The ‘hour or two’ seemed to Roger the longest he had spent in his life. He could almost have wished that his brain had not started to work again, as he could not keep his mind off the ghastly deaths of which he had been given a choice. Even being burnt seemed slightly less terrible than being flayed, and the bayonet should be quicker than either. But would it? He had known men suffering from an internal haemorrhage take several hours to die, and they always died writhing in agony.
Twilight fell and two candles stuck in bottles were lit. As darkness came, deep shadows obscured the far corners of the room. At length the door creaked. Alfonso the runt came through it. Both his hands were bandaged and there was a compress round his neck. Pausing beside Roger, he leered down at him, spat in his face, then walked over to O Diabo and said hoarsely:
‘I’m a shade better now. Well enough, anyway, to enjoy seeing the French pig fried.’
Standing up, O Diabo came over to Roger and asked, ‘What’s it to be, Frenchie? The fire, the knife or a bloody hole in your guts?’
Roger was still in great pain, but the long lie on the chaise longue had recruited his strength a little. He felt that he would be able to stand up, and even walk a few steps. But he knew that he was utterly incapable of putting up another fight. Rallying his resources, he was able to reply clearly and firmly, ‘You are not going to kill me in any of those ways; or in any other way. Because I am in a position to buy my life.’
O Diabo gave a bellow of laughter. ‘Listen, comrades. The fool thinks he can buy his life because he has a few gold pieces on him.’
‘I’ve more than a few,’ said Roger quietly, ‘but I … ’
The other cut him short. ‘That’s all to the good. Let’s have them.’
Roger put his hands to his waist, in order to get at his money belt, but he was still very weak and fumbled with the buttons of his suit. Seeing his intention, O Diabo impatiently pushed his hands aside, undid the buttons, made Roger sit up and pulled the belt from under his vest.
The others now crowded round as their leader emptied the pockets of the belt on a nearby table. There were packets of Spanish, Portuguese, English and French gold coins and the special reserve Roger always carried, a little washleather bag containing a number of small diamonds.
When the bandits had finished exclaiming on their luck at having made such an unusually rich haul, O Diabo turned back to Roger and grinned, ‘St. Christopher himself must have sent you to us, Frenchie. Out of your money we’ll buy him a score of candles. But don’t fool yourself that you’re going to live. When we’d stripped you, as we’re about to now, we’d have come on the belt and taken it anyhow.’
‘Of course.’ Roger gave a slight nod. ‘I’m not such a fool as to have failed to realise that; but you did not let me finish.’
‘What more have you to say?’
‘As you will have gathered from the contents of my money belt, I am a man of some importance. That I am a French officer, I now admit. I am Colonel Comte de Breuc, and a Commander of the Legion of Honour.’ Roger was still in considerable pain and the effort of talking had made the sweat again break out on his forehead. As he paused to wipe it away with the back of his hand, O Diabo shrugged his great shoulders and said:
‘Save your breath, Frenchie. You were going to tell us that your friends will pay a fine ransom for you, weren’t you? Maybe they would, but maybe they’d put the thumbscrews on my messenger until he brought them here to make an end of us. That is, if there was a Frenchie General in this neighbourhood. But there isn’t. Now the English have chivvied Masséna away from Lisbon, there’s not a French army within a hundred miles. So put that out of your mind and choose your death. Come on now!’
Roger had thought of suggesting that he should get himself ransomed; not by the French, whom he had realised were much too far away, but by the British. Knowing that he was quite a wealthy man, Sir Charles Stuart would not have hesitated to provide the money. But an appeal to the British Minister meant having to declare himself an Englishman. He had no possible means of proving that, and it was certain beyond all doubt that O Diabo would not believe him. With a calmness that he was far from feeling, he played his last card.
‘All you say is true enough; but I was not thinking of asking you to send a request to my General to ransom me. I am capable of ransoming myself.’
‘And how, Frenchie, would you do that?’ O Diabo gave him a cynical smile. ‘’Tis known that your Emperor and Satan are one, so maybe you think a prayer to him would bring you a shower of gold. But I’ll wager he won’t answer.’
