He knew that she was not one to think or to act meanly. Yet what she would say or do in such a case was beyond his knowing. Ought he to have told her of Helen? What use was there in waking the pain of the drowned past?
He tried to turn his thoughts to the urgent needs of the moment but the fancy held him.
Fifteen miles away, Helen, sitting beside her sleeping children, with the shadow of Tom Aldworth’s threat on her mind, prayed with a fierce intensity. Surely Martin lived! Surely, if he lived, he would find her! She did not think of another woman. She would not have cared if she had. She knew so well that his love was hers—she knew him so well. But she did not know that he lived, though she would not allow herself to doubt it. He must come back. He must save her.
So she prayed as the light fell. Did her thought reach him?
At least, his mind was on her. Suppose, he thought, that she still lived, by some miracle that was beyond his guessing. He should go back to her. That, at least, would be right. Did he wish to desert Claire? No, never that. Ought he to do so? He had pledged himself to her, in good faith and without reservation. There might be a child—hers and his. He was not troubled by the old laws; they were gone. But what would be right in such a case? It was strange that he should wonder over a question that could never arise and which he could not solve.
Could a man be equally loyal to two women at once? Reverse the thought. Would he have shared Helen with another man? Would he share Claire? The thought was monstrous. Yet wherein was the difference? He saw that there is one. In the old days people had chattered of the “equality of the sexes.” Probably they had meant nothing. They seldom did. If they meant anything they did not know what it might be. They were trained to avoid logical thought. If their minds came against a custom, a convention, they would not face it; they turned aside and thought crookedly. He saw that there is a difference. If a woman lives with two men the parentage of her children is doubtful. If a man lives with two women there is no such confusion. Each child knows its father and mother. Each mother knows her own child. There are other differences. It is flouting facts to ignore them.
Yet his mind went further, and he saw that there is something under such conditions which the woman suffers which the man does not. All the children are his, but they are not hers. Here is root enough for a fierce jealousy—for a fierce hatred.
His mind was on the issues of polygamous marriage, not on casual physical infidelities. He had never interested himself, except as his professional work had required it, in the baser ways of mankind.
All this was academic speculation only. Helen was dead. He knew that. Yet it was an instinct of loyalty both to her and to Claire which decided him that Claire ought to know. Or was it that Helen’s prayer was not unheard, and that this impulse came as its answer? It may have made some difference in the end that Claire’s mind had been prepared for that which must follow. It is hard to say.
Anyway, he told her. He told her of Helen and of the children. He did not disguise his sorrow. He did not suggest any possibility that they could still be living. Helen could not even swim; and the flood would have overwhelmed the strongest. Besides, he knew that she would never have left the children.
When he finished, Claire said simply: “I am sorry. If you can think of any hope, we will search for them together, when we get clear of this.” She did not doubt that she meant it. She was not one who lightly yields, or who readily shares beyond reason, but her mind was on the mother and the two children that the floods had swallowed. She was glad, as she had been before, that her own child had not lived.
Martin felt that she spoke with sincerity, and her sympathy deepened his affection for her. So she gained by her giving: proving, as she did so, that there were still powers in the world beside the rule of violence which had seemed supreme as she had considered it. And yet show I you a more excellent way. Perhaps there were other powers that were not yet dead.
CHAPTER XXVIII
As they talked, they watched the entrance to the tunnel, and the time came when they noticed the blocking operations that Joe initiated. The significance was obvious. The killing of those who had first attacked them had not disposed of their danger. Rather it seemed to have led to a more determined and systematic investment.
Naturally, the question rose of whether the other end were being blocked in the same way. If it were, there was an end to any hope of escaping upon the trolley. They would have to fight it out there to the last, and must be destroyed in the end, unless they could annihilate their opponents, or inflict such losses that they would decide to leave them. And they did not know how numerous they might be. The prospect was not hopeful. Its realisation brought Martin to his feet, with a decision in his mind. He was unsteady at first, and his head was painful, but beyond that he was none the worse. He said: “We must see if they are closing the other end. If so, we’ve got to fight it out here, and we’ve got to think how we can injure them, and how much, and how soon, and how often. If we can do it safely, we must strike first, and not wait till they come at us. Every man we can kill or wound is one more step to safety. But if they haven’t closed that end, well try to get out tonight as best we can, and take the chance of the dark.”
Claire said: “Do you feel fit?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I’m well enough, and it’s my own fault if I’m not. I shan’t make that mistake twice.”
They shared a meal, for which both were more than ready, allowing themselves a light, as it seemed unlikely, from the activity at the tunnel-mouth, that any immediate attack were intended. Even if they were to be invaded from the other end, and the work they now watched were merely to prevent their flight, it was natural to conclude that the attack would not come till the hole should have been securely stopped.
Then they mounted the trolley, extinguishing the light again, and poled cautiously toward the other end.
The night was falling as they approached it. The fires had died down, though they still smouldered. They ventured close to the entrance, encouraged rather than otherwise by a random bullet. The danger was small, as the shots came obliquely from the top of the embankment, and they were evidence that no enemy was penetrating stealthily inward through the darkness.
