CHAPTER VI
HELL ON EARTH
A rascally face was Wilfred Rolleston's, but above all a drunkard'sface, in which the noble features of his cousin Edward were debased bythe habit of debauch. His eyes, which were small and sunk in theirsockets, shone with an extraordinary glitter. A continual grin, whichrevealed red gums set with enormous, pointed teeth, gave his jaw thelook of a gorilla's.
He burst out laughing:
"M. Simon Dubosc? M. Simon Dubosc will pardon me. Before I deal withhim, I have a few poor fellows to dispatch to a better world. I shallattend to you in three minutes, M. Simon Dubosc."
And, turning to his henchman:
"First gentleman."
They pushed forward a poor devil quaking with fear.
"How much gold has this one stolen?" he asked.
One of the warders replied:
"Two sovereigns, my lord, fallen outside the barricades."
"Kill him."
A revolver-shot; and the poor wretch fell dead.
Three more executions followed, performed in as summary a fashion; andat each the executioners and their assistants were seized with a fitof hilarity which found expression in cheers and the cutting of manycapers.
But when the fourth sufferer's turn came--he had stolen nothing, butwas under suspicion of stealing--the executioner's revolver missedfire. Then Rolleston leapt from his throne, uncoiled his great height,towered above his victim's head and buried his knife between hisshoulder-blades.
It was a moment of delirious delight. The guard of honour yelped androared, dancing a frantic jig upon the platform. Rolleston resumed histhrone.
After this, an axe cleft the air twice in succession and two headsleapt into the air.
All these monsters gave the impression of the court of some niggermonarch in the heart of Africa. Liberated from all that restrains itsimpulses and controls its actions, left to itself, with no fear ofthe police, mankind, represented by this gang of cut-throats, wasrelapsing into its primitive animal state. Instinct reigned supreme,in all its fierce absurdity. Rolleston, the drink-sodden chieftain ofa tribe of savages, was killing for killing's sake, because killing isa pleasure not to be indulged in everyday life and because the sightof blood intoxicated him more effectually than champagne.
"It's the Frenchman's turn"; cried the despot, bursting into laughter."It's M. Dubosc's turn! And I will deal with him myself!"
He stepped down from his throne again, holding a red knife in hishand, and planted himself before Simon:
"Ah, M. Dubosc," he said, in a husky voice, "you escaped me the firsttime, in a hotel at Hastings! Yes, it appears I stabbed the wrong man.That was a bit of luck for you! But then, my dear sir, why the deuce,instead of making yourself scarce, do you come running after me . . .and after Miss Bakefield?"
At Isabel's name, he suddenly blazed into fury:
"Miss Bakefield! My _fiancee_! Don't you know that I love her! MissBakefield! Why, I've sworn by all the devils in hell that I wouldbury my knife in the back of my rival, if ever one dared to comeforward. And you're the rival, are you, M. Dubosc? But, my poor fool,you shouldn't have let yourself get caught!"
His eyes lit up with a cruel joy. He slowly raised his arm, whilegazing into Simon's eyes for the first appearance of mortal anguish.But the moment had not yet come, for he suddenly stayed the movementof his arm and sputtered:
"I have an idea! . . . An idea . . . not half a bad one! . . . No, nothalf! Look here. . . . M. Dubosc must attend the little ceremony! Hewill be glad to know that the lot of his dear Isabel is assured.Patience, M. Dubosc!"
He exchanged a few words with his guards, who gave signs of theirhearty approval and were at once rewarded with glasses of champagne.Then the preparations began. Three guards marched away, while theother satellites seated the dead bodies in a circle, so as to form agallery of spectators round a small table which was placed upon theplatform.
Simon was one of the gallery. He was again gagged.
All these incidents occurred like the scenes of an incoherent play,stage-managed and performed by madmen. It had no more sense than thefantastic visions of a nightmare; and Simon felt hardly more alarmedat knowing that his life was threatened than he would have felt joy atseeing himself saved. He was living in an unreal world of shiftingfigures.
