Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  Now the men were crawling into the tunnel, and spreading across it. They were between him and Claire before he had realised the danger. He crouched as low as he could. So far the lantern was held back. He saw the light gleam on a rifle-barrel or two. There were a dozen men. More. Should he ever return to Claire? Would she ever know what had happened? Would she think that he had deserted her? At least she would not do that. He could kill some of them before they killed him. But what would her fate be afterwards? He saw that he ought not to have come so close to the entrance, but it was too late to regret it. Should he run out and so draw them to follow him? But they might not do so. He knew that it was Claire that they really sought.

  Suppose he did so, and they merely put a guard at the entrance, and went on to surprise her?

  Better to follow them unobserved if that should be possible, or to fight it out here if he should be discovered.

  It seemed strange that they did not see him. More or less, some of them must have done so, but not clearly enough to know that he was not one of themselves.

  They were lining up now against either wall, the two men who had the rifles leading on either side. It had been decided that the last couple, not the first, should have the rope and the lantern. The rope would not then impede their companions if a rush forward should be needed. They did not think of retreat. Also, they would be in advance of the light, and probably nearer than their quarry would realise.

  The last man on Martin’s side came over with the rope in his hand. They were to draw it taut before the lantern should be slung upon it.

  He did this, giving no attention to Martin, but as they commenced to move forward he noticed that someone was behind him He half-turned, and made space for Martin to pass him.

  “Now, mate, move ahead,” he said roughly. The man at the other side of the rope was pulling it forward.

  On a sudden impulse, that formed as the chance came and the danger threatened together, Martin raised the knife in his hand, and struck with the strength of desperation and the bitterness of the dilemma to which his rashness had betrayed him.

  The knife struck the back of the man’s neck, severing the spinal column, and penetrating for half its length. There was a sound from the victim like a little cough; nothing more. For a second Martin’s hand clutched the haft of the knife convulsively, with the man’s weight pulling upon it. Then, with a saner impulse, he let it go, and caught at the rope already slipping from a nerveless hand.

  During their momentary alteration the man next in advance had gone forward a few yards. No one noticed what had occurred Reddy was further ahead, on the other side. If anyone were puzzled as to what the scuffle might mean, he was not sufficiently so to start an investigation that did not concern him. They wanted speed—and silence. Martin felt the rope pull, and went forward. His knife was gone, but he had his pistol ready in his free hand. He saw that he was safe for the moment. He waited his chance.

  They went on thus till they came to the bend in the tunnel, on rounding which they saw the light between the metals. Very dimly the trolley showed beyond it.

  They were advancing very silently. Probably Claire was still sleeping—trusting to the vigilance of a man who had failed her He could not tell how far ahead the foremost of the line might be, but so long as he went on and did nothing he knew that the danger approached her in advance of any help he might render.

  Now he saw them, as they came level with the light ahead. His plan was formed now. They were not far in advance. There is an instinctive desire to keep together on such occasions.

  He would wait till he came to the light ahead, and then drop that which he carried, and run forward. The suddenness of the movement might allow the seconds which would enable him to get there first. If Claire were awake she would probably shoot him before he could hope to be recognised. He must chance that. But he must not start while the light was ahead. He must not run into the light. That would be to make recognition too probable. Recognition from those around him. That must be avoided if possible. While they took him to be one of themselves he had his chance. At the worst, he could use his pistol, and that would warn her.

  Probably he was right in wishing to leave the light behind him, but he found next moment that he had no choice in the matter.

  Reddy had conceived an objection to the device of the rope being revealed, as it must to anyone who might watch from the darkness, if it were passed over the stationary light. He had crawled back, and was speaking to the man who had the other end of the rope. Courageously enough, though his danger differed from anything which he could surmise, he was now walking over to speak to Martin.

  That settled it. Martin gave the rope a jerk which swung the lantern wildly in the air, and then loosed it.

  It went out as it smashed on the ground, and there was darkness round them, though there was light ahead.

  As it fell, the flash of Martin’s pistol streaked the darkness. He had aimed at Reddy, but could not tell with what effect. He ran up the centre of the line as he had never run in his life before. There were cries around and behind him. A rough hand grabbed his arm, and he ran on struggling. He changed the pistol to his other hand and fired, and the hand loosed him. The trolley was close now. From it, a rifle-shot burst, as it seemed, in his very face. He felt the sting of the powder. He was just on the point of turning to run round the trolley, and he never knew whether he had fallen instinctively to avoid the danger of a second shot, or had stumbled upon the rail, as he did so, but down he came. “Don’t shoot, Claire,” he called, as he struggled to his feet, only half aware in his excitement of the pun of a bruised shinbone.

  “Yes, I knew,” she answered, “I fired past you. Can you pole us back? They are too close.”

  He was on the trolley now, and a few vigorous pushes were sufficient to widen the distance. As he paused, a figure came between them and the light, and she fired again.

  She said: “I’ve got that one. I think I missed before.” A hoarse voice from the darkness confirmed her opinion, almost in the same phrase. “She got me,” it called out, “the damned vixen!” Martin wondered how he knew or guessed that it was a woman that fired. Possibly her face had shown by the flash of the shot. He felt for another rifle, and lay down beside her. He would not use the remaining bullets in his pistol, keeping it in reserve in case there should be an attempt to rush them.

