‘And what will we do? ‘ asked Father Benoir.
‘We will wait,’ said the Colonel. ‘I expected something like this at the time of the flood. Perhaps when the waters began to rise. I thought then that we would have people like this around us.’
‘God is very wise,’ said Barbusse. ‘At first I wondered why we were chosen. Things like this make it all obvious. Almost any other town would have already been overwhelmed. As it is, we’re safe. The gorge protects us.’
‘For the time being,’ warned Colonel Lorraine. ‘Sooner or later, we may have to fight.’
‘May the Lord give us strength then,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Amen,’ mumbled Colonel Lorraine and Barbusse, together.
Charles Dordogne, Grand Admiral and President of the Republic of France, had cut his nose while shaving. The plaster over the cut was visible to him and seemed to drag his eyes inwards, giving him a headache. This and the news of the further troubles of the Clermont-Ferrand district, did nothing to improve his temper. His aides watched as the torn shreds of the morning newspapers fluttered outside his office window in the breeze.
‘Fools, idiots, cretins.’ He banged his fist on the green leather top of his desk. ‘This situation should have been anticipated. I would have anticipated it, had I not believed that my ministers might, for once, carry out their jobs. God Almighty!’ He thumped his forehead with his fist. ‘Where would France be without me? Only a few days to the election . . . and one of those days Bastille Day!’
‘You could postpone it,’ suggested a junior minister.
‘Postpone? You must be mad to suggest the postponement of an election.’
‘Er, Bastille Day, Grand Admiral. Put it back, this year.’ ‘God in heaven,’ groaned the President. ‘Postpone Bastille Day. That would cost me a million votes. You, Roget, what arrangements have you made to help Clermont?’
Roget stammered. ’I ... I sent in the Red Cross. And the General here has moved in the army kitchens from three of his regiments. We are trying to get more medical help to the area, but movement on the roads is impossible. We have been discussing the likelihood of parachuting in aid.’
‘That is not the only problem, Grand Admiral,’ said the Minister of Transport. ‘At the moment, every public service into France is overloaded. The problem extends to all our ports and air terminals. There are twelve thousand foreign visitors stranded at Orly at this moment. The mainline railway stations are choked. There are queues of boats waiting outside Calais, Dieppe and Le Havre. And the land frontiers with Italy, Spain and the East just can’t cope with the traffic. The Customs have threatened strike action unless they’re relieved.’
‘I’m afraid we’re heading for a food crisis, too, mon President, unless we can guarantee free movement of supplies.’ The Minister of Food fidgeted. ‘Naturally, we cater for an annual influx of tourists, but on this scale? Never! Even food stocks outside the affected area are getting low, and towns on the routes to Clermont-Ferrand report that commodities such as bread, potatoes, corn, meat, eggs, cheese, etcetera, are nearing the minimal safe levels. We must get in reserve supplies, immediately, otherwise we’ll have a national food shortage before the week is out.’
‘Might I suggest something, Grand Admiral?’ asked the Minister of Home Affairs.
‘Yes.’
‘The fault ... I don’t blame you, Grand Admiral . . . lies entirely in your home village.’
‘Good God, man. Don’t you think I know that?’ snarled the President. His nose was beginning to throb. ‘It lies not only in my village, but in the mind of the village priest. My nephew, to be precise.’
‘Exactly, and our national difficulties will continue until the cause is removed,’ said the Minister of Home Affairs. ‘If you’ll forgive me, the priest of St Pierre-des-Monts is the virus which infects the whole region.’
‘What do you suggest I do - amputate the entire limb? Cordon a million hectares of France with a military force - to martyr young Benoir?’
‘No,’ said the Minister of Home Affairs. ‘Grand Admiral, I am as interested in your election success as you are yourself. I suggest that this problem is one which you personally should keep well out of. By all means, we must help the area, and be seen to help. In every way possible we must assist. Send food, supplies, every available medical man - even students. Transport, everything. But we ... ourselves...’ he looked around the cabinet table at his colleagues, ‘must do nothing about the priest.’
President Dordogne raised his eyes towards the ceiling in silent prayer. ‘The virus will spread throughout the body,’ he muttered.
‘No, Grand Admiral,’ said the Minister of Home Affairs. ‘The germ will be neutralized by the Church!’
