Sirisha smiled, made a slight inclination of her head and extended her hand. Boneparte returned her smile, bowed, took her hand, kissed it, then led her back to the sofa, sat down beside her and began to talk with lively animation. Within a few minutes he had become a different man from the ill-tempered little autocrat who had stepped out of the barge.
Roger gave a discreet cough and said, 'When you wish for supper, you have only to call for it,' bowed again, and slipped out of the salon into the kitchen. Crozier was there with everything arranged on his two-tier wheeled table; cups of jellied ' consommé a cold lobster, breast of duck spread with foie gras and garnished with cherries, a cannon made out of pressed marron, half concealed by a smoke cloud of spun sugar, slices of pineapple in Kirsch, late fresh peaches, champagne, Chateau Yquem and old cognac.
After nodding approval of it, Roger glanced at the clock. The hands stood at twenty minutes to nine. He checked it with his turnip watch and, to his consternation, found it right. They must have left Mestre later than he had thought. But Junot should be arriving soon. Cramming his hat on his head, he went out of the back door into the garden. It was now fully dark, and as he made his way across it, he could make out the pieces of statuary only just in time to avoid walking into them. A hundred paces brought him to the far shore of the islet at the back of the casino. For some five minutes he stood there peering out over the inky water, looking in vain for signs of Junot.
There came a sudden sharp pit-a-pat on his hat and shoulders. It had begun to rain. A long roll of distant thunder seemed to run round the great lagoon. The heavy drops fell faster. Another minute and it was sheeting down. All that could previously have been seen of the darkened landscape was blotted out. Even the tops of the cypress were now engulfed in an impenetrable blackness.
With a furious curse, already half drenched, Roger swung about and ran for the house. It looked now as if Fate had led him on only to crush him more certainly at the finish. Finding Sirisha still there, safe and sound, had for the past quarter of an hour led him into a fool's paradise. But the game was not yet played out. In this torrential downpour all the odds were against the French coxswain of Junot's barges finding the island. Yet those of the conspirators might. From boyhood onward, every Venetian fished these waters or traversed them on picnics.
As he staggered through the deluge, he ran slap into a small fountain, tripped on its rim, bashed his shoulder against the figure in its centre and fell sprawling in its basin. Blaspheming, he picked himself up only to find that he had lost his sense of direction. Next moment a vivid streak of lightning gave it to him again. The thunder rumbled, nearer now. The rain came sheeting down as though poured out of some gigantic cistern.
Groping his way forward, he reached the back of the casino. Along it ran a three-foot wide iron canopy with a scalloped edge. Under it, now protected from the cloudburst, he fought to regain his breath. After a moment he saw, within a yard of him, a chink of light. It was coming from a window behind which the curtains had not been completely drawn. His stockinged feet squelched in his shoes as he took a pace sideways, bent down and peered through the inch-wide opening.
He found that he was looking into the salon. By twisting his head a little he could see Boneparte and Sirisha. They were still seated side by side on the sofa, but now had napkins and plates on a low table and had started supper. The Corsican’s face had an expression that Roger had rarely seen on it. His over-wide, incredibly forceful jaw was relaxed, his sensitive mouth was curved in a charming smile, and his big grey eyes were alight with laughter as he waved his fork in the air, evidently demonstrating one of the thrilling stories that he so much enjoyed telling. That the Princess no longer felt the least constraint with him was obvious. As Roger watched, she suddenly threw her head back and very faintly he caught the sound of her delighted laughter.
Roger groaned. What could have been more fortunate than that they should like one another. But they, too, were floating like bubbles in a paradise of fools. Junot should have arrived with the troops a good twenty minutes ago. The fact that he had not showed conclusively that in the storm he must be hopelessly lost. The conspirators were far more likely to find their way through it and land on the island at any moment. It was, too, more probable than not that they would erupt onto the scene without warning. The orderly sergeant had been ordered to stay on guard, so he would not disobey; but he had not been warned to expect an enemy, so he might have taken shelter in the kitchen and be keeping watch through its window. If so, owing to the rain, it was unlikely that he would see anyone approaching until they had actually landed.
