‘That’s all he has.’ Barbusse looked again at the journalist. ‘You’re very lucky,’ he told him. ‘As an ex-para, I was going to spike you as you landed, but the Mayor here ... he stopped me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Morry.
‘Oh, don’t thank him - he probably wants to murder you himself,’ said Yves d’Arle.
Colonel Lorraine glowered his men into silence. ‘Barbusse,’ he said, ‘take him down to the dungeon. Lock him in. I’ll talk to Father Benoir and we’ll decide what to do with him.’
‘Dungeon?’ protested Morry. ‘Take me down to the dungeon? Why a dungeon ... for God’s sake? . . . Hey ... let me go, you . . . Where’s my Press card? Wait until the union hears about all this. My newspaper will have something . . .’
His voice was getting more and more distant as he was half-lifted, half-carried away by Joliot and d’Arle. Barbusse followed behind them, giving Morry an occasional dig or two in the rump, with the pike.
Colonel Lorraine watched them go. Then he shook his head slowly.
‘Hey ... let go of my arm . . . leg!’ shouted Morry, as they thrust him through a narrow doorway and dragged him down a twisting flight of dark stone stairs. One of the men switched on an electric light.
‘In here,’ said Barbusse. He kicked open a thick wooden door, with a small iron grille near the top. The room beyond the door echoed hollowly. The men gave Morry a push in the small of the back, and he staggered inside.
‘You’ll never get away . . .’ began Morry.
‘Nor will you,’ snapped Barbusse. ‘This place is six hundred years old. The walls are ten metres thick. It is eight metres below ground, under a castle . . . Here, even the rats plead to get out.’
The door of the cell slammed shut. Morry heard the footsteps of the men climbing the stairs, then he turned and looked around him. The dungeon was lit by a single yellow lamp, on a length of flex in one corner. There were no tables, stools, or even beds. But, in the middle of the room, dark, stained, rusty, but still ominous, was a medieval torture rack.
‘My life,’ gasped Morry.
‘More visitors, mon Colonel. Shall I shoot? ‘ shouted Barbusse from the top of his lookout post above the gate. Mayor Colonel Lorraine stared up at him incredulously.
‘Of course not, idiot,’ he retorted.
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Father Benoir. ‘Do you think we’re in for trouble? ‘
‘I’m afraid we must expect trouble of some sort, mon Père,’ said Colonel Lorraine. This is just the shouting before the battle. Sooner or later we will have to fight.’
The forces of evil are relentless,’ said Father Benoir. The Mayor nodded.
There was another shout from the battlement. ‘It’s a Minister,’ yelled Barbusse. ‘He says he wants to talk with you. And I can see the Mayor of Clermont-Ferrand.’
Colonel Lorraine climbed the worn steps. He was a little out of breath by the time he reached the top and looked over the wall at the group of people standing on the far side of the chasm.
One of the men shielded his eyes and looked up. ‘Are you Colonel Lorraine, the Mayor? ‘
‘Yes,’ replied Colonel Lorraine.
‘Good. I am Gaston Duprès. I’ve come from Paris . . . from the President himself ... to tell you that you must immediately open your gates and begin behaving like any other French village.’
‘Sorry, quite impossible,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘We have private business in here and don’t wish to be disturbed.’
‘What sort of private business? ‘
‘Ours,’ snapped Colonel Lorraine.
‘Villages are not allowed private business,’ shouted the Minster. ‘I have the strictest possible orders to deal with you if you refuse to cooperate immediately.’
Colonel Lorraine drew himself up to his full height: ‘Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité; Is it possible that the glorious revolution was wasted and that the rights of the individual are no longer to be respected?’
‘Words,’ retorted Duprès. ‘We do not question the rights of the individual. We question the rights of your village to close its gates to the civil authorities.’
‘We are just keeping ourselves to ourselves,’ explained the Colonel. ‘We have done nothing so far, except demand our rights to privacy. Every one of our citizens expresses the same right.’
‘Individual privacy is respected,’ shouted the Minister, his voice becoming hoarser. ‘But collective privacy is not an individual’s right. We must remember a community is not just one village, it is the whole of France. Our beloved country is but an enlarged community.’
‘I’m sorry,’ called back Colonel Lorraine. ‘We do not agree. All we are asking is that we should be left alone. We are in the middle of preparing something of vital importance to ourselves and the future of France. It is for that reason we wish to remain isolated.’
