The Irish Witch

by Dennis Wheatley

  With this depressing news, Napoleon returned along the road to Dresden. On the morning of September 12th, before breaking camp to make the last day’s march, he sent for Roger and gave him a despatch for St. Cyr who, as before, had been left to defend the Saxon capital, and told Roger to ride on ahead with it.

  This was just the kind of opportunity Roger had been waiting for. Once clear of the army, instead of going to Dresden, he could turn off along a road leading west, then make his way north to Davout’s headquarters in Hamburg. To have carried out his plan would have been impossible had he had a long distance to cover, through territory made dangerous by partisan bands that roamed the country harassing the French whenever opportunity offered, as he would have had to take an escort. But Dresden was only twelve miles off and, as it was the Emperor’s main base, there were constant troop movements taking place in the vicinity, making the area too dangerous for German irregulars to operate in.

  Normally he would have taken his orderly but, with so little time to plan his venture, he could think of no excuse by which he could rid himself of the man later, and it was important that he should disappear without trace. So, while his charger was being saddled up, he said to the man:

  ‘I have been ordered by the Emperor to ride on ahead, but I’ll have no call to dismount before reaching Dresden, so I’ll not need a horse-holder. You are to remain with the column, and when you reach camp, keep a sharp eye on my baggage.’

  A moment later he had mounted and set off. Within a quarter of an hour he was clear of the advance guard and cantering cheerfully along, greatly elated by the thought that at last he was free of Napoleon and, within a few days now, should be finished once and for all with this unfortunate business that had yet again brought him unwillingly back to the Continent.

  During the next half-hour he passed several tracks leading into the wood that bordered the road, but he knew that a mile or so further on there was a highway to the west, and it was this he intended to take; for he was well aware that in the country that lay between Dresden and Hamburg, a solitary French officer was liable to be attacked unless he kept to the main roads.

  He was within a mile of the highway leading west when the unexpected happened. Suddenly a shot rang out. He felt a blow as though he had been hit by a musket ball on the calf of his right leg. His horse gave a loud neigh, reared and attempted to bolt. With an effort he checked it and brought it to a halt. For a minute the animal stood with its head down and legs splayed, quivering, then it slowly sank to the ground.

  Roger had ample time to free himself from his mount as, panting heavily, it rolled on to its side; but, as he put his weight on his right foot, the numbed leg gave under him and he fell on his knees beside the horse. One glance at his leg confirmed his worst fears. He had been shot through the calf and the bullet had then penetrated the horse’s belly.

  The nature of his attacker he had already guessed. No band of German irregulars would have risked operating so near Dresden. It must be a solitary farmer or woodsman who lived in the neighbourhood. All over Germany there were now thousands of such men, embittered by years of French tyranny, who would not leave their homes to serve in the armed forces, but took a fanatical delight in taking pot shots at their hated enemies whenever they could do so with a good chance of escaping capture.

  On his way up from the Rhine Roger had nearly always remained in close contact with French troops, as he had heard several accounts of attacks made on French couriers, and other soldiers who had become temporarily detached from their units. He knew, too, the sequel that often followed when the German succeeded only in wounding the man at whom he had fired. He waited for a while, until his victim had become weakened by loss of blood, then suddenly emerged from his cover to fire again at close quarters and so finish him off.

  Whipping out one of his pistols, Roger crawled behind his fallen horse and anxiously scanned the wood from which the shot had come. He could see no sign of movement, but knew that death lurked there waiting to claim him. Looking down again at his leg, he saw that it was now bleeding badly, and he had no means of stopping the flow of blood. Soon it would have weakened him to a point where he no longer had the power to resist.

  As he lay there, his mind seethed with anger, frustration and self-reproach. For many years he had diced with death. There had been unpleasant chances in battles afloat and on land that he had been compelled to take; but nearly all the worst dangers he had run had been calculated risks. He owed his survival very largely to careful preparation of his plans and never taking any chance that could possibly be avoided. But that morning, in his elation and haste, he had neglected the rule of a lifetime. A moment’s thought should have told him that only a half-witted French officer would set off unaccompanied to ride through German forests, now that the country had become hostile. He should have taken his orderly and, as the man would not have dared disobey him, kept him for company all the way to Hamburg.

  Now he was to pay for his stupid thoughtlessness. Gone now was all hope of saving Charles; while he, after succeeding in so many brilliant exploits, was to die uselessly, murdered in a ditch by a German peasant, who was no better than a human animal.

  16

  A Hideous Affray

  Roger had only just completed his swift survey of the wood opposite when the musket banged again. Instantly he ducked his head. The bullet went nowhere near it, but thudded into the horse’s neck. Blood gushed from the wound, the animal made an ugly choking sound, writhed for a few moments, then shuddered and died.

  The second, ill-directed shot at least showed that Roger’s would-be killer was a poor marksman, which was some comfort. It meant that he would have to come out of the wood and much closer to ensure hitting his victim in a lethal spot—perhaps even close enough for Roger to use his pistol with effect and so turn the tables on him.

