I tried to console myself that I'd come out of desperate straits before-aye, but wasn't my luck about due to run out, then? No, no, Jesus would see the repentant sinner right, and I would never swear or fornicate or steal or lie again—I strove to remember the seven deadly sins, to make sure I missed none of them, and then cudgelled my brains for the Ten Commandments, so that I could promise never to break them again—although, mind you, I'd never set up a graven image in my life.
I should have felt purified and at peace after all this, but I found I was just as terrified as ever, so I ended by damning the whole system. I knew it would make no difference, anyway.
That next day was interminable; my heart was in my mouth every time footsteps approached the cabin door, and it was almost a relief when Sapten and his two companions came for me in the evening. They brought a good deal of gear with them, explaining that we should make all our preparations here before setting out, and just the activity of getting ready took my mind momentarily off the horrors ahead.
First Hansen and I stripped right down, so that we could be rubbed all over with grease as a protection against the cold when we took to the water. Sapten whistled softly when he saw my scars—the place where a pistol ball had burrowed from my side towards my spine, the whip-marks left by the swine Gul Shah, and the white weal on my thigh where my leg was broken at Piper's Fort. It was an impressive collection—and even if most of them were in the rear, they weren't the kind of decorations you normally see on a coward.
"You've been lucky," says he. "So far."
When we had been thoroughly greased, we put on rough woollen underclothes—a most disgusting process—and then heavy woollen shirts and smocks, tucked into our breeches. We wore stockings and light shoes, and Sapten bound bandages round our wrists and ankles to keep our clothing gathered in place.
"Now, then," says he, "to arms," and produced a couple of heavy broadswords and an assortment of hunting knives. "If you want fire-arms you'll have to persuade our friends in Jotunberg to give you some," he added. "Useless to try to take them with you."
Hansen took a sword and a long dagger, but I shook my head.
"Haven't you a sabre?"
Sapten looked doubtful, but a search among his band of brigands outside produced the required article—it was old but a good piece of steel, and I shuddered inwardly at the sight of it. But I took it— if I have to fight, God forbid, I'll do it with a weapon I understand, and if I was no Angelo[38] with a sabre, at least I'd been trained in its use. For the rest, they gave me back my seaman's knife, and each of us was provided with a flask of spirits.
We carried the swords on our backs, looped securely at shoulder and waist, and Hansen bound a length of cord round his middle. There was some debate as to whether we should take flint and steel, but there seemed no point to it. Finally, we each had an oilskin packet containing some meat and bread and cheese, in case, as Sapten cheerfully remarked, we had time to stop for a snack.
"You may feel the need of something when you get out of the water," he added. "Eat and drink if chance serves. Now, then, Mr Thomas Arnold, attend to me. From here we ride to the Jotunsee, which will take us the best part of three hours. There the boat is waiting, with two stout men at the oars; they will take you as close to the castle as seems advisable—there is a moon, but we can't help that. The clouds are thick, so you should get close in unobserved. Then you swim for it—and remember, they will be watching and listening in yonder."
He let me digest this, his head cocked and his hands thrust deep in his pockets—strange how these pictures stay with one—and then went on:
"Once inside the castle, Hansen is in command, you understand? He will decide how to proceed—who is to guard the prince, who to lower the bridge. So far as we know, it is wound up and down by a windlass. Knock out the pin and the bridge will fall. That will be our signal to storm the causeway—fifty men, led by myself and Grundvig here." He paused, pulling out his pouch. "It is not our intention to leave any survivors of the garrison."
"They must all die," says Grundvig solemnly.
"To the last man," says Hansen.
It seemed to call for something from me, so I said: "Hear, hear."
"Serve us well in this," added Sapten, "and the past will be forgotten. Try to play us false—" He left it unspoken. "Now, is all clear?"
It was clear, right enough, all too clear; I did my best not to think of it. I didn't want to know any more dreadful details— indeeed, the only question in my mind was a completely unimportant one, and had nothing to do with what lay ahead. But I was curious, so I asked it.
"Tell me," I said to Hansen. "Back in Strackenz City—what made you think I wasn't Carl Gustaf?"
He stared at me in surprise. "You ask now? Very well—I was not sure. The likeness is amazing, and yet … there was something wrong. Then I knew, in an instant, what it was. Your scars are in the wrong places—the left one is too low. But there was more than that, too. I don't know—you just were not Carl Gustaf."
"Thank'ee," says I. Poor old Bismarck—wrong again.
"How did you come by these scars?" asked Sapten.
"They cut them in my head with a schlager," says I, offhand, and Grundvig drew in his breath. "Oh, yes," I added to Hansen, "this is no kindergarten you are venturing into, my lad. These are very practical men, as you may discover." I was eager to take some of the bounce out of him.
"That'll do," growls Sapten. "All ready, then? Lassen sie uns gehen."
There were horses outside, and men moving about us in the gloom; we rode in silent cavalcade through the woods, along a path that wound upwards into the Jotun Gipfel, and then down through dense thickets of bush and bracken. There was no chance of escape, even if I had dared; two men rode at my stirrups all the way. We halted frequently—while scouts went ahead, I suppose—and I took the opportunity to sample the contents of my flask. It held brandy, about half a pint, and it was empty by the time the journey was half done. Not that it made much odds, except to warm me; I could have drunk a gallon without showing it just then.
At last we halted and dismounted; shadowy hands took my bridle, and I was pushed forward through the bushes until I found myself on the banks of a tiny creek, with water lapping at my feet. Hansen was beside me, and there was much whispering in the dark; I could see the vague outline of a boat and its rowers, and then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and through the tangled branches at the creek's mouth I saw the choppy grey water of the lake, and rising out of it, not three furlongs off, the stark outline of Jotunberg.
It was a sight to freeze your blood and make you think of monsters and vampires and bats squeaking in gloomy vaults—a gothic horror of dark battlements and towers with cloud-wrack behind it, silent and menacing in the moonlight. My imagination peopled it with phantom shapes waiting at its windows—and they wouldn't have been any worse than Rudi and Kraftstein. Given another moment I believe I would have sunk down helpless on the shore, but before I knew it I was in the boat, with Hansen beside me.
"Wait for the moon to die." Sapten's hoarse whisper came out of the dark behind, and presently the light was blotted out, and Jotunberg was only a more solid shadow in the dark. But it was still there, and all the more horrid in my mind's eye. I had to grip my chin to stop my teeth chattering.