Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  On the other hand, the central tunnel was a very noisome habitation, not to be willingly endured for many hours, and incessant watchfulness would be irksome. To remain in darkness would be intolerable; to use a light would give away an advantage, the value of which could only be tested by experience, which might be fatal.

  The plan on which they resolved was to return to the other entrance and to observe whether the fire had died down and whether there were any evidence of the presence of their enemies or attempt to attack them from that direction. They decided to leave the trolley so that they could move more silently, and more quickly take shelter if they should find it needful.

  In the inmost part of the tunnel they retreated into one of the recesses which broke the wall at regular intervals, and lighted a candle there while Claire exchanged her blood-soaked garments for others from the bundle she had taken, and they examined their weapons.

  They were of one mind that they would fight to the last extremity rather than that Claire should fall into the hands of those who sought her, but they were unused to the decisive logic of violence and would be instinctively reluctant, even now, to initiate it.

  Martin proposed that Claire should remain in the comparative safety of their retreat while he went on alone to investigate, but the quick “No, no,” which she gave to that proposition, in a tone which was at once abrupt and appealing, showed how far her mind had fallen from its normal serenity.

  They examined the rifles which they had captured, pooling their knowledge. They were the newest service pattern, deadly enough in expert hands, but Martin found them heavy and awkward to handle. He took one, but he did it reluctantly. He preferred the lighter, simpler weapon which had already done good service. But the other rifle Claire would not take. She, too had her preference for the lighter pistol, which she understood and had proved, and for the knife, which it now seemed natural to have so belted that her hand could reach it quickly.

  After all, the spear went with them. For when they started they decided that no light should betray them, and Claire, whose hands were free, proposed to take it so that she could touch the wall to guide them as they walked. And thus they went, quietly and quickly enough under the dripping roof of the tunnel, Claire walking nearer to the wall and feeling her way in the increasing gloom, for owing to the bend in the tunnel the darkness became denser as they advanced toward the further entrance, and Martin walking with a light hand on her shoulder and the loaded rifle under his left arm.

  They spoke little and very low, not knowing how sound might carry, and for that reason the time seemed the longer till they reached the bend and should have seen the white light of the opening, but they found here a hot and heavy atmosphere, smoke-laden and oppressive to breathe, through which a light blazed for which the sun was not responsible.

  It was evident that, though the hut might be ashes, the dump of coal had not burned itself out, and the heat would deter anyone from exploring the tunnel-mouth while it lasted.

  The silent walk had given Martin time to reflect upon their position, and his first conclusion had been that they had done foolishly to leave the trolley. While they were at this end it was liable to capture should a second invasion occur, which was not likely, but possible.

  It was mobile. It gave some cover against attack. It held the choice of their possessions. He proposed that they should return to it and move it to such a spot as they might select to hold for defence. He had a vague design that they should prepare barriers at some distance on either side, whether by stretched ropes or pits, such as would secure them against surprise in the darkness. If lights were used, their assailants would be under a disadvantage for which they might pay very dearly.

  He doubted whether even the hope of seizing Claire would be sufficient to induce men to such a risk after the losses they had suffered.

  Claire assented readily to his proposal. She was getting too tired to think of much beyond the oppressive atmosphere in which they moved. The hero and heroine of fiction is rarely disabled at any physical or emotional crisis by the minor ills of mortality, but Claire’s experience was different. Both she and Martin had reached a point of bodily health which had been rarely known in the civilisation which had left them, but the strains and excitements of the last three days had been beyond the normal endurances to which she was equal, and now she was conscious that her head throbbed painfully and that her first desire was for clean air, to climb out into the wind and light, and sleep—and sleep.

  Martin, less emotional, more detached, his body used to a severer mental discipline, was less near to the exhaustion of his nervous resources. His mind was occupied with ultimate issues rather than present discomforts.

