The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  The first lord nodded, though uncertainly.

  “I will say that my dearest wish is to avert involvement of the police, but time is short. I cannot long restrain forces now set in motion. I will say that I have in my hands a full, detailed, comprehensive report on the true purpose of his residence, the people he has imprisoned in it—yes, I will use that very term, if it is necessary to get his cooperation. And my only wish is that it be unnecessary for this report to become public.”

  “Very good, Prime Minister. But he must open his compound to us this very evening—a limited number of us, but he must. We must ensure the safety of the prisoners.”

  The prime minister nodded, but he turned his massive head away and it was reflected in the train’s darkening window. “That is a vexed question and to this moment I have not hit upon a course of action.”

  He lifted his arm, staring at his watch. “Now 7:00 pm. Your man, Landau, said that to act this evening was vital, that the duke and his guests would be entertained and afterward the young men and women abused. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, yes, Prime Minister, and I prayed we would arrive still earlier to be certain to forestall additional abuse. What David tells me is revolting in the extreme.”

  The great dark eyes flashed. “We will make haste, but remember, Mr. Prime Minister, this depravity of the part of duke and his guests is not new. Indeed, it has had years to rot and stink to Heaven.”

  “Assuredly.” The first lord checked his own watch, unnecessarily, and leaned forward in his seat, as though to lend momentum to the train.

  *

  It was an 18-foot jolly boat that scraped the sand. Instantly, six oars lifted from the water and were shipped. A giant of a man in the bow had vaulted ashore with a line and now walked backward, leaning against it, and the boat slid over the sand, even with rest of the men still in it. But they, too, were jumping out over both gunwales and the boat slid faster. “Enough,” called one of the men in a whisper, and the giant bent, took a turn of the line around the trunk of a tree, and tied it in an instant. The other seven men already had taken what they needed from the boat and were shaping up to move into the woods.

  The one who had issued the order pointed down the shore. He said, speaking quietly, “The wall is some 25 feet that way; we are outside, but will follow it up.” He looked down at his watch; it seemed to jolt him ahead. He said, “We have just over an hour before the prime minister and the others are expected. We must do it and be back here, by then. I pray God we are in time.”

  They were moving rapidly through the woods. The barrels of the rifles that were strapped to their backs stuck above their shoulders, except that a short bow appeared to be held sideways above one man’s back. The rifles were Martini-Henrys, the latest available; they fired 10 rounds a minute and were effective at 600 yards for a decent marksmen. The other man carried a powerful crossbow, not the equal of the rifles in firepower but it killed silently.

  “Blake,” said the lead man in a whisper, “We cannot be sure in which building Hannah will be, but I can find the duke’s quarters, thanks to MacLeod. Without him, we would have no orientation.”

  The man beside him asked grimly, “And the duke has requested my daughter because she is a virgin?”

  “Yes.”

  “When we find him, I will kill him.”

  “Blake, I could well fight you for that privilege, but we are here to rescue Hannah and nothing must endanger that. Nothing. Are we agreed?”

  “Aye.”

  When David had gone to Hannah’s father, Edward Blake, straight from his meeting with the prime minister and first lord, he had said, “I have been there. I have seen her.”

  “And she is…?

  “As well as can be expected, but now in terrible danger. And I do not think that the forces of law will move expeditiously enough to save her. I have urged them…”

  “Then we must go.”

  “It may well be, and the last moment to act is tomorrow night. We need men, weapons.”

  The six men following them, silent, slightly bent forward, were sailors and mates of Edward Blake, all veterans of battles aboard ship and in sallies on land. The rifles were the British Navy’s newest and best. All eight men carried in their waistbands .450 Belgian RIC Webley revolvers, double-action, newly introduced.

  Five of the men behind them were of average height and build, shoulders and arms broad and muscular, their gait a sailor’s. But the man in the rear, the giant, was seven feet tall and unbelievably broad in the shoulders. His huge head was totally bald; without the dark cap they all wore, it would be glinting in the moonlight that fell through the branches. He had a flowing mustache, but most striking was the sheer ferocity of the face, as he walked, his chin stuck out, his beaked nose pointing ahead. His eyes were frightening even to David. They called him “the walrus” for his mustache and his size.

