Chapter 15 #2
At the same time as Captain Crabbe felt himself go cold, glassware on trays and hanging overhead from ornate chandeliers rattled. At first, he thought that the wind had got up quickly as it sometimes did in these parts.
Rumblings of alarm ran through the room. More dust fell. More sounds of cannon fire in the distance.
He looked at the Frenchman and met his eyes just as a cloud of fine plaster dust fell from the ceiling, accompanied by the rumble of cannon and the crack of muskets.
A cry rang out. ‘They’re here! The British are here!’
Another cannon blast and all semblance of being gentlemen vanished, each and every man running for the exit.
One after another, carriages were called for. In the ensuing melee to escape certain death, the carriages banged and crashed into each other. Horses reared and whinnied. Wheels interlocked and whips cracked.
Captain Crabbe looked around him. A few brave souls, enthusiastic rather than experienced, had come into a group and were talking excitedly about arming themselves and pushing the invader back into the sea.
Captain Crabbe had to smile to himself. If everyone had known an attack was due, why hadn’t preparations been made?
The gold throne was empty, the woman on her feet, swaying as she struggled to dislodge the clasps that held the long train to her shoulders.
Now was the time for action. Captain Crabbe pushed through the much-diminished crowd. ‘Out of my way!’
The few men left in his path fell aside without protest, more concerned with saving their skins than satisfying their lusts.
He had fully expected being the first to get to her and was disappointed to see that two other men had got to her first.
The way she wriggled and twisted made him wonder just how drugged she’d been.
Catching the argument between the Marquis and the hook-nosed Frenchman, he slowed his step, intrigued to hear more.
‘I want payment.’
‘You shall have payment.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
The face of the man he’d been told was cousin to a marshal of France turned black with malice. ‘I am a trusted aide of France.’
‘Of that upstart Bonaparte!’
‘Take care what you say, Monsieur! Napoleon Bonaparte is a great man!’
‘Then if he’s so great, you can pay me for this woman.’
She continued to kick and wriggle, her efforts strengthening as the drug she’d been given began to wear off. ‘Let me go, you French oafs!’
They ignored her, too intent on doing a deal.
‘Do you know who her uncle is?’ hissed the hook-nosed man. ‘You cannot imagine what damage he does to the cause of France?’
Captain Crabbe was immediately enlightened. It was now clear that her uncle was a thorn in the side of the Imperial French government and Lady Kildare was a bargaining tool.
More dust descended as another volley of cannon fire rocked the building. The two Frenchmen gave the matter only the most perfunctory of glances, although their heads and shoulders were sprinkled with dust.
Hurry, he said to himself, for he could not hold out much longer – not alone.
Hearing the tread of men’s boots behind him, the smell of masculine sweat, rum and strong tobacco, Captain Crabbe knew the moment had come to rescue Lady Kildare.
He stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding the last quarter of his cigar. His head was held high like the man of means he was pretending to be. ‘Gentlemen. I don’t think the lady wishes to go with you.’
Disdain appeared on the arrogant faces of the two men.
Lady Kildare took in the new arrivals. Her eyes flickered over Captain Crabbe and the band of armed men who stood in a crescent at Captain Crabbe’s side. They looked like pirates.
The man who was a cousin of a marshal of France was the first to speak. ‘Do you know whom you are addressing?’
He sounded as though he were about to add a whole list of boastful achievements and bestowed titles. Captain Crabbe had no wish to hear such detail; he had a job to do, and he intended seeing it through.
‘No doubt you wish to enlighten me,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But keep it short. I am easily bored!’
For a moment, the man seemed to grow as though he were about to explode.
‘My name is Comte Clement Perrin-Roche,’ he said with great deliberation. ‘I am an agent of his most serene excellency…’
‘It counts for nothing here,’ Captain Crabbe cheerily interjected. ‘You’re on American soil now. So no excellencies if you don’t mind!’
Captain Crabbe noted that Lady Kildare had stopped trying to wriggle free. Her eyes were bold and bright, flashing between him and the man he was verbally sparring with.
‘This woman is my property. My bid was the highest.’
‘Pah!’ The Marquis looked outraged. ‘She belongs to me until I am paid.’
Crabbe shook his head and looked amused. ‘I fancy she belongs to no one.’
‘To myself…’ murmured Lochranza, feeling desperate to regain her wits and her strength. My, but she would kick their shins black once she was her normal self!
The Comte was not the sort of man to back down easily. On the contrary, he had the air of a man who could bring an army down on them if he had to.
‘By what authority…’ Unfortunately for the Comte, he did not have an army, nobody at all to support his cause.
Captain Crabbe, however, did. At the raising of his right hand, each of the men behind drew a cruel cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other.
They didn’t wear uniforms, unless you counted unkempt hair, bushy beards and a mismatch of shirts, jackets and britches.
Their only medals were the scars on their faces, the rings in their ears.
‘I think she is mine, gentlemen.’ The Comte was persistent.
‘No.’ She said it quietly, staggering a little with the effort of shaking her head. ‘I belong to no one… I am to be married…’
Her voice trailed into silence with the effort of getting the words out but was interrupted by the sound of cannon fire, running feet, battle cries and screams of panic. Such was battle. Some people embraced the prospect of glory, and others ran away.
The neighing of horses filtered in from the front of the house. The slaves who had earlier been opening carriage doors and passing round food and drink were running around, their wigs askew, their faces flushed with discomfiture.
‘Victory to the United States,’ somebody shouted.
Captain Crabbe suggested they leave. ‘I don’t care who wins this damned battle. It’s my neck that counts – and the money I’m owed.’ He jerked his head. ‘Lady Kildare. I’ve been paid to take you to safety.’
The Comte Perrin-Roche let go Lochranza’s arm.
The Marquis dragged her closer. ‘She’s mine!’ His fingers clutched her throat. She gasped, her own fingers scratching at his.
Captain Crabbe drew his weapon, a twisted smile on his face. ‘If you value your life, let her go.’
The Marquis held on. ‘I’ll strangle her if you come any closer.’
There was suddenly a jerking movement as Lochranza twisted her body, head to one side.
Captain Crabbe felt instant alarm, surmising the Marquis had throttled her until he reappraised the situation and realised that both the Marquis and Lady Kildare had jerked in unison.
The Marquis screamed. ‘Mon Dieu!’ His fingers were spread over his groin. He then brought his hand up before his eyes, blood dripping from his palm. Something long, thin and made of what looked like whalebone fell to the floor.
The Comte Perrin-Roche stared in alarm at the knitting needle, a deadly weapon in the right hands, and obviously Lochranza’s hands were most definitely the right ones.
He couldn’t have done better himself. Neither could those harridans who had sat around Madame Guillotine, gossiping and knitting row after row as they watched the heads of the executed fall into the basket.
Captain Crabbe grabbed her. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
She nodded. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Away from here. Before everybody starts shooting at each other at close range.’
Without slowing her pace, she asked who he was and what was his business with her.
‘Captain Crabbe. The rest I’ll explain later.’
‘I will pay you handsomely,’ the Comte shouted after him.
‘I’ve already been paid,’ Captain Crabbe muttered to himself. ‘And more handsomely than you can possibly imagine.’