Managing a smile, Roger replied, ‘And I certainly wouldn’t take you. I’ve a far more reliable way of producing a fortune. Some two and a half years ago, when General Junot entered Lisbon, I was with him. I need hardly tell you that it is the custom of French officers of high rank to collect souvenirs of the cities they capture. I collected the jewels of the Marquis de Pombal, before he left for Brazil. Later, you will remember, the English landed in Portugal, our army was defeated and, by the Convention of Cintra, we were shipped back to France. Fearing to have the jewels taken from me, I buried them in a safe place a few miles outside Lisbon. Ever since then the English have occupied that part of the country; so I’ve had no chance to collect them. They must still be there.’
O Diabo’s blue eyes had opened wide with interest as he listened to this story. Having roused his cupidity, Roger hurried on, ‘You can have no idea of this treasure unless you see it. There are ropes of pearls, tiaras blazing with gems, crosses with rubies and emeralds, a girdle of solid gold set with turquoises, high combs studded with diamonds, rings, ear-rings, watches and breast ornaments, all fashioned from gold and jewels. Their value is fabulous. They would fetch many million moredores. Enough for all of you never to have to work or risk your lives as robbers again. When the war is over you could live in a town as rich people, or buy farms on which others would labour for you. Promise me my life, and all this is yours.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the group broke into an excited babble. With the mentality of children they began to tell one another of the splendid figures they would cut when they had all this money. O Diabo slowly nodded his bearded head:
‘You shall take us to it. But don’t get any idea that we shall give you a chance to escape on the way. Any tricks and we’ll hang you by your thumbs to the branch of a tree, then light a small fire under you that will burn your feet away.’
The effort to tell his story while still in great pain had completely exhausted Roger. Closing his eyes he lay back on the chaise longue. A sense of unutterable relief flooded through him at knowing that he was not now to die a ghastly death within the next hour. But he had gained no more than a reprieve. The treasure he had described so temptingly did not exist. It was only a figment of his vivid imagination; and already that vivid imagination was beginning to conjure up the awful treatment he would receive when O Diabo and his gang discovered that they had been fooled.
The childish excitement of Roger’s captors was coupled with a childish faith in his fairy story. He was now a being to be humoured and cherished. They put pillows under his head, gave him more wine and put to rights his clothes which had become dishevelled when his money belt had been pulled from round his waist.
The woman who had not been wounded went off to cook the evening meal. A small table was put beside the chaise longue, so that he could eat in comfort. The meal consisted of a rabbit stew, highly flavoured with garlic, and slabs of a coarse cake, in which there was a generous supply of the locally-dried raisins. Roger loathed garlic but, knowing how important it was to recruit his strength, he managed to get most of his portion down by swiftly adding to each mouthful a swig of wine.
When he had finished the meal, O Diabo asked Roger anxiously if he thought he would be sufficiently recovered to start the next morning. For a moment Roger remained silent, weighing the pros and cons. As long as his captors remained ignorant that the treasure was a myth, his life was safe, s
o it was very tempting to postpone setting out for Lisbon for a day or two. On the other hand, the moment of truth had to be faced sooner or later, and the suspense to which he would be subjected until it did would be harrowing. So he said that, after a night’s rest, he hoped to be well enough.
The powerfully-made, red-headed man, whose name was Paolo, supported him upstairs to a bedroom, and helped him to undress; but, when he lay down on the bed, took the precaution of tying his wrists with lengths of cord to the wooden bedhead. There was sufficient slack in the cords for them not to cause him any discomfort; but, even had he been in good shape, they would have prevented any attempt to escape.
