Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  The race that the floods had covered had been utterly callous of human life if it crossed the path of its pleasures. Even when such casualties amounted to hundreds of thousands annually, so that they threatened to become a serious drain upon a population already diminishing its fertility at the call of the new worship, they only discussed means for the better warning of their victims. No one had the courage or the folly to suggest that they should abandon the most wasteful and insensate sport which a dying civilization had ever invented for the alleviation of the fever which was destroying it.

  But, at whatever cost, they must avoid exposure of the unsightly. When they started moving the traffic in an unexpected direction, they did not fail to provide a waiting ambulance for the prompt removal of those that they would maim or slay.

  At the urge of curiosity, they would subject many thousands of animals to deliberate torture. But while they cared nothing for the feelings of these creatures, they were insistent that nothing should disturb their own. The ‘scientists’ quickly realized the condition on which these abominations could be continued. They showed their contempt for the characters of their fellows by appealing to their basest instincts, assuring them that these practices might ultimately spare them from personal pain. They showed their contempt for their intellects by a swift reversal of their previous dogmas, and where they had been loud and confident in assertion that there was no radical difference between the bodies of men and animals, all being descended from a common stock, they now asserted, with an equal assurance, and without confession of inconsistency, that the gap between men and other animals was so wide that the latter really had no feelings that were worth considering, even if it were allowed that they could feel at all.…

  But Monty’s victims lay on the railway-track, and he regarded them proudly. He had been too wise to fire a shot to warn his victims of the existence of that lurking peril! No one doubted his explanation. They didn’t even listen very attentively. Most of them had their own occupations, some of them their own wounds, to consider.

  The actual fatalities had not been numerous. In night-fighting of such a character between undisciplined forces it is likely that many blows will go astray, and nearly all the bullets. Most men, though they may be willing to take the lives of their enemies, will be at least as anxious to preserve their own.

  Still, there were dead men, good and bad, and cuts and bruises enough: and less than half a mile away, in the very centre of their limited territory, their enemies were still an undefeated peril—a peril which might have been most easily dealt with had it been attacked at once, before it had any interval for rest or counsel.

  But exhaustion was general. As the morning passed most of the men slept, and the day’s tasks, and the duty of watchfulness, fell to women whose nights had been as wakeful and in some cases, as strenuous as their own.

  It was after noon when a little group of men were gathered at the side of the cutting, arguing doubtfully about the best means of dealing with Rattray and his companions.

  It was agreed that there could not be more than about fifteen men remaining with him. There were several errors in the details of this calculation. The two captured sentinels had the undeserved discredit of having joined him, which we know they had not, though their rifles had. It was not known that Teller had gone, nor that the man first wounded by Monty had crept away into the ditch of a farther field, under a quite groundless fear that he would be killed if he were discovered. It was known that two or three of Bellamy’s lot, who had forced their way through the northern defences, had also joined them.

  The actual number of Rattray’s companions was nine, of whom two were wounded, though not to a disabling extent. They were comparatively well-armed, and consisted of some of the most desperate and lawless of the two gangs.

  Like their opponents, they had spent the morning in sleep, setting a watch who had also slumbered; and had it been attempted they could have been surprised and captured without difficulty or loss during those early hours.

  Later, they were awake and alert, though with no plans of aggression. They were now aware that the capture of the camp was beyond their strength, and they proposed only to wait till the return of darkness to retire from the conflict as best they might.

  Tom Aldworth would have let them go. He felt that he had had enough of fighting, having done his share, and something more, during the night.

  Jack was less sure. He feared a junction between them and Cooper, with further resulting troubles. It would be best to make the defeat as decisive as possible.

  Ellis Roberts thought that Jack was right, but doubted whether there were sufficient courage and energy left in the camp to attack successfully. A failure would be worse than inaction. They could not order. They must depend on volunteers. How many would there be likely to be?

  It was Steve Fortune who turned the scale. He had stood silent as usual, at the back of the group, listening to all that was said, a half-bred gipsy by his dark eyes and yellow skin, and by the coloured scarf round his neck. He spoke with a soft drawl, but with the accent of a northern county. He voted for a prompt attack, and he volunteered to join it. They had better end the lot, and get a sure peace for those who remained alive.

  He said this because he was afraid. He was too afraid to wait. He had seen a man killed. A man that had shared his life for the past month. Who had been his pal, though they had exchanged few words, neither being of those who speak

  But now he was dead. Dead, and lying in the rough grass, scarcely out of sight of where they were standing now.

  Dead, as he had fallen when Rattray’s sword had stabbed him. And Steve Fortune could not endure the thought that he might soon be lying in the same way. He must find out if this were so. He could not endure to wait. The image of Rattray was always before him. Let them make an end.

  He did not say this, but the nervous desire to end the suspense communicated itself to those who heard him.

  So, after some more talk, the little group scattered to collect volunteers for the attack, and after two more hours of argument, and hesitation, and weapon-borrowing, they assembled a force of seventeen, which was reduced by three before they started by the tears and protests of women, and increased by one under a contrary feminine influence….

