Joe and Bryan rode on. It was awkward that Rentoul should have been knocked out. It was he that knew the park and the way to enter. Still, they could not easily go wrong now. So they thought; but they lost time by continuing to the lodge gates, which they found to be secured beyond their means of forcing. To climb them would have been little benefit unless they were prepared to haul their captives over on their return.
They went back, seeking for a place where they could break through the palings most easily. There had been no sign of life from the lodge.
They had to go back for some distance, thanks to Tom’s repairing energy, before they found a place where they could force a gap without any great difficulty.
Here they entered, and riding through a growth of bracken which rose to their horses’ shoulders, under oaks that had withstood the storms of three centuries, they came on to the main drive and turned towards the lodge they were seeking.
Then they pulled up sharply, for a woman stood on the path before them.
“Let me speak,” said Joe, and walked his horse forward, taking his cap from his head.
Helen’s heart beat with fear, but she had seen that there would be no time for concealment—they had come so silently over the mossy turf—and she stood her ground bravely.
“I have a message,” Joe said, “for Mrs. Aldworth; are you she?”
“No,” said Helen, “at least, I am—I think you mean me.”
“Tom says that Jerry Cooper’s coming, and you won’t be safe here. He’s sent us to bring you away.”
Helen looked at the men, and did not trust them. Yet it might be true. She temporised.
“I cannot leave the children,” she said. “Is there really much danger?”
Joe answered: “We are to bring the children with us. Tom said there were two. But we can’t wait. He sent three of us, and one was shot as we came up the road.”
Helen still doubted, but his words turned the scale. The message said that there were two children, and regarded their welfare as well as her own. Also, she had heard the shot. The tale seemed true, and the danger must be very near.
“Need we get any things?” she said. “Is there time? The children are close at hand.”
“Better come as you are,” said Joe, whose mind was on an opposite danger from hers.
She called the children, who were playing in the woods only a few yards away.
“You’ll take the kids,” said Bryan, speaking for the first time. Joe did not prefer this, but he did not want an altercation before the woman, who might take alarm. He looked at the children. They were light enough. One before, one behind. He could manage. Their mother lifted them, and with Bryan’s help they were strapped securely. They were timid of his strangeness, but keen on the unexpected pleasure of the ride.
“Much better this way than any fuss,” thought Joe.
It was Helen’s turn now to mount. She stood doubtfully beside the unattractive Bryan.
“Shall I get up behind you?” she said doubtfully.
“No,” he said, “in front.” He reached a hand, arid she jumped easily enough with a foot on his stirrup. He drew her up roughly. Handcuffs clicked on her wrists. A rope was twisted. He threw her over so that she hung like a sack above the horse’s neck, her loose hair trailing. She was powerless even to struggle.
Joe surveyed his companion’s methods with some disgust.
“Better have done it quieter,” he said.
Bryan turned on him with a sneer. “It’s all done quiet enough. She won’t hurt. A few jolts won’t kill her. Don’t I want me hands free to fight? We’re not clear yet.”
“Right,” said Joe, “but get her safe to the Captain.” He grinned with his usual amiability. He had no mind to quarrel with Bryan. If he killed her it wasn’t Joe that would get the blame.
They debated by which way they should return. They had no wish to ride back along the road where Rentoul had fallen. They might be other bullets in waiting. They decided to cross the park. There must be a road on the further side, so they thought.
They looked back and saw an old woman staring at them curiously from the door of the lodge.
CHAPTER XXXIX
We have seen already how minor factors, unknown and incalculable, may defeat the soundest-seeming plans and deride their contrivers.
So had it happened again; for though the tactical defeat of Jerry Cooper by Martha Barnes may be considered a direct issue of superior general-ship, the fact that Tom Aldworth’s force had passed from his control into that of a man who was hurrying back to a lost and recovered wife must be recognised as being outside the possibility of foresight or calculation.
It was owing to the impetus of this circumstance that the returning force was within four miles of the road-junction at which Jerry had halted, when a motorcycle was observed to be making a determined, though somewhat tortuous, advance towards them.
For Davy, though not without accident, had done better than Jerry had anticipated. The primary necessity of carrying out his mother’s instructions had given both confidence and caution. It was not a probable supposition that the cycle would venture on any rebellious escapades; it was unthinkable that failure should result from his own default.
Martin was walking with Claire at the head of a tired and laden procession, only kept in motion by the fact that their new leader was ahead, and that both he and Claire were as burdened as any. But Davy did not know him, and addressed himself to Tom, to whom his message had been directed.
“Mother says as Jerry Cooper’s come a callin’. ’Ur sez yer’d better ’urry now, or yer needn’t ’urry at all.”
He found himself the centre of an excited group of questioners, to whom he gave a sufficient account of his experiences to prove that he carried more than a rumour of panic.
He showed the broken spoke, the leaking petrol.
Martin stood on the outside of the group, listening and resolving.
His mind, behind the habitual calm of his manner, had been in a state of hardly-controlled excitement since the episode of the night before.
