Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  Then he continued more seriously. “But I haven’t asked you yet whether you’re a Christian Scientist or a Plymouth Sister?”

  She laughed in answer. “Does it matter now?” and then with a swift change of intuition to the mood of his own mind: “Oh, but I see what you mean! No, I don’t think we shall differ.”

  Did it matter now? He wondered. Had the world in which it was so respectable to profess sectarianism, and so outre to profess Christianity, really perished? Having the type of mind that instinctively disentangles the teaching of Christ from the accretions of the centuries which have obscured and degraded it, he had never sympathised with the chatter about progressive revelations or the substitutions of ritual observance for unwelcome truth which he had watched around him. But did it matter now? If any number of the men of the white races survived, Christianity, in some form, would survive with them. Would such a catastrophe as had taken place drive them back on to the essentials of the faith they held? Might it even induce them to give the precepts of their Leader a belated trial? It could scarcely be hoped. He remembered the terrible prescience of the words of Christ.

  So his mind wandered; and then he knew that they were nearing the end of the tunnel, and Claire was speaking as she blew out the lantern. “Had we better go cautiously or get up speed?”

  “Oh, push ahead,” he said; “the sooner we’re clear of these parts the better. I’ve no doubt it’s quiet enough now. Have you got the pole I made for you?”

  “Yes,” she said, picking it up to supplement his own efforts, and so, rousing the trolley to a greater speed, they passed out into the sunlight.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The men that Joe had chosen to join his ambush do not concern us, except so far as they illustrate some aspects of that civilisation from which the floods had cleansed at least a portion of the earth’s surface. They were not types. No man is: no individual can be. But they were typical in many ways of the disease which festered within the body of a civilisation which was insensitive to its own corruption.

  Donovan was a man who would have been of little account under any conditions of life or system of education. His Irish father had settled by some chance in a Staffordshire village, and had allied himself to a woman there whose thriftless ways had been too evident to enable her to marry among those who were more familiar with her. They had lived narrow, quarrelsome, and unwholesome lives, and had died of the diseases which were bred by dirt, by alcohol, and by preserved and contaminated foods. Their son had something of the coarse vitality which often follows the mating of different races. He was capable of sustained physical exertion. He had few ideas of his own and little initiative. He had an unimaginative brutality which took the place of courage. His idea of warfare was to shoot from behind a hedge. He enjoyed watching rats or rabbits licked by dogs in a confined space. He liked to watch the footballers that were hired for his entertainment by his local club, and to shout abuse at those against whom they played. If his own side lost he was prepared to vituperate them with equal violence. His idea of humour was the representation of a discoloured nose; of wit, an allusion to the excretions of the human body. His instincts were primitive, and he was incapable of thought without physical or emotional incentive. Under a training adapted to his mentality, and mated at an early age to one of his own kind, he might have led a harmless and decent existence as an agricultural labourer.

  Instead of that, he had been introduced to foul and filthy living, he had been compelled to dark and filthy toil in caverns to which men should never have penetrated. He had been compelled to attend a school for several years, where the inevitable physical detriment of herding large numbers of young animals in one pen, be they children or chickens, had not been compensated by any useful instruction. He had vacuously attempted to memorise the climate of Patagonia, but he had learnt nothing of the decent conduct of life in his own inferno. He had not taken part in the recent war, having been retained by the mine which employed him. He had frequented a shooting gallery, and with his present weapon he could be relied upon to hit something within six feet of the object at which he aimed if it were in his immediate vicinity.

  Smith was of a different and more dangerous kind. A man of forty, of a lean and battered aspect, he had a high, thin nose, eyes that were at once cold and predatory, and a close, thin-lipped mouth which seldom opened except for an exclamation of profanity or an obscene jest. His hair was black, straight, sleek, and scanty. He was reticent as to his past, but called himself an Australian, probably slandering a continent when he did so. He had certainly been in that country for some years, and had there volunteered for the war, actuated by a ferocity which was drawn to any scene of violence, and by a vague expectation of plunder and of opportunities for the rape of women.

  He had won a commission, been decorated, court-martialled, and dismissed from the service for conduct of the sort which is not advertised, and on evidence which might have been considered insufficient in a civil court. He was obsessed by a debased sexuality, such as it is stimulated by the excitements and restraints of an unhealthy civilisation, and which Freud appears to have supposed, very foolishly, to be the common curse of humanity.

  An urban population, knowing nothing of animals, has quaintly given the name of “animalism” to this lowest of human vices, but it has no affinity to the loyalty of a rat to his doe, or the tenderness of a wolf for his mate. It is, in fact, the vice which, among all the outrages by which humanity has defied the laws of its Creator to its own undoing, is most alien from anything existing among the wild creatures which men have left unmurdered, nor has it any approximate parallel among those that they have brought into servitude and association.

  He had maintained an appearance of efficiency and neatness even in his present environment. The most exacting of sergeants-major would have been satisfied by the condition of the rifle which he was hoping to use to such congenial purpose. He boasted, truly enough, and it was readily believed, though he had not proved it, that he could shoot with a deadly accuracy.

