Fortunately the road bent somewhat at that point, and a damaged cyclist was the only evidence of its aberration which the car left on the road as it plunged into the field that sloped downward on the left-hand side.
Sir John’s wife was dead. Providence should be able to look after itself, even though it had shown its incompetence to protect the Debenham family, but it must have heard some emphatic comments on its deficiencies when the lady encountered it upon the heavenly pavements.
Her parents were dead, but Sybil Debenham was alive, with a cracked head and a broken leg, from which injuries she would doubtless have died where she lay but for the assistance which she received from Martha Barnes, of whose household she became a regular inmate. Her leg was mended, only a slight limp illustrating the inferiority of amateur to professional setting. Her head bore a scar which was concealed by her lengthening hair. She was an ineffectual fluffy girl, who had been carefully trained to incompetence. Now, in wiser hands, she was being inured to many useful occupations, including the care of the two younger children. “To larn yer, when yer has brats o’ yer own,” as Martha bluntly told her. Under such conditions, and separated irrevocably from Coxon’s Pills, which her mother had honestly believed to be necessary to the continued existence of the human race, she was gaining a health which she had never previously imagined. Saved by the effects of her accident from the dangers of the earlier anarchy, she had been successfully claimed by Martha at a later stage as the bride-elect of the moon-faced Davy, an allocation to which she had given a frightened assent when the alternative of passing into the hands of strangers had been thrust upon her. She was even learning to find an unacknowledged pleasure in the shy and silent worship of the youth for whom it appeared that she had been destined by the caprice of so strange a fortune. And as she gained in strength, and in willingness and capacity for the unfamiliar household tasks which were thrust upon her, his sharp-voiced parent became somewhat less sceptical as to her fitness to fulfil so honourable a destiny.
Martha, busy on the already mentioned doorstep, raised her head and looked up the road down which Sir John’s car had once so abruptly descended. Like the Dictator: “North looked she long and hard”—only it was south-east on this occasion. Then, like the Dictator, she took prompt and energetic steps to meet the observed emergency.
She bent down to her work; she called into the interior of the three-roomed hut with which Davy’s energy had already enriched them, without lifting her head in that direction.
“Davy,” she said, “listen ’ere, and don’t show yerself. Go out at the back, and make ’aste to Ted Nuttall’s. Tell ’im Cooper’s gang’s on the way, an’ there’ll be ’ell to pay if they don’t clear the women out sharp. Then borrow Ben Todd’s bike, an’ get out by Sowter’s Lane, an’ find Tom Aldworth. Tell ’im that while ’e’s ’untin’ that ’ulkin’ Bellamy, there’s Jerry come to call, an’ ’e’d better be back today, or there’ll be no cause to ’urry. ’E ought to be somewer back on the main road by now. Yer’ll get through wer the Plast’rer’s Arms stood at the corner.”
Davy had learnt obedience from infancy. Having received instructions which may not be as clear to the reader as they were to him (which was of the greater importance), and which were designed to prevent his premature collision with the invaders, he did not argue nor ask, but laid down the tool which he had been sharpening on the grindstone (looted on the instructions of a farseeing parent), and set out on his appointed mission.
He heard his mother’s voice as he departed, instructing Sybil to remove herself and the children to a place of safety among the deserted ruins, with a judicious threat to her offspring that they would “be tanned till they cudn’t stan’” should they fail in silence or promptitude.
Having completed her dispositions in the face of the approaching enemy, Martha resumed her doorstep.
CHAPTER XXXV
There was dawn in the north-east sky when Joe Harker, riding somewhat wearily, for he suffered from too many weeks of soft living, had approached the locality in which Jerry Cooper had established himself and his following.
Jerry Cooper was of a character very different from that of the brutal Bellamy. He had been a builder’s merchant in a South Midland town, his real occupation having been that of city councillor, in which position he had used his opportunities for patronage and (indirect and legalised) peculations to such good purpose that he had become known as the richest man in his native city, and was honoured and trusted accordingly. It was only a few months earlier that it had been discovered that an alderman of his city, being a poor man with an invalid family, had very culpably employed the services of some municipal workmen for the repairs of his personal property. The matter was an open scandal. The wretched man, who had given a large part of his time to the thankless service of his native city for nearly forty years, had robbed it clumsily and openly of £17, 4s., 11p. Naturally, he resigned the office which he had dishonoured. There were many who would have let the matter rest there, in view of the age and previous services of the culprit. But Councillor Cooper felt differently. In a speech of homely eloquence he dwelt upon the importance of maintaining the purity of municipal life, and urged his colleagues that natural sorrow for the delinquent’s fall should not blind them to the public duty that was thrust upon them. In the result, the necessary resolution which consigned their late alderman to the lawyers’ clutches was passed by a small majority of very uncomfortable men (the honest members of the council being a minority), and he was tried before a judge, who condemned him to serve a term in the common gaol to vindicate the importance of maintaining the purity of municipal life.
