Ask Me No Questions (40 page)

Jacob's foot groped out toward the fallen piece of stair railing as he cried shrilly. "You better stop, or I'll turn you into a hedgehog!"

Durwood had swung around again and at this he paused, irresolute. "I don't b'lieve you!"

"I'll make myself into one, an' show you!"

"See!" screamed Thorpe, as Jacob ducked.

Durwood turned but saw no boy this time. Instead, a hedgehog wandered about on the logs. It was the last straw. With a hoarse cry of terror, he staggered back.

Gripping his makeshift club, Chandler dragged himself to his knees.

Durwood's gaitered legs passed the crate. Chandler shoved the stair railing between them. With a startled yell, Durwood tripped, but fought to regain his balance. Chandler lurched to his feet and shoved hard, and the steward reeled back and disappeared through the aperture beside the steps. They heard his shocked cry, abruptly cut off.

The room rippled before Chandler's eyes. He reached out blindly.

Jacob sprang to support him. "Lean on me, sir!"

"An' me!" cried Thorpe, coming up on the other side.

"Don't—touch my arm!" gasped Chandler.

Thorpe looked frightened, then gripped the top of Chandler's breeches.

Between them, they manoeuvred to the steps and peered downward. Durwood lay in a huddled heap on the floor of the storage room.

In a quivering voice Jacob asked, "Is he—"

"I don't know," said Chandler. "Are you Jacob, or… ?"

"Yessir. That's Thorpe. He's my twin."

Chandler peered at the two blurred faces. "Rascals," he said thickly and sagged against the wall.

Thorpe gave a squeal of fright.

Jacob stammered, "We b-better tie up your hurt, sir!"

The wound was bleeding, but only sluggishly. Probably, thought Chandler, because the ball was still in him. To expect the twins to tear up shirts, then struggle to tie so difficult a bandage and to tie it tight enough to be of use would be asking a great deal of two little boys. And would likely be just a waste of time. If he moved fast, he might be able to hold out long enough to accomplish his purpose. The boys helped him back to the crate, and he sat on it and took two healthy swallows from the bottle. He wasn't fond of gin, and it made him cough, which was racking, but he began to feel less faint. He looked at the two so similar, so scared young faces, and managed a grin.

"A fine time you've had… with us, haven't you? Well, now you're going to have to help me, twins. I've got to get up on the roof. The fire has to be put out, or… or another ship will go down."

They looked at each other doubtfully, but agreed to go up with him.

He knew what the wind would be like up there, and with the glass walls broken away in spots, and the flames blowing about… And they were so small. At least Farrier still lay where he had fallen. Obliging of the beastly fellow. Chandler said, "No. Thank you, but I want you to… to find something to tie up that bad man over there. Get his arms behind him if you can, and tie his thumbs together. Use the riband from his hair."

"There's some rope over by the logs," said Thorpe.

"Good! Use that for his feet. Tie your knots tight as you can. Then, go down and do the same to the other man." They looked frightened, and he said, "You've been very brave. Do your best, then run and bring help. You understand?"

They nodded obediently. Chandler took another pull at the bottle, restrained a cough, and felt stronger.

The boys helped him to get the ladder propped up again. His knees were shaky, and the slightest movement of his head sent such a lance of pain through his shoulder that he thought the shot must have broken his collarbone. But he'd manage. He must manage. He looked down at the twins. "Be as quick as you can," he said and added with a quivering smile, "Good luck, you scamps!"

He climbed the ladder one rung at a time, hanging on with his left hand, swearing in anguish with every step. When he reached the top, the wind sent his hair streaming, and heat scorched at his face. The logs were piled high in the great brazier. Flames and sparks shot at him when he clambered up, and he retreated until his back touched what was left of the glass walls. Looking about, he located an iron stand containing a heavy pair of tongs and a poker. If he could get the logs out of the brazier and shove them through a hole in the wall… He managed to pick up the tongs, but his attempt to use his right hand to grip the poker was useless, and the pain made him feel sick and so dizzy that he abandoned the effort. He'd have to contrive with one hand.