Paolo had only just left him when the woman who had cooked their supper came in. Pulling down the blanket with which Roger was covered, she eased up his vest, exposing his private parts. As his hands were attached to the bedhead, he could not resist her, and was seized by panic. His terror that she meant to inflict further injury upon him entirely eliminated any embarrassment he might have felt. But, as he squirmed away from her and began to shout, she only laughed and held a pot of ointment up for him to see. She began gently to massage his testicles with the cream. It was a concoction of crushed poppy seeds in fat, and it soon dulled the ache from which he was still suffering. Some twenty minutes after she had blown out the solitary candle and closed his door behind her, he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke in the morning he wondered for a moment where he was; then, like a nightmare, his ordeal of he previous evening came back to him. His jaw began to ache again, but he was greatly relieved to find that the pain in his groin was now hardly noticeable. That he had not, as he had feared after the slut’s attack on him, been deprived of his manhood was a matter for thanksgiving; but whether it would ever again be of any use to him seemed highly problematic. Once more a terrible dread of the dénouement that must take place when they came within a few miles of Lisbon drove all other thoughts from his mind.
He had been awake only a quarter of an hour when Paolo came in, untied him, helped him into his clothes and took him down to breakfast. In the salon, while they were all eating, a fine wrangle took place. All the members of the band wanted to go on the expedition, because each of them feared that, if he were left behind, the others would make off with the splendid spoil. But only four horses, including Roger’s, were available. After much argument, O Diabo ruled that the Negroid youth and the runt Alfonso should be left there with the women, because the arm of the one and the broken fingers of the other would prove a serious handicap on horseback. He, of course, would go himself and take Paolo and the runt’s original companion, whose name was Francesco.
Lisbon was the best part of a day’s ride distant, and Roger told O Diabo that, owing to his recent injury, he doubted if he could go that far; but the giant said that if he collapsed they would lie up somewhere for the night. When the horses were brought round, he had a blanket strapped over Roger’s saddle, to make it more comfortable for him; and, on mounting, Roger found that riding would not prove as painful as he had expected.
Gradually the morning hours wore away and during that time they made good progress. At midday they halted and, among some trees at the roadside, ate some of the food they had brought with them. Afterwards Rogor hoped they would take a siesta, and there might be a chance of his getting away. But O Diabo was anxious to press on. Roger had calculated that if they did they would probably come to within a few miles of Lisbon by late afternoon, and he was determined that they should not get there before twilight was falling. So he declared that he was in no state to ride further until after he had had a good long rest. Reluctantly the giant agreed, but tied Roger’s hands, then hitched the other end of the rope to a tree, so that there should be no risk of his making off if his three captors fell asleep. Resigning himself to abandoning this faint hope of escape, he stretched out on the fallen leaves and fell into a doze.
The rest did him good, and when they set off again he was feeling no worse than he had when they had left the bandit’s quarters that morning. But the nearer they came to Lisbon the more his fears for his life crowded in on his mind. There had not been a moment during their journey when he had not scanned the roads along which they advanced for some feature which might lend itself to his chances if he set spurs to his horse and caused it to bolt. But O Diabo rode beside him, with Paolo and Francesco in the rear. One or other of the latter would almost certainly have shot him in the back before he could have covered fifty yards.
At length, in the far distance, the spires of Lisbon came in sight, and the lines of Torres Vedras could be seen clearly, less than a mile away. From a gateway in them there emerged a road and on it lay Roger’s one remaining hope. For some minutes past he had been watching it with intense anxiety, and had seen two small groups of troops pass along it. If only he could get his captors near enough, and divert their attention for a moment when another group was passing, he meant to take his life in his hands, yell for help and endeavour to reach them.
But they were still a good way from the road when O Diabo said to him abruptly, ‘come now, Frenchie. You said you had buried the treasure about a mile from where the lines are now; and we’re nearer to them than that already. Get your bearings, and be quick about it.’
Turning his horse a little to the left, Roger pointed to a gully about a hundred and fifty yards away, and replied, ‘It’s somewhere in the far bank of that stream over there.’
The party trotted toward it and looked down at the slowly-flowing, shallow water. With a shake of his head, Roger said, ‘It is over two years since I hid the stuff, so it may take me a little time to find the place. It wasn’t here anyway, but further downstream I think.’