  Claire kept beside him, making no complaint or protest, even when his anxiety to regain possession of the trolley led him to urge a faster pace through the darkness, but she was only partly conscious of which she did, her mind fixed upon the moment when she could sink down upon it, making some kind of resting-place of the load it carried. She watched impatiently as its bulk began to show against the light of the entrance towards which they moved.

  She knew that Martin was speaking, and answered something, though she did not hear him.

  As they approached it, with eyes accustomed to the darkness Martin was satisfied that it still stood as they had left it. Beyond the entrance to the tunnel showed blank and empty. He was relieved and satisfied.

  But they were none too soon. Claire was asking, in a voice that sounded tired and distant, if she might rest while he propelled it to the place he wished, and he was already assenting, with a sudden, contrite sense of her exhaustion, when she saw that which roused her to sudden wakefulness. “Look,” she said, in a fierce, changed voice, and struck from his hand the match which he had ignited to guide her to the rest she needed.

  CHAPTER XXII

  The sun was high in the sky when the felled giant, who had been groaning and moving restlessly, sat up and scowled at a deserted camp. He was unsteady on his feet, and his head swam dizzily, but he rose as well as he might and made search for food and drink. Food—of sorts—was plentiful, and there was a store of bottled beer in the cart. He drank heavily. He ate, though it was agony to the fractured bone. After a time his head felt clearer. He had but one thought, which dominated even the pain of his throbbing wound—to take vengeance upon the man who had injured him and the woman who had occasioned it.

  He walked round the forsaken camp and stared gloomily at the dead bodies. He concluded, wrongly, that there must have been more than one who had attacked them. The two horses, loosely tethered, were grazing quietly. There was no sign of life. Even the old woman and the man with the damaged hand had gone with the rest. He did not care where they had gone, or what number of enemies he had to face. Had he not once killed or maimed a dozen men in a Shanghai bar when a fury took him? He had caught them by arm or leg and flung them round against wall and table. Then he had fought his way back to the engine-room of his ship, and when the police had followed, the captain had politely informed them that if it were Bellamy that they wanted they could arrest him there; and they had gone back for further force, and other business had prevented them from returning. That was before another incident had caused a sudden inland flight from the docks at Liverpool, and he had become the attendant demon of a Staffordshire furnace. But those days were over now, and a man could do as his anger willed, and none would stay him. His mental processes were never complicated, and on this occasion they saved him from needless hesitation. He knew the direction in which he had found the pair he sought, and with no plan in his mind, he set out to hunt them.

  He passed the spot where they had found sanctuary during the night, and stopped to stare at it. In the daylight the cut and trampled brambles seemed a very feeble protection. He saw the sledge which Martin had left when he carried Claire across the thorns, and picked it up with a frown of satisfaction. But he did not mean simply to kill them. In his imagination he tore them in his empty hands. They suffer
ed gross and fantastic violences.

  He went straight on till he was clear of the woods, and then the black column of smoke led him to the cutting, where he found his companions gathered.

  It was at the same time that Joe Harker came along the bank-top, singing to himself as he came. After the fashion which is attributed to the medieval minstrels, he would compose his thoughts into doggerel verse which he hummed to his own music, as Martin and Claire had heard at his first acquaintance. It was usually a cheerful strain, for Joe was a man who enjoyed living, and no less now that he could eat his fill without detriment to his financial prospects.

  “Donovan’s taken a meal of lead,

  Donovan’s dead; Donovan’s dead.

  Dick Smith was settled with steel instead,

  But Joe preferred to be left unfed.

  The dead men ‘ve gone where the dead men go,

  But they’ll find that it’s harder to deal with Joe.”

  He viewed Bellamy’s recovered vitality with a disfavour which he was careful not to indicate. The furnaceman scowled at his cheerfulness; it was a mood for which he had no use. But Joe gazed back into the repulsive face, red on one side and streaked and livid on the other, with unchanged serenity. He had information to give. He usually had; and he knew its value.

  There were about half a dozen men grouped on the edge of the embankment when Bellamy and Joe approached it from their different directions, and it appeared that they might just as well, or as badly, have been anywhere else from there to the Antipodes for any difference that their presence made.

