Malevil, Page 48

  I fixed our assault upon La Roque for the following day, and in the face of general opposition ordered that the night watch we were keeping on the Malevil approach road should continue until dawn. Since the harvest, we had nothing to guard any longer in the valley, so the night watch had moved nearer the castle and now occupied a casemated dugout we had constructed on the side of the Sept Fayards hill, a position which gave an excellent view over the approach road and the palisade.

  Since there had been a certain reluctance among the companions to undertake this outside watch the night before our expedition against La Roque—the feeling being that we all ought to keep ourselves fresh for the great day—I decided that I ought to set an example, and consequently detailed myself for the job that particular night, taking Meyssonnier with me.

  There is nothing more demoralizing than a night watch: routine and discipline in their pure state. You just have to stay there waiting for something to happen, and most of the time nothing ever does. At least Thomas and Catie had the distraction of lovemaking available to them during their nights on duty, even though the dugout wasn’t exactly a convenient place for that activity, despite all the care and thought Meyssonnier had put into it. As in our first one across the river, the walls of the trench were held up by bundles of brushwood. And the bottom of it, apart from the rough duckboarding as before, had also been carefully sloped down to a drainage channel, so that any rain would be collected and disposed of through a pipe leading to the slope below. The roof was made of brushwood but covered this time with a sheet of corrugated iron, itself covered in turn by a layer of earth stuck here and there with tufts of grass, like all the surrounding undergrowth since the explosion of our late spring. And around and about we had transplanted small leafy bushes, which without obscuring our view camouflaged the dugout so well from the road up to the castle that it was difficult to distinguish it, even with binoculars, from the surrounding landscape of charred tree trunks and green bushes.

  To ensure an unobstructed view and line of fire toward the palisade, the casemate was open from chest height upward toward the north and east. Unfortunately, however, it was also from the north and east that the rain and the prevailing winds came, so despite the overhang of the roof one still got soaked by any storms that blew up. And more unfortunately still, most of them seemed to brew during the hours of darkness.

  I had arranged our watches so I would be the one on duty at dawn, the highest risk period, it seemed to me, since the enemy would need to be able to make out its objective to some extent at least in order to approach it.

  I heard absolutely no sound. Everything happened as though in a silent film. I thought I saw two figures approaching the palisade along the road. I say “I thought” simply because at first I thought I was probably seeing nothing of the sort. At eighty yards, a man is really quite small to the eye, and when the figure is more or less gray, moving silently against a gray cliff in misty weather, in the half light just before dawn, then you’re bound to wonder whether it isn’t an illusion. And perhaps I’d been dozing as well? I think I had, because the touch of the binoculars against my eyes made me start, and right away, while I was still trying to focus them—no easy task in all that nebulous grayness—I began to sweat, despite the cool dawn air. The earth must already have begun warming up though, hence all the mist rising from the ground, piling up in the hollows, and curling in tenuous streamers from the rocks of the cliff. I succeeded in locating the palisade, used it to focus on, then moved slowly along the road to the west, following the cliff.

  It was their faces that gave them away. I could see two tiny pink circles against the surrounding gray. It was extraordinary how clearly those little pink spots stood out, despite the mist and the half light, whereas the bodies, dressed in neutral colors, were almost indistinguishable from the cliff face. Nevertheless, now that I had the faces to guide me, I was just able to make out their outlines.

  They were moving slowly up the road to Malevil, sticking as closely as possible to the rocky wall of the cliff, it seemed to me. I could make out their bodies better now. One seemed to be much taller and better built than the other. Both were carrying guns, and the guns were a surprise. They certainly weren’t ordinary shotguns.

  I shook Meyssonnier, and as soon as he opened his eyes I clapped a hand over his mouth and said very quietly, “Quiet. There are two men outside the palisade.”

  He blinked, removed my hand from his mouth, and whispered, “Armed?”

