by Jack Higgins
He could smell woodsmoke and saw it lifting in a blue tracer from the rough stone chimney. He went up rickety wooden steps to the porch, opened the door and went in.
The room was furnished simply but comfortably, loose rugs scattered across the polished wooden floor. There were several bookcases, all filled, a sofa and two easy chairs in front of the fireplace.
Logs smouldered fitfully on the stone hearth, heavily banked with ashes that they might not burn too quickly. They told Guyon all he needed to know. Henri Granville and his wife were not there. But, then, they should have always counted on that as a possibility.
Ornithology was the old man’s great hobby. He had even written a book on the subject. It was quite obvious that at this moment he and his wife were sitting in their boat somewhere among the reeds which covered so many square miles of the marshes, probably even in some bird-hide since dawn taking photos.
He moved outside and went down to the jetty. Faintly, through the mist, came the sound of an outboard motor. Jacaud and his men. For them the solution would be obvious. They would simply wait for Granville to put in an appearance. No need even to go looking for him.
There was only one answer to the problem and Guyon waded into the lake and pushed towards the other side. He moved up on to high ground and ran along the shore towards the sound of the motor.
In spite of the clammy cold of the marshes sweat trickled from Fenelon’s armpits. Ever since that first moment of shock when Fleur de Lys had passed them in the mouth of the estuary he had felt sick and frightened. And then de Beaumont’s message over the radio, the mind numbing as the operator decoded it.
The message was quite plain. Under the circumstances they were to return at once. But that hadn’t been good enough for Jacaud. He had insisted on going on into the marsh and Fenelon had wilted under his cold fury.
The reeds lifted like pale ghosts on either hand, the only sound the steady rattle of the outboard motor. He sat in the stern at the tiller, two sailors in the centre with rifles. Jacaud sat on the edge of the rounded prow, his sub-machine-gun slung around his neck as he gazed into the fog like some great bird of prey.
He turned, his granite, brutal face running with moisture. ‘We must be almost there. Cut the motor. We’ll start paddling.’
‘You’re wasting your time, Jacaud,’ Guyon called gaily. ‘I beat you to it. By now Henri Granville and his wife are well on their way out of here.’
As the dinghy drifted forward, a sandbank reached out from the reeds like a pointing finger. Guyon stood on a small hillock at the far end. His hand swung up and he fired twice. One of the sailors groaned and went over the side, still clutching his rifle.
Jacaud slipped the sub-machine-gun over his head. It came up in a long, stuttering burst of fire, slicing through the reeds. He was too late. Guyon had disappeared like a ghost into the fog. He laughed mockingly somewhere near at hand and then there was silence.
The remaining sailor leaned over the side to pull in his comrade. Jacaud turned and struck up his arm. ‘Leave him. We haven’t time.’
The sailor recoiled from the killing fury, the devil’s face that confronted him. The curious thing was that when Jacaud spoke his voice was quite calm.
‘Back to L’Alouette and give that motor everything it’s got. Mallory’s got to return to Ile de Roc. He’s no choice. His girlfriend’s still there. If we’re lucky we can catch them on their way out to sea.’
To Mallory the rattle of gunfire in the distance was like a physical blow and he walked the deck in impotent fury, hoping desperately that whatever had gone wrong Guyon had been able to handle it. Perhaps ten minutes later he heard the sound of the outboard motor returning along the creek. He stood very still, one foot on the rail, listening as it passed downstream.
He clambered on top of the wheelhouse and looked towards the west, straining into the fog. It was a good fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of brent geese calling bitterly as they lifted from the reeds. As the beating of their wings subsided, he was aware of movement towards the left.
He took a chance, cupped his hands and called: ‘Raoul! Over here!’
A couple of minutes later Guyon emerged from the fog and stumbled across the sandbank. Mallory ran to the prow and hauled him on board. Guyon was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold, his face pale and drawn.
‘Have they passed yet?’
Mallory nodded. ‘What happened?’