  Joe Harker’s tactics, like his strategy, were of a Napoleonic simplicity. A hundred yards from the mouth of the tunnel, halfway up the embankment, there grew a clump of that dwarf species of birch which fed the reindeer on the arctic plains, and while no longer common in England, showed a capacity to spring up on any spot which was kept clear of heavier timber while remaining uncultivated. Behind this cover he stationed his two riflemen with orders not to shoot till their victims were actually beneath them.

  Being unarmed, he could assist most usefully by hiding behind the little hut which stood by the entrance of the tunnel. When they had shot the man, the girl would most probably run back to that refuge, when he could turn her from the cover she sought. If she ran in any other direction they would chase her together. But he supposed that she would yield to the threat of the rifles without such difficulty. She might be too frightened to run at all.

  So they took their stations and waited.

  The tactics were good enough, but the best of general-ship must finally depend upon the capacity of the officers and men which it employs. It chanced that Donovan took the position which was nearer the mouth of the tunnel. They were both well hidden, but he was in a position to see, and to fire if he wished, before his companion could do so. Smith could get a clear shot only at that part of the line which was directly beneath him. Doubtless, that was the time for which to wait, and if they did so their positions were of equal advantage. But it happened that Smith had little confidence either in Donovan’s skill or discretion. He thought rightly enough, that he could have carried through the enterprise much better had he been single-handed, and wondered why Joe had not been content to enlist his assistance only.

  Joe might have come to the same conclusion had he not felt that he would be safer if they were a more numerous party, in which either might be incited against the other if he should feel it expedient.

  Smith was rightly confident that if the shooting were left to him there would
be no hitch in the programme. He wanted it done efficiently, and he wanted the pleasure of doing it. He did it in imagination a dozen ways as he lay and waited. Finally he decided that he would drill the man through the head and then nick the woman on both buttocks. Just to make her jump. She would be none the worse, and would show his brand ever afterwards. If she tried to run after that, a threat to shoot again should be sufficient to stop her.

  But he did not want Donovan to blunder in and spoil the neatness or claim the credit of his efficiency. Also, they did not want the woman shot, and he was correct in thinking that if Donovan aimed at Martin he would be in somewhat less danger than anyone else who might be near him.

  So the end was that he proposed to Donovan that he should shoot first, and that Donovan should hold his fire till he saw the result of the first shot. Donovan refused with a grunt. He asked why? No man likes a reflection on his own skill. He had sense enough to see that if he consented to take a back seat in the attack he might be expected to occupy the same position when they came to reap the fruit of the success they anticipated. A suggestion that he should change places roused a deeper suspicion and received a curter refusal. Smith tried a last card. It was evident that Donovan could get the first shot in the positions they occupied, and after the dispute they had now had he would be quick to take it. He proposed that they should toss for positions, and to this the gambling instinct of his companion responded. They tossed, and Donovan won. Smith then proposed that they should toss again, on the understanding that if he lost he should definitely resign the first shot. Donovan agreed, after some arguing, tossed, and won again. It was an operation in which he was not easily cheated, and, in fact, each of them was too well aware of his opponent’s qualifications to do more than watch for any lucky chance of dishonesty.

  After this, Smith resigned himself to the position. He had no doubt that Donovan would miss, nor that his own bullet would find its victim a second later.

  Meanwhile the hours passed. The sun was high enough now to make them uncomfortably warm, and the bushes before them gave no shelter from it. They were finding it much easier to drowse in the heat than to keep alert and watchful, when their attention was attracted to the column of black smoke that rose from the fire that Martin had started. But for that, it might have been that the trolley would have been well under the ambush before Donovan would have been awake to its coming. As it was, he had his rifle in readiness as it came out of the darkness. The dispute in which he had been engaged had left him with a dull suspicion of his companion’s purpose and a resolve that nothing should rob him of the first shot which the coin had given. The trolley was not ten yards clear of the tunnel when he fired. Of the bullet, no more can be said than it went somewhere in the direction of the equator, and there we must leave it.

  Neither Claire nor Martin could see very clearly. The sudden light dazzled them. But their senses were alert for any warning of danger, and a rifle-shot is sufficiently plain in its meaning. Before its echo died they had stopped their way and were pushing back for shelter. They were helped by the fact that the gradient at that point was slightly upward, and the trolley reversed and slipped backward the more easily in consequence.

  Smith guessed in an instant what was happening, leapt to his feet, and fired over the bushes. With no time to aim, he so far justified his skill that the bullet struck the wheel over which Martin was leaning. Donovan fired again, and the trolley disappeared.

  Cursing at each other and at the escaping quarry, the two men plunged down the bank.

  Joe had watched what had happened with a mixture of wrath and amazement at the folly which had spoilt his plan, but he made no motion to join the pursuit. He had seen an automatic pistol which lay ready to hand for the use of those they were hunting. But he made no motion to delay his companions. He had no objection to any risk they might take for his prospective advantage. Having no suspicion that their opponents were armed, and confident in the rifles they carried, the two men entered the tunnel together.

