Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

The message was quite plain. Under the circumstances they were to return at once. But that hadn’t been good enough for Jacaud. He had insisted on going on into the marsh and Fenelon had wilted under his cold fury.

The reeds lifted like pale ghosts on either hand, the only sound the steady rattle of the outboard motor. He sat in the stern at the tiller, two sailors in the centre with rifles. Jacaud sat on the edge of the rounded prow, his sub-machine-gun slung around his neck as he gazed into the fog like some great bird of prey.

He turned, his granite, brutal face running with moisture. “We must be almost there. Cut the motor. We’ll start paddling.”

“You’re wasting your time, Jacaud,” Guyon called gaily. “I beat you to it. By now Henri Granville and his wife are well on their way out of here.”

As the dinghy drifted forward, a sandbank reached out from the reeds like a pointing finger. Guyon stood on a small hillock at the far end. His hand swung up and he fired twice. One of the sailors groaned and went over the side, still clutching his rifle.

Jacaud slipped the sub-machine-gun over his head. It came up in a long, stuttering burst of fire, slicing through the reeds. He was too late. Guyon had disappeared like a ghost into the fog. He laughed mockingly somewhere near at hand and then there was silence.

The remaining sailor leaned over the side to pull in his comrade. Jacaud turned and struck up his arm. “Leave him. We haven’t time.”

The sailor recoiled from the killing fury, the devil’s face that confronted him. The curious thing was that when Jacaud spoke his voice was quite calm.

“Back to L'Alouette and give that motor everything it’s got. Mallory’s got to return to lie de Roc. He’s no choice. His girl-friend’s still there. If we’re lucky we can catch them on their way out to sea.”

To Mallory the rattle of gunfire in the distance was like a physical blow and he walked the deck in impotent fury, hoping desperately that whatever had gone wrong Guyon had been able to handle it. Perhaps ten minutes later he heard the sound of the outboard motor returning along the creek. He stood very still, one foot on the rail, listening as it passed downstream.

He clambered on top of the wheelhouse and looked towards the west, straining into the fog. It was a good fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of brent geese calling bitterly as they lifted from the reeds. As the beating of their wings subsided, he was aware of movement towards the left.

He took a chance, cupped his hands and called: “Raoul! Over here!”

A couple of minutes later Guyon emerged from the fog and stumbled across the sandbank. Mallory ran to the prow and hauled him on board. Guyon was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold, his face pale and drawn.

“Have they passed yet?”

Mallory nodded. “What happened?”

Guyon explained briefly, shivering repeatedly as the wind cut through his damp clothes. “What do we do now?”

“Get to hell out of here and fast,” Mallory said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken Jacaud will wait for us at the estuary. If we can get down there fast enough we might stand a chance of getting out to sea before they’re ready.”

“And back to lie de Roc?”

“That’s the general idea. You’d better go below. Find yourself some dry clothes and a drink. I’ll get things moving up here.1

He went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. When he put them into reverse Fleur de Lys parted easily from the soft mud and he swung the wheel hard over, bringing her prow round until she pointed towards the wall of reeds that barred them from the creek.

He took her forward with a burst of speed, repeating his earlier manoeuvre. Once again it proved successful. The reeds parted protestingly and the boat burst into the creek. He turned the wheel to starboard and she swung round, grazing the mud of the opposite bank.

He took her downstream slowly, the engines a murmur in the rain. Guyon came up from the saloon wearing khaki slacks, rubber boots and a heavy- white sweater with a turtle collar. In one hand he carried a bottle of brandy, in the other a tin mug.

“How do you feel?” Mallory said.,

Guyon grinned and held up the brandy. “How would you expect? It’s Gourvoisier. Like some?”

“I certainly would.”

Mallory took the brandy down in two quick gulps. As a warm glow started to seep through his entire body he took out the packet of Gauloise that Marcel had given them and threw them to Guyon.

“Better have one while the going’s good. Things might get pretty warm within the next ten minutes.”

He took one himself and opened the window of the wheelhouse. Rain kicked into his face and there was a slight wind blowing in from the sea across the marshes, lifting the fog into weird shapes.

Visibility was down to thirty or forty yards, but the reeds were beginning to drop back and the channel widened perceptibly. The water lifted in long swelling ripples and waves kicked against the bottom of the boat. They were almost there now and as a curving sandbank appeared a few yards to port he cut the engines and the current carried them in. There was a slight shudder and they stopped.

“What’s the idea?” Guyon asked.

“I’d like to know what the opposition are up to. You stay • here. I shanty be long.”

Mallory jumped to the sandbank, landing knee-deep in water, waded out and followed its length into the fog until he could no longer see Fleur de Lys. A few minutes later he stood at the end, water splashing in across the sand, and looked out towards He de Yeu. There was no sign of L’Alouette and he turned and ran back the way he had come, splashing through the shallows as the tide began to lift over the sandbank.

Fleur de Lys was already swinging out into the deepening channel and he took Guymon’s proffered hand and scrambled over the rail.

“Not a sign of them. As far as I’m concerned I’m going to give her everything she’s got and head out to sea. They’ll have to come up with something pretty good to stop us.”

He went into the wheelhouse, started the engines and reversed into the channel. Visibility was becoming rather better as the fog lifted and Fleur de Lys roared down the centre of the channel, her bow wave surging across the water on either side.

The mouth of the estuary appeared, clear and open to the sea, and Mallory swung the wheel to port to negotiate the great sandbank fifty yards beyond the entrance. As they turned the point, the current pushing against them, they found L’Alouette waiting.

Jacaud was in the conning tower, a heavy machine-gun mounted on a swivel pin. The moment they came into view he started to fire. Bullets swept across the deck and Mallory ducked as glass shattered in the wheelhouse.

Guyon crouched in the doorway, resting the revolver across one raised arm, trying for a steady shot, but it was impossible. As bullets hammered into their hull, Mallory spun the wheel and the young Frenchman lost his balance.

It was the fog which saved them, a long, solid bank rolling in across the reef before the wind, and it swallowed them in an instant. Guyon picked himself up and stood listening to the impotent chatter of the machine-gun as Jacaud continued to fire. After a while there was silence.

He turned to face Mallory, his breath easing out in a long sigh. “I’d say that called for another drink.”

As they emerged from the fog-bank, Mallory took them out to sea, giving the engines full power. He turned with a grin. “Nothing wrong there, thank God.”

Guyon went into the saloon and returned with the Courvoisier. “He’s made one hell of a mess down there. Holes all over the place. I don’t think de Beaumont will be pleased.”

Mallory swallowed some of his brandy and lit a cigarette. “We’ll find out about that soon enough.”