Every few moments the lightning made terrifying zigzags, rending the sky and throwing everything up in a flash of blinding brilliance. The thunder no longer rolled but crashed in a series of ear-splitting detonations, as though the heavens were cannonading the earth in an attempt to destroy it. Roger, soaked to the skin, continued to peer between the chink in the curtains. Boneparte was feeding Sirisha with tid-bits of lobster from his fork, when the thing that Roger was dreading happened.
His range of vision did not include the door of the salon, so he did not see it burst open. He saw Boneparte suddenly start, drop his fork, spring to his feet and snatch up the light sword that he had thrown down on a nearby chair; then the room was full of angry shouting people. Unchallenged owing to the downpour, the conspirators had landed on the island and forced their way into the casino. Roger's hand instinctively went to his own sword hilt. If Boneparte meant to fight, the least he could do, having led him into this trap, was to go to his aid. Yet if he did, what hope would the two of them have against the score or more Venetians? It was not muscle but wits that were needed if there was to be any chance of saving the situation. Junot could not be far off. Surely there was some way in which he could be brought to the rescue?
Boneparte had drawn his sword and stood behind the supper table, ready to defend himself. Packed close together, the Venetians enclosed him in a semi-circle. They were a mixed lot. A few were wearing the rich brocaded coats and powdered wigs that the Venetian nobles still went about in as a gesture of contempt for the 'new order'; but most of them looked like prosperous bourgeois, and two wore fishermen's jerseys. A tall man with high cheekbones and thick lips, in the centre of the group, appeared to be haranguing Boneparte. That would be the lawyer Ottoboni. Roger could not see Malderini, so assumed that, according to plan, he was keeping well in the background.
Frantically Roger racked his wits for a way to signal Junot. He had a pistol in his belt so could have fired it, but dismissed the idea at once. With the thunder and the storm h would never be heard at any distance. The storm seemed to be easing slightly. There had been no flash of lightning for several minutes. He wondered now that Junot had not picked up the island by the light of the flashes. Perhaps he had, but lost it again and gone past it in the darkness. It would be easy to miss such a small piece of land when one could hardly see one's hand before one's face.
Light! The inspiration struck Roger's mind like a comet, following his thought of flashes. Turning, he raced along the covered way to the kitchen window. It had no blind and one glance through it told him all he wanted to know. It was occupied only by Crozier who, bent almost double, was peering through the keyhole of the door into the salon. Roger thanked all his gods at finding that he was pitted against amateurs. In a coup such as this, men who knew their work would have surrounded the house before breaking in, then made certain of securing any servants and all the doorways to the place. But Crozier's still being free, showed that the fools had all crowded into the salon.
Quickly now, he slipped through the back door into the kitchen. Crozier came upright with a jerk, turned a frightened face to him and gasped:
'The General! What are we to do? Oh, what are we to do?'
Roger stepped past him, shot the bolt on the salon door, and answered in a low voice, 'Fire! I want to make a fire. Oil, paper, sugar, get me anything you can that will l
ight wood quickly.'
As he spoke, he ran to the stove. Three large kettles of water and a coffee pot were simmering on it. Below them the wood fire glowed red. Grabbing an iron bucket from under the sink, he seized a pair of tongs, fished out some large lumps of burning wood and dropped them into it. Crozier had collected on the table a canister of lamp oil, a bottle of brandy and two bundles of faggots.
'Do them up in the table-cloth and take them to the wood shed,' Roger ordered. Then he wrapped a towel round his hand to prevent it being scorched, picked up the bucket and hurried out after the steward. When they reached the wood shed, he scattered the faggots at the foot of the big pile of logs, threw the oil over them, poured the brandy onto the table-cloth and added it to the pile. Then he waved Crozier back and from the open doorway pitched the glowing embers from the bucket onto the oil-soaked faggots. There was a sudden spurt of flame and in a moment the whole heap was on fire.
