The river saved them, offering deep banks and a bridge that spanned the hurrying waters. It was a narrow, humpbacked structure with low sandstone walls; a place where three determined men might stand a chance against many. Mitchell pointed urgently, and Diccon nodded. “Right. It’s there or a spot of their choosing, God forbid!”
They galloped hard until they reached the bridge, then drew up sharply. The hacks reared and plunged. Mitchell dismounted in a smooth leap. Diccon staggered but, recovering his balance, slapped his hat under the noses of their scared horses so that the animals panicked and ran back the way they had come.
The onrush of the men following was halted, confusion reigning as the riderless hacks careened in amongst them. Mitchell raced up the bridge a short way, drew his pistol and dropped to one knee in the deeper shadow of the wall. Taking the opposite side, Diccon muttered, “Damn! There are more than I’d thought! Make your shot count, friend. With luck we’ll get a couple of the bastards! Then it will be fists—or knives.”
Mitchell said belatedly, “Tonio? Where in the devil—”
There was no time for more. In a thundering charge, the assassins came at them. Mitchell took careful aim. His ears rang to the roar of Diccon’s pistol, followed by a faint cry. A brilliant glare dazzled him as another shot rang out. He held his own fire until five dark figures were almost upon them. Even as he pulled the trigger someone else fired. Mitchell heard an odd little grunt from Diccon. Then they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat and it was too close for any more shots, even if any of their assailants still had loaded pistols.
The big man confronting Mitchell sent steel flashing at his throat. He gripped the barrel of his pistol and flailed out with it, sending the dagger spinning, but the attacker swung up his other fist and Mitchell was staggered by a blow he was only partially able to deflect. He struck out again with his impromptu club, felt it crunch home, and the big man disappeared. The bridge became an eddying maelstrom of desperate conflict; of thudding blows, hard-drawn breaths, hoarse curses, and the shift and sway of dim-seen forms battling in the elemental need to kill or be killed. Driving home a solid right to the jaw of one bully, Mitchell was barely in time to duck from a cudgel that would have brained him had it landed. He slammed his pistol butt under someone’s ribs, and a cry was torn from an unseen throat. Again, steel darted at him. He saw the gleam of it and leapt madly to the side. A dark shape rushed him, a heavy blow dazed him, but he managed to retain sufficient of his wits to kick out as someone blundered past. His boot struck hard, and a diminishing wail was followed by a splash and much noisy thrashing about. Dizzied and gasping for breath, he clutched the wall. A bubbling scream rang out behind him, and someone else went down. Peering about, wondering why no more attacks came, he realized in dazed disbelief that, so quickly, it was all over.
“Diccon…?” he panted, gingerly investigating a throbbing contusion on the side of his head.
“H-here,” wheezed Diccon.
“Signor … Mish-hell…”
Responding at once to that woeful cry, Mitchell ran down the bridge, vaulting over the sprawled forms of downed men, until he saw the little Italian crumpled in the shadow of the wall.
“Tonio! Are you badly hurt?”
“I fall from … my stupid horse,” wailed the valet. “Mama mia! My dear little … head!”
“Rest for a minute.” Some instinct warning him, Mitchell turned back.
Diccon was sagging to his knees. Even as Mitchell raced to him, he sank onto his face.
“Oh, gad!” Kneeling beside that lax form, Mitchell turned him gently. He could see the wetness of blood on the jacket and groped for his handkerchief. “Let me—” Diccon’s hand was staying him. From the direction of the Mersey he could hear horses, coming fast.
Diccon whispered, “Notebook. You … promised. Smollet. Go! Before—” The next word faded into a long sigh, and the tall man who had devoted so many thankless years to his country lay very still.
Stunned, Mitchell stared down at him, then started to search for a heartbeat, just in case. But the sharp ring of an ironshod hoof against cobblestones was very close, and he dared wait no longer. Groping frantically, he found at last the concealed pocket and retrieved a small, battered, leather-bound book. He thrust it into his boot and sprang to his feet.
Someone was behind him. The sharp edge of a dagger bit into his throat just below his right ear. “Don’t move,” a man growled, “or—” Mitchell sprang away, only to check as something rammed hard into his back. A low, jeering voice urged, “Go on, me bucko. Hop abaht again, why don’tcha? Up wi’ yer mauleys.”
