Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal (32 page)

'Out of order, sir?' 'Dead.'

'And what about the line to other places, sir?' 'The line across the river to Cold Springs is not responding either.'

Verity's eyes brightened.

'This telegraph, sir. Where is it and what's it like?'

'Why,' said the West Point captain, 'it was laid ten years ago from New York along the east bank of the Hudson. At the request of the Academy it extends across the river just below us.'

' 'ow, sir?'

'Where the river is narrowest and the cliffs at their highest it is carried across between two posts. It is the normal practice with telegraphs, sergeant. It comes ashore on this bank where the cliffs are wooded and then is carried through the trees to the telegraph office of the Academy.'

Verity stared incredulously at them all.

'Then there's a line across the river where any man could get at it?'

There was general laughter.

'Sergeant,' said the West Point captain kindly, 'you are not to imagine that we have strung a tightrope across the river for Lieutenant Dacre's benefit! The telegraph wire is copper, quarter of an inch thick. I doubt that our man would trust his life to that. Even though there be eight wires, they are spaced parallel over a three-foot width. A man could grasp only two of them at a time.'

'What I imagine, sir, is a lot o' things,' said Verity softly, 'I imagine Lieutenant Dacre with a broad stout strap fast to both wrists and going over all them wires as he pulls across, hanging beneath. He may hold two, but his weight is spread over all. I daresay I'd trust meself to four-inch thickness of copper, and I ain't nearly his weight, sir. Then again, I imagine Mr Dacre knocking out the insulating cups on the top of one pole and taking his time to shoot 'em off' the opposite one. Don't have to be accurate, sir, not when you got all day to do it. Once the wires lie slack, he might twist them into a cable almost before he started. Course, I don't know about 'im being a tightrope artist. One thing we do know, however, about the caper in Philadelphia. He got from that attic in Juniper Street to the roof of the Mint on the far side of the road. And if he was that high in the sky he must have done it by rope, unless he sprouted wings, sir! With respect, sir!'

'Sergeant!' snapped Teesdale reprovingly.

The West Point captain raised a soothing hand.

'We need hardly take your word for it, sergeant. By simple electrical measurement we can tell where a line is broken. The higher the insulation, the shorter the length of line left intact. The higher the capacity on a galvanometer reading, the shorter the length. Both tests are being made. We pride ourselves here on the practical and scientific quality of our education.'

'So do Lieutenant Dacre, sir,' said Verity sullenly.

Presently, the telegraph officer arrived.

'Through the roof, captain!' he said excitedly. 'Both readings! Far side of the river, I'd guess.'

'Well, Sergeant Verity,' said the West Point captain, ‘I guess that's cards, spades, and trumps to you!'

'Sir, 'ave the honour to request to be allowed to make a suggestion, sir!'

'By all means, sergeant.'

'Sergeant Crowe to be got across the river to the far side where he may head off Lieutenant Dacre just at the post where the telegraph do come ashore there, sir. 'im to take Miss Jolly, and her to be displayed by the post so that if Lieutenant Dacre should be hesitating, he'll be over in a flash and Sergeant Crowe and party may fall upon him, sir, them being concealed. Since Lieutenant Dacre can't escape on this side, request I be allowed to track after him to the telegraph post over here, sir, just to make sure we got the scent. I can follow him by the route of the posts from the office, sir. That way, if I'm wrong, it's only Sergeant Crowe, the young person, me and a few others that'll be wasting our time, sir. The rest can search the grounds and see 'is 'ighness safe. Ain't no reason why it should ever be made into any kind of public scandal.'

Teesdale shrugged and looked at Oliphant and the West Point captain.

'Sergeant Crowe!' said Oliphant. 'You have your orders, it seems!' 'Sir!'

Crowe hurried away and Verity turned to Teesdale, holding his tall hat under his left arm as he came to attention.

'Permission to proceed in accordance with suggestion, sir!'

'Oh,' said Teesdale ungraciously, 'very well then!'