‘That is your final answer?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then you must take the consequences of your action. And, as a military man, you must realize that mutiny can lead to only one end.’
‘Yes,’ replied Colonel Lorraine. ‘Vive la France.’ He shouted the last words even more loudly, then saluted. He turned his back on the party below and walked away.
‘They’re going, mon Colonel,’ said Barbusse.
‘They’ll be back. Next time for an assault,’ said the Colonel. ‘I’m afraid that now we must really prepare ourselves.’ The men around him nodded. Barbusse grinned his guerrilla grin.
Nine
Morry Cohen blinked at his watch. It took him some moments to get his eyes focused. He was surprised to see that he had been inside for only half-an-hour.
There were the sounds of feet on the stone steps outside, then the bolt was slid back, and Barbusse entered the room.
‘Here,’ he said, holding a bottle and a small parcel towards Morry. ‘Wine and a sandwich.’
‘Thanks,’ said Morry. Now that his stomach was settled, he was hungry. He opened the packet. He sighed. What a day! A nightmare trip in a fighter plane driven by a hungover maniac. A high-altitude blast-off. A terrifying re-entry. A bumpy landing in hostile territory. Threatened with a deadly weapon. Then, imprisonment in a real dungeon infested with rats and which contained a rack that was in far too good a state of repair. And now this. A ham sandwich! He shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said, handing back the packet. ‘I’m kosher.’
Barbusse shrugged his burly shoulders. ‘Keep it,’ he said, tossing the sandwich on to the rack. ‘I’m not sure we’ll bother to bring you any more.’
‘For God’s sake,’ protested Morry. ‘Why keep me here at all? Why don’t you let me leave? I promise I’ll give you no trouble.’
‘For a condemned man, you waste a lot of time talking,’ said Barbusse. ‘If I were you, I’d spend my final hours thinking of a good last request.’
‘Salt beef, that’s it. Too much salt beef last night, followed by being shaken up too much this morning. It’s a nightmare I’m having. Maybe my morning coffee was spiked with LSD. I’m just experiencing a bad trip.’ Morry banged himself on the forehead.
‘Careful,’ warned Barbusse. ‘If you bruise yourself, I’ll get the blame for ill-treating you. You were lucky enough not to smash yourself to pieces on the ark, when you landed.’
‘Oh, yes,’ muttered Morry. ‘I am lucky. Ark? ... what ark?’
‘The ark,’ said Barbusse. ‘The one we’re building in the square.’
‘I knew it,’ grunted Morry. ‘It has to be acid. I’m dreaming I’ve been transported back to ancient Israel. So ... the tall man, with the monocle ... he’s Noah?’
‘No, Colonel Lorraine, the Mayor.’
‘I didn’t think he looked Jewish enough to be Noah,’ said Morry. ‘Where is the old boy, anyway? He’ll be on my side, I’m one of his descendants.’
‘I think you’ve got concussion,’ glowered Barbusse. He held Morry’s head towards the light and peered into his eyes. ‘Almost certainly you’ve got some
thing wrong with your head. Probably something to do with the stupid sort of parachute you used. I prefer the old-fashioned sort. Much safer. At least you land on your feet and not your arse.’
‘I’m mad,’ said Morry, brightly. ‘That’s it, insane. I’ve blown my orthodox mind. I’m in ancient Israel in the days of Noah, and they think my ejector-parachute is not as good as the ones they use themselves. Ha, ha ... ha ...’
‘Stop it!’ ordered Barbusse. ‘We’ve had enough trouble from the police and everyone, without having you idiot journalists bothering us. I’d have thought that, as Admiral Dordogne was born here, you’d all have more respect for us inhabitants.’
‘Admiral Dordogne? The President, Grand Admiral Dordogne? ‘ asked Morry. ‘This is his village? St Pierre-des-Monts?’
‘Of course it’s bloody St Pierre-des-Monts.’
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ said Morry. He twisted round on the rack until he was facing Barbusse. ‘This is St Pierre-des- Monts ... Yes? Okay ... and the President of France today is Admiral Dordogne? Still okay. And you are building an ark ... a big, ship-type ark ... the one that looks like a huge coffin.’
‘Coffin? ‘ It was Barbusse’s turn to be surprised.