They could not observe that the line had been disturbed at this end, and Claire’s impulse, now that they had decided to sally out, was to take the chance at once, but Martin differed.
“They won’t start pulling rails up tonight, if they haven’t done so already,” he said reasonably. “And we shall have a better chance towards the morning. If they want us to come out, they’ve probably set a trap a little further on. Suppose we found the line pulled up, and a dozen of them around it? But in a few hours they’ll be asleep more or less, and the darkness will make us equal.
“What I propose is this: we’ll just pole ourselves clear of the entrance, and then push the trolley on, and leave it, and take our chance up the bank. If they expect us to try to escape that way, it will deceive them, and in the dark we ought to get clear. We must just let our things go. Our lives are worth more than they are.”
So it was agreed, and to fit them for what was before them they arranged to sleep and watch in turn; Martin, in spite of his wound, insisting successfully on the first spell of this vigil.
CHAPTER XXIX
It was three hours after dark when Ellis Roberts came back to the camp. There was no man with him except the prisoner he had captured. He had come quietly enough, for his hands were tied, and Ellis led him in a noosed rope which tightened round his neck very easily. It had been necessary on several occasions to stop for Ellis to loosen it, in spite of all his prisoner’s efforts to avoid any pull upon it. Progress under such conditions had not been rapid, but Ellis would take no chances.
The camp was awake now. They had risked a fire in the hollow having decided that those they sought were sufficiently occupied to be unlikely to discover it.
In the flickering light they crowded round Ellis and his prisoner. Ellis
passed the halter to the nearest. “Take him, someone,” he said, and sat down on a fallen tree. “Boys,” he said, “I want a drink.” His single eye gleamed with its usual intelligence as he set down the mug, but his tanned and wrinkled face looked pale in the firelight. They saw a long cut across the back of his left hand on which the blood had dried, for he had not troubled to bind it.
Tom came through the group, and sat down beside him. “Hurt, Ellis?” he said.
Ellis followed his glance, and looked down on the injured hand. “That’s naught,” he said; “but I’ve got a bash in the ribs. Reckon it won’t count by tomorrow.” He sat silent. He was never quick of speech. They waited impatiently.
“Tell us, Ellis,” Tom urged.
He seemed to rouse himself with an effort. “They’re mostly dead,” he said at last. “We did the job right enough. They killed Bill Horton. Ted Wrench got a knock on the head that’s left him silly. He’ll be right enough. I’ve left them to guard the way out. The rails are pulled up, but it’s not really stopped. I didn’t see the fat man, but the rest are done for. When we—” His voice, that had become slower and less distinct as he went on, now sank to silence.
“Better lie down, Ellis; you’re fair done,” said a man near him. Ellis did not hear. His mind was back in the fight. He had been wrong about Navvy Barnes. He had come at them like a wild beast through the bullets, his shovel whirling round his head as he did so. It had struck Bill Horton on the back of the neck, and he had fallen forward with his head half severed from his body. Then Barnes had come at him, and for an instant their glances had met in the firelight. He had seen the murderous rage in the eyes of the cornered man, as the shovel swept round towards him. He had fired, coolly, with careful aim, and because a bullet is more speedy even than the swiftest motion of human hands, the blow that struck his side had lost most of its force. He had fallen, but he had been up again in a moment. He had led his prisoner here, though every step had been painful. It was strange that it was so hard to think now, or to be sure where he was—
It was Jack Tolley who caught his arm as he slipped forward.
They made him as comfortable as they could, but his injury was beyond their skill or resources. They found a badly bruised side, and evidence of a broken rib. They thought that he might be better when he had slept. But in the morning he was dead. His mind had been clear, for a time at least, after they had laid him down, and his words showed that he had little doubt of what was coming. “Jack,” he had said, “if I go out, she’s yours, if you’ll have her. But you must look after the kid.”
Jack had looked round at his companions. “You heard that, boys?” he asked, and they had nodded in answer....
Tom looked at the prisoner. It was the man called Hodder. The man that “might” fight, if he were cornered. Ellis had not been sure.
Hodder was a short awkward man, somewhat bent in the back. He might be middle-aged. It was hard to say. He was rather like a battered ape in some aspects. He could use pick and shovel well enough. Beyond this, he had habits rather than character. How he would react to new circumstances was difficult to forecast. Even the folly of the past civilisation. which had affected to believe that all men were equal (whereas there were no two alike in all its millions), would hardly have contended that he would be likely to benefit by the curious compilations of fact and theory which they required their young to assimilate, or, at least, to remain unoccupied for a period of years which might be utilised in that way.
When the time came for choosing, he had chosen Bellamy. There was nothing else against him of any definite kind.
“Now, Hodder,” said Tom, “where’s Bellamy?”
Hodder shook his head. Actually he did not know.
“There’s a branch over your head,” said Tom, “a good strong branch. I shall hang you there if you don’t answer.”