Grand Admiral Dordogne’s eyes dropped. ‘The Church? The Church ... Rome!’
‘Exactly,’ smiled the Minister of Home Affairs. ‘Why not give them the problem? Let’s tell them that, naturally, we assume they would care to handle it.’
Grand Admiral Dordogne’s scowl relaxed. ‘Damn it, man, you’re right! Of course it’s their problem. It was caused by the Church, let them end it immediately. I’ll order them to stop it. At once.’
‘I will pass on your thoughts, this minute, to the Archbishop of Paris,’ nodded the Minister of Home Affairs.
‘No.’ The President lifted the receiver of the telephone on his desk. ‘No. I’ll start at the top. Get me the Vatican.’
God stared at his monitor which carried a close-up of the interior of Admiral Dordogne’s Paris office. ‘What’s that,’ asked God, excitedly, pointing towards the screen.
Saint Peter leant forward, squinting his eyes. ‘It’s a digital clock. It tells the time. Earth time.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ grunted God. ‘Human beings ... huh ... I give them night and day, and they have to subdivide it and subdivide it until they think they’ve got more than I choose to allow.’
‘They’ve got atom time, now,’ said Saint Peter. ‘It allows them to measure things in milliseconds.’
‘They still get their three score and ten, however they care to measure it. Up to this week, that is,’ scowled God. He became silent as Admiral Dordogne appeared on the screen. Other men joined the Admiral in his office. God watched and listened in silence. When the men had finally left the Admiral’s office, God switched off the set.
‘Well, that’s it,’ grunted God. ‘That really does it as far as that man’s concerned. Setting the Church on me. That is really hitting below the belt.’
‘It’s unsporting,’ agreed Saint Peter. ‘But what power! He seems to have as much influence on earth as you yourself.’ ‘Wait until the bugger tries walking on water,’ promised God, darkly. ‘I’ll give him something to think about.’ He turned questioningly to Saint Peter. ‘Well?’
‘I guess we just sweat it out, Boss,’ said Saint Peter.
Halfway along either side of the ark, a large baulk of timber was wedged into the cobbles, helping to take the weight of the enormous vessel. The timbers were the idea of Mortimer Moreau, who, after laying the twin keels, had strained them upwards slightly to give a minutely bowed cross-section to the underside of the ark. The shape was in no way a surrender to the normal boat-building design, which Moreau distrusted. It was simply because Mortimer anticipated a certain amount of leakage between the skin planks, and, for drainage purposes, some sort of bilge was necessary along the length of the ark, where water would collect and pumps could operate.
Because it was eleven fifteen, Constable Chaminade was crossing the square on the start of the regular and routine patrol that he had done every morning for the past twenty-five years. It was the laughter of a group of village children standing around the baboon’s cage that attracted his attention.
The baboon was involved in a complicated mime. To the enjoyment of the village children, it was imitating the trio of Chinese monkeys - see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. It sat in its cage, its eyes screwed tight, its shoulders hunched up on either side of its head, cove
ring its ears, and a hand clasped over both noisy ends of its body.
‘Leave it alone,’ commanded Constable Chaminade. ‘Be off, all of you. You should be in the schoolroom.’ He waved his arms at the children. They giggled and ran off through the piles of stores heaped around the ark. Constable Chaminade bent closer to the cage and stared at the baboon. He made clicking noises with his tongue. The animal took no notice of him, remaining in its hunched position. ‘Come along, come along,’ cajoled Constable Chaminade. He made more encouraging noises. The baboon opened one of its eyes, peeped at him, then screwed its face up again.
‘It’s sick,’ said Constable Chaminade. He reached forward and unfastened the bolt on the cage door. The baboon set a new record in rapid acceleration, reaching a terminal speed of some thirty miles-an-hour in the three feet that separated it from Constable Chaminade. It hit him neatly between chest and stomach like a furry battering ram. Constable Chaminade was catapulted backwards at a velocity only fractionally less than that of the baboon’s charge to freedom. He hit the ark’s port-side timber support with his shoulder, dislodging it from the rut between the cobbles to a fresh anchorage, where it jammed. The vessel’s ninety-ton hull shuddered, balanced for a second on its curved underside, then tilted to the new angle set by the dislodged support. The keel sat itself on Constable Chaminade’s feet.