It is fair to place on record that the judge did this with a genuine sorrow, honestly supposing that he had fulfilled a public duty by his contempt for the principles of the Christianity which his country professed to reverence. The editor of the local newspaper, having written a leader concerning the vindication of the purity of municipal life, remarked that he was “damned sorry” in the privacy of his own home. But Councillor Cooper had no regrets. It was impossible to feel anything but contempt for a man who could rob so clumsily, or who could have felt the need to do so, after neglecting so many years of opportunity of enriching himself at the expense of the city he served...
Councillor Cooper had lost his office. He had lost his property, which had consisted largely in “eligible building sites” and in ground-rents which his industry had “created.” He had lost most of the things he valued. But he had not lost his character.
As he had ruled there, he would rule here. As he had been efficient there, he was efficient here. Under his directing energy the ground floor of a straggling stone farmhouse had been repaired and roofed. Its newer and more expensive farm buildings, which, having been erected strong and low, had suffered less than the house, had been repaired equally.
Here he had established himself with his following, which consisted of twenty-seven men and five prostitutes. There were no children.
He lived and worked for one object—the overthrow of those who had cast him out, and for his dominion over them.
He would have pointed with confidence to the results which his organisation had achieved already as evidence of his fitness for the precedence on which his mind was set.
He had already explored the limits of the land which the seas had spared, and knew its extent, resources, and remaining inhabitants better than Tom Aldworth or any member of the larger community had exerted themselves to do.
He had searched in every possible direction until he had obtained sufficient arms and ammunition for the equipment of his followers. He had captured sufficient horses to mount them. Stalls and byres once filled with rows of milk cattle were now occupied by these animals. He had never previously mounted a horse, but he had now trained himself for the rough riding of the wilderness of the countryside, and all but three of his followers, who were physically incapable from various causes, were practised daily in the same manner.
His
object was the creation of a military force, the efficiency of which would compensate for the smallness of its numbers, and which would enable him, at the right moment, to strike such a blow as it would not be necessary to second.
He did not expect any attack to be made upon himself in the meantime, being well informed of the shiftless and divided ways of those over whom he intended to assert a natural supremacy, but he took precautions, both against that possibility and that of insubordination among his own followers.
The house in which he lived was barred and barricaded as though it were besieged already. It was occupied by the three inefficients already mentioned, who acted as his menial servants, by the five prostitutes, who were lodged here normally for their own security, but actually so that he might control the rotation in which they bestowed their favours upon his obedient followers, and by a trusted guard of an officer and five men, in whose loyalty he had sufficient reason for confidence. The remaining men, divided into three similar troops of six, each with its own officer, slept in the ruined barns which would be sufficiently rebuilt for their comfort before the winter cold should require it.
Joe, coming early to this military establishment, and inquiring for its proprietor, was received by men who were alert and civil, but who declined to conduct him to “the Captain” till the opening of the house door should announce that its inmates were stirring. They gave him food, for food was plentiful. They fed and groomed a tired horse, for that was a task of which they had learned the importance. Had Joe attempted to leave they might have shown him a different temper, but he had no such intention. He was too tired even to be normally observant. Where he ate he slept, till he was stirred by a foot that invaded his ribs with little ceremony, and a voice that told him that the Captain would see him.
Joe was not taken into the house. He was led to a repaired shed, in which the officer of Troop Three, who was responsible for the commissariat and for such farming operations as were connected therewith, kept his records and balanced his accounts.
Joe found himself confronted by “Captain” Cooper, who was seated at the further side of a deal table.
He let Joe stand while he scrutinised him with hard eyes in a blue-jowled face.
But Joe, though still somewhat sluggish of mind from interruption of the sleep he needed, was as cool as he.
“Who are you?” said the Captain, accenting the final syllable in a way which was something less than complimentary.
“Joe Harker.” And then as one who drops a bomb from a casual hand: “Bellamy’s dead.”
Jerry Cooper started inwardly. The news was of importance to his plans. He had watched the desultory wanderings of Bellamy’s gang with a natural contempt, and had already decided to assimilate it as soon as he should be ready to do so. But not till then. He was a business man.
His pulse may have quickened, but his face gave no sign as he answered.
“I didn’t ask you about Bellamy, but about yourself.”
“And I told you both,” Joe grinned in unabashed response, “but I’ll take it back if you don’t want to know.”
“I want to know what I ask,” Jerry said sternly.
“Well, you know it now,” said Joe, who was not deceived by this apparent lack of interest in the news he brought. “I can go, if I’m not wanted.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Well, I don’t want to,” said Joe with unruffled good humour.
“You might.” There was menace in the curt reply, for there was a lack of respect in Joe’s attitude which Jerry Cooper was not accustomed to encounter.
