“Halt!” cried the Captain pulling up. “It’s no good. We’re too late.”
“To hell with that!” snapped the Duke. “We’re too late to surprise them, but not too late to attack.”
Seizing the end of one of the scaling-ladders, he dragged it forward with the men who were carrying it. His friends flung themselves upon it as well, and together they plunged on towards the monastery. For a second the Captain hesitated; then, with a wave to his men, he followed.
The stars had gone, the sky was grey and streaky. On the eastern horizon it was barred with black and orange, but none of them had a thought for the beauties of the coming sunrise. Leaving the road which ran west of the monastery down to the shore they passed inland of its main block on the north and slipped round the corner to its east wall. While the ladders were being put up de Richleau held a hurried, whispered consultation with the Captain, who agreed to let him give the signal for a general attack by firing the first shot, and passed the order on to his men.
Clutching the rifle he had taken from the sentry, the Duke was the first to reach the top of the first ladder. Hardly knowing what he did, but spurred on by a last effort of will, Simon stumbled after him. They slipped over the low parapet on to the stone-flagged pathway which ran, like a battlement, round the outer side of the broad courtyard wall, and crouched there protected from view by a second, inner parapet only a few feet from its top. Rex followed and Richard was beside them the next moment. The Captain and his men were already pouring over the wall from the second ladder, spreading out along it, and mounting their machine-guns.
Cautiously raising their heads they peered over the inner parapet. Fifteen feet below them, in the great square courtyard, figures were moving. A big arched doorway in the main building at its northern end was open, and a group of men were dragging the prisoners from it.
The grey light was still too dim for them to see distinctly, but one sagging form caught Simon’s eye. It was a short figure, dressed in a sailor’s oilskin cape and wide bell-bottom trousers that hid the feet. Simon gripped the Duke’s arm and pointed. ‘There she is … there! Dressed as a sailor—as she was last night.”
Where the rescue party crouched behind the inner parapet of the east wall, they were almost concealed from the Militiamen below, and no one had yet heard the sounds of their stealthy approach. De Richleau was frantic to get into action, but he knew that he must give time for the whole of their force to get into position if their surprise attack were to achieve its maximum result. A swift glance to his rear and along the rampart showed him that nearly all the men were up now. With iron will he forced himself to start counting, determined to reach fifty before he fired.
All ten of the prisoners taken with them the night before had been dragged out and driven up against the blank south wall of the courtyard. They had all been blindfolded but their hands were not bound. Some stood proud and fearless ready to face death; others knelt, or crouched whimpering in terror. The Militiamen were lining up to fire a dozen yards away; busy loading their rifles. The Duke raised his rifle and, resting it on the parapet aimed carefully. “Fifty!” he said aloud.
His rifle cracked. The N.C.O. in charge of the firing-squad screamed and fell. There was a thunderous burst of fire from the others on the rampart followed by the staccato note of the Nationalists’ machine-guns. Two-thirds of the Militiamen were killed outright and fell where they stood. The remainder, wounded and panic-stricken, attempted to stagger to the shelter of the doorway through which they had come, but were mown down.
The little group of prisoners was instantly galvanised into action. Almost with one motion their hands leaped up to tear the handkerchiefs from their eyes. For a moment there was wild confusion. At the first shot other Militiamen inside the building had grabbed up their rifles. A score of them were now pouring out of the doorway, firing at the first target that offered as they came. Three prisoners fell hit, and a Nationalist machine-gunner dropped sideways over his gun.
De Richleau’s eyes were riveted on the little figure in the sou’wester and oilskin cape. Midway along the southern wall a flight of steps led from the courtyard up to its top. At their foot the group of prisoners were now milling as the Militiamen’s bullets spattered about them. Some had gained the lower steps and were scrambling up them.
“There she goes!” cried the Duke, springing up in his excitement. “There! Up the steps!”
