The Launching of Roger Brook

by Dennis Wheatley

  Swift as lightning the Abbé saw his thought, and waved it aside. ‘’Pon my honour I did my best for you. I even flung down the swords at his feet, and they are there still.’

  De Caylus’s coachman had now got his horses into a fast trot, and the coach was just disappearing among the trees that fringed the track leading to the eastwards.

  Suddenly de la Tour d’Auvergne urged his horse forward in pursuit, with a cry of: ‘Quick! Follow me! We’ll have him yet!’

  ‘Thanks, Abbé,’ cried Roger and, turning his mount, he galloped after the Vicomte.

  The coach was only a few hundred yards ahead of them but, at the sound of their horses’ hooves thundering on the turf, the two footmen riding on the boot turned and saw that they were pursued. There was, too, still sufficient light for them to see that one of their pursuers was masked. Instantly, they began to shout to the coachman and postilion:

  ‘Allez! Allez! We are attacked by highwaymen!’ And from a canter the six fine horses were lashed into a gallop.

  The horsemen had an easy advantage over the heavy, bounding coach and within a couple of minutes were close upon it; but, during them, the two footmen had each pulled a wide-mouthed blunderbuss from under his seat and were endeavouring to take aim with their clumsy weapons.

  Roger’s heart sank. It seemed near impossible to ride past the coach and bring it to a halt without receiving some of the scattered fusillade of shot that threatened. But de la Tour d’Auvergne wrenched a pistol from his holster, cocked it, and fired at the man upon the left. The bullet caught him in the shoulder. With a cry, he dropped his blunderbuss.

  The other man fired but, at that instant, the coach jolted over a big stone, and the charge of small shot whistled over Roger’s head.

  Despite the shooting and the shouting, the coachman, now crowding low over his box, flogged his team on. Yet in another minute the two horsemen had drawn level with him, one on each side of the coach.

  Pulling his second pistol from its holster the Vicomte thrust it at him and yelled: ‘Halt, fellow! Halt! Or your life will answer for it!’

  The coachman had done his best and, with a shout to the postilion, reined in his horses. Still bumping and bounding the cumbersome vehicle lumbered to a stop.

  Roger and de la Tour d’Auvergne rode on some twenty yards and came together again just in front of the steaming leaders.

  ‘Give me your horse!’ cried the Vicomte. ‘I will hold these people in play while you go forward with your intended business. May God guard you and make strong your arm!’

  ‘I thank you!’ gasped Roger, throwing over his reins and slipping to the ground. Suddenly he remembered that he was wearing spurs. Stooping he unbuckled them and slipped them into his pocket. By the time he reached the door of the coach the Comte de Caylus had it open and, one heavy hand on its window-sill, was learning out, a scowl of anger on his dark, ugly features.

  While taking off his spurs Roger had got back his breath. Having made a deep, formal bow he said: ‘Monsieur le Comte. I regret that circumstances prevent me from sending my seconds to you, and offering you the choice of weapons, time and place; but ’tis imperative that we should fight—and now. I pray that you will descend and join me on the grass.’

  ‘S’blood! Who are you?’ demanded the Count, angrily. ‘And what is the meaning of this farce?’

  ‘’Tis no farce!’ replied Roger coldly. ‘As you soon will find; I trust to your cost. As to myself, M. l’Abbé de Périgord will have already told you that in crossing your sword with mine you will do it no dishonour. Immediately we are free of prying eyes I will unmask and answer all reasonable questions about myself. Come! The light is failing! Unless you would prefer to fight in semi-darkness, do not delay.’

  ‘I’ll fight in neither light nor darkness, without a reason, growled de Caylus.

  ‘I’ll give you that, once we are apart. And ’tis one that you will answer to readily enough.’

  ‘Were I to do so ’twould mean your death, young jackanapes!’

  ‘It suits me that your mind runs in that vein; since, let me warn you, I intend to kill you if I can!’

  ‘You count this affront that I as yet know nothing of as mortal, then?’

  ‘I do. I’ll seek no quarter, neither will I give it.’

  For a moment it looked as if de Caylus was about to spring from the coach; but he kept his temper and evidently thought better of the impulse.