The guard of honour fell in and presented arms. Rolleston took off hisdiadem, as a man might take off his hat in sign of respect, and spreadhis diamond-studded tunic on the deck, as people might spread flowersbeneath the feet of an advancing queen. The three attendants who hadbeen ordered away returned.
Behind them came a woman escorted by two coarse, red-faced viragoes.
Simon shuddered with despair; he had recognized Isabel, but so muchchanged, so pale! She swayed as she walked, as though her limbsrefused to support her and as though her poor distressful eyes couldnot see plainly. Yet she refused the aid of her companions. A maleprisoner followed her, held on a leash like the others. He was an old,white-haired parson.
Rolleston hurried to meet her whom he called his _fiancee_, offeringher his hand and leading her to a chair. He resumed his tunic and tookhis place beside her. The clergyman remained standing behind thetable, under the threat of a revolver.
The ceremony, of which the details must have been arranged beforehand,was short. The parson stammered the customary words. Rollestondeclared that he took Isabel Bakefield to be his wife. Isabel, whenthe question was put, bowed her head in assent, Rolleston slipped awedding-ring upon her finger; then he unfastened from his uniform theminiature set in pearls and pinned it to the girl's bodice:
"My wedding-present, darling," he said, cynically.
And he kissed her hand. She seemed overcome with dizziness andcollapsed for a moment, but recovered herself immediately.
"Till this evening, darling," said Rolleston, "when your lovinghusband will visit you and claim his rights. Till this evening,darling."
He made a sign to the two viragoes to lead their prisoner away.
A few bottles of champagne were opened, the clergyman received adagger-thrust as his fee and Rolleston, waving his glass andstaggering on his legs, shouted:
"Here's the health of my wife! What do you say to that, M. Dubosc?She'll be a lucky girl, eh? To-night makes her King Rolleston's bride!You may die easy, M. Dubosc."
He drew near, knife in hand, when suddenly there broke out, from thearena, a succession of crackling noises, followed by a great uproar.The fireworks were beginning again, as on the night before.
In a moment the scene was changed. Rolleston appeared to sober down atonce. Leaning over the side of the wreck, he issued his commands in avoice of thunder:
"To the barricades! Every man to his post! . . . Independent fire! Noquarter!"
The deck resounded with the feet of his adherents, who rushed to theladders. Some, the favoured members of the guard of honour, remainedwith Rolleston. The remaining captives were tied together and morecords were added to the bonds that bound Simon to the foot of themast.
However, he was able to turn his head and to see the whole extent ofthe arena. It was empty. But from one of the four craters which rosein the centre a vast sheaf of water, steam, sand and pebbles spurtedand fell back upon the ground. In the midst of these pebbles rolledcoins of the same colour, gold coins.
It was an inconceivable spectacle, reminding Simon of the Icelandgeyser. The phenomenon was obviously capable of explanation byperfectly natural causes; but some miraculous chance must have heapedtogether at the exact spot where this volcanic eruption occurred thetreasures of several galleons sunk in times gone by. And thesetreasures, now dropping like rain on the surface of the earth, musthave slipped gradually to the bottom of the huge funnel in which thenew forces, concentrated and released by the great upheaval, wereboiling over now.
Simon had an impression that the air was growing warmer and that thetemperature of this column of water must be fairly high, which fact,even more than fear of the pebbles, explained why no one dared
ventureinto the central zone.
Moreover, Rolleston's troops had taken up their position on the lineof the barricades, where the firing had been, furious from the first.The mob of marauders, massed at a hundred yards beyond, had at oncegiven way, though here and there a band of lunatics would break loosefrom the crowd and rush across the slope. They toppled over,ruthlessly shot down; but others came on, bellowing, maddened by thosegolden coins which fell like a miraculous rain and some of whichrolled to their feet.
These men in their turn spun on their heels and dropped. It was amurderous game, an absolute massacre. The more favoured, those whoescaped the bullets, were taken prisoners on the line of thebarricades and set aside for execution.