  Martin saw them coming and stopped the trolley. He thought rapidly. They were already in darkness, while the men showed clearly with the light behind them. To retreat further would be to involve all in an equal obscurity. To strike a match would be to invite their own destruction. Rightly or wrongly, he thought it best to hold their ground and fight it out if the men came further. The next moment they were off the trolley and crouching behind it together. He had loaded the pistol before they started, and now tried to recall the arguments as to the action of such a weapon in which he had once engaged in so different an atmosphere. He knew that it would continue to discharge so long as he pressed the trigger. He must remember that. Had he not heard it urged with much forensic eloquence that at a time of excitement a man might continue the pressure involuntarily? He must not waste his shots in such a manner. He must keep cool. He must shoot to kill. Should he aim straight or low? And at what distance? He was less clear on these points, and a mistake might be fatal.

  The men were still advancing, but more slowly now. They were not yet used to the darkness.

  Claire’s voice came, very low, and sounding cool enough, though her heart beat as though it would choke her. “Do you know how to use it?”

  He said: “I shall manage.”

  A second later she spoke again. “If you like to let me—it might be safer—I shall not miss—I was taught in France.”

  “No,” he said, “it wouldn’t do to miss,” and passed her the pistol.

  She knew then that she had won a man on whom to lean in any crisis. She had no fear of missing.

  The men were nearer now. They could see the trolley, though not clearly. Donovan, a little in advance, lifted his rifle. “Hands up,” he called vaguely to the darkness. Smith, standing back, with eyes accustoming themselves to the shadows, was searching for Martin. He meant to shoot at sight. They had no use for prisoners. “Don’t shoot the woman,” he said, his thought recurring that Donovan would blunder somehow. But Donovan’s mistakes were ended.

  Claire rose deliberately. She fought for her man’s life, and to keep herself clean of their hateful hands. There was no thought of mercy in her mind, and if her heart still beat hard she did not know it. She fired twice at the man that was nearer. Donovan screamed out. His rifle rang on the rail. He staggered and fell forward. “Oh, Gawd, she’s got me,” he sobbed. But no one heeded.

  Claire was running forward, firing as she went at a figure that crouched and dodged to avoid her bullets, and still made better speed than she. Martin ran with her, the spear in his hand. The thought of both was to reach the flying figure before it should have leisure to turn and aim. Smith’s only thought was to run clear of the death-trap into which he had fallen.

  Three times Claire missed him, and it was her last shot that found his ankle. He pitched forward as he ran. Claire saw his face as he twisted round, but found her pistol was empty. Martin was close beside him, the spear levelled. “Oh, kill him quickly,” she said; “I saw his face.” She was conscious only of a frenzy of loathing.

  Smith had no wish to be killed. He realised instantly that the pistol was empty. He grasped the rifle, which had left his hand as he fell, and swung it round in Martin’s direction. Claire snatched the barrel. It swung right and left as they struggled, the one to point it at Martin, the other to direct it from him. It went off twice.

  Martin thrust with the spear, but the wounded man twisted sideways. “Oh, be quick; I can’t hold it,” Claire panted. “Kill him somehow.” Martin thrust again, and almost missed, but not quite for the blade came out wet. He drove it in again, missing Claire’s knee by an inch, as the wounded wretch pulled her down with the rifle which she would not loose. But this time he made no mistake. He felt the sharp blade sink into the belly of the struggling form, and drove it in—inwards and upwards. Claire was conscious that the rifle was in her own hands only. She rose to her feet, breathing with difficulty.

  “Thank God, that’s over,” said Martin. But was it? With a comm
on impulse they looked toward the mouth of the tunnel, in fear of further antagonists. They saw Joe Harker, who stood there for a moment now that the shots had ceased, and vanished quickly as he saw that they had observed him.

  Martin stopped to pick up the rifle and to search the dead man for any ammunition he carried, and they made their way back to the trolley.

  Donovan gave no sign of life. He lay where he had fallen. They secured his rifle also and a further handful of cartridges.

  Claire became conscious that the front of her dress was soaked with blood.

  They remained for a time in a mutual hesitation as to their next course of action. There was, in fact, nothing to prevent them continuing their first intention. There was no one to withstand them, and pursuit would have been improbable. But they could not know this. They had no knowledge of the completeness of their victory. Besides, they were both unused to scenes of violence or bloodshed. They were excited and shaken. They found that they were of one mind to retreat further into the dark security from which they had adventured so hazardously, and take thought and counsel as to the position in which they stood.

  Having done this, they decided that their case was unpleasant but not desperate. They had abundance of food. They had some water, and the wetness of the inner tunnel assured them that they would not perish of thirst, though the moisture it provided might not be of the most palatable kind.

  They did not think that an attack would be very easily successful, or that their opponents would adventure it lightly after the lesson that they had received. If they remained in the middle tunnel and watched in turn, a surprise would be difficult. They did not think that their enemies could be very numerous, and they would be at the disadvantage of having to guard two widely separated points. It was at least doubtful whether they would have sufficient persistence to besiege them under such conditions for any lengthened period.