Black August (38 page)

‘We're going to Shingle Street,' said Cattermole briefly—‘they've got arms there—haven't they?'

‘Yes,' said Kenyon, ‘plenty. So unless you all want to get killed, you'd better keep away.'

‘That's my business—how about sentries?'

‘Yes, they've got sentries too. You'll never take them by surprise. For God's sake be warned in time.'

‘You can keep your warnings. What's the password?'

‘There isn't one.'

‘Naturally you'd say that, you thieving, murdering swine, but I'll unloose your tongue. Bring me a flaming stick, Rush.'

Rush pulled a long branch from the blazing pile and Cattermole took it from him: ‘Now, are you going to talk?'

‘I can't,' protested Kenyon, ‘there is no password. You'll be met by the ordinary challenge—that's all.'

‘Hold him, chaps.' As Kenyon's arms were seized from behind. Cattermole thrust the lighted end of the stick against his chest. He flung back his head in quick recoil, choking as the stench of burning clothing filled his nostrils.

‘I can't,' he gasped again, struggling violently with his captors as the sharp pain seared his chest. ‘If I said “stale fish” you might believe me, but there
is
no password.'

Cattermole removed the brand and nodded with slow understanding. ‘All right,' he muttered, ‘I reckon that's the truth, but what's the most likely spot to get through the sentries, eh?' He advanced the red-hot piece of wood again threateningly.

Kenyon, the water starting from his eyes, sought wildly for some sympathetic face among the crowd, but their famished features showed only grim approval of their leader's tactics and a hard, gloating amusement.

‘Don't be a fool,' he protested, ‘if I tell you, what guarantee have you got that I'm not lying; and they'll shoot you down whichever way you try to rush them.'

‘Well, you'll be the first to get it in the neck if that's the truth so you'd best take us the safest way,' Cattermole laughed with a bitter, scornful savagery. ‘Why else d'you think I saved you from being lynched on the hill there? Come on, chaps, who wants red meat for supper!'

It was useless to argue further. Maddened by hunger the mob were prepared to take any risk and were as clay in the hands of their determined leader. With an answering shout they followed Cattermole from the dell as he pushed Kenyon before him, jabbing him in the back with his own pistol.

Muttering and cursing as they stumbled in the darkness the whole party streamed across the heath and out on to the road, then in a straggling body they set off towards Shingle Street.

As he trudged along, the unwilling head of the procession, Kenyon racked his brains for a way out of his dilemma. There were by-paths through the marshes by which he could lead these maniacs so that they would get very near the defences before the challenge came, but that would be a sheer betrayal of his friends, yet there was no prospect of escape if he did otherwise and his whole soul revolted against the thought of a sudden and violent death.

In twenty minutes the short journey was accomplished; he stood again with the salt breath of the sea filling his lungs and heard the murmur of the surf upon the beaches. Only a few hundred yards in front lay Gregory's outposts.

‘Which way now?' came a sharp whisper. ‘And remember you'll get all that's left in this the moment your people open fire—that is if you can't stop ‘em. Now march!' Cattermole thrust the revolver into the middle of his back again.

‘To the left,' he gulped, ‘it will be easier there,' and he felt the hair prickling on his scalp as he led them deliberately in the direction of Silas's Redoubt, the strong point in Gregory's whole system of defences.

A sickening fear filled him that when the time came his courage would ebb away. Wedged in front of the party he would stand no earthly chance of surviving the murderous hail of bullets which would sweep across the open fields, and if by some miracle he did, Cattermole would shoot him from behind.

As they advanced across the seemingly endless field a light wind rustled the tall grasses. No sign of life came from the fortifications, invisible in the pitch blackness relieved neither by moon nor stars, and for a moment it flashed into Kenyon's mind that perhaps after all the garrison would be taken by surprise. It would mean life to him, but what of the others, and Ann might be among them now for there could be no doubt that she had got clean away. At every second he expected to stumble into one of the stake-filled pits—the sentries
must
be sleeping. Then a tiny bell tinkled in the distance, someone had stumbled over one of Gregory's alarm wires and instantly the challenge rang out:

‘Halt! who goes there!'

‘Friend,' rasped Kenyon.