Always in the front of his consciousness was the coming meeting with Helen. There would be so much to tell—so much to hear. There was Claire also to be introduced—explained—included.
Behind this anticipation there was the thought of the power that had come so strangely into his hands. If he could make it real! It was such a chance! He had but a score of followers. They might be able to bring others. They appeared sure of that. Sure of the power they could give him. But how to use it if it should come? He must be cautious and patient. He must give his life to their service. He knew that there is no other road to any real supremacy. He must walk as burdened as any.
He must be ruthless also. He had not practised in English law-courts without learning the evils which had been eating the heart of the nation. There would be a cleaner social order to build up. There would be evil practices to suppress. Diseases to be stamped out. There would be new controls to be devised. There would be a hundred practical issues to be determined promptly. What could be conserved of the old wealth? Of the old knowledge? What was worth the saving?
So he had thought, and fate, as usual, dealt the card, and here was the need for action, prompt and decisive. Action which, he saw, might establish or confound him on the threshold of the dream with which his mind was exultant.
The men had got what they could from Davy. Some of them were already throwing down their burdens and loading rifles, which had been put aside as though their use were ended.
He advanced through the group. He said to Davy. “You said there were twenty of them. Are you sure there were no more?”
Yes. Davy was sure. About a score. All mounted.
He turned to Tom. “If they’ve got clear, have we horses to follow?”
Tom shook his head. They had nothing better than their own legs. “But if they’ve taken the women we’ll soon catch them. They can’t keep riding forever. They’d come to the water.”
Tom shook his head. “Not one of us knows that. But they went off first down the Belsham Road. They’d be likely to go the same way. They couldn’t go far by any other, unless they came here or walked into the sea. They’d keep that road—for the first three miles, anyway.”
“How many of these men have families that may be in danger now?”
Tom looked round. Five there were—or six if we must reckon Jack Tolley’s interest in the unconscious Madge. Five who had left children or women to the doubtful protection of others while they came on this venture. And there was Helen, and hers. His own matter, and Martin’s. But he owned that she would be fairly safe. The park was far off and solitary. In a hurried raid, in which they would keep together, they would be unlikely to find her.
Martin’s resolution failed for a moment only. He knew the right thing, and he could not ask of others what he would not do himself. Suppose Tom—but he must take the risk.
He spoke to the men.
“Boys,” he said, “every minute counts now. If any of you haven’t thrown down everything but what he’ll need in a fight, he’d better do it quickly. The three wounded men will stay here, and the women and Hodder.
“The rest of you will follow me. We’re going to try to cut off their retreat. It’s a poor chance, but it’s the best. But I say this, if any of you want to go straight to protect his own I don’t forbid that. He can fall out. But I think he’ll find he’s not needed at all, or he’ll be too late. In two minutes we march.”
He looked at Tom with an anxiety which he did not show. If Tom elected to go to the relief of Helen he could not forbid it after what he had said, and he was conscious how it might appear in some possible developments. And he wanted Tom. He was the best man he had. But he felt that he had done right. It was the best chance, and it was his duty to lead it.
But Tom made no motion to go. It was Jack Tolley who spoke. He said: “It sounds the best chance, and you’ll need us all if it’s Cooper’s gang that you’re fighting. You know how we feel. We’ll come if you tell us—but not else. We want orders for that.”
He looked round, and the men nodded.
Martin saw that there was some reason in the attitude he took up. If he were ordered he would come. He would not have it said afterwards, under unforeseeable circumstances, that he had been told that he could go to Madge’s succour and had not done so.
“Right,” Martin said. “You will all come. Who knows the way best? We want to cut into the Belsham Road before it forks below Sterrington Church.”
He knew the road well enough. He had cycled along it more than once in the old days. The fields and lanes were another matter. But Jack volunteered readily. He could have found his way in the dark. Had done so, in fact, on the moonless nights that the poacher loves.
Claire touched his arm. “You won’t want me?” she asked.
He hesitated for a second. He had learnt to rely upon her so much in their four days’ intimacy. And he knew that they might need every hand that could press a trigger. Perhaps if she had not raised the question, but had just come, he thought....But it was not women’s work. And women were so few now! It was not a question of what he wished. He had no right to allow it. He shook his head. “No. You must stay here with the others. I hope you’ve seen your last fight.”
“May I go to Helen?” She pointed to the cycle that Davy was holding in readiness. “He says he can take me.”
“Yes,” he said. He was surprised and grateful that she should have proposed it. He thought that she would be safer that way than in the fighting. But he was relieved also. “Will it carry you?” he asked, with an eye on the leaking tank. Davy grinned affirmatively.
The men were already streaming back along the road, for Jack was leading them in that direction toward a field-path which would be speedier than a more direct attempt across the wild-hedged pastures.
Martin went to the cart to get his own rifle. Claire came beside him. “I’ll have the pistol,” she said, “if you don’t want it.” She ran back to the waiting Davy. “Good-bye,” she called, “and good luck. You’ll find them safe tonight.” She did not look round for a reply.