  But Roger was very far from sanguine about his chances. There was always the possibility that French troops might appear on the scene, but he had passed only one troop of cavalry since leaving the main army, so he had little hope of being rescued by such means before he would have to make a last, desperate attempt to save his life. He could only pray that the attack would come soon, while he still had the strength to meet it.

  For the next ten minutes he remained acutely alert, listening with faint hope for the distant sound of horses’ hooves approaching along the road and, with fear, for a nearby rustle in the undergrowth, indicating that his enemy was about to attack him; but the silence remained unbroken. Meanwhile he lay at full length alongside the carcase of the horse, occasionally taking a quick peep over its belly, to make certain that he was in no danger of being crept up on and taken by surprise.

  By then his leg was beginning to pain him badly. Obviously the muscle of his calf must have been torn right through, and blood was still seeping steadily out of the hole on each side of his riding boot. If only he could have got the boot off, he could have bandaged the wound and stopped the flow. But to get the boot off without help was quite impossible. Even normally he had to use a jack or have his servant pull his boots off. Yet he knew that if he could not somehow stop the bleeding he would become easy game for the man who was waiting to kill him.

  It then occurred to him that he might open up the boot by cutting down either side of the leather so, laying his pistol aside, he got out a sharp knife which he always carried, and set about this onerous task. The leather, although as soft as velvet to the touch, proved unexpectedly tough, and every time he put pressure on the knife an agonising pain shot through his calf. He was also hampered by the fact that he dared not raise his head, so had to work in an awkward position, doubled up, to remain behind the cover of the horse. Within a few minutes he was streaming with sweat and, after cutting through only two inches of the leather, gave a loud groan, then relaxed.

  The groan must have been taken by the man who was waiting to kill him as a sign that he was no longer capable of putting up a fight, for a moment later there came a scampering s
ound on the far side of the horse and a brief order shouted in a German patois that Roger did not understand.

  Next second, to his horror, the reason for the scampering and the order was made clear: a big wolfhound suddenly came bounding round the buttocks of the dead horse. The brute had been sent by its owner to flush Roger out. He had laid aside his pistol, but was still holding the knife with which he had been trying to slit his boot open.

  With a ferocious snarl the beast leapt at him. He was lying at full length. To have scrambled to his knees, so as to be better able to meet the attack would have been fatal, for he had no doubt that his enemy had now come out of the wood and was only waiting for him to raise his head above the level of the horse to put a bullet through it.

  The wolfhound’s jaws gaped wide. Another moment and his gleaming fangs would have fastened themselves in Roger’s throat and torn it out. In a bound the beast was upon him, pinning down his hand that held the knife. There was only one hope of saving himself. Clenching his left fist, he drove it straight into the big dog’s mouth. Automatically the jaws snapped to. Roger gasped as the sharp teeth bit into the sides of his forearm, but the sustained force of the beast’s spring and the thrust of Roger’s fist had carried his hand right through the slobbering mouth and down into the animal’s gullet. The yellow eyes distended to their fullest extent, it snorted fiercely in a vain endeavour to draw breath. Choking, it reared up and thrashed wildly with its forepaws on Roger’s chest as it strove to wriggle free. Its efforts to draw away released Roger’s right hand, in which he still held the knife. Savagely he thrust upward with it into the brute’s belly, then turned the weapon in the wound. Next moment a warm mess of blood and guts were pouring out over his arm and body. The great dog jerked spasmodically, tore its mouth free of Roger’s left arm, gave a whimpering howl and collapsed upon him.

  Roger’s heart was pounding fiercely as he lay motionless, the strength temporarily drained from all his limbs. But his mind was working frantically, for he was acutely aware that he was still in deadly peril. To have survived the attack by the savage hound was more than he could have hoped for when he first heard it snarl and saw it come bounding towards him. But he had yet to escape death at the hands of its master, whom he knew must be lurking only a few yards away on the far side of the horse, with his musket at the ready.

  Making a great effort he pushed the dead hound half off him, pulled his knife out of the gaping wound and transferred it to his left hand; then, with his right, he groped for and found his pistol.

  Now, having got his breath back he was, for a moment, sorely tempted to end matters, one way or another, by taking a gamble with fate. Being a crack shot with a pistol, he felt certain that if he suddenly sat up and his enemy was within fifteen paces, he could kill him. But he had only the one bullet, and no means of reloading. The second he exposed himself the man would bring his musket to bear and, if he was further off, the odds would be in his favour.

  On the other hand the man must know that his hound was dead and possibly think that Roger had died in his struggle with it; or at least have been rendered helpless. Within a few moments it was certain that he would come round to find out what had happened. To do so he would have to expose himself, and be within easy range. Having considered these alternatives, Roger’s native caution decided him to ignore his impulse and lie doggo.

  The greatest danger entailed by his decision was that he had no means of guessing whether his enemy would come round by his horse’s head or its tail and, lying at full length as he was, he could not keep his eyes fixed on both simultaneously. All he could do, while glancing first one way then the other, was to strain his ears for sounds of the killer’s approach.