And suddenly all grew quiet again. Like a fountain when the water isturned off, the precious sheaf wavered, grew smaller and smaller anddisappeared from sight. The troops remaining at the barricadescompleted the rout of the assailants, while the satellites who made upthe guard of honour gathered the gold in rush baskets collected at thefore of the wreck on which Rolleston was performing his antics. Theharvest did not take long. The baskets were brought up briskly and thesharing began, a revolting and grotesque spectacle. Eyes burned withgreed, hands trembled. The sight, the touch, the sound of the golddrove all these men mad. No famishing beasts of prey, disputing ableeding quarry, could display greater ferocity and spite. Each manhid his booty in his pockets or in a handkerchief knotted at thecorners. Rolleston put his into a canvas bag which he held clasped inhis arms:
"Kill the prisoners, the new ones as well as the others!" he shouted,relapsing into drunkenness. "Have them executed! After that, we'llstring them all up, so that they can be seen from everywhere andnobody will dare attack us. Kill them comrades! And M. Dubosc to beginwith! Who'll attend to M. Dubosc? I haven't the energy myself."
The comrades rushed forward. One of them, more agile than the rest,seized Simon by the throat, jammed his head against the broken mastand, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his temple, firedfour times.
"Well done!" cried Rolleston! "Well done!"
"Well done!" cried the others, stamping with rage around theexecutioner.
The man had covered Simon's head with a strip of cloth already spottedwith blood, which he knotted round the mast, so that its ends, broughtlevel with the forehead and turned upwards, looked like a donkey'sear, which provoked an explosion of merriment.
Simon did not feel the least surprise on discovering that he wasstill alive, that he had not even been wounded by those four shotsfired point-blank. This was the way of the incredible nightmare, asuccession of illogical acts and disconnected events which he couldneither foresee nor understand. In the very article of death, he wassaved by circumstances as absurd as those which had led him to death'sthreshold. An unloaded weapon, an impulse of pity in his executioners:no explanation gave a satisfactory reply.
In any case, he did not make a movement which might attract attentionand he remained like a corpse within the bonds which held him fixed ina perpendicular position and behind the veil which hid his face, theface of a living man.
The hideous tribunal resumed its functions and hurried over itsverdicts, while washing them down with copious libations. As eachvictim was condemned, a glass of spirits was served, the tossing offof which was meant to synchronize with a death-struggle. Foul jests,blasphemies, laughter, songs, all mingled in an abominable din whichwas dominated by Rolleston's piercing voice:
"Now have them hanged. Tell them to string up the corpses! Fire away,comrades! I want to see them dancing at the end of their ropes when Icome back from my wife. The queen awaits me! Here's her health,comrades!"
They touched glasses noisily, singing until they had escorted him tothe ladder; then they returned and immediately set to work upon theloathsome business which Rolleston had judged necessary to terrorizethe distant crowd of marauders. Their jeers and exclamations enabledSimon to follow the sickening incidents of their labours. The deadwere hanged, with head or feet downwards alternately, from everythingthat projected from the ship's deck or its surroundings; andflagstaffs were stuck between their arms, with a blood-soaked ragfloating from each.
Simon's turn was approaching. A few dead bodies at most divided himfrom the executioners, whose hoarse breathing he could hear. This timenothing could save him. Whether he was hanged, or stabbed the momentthey saw that he was still alive, the issue was inevitable.
He would have made no attempt to escape, if the thought of Isabel andRolleston's threats had not exasperated him. He reflected that at thatmoment Rolleston, the drunkard and maniac, was with the girl who foryears had been the object of his desire. What could she do againsthim? Captive and bound, she was a prey vanquished beforehand.
Simon growled with rage. He contracted his muscles in the impossiblehope of bursting his bonds. The period of waiting suddenly becameintolerable; and he preferred to draw upon himself the anger of allthose brutes and to risk a fight which might at least give him achance of safety. And would not his safety mean Isabel's release?
Something unexpected, the sensation of a touch that was not brutalbut, on the contrary, furtive and cautious, gently persuaded him tosilence. A hand behind his back was untying his hands and removing theropes which held him bound against the mast, while an almost inaudiblevoice whispered in his ear:
"Not a movement! . . . Not a word! . . ."