O Diabo grunted. ‘Then we’d better cross the stream and walk along under the far bank. Close to, you’ll stand a better chance of recognising a mound or a bit of out-crop that will guide you to it. We’ll leave our horses here.’
That was a blow to Roger, as it deprived him of the chance to gallop off, crouched low over his saddle bow. But his nerves were so strung up that he could think of no reasonable objection. As he dismounted, he ruefully accepted the fact that, if he could raise the courage to break away, he would now have to run for it.
Francesco was left to hold the horses while O Diabo, Roger and Paolo scrambled down the near bank and splashed through the shallow water. On the far side Roger turned left. Every step he took would bring him nearer the road. But, on looking toward it, his heart sank. It was now empty.
Moving as slowly as he dared, he pretended to examine every hollow and protruberance in the four-foot-high bank, whenever he dared taking a quick look over it in the direction of the road. The light was now fading, but it would be an hour or more before darkness fell; so he could not hope that it would swallow him up should he escape the first shots fired at him as he made his dash for life and liberty.
They had made their way about two hundred yards along the gully, when Roger saw a small convoy emerge from the gateway in the lines. It consisted only of two wagons, with two men riding in front of them and two behind, and it was moving at a walk. For another five minutes Roger continued to scrutinise every inequality in the bank. The convoy advanced with maddening slowness, and O Diabo was becoming impatient. Halting, he growled:
‘From what you said, Frenchie, the place can’t be as near the lines as this. We must have passed it. Or perhaps it’s upstream from the place where we crossed. We’d better turn back.’
The convoy was still four hundred yards away. But Roger felt that if he agreed to return upstream, he would be no better off. It was now or never. With sudden resolution he gave O Diabo a violent push that sent him reeling backward into the water. Then he bounded up the bank and ran for his life.
15
The Serpent Enters Eden
As Roger raced forward over the rough grass, he shouted with all the strength of his lungs, ‘Help! Help! I am an Englishman! Save me from these brigands.’
He saw the four mo
unted men and the drivers of the two wagons all turn their heads in his direction. Next moment he was flat on his face on the ground. He had not tripped and fallen; but, after covering the first twenty yards, deliberately flung himself down. Had he not done so, he would probably have got no further as, at that range, Paolo could hardly have failed to miss him. But his timing had been good. Only seconds after he hit the earth, a musket banged and the bullet whistled overhead.
Coming to his feet, he ran on again, his brain making frantic speculations. How long would it take for Paolo to reload? A minute perhaps. But by now O Diabo would have picked himself up. Had his musket fallen into the water with him? If so, the powder would be damp and the weapon useless until it had been dried and reprimed. But it might have fallen on the yard wide strip of sandy earth that ran alongside the stream. In that case, seething with rage, he would be taking aim at that very moment at the ‘Frenchie’ who had cheated him.
The two wagons had halted. The four horsemen had left the road and were coming in Roger’s direction, but only at a cautious trot. ‘Help!’ Roger yelled again. ‘Gallop, damn you. Gall …’
His last word ended in a choking gasp. A musket had banged behind him and the ball smashed into his right buttock. He staggered a couple of steps, then his leg gave under him and he hit the ground with a thump. At the same moment he heard O Diabo shout:
‘Come on, Paolo! Out with your knife. We’ll get the lying dog yet!’ Then came the sound of swift feet thudding heavily on the grass.
Roger’s wound was not as painful as he would have expected. In fact, the place where he had been hit seemed to have gone numb. But evidently the bullet had penetrated his thigh and come out there, as the right leg of his breeches was becoming saturated with blood. With an effort he forced himself up on to his feet.
For a moment he glimpsed the two brigands running toward him. They both had their knives out and their faces were convulsed with rage and hate. Apparently they were so maddened with disappointment at the loss of the great fortune they had been visualising for the past twenty-four hours that they were willing to risk an encounter with the oncoming soldiers rather than allow Roger to escape.
The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware Page 20