‘Yes, that’s what it looks like from the air. All it needs are four huge brass handles.’
‘Well, I’m damned ... that bastard Moreau,’ began Barbusse.
‘So why are you building a big ark? ‘ interrupted Morry.
‘Because we have to . . . well, because God said we should. Because it’s better than drowning when the water comes.’
Morry stared at him. ‘You’ve flipped your lid,’ he said. ‘You should be taken away in a strait-jacket. And when is the water coming? ‘
‘July the fourteenth... it’s a Saturday,’ said Barbusse.
Morry raised his eyebrows in mock exasperation. ‘Everything happens on the Sabbath,’ he said. ‘It’s all very enlightening: the people of the great Admiral’s village building an ark because they think that the great floods are coming two days before the national elections. That’s a sign of confidence in the Admiral if ever I saw one! This is a hell of a lot better than the story I was going to write about the French Air Force.’ Barbusse raised a thick forefinger in front of Morry’s face. ‘Ahhhhh. But that’s the whole point of your being kept down here. You won’t be writing anything. It’s being kept a guarded secret. And that’s why we’re prepared to fight to keep people out . . .’ his voice became menacing, . . . or keep trespassers inside, locked up.’
‘I demand to see a Rabbi,’ said Morry. ‘It’s my right. You are a Roman Catholic? You would want to see a priest. So do I, a Jewish one. And . . . furthermore . . . you can take that ham sandwich away. It’s a religious insult, and I would remind you that I’m a minority - and minorities are protected. I insist on a bowl of lokson soup.’
‘You’re unlucky,’ grinned Barbusse. ‘There are no Rabbis here, and no lo-what’s-its-names. And as far as we’re concerned you’re one of a majority. So it’s ham or nothing. Please yourself.’ He turned again towards the door.
‘Don’t go . . .’ Morry slid off the rack and grabbed Barbusse by the arm. ‘Let me out of here, I won’t get in the way. I’ll. . . er . . . do anything. Help with the building of the ark.’
‘Sorry,’ said Barbusse. He pushed Morry gently, and closed the door. The bolt slid home again. Barbusse’s face appeared at the bars. ‘I’ll send someone down with some cheese in an hour or two. Is cheese good for Jews?’
The morning breeze was chill. Barbusse stamped along the battlement swinging his arms across his body and slapping his hands on his thighs to bring back some warmth. His beret was pulled down over his forehead and a piece of camouflage netting, serving as a scarf, was wrapped round the lower part of his face. ‘To drink a little is agreeable,’ he sang. ‘To drink a little is a wonderful thing, providing you don’t end up under the table.’ His breath showed as a light mist puffing through the netting over his mouth.
‘It’s morning again, Barbusse,’ grunted Constable Chaminade, from his niche in the outer wall.
‘You’re wasted in the uniformed branch. With such a brilliant sense of deduction, you should have been a detective,’ said Barbusse, squinting in the direction of the bundle of woollen sweaters that had addressed him.
‘It’s Thursday, so I’m on duty again in half an hour,’ continued Chaminade. ‘Do you realize, you have made me work right through my off duty hours.’
‘On duty - off duty,’ echoed Barbusse. ‘You’ve never been on duty. I mean really on duty. I can’t remember the last time that we had a crime here.’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes ... I do remember. You arrested Madame d’Arle on a drunk and disorderly charge seven years ago last Christmas. And that was a mistake. She’s been a confirmed non-drinker since the night she lost her virginity. And that must have been as long ago as the turn of the century.’
The heap of sweaters rose to its feet and disgorged Chaminade. He stood, an angry figure, the old sweaters in a pile round his boots. ‘There is no crime, Monsieur Barbusse, because I am here. And because I am conscientious ... do my patrols regularly - write my reports. Therefore, your intended slander is a compliment.’
‘Huh,’ snorted Barbusse, slapping his hands against his thighs again. ‘Well, before you go off duty here, to be on duty somewhere else, go down to the dungeon and bring the prisoner up for some exercise.’
Chaminade turned away, muttering. He kicked his sweaters into the corner he had dozed in, and made his way towards the parapet steps.
‘Hey ... hey ... Toto ...’ shouted a voice.
Barbusse turned. High on the watchtower over the main gate, the figure of Alphonse Joliot waved vigorously. Barbusse waved back.