  “Yes.” I handed him the binoculars. Meyssonnier refocused them, then said something in such a low voice I didn’t hear it.

  “What did you say?”

  “No packs or bundles.”

  At the time, the significance of his remark didn’t impinge. It wasn’t till a few moments later that it flashed back into my mind. I refocused the binoculars. Visibility was improving as dawn approached, and I could see the visitors’ pink faces better now, not as mere spots but with distinct contours. There was nothing emaciated about them, nothing in common with the looters in the wheatfield. These two men were young, strong, and well fed. I saw the taller of them go up to the palisade, and from the position of his body I could tell what he was doing. He was reading the notice we’d nailed to it for the benefit of visitors. It was a large square of plywood, painted white, on which Colin had printed the following message in black letters:

  IF YOUR INTENTIONS ARE FRIENDLY, RING THE BELL. WE SHALL FIRE ON ANY PERSON SEEN CLIMBING THE PALISADE.

  MALEVIL

  And it was no rough and ready job either. Colin had outlined all the letters in pencil before doing the actual painting and he had trimmed his brush to a perfect point with La Menou’s scissors to make absolutely sure he kept each one neat. He had wanted to add a skull and crossbones under the MALEVIL, but I argued against it. I felt that the very soberness of the words themselves was sufficient deterrent.

  Both men were searching separately, and searching in vain, for some crack that would permit them to peer through the palisade. One even took a knife out of his pocket and attempted to attack the iron-hard oak planks with it. Meyssonnier had the binoculars at that point, and he held them out to me, saying in a low, pitying voice, “Look at that poor idiot.”

  I looked, but just as I had him in focus, the man gave up his attempt. He went over to his companion. Heads together, they appeared to be holding a council. I got the impression that there was disagreement between them. From a number of gestures he made toward the road behind them, I gathered that the tall one wanted to withdraw, while the shorter one, on the contrary, intended to carry on. But carry on with what? That’s what puzzled me. They surely couldn’t be considering the possibility, just the two of them, of trying to attack Malevil?

  A decision had clearly been come to, however, because I saw them both sling their guns over their backs. (Once more I was intrigued by the unusual look of their weapons.) Then the tall one set his back against the palisade, clasped his hands in front of his groin, and hoisted the smaller one up so that he could climb onto his shoulders. It was at this moment that Meyssonnier’s remark about neither of them having any pack or bundle flashed back into my mind. The answer was suddenly blindingly obvious. The two men weren’t on their own. They hadn’t the slightest intention of attacking Malevil, or even of trying to get inside it. They belonged to a band, and they were here on a reconnaissance expedition, just like ours the day before outside La Roque, prior to an attack.

  I set down my binoculars and said to Meyssonnier in a low, rapid voice, “I’m going to shoot the little one and try to capture the other.”

  “That’s against the orders,” Meyssonnier said.

  “I’m changing the orders,” I said in a cutting tone.

  I looked at him, and although it was hardly the moment for merriment, I suddenly felt like laughing. Because the struggle written on Meyssonnier’s honest face between respect for orders and obedience to the leader was painful to see. I added in the same tone, “Don’t shoot. That’s
an order.”

  I shouldered my gun. In the telescopic sight of the Springfield I could see the little fellow’s pink face quite distinctly in profile as he crouched on his companion’s shoulders, both hands gripping the top of the palisade, and inched his face gradually upward in order to raise his eyes above the cross beam at the top. At that distance, and with a telescopic sight, it was child’s play. It came into my mind that the little fellow over there, so young and healthy, had only one or two more seconds of life in front of him. Not because he was trying to get over the palisade, since that clearly wasn’t his intention, but because he was now carrying information useful to an assailant inside his head—the head that the bullet from my Springfield was about to crack open like a nut.

  While the little fellow was memorizing the terrain carefully, taking his time, without knowing how utterly useless all the notes he was squirreling away had already become, I brought the hairline cross of my sight up to his ear and fired. He seemed to leap upward and make a sort of somersault before crashing to the ground. His companion stood frozen for a full second, then with a push against the palisade he was racing off down the road as fast as he could go.