“Can I go if I does?”
“We’ll see about that,” Tom answered, whose own mind was not clearly decided on that point; “but you’ll certainly hang if you don’t. Where’s Bellamy?”
“In the tunnel.”
“Is he alone?”
“I dunno, Joe said as he went in.”
“Then who’s with him?”
Hodder looked puzzled. “I dunno that,” he said doubtfully. Tom glanced upward. He thought, with some excuse, that Hodder was willfully reticent. Hodder, who had some excuse for his difficulty in following the line of examination, made haste to add: “There’s likely him and the gal.”
Tom did not follow this statement, but it made him realise that he was not questioning to any good result. If the paradox be excused, his mind was illuminated by the fog it had raised. He tried a broader method.
“Tell me,” he asked, “what you know about those who are in the tunnel, and why you were shutting them in?”
Hodder was not good at narrative. If, under the influence of a due allowance of beer, he indulged in reminiscences among his mates, he might repeat himself a score of times before any coherent meaning emerged from his rambling sentences. But fear is a sharp spur, and he started off now with a hurried confusion, which had almost the effect of fluency.
“Muster Bellamy,”—the title which the floods had somehow swept from the speech of men, sounded queerly to those who heard it—“Muster Bellamy stole ’is gal. A fair ’ot un ’er is. ’Er knifed Sal, and got clear. Struck ’er ’ere.” (A hairy paw rubbed the left side of his neck.) He grinned with the pleasure of the recollection. It was a fault of articulation that caused Tom to suppose that it was Sal’s ear that had suffered. Not knowing the lady, he let the point pass without further elucidation. “We lost ’em in the dark, and Joe Timms shot ’is own ’and. Joe says as ’ow they killed Smith. I dunno that. It was Sal as tied ’er. Muster Bellamy ’ad just ’ad ’is pork. ’E looks round, and down it comes. Knocked ’im flat, it did. Reddy throws the stool and down ’e come. Over the fire it wer. ’E throws it back, and Spink falls in the fire. On ’is face, he does. Muster Bellamy’s gone to fetch ’em out. Fair devils they be.”
He paused, his face in a kind of hellish ecstasy, as his mind recalled the violences which he had been privileged to witness, after nearly fifty years during which it had been mainly fed on the records of crime and shame which the reporters of the daily press had collected for the mental diet of his kind. For forty years the power of reading which had been driven into his boorish brain had been exercised in no other way. He had been given this mysterious power, for which he had not asked, and had been fed on filth for its use. But he had only read of crime before, and now he had been privileged to see it.
He stood silent now, fully believing that he had given a full and clear explanation of the events of the last two days.
Tom shared his delusion. To his mind it seemed clear that there had been a quarrel in the band which had developed to a murderous affray, in which both men and women had joined. A woman had killed another of her sex, and then fled into the tunnel with a male companion, pursued by the vengeance of the friends of the murdered woman. Bellamy appeared to have ventured in alone to deal with them. That seemed likely enough.
There was nothing in the tale to excite sympathy for the fugitives. But it was all evidence that the gang must be stamped out. Tom saw that more clearly than ever. Ellis was hurt already. Bill Horton was dead. Bill had been a better man than the best of Bellamy’s gang. Such things would go on while they remained.
There were points in the picturesque confusion of Hodder’s statement which Tom should have noticed. Points which suggested a less simple explanation than that which he accepted so quickly. Points which Martin would have seized in a moment. But Tom had neither Martin’s brains, nor his legal training.
He did, however make one further effort. He asked: “Who is the fat man?” He remembered that he had been apparently in charge of the operations at the further end of the tunnel, and that Ellis had failed to catch him. He was not one of the original gang.
Hodder stared a moment. He could
not understand why the question was asked. The caution of the underdog had taught him to be slow in such circumstances. He said, at length: “That’s Joe. The jockey.”
Tom was puzzled. Jockeys are seldom fat. But it might be a nickname, perhaps given in derision. It didn’t matter anyway. He said: “Was he in the fight?”
“Not ’e,” said Hodder, “’e don’t fight. ’E don’t count nowt.”
“But you said he shot his own hand?”
“No, I dain’t,” Hodder protested with a flicker of indignation. “That wer Joe Timms.” His mind was puzzled by the stupidity of his questioner, who could not tell one Joe from another.
Tom gave it up.
There remained the question of what to do with the prisoner. There were no gaols now. It must be kill or loose. He did not think the man dangerous.
“Now look here, Hodder,” he said, “I ought to hang you, but we don’t want to, unless you make us. We’ve come here to settle Bellamy and all his lot. If you do as you’re told, and give no trouble, you won’t get hurt. If you don’t, you’ll very soon be a dead man. You can go where you will, but we shall hunt you down, and you’ll be shot like a rabbit.”
Hodder looked round the group that were watching him. They were men to fear. Men to obey. Men with whom he would be safe. He had no love for danger. He was well content to remain.
Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming Page 22