  Reddy Teller, the rat-faced individual who had thrown the stool the night before, imagined himself to be in charge of operations in the absence of better men; but it is at least doubtful whether this opinion was shared by those around him.

  So far the only plan he had evolved had been to persuade the men who had the two remaining rifles to fire some oblique shots into the tunnel-mouth and shout to their quarry to come out, under various ghastly penalties should they delay to do so. There had been no response to these persuasions. The inducements offered might have been open to criticism. The heat of the burning coal, which deterred the attacking party from a close approach, would have been at least equally forbidding to anyone emerging from the inside; and finally, there was nobody there.

  But, to do Mr. Teller justice, it is not easy to see what more he could have done so long as his attention was confined to that end of the tunnel, while the fire continued. At this time it was still in full blast at its source, and had spread through the dry grass upon the further embankment. That had burnt itself out to the hedge that topped it, or nearly so, but they drew further back as they became aware that the nearer side was now bursting into flame, which was soon to set the fence ablaze against which they were leaning.

  “Boys,” said Joe, grinning amiably, “how about two ends to a tunnel?” The question was received with a chorus of explanation and argument. It appeared that the larger half of the party had held the opinion that Martin and Claire had left the tunnel at that end when they lit the fire, and had started in pursuit accordingly. They had evidently tired of the enterprise after a mile or two of disappointment, for they could now be seen returning in the distance, a quarrelsome and dispirited party. It was a hot day.

  The others who had remained had held the opinion that they were not likely to leave the safety of the tunnel unless compelled, and that they would prefer to remain at the end to which the fire gave some protection.

  Joe replied by narrating what had occurred, only varying facts by the statement that he had seen Smith and Donovan slipping away with the two rifles in the early morning, and had followed out of curiosity to discover their purpose. It was a version likely to be less unpopular than a more veracious narrative, and neither Donovan nor Smith was in a position to contradict it.

  Bellamy’s distorted scowl was unchanged while he was speaking. He looked as though he were still partially stunned by the blow he had received. Perhaps the pain that throbbed in his cheek, and the beer that he had swallowed so freely, assisted to confuse him. But the brutal mind held tenaciously to its purpose. His eyes did not leave Joe’s face as the tale was told, and when it was over he spoke two words only: “’Twas them?”

  Joe chuckled. “Oh yes, ’twas them. You could choke the man with one hand. But the bitch ’ll fight.”

  Joe spoke with malice. He was more than willing to incite the wounded giant to seek his prey in the tunnel. He was adroit in his implication that the man was not formidable. It amused him to think of the great brute falling as he has seen Donovan and Smith that morning. It would amuse him equally to see the woman kick with the giant’s hand on her neck. He loved sport. In the end he meant to have her himself, but the risks were for others. If anyone understood him it was Teller, who watched him cunningly.

  But his words were needless and unheeded. Bellamy’s purpose was fixed before he spoke, and his next move was unpleasantly decisive. He had the sledge in his right hand and he thrust his left under Joe’s elbow. The movement was too unexpected for Joe to avoid it.

  “Show us, lad,” he growled in a tone that was almost friendly, but when Joe did not move he pulled him forward with a sudden threatening ferocity.

  Joe was no coward. He felt the pressure of the huge hand that dragged and bruised him. He saw that he must depend upon his own wits if he were not to risk the fate of those whose lives had already paid for their imprudence. “Right,” he said, with his usual grin of amiability, “I’ll show you.” He started back along the hedge-side, adapting his pace as best he could to the giant’s heavy stride with an appearance of alacrity. But the bruising grasp on the fat arm did not relax, nor, characteristically, did it occur to Joe to attempt any resistance. It would have been useless in any case. Even had he won a moment’s freedom he was no runner in his present form. Slow and heavy though Bellamy might be, he would have caught him in twenty yards. But Joe trusted his wits to save him.