  David halted, lifting his arm, and the others stopped behind him. They were still in the deep shadows of the woods, but just ahead was its edge. David stepped back, bent his head, and they clustered around. He whispered, “The building with the duke’s quarters is not far ahead, on the other side of the wall. Just inside its entrance is a guard station; MacLeod thinks about five men. But farther inside there will be others, including outside the duke’s chambers. Many doors can be locked, if necessary, and would delay us, perhaps fatality. Dr. MacLeod says at least two were unlocked for him at he proceeded inward when called to examine the duke. We must take the first guards without raising the alarm; a shot could be fatal to surprise.”

  He pointed to the side. “There are some 50 feet of cleared space between the last trees and the wall. Beyond the trees, we will be in moonlight and if we are unlucky the sentry on the wall could glance down and give the alarm. Our plan would be undone. Yet, we must go over the wall, there.”

  Edward Blake looked at the man with crossbow. “Wilson, can you take a man atop the wall, probably walking, while still in the cover of the woods?”

  “I must see.”

  “Let’s go,” said David, turning right. As they neared the edge of the woods, they saw bright white moonlight on the strip between the woods and wall. They stood well back in the shadows. No one would speak now, for any reason. They looked up at the wall, watching.

  In less than a minute, the head and torso of a man appeared atop the wall; he was walking slowly; the barrel of a rifle showed above his shoulder. They could see the silhouette of his face clearly, black against a lighter sky. As though all understanding the next question, they turned to look up and down the wall. How far away was the next sentry? After a few minutes, they had seen none. If they were lucky, and if the duke had grow careless, there might be only one on this side. From the length of time the man they had seen had been out of sight, now, that might be true. He had had to walk far down the wall.

  David caught the crossbowman’s eye and pointing at the top of the wall, then nodded. The man nodded, took the crossbow from his back and inserted a quarrel; then, he stooped and fell back. He briefly lay on his back, drawing back the bowstring with both hands while holding the bow with both feet. It was the old way of doing it, but it required no extra equipment and it was silent—no cranking.

  The man stood up. The others stepped back, but David pointed to another man who carried a coil of rope over his shoulder from which dangled a grappling hook. David pointed to the wall, jabbed his finger at his neck in imitation of the crossbow quarrel striking, and then pointed to the rope. The man nodded; this man could cross the clearing, throw the grappling iron, and be up the wall in less than a minute—total. He then would check the inside for other sentries; if there was none, he would slide down the other side of the wall and open the small, thick door they could see in the wall.

  Now everyone tensed. The silhouette of the guard had come back into view, moving slowly. Sometimes the head turned, as though looking around, but it was perfunctory. The duke’s domain had not been challenged—ever. All the risks seemed to
be from within—of escape.

  The silhouette loomed. The crossbow came up, steadied for what seemed agonizingly long, as they held their breath, then the string twanged. The silhouette halted, as though suddenly resting, then slowly tilted toward them and fell from the wall. Before the body hit the ground, the man with the rope was running. He stopped for an instant over the man, then turned and gave a thumbs up. Then, he leaned back, his arm swinging behind him, and flung the grappling hook. They heard a clunk on the top of the wall, not loud, and then a soft scraping. Again the tension. Then, the man on the ground was leaning back on the rope, heaving his weight against it. It held. He jumped, seizing it higher up, and swung forward till his feet pressed the wall. Then, he seemed to run up it. Just a few seconds later, he disappeared atop the wall. The rope was left dangling. If something went wrong, they might need it.

  They were pressed against the wall on either side of the door when it swung open. David stepped forward, bent toward the man who had opened it. “Tell me.”

  “The guardhouse door is closed, but they are in there. Five. Some noise from open windows above, laughing, talking, shouting. Perhaps when the performance is done, all guests stay here—for security?”