  I shouted out, “Stop!”

  He kept going. I yelled with the full strength of my lungs, “Stop, I said!” And I brought up the Springfield again. Just as I had the cross trained on his back, to my great surprise he stopped.

  I shouted, “Hands on your head! And walk back to the palisade!”

  He slowly retraced his steps. His gun was still slung over his back. And it was the gun I kept my eye on, ready to fire at the slightest suspicious movement.

  Nothing happened. I saw that the man had stopped some way short of the palisade, and I realized that he didn’t want to look at his companion’s shattered skull if he could help it. At that moment the gate-tower bell began to ring the alarm. I waited till it had stopped, then I shouted, “Turn to face the cliff and then don’t move.”

  He did as he was told. I handed Meyssonnier the Springfield, took his little .22, and said quickly, “Keep him in your sights till I’m over there. As soon as I am, follow.”

  “Do you think they’re part of a band?” Meyssonnier said, wetting his lips.

  “I’m certain of it.”

  At that moment someone, I think Peyssou, shouted down from the gate-tower battlements, “Comte? Meyssonnier? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, we’re all right.”

  It took me a good minute to get down the Sept Fayards hill and up the other side. The man hadn’t moved. He was still standing facing the cliff, hands on his head. I noticed that his legs were trembling slightly.

  Peyssou’s voice came from the other side of the palisade. “Shall I open up?”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for Meyssonnier.”

  I looked at the man. Six feet or just under, thick black hair, young neck. Built rather like Jacquet, only slimmer. Strong but graceful. Dressed like any of our younger farmers around here on a weekday: jeans, desert boots, woolen checked shirt. But on him they looked elegant somehow. In fact his appearance generally was one of elegance. And even in the humiliating pose that I was forcing him to maintain, he still retained his dignity.

  When Meyssonnier had joined me, I said, “Take his gun.”

  I placed the barrel of mine against the prisoner’s back. Right away, without having to be told, he moved his arm in order to help Meyssonnier lift the sling over his head.

  “Army rifle,” Meyssonnier said respectfully. “A .36.”

  I took my handkerchief out of my pocket, folded it, and said, “I’m going to blindfold you. Lower your hands.”

  He stood still while I tied the handkerchief in place.

  “Right. Now you can turn around.”

  He did as he was told, and I was able to see his face at last, except for the eyes of course. No more than twenty. Cheeks shaved, but a small black beard cut to a point, and the edges neatly defined. A clean-cut earnest look. But of course, without the eyes...

  “Meyssonnier,” I said, “pick up the dead one’s gun and collect any ammunition. There must be some on him.”

  Meyssonnier gave an odd groan. Till then he had been avoiding looking at the corpse with its shattered head. So had I.

  “Peyssou, you can open up,” I called.

  The top bolt slid open, then the lower one, then the two side ones. There was a click—the padlock opening.

  “Another .36 rifle,” Meyssonnier said as he got to his feet again.

  Peyssou appeared, cast a glance at the body, went white under his tan, and relieved Meyssonnier of the two .36s.

  “Was it the Springfield that did that to him?” he asked.

  Meyssonnier didn’t answer.

  “Was it you that fired?” Peyssou asked, seeing the Springfield in Meyssonnier’s hand.

  Meyssonnier shook his head.

  “No, it was me,” I snapped irritably.

  Placing my hand flat on the young man’s back I pushed him ahead of me. Peyssou closed up behind us. I took the prisoner by the arm and made him turn around two or three times on the spot before leading him along the path between the traps. I repeated this operation several times before reaching the gate tower. Peyssou and Meyssonnier followed in silence. Meyssonnier because he had no stomach for talking after emptying the dead man’s pockets, and Peyssou because I’d snubbed him.