He advanced on the brazier determinedly. The top log was fairly easy, for it was balanced on the others, and above the iron cage. He got the tongs under it, and on the second try it rolled onto the floor. He made his way around the edge of the roof, but the gale caught him, almost knocking him into the flames. He fought to keep upright, then barely avoided tumbling through a yawning hole in the window-wall where the glass was gone from top to bottom. It was a good thing the boys hadn't come up, he thought.

But this was where he could dispose of the logs. It was tricky, but at last he'd rolled the blazing log to the hole and with a lucky break in the wind, was able to send it plunging down.

"Look out below," he muttered foolishly, and then peered into the night, straining his eyes seaward. Gradually, he was able to distinguish the lights of the ship. Closer inshore this time. God send they would realize that this was the wrong light, but it was taking so long to put the confounded fire out. Hurry! Hurry!

The next two logs were much more difficult. The tongs were hot now, and his hand was scorched. When he went back for log number four, the wind shifted and he had to again retreat from licking tongues of flame. He advanced once more and gave a feeble cheer when the fourth log was despatched. But there were still four left, and they were big fellows, and it was damnably hard to maneouvre them over the edge of the brazier. It seemed to take forever to get number five upright. The smoke blew into his eyes momentarily blinding him and he blinked tears away, waiting till the wind slackened. With his next effort the accursed log fell flat once more and he groaned in frustration. If
only
he could move his right arm!

Rain sheeted through the break in the wall, drenching him. It was welcome, but infuriating to think that with all that water only a few feet above he could not get it in here to put out this stupid fire. It seemed so unfair that when they wanted the fire to burn in the book room, it so often persisted in going out… He was getting terribly tired, and Lord above, but his shoulder hurt like fury. He said sternly, "Buck up, Gordie! You've only just been hit, don't be a weakling. Old Quentin rode for days—wasn't it days?— with a musket ball through him!" If Quentin could do it… Aha! He'd worked the confounded log upright again. Now if he could just get round to the other side of the brazier… but the beastly object was… dodging about so…

Horrified, he found that he was on his knees. "Get up, you idiot!" But he couldn't get up. He couldn't even lift the tongs any more. Only four more logs, but they were burning merrily… sending out a fine light. Just four more… and he was weak as any kitten. He'd failed… Failed his father, and all those poor folk on the…

Hands were pulling at him. He peered dazedly into a mud-streaked face with wet hair plastered about it, and two great eyes, tearful, tired, yet full of joy.

"Ruth!" he gasped. "But…"

"I'm here, my darling. How wonderfully well you have done! And—oh! your poor arm!"

"Logs," he mumbled weakly. "Ruth, I—I can't—"

She blinked tears away, but held the gin bottle to his lips. "Drink up, lushy one!"

He did. And she had come to him! Her dear arm was about him, and the love in her eyes made it all worthwhile and so heartened him that he was able to get up.

Between them, they conquered the last four logs. Ruth threw down the poker, flung her arms about Chandler's unsteady figure, and they both cheered.

Afterwards, he was never quite sure whether he climbed down the ladder, or fell down it, but somehow they were all the way to the foot of the tower, and Jacob and Thorpe, shouting with excitement, were rushing to hug them.

But in that moment of victory, came crushing defeat, for Chandler's dimming eyes lit on the piled boxes and crates. "Oh, my God!" he groaned. "I'd forgot all this!"

Supporting him as best she could, Ruth asked, "Whatever is it?"

"Smuggled goods from… from the last wreck. Durwood left it all here to incriminate us when the dragoons come!"

"Oh, heavens! We must hide it!"

He sighed helplessly. He was much too weak now to lift even one of those heavy crates. Nor could Ruth and two small boys hope to move it all, even if there was anywhere to hide it. Poinier would arrive at any second with Farrier's dragoons. It was remarkable, in fact, that they hadn't come before this.

His heart contracted as the outer door crashed open.

Through the maelstrom of wind and rain came a voice raised in anger. "I'll tell you what, Chandler, you've an odd way of thanking your friends for services rendered! Your blasted flaming log damn near brained me!"

A very wet August Falcon stamped inside, shaking water from his tricorne. Following, in a soaking wet uniform came a dragoon… only it was Jamie Morris!

"What… the deuce… ?" said Chandler faintly.

Morris battled the door shut, whereupon it slammed open again, and Sir Brian came in, accompanied by the Reverend Mr. Aymer carrying a lantern.