Fuming, Mitchell raised both hands slightly, and stood motionless.
There were three of them; the two who had caught him and who were now very interested in Diccon’s limp form, and another rider coming up at a less rapid pace.
“By gorm! It’s that there damned cove from Bow Street!” exclaimed the larger of them, bending low. “So Slope got him!”
“Devil he did!” said Mitchell, his mind racing. “I got him.”
“Liar!” The gun was jabbed savagely into his back again. “You wasn’t with Slope! You’re a flash cull if ever I heard one.”
“And sent from London,” said Mitchell. “Slope was with me, fellow! Not I with him. Had I not told him where Diccon would go, the slowtop would have made mice feet of the whole.”
The big man, kneeling beside Diccon, looked up. “Search him,” he said. “If he don’t like it, brain him first.”
Mitchell submitted, thankful that he’d obeyed Diccon’s edict and discarded anything that might have identified him.
“Nothing,” said the man who’d rifled his pockets. “Whatever he is, he’s a downy cove.”
The big man clambered to his feet and came over to stand facing Mitchell. “Where’s his book?” he demanded aggressively. “If the Frenchy sent you, you know what I mean.”
“I know. And I’m to give it to Claude. Not to you.” He flung himself aside as the ruffian came at him. The man behind him fired in the same instant that Mitchell struck the pistol upward.
“Perce, you stupid damned dog’s arse!” howled the big man. “You near blowed my head orf!”
Perce began to stammer frantic excuses.
The last rider was walking his horse up the bridge. Mitchell, praying his desperate ruse would succeed, said coldly, “Monseigneur needs all the good men he can find.” He turned to the unhappy Perce and, cutting through his babbling, commanded, “You there, go down and see if Slope is alive. And be quick about it unless you’ve a fancy for the nubbing cheat!”
His brief acquaintanceship with a pickpocket paid dividends. That a “flash cull” knew cant seemed to reassure these men. Grumbling, but grateful for a chance to escape his companion’s justifiable wrath, Perce stuck the pistol in his belt and went off to inspect the casualties.
The third man reined up. He was a thickset individual with a deep growl of a voice. “That you, Billy?”
The big man acknowledged it was, and when the mounted man asked, “Is it done?” he gestured towards Diccon. “The runner’s done fer, Beach.”
“Is he! His royalty’ll be pleased for once! You get his book?”
Billy jerked his shaggy head to Mitchell. “He did. He was with Slope. Says he’s from London.”
Beach stared at Mitchell, and snapped his fingers. “Give it here.”
“Not likely,” said Mitchell. Beach swore and started his horse forward. “I’ve orders to hand it to Monseigneur and no one else,” said Mitchell. “Of course, if you mean to countermand my orders, Beach…”
The newcomer hesitated. “Damned Quality,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t trust one so far as I could throw him.”
“Sanguinet would be pleased to hear that,” Mitchell observed jeeringly.
“I ’spect you love the Frenchy, eh?” said Billy. “I ’spect—”
“Shut yer jaw,” contributed Beach. “He’s likely from the Admiral. Just his stamp, he is.” H
e spat contemptuously.
“Slope’s done fer,” called the small Perce.
“And so will we be if we stand here jawing much longer,” said Mitchell boldly, wondering which admiral was involved in this ugly plot.
There was a brief pause.
Billy said dubiously, “Wotcha think, Beach? This ’ere cove wouldn’t want to go if he wasn’t in on it.”
“Might,” Beach argued, glowering at Mitchell. “If he was a government spy. And Monseigneur wouldn’t like that.”
Billy chuckled. “I dunno. The Frenchy’d give him to Gerard. He’d have a jolly time getting the truth outta him.”
“What’s your name, Mr. Flash Cove?” asked Beach roughly.
“Rivers,” said Mitchell, grasping at the first thought that offered.
“All right,” Beach said. “Come on, then. It’s your funeral if you’re lying.”
“What about Fritch?” called Perce. “He’s alive, I think. And these others might—”
Beach turned his horse impatiently. “Leave ’em be. They knew the risks when they hired on. Bring up a couple of them nags. And quick. There’s a wagon coming.”