Verity was uneasily aware of the amount of time that had been lost in arguing his case. But he had certain advantages denied to Dacre. The cracksman would have to make a sedate withdrawal, strolling casually toward the woods in order not to draw attention to himself. Verity ran. Dacre presumably had to dispose of the uniform in which Verity supposed he had disguised himself, and must dress once again as a casual visitor to Cold Springs or one of the towns on the far side. Moreover, Dacre might have to wait before crossing the river if there were strollers in the woods or even a steamboat passing underneath. Nothing was certain, but Verity believed that he could catch the cracksman as he had never believed in his abilities before. At the worst, he stood an excellent chance of catching Dacre suspended above the cliffs and the river, Crowe waiting on one side and Verity on the other. It had been different on the
Fidele,
even at River Gate, where he had so nearly been destroyed by his unseen adversary. Now he had learnt his lesson from the lethal jokes played by Dacre and by the example of Sergeant Crowe's lithe skill.

Underfoot, the ground, as he passed the last buildings of the Academy and turned into the trees, was soft and deeply-carpeted with russet drifts of fallen leaves. It was impossible to walk silently but he recalled something Crowe had said about walking with an irregular pace which might somehow be confused with the rustling of the branches in the wind. He found that it was impossible to accomplish and he resumed his loping plod. At every tree he expected Dacre to lunge out upon him from behind its gnarled trunk. But the choice was between safety and circumspection or catching the cracksman before he reached his lifeline across the river. Crowe might or might not gain the opposite cliff in time. It hardly seemed to matter in the grand scheme of things. Verity knew that he, and he alone, must be the man to seize Verney Dacre. He thought of the expressions on the faces of superior officers who had sworn to the cracksman's death three years before. Even as he ran, he chortled breathlessly.

Something was wrong. As the chortling broke into a heaving laugh, he realized that he was gripped by mounting excitement, looking forward to the final struggle as a child looks forward to a game. The growing exhilaration overcame his sense of caution or self-preservation. It crossed his mind that in the hunt for Dacre he had caught something of the cracksman's own careless frenzy in his lust to be revenged upon Jolly. Yet Verity felt as he ran that he wanted to shout with the triumph of the chase.

The line of telegraph posts came out on the cliff and followed the river. Verity glanced down at the rocks and currents below. The prospect of Dacre meeting his death in a final plunge had a sobering effect even on his enemy. Downstream he could see the faint spider thread of the cable but no sign of the posts on either bank, nor of Dacre or Crowe. It seemed a long path to follow but, at the back of his mind, Verity knew this was to his advantage. The further the distance, the better his chance of overtaking the fugitive. Every minute that the hunt was prolonged brought Crowe and his companions closer to cutting off the cracksman's retreat on the far cliff.

As he panted closer to the crossing he saw that his likening of the cables to spiderwork was more apt than he had supposed. On both sides of the river, they had been dislodged from the white porcelain of their individual insulating-cups at the head of the posts and jumbled together. Looking again, he saw that Dacre had chosen his route with a skill that was admirable. The post on the far bank stood slightly higher than the nearer one. In consequence, Dacre had only to hold whatever rudimentary harness he employed so that it spread his weight over the wires above him. Hanging by this, he must have been able to glide forward and downward as effortlessly as a bird. Nor was that all. Attached to him in some way there had evidently been the end of a thin strong rope, uncoiling from its drum to the far shore as his body's moving weight pulled upon it. Now its nearer end was fastened to the head of the post, and the further end to the base of the post on the far side, so that it was taut and level.

Verity stood motionless. Ahead of him, in a space between the trees, he saw the tall, unmistakable figure of Verney Dacre, the fair head bowed as he bundled a grey tunic up and scooped fallen chestnut leaves over it. Whatever suit of his own he might have was evidently on the far side of the river, for the cracksman was dressed in the uniform of his profession: a pair of tight black trousers, a black jersey, and a black Balaclava which he pulled over his head and round his chin, unaware of the hunter behind him.

Verity took a step forward, knowing that he could hardly expect to get closer with Dacre hearing him. Better, then, to take advantage of the shock.

'Right, Mr Dacre,' he said loudly. 'Seems you and me is both ghosts with an account to settle then!'

Dacre spun round. The visible portion of his face seemed all the paler by contrast with the black woollen helmet. His dismay lasted for no more than a second or two.