Sir Brian peered around the dim room. "Is that you, Gordon? What the devil's going on here? Are you responsible for that damnable fire on the—"

"He is responsible for putting it out," interrupted Ruth, irked.

"Tossed burning logs down onto people's heads," grumbled Falcon.

"This—this room is full of smuggled goods, sir," said Chandler through stiffly uncooperative lips. " 'Fraid I wasn't able to—"

"Full of—
what
?" roared Sir Brian.

"Cargo, stolen from the
Empress of Calcutta
," said Ruth. "It was brought here by your horrid steward, who nigh killed Gordon."

Sir Brian said in a changed voice, "Gordie? Are you all right, boy?"

"Just… a trifle damaged," muttered Chandler, wanting very much to lie down.

"He is not 'a trifle damaged,' " Ruth contradicted. "He has been shot and has been bleeding for hours!"

Sir Brian ran forward. "Good God!"

"Jupiter!" gasped Morris. "Either I am gone demented—"

"About time you admitted it," said Falcon.

"—or there are
two Jacobs
!" finished Morris.

Four startled pairs of eyes turned to the twins.

"Has it occurred to anyone that these goods can put your heads at risk?" enquired Aymer in an unprecedentedly crisp voice. "With the estate crawling with dragoons, I'd think it logical to tuck it all away somewhere."

Sir Brian, one arm about his drooping son, said bitterly, "Logical, but impossible, alas. Where the devil could we hide it in time?"

"I know where," said Ruth.

Chandler sighed, and lay down.

"Gone?" said Chandler, bewildered. "All of 'em?"

"Neither mourned nor forgotten," said Sir Brian grimly.

"The troopers won't be forgot," put in Morris. "They were a great help out at your Home Farm, old boy."

Falcon said dryly, "Which you may live to regret, you block."

They had all gathered in the sunny bedchamber on this bright morning and positioned themselves on or near the bed where Chandler lay propped up with pillows, his right shoulder heavily bandaged and the arm strapped to his side. Ruth's chair was drawn very close against the bed so that she might hold his hand. Sir Brian sat on the side of the bed, Morris was perched on the end, Falcon leaned against the clothes press, and Jacob and Thorpe sat cross-legged on the floor with Hercules between them, panting happily from one to the other, but keeping a watchful eye on his god.

"Why should I regret it?" asked Chandler, flinching slightly as he forgot and turned his head.

"Not you," said Falcon. "Morris. The birdwit was in uniform and they had no choice but to follow orders he had no legal right to give."

Chandler stared at Morris in helpless confusion.

"Never fret, dear boy," said Morris. " 'Tis simplicity itself. Unhappily, it took us two days to get back to Town, and I suddenly recollected that m'third sister was getting married at St. George's. They all want to be married in Hanover Square nowadays, y'know. I'd promised to attend in uniform, so I had to rush to my flat and change clothes while Falcon went off to tell Rossiter how matters stood here."

Falcon took up the tale. "I wasn't able to tell Ross, unfortunately. He was gone frippering down to Promontory Point to see about buying his papa's estate back from Rudi Bracksby. I was on my way home when I caught a glimpse of a very slippery customer named Poinier. We know he's a member of"—he checked, looked at Sir Brian, and reworded—"of an ugly set, and he was going into a house—" Another pause, his glance this time turning to Ruth. "Well, never mind all that. I sent a boy running to St. George's with a note for Morris, and—"

"And I joined him as soon as I could get away," put in Morris. "When Poinier left the house, we followed him. Thought for sure the fellow would just go to his lodgings, but instead his coach turned onto London Bridge, He was traveling the Dover Road when we lost him in that abominable hurricane."

"We came here," resumed Falcon, "just on the off-chance this might be his destination. We were much delayed, of course. Frankly, I doubted we'd ever get through, for the roads were in a most ghastly mess. We had to walk the last mile, and when we reached your gates there was a troop of dragoons hanging about and generally making themselves useless. And then, who should come running up but our lost quarry."

Chandler said, "That must have been when Poinier had been sent down to fetch the dragoons to catch me with all my guilty loot. How ever did you manage to keep him from doing so?"

"I?" Falcon drawled, "But my dear fellow, I'd not dream of interfering with any order dear Farrier had sent forth."