The Complete Richard Hannay: The Thirty-Nine Steps , Greenmantle , Mr Standfas

by John Buchan

  Then he demanded, ‘Where’s Haraldsen?’ I told him and he nodded. ‘I hope he’ll stay in his earth… See here, Dick. The lay-out as I planned it was that D’Ingraville should be encouraged to attack you and so commit himself. But before he had time to do any harm, your supports would arrive and hold him. Well, that’s a wash-out, for there are no supports. I have got word to the Danish destroyer that patrols the fishing banks. She’s on her way, but she’s coming from the Westmanns, and can’t be here much before midnight. That gives D’Ingraville time to do the deuce of a lot of damage. I tried to have the attack delayed, and I managed to have it put off till now – it was arranged for this morning – principally because I got them hunting for the children. But now we’re for it. It’s seven or eight hours till midnight, time enough for D’Ingraville to cut all our throats if he wants to. If he gets hold of Haraldsen there may be some ugly work. If it’s only you and Lombard he’ll be content perhaps with ransacking the House. How long can you stick it?’

  ‘An hour maybe,’ I said. ‘We’ve no man-power to keep them out. They are old hands, and won’t give us much of a chance of picking them off piece-meal.’

  ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘If you can make it three hours we might do the trick… I’ll go back and report that you won’t treat. I’ll say you can agree to nothing without Haraldsen’s consent, and that he isn’t here, and that you’ll do your damnedest to defend his property. I’ll try to tangle up things at the other end. I’ll have to come over to you some time, but I’ll choose my own time for that – the moment when I can be of most use. If D’Ingraville finds that he has been diddled and gets his hands on me, then my number is up, and I won’t be any use to you as a corpse.’

  As Sandy spoke I had a vivid memory of a bush-crowned hillock in the African moonlight, when, to defend another Haraldsen, Lombard and I had imperilled our lives. I seemed to have done all this before, and to know what was coming next, and that foreknowledge gave me confidence. I must have smiled, for Sandy looked at me sharply.

  ‘You’re taking this calmly, Dick. You know it’s a devilish tight fix, don’t you? The one hope is midnight and the Danish boat. Spin things out till then without a tragedy and we have won. I must be off.’ He waved his hand to D’Ingraville at the foot of the steps and turned to go. His last word was, ‘Keep Haraldsen off the stage for Heaven’s sake. He’s our weakest point.’ He went down the steps, and the next second I had clanged the great hall-door behind him and dropped the bolts. I left old Arn piling up the barricade again and skipped up to my post behind the chimney-stack, with the intention of doing some fancy shooting. I saw Sandy conferring with D’Ingraville and Carreras, looking once again the murderous scallywag.

  Suddenly, in a pause of the wind, a voice rang out, a voice coming from the north, from the hermit’s cell at the end of the arcade.

  ‘Off the terrace,’ it shouted. ‘Back to your styes, you swine, or I shoot.’

  It was Haraldsen – there could be no mistaking that voice – but it seemed to be raised to an unearthly pitch and compass, for it filled the place like the rumour of the sea in a voe. D’Ingraville’s ruffians were accustomed to the need for cover, and suddenly the whole gang seemed to shrink in size, as it splayed out and crouched with an uneasy eye on the north. All but one – Carreras. I don’t know what took the man. Perhaps he was looking for shelter in the lee of the steps and the House – at any rate, he moved forward instead of back. A shot cracked out, he flung up one arm, spun half-left, and dropped on his face.

  In an instant every man of them was flat on the ground, worming his way back to the terrace wall which would give refuge from that deadly rifle. Then the voice spoke again, and what it said must have considerably surprised one at least of the crawlers.

  ‘Clanroyden,’ it shouted. ‘Back to the House with you! Quick, man! Do as I tell you. I can’t handle that scum if there’s a friend mixed up in it.’

