The Sultan's Daughter by Dennis Wheatley Read Free Book Online Page B

Dieppe. What in hell’s name led you to bring your ship up-Channel?’
    The Lieutenant bridled. ‘After our experience this afternoon surely you would not have had me go about and again risk capture? We might well have run into that frigate.’
    â€˜In darkness and with our lights out there would not have been one chance in five hundred of our doing so,’ Roger snapped. ‘And here am I, a half-hour after midnight, still several hours’ distant from the place at which I wished to land.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mr. Brook.’ Formby’s voice held evident contrition. ‘I was under the impression that you’d mentioned that cove south of Dieppe only as a preference, and that itwould have served your purpose to be landed at any quiet spot on the French coast. But I’ll put her about and beat down to Dieppe if you wish.’
    Roger considered for a minute. With the wind in its present quarter it was unlikely that they could reach Dieppe before six o’clock in the morning, and that was much too late to risk a landing. He could require Formby to turn back towards England, cruise off the Sussex coast for twelve hours, then run in again to put him ashore near Dieppe the following night. But that would mean the loss of yet another day in reporting to General Bonaparte; worse, the wind might change, rendering it impossible for him to land in France for another forty-eight hours or more.
    Although he hated being at sea in uncertain weather, he had deliberately chosen the much longer crossing to Dieppe, rather than the short one across the Straits of Dover. It had been only a minor consideration that Lymington was one of the most convenient ports from which to cross to Dieppe and that, if he were held up by the weather, he could wait there in the comfort of his old home instead of at a draughty inn in Margate or Sandwich. His choice had been governed by the fact that, whereas Calais was over a hundred and fifty miles from Paris, Dieppe was less than a hundred.
    In the days of the
ancien régime
the difference would have mattered little. The
corvée
—the system of conscripting the peasants once a year for forced labour on the roads—had been one of the most bitterly resented impositions of the Monarchy, but it had kept the roads in excellent condition. Moreover, every few miles there had been Royal Post Houses—well-run hostelries at which travellers could secure good meals and relays of horses without delay or difficulty.
    All that had been entirely changed by the Revolution. The roads had become nobody’s responsibility. After six years of neglect they had fallen into an appalling state of disrepair, pockmarked with pot-holes sometimes as much as two feet deep and, in wet weather, having in places stretches of almost impassable mud. So many horses had been commandeered for the Army that relays often took hours to obtain, and the inns in which travellers were compelled to wait had become bug-ridden dens staffed by surly servants. To frequent breakdownsand other discomforts had to be added the lawless state of the countryside with the risk of being held up and robbed by bands of deserters.
    In consequence, where in the old days it had been possible to travel from Calais to Paris overnight, it could now take up to four days in winter, with the certainty of passengers having time and again to get out, unload their vehicle and, knee-deep in mud, manhandle it out of the deep ruts in which it had become bogged down.
    With fury in his heart, Roger thought of the additional fifty miles of such nightmare travel he would now have to face if he were landed in the neighbourhood of Boulogne. But he decided that he could not afford to risk another night at sea, with the possibility that the weather might turn foul and delay his landing by several days.
    Turning to Formby, he said coldly, ‘Very well, then. Run in, and we will reconnoitre the coast for a place suitable for me