The Peacock Throne (19 page)

No amount of pleading could induce the sun to speed its course, but morning eventually dawned. Fog shrouded the island as if a blanket had been pulled over her while she slept. No matter how hard she stared, Lydia could not discern whether the French ship still lay at anchor in the cove.

It had taken the better part of an anxiety-plagued hour for her to convince Mr Harting that the chance to retrieve the throne was worth the risk of capture. She doubted she'd have succeeded had it not been for Lord Danbury's shrewd support. His determination to catch the murderer rivalled her own. She smiled at the memory of his passionate arguments. He was such a contrast to Harting's cold containment. Fire had carried the day, however.

Following the scheme outlined by Sophie, Harting negotiated with Poiret for the use of an ox cart and a pair of the beasts, leaving behind the donkeys they had brought and stating that they were heading back to Établissement. Danbury sent the Longs back to Établissement with instructions to Captain Campbell to bring
Legacy
around to a cove on the other side of the island. Rather than returning to the village and parading the throne along the main street, the ship would come to them. With God's help they would be well away before the French realized they were gone.

They must avoid any action. Hearty though the men of
Legacy
were, seeking a battle with a ship of the line would amount to inviting a massacre.

With a confident stride, Danbury took the lead, followed closely by Harting. Just beyond sight of the plantation house, Sophie joined them.

She shot a glance behind her and then squared her shoulders. “This way.”

They followed her in silence, the trek leading them slightly south, and a little lower on the mountain. They had not even become winded when, half an hour later, Sophie slowed and motioned the rest of the group forward.

“There is the entrance,” she said, pointing.

Following her motion, Lydia noted a grouping of the granite boulders that peppered the mountainside. Even knowing a cave must be there, Lydia could detect no opening.

As one body, the party moved closer, circling the outcropping. Scarcely discernible amongst the undergrowth and a thick draping of vines lay the mouth of the cave. Impatiently, Lord Danbury thrust aside the foliage. The sailors lit several torches. Sophie again took the lead, guiding the group into the close darkness of the cave.

Some six feet inside, the cave widened into a larger chamber. Boards and rocks were piled together, partially blocking the entrance so that only one person at a time could enter. The sun quickly lost its power to pierce the gloom as they travelled further into the belly of the mountain.

Flickering torches cast eerie shadows and caused the darkness to huddle in the corners. Lydia shivered. Atmospheric. The perfect place for the heroine from one of Mrs Radcliffe's horrid novels. Lydia was determined that she would neither scream nor faint.

From behind a pile of rocks three figures emerged. Their tattered clothing and dark skin made it clear they were the escaped slaves. Making no attempt to play the dandy, Harting stepped forward and extended his hand.

The runaways eyed it for a moment, then Sophie's brother stepped forward and grasped it. “I am Emmanuel; this is Louis and Jean.”

“Marcus Harting.”

“The treasure you seek is this way,” Sophie gestured stiffly.

Holding his torch aloft, Anthony took the lead. Anticipation made him salivate and he swallowed. A centipede skittered across the floor before the light and his lips twisted in revulsion. At the back of the chamber the cave narrowed to form a tapering hall. This passage extended some thirty feet before the cave abruptly widened again.

There, tucked back against the rock wall so that it did not become visible until he cleared the passage, sat an enormous crate. Several of the boards had been pried away, revealing the throne. After all the time they had spent searching, the suddenness of its appearance left him speechless.

Wonderment swept through him as the first beam of torchlight illuminated the gold of the throne. Years of grit coated the gold and enamel now, but it still glowed in the firelight. A singly inlaid peacock was visible. Detailed with infinite delicacy and haughty with the assurance of the beautiful, it looked almost real in the wavering light.

He stepped forward and caressed one of the columns. “I can understand how they were all seduced by this. It is beautiful.”

“And deadly,” said Miss Garrett tartly.

“Hmm?” Anthony shook himself as if from a dream. “Yes, you're right. This thing has caused the death of too many men.”

Anthony turned to Sophie. “I cannot express how much you have helped us. We might never have found the throne without your help.”

The girl nodded gravely. “I must go back before I'm missed.”

Miss Garrett clasped the girl's hand and whispered something in
her ear. When she stepped away tears stood out on the girl's cheeks. She turned to her brother and embraced him.

“Be safe.” The words were little more than a whisper, but the cave had grown silent with all eyes on the emotional parting.

Emmanuel bent his head until it rested on top of his sister's. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he did naught to check them. He smoothed her hair and then cupped her face in his hands as if trying to imprint her features on his memory. “I will find a way to come back for you.” His voice cracked.

The girl squeezed his hands in hers, then turned and fled.