  How on earth he saw who Martel was I cannot tell. But it was a foolish move, and it came very near being the end of Sandy. It was the words ‘Back to the House’ that did the mischief, for they enabled D’Ingraville to identify the man Martel, when otherwise it might have seemed a mere bluff. At any rate so Sandy thought, for to my horror I saw him scramble to his feet from behind a clump of Arctic willows. He knew his danger, for he twisted and side-slipped like a rabbit. I was choking with fright, for I couldn’t get down to the main door in time, and there was Arn’s barricade to get out of the way: the front of the House was bare of cover, and till he got round the corner of it he was in the centre of an easy field of fire. But only one shot followed him, and I’m pretty certain it did not come from D’Ingraville; he must have been confident of getting his revenge at leisure. The shot missed its mark – I believe that the reason was that the fugitive at the moment stumbled over the dead Carreras. In a few seconds he was out of my orbit of sight. He would be safe in the back parts for the time being, unless he fell in with a stray picket.

  Presently he was out of my mind as well, for all my attention was fixed on D’Ingraville. He had got his main force under cover of the terrace wall – out of Haraldsen’s danger, and it was plain enough what he proposed to do. It was child’s play to take Haraldsen in flank and rear. The cell’s door and window opened to the south, and its inmate could protect himself in that direction, but what could he do against an attack from above by way of the thatched roof? Three sturdy fellows with five minutes’ work could uncover the badger’s earth.

  A figure squeezed in beside me behind the chimney-stack. ‘A close call,’ said Sandy. ‘The bullet went through my pocket. If I hadn’t tripped and turned side-on, I’d be dead… What’s our friend up to? Oh, I see. Fire. They’ll burn the thatch and smoke him out. This is our worst bit of luck. If only that damned fool had stuck in his burrow, instead of trying to be heroic. I dare say he’s off his head. Did you hear his voice? Only a madman’s could ring like that. And he gave me away, the blighter, though God knows how he spotted me! Another proof of lunacy! This show’s turning out pretty badly, Dick. In about half an hour D’Ingraville will have got Haraldsen, and very soon he’ll have got me, and he won’t be nice to either of us.’

  A kind of dusk had fallen owing to the cloud-wrack drifting up with the east wind, and the prospect from my roof-top was only of leaden skies and a black, fretful sea. The terrace was empty, but I could see what was happening beyond it, and I watched it with the fascinated eyes of a spectator at a cinema, held by what I saw, but subconsciously aware of the artifice of it all. My mind simply refused to take this mad world into which I had strayed as an actual thing, though my reason told me that it was a grim enough reality. I caught a glimpse of one figure after another among the stunted shrubberies and sunk plots which lay north and east of the hermit’s cell. Then an exclamation from Sandy called my attention to the cell itself. There was a man on its roof pouring something out of a bucket. ‘Petrol,’ Sandy whispered. ‘I guessed right. They’ll burn him out.’

  A tongue of flame shot up which an instant later became a globe of fire. A spasm of wind swept it upwards in a long golden curl. Directly beneath me I saw men appear again on the terrace. It was safe enough now – for Haraldsen could scarcely shoot from a fiery furnace.

  D’Ingraville was looking up at us, for he had guessed where Sandy would have taken position.

  ‘You have kept your promise, Lord Clanroyden,’ he cried. ‘I am glad of that, for this would have been a dull place without you.’

  Sandy showed himself fully.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I like to keep my word.’

  ‘You have won the first trick,’ the pleasant voice continued. ‘At least you have deceived me very prettily, and I am not easily deceived. I make you my compliments. But I don’t think you will win the rubber. When we have secured that madman, I will give myself the pleasure of attending to you.’

  I have called his voice pleasant, and for certain it was now curiously soft and gentle, though notably clear. Bu
t there was something feline in it, like the purring of a cat. There he stood with his wild crew about him, elegant, debonair, confident, and as pitiless as sin. The sight of him struck a chill in my heart. In a very little we should be at his mercy, and it was hours – hours – before there was any hope of succour. I was not alarmed for myself, or even for Haraldsen, who seemed now to have got outside the pale of humanity; but I saw nothing before Sandy except destruction, for two men had wagered against each other their lives… And the children! Where and in what peril were they crouching in this accursed island?…

  Suddenly there was a roar which defied the wind and made D’Ingraville’s voice a twitter. It was such a thunder of furious exultation as might have carried a Viking chief into his last battle. Out from the cell came Haraldsen. His figure was lit up by the blazing roof and every detail was clear. He was wearing his queer Norland clothes, and his silver buckles and buttons caught the glint of fire. One part of his face was scorched black, the rest was of a ghostly pallor. His shaggy hair was like a coronet of leaves on a tall pine. He had no weapon and he held his hands before him as if he were blind and groping. Yet he moved like a boulder rushing down a mountain, and it seemed scarcely a second before he was below me on the terrace.

