The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗
Dimly the Captain grasped one thing. It sounded as though this giant smuggler was on their side, and yet he told himself he must be careful. He had made the mistake of approaching him as Foulkes instead of Barsard. But though Barsard’s plans had come to naught, Foulkes still had a card to play, and this he would make sure of. But where was the parson? Why had he not returned? He looked about him, peering into the darkness, anxiously.
Once more he got a reply to his unspoken question.
‘The parson will be with you, Captain, soon. I will bring him back when we are ready, but we still have a few points to clear up.’
Assurance of the parson’s return and what it meant to him restored a little of the Captain’s confidence and he said with some spirit: ‘Since Citizen L’Epouvantail has taken the business out of the hands of Citizen Barsard, I am at a loss to know what other points are left.’
‘There is the vital point of making England revolutionary, and it would interest me to know why Captain Foulkes, a leader of the London dandies, should interest himself in this. Was it perhaps that unfortunate affair that sent you out of the country all those years ago? But after all, that’s no affair of mine. One man’s reason is as good as another’s, and Robespierre too has a reason. He supplied me with six of his best agents. All good spies and desperate characters. I had their full dossiers. Then as I had to make decisions quickly, he generously provided me with yet another — a most enlightening document, taking one from England and a military scandal in 1774 to the Americas — the Caribbean Sea — then back to France — to England and the fashionable clubs with a reputation as a swordsman, and in frequent crossings of the Channel, a reputation as a secret political agent and a denouncer of fostered friends. So, Captain Foulkes, seeing that you and I know so much about this Monsieur Barsard, it will not be difficult for us to keep all seven spies of Robespierre in their place, and if you and I are to work and fight together, I realize that with all that to your credit, I must offer you an equal guarantee.’
The Captain’s spirits soared. If this guarantee was a document similar to his own dossier, why, then he would have no need of the parson’s testimony. But the Captain’s hopes of obtaining such damning evidence were dashed, for the Scarecrow quickly thrust up his right sleeve, and picking up the blazing torch held it over his outstretched arm upon which was clearly visible in the red glow the tattoo mark of the pirate Clegg.
‘Here’s proof enough to kill a man,’ he cried.
Yet again Foulkes had the uncanny feeling that this man could see into his mind, and wishing to be rid of the whole thing and cursing inwardly that now he had to wait for the parson, he tried desperately to plan his next move.
So he prevaricated with: ‘I accept your guarantee, Captain Clegg, for not only is it proof enough to kill a man but proof of many killed. It will be a great day for the Republic when Citizen L’Epouvantail, alias Captain Clegg, is working for them. When do we start? The six others — when will they arrive? Is Decoutier bringing them over?’
‘No, Decoutier is here. He came with me. I brought all six.’
The Captain was astounded. Here was a leader who did not waste time.
‘You brought them?’ he cried. ‘Then we have started already. Where are they?’
‘Here in Dymchurch.’ What happened then was as quick as the lightning which now flashed continually about them, for the Scarecrow’s mask and cloak were tossed aside and there in the vivid stabs of light was Doctor Syn, smiling dangerously. ‘Six spies are in the Court House cells and the seventh is before me. Draw, Captain Traitor, and fight to lose your wager.’
His voice flashed in tune to his movement, swift and thrusting as the steel he held.
For a second Foulkes stood aghast — dumbfounded.
Then about them the storm broke, and with the unleashing of the elements the dark cloud burst in his brain, setting free in clear vision the unaccountable facts of his subconscious foreboding. As easily as the Scarecrow’s cloak was tossed aside to reveal the parson, so did the curtain in his mind disintegrate into one lucid thought — the spider’s web — his destiny. There, at the centre of his weaving in all this tumult of wind and waves, was the black figure smiling at the insect on the fringe of it, who waited, tense and taut, for the first move. Then, as he crouched, watching, the sword of his opponent came to life, flashing blue fire as the lightning ripped along the steel. The wasp struck. With a great cry he slit his blade from the scabbard and leapt forward to the attack. Syn was ready, steel met steel, and for a frenzied five seconds hissed and rasped, as the darts of lightning caressed both blades, spurting from point to point.
A double thrust from Foulkes was parried by Syn. He laughed above the wind wildly and with satisfaction as Foulkes leapt back. Here was a swordsman who could make a fight. Now the lightning seemed to be coming from his eyes. He waited, alert — poised for the next move. It came slowly, blades pressing and sliding in a husky whisper. Still Syn did not attack, holding a stiff defence, and the eyes of the two men burnt to each other’s brains, trying to read the command before it reached the blade. Foulkes thought he knew Syn’s plan. To wear him down and thus keep fresh himself. He did not fear that strategy. A younger man than Syn, he knew, could outdistance him in playing a long game, counting on well-trained strength and breathing power. If Syn would not attack, why then he would, showing what speed could be. He leapt and thrust, seeking some weakness in the guard that faced him, but meeting that same baffling calm now so familiar to him. He rushed in now like a lithe bull, hoping to break down the defence by weight. Syn leapt aside with riposte, but if Foulkes thought he was wearying him, he found that he was wrong, for suddenly Syn was at him in attack and Foulkes was driven back before this amazing speed. Then for some minutes the blades clanged and sputtered and the sword-thrusts moved and lunged in broken rhythm as the shooting steel licked in and out, and the torches held high in hand with curved left arms, wreathed smoke about the fighters’ heads. And up and down and round upon that flat sea-wall, they traced their wild man?uvring in the close-cropped grass — fighting now by torchlight, now by lightning-flash, sometimes almost in darkness. The attack stopped as suddenly as it began, and Foulkes was once more met with Syn’s immovable security. Angered, he attacked as furiously, but this time Syn began to give him ground, and Foulkes thought: ‘Ah, he is the older man. He will not stay the course.’ And so it seemed, for the retreat went on, with Foulkes unflagging — driving. Once only did his opponent seem to stop, for some few seconds, but then the retreat continued, and Syn knew that his opponent had not noticed what he did, for in those precious seconds, knowing the ground, Syn’s left foot, behind him, felt and found what he had sought, and measuring it mentally aby stepping back, let the retreat go on. Foulkes, thinking this the beginning of the end, pressed on with confidence, hoping with every thrust to break the guard and draw first blood. Slowly Syn backed and backed. And Foulkes, not daring to disengage his eye from Syn’s was puzzled by the change of texture on the ground. They had fought in grass, but now they fought on wood. The wind here had more power, as though they were exposed on some high place. He longed to look about him, and cried, with clenched teeth and staccato voice, ‘Where are you driving me, you devil!’
A calm voice answered him. ‘It seems that you drive me. But have a care. Fight straight. We have a bare four feet. A sheer drop either side.’
It was then that Foulkes heard above the wind the rushing torrent of dyke water meeting sea, and he realized with sickening horror that they were fighting on top of the Sluice Gates. He remembered them, and thought of the black malevolent ooze so far below. He knew he had been trapped, and rage, blacker than the mud, filled him. Watching Syn’s eyes he suddenly flung his burning torch straight at his face. Syn saw it coming like a meteor. No room to step aside, his mind and sword were simultaneous. His blade flew up and with the flat he struck the flying missile, sending it hurtling overhead to fall in an arc of fire sizzling in the sea. He felt a sudden numbness in his hand as Foulkes’s thrust caught his upturned arm. By the look in Foulkes’s eyes he knew that he had fouled to make him drop his sword, and was waiting then to pounce and murder. But Syn leapt first, and with a throttled cry Foulkes dropped his sword with Syn’s blade through his neck, and clawing the air fell backwards into space, a long black fall and then — a blacker death.