Richard, Rex and Simon were all staring, their hearts in their mouths, in the same direction. If the prisoners struggling up the steps could reach the top of the wall and gain the shelter of its inner parapet, they would be safe from the hail of bullets.
“Go on!” shouted Richard. “Go on, Lucretia!”
“She’s done it! She’s done it!” yelled the Duke.
“Fling yourself flat!” As Rex’s stentorian bellow sounded, there was an instant’s lull in the din; then a single rifle cracked from an upper window of the main building.
“Oh, God, she’s hit!” groaned Simon.
“Hell! And she’s gone over—over the wall!” In a frenzy Rex turned and emptied the remaining contents of his magazine-rifle at the window from which the shot had come. Some of its glass tinkled down into the courtyard but the marksman remained unhit. Rex’s anger had played havoc with his aim and Mudra’s head, still swathed in blood-soaked bandages, showed for a second just beyond the open shutter. With his one sound eye he was leering down in triumph on the south wall where the remaining prisoners had taken refuge, and was raising his rifle to fire again.
Almost before Simon had spoken, de Richleau had begun to run. His three friends pelted after him along the rampart of the wall, and round its south-eastern corner to the group of prisoners crouching behind the parapet near the top of the steps.
Three men were uninjured, a fourth lay dead with a bullet through his head, a fifth clasped a shattered ankle and Bernal de Monteleone lay dying, a bullet through his lung, coughing blood.
He could not speak but as de Richleau came charging up he pointed feebly to the outer parapet of the wall. Another of Mudra’s bullets hit the stone coping and ricochetted away with a loud whine, but the Nationalists turned a machine-gun on him and he was compelled to abandon his post of vantage.
The south wall overlooked the whole bay and was built upon a precipice which dropped sheer to the rocks five hundred feet below. Half-crazed with anguish de Richleau thrust his head over the parapet, dreading the sight he felt certain he would see. He shut his eyes for a second, then forced himself to look. There, far below him, lay a single twisted body in an oilskin cape. The sou’wester had fallen a few feet away and the newly risen sun, which heralded another day of agony for bleeding Spain, glinted on the golden hair of Lucretia-José de Cordobay Coralles.
Richard, leaning over by his side, saw the same tragic sight and a lump came into his throat. Lucretia gone—and her lover—and the gold. ‘Oh, God,’ he thought, ‘what a curse that gold has been. But for that they might still be alive, and the rest of us may vet lose our lives through our attempts to cheat each other of it.’
Rex seized Richard and the Duke each by a shoulder and hauled them back. “Take cover, you lunatics!” he yelled. “They’ll pot you here.”
His action saved them. A score of men were throwing open the monastery windows, and next moment a hail of bullets spattered round the now exposed position on the southern wall. The Duke and the rest flung themselves flat, taking what cover they could from the inner parapet of the rampart.
Simon came staggering up and flopped down beside them; his face was ashen grey. “I can’t fight any more,” he gasped. “My head’s on fire with this fever.… I can hardly see.…”
The Nationalists had pulled up their ladders from the far side of the east wall and were thrusting them over into the courtyard. Under the terrific fire of their machine-guns, the Militiamen had either died or retreated into the monastery. Waving his men on, the Fascist captain sprang down one of the ladders and his men came slid
ing after him. No sooner had they reached the lower level than they began to fire direct into the windows of the main building. Suddenly its great doorway was black with men again. The Reds came surging out to counter-attack, and a dozen hand-to-hand combats were in progress. The crash of shots and the rattle of machine-guns echoed back from the hills like the roar of an inferno.
Rex had crawled the few feet to the opening in the inner parapet where the steps came up to the rampart, and turned to shout above the shattering din. “Come on, boys! We must do our share!”
As he plunged downwards, his friends and the three un-wounded Nationalists scrambled after him and hurled themselves into the fray.
De Richleau saw nothing of the fight. Afterwards he thought that he had downed two men with his empty rifle and shot another with his automatic. He struck and fired with the perfect timing that scores of combats had made instinctive in him, but his brain was almost unconscious of the fierce struggle that was in progress. He was saying to himself over and over again: “She was so young to die—so young to die.”
