The Launching of Roger Brook (72 page)

Undoing his coat he pulled out the end of the string that hung round his neck, undid it, took off the ring and slipped it into his pocket; then he retied the string and thrust back the precious document that was still attached to it. Walking over to the deck-house, in which the Captain was talking to his Marseillais second mate, he thrust in his head and said: ‘Captain, a word with you, if you please.’

Rapenot got up from the wooden bench on which he was sitting and came to the door. ‘Well?’ he said, ‘what would you?’

Roger politely touched his stocking-cap, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘My home is no great distance from here, not far from Southampton, and ’twould be a great boon if you could put me ashore somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Needles.’

The Captain’s lip curled. ‘Why should I go out of my way for such as you? This unseasonable weather has already lost me five days on my trip to Falmouth, and a part of my cargo is rotting in the hold. I’ve not time to give to landing passengers.’

‘Oh, come!’ expostulated Roger, pointing to a small, broad-beamed yacht that was lapping briskly through the water off their starboard beam. ‘You have but to slacken sail a little and hail yonder yacht. Those in it will come alongside and take me off without a doubt.’

‘I’ll slacken sail for no one,’ declared Rapenot gruffly, ‘I bargained to take you to Falmouth and I’ll take you there; but I’ll be damned if I’ll lose a breath of this wind to pleasure anyone.’

Roger produced the sapphire ring. ‘’Tis worth a lot to me to reach my home speedily. I’m mighty loath to part with this, but I’ll give it you if you’ll do as I wish.’

Rapenot’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the valuable jewel. ‘If that is a genuine stone ’tis worth the profits on a dozen voyages,’ he said slowly.

‘’Tis genuine!’ declared Roger. ‘I’ll take my oath on that.’

The Marseillais had come up behind his Captain. With a suspicious glance at Roger, he remarked: ‘The Englishman must have some desperately urgent business ashore to offer such a gem.’

‘The Englishman!’ exclaimed Rapenot, a sudden light dawning in his eyes. ‘
Mort de ma vie
! He is the felon mentioned in the proclamation that we read!’

‘
Ventre du diable
! You are right!’ cried the Marseillais. ‘I recognise him from the description now.’

‘Seize him,’ Rapenot bellowed, starting forward. ‘If we throw him in the hold and take him back to France we’ll reap the thousand
louis
reward!’

For a second Roger was dumbfounded by this unexpected and horrifying outcome of his plan. During all the agonising discomforts of the past two days he had thought himself safe at least from meeting his end on a French scaffold. Yet now he was menaced once again by the ignominious doom of a felon. If they got him they would bind and gag him and he might lie for days in Falmouth harbour, a prisoner in some stinking hole, without a hope of escape. The thought of being taken when so near his goal and actually within sight of England was unendurable. As they came at him he thrust the ring into his pocket, leapt back, and drew his sword.

Both the Frenchmen had drawn their knives. Rapenot threw a glance over his shoulder and called to the helmsman. ‘Antoine! Leave the wheel! Summon the bos’n! Tell him to get the muskets!’

Roger knew then that he had not a moment to lose. Without waiting to be attacked he sailed in with a lightning lunge at Rapenot.

To his joy the blade pierced the Captain through the shoulder, causing him to drop his knife with a screech of pain.

But the wily Marseillais, crouching low, ran in under Roger’s sword and thrust upwards with his knife.

Only the roll of the ship saved Roger from taking the stab in the stomach. The dip of the swell caused him to take a pace backward as he wrenched free his sword. Then, with a swift recovery, he turned to face his second antagonist.

Shouts and calls now came from the body of the vessel. Few of the crew who had been standing there knew what the fracas was about, but, on seeing their officers attacked, they came swarming towards the ladders that led up to the poop.

His eyes gleaming Roger lunged again. The point of his sword caught the Marseillais beneath the chin, and, with a howl, the man staggered back, clasping at his bleeding neck.

Having temporarily freed himself from his two attackers Roger turned and jumped for the ship’s side. The nearest member of the crew had only just tumbled on to the break of the poop, but Rapenot had picked up his knife and was coming at him again.