  The plan of attack was a cause of further discord, which almost led to the abandoning of the attempt.

  They knew that there was rifle-fire to be faced, and no man wants to die by such means.

  They had some reason to hope that no one among their opponents was expert in the use of such weapons.

  Some of them thought that they should advance in single file, and that the individual risk would be thus reduced to a minimum. Most of them liked the idea well enough, providing that they were not at the head of the line. But it would be obviously disadvantageous when the attacking force reached its destination, and it was finally killed by a proposal that those who voted for it should lead the way.

  Jack Tolley made the final suggestion. He said, “They won’t get us if we don’t bunch.” He had the contempt which a good shot feels for those who cannot aim straight. “Suppose we spread out all round, and just go in as quickly as we can. We won’t even fire till we get close. It’s speed that matters. If they show themselves to shoot, I think I can promise to get one.”

  And so, as the afternoon waned, the attack was made.

  Whatever may be said for the plan, or against it, it neither failed nor succeeded.

  As it converged, Rattray’s smaller force made an attempt to break through while their opponents were still fifteen or twenty yards apart from one another. It was a movement which appears to demonstrate the futility of such a method unless the attacking party has a great numerical superiority. But its results were capricious.

  Jack Tolley was not directly in the path of the sallying force, but he was not far off on the left. Against the scatter of useless shots with which they advanced to break through the extended line, he fired twice with careful and de
adly aim.

  He could not get Rattray. There were others of the moving group who obscured him from Jack’s position, but he killed a man of Rattray’s gang who ran beside him, and wounded another with a shot that followed.

  The man who was most directly in the path of the advance was Steve Fortune. He did not run, as he might have been excused for doing. He stood his ground, drawing a long cavalry sabre, which he had taken from beside the dead body of one of the gang (who did not appear to have found it very useful), and which he had been carrying sheathed under his arm as he ran forward.

  Rattray was directly in his path, and would have avoided him if he could. There was nothing, from his point of view, to be gained by further fighting.

  The long sabre-blade swept round, and he parried it with the sword he carried, a good weapon enough, but somewhat shorter and lighter than that with which he was threatened.

  He would have dodged past if he could, but Steve did not understand his purpose. He knew nothing of sword-play, and thought that Rattray was attempting to pass so that he might stab him in back or side.

  Steve was in a panic of fear, and grasping the hilt of his weapon in both hands he thrust straight at Rattray. The two swords met for a moment, blade slid on blade, and the two men came almost together. Rattray’s sword had passed under Steve’s left arm, and some inches of the sabre showed brightly through the back of Rattray’s coat.

  It was the end of Jim Rattray.

  Of the rest, four men escaped, and the others were killed, or wounded and captured, to stay or wander off to Bellamy’s gang at a later date as their natures led them. Steve Fortune, somewhat dazed, but well content with the Homeric reputation which his fears had brought him, said less than ever. But the vision and the fear had left his mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Reddy Teller made straight for Cowley Thorn, and found Jerry Cooper without difficulty. He was busy in the field in which Tom had seen him once before. But the field held six horses now.

  Jerry guessed that he had news, and took him at once into the house he occupied.

  Teller was introduced to an interior which showed none of the amenities of civilized life—it was more of a store-house than a home, and more of a workshop than either—but the lower rooms had been restored, and even glazed, and there were two men working on the roof, removing some tin sheeting which had provided temporary cover, as they progressed with the labour of reslating it.

  He also noticed Stacey Dobson’s man, Phillips, doing something to an opened drain.

  Cooper’s motives might be good or bad, but there was a hard efficiency about all his methods which must always be formidable to those who opposed him. If one must rule, he had surely a better right, and could do so to better purpose, than such men as Rattray or Bellamy.

  Reddy Teller had little doubt that he was looking upon the future ruler of this land colony, and he meant to be as useful as possible to him, though it was scarcely a willing service. He suspected that, unless he could take his own advantage from the confusion, the end might bring him a very meagre payment.

  He began at once. “There’s been fighting all night at the railway camp. I expect you’ve heard something of it. I thought you might like to know more.”

  Jerry nodded to that. “I thought they would, and I hope they’ve got well licked,” he said contemptuously.

  Reddy noticed the tone, and was careful not to mention that he had instigated the movement.

  “Yes, they’re licked right enough,” he answered, in a tone to suit the mood of his auditor. “Bellamy went in at the top end, and he’s hurt or killed, so I heard say. I didn’t see it. Anyhow, his lot’s done. Rattray went through the river-bridge, under the line, and got right up the cutting. But his men didn’t keep together. They were fighting in little group and being driven here and there, half through the night.

  “Then, when the light came, they saw they were beat. Rattray’s at one of the old pit-heads. He’s got about a dozen with him. They ought to hold out there well enough.”