* * *
In the cold light of dawn, Mitchell stepped onto the gangplank of a sleek schooner tied up at the Birkenhead docks. Glancing inland, he wondered if Tonio had been able to get help for Diccon, or if he would send word to the gypsy, Daniel. At least in that way someone would know what had happened. His attention turned to the men who watched from the rail. A hard-faced lot. Rogues, by the look of them; soldiers of fortune with not a soupçon of patriotism, who would give him short shrift if he was unmasked, but fortunately, containing among them not one familiar countenance. If he survived this journey, his prospects were very slim. He had not met Claude Sanguinet, but he had been to the great chateau in Dinan; he had fought a duel with Guy Sanguinet—purely by accident, because he’d mistaken the silly fellow for Claude—and Claude’s lieutenant, Gerard, had good cause to remember him.
He had started out with the simple, straightforward goal of facing Claude Sanguinet across twenty yards of turf and doing his level best to rid the world of the obscenity. And now look at the complicated bumblebroth he’d got himself into. “I’m ripe for Bedlam, that’s what it is,” he thought, his heart sinking. But Diccon’s words echoed in his ears, “I may rely on you?” and he went on up the gangplank.
* * *
Despite her apparent frailty, Charity was a good sailor, and even when they encountered bad weather on the third day out, she did not become unwell. To a degree she had been treated with consideration. A woman was allotted to attend to her needs; her food was excellently cooked and served, and for the most part she was spoken to with civility. The servant, however, was a surly creature named Ella, and Charity summoned her as seldom as was possible, fearing that with too easy familiarity her true identity might soon be betrayed. A trunkful of clothes had been placed in her cabin, and she lost no time in selecting a long shawl and binding it daily about her middle. Since the garments, having been obviously purchased for Rachel’s more bountiful figure, were slightly large on herself, the resultant extra fullness of the skirts was a godsend, and all in all, she judged the effect believable.
Her initial debilitating despair had eased somewhat. At least during the hours of daylight she was able to stay relatively calm, knowing that Claude was not on board and that so long as she was on this voyage she was safe from him. Each night she knelt beside her bunk and whispered fervent prayers for rescue, but when she lay staring wide-eyed into the darkness she felt alone and small and afraid, and the demons of imagination conjured up images so horrible that her trust in a merciful providence would waver, and she would tremble and weep until Little Patches ran up the bed and tried in her small way to be of comfort.
The kitten was Charity’s one link with her happy life in Sussex. More than that, she became the means of providing an unexpected champion. Charity was permitted to take a stroll around the decks, morning and afternoon. It was evident that her captors were afraid she might try to kill herself by jumping overboard, and always a guard accompanied her on these excursions. On the first morning after their sailing, the guard was the surly Clem, who spoke not a word, but looked as though he had rather be eating ground glass than spending his time in such fashion. That afternoon she had a new companion; a sturdily built youth of rather unprepossessing appearance in that he had no eyebrows and his hair was a flaming red that did not seem to match his rather sallow skin and hard dark eyes. Charity was struck by the notion that she had seen him somewhere before and under different circumstances. He seemed a little less hostile than Clem, but when she questioned him, he shrugged and refused to answer. She was mildly surprised that when they returned he had the courtesy to help her over the step of her cabin door, but when she thanked him he only muttered a gruff, “Ain’t no need,” and stamped away.
Little Patches had been provided with a box of earth for her personal use and seemed to adapt quite easily to her new surroundings. Next morning, Charity tied a ribbon around the kitten’s neck and took her along when she was allowed to walk out. Once again, the red-haired youth was her escort. His eyes lit up when he saw the kitten, and he begged, rather gruffly, to be allowed to hold her. Charity withdrew that privilege, and the youth sulked and said, “Much I care, lady.” But she knew that he watched the kitten constantly, and when Little Patches took exception to her leash and went into a mighty acrobatic feat, trying to climb up it, the boy laughed hilariously.