‘Halt, friend, and give the countersign!'

Even in the second of horror and dismay, his gorge rising in a sickening fear, Kenyon found himself admiring Gregory for the faultless training of his little band. There was no trace of hesitation in the swift reply.

With a superhuman effort he braced himself. Then with all the force of his lungs he yelled: ‘I am Lord Fane but captured by the enemy—Guard, turn out!'

A single rifle cracked, then with a savage will to live he kicked
out violently behind and flung himself flat, dragging the two men who held his pinioned arms down with him.

His heel met solid flesh—there was a grunt and then a deafening report as the pistol went off behind his ear. Next second the whole emplacement had leapt into flame. Silas was in action.

Kenyon kneed one of his captors in the belly and kicked the other in the face, stood up, staggered, fell again while the bullets sang and whistled overhead. Screams, curses, blasphemies came from the miserable people caught in that open field of fire so skilfully planned by a brilliant tactician. He jerked himself to his knees only to flop head foremost into a muddy ditch. He wriggled out and lurched up the steep bank, catching his feet in one of treacherous, low-lying nets and sprawled his full length, howling with pain as an upturned nail penetrated his thigh. Groaning, he wriggled free of it, scrambled up once more and blundered on, uncertain of his position yet instinctively trying to avoid those horrid, stake-filled pits. A bullet, searing like a red-hot iron, ploughed through his shoulder. Another streaked through his hair, then suddenly a voice came sharp and clear only a few yards ahead: ‘Cease fire' and on a lower note but quite distinct: ‘They must have had enough by now. It may teach them to stick to their blasted ship.'

Sobbing like a child, Kenyon swayed towards the dark figure. It was Gregory, calmly directing fire from the parapet. As he fell against the earthworks Rudd, catching a glimpse of him, leaned forward with levelled pistol, then, thinking better of it, seized him by the collar and dragged him in.

‘Made a prisoner, eh?' Gregory's voice was cold. ‘Best shoot him and have done—we've no room for useless mouths in Shingle Street.'

But Rudd had felt the cords that secured Kenyon's arms and pulled him over on his back. He stopped for a second to peer into his begrimed and bloody face, then he stood up.

‘Lumme, if it ain't our bloomin' Lord.'

‘What!' snapped Gregory.

‘It is, sir, Mr. Fane ‘imself, or I'm a Dutchman.'

Then Gregory was kneeling beside him in the trench, his arms were free again, and Rudd was holding a flask of spirits to his lips.

‘Well done, Fane! Well done!' Gregory repeated over and over again with an unaccustomed tenderness in his voice. ‘Thank
God you got away. I suppose those blasted sailors caught you on your return trip?'

‘Sailors,' gasped Kenyon, spluttering as the fiery spirit burnt in his throat, ‘what sailors?'

‘Why those damned mutineers of course. The
Shark
anchored off here this afternoon and sent a landing party. They want to collar our supplies.'

‘These aren't sailors,' Kenyon stammered. ‘You've been massacring those poor devils of farmers that we robbed.'

‘Easy now,' Gregory threw an arm about his shoulders. ‘It's their own damn fault if they're fools enough to attack us here. The only people I'm scared of are the mutineers—you see they've got guns.'

At that moment there was a dull boom to seaward, a flash, and almost instantly a livid explosion on the beach a few yards short of the Martello Tower.

‘It's this little upsydisy wot we bin havin's woke 'em up, sir,' Rudd declared.

That's about it.' Gregory stared through his night glasses out over the darkened waste to seaward; ‘seeing us attacked they thought it a good time to join in.'

The clouds which had obscured the sky were travelling fast, and through a partial break some stars now lessened the blackness with a faint uncertain light.

The destroyer was just visible, a jagged outline low in the water, less than a mile from the shore. A flash came from her bow, another dull boom followed and almost instantly the crack of the shell as it landed in the marsh beyond the tower.

‘They're bracketin' on the Albert ‘All,' said Rudd.'

‘They shouldn't need to,' Gregory grunted, ‘but even if they're amateurs they're devilish dangerous with that gun. We must evacuate the tower at once—give Lord Fane a hand—come on!'