'Oblige me,' he hissed softly, 'oblige me by standin' exactly where you are! I care more for what's on the far side of this river than for whether you live or die. You may have it either way!'

The barrel of the hunting rifle was levelled at Verity as Dacre backed toward the telegraph post, and Verity knew there was no more to lose. He guessed that the cracksman would hardly have had time to reload the gun. If he was wrong, a man who had already attempted to shoot him dead once was hardly likely to leave him alive now. He remembered stories of fairground performers who were alleged to catch bullets between their teeth and he wondered if such things were really possible.

'Stand fast!' shrieked Dacre, the barrel of the rifle coming up.

Verity ran to one side, gaining the cover of a tree, and heard Dacre curse. No! Of course it was unloaded. Had it been otherwise the first shot would have been fired already. The one hope was to go straight for him, before he had a chance to slip a round into the breach. Verity emerged from behind his tree and charged like an overheated bull at his tall, disdainful tormentor. Dacre reversed his grip on the gun, swinging the butt wildly at Verity's head. The plump sergeant felt the wind of the blow fan his cheek and then he was upon his man. But the strength in Dacre's thin wrists was beyond anything he had imagined. Verity felt himself whirled round with such force that the button of his coat and a fragment of cloth ripped away in Dacre's hand. He staggered back, just within reach of the gun, and picked it up. But he knew what he must do. Unarmed, he could settle with Dacre, but if the weapon were to change hands again there might be a different outcome. He ran to the edge of the cliff and whirled the rifle out into the air. It fell with apparent gentle grace, sailing like a bird's wing to smash at length in the rocks and currents below.

With victory in his heart, he turned to meet Dacre's attack. And as he did so, his right foot slid from under him on the slime of rotting leaves. Rising, he took Dacre's boot full in his stomach and a blow to the back of the neck as he fell. In the bright daze of nausea he knew that he was about to be killed. But there was no more than a deep silence and the awareness that he was alone. He pulled himself up and saw, far out over the vertiginous drop between the cliffs, the black figure of Verney Dacre, hanging by his hands from the rope, working fist over fist with frantic speed to reach the far side.

There was still no sign of Crowe and his men. Verity ran for the post and began to climb stumblingly, extemporizing his plan as he did so. He must catch Dacre, nothing less would do. Even if he could cut through the rope on this side, the cracksman might be close enough to the far shore to survive by holding fast. Indeed, it would provide him with a ready-made escape down to the river itself. Dacre had the advantage of a start but Verity swore to himself that he was the stronger and faster of the two men, despite his bulk. If he could overtake Dacre on the rope, that would do. If Dacre should reach the far side a little ahead, he would hardly have time to attend to the rope, even if Crowe were not already there to meet him. As the thoughts flashed one by one through his mind, Verity was already hanging by his hands, the coarse fibre of the rope burning his palms as he snatched his way hand over hand.

It seemed an absurd parody of the Niagara acrobatics, though the penalty for miscalculation was in every way as grisly. Verity looked down once, seeing the ribbon of water shining far beneath him. Even the black wings of a bird, turning as slowly as burnt paper in the air, were so far below his feet as to make his stomach heave at the chasm of air which seemed almost to draw him down. Resolutely he turned his eyes upward to the bright afternoon cloud and the breeze which cooled his face. His plump arms going like pistons, he raced after the slim and agile figure of his enemy.

He thought that it would be best not to confront Dacre on the rope. Even at a distance, he could see that the cracksman held something between his teeth which glinted like a knife. Best to be so close behind him that Dacre would have time to scramble for the far post but not time to attack the rope. They were well placed for this. Dacre was some two-thirds of the way across. Verity was hardly half-way, but he knew that he was gaining on his prey and could choose his time for attack.

It was while he was thinking this that he saw Jolly, the figure in the pink silk, unmistakable by the distant post. Dacre had seen her already and was scrambling on his way with redoubled energy. Verity looked for Crowe and the others, but he saw no one. There was something in the girl's attitude, even at this distance, that conveyed the flashing hatred of the dark eyes and the pitiless vengeance which animated the sharp young features. Verity saw her stoop and he knew why Dacre was struggling like a madman to reach her. Miss Jolly was cutting or prying loose from its post the rope to which the two men clung for their lives.