Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  But before Cooper could reply, Rattray broke in again.

  “I’m damned sick of this talk.” He turned angrily to Cooper. “Why don’t you tell them what you mean? If there’s only one woman to every five men in this curs’d place, well, there’s fifteen men in my lot, and we want three women—and if we don’t get them quietly, we’ll take six. We want a plain ‘yes’ or ‘no’—and we want it now.”

  Bellamy growled out for the first time, “Ay, that’s the talk.”

  Tom Aldworth looked hard at the silent Cooper. “Is that what you say too?”

  As he said it, a large drop of rain splashed on his hand.

  Cooper hesitated in his reply. It was further than he had meant to go, and he resented the way in which he had been rushed by Rattray’s interposition. But he neither wanted to break openly with his associates nor to resign the control of the situation at which he had aimed; and while he hesitated, the storm came.

  It was a storm which those familiar with English weather might have foreseen as probable from the morning’s brightness. It came in a sudden torrent of drenching rain, such as will disperse a riotous crowd which has stood the threat of machine-gun fire without flinching. There was little of near-by shelter to which to flee; little of ultimate comfort, or chance of change of rain-drenched garments, for most of those on whom the storm descended. In about two minutes the road was empty of all but a table, and five chairs, and an upturned tub.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monty Beeston was sober. That was not his fault. It was the misfortune of poverty. He sat on an upturned bucket, which, having a perforated bottom, had outlived its original utility, with a long-emptied beer-bottle beside him.

  He had a quantity of second-hand safety-razor blades, from which he had cleaned a large part of the rust, and which he was sharpening upon a stone such as is commonly used for the whetting of scythes. It is not a method to be recommended either for the razor-blades or the fingers that hold them, but Monty, ignoring a still-bleeding cut, worked diligently. Had not Steve Fortune promised him four half-pint bottles of ink in exchange for eight of these blades, and would not Butcher give him at least three bottles of beer for the ink-bottles?

  He had already learnt, somewhat painfully, that it was unwise to divert his eyes from his occupation, and Reddy Teller was within three yards before he perceived that it was not a resident member of the camp who was approaching.

  “Goin’ to shave that beard?” Reddy asked, meaning no offence, but seizing on the most obvious subject for opening conversation.

  Monty looked up angrily. He did not like jokes about his beard, from which he had suffered in the old days. Now there was quite a considerable part of the male population who were cultivating (or neglecting) theirs. They might become things of beauty at a future date, but that was not yet. Reddy himself might have shaved during the past week, but it seemed unlikely.

  Being annoyed, Monty Beeston became critical. He wondered what Reddy could be doing, and where he had come from. The speculation was not unreasonable. Monty had stationed himself in a position which enabled him to watch the cattle at intervals, while he laboured for his next drink. The field (if it could be flattered by such a name) sloped down before him; the camp was out of sight a hundred yards behind. It was not a thoroughfare. It was not a place where Reddy could have expected to meet him—or anyone. Reddy was not, strictly, a member of Rattray’s gang, nor of Bellamy’s, which had never been in the camp. He was tolerated, though not liked. But he appeared to have come from the direction of the river, which was strange, and he had last appeared (and only yesterday) as a messenger of Jerry Cooper, which was ominous.

  Monty, who had sat there all the afternoon (except when the storm had driven him to shelter for half an hour), did not know what had been happening, but he thought that one spy might be one too many, and he said, with his usual mildness, “If I was you, I should clear. There’s dogs—an’ bullets.”

  Reddy did not seem as surprised at this remark as an innocent man might have been expected to be, but he stood his ground.

  “Who says that?” he queried unpleasantly.

  Monty did not answer directly. He only said, as mildly as before, “Well, I meant it friendly.”

  As he said this, he shifted his position, bringing into view a revolver of old pattern, and very large calibre, which he carried in his hip-pocket.

  Every one knew of Monty’s revolver. They also knew that he had a good supply of cartridges, but no one had seen him fire it.

  It was, in fact, quite a good revolver, and the cartridges were also of satisfactory quality, but, unfortunately, they were not of the right size. This was a fact which Monty was careful to leave unmentioned.

  Reddy Teller took the hint. He did not go back the way he came, but through the camp, and over the canal bridge without lingering. He made his way straight to Rattray’s camp, having obtained the information which he had sought; for the hint had come too late.

  A well-soaked Rattray, steaming in the sun as he walked, had returned to his camp by the river bridge, and had levied some reluctant garments from his companions, while his own were dried more completely.

  The storm may have been partly responsible for the fact that nearly twenty men were gathered about the tents and beneath the awnings when Reddy joined them. Apart from that, the prestige of Rattray’s gang had advanced in the mouths of men since it had become known that Butcher had supplied the swords. Not that anyone supposed that Butcher cared what became of them, or would risk a finger to save the necks of the lot. Rather, the effect arose from the contrary knowledge. It was not his feeling, but his judgment, which was supposed to be indicated. It was as though it should be known of a business firm that their bankers would back them up. Had Cooper realized this result, it may be doubted whether they would have got the swords.