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed firmly, ‘I’ll not be dragooned into fighting someone I do not know for something that I may not have done. At any other time I’d skewer you as full of holes as a larded capon, for your impudence; but tonight I have no mind for it.’ Upon which he suddenly sat back and slammed the door of the coach to in Roger’s face.

  Seizing the handle of the door Roger wrenched it open and, thrusting his head inside, cried: ‘Why not tonight as well as any other? You have not the reputation of a coward; since when have you become one?’

  De Caylus laughed. ‘Call me a coward if you will. I care not! I’ll not fight tonight, I tell you! In two days’ time I am to be wed; and I’ll not risk some chance thrust of yours marring my enjoyment of my young wife. After a month with her I’ll be your man. If you’ve a wish to die seek me out again early in October, at any time and place you choose, and I’ll cut you to ribbons before I kill you!’

  ‘’Tis your projected marriage that offends me!’ cried Roger rashly. ‘So you’ll fight tonight, or I’ll slay you where you sit!’ And, leaning forward, he seized the Count by his lace jabot, giving a violent tug upon it.

  While they had been shouting at one another Roger had been dimly aware that de Caylus was not alone in the coach. Another man occupied the seat opposite him; but Roger’s eyes had been riveted on the Count’s swarthy face and in the dim light of the interior of the coach the other man’s features were obscure.

  As Roger’s fingers grasped the goffered lace that fell from de Caylus’s neckband his vaguely seen companion suddenly thrust out a hand and snatched Roger’s mask from his face.

  ‘Ventre du Pape!’ he shouted to de Caylus, as Roger’s features were revealed. ‘I thought I knew that voice! ’Tis that upstart Breuc; my father’s secretary! Your challenger is a fellow that Athénaïs picked up from the gutter!’

  Releasing his hold upon the Count, Roger sprang back. But it was too late. The coachman, the postilion and the two footmen must all have heard the shout, so the damage was done, and nothing now could possibly prevent them realising the cause of this deadly quarrel. White with fury and dismay Roger glared into the haughty, handsome face of Count Lucien de Rochambeau.

  ‘You crazy fool!’ he burst out. ‘Since you suspected my identity had you not the sense to realise that its revelation would jeopardise your sister’s honour?’

  De Caylus was staring at Roger uncomprehendingly. ‘S’blood! What means all this?’ he exclaimed, turning swiftly to Count Lucien. ‘I’ve seen this man in your father’s office; but why in thunder should you link his name with that of Athénaïs?’

  ‘The dog has been casting sheep’s eyes at her since she was fourteen,’ snapped the young Count. ‘But he wormed his way into the household and my father remained blind to it. ’Twould now appear that he has the unbelievable impertinence to set himself up as your rival, and would try his hand at killing you to prevent your marriage.’

  ‘So that’s the way of it,’ de Caylus growled. ‘When the Abbé said that de la Tour d’Auvergne was with my unknown challenger me thought that having failed to kill me himself he had hired some bravo to attempt it.’

  ‘Your thought is worthy of you,’ cut in Roger. ‘But neither M. de la Tour d’Auvergne, nor any other true gentleman, would entertain it for a moment.’

  ‘And who are you, a dirty, ink-spilling scrivener, to judge what thoughts are becoming to a gentleman?’ sneered Count Lucien.

  ‘For that I’ll fight you when I’ve finished with the Count!’ flared Roger. ‘’Twill be a chastisement long overdue.
And I’d have you know that I am of as good a blood as you.’

  ‘I’ll not believe it! You’re naught but an adventurer!’

  ‘Then you give the lie to M. l’Abbé de Périgord as well as to myself. He is acquainted with my uncle, the Earl of Kildonan. My real name is Brook, and my father a Rear-Admiral of the British fleet.’

  ‘I care not who you are!’ stormed de Caylus. ‘I’ll not now give any man satisfaction till I’ve possessed Athénaïs. Get hence!’

  ‘And I’ll not let you while I live,’ cried Roger, drawing his sword. ‘She’s for a better man than the debauched grandson of a negro slave!’

  De Caylus flushed under his sallow skin. Reaching a hand down to the floor he snatched up one of the swords that de Périgord had thrown in there, and bounded from the coach.