'Keep it going,' he cried to Crozier. 'Fetch from the kitchen anything that will burn. Make as big a blaze as you can.'
Turning, he ran back along the covered way to the salon window. To light the bonfire which he hoped would show the position of the island to Junot, even through the teeming rain, had taken only five minutes. He found the scene in the salon scarcely changed. Boneparte was still standing behind the table, sword in hand, but Ottoboni was now holding up a long scroll of parchment and evidently reading from it the conditions guaranteeing the restoration and independence of the Serene Republic that they meant to force him to sign,
Roger felt certain that he would refuse. They would get his signature only by carrying him off and starving him until he gave it. That sent another flash of inspiration darting through Roger's mind. The boats! If he could kill the guard they must have left on them, and turn them adrift, the conspirators would have no means of leaving Fortillo. They would be caught there with their prisoner. Junot must find the island soon, then the situation would be saved.
Running to the other end of the casino, Roger crept round the boat-shed and peered out at the wharf. Once more he thanked his gods that he had to deal with amateurs. The fools had not even left a guard on their boats.
It was still raining hard but not so heavily. Darting out from his hiding place, he raced across the wharf. As he did so he caught sight of a figure seated, head in hands. It was the orderly sergeant. In spite of the storm he had not left his post, but in the darkness must have been taken by surprise, knocked on the head and left for dead.
Seizing him by the arm, Roger dragged him to his feet and shouted in his ear, 'Pull yourself together. Help me untie the boats.'
There were three barges tied to the tall striped mooring posts. The rain had saturated their painters making them stiff and the knots difficult to undo. The sergeant, still half-dazed, fumbled with one while Roger wrenched at another, but he had burnt his left hand badly on the bottom of the pail when he had tipped out the burning wood from it. His scorched fingers made the job painful and more difficult.
At last he got it free, and pushed the barge off with his foot, but after it had drifted a yard it came to rest in the tideless water. Hurrying over to the sergeant, he helped him free the second barge, then he cried:
'Get in it. Push off, then find the boat-hook and pull the barge I've freed well clear of the steps.' The man stumbled in, grasped an oar, lifted it with an effort and thrust the barge out.
Four swift paces brought Roger to the post to which the third barge was moored. At least he now had light to see by. The whole woodshed was roaring up in flames, making a splendid beacon and lighting up the whole front of the casino with a lurid glare. With his burnt hand paining him abominably he strove to undo the painter.
Suddenly there was a shout behind him. Swinging round, he saw that the conspirators were crowding out from the main door of the casino. Two of them had Boneparte by the arms and were dragging him along between them. By now the sergeant had managed to get the two barges well away from the wharf. But there remained the third and the knot of its painter still held fast.
At the sight of their boats being cast adrift a yell of anger went up from the conspirators. Three of them drew their swords and came running at Roger. He had just time to swing his cloak and twist it twice round his left arm, then he whipped out his own blade and threw himself on guard. It was as well that he was one of the finest swordsmen in Europe, or he would have been dead within the next two minutes.
Individually his attackers were no match for him, but there were three of them and others were coming up behind. Only two factors favoured his survival against such odds for even a brief space. He had his back to the edge of the wharf, so they could not get round to attack him in the rear and, whereas they were armed with rapiers, his sword was a much heavier double-edged army weapon.
The first three lunged at him almost simultaneously. With one harsh, clashing stroke he swept their three blades aside, brought up his own and, curving it back high, flicked its point across the face of the man on his right. It slit his nose through the bridge. He gave a screech of agony. It gushed blood and he fell back out of the fight.
The other two lunged again. The middle man was very tall. Roger caught his thrust from below, forced his blade high up in the air, sprang forward and kicked him in the groin. With an awful groan he went over backwards. It was Roger's forward move that had saved him from the man on the left. His thrust missed Roger's heart and passed beneath his arm, piercing his clothes and taking the skin off his ribs. Turning upon him, Roger lunged but, still slightly off-balance from his kick, missed. His blade passed over the man's shoulder. Both stepped back, but now two other men came dashing into the fray.