  David shrugged. “No one in sight on the grounds?” The man shook his head. David gestured behind him and they filed in, but stayed close to the wall; on this side; the wall cast a shadow. They had had little time to plan, none to rehearse, none to consider what to do when things went badly. It had been easy, so far; too much luck.

  They crowded close and David whispered, “Kill only when we have to. We take this first group, cuff them, and Wilson stays to guard, sound the alarm if reinforcements come. Fire a shot; by then, it won’t matter.”

  He turned, bent low, and ran along the wall in the shadow to the side of the guardhouse. The others followed. Even from here, he could see in the window. Men at a table.

  He bent low, ran beneath the window, and knelt at the door. He reached up and took the knob. It turned silently. He waved them ahead. When they were arrayed at the door, guns leveled, he flung it open, leaping in with his Webley drawn. He dodged aside and the others entered. The men at the table leaped up, protesting, glancing around wildly. “Damn!” one gasped.

  The eight guns leveled on them. The guards raised their hands; but one, it seemed, felt the call of duty. His hand flashed down to his waistband. For one split second, as the man raised his revolver, David thought: we lose. We fire or he fires. But then the silver handle of a knife was sticking from the man’s shoulder. He cried out and the gun clattered to the floor. Sailors loved to throw their knives.

  David slid a knapsack off his back and tossed it down. Wilson seized it and edged around behind the men. He started removing handcuffs from the knapsack—plenty of those available to David at the Yard. “My arm!” protested the wounded man. “Bandage it!” snapped Wilson to the guard beside the wounded man, “but be quick!” Then, three rifles pointed at one man and he quickly put his hands behind him. Wilson cuffed him and moved on; all stood cuffed in less than three minutes. Wilson took a rifle in one hand, a Webley in the other, and hissed, “Sit! As you were!” The men sat around the table. Wilson positioned himself in a chair opposite them and well back from the table, guns leveled.

  David turned, locked the outside door, and, after a pause, also jammed a tilted chair under its handle. If guards from the outside came, they might have a key. The chair would give Wilson a few extra seconds.

  David waved and Blake surged forward with the others, out of guardroom, along a corridor. David whispered, “First staircase. Third level. Second door on the left is the duke’s chamber.” Thank God for MacLeod; he wondered where the doctor was. Still safe? Locked as always in his small quarters? There would be no time to rescue him. That would have to depend on the prime minister and the first lord. The same with the safety of the other prisoners. He wished it weren’t so, but they had come for Hannah.

  Almost at the third level, moving in total silence up the stairs, David motioned the others to wait. At the top of the stairs, he knelt and peered around the corner. Best to be low, below eye level.

  And then their luck ran out. There were three guards, and one happened to be looking right at the doorway to the stairs. He shouted, “Hey! Stop there! Stop!” and David heard him run forward. He leaped down the stairs, taking two giant steps to the next landing. “Stop!” The man fired just as David leaped sideways and onto the next flight. The man fired again, but with no target, this time.

  David heard the man shout, “Jamison! Get the duke out of there. Back to the library. Bolt the door! Stay with him!” Then he yelled, “Thompson! With me!”

  As David turned down the next flight, the others were surging up. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just feints to keep them there!” And he dashed past them.

  On the floor above, the guard, Jamison, rapped on the duke’s door. Surely the man was in a panic? The shots…

  But from within came an angry roar. “No disturbance! Not now!”

  An image of the duke flashed through Jamison’s mind; the duke liked to take a woman still hanging. To seize her legs and lift them, spreading, and hold her over his sex. Then, placing himself, he would thrust, hard, jouncing her in her bonds, each thrust a brutal jerk of his hips, lifting the slender body, jolting it. The thought was involuntary, because Jamison had recognized that furious roar of the duke; but already he raised his hand again and hammered hard on the door.

  “Damn, man!” came from inside.

  The guard heard shots on the stairs, single, spaced shots, as of fire exchanged by wary opponents. He raised the butt of his gun and thudded it against the door.