Anthony turned away. It seemed shameful to gawk at the man's anguish as if it were no more than a Punch and Judy pantomime. As he turned he caught sight of Harting. For an instant it appeared that tears sheened his eyes. Anthony blinked and stepped closer, but the agent turned away as if studying the crate encasing the throne. A moment later Harting turned back. No hint of sensibility lingered on his features. Instead he wore a nonchalant—even bored—expression, as if impatient to be on the move.

Anthony shook his head. This was not the time to worry about Harting and his foibles. He put the men to work repairing the crate, and cutting and smoothing good-sized branches from nearby trees.

It took more than three hours before they could attempt to move the throne. There wasn't room to negotiate the ox cart into the cave and get the throne atop it, so they looped ropes around the crate, and formed two teams of men to haul it.

The cut and trimmed branches were laid before the throne to make a rolling path. Miss Garrett ran back and forth, collecting the branches already traversed and repositioning them in front of the throne so it could continue its slow progress. Anthony and the other men bent their backs to hauling the throne.

The thing must have weighed more than a ton. Anthony strained with all his might. When finally they wrested the crate from the maw of the mountain, he collapsed on the ground, grimy, exhausted and panting.

The other men followed suit. Miss Garrett passed among them with a skin full of water. Anthony drank deeply, the lukewarm liquid wondrously welcome to his parched throat.

As the men prepared to raise the throne to the cart, Lydia was shunted to the fringes of the group, her offers of assistance brushed away.

With great care they lowered the throne to its side. The ropes were repositioned, and Lord Danbury handed the ends of the rope to a sailor, who scaled an overhanging tree like a monkey. The man looped the line over the sturdiest branch and fed the rest through a complicated series of block and tackle that his Lordship had included in their stores. Lydia had considered its weight many times, and wondered at its purpose. Now it was more than proving its worth.

In teams, the men hauled on the ropes until the throne began to rise from the ground. One of the oxen shied and Lydia rushed to help Harting gentle the beasts backward, until the cart was in place.

She held her breath as the men lowered the throne.

An ominous creaking issued from the ox cart.

Her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool.

Lord Danbury grimaced.

The cart held.

A whoop of satisfaction hailed the completion of the manoeuvre. Danbury turned to her and clasped her hands in his. He raised them to his lips but then blinked and dropped them as if she'd burnt him.

Unsure of how to respond, she rubbed her palms on her skirt.

Now they only had to get the throne off the mountain and onto the ship. Even to Lydia the thought held more mockery than good cheer. The effort required would be tremendous—almost overwhelming. How had the
Centaur
's crew managed to get the throne all the way up to the cave in the first place?

“We will show you a path. It is not far.” Emmanuel's deep-throated French silenced everyone near. A reminder that the enemy could be all too close.

The seamen lashed the throne to the cart to make it as steady as possible. Emmanuel walked before the cart, scouting out the easiest path by which to take the throne. Several sailors armed with long knives followed, hacking at the branches and overhanging vines to clear a way for the cart. Lydia and Lord Danbury walked on either side of the ox cart guiding the animals. Finally, Harting, armed with a pistol and musket, brought up the rear of the procession, keeping an eye out for attack.

The day took on a gruesome monotony. In the roughest areas they stopped altogether. Everyone in the party helped to flatten the undergrowth, move rocks, and uproot bushes. The three-mile trek loomed large.

By noon they had gone less than three quarters of a mile. Lord Danbury halted the grinding progress so they could eat and rest for a few minutes.

Lydia sat gratefully, far more interested in the water she clutched than the bread and cheese. She gestured up the hill at the swathe of trampled ground they had left behind them. “At least we're subtle.”

The gentlemen's eyes followed her gesture.

“We'll have to hope they don't stumble on our path,” Danbury shrugged.

“Or if they do, that they won't understand its significance,” Harting added.

“'Course they gon' find that trail and they gon' follow it straight to us. 'Cause they not worryin' with this great… monster.” Emmanuel aimed a kick at the wheel of the cart.

“Careful, my friend. You wouldn't want it to land on your foot,” Danbury said.

A faint crack sounded. Every eye turned towards the mountain.

“What was that?” asked Lord Danbury.

“It sounded like gunfire,” said Harting.

“Nah, it was this cart, about to give up the ghost,” chimed in one of the sailors.

“Let's go,” said Danbury. Uneasiness showed in his eyes and in his quick, jerky movements as he shouldered his gear.

Lydia sprang up and shouldered her knapsack.

Emmanuel pointed downhill to the northeast. “We should come to a path soon. We'll be able to go faster. But it's steep in places. We gon' have to help the oxen by pulling back on the cart, or they be overtaken and crushed.”

It took nearly an hour to reach the promised path.