only yesterday, but Willhays was silent as he eased down Mathieson’s limp form, not caring now if his uniform was stained. ‘Dear Lord,’ he thought. ‘The poor fellow! Let him die soon. Please let him die soon!’
It was a prayer Mathieson echoed as he drifted back to consciousness, but he did not seem able to die. He had been cut down and was lying outside on grass that was wet and blessedly cool. He could see very little, but it seemed to be late afternoon. A tankard was at his lips and he gulped icy water, well laced with brandy. It stung his cut mouth but eased the hellish thirst. Unfortunately, it also restored him to a full awareness of his misery. Someone was supporting him, and the hands were kind so that his shrinking preparations to withstand more pain seemed unjustified, at least for the moment.
Dedicated Villain Page 36