It was a moment or two before the Constable recovered. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then tried to stand. His feet were jammed hard beneath the ark. He wriggled his legs. The ark refused to let go of him.
He felt someone take hold of his collar and breathed a relieved sigh. ‘You’ll have to pull,’ he said, blinking his eyes to try to get them to focus again. ‘I appear to be in a slight predicament.’ A hand took hold of his hair and ruffled it. ‘Steady there,’ wheezed the Constable. A large and hairy face nestled against his neck. ‘Stop fooling about, Barbusse,’ ordered Chaminade, crossly. Two even hairier arms threw themselves around him, fondly. Thick, wet lips kissed at his cheeks. He looked round into the eyes of the affectionate baboon - and fainted.
He recovered consciousness to see a face leering down at him. He half-screamed before he realized that it was not the baboon again, but the cross-eyed Joliot. The farmer was trying to lift him, while standing over him with a leg on either side.
Constable Chaminade moaned.
‘He won’t come out that way,’ said Henri Laplace’s voice. ‘You’re breaking his legs at the knees.’
‘You are, you are!’ shouted Constable Chaminade in panicky agreement. He was suddenly very much awake.
‘If it means breaking his legs to get him out, then I think I should break them,’ said Joliot.
‘Please ...’ begged Constable Chaminade.
Barbusse’s voice spoke from somewhere behind him. ‘If you can’t get him out any other way, why not just cut off his feet? Yves, go and get your big cleaver.’
‘Oh ... oooh . . . ’ groaned Chaminade.
‘Meanwhile, let’s see what we can do. Sit up, oaf, and try to help yourself,’ ordered Barbusse. He heaved at Chaminade’s narrow shoulders.
Chaminade moaned loudly and pushed himself more upright, resting on his elbows.
‘Now we’ll all pull,’ said Joliot. Chaminade felt himself grabbed by a dozen hands. ‘One, two, three ... heave.’
Constable Chaminade’s joints stretched. ‘Stop . . . stop . . . stop ...’ he shouted. The men dropped him.
‘I told you,’ said Barbusse, brightly. ‘It has to be the cleaver, Yves. Unless you’d rather do it with one of the wood saws.’ Constable Chaminade shuddered. ‘Not the saw... for God’s sake, there must be some other way.’
‘It has to be your legs, friend Chaminade,’ said Laplace. ‘We have no choice. Either that, or you stay where you are until the ark is lifted by the water.’
‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Chaminade. ‘That’s it exactly! Leave me here until the ark floats, then I’ll wriggle out and come aboard.’
‘Brilliant,’ remarked Barbusse. He squatted down next to the constable. ‘You have forgotten one thing, mon ami. By the time the ark is in enough water to float, you’ll be six feet under the surface. Do you reckon you could hold your breath that long? ‘
‘The cleaver,’ said d’Arle, sadly, as he arrived back on the scene. ‘Look, my old friend, I have no wish to cut off your feet. I won’t enjoy doing it, but at least you’ll be able to stay alive.’ ‘And we can get Moreau to make you a pair of wooden feet,’ suggested Laplace, helpfully. ‘Wooden feet are better than a wooden box. He may even be able to carve you a fine set of toes … ‘
Constable Chaminade moaned loudly, yet again.
‘He isn’t able to make a clear decision,’ said Barbusse. ‘We have to do it for him. All those in favour of cutting off Constable Chaminade’s feet, say aye.’
There was a chorus of agreement.
‘It’s settled, then. The feet come off!’ He leant his head closer to Chaminade. ‘Don’t worry, my good friend, it will be quick. First I’ll give you a punch on your jaw - as an anaesthetic, then d’Arle will swing his cleaver. Would you like to bite on this piece of garlic sausage? It’ll help to dull the pain.’
‘No, no,’ sobbed Chaminade, large tears running down his cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ apologized d’Arle. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t use my cleaver on old Chaminade. Someone else do it.’
‘Don’t desert him now - in his hour of need,’ encouraged Barbusse. ‘It’s your cleaver, and you’re an expert with it. I’ve seen you go right through a beef carcass in one swing.’