  ‘That’s better!’ Roger exclaimed, stepping back. ‘Let’s seek an even piece of ground and fight it out.’

  ‘I’ll not honour you by even the semblance of a proper meeting,’ bellowed de Caylis, now pale with rage. ‘I’ll kill you where you belong; here in the ditch.’

  As he spoke he lunged with all his force. Roger leapt sideways—only just in time. He had barely thrown himself on guard when the Count came at him again. To his terror he knew that he had allowed himself to be caught at a terrible disadvantage. A few feet behind him lay a low bank and ditch; if he gave way it was a certainty that he would catch his heel on the bank and go sprawling backwards.

  Their blades met, held each other, parted and met again. Up—down. Up—down; at furious speed in clash after clash. De Caylus lunged again. Roger dared not retreat even by a pace. He let his knees go and ducked the thrust. The blade pierced his coat above the shoulder and seared like a hot iron across his skin.

  He knew that the Count had drawn first blood, but that the wound was too slight to be of any consequence. For a moment the point of the sword remained caught in the cloth of his coat. Had he been better placed he might have seized the opportunity to stab upward at the Count; but he could not afford to risk it. Instead, before de Caylus had fully recovered, he leapt sideways and pivoted on his left heel. The success of the movement made him gasp with thankfulness. It had brought them round, so that when their swords met again his back was no longer to the ditch; he was facing towards the horses and his adversary towards the back of the coach.

  De Caylus was still fighting all out, and Roger knew now what he was up against. The strength exerted against his own blade was so terrific that, every instant, he expected to have it forced down or struck from his hand. He now had enough space between the coach and the ditch to retreat, and he only saved himself from the fierce onslaught by giving back slowly, step by step, as each furious thrust was launched to kill him.

  Suddenly he heard de la Tour d’Auvergne’s voice, raised in a shout. ‘Beware! Behind you! Oh, Mère de Dieu!’

  The Vicomte, still mounted and at the head of the coach-team, was watching the fight with terrible apprehension. From his point of vantage he had suddenly seen something that the two combatants, their eyes fixed upon one another, seeking to divine in them each coming move, had not.

  Count Lucien had picked up the other sword from the floor of the coach, slipped out of its far door and come round its back behind Roger.

  Aghast with amazement and dread de la Tour d’Auvergne had grasped the fact that the unscrupulous young man, evidently regarding the affray as no ordinary duel but an armed assault, was just about to stab Roger through the back.

  The shout put both antagonists off their stroke, and both, involuntarily sprang away from one another to throw a swift glance over their shoulders. De Caylus, seeing nothing, swung back and came charging in again. Roger, finding himself half facing Count Lucien, realised his mortal peril and whipped right round to ward off his new antagonist’s first lunge.

  He had barely done so when he heard the swift slither of de Caylus’s feet behind him. He knew then that he was done. De Caylus alone was a match for any man in France, and the blade, even of a military cadet rising eighteen, added to his was more than any champion could have tackled.

  In a wild attempt to save himself Roger abandoned all rules of fence. Pivoting on his right foot he scythed with his sword sideways. Hissing through the air it whipped past Count Lucien’s eyes like a lash and, ending in a full half-circle, caused de Caylus to jerk back his head just as he delivered his thrust. Swivelling again, with one swift stroke Roger smashed down Count Lucien’s sword, then did a thing he had never dreamed that he would have to do as a result of issuing a challenge. Springing past Count Lucien, he took to his heels and ran.

  Instantly, with wild shouts of triumph, the two of them were after him.

  ‘Let me have him,’ yelled the young Count. The scullion should wield a spit and not a sword. I’ll teach him to play the highwayman and waylay a coach.’

  ‘Leave him to me, boy!’ bellowed de Caylus. ‘He is my affair!’

  As Roger fled down the road he was conscious that his face was scarlet. His whole body was aflame with shame, and with it was mingled fear. The back of his scalp prickled. At every step he took he expected to feel a sword pierce his back and sear through his lungs. The thought of the disgrace of being killed in such a way, and, above all, with de la Tour d’Auvergne looking on, was utterly unbearable. Yet he knew that if he faltered for a second, even before he could swing about and throw himself again on guard, he would, within a minute, be choking out his life’s blood.