  Certainly they would not have got them could he have foreseen their leader’s thoughts as he slouched home, steaming in the early evening sun.

  The disasters of Rattray’s life were results of deficiency of, or faults of, character rather than intellect. Even when drunk, you could not depend upon him to be entirely foolish. When sober, he could be of a very dangerous cunning, if there were sufficient incentive to overcome his natural indolence.

  While the meeting was still assembled, he had seen the part that Cooper had aimed to play, and had determined to thwart him.

  When the storm had dispersed them, he had made off at once in his own direction, without a word to either Cooper or Bellamy, and, as he walked, the vague impulse to be the first to move, and to move on his own, became a settled purpose, which he had resolved to put into action immediately.

  He aimed, with the audacity which may deserve success in a good cause, and will often gain it in any, at nothing less than the capture of the camp, without the assistance of Cooper, and before he should have had time to develop his own plans, which Rattray rightly supposed would be of a more deliberate character.

  The plan was not as wild as it may have sounded at a first hearing, though it was true that he was proposing to assault those who had ignominiously expelled him and his followers less than ten days ago.

  But these followers were now more numerous, and better armed. The camp was threatened by other enemies, against whom it must guard itself at many points.

  Finally, he depended upon the surprise of a night attack, and that this should be attempted at once, as he did not suppose that anyone would expect it to be made so promptly, in view of the inconclusive result of the conference, and the disunited character of their own association, which they had not entirely concealed.

  He intended, if possible, to enlist the help of Bellamy, whom he felt that he could control or ignore when his use was over, and to face Cooper with an accomplished fact, and the ascendancy which would naturally follow.

  The mind of Reddy Teller had worked along a different path to the same conclusion.

  He would not have had the faintest interest in Tom Aldworth
’s proposal for the adjustment of the future relations of the community, for the sufficient reason that he would have known that no favours would be likely to come in his direction. He was of the kind that are always ready to join in any civil commotion, because it is only in times of violence or disorder that they can hope to gain the prizes which are the common objects of the desires of men.

  To explain is not to exonerate; but if we attempt a rational understanding, we must perceive that it is much easier for those who are so equipped by nature that they may be the winners in an equal race to insist upon the merits of the rules that will keep all men to the beaten course than for those to appreciate or observe them who are aware that they have little expectation of anything beyond the dust that rises from the feet of the swifter runners.

  Reddy Teller had been disliked at school: he had been disliked at the factory that followed. He had not the consolation that came to many who are disliked by their fellow-men that they are popular among women. Men might dislike Reddy; women usually detested him. Doubtless, the reason was in himself, but this did not make it more tolerable, nor prevent its reactions upon his own character. He was mean and furtive in his ways, and these qualities were emphasized in his aspect. He was of some mental acuteness, and of a restless energy, but these characteristics must be learnt by the experience of those who knew him, as his appearance did not suggest them.

  He slipped in among the group, tolerated here, as elsewhere, but with no friendly greeting, till he came to Jim Rattray, to whom he spoke in a low voice.

  Jim replied without cordiality, but invited him to walk apart.

  “Been through the camp, have you?” he asked. “Well, I suppose you can. You’re not one of us. You’ve got a good nerve, anyway. How’d they seem?”

  “No-how,” Reddy answered. “You’d have cleared it from end to end with them swords and a few pitchforks….

  “But they was coming back as I left. It won’t be quite as easy tonight…. But it isn’t that I came to tell. It’s the way I found, that they won’t guess. You know the river’s low, and there’s fords we might try, but they might, be watched, and it’s unchancy work in the dark, splashing through them. If they had a few rifles handy, there’s some as wouldn’t come back…. Then there’s too much moon tonight for crossin’ that flat ground by the works, and there’s the ditch, and the wire as far as it goes…. But there’s the bridge where the river goes under the line, that isn’t watched or thought for, and the river’s low there too, an’ there’s room to pass under the bridge. We’d be up the outside of the cutting bank in two minutes, and straight up the line. If they’re sleeping, they’ll have no chance; and if they’re up and about, they’ll be scattered away….”

  Rattray listened carefully. The plan seemed good. He looked at Reddy Teller with some curiosity. How could he have foreseen that this information would be so opportune, and coincident with his plans of the last hour? Why did he act thus, as the jackal for other men? Perhaps, because it was the only way in which he could realize the plans he formed. He was not a man who would be followed by others.

  So he thought; what he said was, “Could you find Bellamy?”

  Teller answered at once: “I wouldn’t tell him which way we’re going. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Let them find out when the time comes. It’s talking spoils things like this. But he might have a go at the other end. It mayn’t be much help. It’s the right timing we couldn’t do. It’ud be hard anyway, and he hasn’t the sense. If he started too soon, it would just spoil it for us. They’d be watching all round for sure. I’ll tell him half an hour after the moon shows, and we’ll move at the first rise…. Yes, I’ll find him easy.”