CHAPTER XL
Martin hurried past the sacks and bales and bundles that had been cast aside by his followers, and which were now being collected by the inefficients whom he had appointed for that duty.
He was making no use of the horses. They were only four. They were tired. And his men could not ride. And the way they were taking might not be easy for mounted men. Four good reasons. They would not have been of any conceivable utility. The three pack-horses had been overloaded, and were lame and exhausted. The one remaining horse for the cart was in a worse case. It had been impossible to bring it along the line, and it had been started off in the early morning to make a detour of some miles by rough and rutty ways. It was being urged on with difficulty when Davy ‘s appearance proved its unexpected deliverance, and demonstrated to its simple intellect that Providence is not entirely blind to the sufferings of the innocent.
Martin pushed on rapidly till he had regained the head of the column. He said to Jack: “How much time can we save?” Jack calculated. “We shall be in Ekin’s Lane in twenty minutes. It’s a mile from there to Sterrington. A mile and a bit. The roads don’t run so far apart till the split comes at the church...It ’ud have been four miles back, and more, and three miles on the other road. We save nigh two hour.”
“Shall we do it?”
Jack doubted. “They’ll make good speed,” he said, “when they’re clear of the hill. It’s a good road. About the best that’s left.”
Martin knew that this must be so. The road ran high, between low hedges and open fields. It was wide and well-ditched. It had little roadside growth, beyond a low thorn or a clump of elder. Earthquake and storm might have left it clear for all its length.
There was little comfort in that. But he recalled with more satisfaction that the road fell before it forked at Sterrington. There was cover there. A good place for an ambush.
“Can you manage a better pace?” he said. Jack broke into a trot beside him. The column straggled behind.
CHAPTER XLI
Claire proved her nerve a score of times since the night when it seemed that the whole earth had failed her and she had kept afloat in the waters. She had done some things at which she could shudder afterwards, wondering whether it were not a nightmare from which she would wake to the familiar outlines of the wistaria’d window of her Cheltenham home. But she had not previously occupied the precarious rear of a motorcycle that rushed along a wreck-strewn road at a speed that was sometimes twenty miles an hour, and that varied continually as it swerved and jibbed and shot forward at a different angle.
She would almost have preferred to have to face the brutality of Bellamy once again, certainly have preferred to stand up to the rifle of the approaching Donovan.
Yet they had no accident. They passed more than one group of excited people, whose activity was plainly of the talking kind, at whom Claire looked curiously, and who looked at the strange woman that Davy brought from nowhere with a livelier wonder.
They turned into the road that led to the lodge without any incident that is worth recording, and had gone but a short distance along it when they observed a saddled chestnut mare that grazed at the roadside.
At the sound of their coming it lifted a sudden head and appeared about to gallop away, but an urgent word from Claire—the first she had uttered—brought the machine to a halt. She jumped off.
“Davy,” she said, “wait a moment. I want that horse.”
She did not intend to remount the cycle under any earthly circumstance. She was still alive. She would be content—and grateful.
She w
alked up to the horse. A man lay near, on the roadside grass. She bent over him doubtfully. She had seen men die. She had seen men dead. She knew that death was here.
The man’s face was young, and not evil. It drew her eyes. It was the face of one who had taken the adventures of life gaily. He had been shot in the back. She wondered on which side he had fallen.
The mare came nearer. She stretched her head towards the dead man.
Claire had a feeling that his spirit was beside them. That there was something which he would have explained if he could. His face was peaceful. He did not look as though he had grudged his end. She had a feeling that he was glad that the bullet had found him. It might be thus that an Overruling Power had turned him from a wrong path he had chosen. Who knows?
She laid a hand on the mare’s neck, and their eyes met. “You’ve got a mistress now,” she said, smoothing the glossy shoulder.
She began to shorten the stirrups.
“Can yer ride ’er?” said the wondering Davy.
“Davy,” she answered, “I learnt to fall off a horse before I was six; but I haven’t learnt to fall off your carrier yet, and I don’t want to begin. Have we much farther to go?”
“Not far,” Davy answered her. It was about a quarter of a mile to the gates of the drive, but Tom had left them locked. He did not think that they could get in by that way.
“Very well,” said Claire, “we must find another.”
She mounted, and they went forward side by side, at no great pace, with an eye to the high fence that bordered the park on their right hand.
They came to a gap where it had been broken down. “We had better go through here,” Claire said, “or, at least, I will. You wouldn’t get the bike through the wood. I think you can go home, Davy. I ought to find my own way now.”
She turned the mare to the side. There was no footpath, but a slight bank of grass and then a shallow ditch before the broken paling. The ditch was set from the storm of the night before. Rain had been heavy in that part. She saw hoof-marks in the soft mud. They were quite fresh. A sudden terror chilled her. She had said: “You will find them safe tonight.” Would he? Was she too late?
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