‘Oh... oh...’ Chaminade wagged his head from side to side.
‘Don’t all look at me,’ said Laplace. ‘I’m a baker, and a squeamish one at that. I won’t even enjoy watching.’
‘Who’ll volunteer? ‘ asked Barbusse. ‘I can’t cut his feet off myself as my strength will be needed to hold him down.’ Morry Cohen pushed Barbusse aside and looked down at the prone figure of the constable. ‘Give me a knife, someone,’ he said, ‘that’s all I need.’
‘My God, you’re cool,’ said Barbusse. ‘I suppose that comes from having been a medical student.’ He felt in his pocket and produced the knife he used for ripping lead seals from bottles. Chaminade struggled wildly.
‘You’ll have to hold him quite still,’ said Morry. Barbusse nodded and put his arms round the Constable, pinioning him firmly. Morry opened the blade of the knife, and ran his thumb along the edge. He grunted, and the men became hushed. Constable Chaminade moaned again.
‘Have courage, mon brave, ‘ whispered Barbusse into his ear.
Morry crouched down over the constable’s legs. The watching men saw him make a couple of swift strokes with the thin blade of the knife. Chaminade fainted.
‘All right,’ said Morry. ‘You can pull him clear now.’ Barbusse bit his lip, and pulled. Constable Chaminade was dragged backwards, away from the ark. But his two large boots remained trapped in place - their laces slashed.
Twelve
The single mast of the ark reached even higher than the tower of the church. It tapered towards the sky like a finger of scrubbed pine. Twenty metres above the deck of the vessel, there was a cross-piece like the yardarm of a square-rigged sailing ship. At the point where the yardarm was pivoted to the mast rested Gauloise Lautrec, holding a tin of varnish in one hand, and grasping the mast with the other, and, at the same time, feeling a tingling sensation in his groin as his feet dangled below him.
He was concentrating on a problem. He sat in a loop of rope that ran through a pulley at the top of the mast. He wanted another cigarette, but the pack was in the rear pocket of his overalls, trapped by the rope. To reach it meant releasing his steadying hold on the mast, and holding the tin of varnish and the brush in one hand, while he freed the imprisoned cigarettes. It seemed likely to Gauloise that any sudden movement would result in his dangling upsidedown in the rope loop, then making a headlong dive to the deck below. On the other hand, it was now sever
al seconds since he had spat out the previous wet stub, and already he felt the need for the comfort of nicotine.
He wriggled himself nearer, until he was able to wrap one of his legs round the mast, then he slowly released his hand hold and began transferring the varnish tin and brush to the other hand.
There was a lot of noise below on the ark. Barbusse, kneeling on the deck, was wielding a hammer and pounding caulking string into the deck seams with resounding and rhythmic blows. Nearby, Grouflier and Joliot were preparing an open pen for the goats and the two donkeys, the sound of their electrically-operated power-saws cutting harsh rents through the hubbub made by the other workers on the ark. As usual, the caverns beneath the village picked up the noise, magnified, twisted and jumbled it, and then returned it to the square as a roar, like an everlasting convoy of diesel trucks.
Wind ruffled Gauloise Lautrec’s hair, a strong breeze that seemed to spring from no particular direction. He shivered. The wind grew stronger. A movement caught his eye. He turned his head. A few feet away, staring straight at him from his own height, was a Cardinal, pale and rotund; complete with scarlet skullcap and robes. The robes fluttered, and below them dangled a pair of buttoned boots. The Cardinal crossed himself. Gauloise Lautrec dropped his tin of varnish. It fell the twenty metres to the deck, exploded inches in front of Barbusse’s face, and completely covered him with the sticky substance.
Gauloise Lautrec grabbed the mast. The wind increased and nearly tore him from his perch. He twisted his neck. Above him a hideous shape hovered from thrashing blades. Faceless heads in helmets poked from an opening in the helicopter’s side. Tightening his hold on the mast, Gauloise looked for the Cardinal again. By now he was almost on the deck of the ark, swinging gently on the end of a wire rope, like the pendulum of a wall clock. Grouflier and Joliot, now joined by other workers on the ark, and all surrounded by a whirlpool of sawdust and woodshavings, chased to and fro, trying to catch him.
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