  There was no mistaking his purpose. The man had gone berserk, and was prepared to face a host and rend them with his naked fingers. Had I been near enough to see his eyes, I knew that they would have been fixed and glassy… Once in Beira I saw a Malay run amok with a great knife. The crowd he was in were almost all armed, but the queer thing was that not a shot was fired at the man, and he had cut a throat and split two skulls before he was tripped up and sat upon by a drunken sailor coming down a side street, who hadn’t a notion what was afoot. That was what happened now. There were men behind him with guns, there were twenty men on the terrace with rifles and pistols, yet this tornado with death in its face was permitted to sweep down on them unhindered. A palsy seemed to have taken them, like what happens, I have been told, to mountaineers in the track of a descending avalanche.

  What befell next must have taken many minutes, but to me it seemed to be a mere instant of time. I was not conscious till it was all over that Sandy beside me had grabbed my wrist in his excitement and dug his nails into my flesh… D’Ingraville was standing in the front of a little group which seemed to close round him as the whirlwind approached. Haraldsen swept them aside like dead leaves, but whether the compulsion was physical or moral I cannot tell. He plucked D’Ingraville in his arms as I might have lifted a child of three. Then, and not till then, there was a shot. D’Ingraville had used his gun, but I know not what became of the bullet. It certainly did not touch Haraldsen.

  Haraldsen held up his captive to the heavens like a priest offering a sacrifice. He had drawn himself to his full height, and in the brume to my scared eyes looked larger than human. D’Ingraville wriggled half out of his clutch, and seemed to be tossed in the air and re-caught in a fiercer grip. The next I knew was that Haraldsen had turned north again and was racing back towards the hermit’s cell.

  Then the shooting began. The men on the terrace aimed at his legs – I saw rifle bullets kick up flurries of dust from the flower beds. But for some unknown reason they missed him. The men near the cell tried to stop him, but he simply trampled them underfoot. Only one of them fired a shot, and we found the mark of it later in a furrow through his hair… He was past them, and at the blazing cell where the last rafter was now dropping into a fiery pit. For a moment I thought he was going to make a burnt-offering of D’Ingraville, who by this time must have had the life half squeezed out of him in that fierce embrace. But no. He avoided the cell, and swung half-right to the downland above the sea.

  By this time he was out of sight of the terrace, but in full view of Sandy and me on the roof-top. We might write off D’Ingraville now, for he was beyond hope. Haraldsen’s pace never slackened. He took great leaps among the haggs and boulders, and by some trick of light his figure seemed to increase instead of diminish with distance, so that when he came out on the cliff edge, and was silhouetted against the sky, it was gigantic.

  Then I remembered one of his island tales which he had told us on our first arrival – told with a gusto and realism like that of an eye-witness. It was the story of one Hallward Skull-splitter who had descended a thousand years ago upon the Island of Sheep and cruelly ravaged it. But a storm had cut him off with two companions from his ships, and the islanders had risen, bound the Vikings hand and foot, and hurled them into the sea from the top of Foulness… It was Foulness I was now looking at, where the land mouth of the harbour ran up to a sea-cliff of three hundred feet.

  I had guessed right. At first I thought that Haraldsen meant to seek his own death also. But he steadied himself on the brink, swung D’Ingraville in his great arms, and sent him hurtling into the void. For a second he balanced himself on the edge and peered down after him into the depths. Then he turned and staggered back. I got my glasses on to him and saw that he had dropped on the turf like a dead man.