Throwing one leg over the low bulwark Roger suddenly swung round, leaned inboard and delivered another thrust. Rapenot threw up his hook, but too late; the flashing blade, forced upwards by his own gesture of defence, ripped his face from the chin to the corner of his eye.

Roger jerked back his sword, seized its sheath with his left hand, fumbled for a moment, then rammed it home. As he did so the foremost sailor came at him brandishing a heavy belaying-pin, but when he lashed out it whistled through empty air. Ducking the blow Roger heaved himself over the side and fell with a splash into the water.

He went down, down, down; steadied, came up and, as his head emerged, gave a gasp. He knew that he was far from being out of danger. As he had swung himself overboard several of the crew, led by the bos’n, had been running across the deck with muskets and pistols in their hands; and he was over a mile from the shore.

His only hope lay in the little yacht that had been bobbing along a quarter of a mile off their beam. He had glimpsed it just before he hit the water. Their attention caught by the shouts and fighting on the poop of the barque the yacht’s crew had put her over on a leeward tack, in order to get closer and see what was happening.

Striking out towards her Roger raised himself in the water and gave a shout: ‘A
MOI! A moi
!’

Then he suddenly remembered that he was swimming in his own home waters, and yelled: ‘Help! Help! I am an Englishman! Help! Rescue!’

A musket banged in his rear, then another. One of the balls sent up a spurt of water within a foot of his head; but the people in the yacht had heard him, and were now urging him on with cries of encouragement.

A wave slapped into his face and momentarily blinded him. For no accountable reason a mental picture of Georgina passed before his physically sightless eyes. He saw her as he had seen her over four years before, on that unforgettable afternoon, telling his fortune by gazing into a glass of water. She was saying: ‘You are in great danger. You are swimming with a valuable document held between your teeth.’

Instantly he recalled the vital letter. If it got soaked through the ink would run and it might become illegible. Turning on his back he fumbled with the buttons at his neck, undid them and pulled out the little roll of parchment. As two more of the men in the barque fired at him he gripped it with his teeth, rolled over, and struck out for the yacht again.

She was almost on him now and he recognised the man who was standing at the tiller in her stern. It was old General Cleveland of Vickers Hill. The veteran had gone purple in the face with rage. He was shaking his fist at the sailors in the barque and roaring at them.

‘Damn you for a lot of besotted Frogs! How dare you take up arms in British waters! I’m a Magistrate! I’ll have the law on you! I’ll have the Navy out, and have you flogged, keel-hauled and shot for this. So help me God, you bloody pirates, I’ll teach you to fire on an Englishman!’

The old man’s bellowing came as the most divine music to Roger’s ears. A moment later a young man whom he did not know, hauled him in over the yacht’s bow. Flopping on to the bottom boards he lay there panting.

The General, still quivering with indignation, continued to roar curses and threats at the men in the barque. He appeared entirely oblivious of the fact that he was unarmed and a fine target for their bullets, or that it was improbable that they understood one word of what he was
yelling at them. His attitude was enough. As the barque sailed on and the yacht dropped astern they leaned over the side, their weapons in their hands, gazing stupidly at him; but they did not fire again.

Still gasping, Roger got to his feet and scrambled aft. With a wide grin he panted: ‘You were just in time, Sir; and I’m mightily grateful to you. The rough side of the tongue of a British General was the very thing those rogues needed.’

The General stared at him in surprise. ‘So you know me, eh?. Who the hell are you?’ Then the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘Why! God bless my soul if it’s not Christopher Brook’s boy! Well, I’ll be damned!’

The crew of the yacht proved to be the General’s two nephews and, as the old man turned his craft back-towards the Solent, Roger gave them the most abbreviated version of his story that he could think of; which was little more than that he had been chased out of France on account of a duel that he had fought and that the Captain of the barque had attempted to prevent his landing at Lymington.

At a quarter to six, he was thanking his rescuers once more, and a moment later, he stepped ashore on to British soil, glowing with the knowledge that he had now pulled off his great coup, and could reach London in ample time for the Cabinet to take action.

Half walking, half running, he hurried up the short hill and along the avenue of limes towards his home. The postern gate in the high west wall was ajar. As he slipped inside he saw his mother only thirty feet away cutting dahlias in her flower border. Slamming the door too behind him he ran forward shouting: ‘Mother! Mother, darling!’