  There was a pause now, and they lay with ears and eyes strained to read the messages of the darkness, but they did not speak. Explanation must wait.

  The lantern still burned on the ground where they had laid it. No one went near it. No one passed between them and the light again. But there were faint whispers and stealthy movements along the sides of the tunnel. They began to fear that if they fired again it might bring a rush. Without such a provocation, the attack might be delayed, their enemies being unable to communicate safely now that they were so close, and unlikely to start such a movement except in concert.

  Very quietly, Martin laid down the rifle, and picked up the pole again. He propelled the trolley about twenty yards backward. There came no sound of pursuit.

  He picked up the rifle again. He fired into the black vacancy before them—again and again. Claire did the same. The reports were deafening in the narrow tunnel.

  “Blast the swine! They’ve got me now, Reddy,” came another voice. There was a sarcastic comment to the effect that he was not much hurt or his voice would be different. There was a growl for them to be silent. Martin and Claire fired together at the place from which the voices came, which was disconcertingly near them.

  A scream answered, piercing the stillness. It was repeated again and again. It was so shrill and agonised that it hardly sounded like a human voice.

  It appeared to infuriate the companions of the wounded man. They appeared to abandon their purpose of taking Claire alive, and opened fire on the trolley.

  Martin and Claire had the experience now of lying close while the bullets passed above them, or jarred upon the
frame of the trolley.

  Martin poled backward again, and just in time to avoid a rush of their enemies. One man grabbed the side of the trolley. Claire brought her rifle round, but he caught at the barrel, deflecting it as she fired. Then the load upon that side over which he was attempting to clamber gave way, and he fell backward, dragging the rifle with him. She had to loose it to save herself. The next moment it was being used against them. In the excitement of the struggle they had not noticed that the light had increased around them, but now they saw that not one lantern but several lit the scene, and in the hands of men who carried them openly. There were many shots now. It seemed that their enemies were fighting among themselves. They crouched close, for it seemed that the bullets were everywhere, but ready to defend themselves again as the need should come.

  “What’s here?” said Tom Aldworth’s voice. “Shoot the man, but don’t hurt the woman.”

  Martin had his pistol covering him as he said it, but he did not fire. He laughed easily, the sound coming strangely in the sulphurous inferno in which they confronted one another. “I didn’t think you’d murder me, Tom,” he said quietly.

  Tom knocked up the rifle of a man beside him. “Friends here,” he shouted. Actually, the danger of further violence was over. The only two of Bellamy’s gang who were left alive were racing toward the further exit, where they supposed that their friends would be waiting, there to fall to the rifles of Jack Tolley and his companions.

  Bellamy’s gang was ended.

  Tom looked at Martin as though he found it difficult to understand that he were here. He did not ask what chance could have brought him into such company. The thought of the narrowness of his escape was upon him. Suppose that he had allowed Martin to be killed by his companions! How could he have broken the news to Helen? Would she ever have forgiven him? He did not think so. But what difference did it make? With Martin living, his chance was over. His thought passed to the woman who had been Martin’s companion. There was an aspect of intimacy between them that was unmistakable. As he looked, he saw her lay her hand on Martin’s arm. She said something, to which he replied with a glance that had more than admiration or affection in its significance. After all—

  CHAPTER XXXII

  Tom told Martin in the morning.

  It is to his credit that he did this when he might have let him go in ignorance, and Helen might conceivably never have heard of his continued existence. For Martin wished to go. He met Tom in the morning while Claire still slept, and the camp was stirring lazily under a sun that already approached its meridian, and he asked this as a favour.

  He began on it at once. He said: “Tom, I don’t know who these men are that are with you, or what your quarrels may be. I won’t ask what would have happened to us last night, if you hadn’t known me. I think you saved my life, so if you owed me anything before, we may call it level. I’m only asking one thing, and that is that we may get clear away now.

  “We have been fighting for two days to save my wife”—(so he called her)—“from the men with whom you seem to have had your own quarrel, and I don’t want to have to start again. Your companions may be a decent lot. I don’t know, and I don’t ask, but we want to get away by ourselves, and I think I can trust you to help us. You can have our goods, except what we can carry away in our own hands. I am only asking you for my wife’s safety. The rest can go.”

  Tom was surprised. His mind had been too busy with his own trouble to consider the aspect in which he and his companions were likely to appear to Martin. He began on the minor issue.

  “We didn’t know they were yours. You didn’t say. Which are they? But you’re quite safe here, and your—the woman. But there are things which I must explain. Let’s sit down and talk it over.”

  He led the way to the fallen tree where he had sat with Ellis Roberts the night before. Ellis lay dead now a few yards away. They had covered him from the flies. He must be buried before they moved. There were others to bury. They had learnt that it is not wise to leave dead men for the dogs to find. They grow savage and more bold on such diet.