  It was not more than a ten minutes’ walk; would have been less than that but that the hedge-side path did not follow the shorter course of the tunnel and that the way was steep at first, though it took the hill at a slant.

  Joe tried conversation, wishing his companion to think him as keen as himself upon the dangerous ferreting that he had undertaken. He got no answer.

  He took refuge in one of the tuneless songs which, whether impromptu or the issue of previous cogitation, appeared to be inexhaustible. They were mostly of a pattern which left a doubt on the hearer’s mind as to which of the themes of the Persian poet—“Horses and women”—had supplied their inspiration. Possibly Joe himself was no clearer.

  “Never a skinnier

  Jade of Virginia—”

  he commenced very cheerfully, but nothing further will ever be known of the sequel of these ambiguous lines. Bellamy shook him savagely. He desired no diversions from the object of their expedition.

  Joe went on in silence.

  It was when they came to the fence that edged the top of the bank above the entrance to the tunnel that he was able to use his wits for his skin’s safety. He remembered that Smith had brought a miner’s lamp for use if they should have decided to explore the tunnel after the murder which they had planned. No doubt it still lay where he had been in ambush behind the birches.

  They could not well climb the fence arm-in-arm, and Joe’s willingness to go first, and his suggestion that they should use the lamp, dispelled any doubt the furnaceman may have felt, or he may have become careless of his companion’s movements now that he had guided him to the place he sought.

  Anyway he let Joe scramble down the bank in advance to where the lamp lay, and then, when they had lit it, to continue ahead till they had reached the rails.

  When Joe waited for him there and walked by his side to the tunnel entrance, he made no further effort to hold him. Perhaps, as he thought himself close to his intended victims, his clouded mind lost consciousness of other matters. Anyway, Joe carried ou
t the plan he had formed. They went up to the very mouth of the tunnel together, and then, with a sudden spurt of agility, Joe turned and bolted up the further bank. Bellamy took no heed of him whatever. With the lamp in one hand and the sledge in the other, he went on between the metals.

  Finding that he was not followed, Joe turned on the bank and waited. A long minute passed. Then a rifle-shot reverberated loudly. He thought that he heard the bullet pass, and concluded reasonably that it had left its objective uninjured. Two other shots followed, but less loudly, followed by a longer silence. At last he ventured to the mouth of the tunnel. He stood there for some time, alert to retreat at the first sign of life that the dark entrance might offer; but nothing moved. As his eyes adapted themselves to the shadows he could see dimly the bulk of the loaded trolley. Curiosity striving with caution, he went a few steps forward. He came to the body of Smith. It lay between the metals, face upwards. It had bled very freely. Curiosity died.

  He was not normally sensitive to the unseen, but he felt that death, and the menace of death, were around him. He believed that he was watched, though he could see no one.

  With his instinctive preference for mental rather than physical conflict, he tried to propitiate the darkness, calling to the unknown to inquire if any help could be given.

  His voice sounded hollow and unnatural, and an echo returned it.

  There was no other response, either of sound or motion, and he turned back to the sunlight.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  It cannot be known whether Bellamy saw the light before Claire’s hurried action extinguished it. He may have done so, but the sequel leaves it in doubt.

  He walked forward steadily, flashing his lamp from side to side, the heavy hammer in readiness. He moved as one who searches for cockroaches. His sole concern appeared to be that his prey should not pass him in the darkness.

  The civilisation which persecuted motherhood and yet regarded human life as a super-sacred thing was beneath the waters, and the incidents of the last two days had emancipated Claire from its superstitions by the hard logic of circumstance. Since the last sunset she had escaped the extremity of degradation, she had won a lover, and she had killed twice without mercy. Yet she was by nature sensitive, kindly, and chivalrous beyond the custom of women. To any other living creature she would have reacted differently, but the sight of this man, the memory of the indignities which she had suffered, of the fate which had shadowed her, roused her to an implacable hatred. She did not fear him, though she was still black from the blows he had given her; she did not think of flight; she felt that it was Martin’s place to kill him.