Lady Marie turned, gave one look at the tall, wet, bedraggled-looking stranger, dropped her basket, and cried: ‘My bairn! My bairn!’

Next moment she was weeping for joy in her big son’s arms.

Five minutes later Roger was stripping off his sopping outer garments in the kitchen of the house, while the cook, Polly, and another maid, whom he did not know, all fussed round preparing a hot posset, that his mother insisted he must drink at once to ward off a chill.

When he asked if she had any of his old things still that he could slip on, she laughed up at him: ‘My darling, thou
hast forgotten the passing of the years. So fine a man could ne’er get into the things of the dear, headstrong boy I lost so long ago. Go to thy father’s room, rub thyself down well and borrow one of his dressing-gowns; then join me in my drawing-room, for I can scarce bear to wait to hear thy news.’

Having done as she bid him, the moment he entered the drawing-room, he said: ‘I see my father’s things about upstairs, so take it he is in residence. How are his feelings now towards me?’

Her smile gave place to an anxious look. ‘I fear, m’dear, that they remain unchanged. After you left us he forbade me ever to mention your name to him again. He is over at Pylewell now, dining with Mr. Robbins, and will not be back till half-past eight or nine. Yet now that you are returned I beg that you will face him, Roger, and strive to heal the breach. It breaks my heart that my two dear ones should remain divided by this old quarrel.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘But not tonight; for I must be on my way to London within the hour.’

‘So soon!’ she cried.

He nodded. ‘Yes, dearest. I’ll need to borrow a suit of my father’s clothes and a horse from the stables, also such money as you can lend me; for my need is desperately urgent. But I promise you I will come back as soon as my business is completed and do my best to make my peace, for your sake even more than for my own.’

‘This business, Roger,’ she hazarded. ‘Can you tell me of it? Up to last month your letters have kept me informed of your doings. But ’tis mighty surprising that you should return like this, in a poor seaman’s clothes and involved in some desperate matter.’

He told her then about his duel and that just before he had been compelled to fly from Paris he had secured certain information which he believed would prove of great value to the Government.

She smiled when he had done. ‘’Twas just like my brave lad to save that poor maid from so loathsome a marriage. And I cannot think that your returning penniless will adversely affect the prospects of your healing the breach with your father. In fact, it may soften him more than if you had come back to us a rich man, bringing us splendid presents.’

‘Apart from the immediate future I’ll have no need to beg of him or you,’ Roger assured her. ‘My four years in France have at least taught me how to support myself. And from the experience I’ve gained, I doubt not that I’ll soon secure a good position with some man of affairs. But, much as I would love to, I must not linger now. While I go up and dress I pray you, dearest, have prepared for me some sort of meal.’

Half an hour later, booted and spurred for the road, he was tucking into good honest English fare while his mother fussed about him.

When he had done she gave him fifteen guineas and said: ‘I’ve not been able to have a mount saddled for you, as Jim Button is attending his cousin’s wedding over at Beaulieu. But there is the brown mare you used to ride in the stable, and a fine chestnut that your father bought recently. Best take the mare, though, for I think the chestnut needs shoeing.’

Having thanked her he kissed her fondly and hurried from the house. It was getting on for eight o’clock, and dark now; but he knew from of old where the stable lantern hung, and that on the shelf below it he would find flint and tinder.

Inside the stable it was pitch-black, but his fumbling fingers soon found what they sought and, striking a light, he lit the lantern.

As he took it from its hook he heard a sudden movement in his rear. Swinging half round he glimpsed a tall figure coming at him. For a second the flickering candle in the lantern threw up a monstrous shadow on the wall and ceiling. Its upper part outlined cloaked shoulders, a hard, conical, flat-crowned hat, and a hand holding a bludgeon.

The blow caught Roger on the side of the head. He reeled, dropped the lantern and fell. As the light went out the figure hurled itself on top of him. Hands grabbed his throat and, lifting his head bashed the back of it again and again against the stones. With each crack his efforts to defend himself grew weaker. His consciousness slipped from him and his body went limp.