  It whipped open. The duke stood, holding up his trousers, face flushed red, eyes furious in the big, bearded face. The guard shouted, “We are attacked by armed men—on the stairs, your Grace! Just Thompson and O’Brien to hold them!”

  The guard plunged past the duke into the room, yelling, “This way! Come, countess!” For just a moment, he glanced around. The slender, naked figure hung limply, legs swinging apart, head on chest. Her body seemed aflame with criss-crossed whip marks from high on her breasts down her body to her knees. Her chest kept heaving as she sobbed. Another girl, also naked, lay on the floor, glinting blood oozing from many stripes across her back, buttocks, legs.

  Now, the guard had thrown open a door across the room, and stood holding it, shouting, “Now!” and waving his arm to hurry them. “Damn!” said the duke, fastening his trousers, but he came. The countess, completely naked, had been quicker. She was already pushing through the door past the guard. When they were through, the guard looked back. He had left the other door open. He took two steps toward it, but heard shots—now in the corridor. He stepped back, slammed the door, and bolted it.

  David had raced down to the second level. He ran along it, looking for the other staircase he knew was there. Yet again, he blessed the observant MacLeod. Yes, just ahead!. He raced up the stairs and paused, cautiously looking around the corner. The corridor was empty, but, just as he leaped in, a guard appeared out of the other stairwell, 20 yards away.

  Both men raised their guns, but David knelt, even as he fired, and a bullet whistled over his head. The Martini-Henry spoke three times, rapidly, and the guard pitched forward. David hesitated to see if the other would appear. He didn’t. David yelled, “I’m here, on the third level! All clear, here!”

  He charged forward, rifle leveled, ready to slam his back against the wall and fire if the guard appeared. He almost reached the doorway to the stairwell, watching it intently, when he turned his head for a moment.

  He looked directly into the duke’s quarters. It was a vast, blood-red, enclosing chamber of luxury, but all he saw was the pale, slender body dangling motionless from the ceiling—the arms, the slim torso, the long legs all stretched as though to reach the floor. He made an animal sound—a cry, a sob, a snarl of rage. He half-turned, as though to enter, but then leaped forward to the s
tairwell doorway and looked down. The single guard on the stairs whirled, turning his gun. David shot him. He did it as though casually, without concern. The man pitched down the stairs.

  David yelled, “I found her! Here!” and heard the rush of feet on the stairs. He whirled and ran back, leaping through the door, across the room, and flung his arms around Hannah, lifting her. His voice was a sob, “Hannah! Hannah!” Was he too late?

  Clutching her around the waist with one arm, he lifted her chin. She opened her eyes slowly, took a breath. For a moment, she looked at him as though confused. Then she asked, tentatively, “David?”

  “Yes!” he said, “Yes!” His voice was breaking.

  “How?” she asked, as though dazed. “Did you die?”

  “No, no,” he was sobbing now, hugging her. “No, I just came too late. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

  “Good God in dear, dear Heaven…” The words came slowly, one at a time, disbelieving. David turned. Edward Blake had started across the room, then stopped as though dealt a mighty slap. The others crowded behind him; at first they stared, then eyes began to turn away.

  David’s glance fell on Miranda, and he cried out, “See to her!” In a moment, two men were kneeling beside her. He called, a sob still in his voice, “Give me a knife!”

  Blake came forward, drawing his knife. For one instant, he looked at Hannah’s naked body, the fiery pattern of whip marks, and then he reached up and slashed, once, twice, and Hannah’s arms fell and David took her weight for a moment until he had scooped up her knees, hugging her to him, and walked toward the bed. With one vicious sweep, Blake, ahead of him, had thrown off the gown, the coat.

  David gently put her down. Blake leaned over her, his face close to hers, but her eyes were closed. He said softly, “Hannah, it’s daddy. Can you hear me?” The eyes came open, looked at him, as though struggling to focus, and she smiled ever so slightly, nodding her head. Her eyes closed.