  Jerry was silent. The news was good, if only he could use the position as he hoped. If they must attack by themselves, he would much prefer that they should be beaten. A triumphant Rattray would be a dangerous enemy, or an intolerable friend. But if they were badly beaten, his own position was insecure enough. He wished he had not been so quick to challenge Tom Aldworth. He wasn’t ready. He had allowed himself to be rushed by circumstance. But he was not one to waste time in useless regrets. He looked at Reddy Teller with a disfavour which he did not show. He was not one to reveal his thoughts, unless by intention. Physically and morally, he classified him as a dirty hound. If only he had his one-time foreman, Barty Brown, at his right hand, as he had had him for twenty years!—Barty, who never scrupled at anything which he was told to do, never opened his mouth at the wrong time, and was as loyal as a dog, for four pound five a week, and an extra fiver at Christmas. But Barty was doubtless dead, like a million of better men, and some worse ones. The thought had passed in a moment.

  He said, “Is Aldworth hurt, or that Tolley fellow? He’s the worse of the two. Have they lost much on their side?”

  “I saw Perry lying dead, and I think that red-haired fellow—Wainwright, I think they call him—is about done for. Dodgy Perks did for him.”

  And Steve Fortune’s pal, Conroy. Rattray struck him in the ribs. And there’s two or three others of Aldworth’s lot got knocked out, but I don’t know who they were. And no end of them got hurt. But I think Aldworth’s all right, and Jack Tolley.”

  Cooper grunted. The two gangs didn’t seem to have done the railway campers much damage, if that were all.

  “Reddy,” he said, “you’d better—” and then, “What do you want for all this?”

  Reddy’s rat-like eyes glistened as he answered without hesitation.

  “I want Doll Withlin.”

  “Um, I don’t know her…. Well, we’ll see.”

  Cooper was not one to promise freely.

  Reddy, judging him shrewdly enough, was not dissatisfied.

  “Well, find out what’s doing, and what’s said, and let me know.”

  Cooper turned away in the method of dismissal which was customary to him and Reddy took the hint, and went.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jerry Cooper had decided upon his course of action even before he had dismissed the self-appointed spy with which fortune had provided him. His part must be that of one who interferes with authority, and in the name of order, between contending turbulences.

  If he could get sufficient support, his programme would be easy enough. He judged quite correctly that the railway camp would have had about enough of fighting, for the time, and would be reluctant to encounter a fresh hostility, if he could only make his position sufficiently plausible.

  Besides, there was little cohesion among any of these chance-mingled groups, and if it should appear that, one by one, every other section of the community was attacking the railway camp, would it not make even some of its own people think that there must be a reason for it?

  So he thought, and was prompt to put his plans into action, while, with a characteristic caution, he schemed a retreat which would enable him to recover his position should he fail to gain the immediate ascendancy at which he was aiming.

  He was made increasingly doubtful of his position, and roused to a greater energy, by the news which Reddy brought him next morning. The remainder of Bellamy’s gang, with the giant himself, had been captured, disarmed, and expelled from the district in a public ignominy.

  This would probably not have happened at all, had they not retreated by way of Bycroft Lane, and retired into the oak and bracken wilderness of Hallowby Park, and this coming, to Aldworth’s knowledge, had alarmed him for the safety of the women and children that were living in the lodge on its farther side.

  The fear proved a sufficient spur to translate a plan that crossed his mind into an active reality.

  The inhabitants of the camp, after
a day of rest, were in a very confident mood. They had collected the dead bodies of friend and foe, they had counted their wounds, and they had decided that their victory had been even more decisive than was actually the case, and that it had been very cheaply gained.

  Tom was surprised by the number and spirits of those who volunteered for his new enterprise. He had not previously experienced the popularity that follows success, and that is so quickly ended by a later failure.

  The whole thing proved too easy to merit any detailed narration. Bellamy and sixteen others of his own kind were surrounded while asleep in the twilight of the early dawn, and waked to find half a dozen rifles and as many pistols (including Monty’s reputable though innocuous weapon) directed upon them, intermingled with a display of the miscellaneous cutlery which had been captured from Rattray’s gang, and for the presence of which Butcher was ultimately responsible.

  They surrendered tamely, submitted to being stripped of every offensive article which they possessed, and were publicly and ignominiously marched along the Larkshill Road, their hands tied behind them, their much-bandaged and dejected leader scowling sullenly in the rear, to be turned loose at last, at the confines of the village, with a warning that they would be shot at sight if they appeared again in the district. The hands of one only were cut loose, with an order not to release his companions while they should be in sight of the rifles that covered them.

  So they had disappeared. No doubt, with the passage of time, to be a source of further trouble; but for the moment the spirit was gone out of them.

  * * * * * * *

  During the next two days Jerry Cooper enlisted the definite support of nearly thirty men, the best of whom may have been a young man named Rentoul, who was influenced about equally by love of adventure and of the horses that Cooper was collecting so diligently, and John Coe, an ex-farm-bailiff, who had been too ill to take any active part in the events of the previous days, and was still only able to walk with difficulty, but who was attracted by Cooper’s obvious efficiency. Coe would have promised support to any man who would be likely to end the slack disorder, and rescue the ruined fields, by which they were surrounded.