Joe said nothing. This was too much after the pattern of interviews with owners, with whom bargains were made which were not for public knowledge, for him to be disconcerted. As usual he had information for sale, and he knew its value.
As he said nothing, but continued to smile comfortably, Jerry had the next word.
“What were you?”
“A jockey.”
Jerry stared in an open astonishment. A less cautious man would have called him a liar without reflection. This obese individual—but the name brought memories—Harker who rode “Mustard” for the Morley Stakes. He had made ten pounds on that race. Could this be the man?
“Then you can ride now?”
“I rode here.”
“Where from?”
“About ten miles away.”
“Cross country?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you come?”
“I wanted better company than I’d got.”
“Do you want to join me?”
“I might.”
“You will.” There was the same tone of menace that Joe had heard before, but it left him unruffled.
Jerry Cooper changed his manner. He became the successful tradesman interviewing the traveller to whom he could give or withhold the order on which his month’s commission depended.
He pointed to a stool. He turned aside from the table. He adopted a gruff and distant geniality.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
Joe took the stool, for he was tired of standing, but he did not commence his narrative.
“I want work,” he remarked with a tone of finality, as though that had been the subject of conversation. “I can find things out if I’m left alone.”
Jerry nodded. “I want a man like that.” Then, as Joe continued silent, he added: “I don’t buy goods I’ve not seen. I shall pay you fairly. You’ll get what you’re worth.”
“Then I’ll get enough,” Joe answered amicably. “Bellamy’s dead, as I told you before—Fighting over a girl—There’s a girl and a man wandering loose. I don’t known where from. Bellamy stole the girl. Then she got clear, and they broke his head. They’re devils to fight. Then he followed them into a railway tunnel. He didn’t come back. Now there’s Tom Aldworth and Jack Tolley, and their lot, trying to wipe out what’s left of the gang. They’re all fighting each other. It’s a fair mix-up. If you drop on them now, you can get what’s left. I want the girl.”
“Could you manage her?” said Jerry. “She sounds a live one.”
“Easy,” said Joe, grinning responsively. “Tie and starve. Let me try?”
Cooper nodded. “It’s fair pay,” he said amicably. “But we’re not going there first.” He got up, and led the way to the door. “Let me see you ride,” he said curtly, with a return to his earlier manner.
Joe followed him at an easy amble that kept close enough to the heavy stride of the taller man.
Councillor Cooper had not been fat, but he had been described as “beefy”—even as of a comfortable circumference. Captain Cooper was hard and fit. He moved quickly despite his weight.
Joe did not want exercise. He wanted sleep. But he did not think that objections would be well received. Nor did he want to waste time. He wanted to see the anticipated expedition set out.
He quickly demonstrated that he could ride. There was not one man under Jerry’s orders who had understood how to ride a horse before he drove them and himself to acquire the knowledge. Horse-riding had almost died out in the England of that time.
But here was a man, as Jerry quickly realised, who could see at a glance what a horse could do, and could coax him to it. He was just the man that he needed to control his stables, and to teach riding to his new recruits. For he would have no one but mounted men in the force he was moulding. He believed in mobility.
Joe received this proposal without enthusiasm. He preferred a lazier life. Captain Cooper changed the subject, questioning him closely about the events with which we are already acquainted. When he had obtained all the information with which Joe could supply him, he stood frowning thoughtfully for a time, and then walked into the house, leaving Joe standing.
Half an hour later the leaders of the three troops were summoned into the house. They came out with an air of suppressed excitement, and commenced preparations for marching, but Joe found them indisposed for conversation.
After a time, Cooper came
from the house, spurred and belted, and with a more military aspect than he had shown previously. He came straight to Joe. He said: “We are taking three troops. Your own horse will be tired. You can pick a mount from Number One Troop. Get a meal, if you want one. We start at noon.”
“I can’t fight,” Joe said cautiously. He wanted to be on the spot, but—
“You weren’t asked,” Jerry said, with contempt. “You must look after yourself.”
At noon they started. They took no baggage. What each man carried of food, or utensils, or ammunition, was strapped with his blanket behind the saddle. They were equipped for speed—and for some added burdens on their return.
They moved with scouts ahead, and with outriders on either flank, as though invading a hostile country, though there was little enough of reason for supposing that any attack would be made upon them. Every man had a rifle of some kind, though the patterns varied. Some wore cavalry sabres, though their appearance was rather of mounted infantry of the looser kind. They rode in single file, for the roads were blocked and cumbered, and it was often the easier way to avoid them in favour of hedge-side paths which were trampled by the wild life that was increasing in the deserted fields.
When they had gone on for an hour, Joe pushed his way forward.
“Captain,” he said, as he drew level. “We’re off the way. We’re riding too far north.”
Cooper turned upon him with a burst of inexplicable ferocity: “You damned ape!” he said; “who asked your interference? Keep your place, and your mouth shut.”
Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming Page 27