  Tom pondered before he spoke. He was sorely tempted. “His wife.” It seemed clear that Helen was not missed or wanted. Suppose he let Martin go as he wished? Helen would be his in a month’s time. Suppose that she should learn it later? Could he not say: “I found him with another woman, whom he called his wife. It is evident that he did not want to return to you. It was the kindest thing to conceal it.” Nor was it likely that Helen would ever know. Martin’s name had not been asked or mentioned. Why should it? He might go—forever. Life was precarious enough for all today. Especially so for a lonely man with an attractive woman beside him.

  But Tom could not bring himself to do this. He had given his word to Helen. There was the old debt to Martin, which should be paid. Beyond that, he had another plan. He meant to offer Martin the monarchy of the narrow lands that the deluge had left. He thought that they could seize it together, and that Martin could save it. But he did not forget Claire, and found some hope in the thought. He felt that it justified him in beginning on other things before giving the news that Helen lived.

  “You mustn’t think,” he began, “that we’re like the brutes that attacked you. We came here to make an end of them, and found you’d done half the work already. If you’ll tell me what the things are that you claim I’ll see that you have them, if they’re not too many, and if they’re things that you really need. You can’t expect more than that. It’s all looting now. No one earns anything. No one makes anything. No one grows anything. If we find anything it’s ours, but only if we need it. There’s no law now for anything, but that’s understood, and seems fair.”

  Martin said: “All the things in the tunnel were my own collecting, but I don’t want to argue that. Shall we take what we can carry, and leave the rest? I’m glad they found the pig.”

  For, after all, Claire’s hunting had not been wasted, and a smell of roast pork was in the air.

  “I expect that will do,” Tom answered, “but, you know, it’s all lawless. Most of the boys here will listen to me, and we’re all trying to get some order, but if we don’t agree, the weak have to give way, or we fight it out. There’s nothing else to be done. And nothing’s done that needs many of us to agree before we start it. And no one works for the future. Everything’s too uncertain. We’re just living on what’s been done in the past, most of which can’t be replaced. Some of them seem to think we can go on plundering forever. They’re not even saving seed. What we want is someone who will take control, and make the rest obey him. If you would do it—”

  Characteristically, Tom went straight to his objective. Martin did not appear to notice. He cut into the moment’s pause with a question of his own. It was vital to any decision as to remaining among them.

  He said: “There’s one thing that puzzles me. I’d been living here alone for some weeks. Then I came on this gang that you call Bellamy’s. Now I’ve met yours, who seem a more decent lot. There may be others. But I’ve only seen two old women, and two young ones, and of the two young ones, one was dead, and the other—I mean my wife—swam here from another piece of land. Are all the women dead?”

  “No,” Tom answered, “there are still some alive, and some children, but the men are the most numerous. You see, we’re a mixed lot. Just some of those who happened not to have got too far to the north when the ground gave way in front of them. I suppose more of the men than the women got clear of the wrecked houses and the fires—and some of the worst of the men, those who only cared for themselves—were among the survivors.

  “Then there were those of us that were shut in the mine. When we got clear it was too late for us to go on northward and get drowned. We should just have walked into the sea. We were about two hundred, and that made a big difference. We found the village in ruins. A few of the women who had not been hurt were still there. Those that wouldn’t leave till they knew that their men were dead. They came off best. Got their men again, an
d saved their lives as well. It was a queer chance. But most were gone—

  “So there was quarrelling over the women. It wasn’t all the men’s faults. Some women are devils. But some men are brutes, too. It all needs a fresh start.”

  Tom hesitated a moment, and then thought he saw a way of bringing out his more personal news in an easy way. It had got to be done somehow. He took the plunge. “There was one woman that I helped to save the morning after we got clear of the pit. We found the sea at our doors. Most of the men were searching in the ruins of their houses, but it was a ghastly work, and there was no hope. Those that had escaped knew that no one was left alive in the wreckage. Most of them had bolted. Some of us, who hadn’t any families to look for, went to the water’s edge. We wanted to see whether the land was still sinking. There was a boat that looked empty grounded a little way out. Then we thought that there were children in it. I swam out. I was the only one that could swim. It wasn’t far. There was no danger.” Tom felt that it would be unfair to imply that he had saved the lives of those that the boat had held. Perhaps also he was reluctant to come to the dramatic part of his narrative. “I got it, right enough, and paddled it ashore. It was quite easy. There was a woman in it that seemed dead, and two children—”

  “Two children?”

  The question came with an abrupt incisiveness that Martin had not used since he had last been in a court of law, and which he had not often used there, except to a witness whom he knew to be lying.

  “Yes, sir. There were two children,” Tom answered, his mind reacting to the form in which the question came. Martin had listened up to that point with an alert attention, for he was obtaining information from the one man that he could trust, on which might depend his decision of remaining with them or taking the chance of the lawless solitudes around him, but at the news that the children had been two, a sudden hope had leapt and died as he realised its absurdity. Yet, though his reason dismissed the thought, its coming had put him on guard and his voice was level and toneless, and his eyes inscrutable as he asked the next question. It was with the expression he would wear when a hostile counsel was inflicting a damaging cross-examination upon his chief witness, and no one who watched could judge whether he knew that he were beaten or was prepared to overtrump the trick when his turn came for the playing. He asked, in a tone of casual interest only: “Did they live?”