  Red-hot tears sprang to his eyes as it flashed into his mind how Count Lucien would gloatingly relate the scene to Athénaïs, and describe to her how they had killed her pasteboard champion like a yellow-livered cur. But, racked as he was with scalding humiliation, he could not bring himself to halt, and offer himself as a sacrifice to honour spitted on the cold steel that was flashing in his rear.

  Then it came to him that he was out-distancing his pursuers. Racing on, he forced himself to listen to their steps and attempt to assess how far they had dropped behind him. Another shout from de Caylus, taunting him as a vaunted English aristocrat and calling on him to turn and fight, told him that the Count must be a good twenty paces in his rear.

  He risked one swift glance over his shoulder. Count Lucien was running silently and well, no more than six paces from his heels, and had the lead over the heavier de Caylus by some twenty yards.

  Suddenly Roger stopped dead and swung about. He did not attempt to throw himself on guard but thrust out his sword and tensed his arm. Count Lucien had just time to make a downward stroke deflecting the point of Roger’s blade from his chest to his thigh, then his own impetus carried him right on to it. The steel ripped through the upper part of his leg. With a wild cry, he twisted, dropped his sword and fell.

  Roger’s blade was caught fast in the muscle, and de Caylus had already covered half the distance between them. Swiftly lifting his left foot, Roger jammed it down hard on Count Lucien’s writhing body, gave a sharp tug, and freed his sword. He had one moment’s breathing space and he used it to get well clear of the still squirming Count. Throwing himself on guard in the middle of the road, he panted at de Caylus:

  ‘Now we’re man to man again, we’ll see if an Englishman’s not as good as a French nigger! Kill me if you can!’

  Again their blades clashed, clung together, slithered and parted; only to rasp and send the sparks flying again a second later. Up—down. Up—down. Lunge—stamp. Parry—twist. Up—down. Up—down. Feint—stamp—thrust. Clash—clash—clash.

  Roger’s breath was coming quickly now. In running for his life he had used up his first wind. But de Caylus was no better off, as the pursuit had taken a lot of his breath out of him. While giving chase to Roger he had thrown aside the white powdered wig in which he had come from Versailles, and the lingering afterglow of the sunset showed his coarse, crisp black hair, matted in tight curls to his skull. His thick-lipped mouth hung slightly open and two rows of fine white teeth gleamed from it in a ferocious smile. The yellowish wh
ites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot and they glittered like those of a wild boar avid for the kill.

  He was still superbly confident and he took risks that Roger would not have dared to take; yet Roger could not get through his guard. Their eyes never left one another’s for a second; but both of them knew that de la Tour d’Auvergne had come up with some of de Caylus’s people and was ordering them to carry Count Lucien back to the coach.

  So far Roger had required every iota of his skill to defend himself from the violence of the Count’s attack; but now, de Caylus, realising at last that he was up against an antagonist worthy of him, began to fight more warily, which enabled Roger to attempt some of his favourite thrusts.

  Four times they circled round one another, then he delivered a lunge that he had learned from Monsieur St. Paul, the ex-musketeer fencing-master of Rennes. It very nearly did the trick, but de Caylus jerked himself as upright as a matador on tiptoe before a charging bull, and Roger’s blade, missing him by a quarter inch, ripped through the satin lapels of his coat.

  Again, for a space they circled warily; then again Roger came in, this time with a thrust that had defeated him in one of his practice bouts only a few days before. But the Count must have known it. Quick as lightning he parried, made a swift encircling movement that almost forced Roger’s sword from his hand, and stabbed straight at his eyes.

  Roger jerked aside his head and the gleaming blade slithered past his ear; but his evasive action had been so violent that it threw him off his balance. For a second he was poised on the ball of one foot, then he tripped and fell.

  With a cry of triumph de Caylus was upon him, his sword drawn back to skewer him to the ground. Roger flung himself sideways, rolled over twice and was brought up by the roadside bank edging the ditch. As de Caylus came at him again he squirmed over into the ditch, twisted, and came up with one knee on the bank. Throwing up his sword his luck, and not his judgment, enabled him to parry the thrust.