Guyon explained briefly, shivering repeatedly as the wind cut through his damp clothes. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Get to hell out of here and fast,’ Mallory said. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken Jacaud will wait for us at the estuary. If we can get down there fast enough we might stand a chance of getting out to sea before they’re ready.’
‘And back to Ile de Roc?’
‘That’s the general idea. You’d better go below. Find yourself some dry clothes and a drink. I’ll get things moving up here.’
He went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. When he put them into reverse Fleur de Lys parted easily from the soft mud and he swung the wheel hard over, bringing her prow round until she pointed towards the wall of reeds that barred them from the creek.
He took her forward with a burst of speed, repeating his earlier manoeuvre. Once again it proved successful. The reeds parted protestingly and the boat burst into the creek. He turned the wheel to starboard and she swung round, grazing the mud of the opposite bank.
He took her downstream slowly, the engines a murmur in the rain. Guyon came up from the saloon wearing khaki slacks, rubber boots and a heavy white sweater with a turtle collar. In one hand he carried a bottle of brandy, in the other a tin mug.
‘How do you feel?’ Mallory said.
Guyon grinned and held up the brandy. ‘How would you expect? It’s Courvoisier. Like some?’
‘I certainly would.’
Mallory took the brandy down in two quick gulps. As a warm glow started to seep through his entire body he took out the packet of Gauloise that Marcel had given them and threw them to Guyon.
‘Better have one while the going’s good. Things might get pretty warm within the next ten minutes.’
He took one himself and opened the window of the wheelhouse. Rain kicked into his face and there was a slight wind blowing in from the sea across the marshes, lifting the fog into weird shapes.
Visibility was down to thirty or forty yards, but the reeds were beginning to drop back and the channel widened perceptibly. The water lifted in long swelling ripples and waves kicked against the bottom of the boat. They were almost there now and as a curving sandbank appeared a few yards to port he cut the engines and the current carried them in. There was a slight shudder and they stopped.
‘What’s the idea?’ Guyon asked.
‘I’d like to know what the opposition are up to. You stay here. I shan’t be long.’
Mallory jumped to the sandbank, landing knee-deep in water, waded out and followed its length into the fog until he could no longer see Fleur de Lys. A few minutes later he stood at the end, water splashing in across the sand, and looked out towards Ile de Yeu. There was no sign of L’Alouette and he turned and ran back the way he had come, splashing through the shallows as the tide began to lift over the sandbank.
Fleur de Lys was already swinging out into the deepening channel and he took Guyon’s proffered hand and scrambled over the rail.
‘Not a sign of them. As far as I’m concerned I’m going to give her everything she’s got and head out to sea. They’ll have to come up with something pretty good to stop us.’
He went into the wheelhouse, started the engines and reversed into the channel. Visibility was becoming rather better as the fog lifted and Fleur de Lys roared down the centre of the channel, her bow wave surging across the water on either side.
The mouth of the estuary appeared, clear and open to the sea, and Mallory swung the wheel to port to negotiate the great sandbank fifty yards beyond the entrance. As t
hey turned the point, the current pushing against them, they found L’Alouette waiting.
Jacaud was in the conning tower, a heavy machine-gun mounted on a swivel pin. The moment they came into view he started to fire. Bullets swept across the deck and Mallory ducked as glass shattered in the wheelhouse.
Guyon crouched in the doorway, resting the revolver across one raised arm, trying for a steady shot, but it was impossible. As bullets hammered into their hull, Mallory spun the wheel and the young Frenchman lost his balance.
It was the fog which saved them, a long, solid bank rolling in across the reef before the wind, and it swallowed them in an instant. Guyon picked himself up and stood listening to the impotent chatter of the machine-gun as Jacaud continued to fire. After a while there was silence.
He turned to face Mallory, his breath easing out in a long sigh. ‘I’d say that called for another drink.’
As they emerged from the fog-bank, Mallory took them out to sea, giving the engines full power. He turned with a grin. ‘Nothing wrong there, thank God.’