The cloth around his head was slowly withdrawn. The voice continued:
"Behave as if you were one of the gang. . . . No one is thinking aboutyou. . . . Do as they do. . . . And, above all, no hesitation!"
Simon obeyed without turning round. Two executioners, not far away,were picking up a corpse. Sustained by the thought that nothing mustdisgust him if he meant to rescue Isabel, he joined them and helpedthem to carry their burden and hang it from one of the iron davits.
But the effort exhausted him: he was tortured by hunger and thirst. Heturned giddy and was seeking for a support when some one gently seizedhis arm and drew him toward Rolleston's platform.
It was a sailor, with bare feet and dressed in a blue serge pea-jacketand trousers; he carried a rifle across his back and wore a bandagewhich hid part of his face.
Simon whispered:
"Antonio!"
"Drink!" said the Indian, taking one of the bottles of champagne; "andlook here . . . here's a tin of biscuits. You'll need all yourstrength. . . ."
After the shocks of the frightful nightmare in which he had beenliving for thirty-six hours, Simon was hardly capable of surprise.That Antonio should have succeeded in slipping among the gang ofcriminals accorded, after all, with the logic of events, since theIndian's object was just to be revenged on Rolleston.
"Did you fire at me with a blank cartridge?" asked Simon, "and savedmy life?"
"Yes," replied the Indian. "I got here yesterday, when Rolleston wasalready beginning to drive back the mob of three or four thousandruffians crowding round the fountains. As he was recruiting all whopossessed fire-arms and as I had a rifle, I was enlisted. Since then,I've been prowling right and left, in the trenches which they've dug,in the wrecks, more or less everywhere. I happened to be near hisplatform when they brought him the papers found on the airman; and Ilearnt, as he did, that the airman was no other than yourself. Then Iwatched my opportunity and offered myself as an executioner when itcame to a matter of killing you. But I didn't dare warn you in hispresence."
"He's with Miss Bakefield, isn't he?" asked Simon anxiously.
"Yes."
"Were you able to communicate with her?"
"No, but I know where she is."
"Let's hurry," said Simon.
Antonio held him back:
"One word. What has become of Dolores?"
He looked Simon straight in the eyes.
"Dolores left me," Simon replied.
"Why?" asked Antonio, in a harsh voice. "Yes, why? A woman alone, inthis country: it's certain death! And you deserted her?"
Simon did not lower his eyes.
He replied:
"I did my duty by Dolores . . . more than my duty. It was she who leftme."
Antonio reflected. Then he said:
"Very good. I understand."
They moved away, unobserved by the rabble of henchmen andexecutioners. The boat--a Channel packet whose name Simon read on afaded pennant: the _Ville de Dunkerque_; and he remembered that the_Ville de Dunkerque_ had been sunk at the beginning of theupheaval--the boat had not suffered much damage and her hull wasbarely heeling over to starboard. The deck was empty between thefunnels and the poop. They were passing the hatch of a companion-waywhen Antonio said:
"That's Rolleston's lair."
"If so, let's go down," said Simon, who was quivering withimpatience.
"Not yet; there are five or six accomplices in the gangway, besidesthe two women guarding Lord Bakefield and his daughter. Come on."
A little farther, they stopped in front of a large tarpaulin, stillsoaked with water, which covered one of those frames on which thepassengers' bags and trunks are stacked. He lifted the tarpaulin andslipped under it, beckoning to Simon to lie down beside him.
"Look," he said.
The frame contained a skylight protected by stout bars, through whichthey saw down into the long gangway skirting the cabins immediatelybelow the deck. In this gangway a man was seated with two women besidehim. When Simon's eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness whichshowed objects somewhat vaguely, he distinguished the man's featuresand recognized Lord Bakefield, bound to a chair and guarded by the twoviragoes whom Rolleston had placed in charge of Isabel. One of thesewomen held in her heavy hand, which pressed on Lord Bakefield'sthroat, the two ends of a cord passed round his neck. It was clearthat a sudden twist of this hand would be enough to strangle theunfortunate nobleman in the space of a few seconds.
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