  A tremendous drama is apt to leave one limp and dulled. D’Ingraville was gone, but his jackals remained, and now they would be more desperate than ever with no leader to think for them. Our lives were still on a razor’s edge, and it was high time for a plan of campaign. But Sandy and I clutched each other limply like two men with vertigo.

  ‘Poor devil!’ said Sandy at last. ‘He can’t have known what was coming. Haraldsen must have hugged him senseless.’

  ‘We’re quit of a rascal,’ I said; ‘but we’ve got a maniac on our hands.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The fury is out of him. He returned to type for a little, and is now his sober commonplace self again.’ He held out his watch. ‘Not yet seven! Five hours to keep these wolves at bay. Hungry and leaderless wolves – a nasty proposition!… Great God! What is that?’

  He was staring southward, and when I looked there I saw a sight which bankrupted me of breath. The murky gloaming was lit to the north by the last flames of the hermit’s cell, but to the south there was a breach in the gloom and a lagoon of clear sky was spreading. Already the rim of the southern downs was outlined sharply against it. In that oasis of light I saw strange things happening… At sea a flotilla of boats was nearing the harbour on a long tack, and one or two, driven by sweeps, were coming up the shore. Across the hill moved an army of men, not less than a hundred strong, sweeping past the reservoir, overflowing the sunk lawn, men shaggy and foul with blood, and each with a reeking spear.

  The sight was clean beyond my comprehension, and I could only stare and gasp. It was as if a legion of trolls had suddenly sprung out of the earth, for these men were outside all my notions of humanity. They had the troll-like Norland dress, now stained beyond belief with mud and blood; their hair and eyes were like the wild things of the hills; the cries that came from their throats were not those of articulate-speaking men, and each had his shining, crimsoned lance… Dimly I saw the boats enter the harbour and their occupants swarm into the Tjaldar like cannibal islanders attacking a trading ship. Dimly I saw D’Ingraville’s men below me cast one look at the murderous invasion and then break wildly for the shore. I didn’t blame them. The sight of that maniacal horde had frozen my very marrow.

  Dimly I heard Sandy mutter, ‘My God, the Grind has come.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but something had come which I understood. In the forefront of the invaders were Anna and Peter John.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Riddle of the Tablet

  I have often wondered how we should define the courage of the ordinary rapscallion. A contempt, doubtless, for certain kinds of danger with which he is familiar and which for him have lost the terrors of the unknown. Not a settled habit of mind, for often he will be paralysed by the unexpected, and thrown into a panic by what is outside his experience. The first happened when Haraldsen went berserk and plucked D’Ingraville out of the heart of his gang; the second, when several score of ensanguined Norlanders turned the kne
es of the gang to water. Certainly it was the wildest spectacle I ever beheld, and he would have been a stout fellow who stood up against that nightmare army of blood-stained trolls… As a matter of fact, two of the gang did put up some kind of resistance with their guns, and perished as if they had been pilotwhales. I doubt if the Norlanders knew what they were doing. Like Haraldsen they had gone back to type – they were their forebears of a thousand years ago making short work of a pirate crew.

  The rest, who surrendered like sheep, were not maltreated, but were trussed up like bundles of hay with the home-made ropes that every Norlander carries with him. The detachment in the boats who had swarmed over the Tjaldar behaved with extreme circumspection. I fancy that the atmosphere of a modern steamer got them out of their atavistic dreams quicker than their kinsmen on the land. They were civil to Barralty and his friends, though they found it hard to find a common tongue, and, having brought the vessel round to a better anchorage and left everything ship-shape about her, they came ashore soberly to take counsel with the rest of us.

  For the madness did not take long to ebb. The case of Haraldsen was curious. As soon as I saw that there was no fear of resistance and that the Norlanders were ready to do whatever Anna told them, I started off with Peter John for the top of the cliffs, for Haraldsen seemed to be the one big problem left. I found him sitting up on the turf, with his huge fists stuck in his eyes like a sleepy child. I think it was the sight of Peter John, who had always been his close friend, that gave him a bridge back to the ordinary world.