Guyon went into the saloon and returned with the Courvoisier. ‘He’s made one hell of a mess down there. Holes all over the place. I don’t think de Beaumont will be pleased.’
Mallory swallowed some of his brandy and lit a cigarette. ‘We’ll find out about that soon enough.’
Guyon went into the saloon and Mallory inhaled deeply on his cigarette with a conscious pleasure. Everything was going to be all right, he was certain of that. Sometimes one got these feelings. The wind had freshened even more and spray spattered against the shattered windows of the wheelhouse. He pulled down the helmsman’s seat and sat.
Some time later Guyon came in with sandwiches and hot coffee and Mallory switched to the automatic pilot. ‘Want me to take over?’ Guyon asked.
Mallory shook his head. ‘In these conditions it should only take us two hours at the most to get there.’
It was perhaps half an hour later that he became aware that they were slowing perceptibly. His attempts to adjust the controls met with no success and he switched to automatic pilot and went below.
Guyon was lying on one of the saloon divans, his head on his hands, eyes closed. As Mallory entered, he opened them and sat up.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘God knows,’ Mallory said, ‘but we’re losing speed badly and she isn’t answering to the wheel like she should.’
The Fleur de Lys heeled to starboard and there was a great rushing of water beneath their feet. He dropped to one knee, pulled back the carpet and peered inside. When he looked up his face was grave.
‘There must be two dozen bullet holes along the waterline. We’re leaking like a sieve. No wonder the damned thing’s slowed down.’
They went on deck quickly and into the wheelhouse. The electric pump was housed in a cupboard in one corner and the condition of the doors, splintered by bullets, told him what he would find.
He surveyed the smashed and twisted metal briefly, then turned, his face grim. ‘You’ll find a hand-pump aft of the main engine housing. Do the best you can with that. Stick it as long as you can and I’ll spell you.’
‘I see,’ Raoul Guyon said. ‘Things look bad, eh?’
‘Only if L’Alouette catches us in this condition,’ Mallory said grimly.
Guyon moved out along the deck without a word and a moment later Mallory became aware of the harsh, rhythmic clangour of the hand-pump. He looked out of the window at the brownish-white stream of water gushing across the deck, took over the wheel and waited for Fleur de Lys to lighten.
16
Sea Fury
When Fenelon first caught sight of Fleur de Lys his mind froze, refusing to accept for the moment what he knew to be an impossibility. The graticules misted over, temporarily obscured by a wave, and he raised the periscope a little more.
Fleur de Lys jumped into view, her familiar lines quite unmistakable. He said quickly to the rating at his side: ‘Fetch Monsieur Jacaud here. Tell him to hurry.’
Jacaud arrived a few moments later. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Take a look.’
The big man gripped the handles of the periscope tightly and lowered his head. When he turned to look at Fenelon a muscle twitched in his right cheek.
‘I wonder what went wrong?’
Fenelon shrugged. ‘Perhaps you damaged her engines with the machine-gun, or even holed her. Does it matter? Shall I surface? We should be able to board her with very little trouble.’
Jacaud shook his head and something glowed in the cold eyes. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Remember the Kontoro? You said that one torpedo was all it would take. Let’s see what you can do.’
Fenelon felt the blood surge to his temples and his heart pounded wildly. ‘My God, it’s perfect! They won’t even know what hit them.’
‘I don’t mind that,’ Jacaud said, ‘as long as there’s nothing left afterwards.’
L’Alouette carried two twenty-one-inch torpedoes, both mounted in the bow. Fenelon took a deep breath, pulled himself together and started to issue firm, crisp orders.
‘Enemy’s bearing, one-two-five. Course, one-three-one. Speed, six knots. Range, one thousand five hundred.’
These facts, fed into a complicated electrical device, provided the angle of deflection, enabling the torpedoes to be aimed the right distance ahead of the target so that both should arrive in the same place at the same time.
A moment later the petty officer called, ‘Deflection, one-three degrees right, sir.’