On her next excursion, Charity allowed herself to be persuaded into letting him take charge of her pet. The boy was overjoyed, and Charity’s walk was considerably extended so that he could play with the kitten. By cautious questioning, Charity learned that his name was Lion, and that he haled from London, where he had been employed by a “gentry cove.” They began to exchange comments on the kitten’s antics, and soon a tenuous friendship had sprung up between them. Charity made not the slightest attempt to enlist his aid, however. The time for that was not yet. But when he showed her into her cabin late in the afternoon, she said with a wistful smile, “Thank you, Lion.”
“Here’s your tiger, ma’am,” he said, grinning as he thrust Little Patches at her.
The kitten decided his strong hand was a mortal foe, and pedalled furiously at his arm with her tiny back legs.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Charity. “Do not let her hurt you!”
He ruffled Little Patches’ head playfully. “Never you mind, Mrs. Leith. She wouldn’t hurt me, would you, fleabait?”
Charity murmured, “Lion—if … if anything happens to me, I want you to have her.”
Stark horror came into his face. Without a word, he backed away, then hurried off. But after that, she caught him watching her from time to time, a troubled expression on his face, and once, when a member of the crew uttered a crude remark as they passed, Lion turned on the man in a fury, snarling that he’d best mind his mouth. A tiny flicker of hope lightened Charity’s heavy heart.
It was from Lion that she eventually learned their destination. Two days after they sailed, her straining eyes had glimpsed another coastline, but the following morning it was out of sight. They were becalmed and progress was minimal, but even so France’s coast should have been visible and Charity murmured a puzzled, “Why ever is it taking so long? Surely we should have been off Brittany long ago?”
“Brittany?” scoffed the boy with the lofty authority of youth. “Cor, ma’am, we ain’t heading south. I’d a’ thought even a landlubber’d know we was heading nor’west.”
“Oh dear,” she said innocently, “I know so little of such things. Can you read the stars and navigate, Lion?”
He declared that he was not so bad at such stuff, and regarding him with patent admiration, she sighed, “So we are bound for Ireland. You see, I do know something of what lies to the northwest.”
He laughed and fell into her small trap. “Not no more it don’t, Mrs. Leith. We left Ireland off our ster
n yesterday, so we did.”
“Oh, Lion, never say we are to sail all the way to the Americas?”
His eyes kindling, he exclaimed, “Cor, but I’d like that I would! But we’d need a sight more food an’ stuff than we got on this old tub!” He glanced around the deck and leaned a little closer. “I dunno as I’m s’posed to tell.”
“I won’t breathe a word—I swear it.”
Lion made a show of playing with Little Patches and murmured, “The Hebrew-didies, ma’am. That’s where we’re bound fer. And you know what? That there Frenchy’s put a lot of lettuce in them four ugly old islands. But if I was rich as Golden Ball and could go anywhere what I’d like, I’d stick them Hebrew-didies right up at the top o’ my list of places what I never want to see again!”
At this point they were approaching a little knot of sailors busily engaged with ropes and tackle, and the boy said no more. The information he had imparted, however, appalled Charity. Returning to her cabin she sat on her bunk, plunged into despair. The Hebrides? What on earth had possessed Claude to choose so remote and inaccessible a location? But of course that was precisely why he had chosen it. She thought achingly of her loved ones, so far away. Even dear Tristram could have no possible inkling that Sanguinet was ensconced in such an unlikely spot. “I shall never see you again, my darlings,” she whispered, in an agony of grief. “I shall not see you, or my dear England, ever again.…” And she wept until she was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.
The following night, she was disturbed several times by the violent plunges of the vessel. Lion had told her that afternoon that the glass was falling, and at dark the sky had been gloomy and overcast. At dawn she awoke to the sound of a crash, and starting up in fright, she saw that the cabin was tilting at an impossible angle. From outside came shouts, the howling of a mighty wind, the creaking of protesting timbers, and the snapping of sail. Staggering to the porthole, she peered out. The morning sky was a boil of dark, angry clouds that, even as she watched, began to be blotted out by sheeting rain, and the sea that had been so deceptively quiet yesterday had become rank upon rank of mountainous waves. It took all her strength to return to her bunk. She huddled there, alone and terrified as the storm raged on, wondering if this was to be the final chapter of her uneven life, and if Claude was to be cheated of his revenge after all.
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