Vaguely he knew that the Nationalists were getting the worst of it and were being driven back to their ladders against the eastern wall. In spite of their initial advantage the odds, which had started at nearly three to one, were too heavy for them, and the Reds now manned nearly every window of the main building. He knew too that his own party was cut off and hemmed in to the south-western corner of the courtyard, but all power of leadership had gone from him. He could only groan and look helplessly about him, fighting meanwhile like an automaton.
It was Richard who took command in this emergency. “Can’t stay here,” he gasped. “They’re too many for us. We’ve got to get out while the going’s good. Rex! That doorway behind you. Smash it in. I’ll cover you.”
Two of the escaped Nationalists were still with them. Both had seized rifles from dead men and were fighting gamely. Richard’s little party formed a ring round Rex while he battered with the butt of his rifle at a low door of the one-story building that formed the west side of the courtyard.
Glancing up for a second out of bloodshot eyes Richard glimpsed Mudra doing deadly execution with a machine-gun. Ten minutes before Simon had thought that he had reached the limit of endurance, but he was still fighting with all his ebbing strength.
The Nationalists were back on the eastern wall and hauling up their ladders. Three of their machine-guns were sending a murderous hail of lead into the packed mass of the Reds. The great doorway of the main building was choked now with a pile of dead and dying Militiamen. The whole courtyard was a scene of indescribable carnage.
Suddenly Rex let out a shout. “We’re through! We’re through! Come on, all of you!”
Turning, they dived through the door, one half of which now sagged upon its hinges. It led into a cloister which formed a continuation of the southern wall, and the five survivors of Richard’s party dashed headlong down it. A dozen Reds came charging after them.
As de Richleau, who was bringing up the rear, entered the long, dim cloister, a bullet whistled by his ear. He turned and fired, dropping the first Militiaman with a shot from his pistol, and fled on. Wild shots echoed from the arched roof, one tore the sole from Simon’s boot and another grazed de Richleau’s arm. He turned again to reply with his automatic as one of the Nationalist agents fell at his side, shot through the neck. Richard had turned too and was emptying the magazine of his automatic over de Richleau’s shoulder.
Suddenly they came to the end of the cloister and another door. Rex had it open and they streamed through it past him into full daylight. As he held it he wrenched out the big key, and hurling himself after them, slammed it behind him. Thrusting the key back on the outside, he locked it, just as their leading pursuers came crashing at its inner side.
Before them lay the road; to the left it wound down into the bay, to the right up into the mountains. Instinctively Richard turned left. Standing as near in as the shallow water of the bay permitted, he could now see the yacht. There lay safety if they could only reach her.
“This way! This way!” cried the remaining ex-prisoner who was with them, and he pelted off to the right.
Some of the Nationalists were already visible farther up the road. They had abandoned the eastern wall and had come round the north side of the building. The Captain was blowing his whistle furiously in order to rally his men for an orderly retreat. From all directions they were dashing towards him, singly and in little groups.
Now that the firing in the monastery had died down they could hear the distant strife of another encounter. Up in the mountains the main body of the Nationalists were attacking the village, and there they would have the superiority of numbers.
As the ex-prisoner dashed up the road, Rex gave a wave to the Fascist Captain; and knowing that his party’s safe retreat was secured by the Nationalists who now held the pass, the four friends began to run down towards the bay. The tug and crane barge were still lying there apparently deserted. If the beach was unguarded, as it appeared to be, the way for an escape by sea lay open.
Simon swerved and nearly fell. Richard caught him by the arm as they ran. In a bound Rex was beside them and seized Simon’s other arm. He threw a last look over his shoulder and saw that the Nationalists had rallied round their officer. They were falling back in good order, firing as they went. Next moment they were lost to view. The four friends negotiated the first two bends of the road in safety, but after that it was exposed to the fire of the Reds above.