  He went off at once, without any comment from Rattray upon the programme he had suggested, or the reasons which he had advanced, but he left that individual somewhat disturbed in mind about the wisdom of the plan to which his subordinate was introducing him.

  The method of attack from beneath the bridge appeared attractive enough, and it was desirable that it should be known to as few as possible in advance. A score of the greatest disasters of military history would have terminated differently had a similar caution controlled them. It might also be well for Bellamy to operate separately; he was not one to blend easily. But Rattray was too conscious of the numerical inferiority of the attacking forces not to wish that their movements should be simultaneous. The plan which Teller had announced was too much like committing suicide to save your life from an advancing peril. Because it was difficult to attack simultaneously, the timing was to be deliberately different.

  Well, he could alter his own timing if he wished, so that the two should agree. Contented by this reflection, he strolled back to his companions, among whom the conversation had passed unnoticed, owing to a man named England having joined the company, bringing a somewhat rusty double-barrelled, muzzle-loading gun, which his industry had discovered in a poacher’s cottage, together with a quantity of powder and small shot, which would have been more useful (or perhaps more dangerous) to him had he known how to load it.

  He was now receiving advice from others of equal ignorance to his own, the use of the ramrod being very imperfectly understood, and the necessity of a wad of some kind being doubtfully asserted by some and confidently denied by others. Even if the necessity of a wad were admitted there remained an uncertainty as to the stage of the loading at which it would be required, and there was a majority of opinion that anyone who used the ramrod after the powder had been inserted would have his hand blown off as a natural consequence.

  “Any caps?” said a man at the rear of the crowd, who had not spoken before.

  It was a point which the owner of the gun had not considered. He looked blank. But a search among a small sack of other things which he had removed from the cottage discovered a matchbox containing a dozen or two of these necessary articles.

  This point being cleared, the man came forward and examined the gun more closely, not concealing his contempt for its condition. “Might have been a good ’un once,” he conceded. “’Bout the time o’ the flood…. Meaning Noah,” he added, aware that he had asserted an ambiguous antiquity. “Take a sword?” he inquired casually.

  Yes, with some demur, the owner would take a sword. Having only just come into the camp, he had not shared in the original distribution of those articles. The exchange was made, with Rattray watching in the background, with some disposition to interfere, which was checked by a wiser discretion.

  He had understood that the swords were his, and that he was responsible to Butcher for their value, though there had, as yet, been no question of payment.

  Even if they were held in common, such exchanges might bring questions of a later difficulty. He was observing one of the inevitable confusions of a continued communism. But he had sense to see that the moment was inopportune for the discussion of such a question.

  “Boys,” he said, as he came forward, “we’re not going to wait for Cooper. He wants to use us to take the camp, and then treat us how he likes. We’re going through it tonight. Bellamy’s going in at the other end, and we’ll meet in the middle. You’ve only got to go straight ahead, and keep together, and not stop for the women till the job’s over, and we’ll have Aldworth’s lot cleared out by tomorrow, as he cleared us last week….

  “We’ve got a little surprise for them about the way we’re calling; but that’ll keep. You’d better get a good meal now, and some sleep, and we’ll start fresh when the time…. You’re not going to take that gun, Harding. It might give the alarm…. No, I don’t mind the pistols. They’re not likely to go off too soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Monty Beeston had made his headquarters under the goods van that stood at the rear of the railway coaches. He had stuffed it with sufficient hay to the height of the lines, and in places, against wedged boards, to the floor of the van that covered him. Here, amid the protections of wheels and axles, he lived like a nested rat, so that when he had squirmed inward, and was out
of sight, no one would be likely to venture to penetrate after him with any hostile purpose, remembering the revolver he carried, and perhaps knowing also of a long-handled bill-hook which he kept somewhere in that dark interior.

  Monty lay very happily in the mouth of his lair, for the night was warm, and he would have been stifled in its close recesses. He was not sleepy, for he did nothing during the day, and dozed or waked indifferently whether sun or moon were above him. He had drunk well, but not to excess, having manfully put aside till morning the last of the bottles of beer which had come to him as a result of his successful deal with the razor-blades.

  It is probable that, among all that the floods had spared, there was no happier man than Monty. He had never accepted responsibility for the major problems of existence, nor doubted that the universe was conducted by those who were more competent than he professed or had any ambition to be.

  He watched the catastrophe that had developed around him, as a dog might watch with a lively interest some operation of mankind, beyond the range of its understanding, but to which it was ready to lend its aid if its master’s voice should require it.

  He had constituted himself, much as a dog might do, the guardian of the general stores with which the van had been filled, and had been tacitly accepted in that capacity. He had no greater obligation to watch the cattle than had any other man or woman of this unleadered community, but he probably contributed more than half of the total time that was expended in this way.

  The days went quietly and easily, and he was able to concentrate his mind upon the only problem that such an existence left him—that of procuring sufficient quantities of the beer he loved.

  Peaceful by disposition, after forty years of romantic dreaming, he found a joy that any man might envy in wriggling back into the dark security of the den which he had constructed, and imagining the heroic deeds by which he would defend it from a world of foes.