  He waited in an agony of apprehension. Time seemed to stand still. The suspense was almost unbearable. Again he was seized with the temptation to sit up, but fought it down. He knew that with his right leg useless, his left arm torn and aching from the dog’s fierce bite, weakened by loss of blood and lying there on his back, he was no match even for an active, well-grown boy, let alone a cunning and stalwart peasant; yet he longed desperately for an end to this hideous uncertainty.

  At last it came, and when it did come took him by surprise. His only warning was the sound of a few swift footfalls on the muddy, rutted road. But his enemy appeared neither round the head nor tail of the dead horse. He ran straight at it, looming suddenly above the saddle, with his musket pointed down at Roger.

  He was a tall man with gangling limbs, wearing a worn, rabbit-skin jacket over filthy rags. His hair, a dirty brown streaked with grey, was an untidy mop, standing out in tufts where it had been roughly cut. A straggling beard covered his cheeks and chin. His lips stood out red and thick, his eyes were small, dark, and glaring hatred.

  Caught off his guard, Roger had no chance to use his pistol, for to aim it he would have to throw his right arm across his chest. His eyes started from his head as he stared up into the barrel of the musket. The man’s finger was upon the trigger and he was just about to fire. The dead dog still lay half sprawled over Roger’s body. Inspiration from beyond suddenly came to him, as it had several times before when his life had been in dire peril. Instantly he acted on the thought that he knew had been sent to him unconsciously by Georgina’s spirit which was bound so closely to his own. With all the power he had left he jerked up his good leg. It threw the dog up from midway down his body, so that its dead head landed on his face. A fraction of a second earlier the musket had been fired. The bullet ploughed through the wolfhound’s head instead of Roger’s.

  Even as the dog’s blood and brains poured over Roger’s face he realised that he still had a chance to save his life; but that it would last only the next few moments. He must get the better of his attacker before he had time to reload his musket, otherwise he would be irretrievably lost.

  Thrusting aside the horribly shattered carcase of the animal, he shook his head violently to get the filthy muck out of his eyes, then sat up. His right eye was still blinded by a fragment of the dog’s flesh, but with his left he could hazily make out the form of the peasant. He had the musket between his knees and was in the act of pouring powder from a horn that hung from his belt down the barrel. Roger swivelled his pistol, strove to steady his quivering hand, aimed for the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. To his utter dismay, nothing happened.

  The reason flashed upon him. The powder had become wet with the dog’s blood. By then the peasant had taken a bullet from his pouch, and was about to drop it down the barrel of his musket. In desperation Roger hurled the now useless pistol at him. It caught him sideways on, full in the face. With a howl he let the musket fall, clutched at his broken nose, then staggered and fell.

  For Roger to have remained where he was would have been fatal. The injury he had inflicted on his enemy was not sufficient to prevent him from coming to his feet and completing the reloading of his musket. Transferring his knife to his right hand, Roger heaved himself and, dragging his wounded leg behind him, scrambled over the horse’s body. The peasant had come to his knees and stretched out a hand to grab his musket. Suddenly both of them went still and remained for a moment as though frozen. Simultaneously they had caught the sound of horses’ hooves coming up the road from the direction of Dresden.

  In the violence of the struggle neither had heard them in the distance, but now they were loud and coming on at a canter. Evidently the horsemen had been alerted to trouble ahead by the firing of the musket that had shattered the dog’s head.

  Wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand, the peasant gave a frightened glance down the road; then, abandoning his musket, turned to make off into the woods. With a lightening glow of elation Roger knew that he was saved, but he was not content to let his would-be murderer go.

  When in Spain he had learnt how to throw a knife. Drawing back his hand, he sent the sharp blade with all the strength he had left whizzing after his enemy. He aimed to strike the man between the shoulder blades, but by then he
had become so weak that the force behind the throw was insufficient, even at that short distance, to carry the knife high enough. Yet it scored a hit, slicing into and cutting a tendon at the back of the peasant’s left knee.

  He let out a scream, staggered and fell. Scrambling to his knees, he attempted to run on, but his left leg had been rendered useless. The moment he put his weight on it he fell again. By then a small party of Chasseurs had rounded the corner and were approaching at the gallop. Clawing at the muddy road, the man made frantic efforts to drag himself up a low bank into the thick undergrowth.

  Roger, still gasping for breath, was sprawled across the body of his dead horse. Although he was covered from head to foot in blood and muck, his uniform was still recognisable as that of a French officer. The leader of the Chasseurs, a young Lieutenant, had grasped the situation in a glance. Drawing his sabre, he rode at the peasant, intending to sever his head from his body at a stroke. But Roger raised a hand and cried in a croaking voice:

  ‘Don’t kill him! I want that man alive.’

  A moment later the Lieutenant and his four companions pulled up and dismounted. Two of them seized the man and dragged him to his feet, while their officer hurried over to Roger. In a few words he confirmed the fact that he had been ambushed, then added jerkily:

  ‘A sabre slash or a bullet is too swift a death for that … that swine. I want him hanged … but not with a running noose. Just have a loop of rope put over his head and … and string him up to the nearest tree. When his friends find him, he’ll be an example to them. They’ll see from his face that we left him to dance on air till … till he slowly strangled, instead of our pulling on his feet to give him a quick end.’