One, a big man in a woollen jersey, wielding a long curved knife, slipped on the spilt blood from the nose of the man Roger had slashed. His mouth flew open in a curse, his head jerked back and his feet flew up. His left boot struck Roger low down on the right thigh, causing him to stagger sideways. That saved him from death by the lunge of the other newcomer. Instead of the sword point entering his body it barely pinked his right shoulder.
His blade was still engaged with that of the survivor of the first three. With a violent twist of the wrist he slid his blade under that of his opponent. It pierced his heart. His sword fell from his hand and clattered on the wet stones. His face contorted in a spasm and he collapsed.
1Some thirty feet away, Boneparte was still struggling with his captors. 'Well done, Bruec!' he shouted. 'Well done! You, shall have a diamond in your sword-hilt for everyone of these traitors you can kill.'
Roger bared his teeth in a sardonic grin, for it looked at the moment as if gold nails in his coffin would be a more appropriate tribute. The man whose nose he had slit was coming at him with a maniacal glare in his eyes; the one whose sword had pinked his shoulder had drawn back his weapon for another lunge, and the man in the jersey was on his feet again waiting with his curved knife for a chance to run in; but yet another newcomer with a drawn sword had pushed him aside to get space enough to join in the attack.
For two terrible minutes the four thin shafts of steel clanged and slithered, rasping on one another for a second then flickering like writhing snakes in the light of the flames as they swept in swift arcs from head high, down to knee level and back. With three blades against him, Roger dare not use his skill in feints or tricks as he would have in a duel; neither could he give back, and he had no room to use swift footwork to his advantage. It was all he could do to parry the lunges and keep his opponents off by making sudden jabs at the eyes of one or other of them every few moments.
Stooping suddenly, the man on the right ducked down, got past Roger's guard with a low thrust and pierced his left leg half-way up the thigh. Before the blade could be withdrawn, Roger's had entered the man's throat. He fell, gurgling horribly. But the man in the jersey sheathed his knife and, snatching up the fallen man's sword, took his place.
The pace of the swordplay to keep three men at bay was
so furious that Roger was tiring now. His sword arm felt as heavy as lead, his wrist was aching; so, too, was his burnt hand. So far none of his wounds had been serious and in the heat of the conflict he hardly felt them; but he was losing blood from three places. Sweat was pouring from him and mingling with the rain that still pattered on his face.
The odds were still three to one against him and he knew that he could not keep it up much longer. Yet every moment that he could remain on his feet meant just a shade better chance that the kidnappers would not get away with their captive. From the first he had realised that they might do so by getting out of the boat-house one of the boats belonging to the casino, but in the excitement none of them had yet thought of that. And if they did, its caulking might have become so dry from long disuse, that it would prove unserviceable. He could only pray that that would be so if the idea occurred to any of them, and in the meantime continue to defend the one boat by which they could be certain of carrying Boneparte off if only they could get him into it.
Desperately he fought on, cutting, thrusting, slashing, always threatening the eyes of his attackers, and using his left arm wrapped in its sodden cloak as a buckler to parry the thrusts that came at him from that side.
Suddenly he saw an opening. His sword point darted forward ripping open the cheek of the man in front of him. With a loud cry his victim reeled sideways, cannoning into the man in the jersey and knocking his blade aside. Next second Roger had driven his blade through the jersey into the man's stomach. The third man, now aghast at finding himself alone against so terrible an antagonist, sprang away. Hastily, he and his companion with the slit cheek retreated several yards to join two others who had been standing in the background with their swords drawn but irresolute expressions on their faces.
For a moment Roger stood there gasping and panting, the bodies of the men he had slain or injured in a ring before him, the point of his sword dripping blood on the ground. In the glare of the flames his face looked like a death-mask, lit by the hard, glinting, jewelled eyes of an idol. His heart was beating furiously. Borne up on a sudden wave of triumph he rasped out. defiantly:
The Rape Of Venice rb-6 Page 52