Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [70]
Joanna gave a tiny moan and her fingers dug into his arm. “Oh, Clay, it’s so futile. So horribly pointless. It won’t gain them anything.”
He shook his head and his voice was somber. “I’m not so sure. What else is there left for people like these? They accept degradation and brutality for year after year, but finally there comes a time when a man must turn and fight. His final and ultimate protest against any tyrant is to give his life in open defiance, and that can never be futile. One day it will achieve something, one day all the dead and the petty little insurrections over the years will be seen to form part of a pattern. Perhaps then the thing they died for will be achieved.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like that before,” she said, and looked up at him, a frown on her face.
He laughed grimly. “Perhaps I’ve never felt quite like this before. The thing that hurts is the knowledge that soon the military will arrive and that ultimately, whatever happens, these people will be the ones to suffer. Not Burke or your uncle.”
She held his arm and they peered down below as the smoke and the shouting, and the cries of the wounded drifted up toward them and then Clay stiffened. He held his face very close to the bars, and when he turned, his face was grave. “They’ve set the house on fire.”
“Are you sure?” she said.
A great dark cloud of smoke billowed up past the window to answer her and Clay ran to the door and hammered on it. “For God’s sake, let us out!” he cried. “The house is on fire.”
There was a sound of movement outside, and then the guard answered in a frightened voice. “I haven’t got the key—Mr. Burke has it.”
“Then go and get it,” Clay insisted.
“But he told me to stay here,” the guard replied, and there was panic in his voice. Suddenly, he gave a stifled exclamation and turned away from the door, and Clay heard him running along the corridor.
12
From below came the sound of breaking glass and then a roar from the mob, and smoke was sucked into the room through the bars, sending a flicker of panic moving inside Clay. Joanna pushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead and said calmly, “What happens now, Clay? Do you think he’ll come back?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. From the sound of him, he was scared out of his wits.”
He picked up a heavy wooden chair in both hands and battered it against the door, gritting his teeth against the pain which flooded through his wounded arm. Again and again, he swung the chair, until it splintered in his hands and he dropped it to the floor with a curse.
He looked desperately around the room, but there was nothing—nothing at all, and then Joanna pointed to the bed. “What about using that? I could help you.”
He pulled the blankets and mattress away and examined the narrow truckle bed. It was solidly constructed of iron, heavy and durable. He tipped it over onto its side and lifted one end. Joanna took the other and, swinging together, they attacked the door.
Almost at once, it started to give and he swung again with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in his arm. Splinters started to fly, and then a crack appeared in one of the planks as if by magic. The door sagged suddenly in the center, and although the lock stayed firm, planks bulged outwards under repeated blows. He dropped his end of the bed and tore at the planks with his hands until the gap was large enough to pass through.
Smoke drifted along the corridor toward them and he took Joanna’s hand and plunged toward the servants’ stairs. They descended to the second floor in safety, but as he put foot on the next flight of stairs, a sudden rush of heat enveloped them and tongues of flame licked at the dry woodwork.
He turned desperately, a great fear in his heart. From the smell of the smoke, the fire had been started in the lamp oil store and now it was spreading rapidly through the old bones of this ancient house.
He stopped and leaned against the wall, coughing as smoke touched the back of his throat. Joanna leaned against him and she was trembling. She