Fenelon raised the periscope handles, his face pressed to the rubber eyepiece. ‘Stand by both tubes.’
‘Both tubes ready, sir.’
Fenelon could feel the sweat trickling down his face and his heart seemed to leap inside him. So often he had heard of this moment, had it described to him by men who knew. But for him this was the first.
‘Stand by to fire.’
Fleur de Lys seemed to leap into focus, every line of her clear and clean. His hands tightened on the handles. ‘Fire one.’
The submarine lurched as the missile shot away and the hydrophone operator reported, ‘Torpedo running.’
‘Fire two.’
Again the submarine shuddered.
‘Torpedo running.’
Fenelon turned to Jacaud. ‘Care to watch?’
The big man pushed him roughly to one side and bent to the handles.
On board Fleur de Lys, Guyon still sweated at the pump and the boat ran on, the automatic pilot in control while Mallory stood on top of the wheelhouse and swept the sea with a pair of glasses.
That L’Alouette would catch up with them now was certain. They were making no more than six knots and barely holding back the water. Submerged, the submarine had three or four knots on them. They were well out of the main shipping lane, he knew that. Their only hope was the chance of an odd fishing boat putting in an appearance, hardly likely considering the weather.
He swung the glasses again in a wide arc and stiffened as something lifted out of the water to starboard. It was a periscope, the telltale bow wave giving it away, and then he saw the great, surging streak of foam boiling under the surface of the water as it ran towards them.
‘Torpedo!’ he cried, and jumped to the deck, losing his balance and rolling over. He picked himself up, scrambled into the wheelhouse and grabbed for the wheel. He spun it round desperately, and slowly she started to turn. Guyon appeared beside him, adding his weight, shoving the wheel over, and then a great swell, rolling in from the west, gave them the final push.
Mallory left Guyon at the wheel and rushed to the rail. He was just in time to see the wash of the torpedo passing to starboard. A few seconds later it was followed by the second.
In the submarine Jacaud gave a growl of rage, turned and grabbed Fenelon by the jacket. ‘You missed, damn you! You missed!’
‘But that’s impossible.’
Fenelon bent to the periscope and Jacaud pulled him away. ‘From now on I’m giving
the orders. Take her in close and surface. I’m going to finish Mr Bloody Mallory off personally.’
On the Fleur de Lys Mallory was back at the wheel and Guyon worked the pump furiously. But it was no good. The boat rolled heavily, waves breaking across her prow, the weight of the water inside holding her down.
L’Alouette had fired both her tubes and no additional torpedoes were carried by Type XXIII submarines, Mallory knew that. He looked out of the window, watching the fog roll in again in patches. There was no other vessel in sight, and his heart sank. Under the circumstances Jacaud’s next move seemed obvious.
Somehow there was still a shock of surprise as the sea boiled in a great cauldron no more than fifty yards away and L’Alouette broke through to the surface. Even as the water still spilled from her plates Jacaud appeared in the conning tower. A rating came up beside him and they started to mount the heavy machine-gun on its firing-pin.
Guyon stood in the doorway, the revolver ready in his right hand. ‘Now what?’
‘I think that’s obvious,’ Mallory said flatly. ‘If I’m going to go I’m taking him with me. It’s been nice knowing you.’
‘And you, mon colonel.’ Raoul Guyon drew himself together as if on parade. ‘An honour, sir.’
He moved along the deck to the prow and Mallory swung the wheel and brought Fleur de Lys into the wind. A moment later and she was bearing down on L’Alouette.
Jacaud started to fire, bullets hammering into the prow, and Mallory braced himself, hands firm on the wheel. Guyon lay flat on the deck, one arm around a stanchion, waiting for the moment of impact. There were two rounds left in the revolver and he was praying that at the last he might have the chance of putting them both into Jacaud.
In the conning tower of L’Alouette Jacaud still fired the machine-gun, raising it slightly, aiming for Mallory in the wheelhouse. Fenelon appeared beside him, his face white and terrified, mouth open in a soundless scream.