With Rudd's aid Kenyon limped down the trench; his shoulder had gone numb but his thigh was hurting badly where the nail had caught it, his chest was smarting, although he had been little more than singed, and his head seemed to open and shut with every step he took.

Gregory paused for a moment further along, where Silas was leaning against a traverse, hands in pockets, near a Lewis gun.

‘Keep a look out this side,' he warned him, ‘but it wasn't a landing party—only some farmers, and I should think they've had their belly full.'

‘If that's so I'd best go out and see if Fane's among the wounded.'

‘That's nice of you, Silas,' Kenyon stumbled forward, ‘but by a miracle I got through.'

‘My hat! Then there's a God in heaven yet.' The big man's voice came warm and cheerful as he gripped Kenyon by the arm.

‘Don't,' moaned Kenyon. ‘For God's sake—I'm hit.'

‘Sorry—brace up, old chap—but tell me, did you see the kid, or did they pinch you before you got to Orford?'

‘What, Ann! Yes and I was bringing her back with me, but we were separated—I—I'd hoped that she was here.'

Gregory shook his head. ‘No—I'd know of it if she'd turned up on her own.'

‘Then she's lost somewhere out on these cursed moors,' Kenyon passed his hand across his throbbing forehead wearily. ‘Oh, God! I'm sick with worry for her.'

‘Take a pull,' Silas tried to comfort him. ‘She's full of pluck so she'll make Shingle Street some time before the morning.'

A third explosion sounded from the beach and Gregory turned away quickly. ‘Come on, Rudd, that Martello was never built to resist modern shells—once they get the range they'll pound the place to pieces.'

He climbed out of the trench and with Rudd's aid Kenyon followed. Three minutes later they were in front of the Anchor.

‘Is Veronica in?' Kenyon asked Gregory.

‘I expect so.'

‘Then I'll get her to patch me up—I feel about all in.'

‘That's right, I expect you need a meal as well. Get Andrews to cook you something and open up one of his remaining bottles. If you feel fit enough you may be able to give us a hand later.' With a quick smile Gregory hurried on into the darkness.

Andrews stood in the porch of the inn watching the bombardment. ‘Why, sir, we'd given you up for lost,' he exclaimed as he saw Kenyon.

‘Had you—well, I'm back again, thank God. Where's my sister?'

‘You'll find her in the sitting-room. I tried to persuade her to come out here and see the fireworks—but she wouldn't. Still, I mustn't stay here talking when you've had no supper. I'll get the girls to cook you something.' With a friendly grin on his chubby face the little man went off towards the kitchen while Kenyon pushed open the sitting-room door.

Veronica lay back in a low arm-chair, her feet cocked up on the fire guard, showing a long length of leg, browned by three
weeks' exposure, to excellent advantage. She was reading and did not turn her head but gave a little gurgle of laughter.

‘Andrews, isn't Dickens too divine—do you think people ever really made love like that?'

‘I don't know—or care.' Kenyon closed his eyes and dropped on to the sofa.

‘Darling!' At the sound of his voice she cast the battered volume on the floor and jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, Kenyon, we've been worried stiff about you. I couldn't even watch the fighting for fear you were mixed up in it somewhere outside the camp—so I've been trying to sink myself in David Copperfield.'

‘I was,' he murmured. ‘They damn near killed me too.' Instantly Veronica was beside him, her long fingers tenderly investigating the cuts upon his head, and the wound which still ebbed blood in his shoulder. ‘My poor lamb, what have they done to you—I'll get some water to bathe that horrid place.'

As she left him Kenyon sank back on the pillow, his bodily distress momentarily submerged, now that he had time to think coherently again, in fear for Ann. She must have escaped when he was captured but what had happened to her since? Perhaps she was lost and crouching in some ditch, desperately frightened by those ghoul-like creatures who prowled the lanes, or worse, she might already have fallen prisoner to some gang of roughs. He knew that men had become crazed by their misfortunes; morals and all sense of decency had been flung aside, so it was hideously possible that these men turned brutes might seize upon any diversion which offered even temporary forgetfulness of their hunger. His tortured brain began to visualise the drama that might be proceeding in some lonely wood if half a dozen of them came upon a lovely girl alone and unprotected—fine sport for the night, to satiate at least one appetite.