The Militiamen Rex had locked in the cloister opened fire from between his arches, and the bullets clicked on the loose shale of the mountain track as they fled. Panting, sweating, they rushed from side to side taking advantage of every bit of cover they could get while they plunged and slithered down the steep slope.
Fusillade after fusillade of shots came from above, and before they were half-way down a machine-gun was brought into play against them. At each bend it sprayed the track with lead, tearing up the earth and sending loose stones flying.
For another five minutes they lurched on, ducking and diving. Rex winced as a rifle-bullet tore through his jacket, but he continued to urge the others to still greater efforts. Simon fell, but they dragged him to his feet and lugged him forward. Darting from side to side, slipping and slithering as the shots zipped on the rocks about them, they plunged helter-skelter towards the bay.
At last they reached the coast road and de Richleau gasped out, “Lucretia!” but Rex’s hand thrust him on, across the road, towards the beach. Rex’s great strength had kept him fresher than the rest, and he had already seen the launch which was rocking twenty yards out from the shore. It was evident that some of the yacht’s crew had refloated it during the night, as he could see Marie-Lou standing up, waving wildly to them, in its stern.
As they crossed the sand bullets sprayed the shore, but the fugitives were a distant target now and their only danger was being hit by a stray. With feverish haste they plunged into the water; willing hands grabbed at them as soon as they were waist-deep and hauled them into the launch. All four collapsed in a heap on its bottom boards, utterly exhausted.
The boat turned and sped out to sea. The tearing fight for breath still racked their lungs. They were hardly conscious until they reached the Golden Gull, and still gasping from their race for life as they staggered up her gangway. Sweat and blood were caked upon them. Every muscle in their bodies ached.
With faltering steps Rex and de Richleau supported Simon towards the deck lounge. Richard paused to grasp his Captain’s hand. “I—can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done,” he panted. “Thank the men too—will you? I’ll thank them myself tonight. There’ll be a big bonus for them all—when we reach England.”
Captain Sanderson smiled. “That’s nice of you, sir. It’s been an anxious time. I needn’t say how glad every one of us is to see you all safe on board, and to be leaving Spanish waters. Shall I order the ship to sea?”
“Please,” Richard no
dded, and, mopping the sweat from his face, turned to look for Marie-Lou.
She was speaking to the chief steward. “Hot bottles and hot blankets—lots of them. And coffee laced with brandy to the deck lounge as quickly as you can.” Richard put his arm round her shoulders and they followed the others aft.
Rex was gloomily helping himself to a drink. The Duke was slumped in a chair, oblivious of all about him, staring with unseeing eyes towards the coast they were leaving. Simon lay at full length upon a sofa.
Marie-Lou bent over him and laid a hand tenderly upon his aching head. “I—I knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as you made out last night,” she said with a little catch in her voice, “but you’ve brought all my big children back to me. Oh, Simon, you’re the bravest of them all.”
He grinned feebly. “Nonsense. My speciality—sorting out muddles.”
“I know. But you’re very ill, my dear. It’s bed for you at once.”
“Um. My job’s finished. Can stay in bed a long time now.”
“Anyhow,” remarked Richard glumly, “we’ve been through months of hell for nothing. With Rex’s help you beat us in the end. Your people have got the gold.”
Simon hoisted himself up a little and looked at Marie-Lou. “Someone working in the bay last night. We saw them. But the crane-barge and tender were still lying abandoned there just now. If it was the Government men using them, why weren’t they towed back to Malaga when the work was completed?”
Marie-Lou nodded. “You’re quite right, Simon. Immediately I’d landed Lucretia I brought off the engineers and most of the crew. Once we got the crane working, it only took.…”
Richard sprang towards her. “You don’t mean you’ve got it?”
“Yes. It’s all safe on board. We got the last bomb up half an hour before the fighting started. You don’t know how glad I was to have something to occupy my mind.”
The Golden Spaniard Page 54