  Up on the gate-tower battlements two of the wooden panels set into the openings formed by the erstwhile crenelations were open, and behind them I could just make out faces. I lifted my face and put a finger to my lips.

  Colin opened the main gate. I waited still he’d closed it, then I let go of the prisoner’s arm, took Meyssonnier to one side, and said in a low voice, “Take the prisoner up to the house. Zigzag on the way, but don’t overdo it. I’ll follow you in a moment.”

  When Meyssonnier had left with the prisoner I signaled to Colin and Peyssou to follow them at a distance, but without speaking.

  The two older women and Miette, Catie, Evelyne, Thomas, and Jacquet were coming down the stone steps from the battlements. I signaled to them not to speak. I waited till they were down on ground level, then I said quietly, “Thomas, Miette, Catie, you all stay on the walls. Evelyne too. Jacquet, give your gun to Miette. You will come with us. Menou and Falvine too.”

  “And why not me?” Catie said.

  “You can ask your questions later,” Thomas told her sharply.

  Evelyne was biting her lip, but she looked at me without saying anything.

  “It’s not fair,” Catie said in a low, furious voice. “Everyone else is going to see the prisoner! Except us!”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Because I don’t want the prisoner to see either you or Miette.”

  “So you’ll be letting him go again,” Catie said with eager interest.

  “If I can, yes.”

  “How rotten!” Catie said indignantly. “He’s going to be let go again, and we won’t even have had a look at him!”

  “You’ve got me to look at, haven’t you?” I snapped at her angrily. “Isn’t that enough for you? Why is it so important for you to give our prisoner the glad eye? And an enemy into the bargain!”

  “And who said I was going to give him the glad eye?” Catie raged back at me, tears gathering in her eyes. “I’ve had enough of having that sort of thing thrown in my face all the time!”

  Miette, who was following this scene with a look of intense disapproval, suddenly took us all by surprise. In a single swift movement she had thrown her left arm around Catie’s shoulders and clamped her right hand over her sister’s mouth. Catie struggled like a wildcat. But Miette held her firmly to her body, powerless and dumb.

  I noticed that Evelyne was looking at me. Looking at me with a demure, meritorious air. She was doing what she was told, oh yes. And keeping quiet too. I took the time to flash the little pharisee a smile.

  “Are you coming, Jacquet?”

  Jacquet was embarrassed. I’d told him to hand his
gun to Miette, and Miette didn’t have a hand free to take it with.

  “Give Thomas your gun,” I said over my shoulder as I walked away.

  I heard running footsteps behind me. Jacquet caught up with me. “She’s always been like that,” he said in a low voice. “Even when she was only twelve. Scratching like a little cat. That’s how it began with my father, at L’Étang. But she hasn’t learned her lesson yet. She’s not worth half of Miette! Miette’s different!”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to express any opinion on the matter that might be repeated. I was also extremely put out by what had happened. Thomas had understood, but not Catie. Not yet. She still had to learn discipline.

  In the great hall the prisoner was seated, still blindfolded, in Momo-Jacquet’s place at the lower end of the table, his back to the fireplace. It was daylight now, though the sun wasn’t yet up. The window nearest the prisoner was open slightly. The air was warm. It was going to be another fine day.

  I signaled to the others to sit down. They all took their usual chairs, sitting with their guns between their legs. The two old women remained standing, La Falvine quiet for once. It was our usual breakfast time, and the meal was laid. The milk had already boiled in the hearth, the bowls were on the table, the bread set out, with our homemade butter. My stomach suddenly felt very hollow.

  “Colin, take off the handkerchief.”

  The prisoner’s eyes appeared. They blinked violently, then gradually became used to the light. He looked at me, looked at the companions, and then at the bowls, the bread, and the butter. I rather liked his eyes. And his attitude. He was taking it well. Pale, but well in control of himself. Lips dry, but expression outwardly calm.

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked in absolutely even tones.

  “Yes.”

  “What would you like? Wine or milk?”