‘Hey . . .’ shouted Joliot, once again, his voice, made reedy by the breeze. ‘Look!’ He pointed into the distance. ‘Something ... up ... the ... road.’
Barbusse grabbed his binoculars, rested his elbows on the battlement wall, and peered in the direction of Joliot’s pointing arm. At first he could see nothing. Then, something large and solid appeared on the road, lurching over the distant horizon. Barbusse watched for only another second, then he swung himself round and leant far over the inner wall. Below, beside the ark, carrying a crate of tinned beans, was Laplace.
‘Henri,’ shrieked Barbusse.
Henri Laplace looked up, startled.
‘Henri . . . hurry, for God’s sake. Go and tell the Colonel. Tanks... a hell of a lot of tanks are coming. It looks as though our war is about to start.’
Morry Cohen was already awake when Constable Chaminade burst into the dungeon. He had been lying on the torture rack, looking at the high-vaulted ceiling, wondering how many other men had examined its architecture from the same unhealthy viewpoint.
‘Get up, get up, prisoner,’ shouted Chaminade, breathlessly. ‘The military’s coming . . . tanks ... we are going to have a war.’
‘Thanks for telling me,’ replied Morry. ‘But I’d rather stay on the rack. It sounds safer.’
‘Up, up, it’s exercise time,’ ordered Chaminade. ‘If you refuse, then I will have to arrest you and lock you up for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty.’
Morry couldn’t follow the logic of the constable’s argument, but he swung himself on to his feet.
‘Quickly . . . outside, outside,’ insisted Chaminade. ‘You have to exercise. It’s in the regulations.’
Morry held the door open for the constable, and followed him up the twisting stone steps to the battlements.
‘Here . . . take this,’ a voice bellowed in Morry’s ear as he stepped out into the open air. A long pole was thrust into his hands. He looked at it. It was a pike. Halfway down the haft, which was at least five metres long, hung an ancient tapestry battle banner. Morry blinked and wondered what technique a medieval defender would recommend for stopping an armoured vehicle. He flung down the pike, and looked astounded at the incredible scene before him.
&
nbsp; ‘One, two, three, heave . . shouted the man who the previous day had arrested him. Five villagers swung their body weight on to a large capstan that was bending the long worm- eaten arm of a giant catapult. In a cradle at the end, was a hundred-kilo lump of rock.
The castellated wall of the battlement itself, looking out into the valley, seemed to be alive with a regiment of insane villagers waving pickaxes, crossbows, rusty swords, scythes, and pikes. A young blonde girl, giggling, was carrying a bucket of offal towards an arrow slit. Morry stepped aside hurriedly as the bucket slopped some of its contents on to the pavement.
‘Ah . . .’ called Barbusse, seeing Morry for the first time. ‘Don’t just stand there being a newspaperman. If you want a good story, grab yourself a crossbow.’
‘In olden days they always hanged the defenders of captured towns,’ replied Morry. ‘I’m declaring myself neutral. And I don’t--’
‘Men . . . my brave comrades . . . steel yourselves . . .’ The commanding voice of the tall, white bearded man who wore the old-fashioned full dress uniform of a colonel of the Spahis, broke into Morry’s reply. The defending villagers stopped their hurried preparations, and stood, silently. Morry could hear the medals jingling on the Colonel’s uniform as the old soldier drew himself up straight and stiff. His beard and moustache were waxed and proud, and a monocle was wedged into an eye that seemed to single out every individual man on the battlements. ‘The great hour of battle has arrived,’ he declared.
The Colonel paused. Just now, he realized, he needed something really stirring. Something to turn the hearts of mice into bloodthirsty dragons. He tried to remember some battle speech that a former warrior had successfully used. ‘Napoleon . . .’ he shouted. ‘On the eve of the Battle of Waterloo. He said . . .’ The Colonel paused again. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’ The Colonel puffed out his chest, took a deep breath. His eyes glazed slightly. ‘Or close the wall up with the English dead . . .’He raised an arm and pointed upwards. ‘When the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard favoured rage; then lend the eye a terrible aspect... set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide. On, on, you noblest French . . . and teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in France show us here . . . that you are worth your breeding. The game’s afoot, follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry God for Father Benoir, for St Pierre-des-Monts, and Joan of Arc.’ He paused for a second. His army watched him.
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