Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  “I heard this afternoon that Joe Harker’s been at Helford Grange twice since last week,” Jack added. “Maria let it out to Betsy Parkin.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The next day the cloth was unconditionally delivered. Butcher sent a message to Ringwood that the house which Sims had vacated was available for his occupation.

  There was only one incident which showed the intention which underlay these surrenders. Pellow’s forge had disappeared in the night, and his house was vacant. He took with him the two best carts and three horses.

  More important, his removal left them without a smithy, or any expert worker in iron, a vocation which had recovered much of its ancient importance.

  Burman came from Upper Helford, and had a conference with Martin which lasted for two hours.

  After that there was a new activity. Burman’s boats, four in all, including the lugger, came in twice a day, if the weather permitted, and went back loaded with many stores. Volunteers had been found to handle the boats, but they were not permitted to go ashore, and two of the boats, in which they returned, were now moored to the mainland when not in use.

  The lugger, manned by Claire and Chris, ventured several times when the weather was too rough for the smaller boats. Even the winter darkness did not restrain these activities.

  After a week the frost broke and there was heavy rain, but the work was not interrupted.

  Then, on the second night of rain, Jack came to Martin with the report that Joe Harker had ridden over from Cooper’s to Helford Grange, and returned after a long interview with Butcher.

  Steve Fortune had seen him leaving Cooper’s place, and other watchers had seen him at the Grange.

  “I’ve sent Steve straight back,” he concluded. “He says Pellow’s there, and he’s shoeing horses and repairing harness and arms as hard as he can. He’s sure there’s something afoot. He says Joe’s not as fat as when he was with Bellamy. I suppose Cooper works him harder.”

  Joe Harker was an ex-jockey who had attached himself to Bellamy’s gang, and had now the position in Cooper’s intelligence department left vacant by the deaths of Rentoul and Reddy Teller. He was not a man of war, but he could ride, and had good eyes, and a ready wit.

  “I reckon,” Jack went on, “that they’ve got forty-seven good men that they’re sure of, besides a few wasters. That’s counting Butcher’s fourteen. There’s some I can’t trust, that might go either way, and some that only care to keep clear of a row, but I’ve twice his number that I’d trust anywhere.

  “Couldn’t we strike first, and round up Butcher’s lot? They wouldn’t fight by themselves.

  “Then we ought to be able to tackle Cooper in the same way, and get it ended.”

  He looked anxiously at Martin for a reply. He knew something of the plans that had been made, and he did not like them. It meant waste, which he hated. It meant a position in which the loyalty of his men might be strained severely. He thought they were in a position in which attack was the best defence.

  “I don’t think we can, Jack. They’ve given us no excuse to attack them so far, and I don’t want to be the one to start a war. But it isn’t only that. Suppose we attacked Butcher, and he held out at the Grange till Cooper came up? Suppose we had to besiege either of them, or first one and then the other? We couldn’t do it. Think it out. We haven’t even got tents, and the weather’s cruel.

  “Besides, the attackers always lose most heavily in such cases.

  “Or suppose we found Cooper wasn’t there when we arrived? You must remember he’s got almost all the horses. He might be here before we could get back.”

  “There’s the ammunition, Captain. If we took the Grange, I expect we should find some there.… And there’s another thing. We shall lose more men if we seem frightened. I don’t mean they’ll get killed. They’ll desert. I’ve heard some talk already.”

  “You must tell them to trust me, Jack. I won’t alter the plans I’ve made. We’ll have the Grange before we’ve done. I may see farther than they do.”

  He spoke confidently, but when Jack had gone he did not conceal his anxiety, even from Helen. He had thought of the problems of defending a scattered population, including some half-hearted and disloyal elements, against the trained and resolute force which he might hear at any moment was in motion against him, and he only saw one way—and that way was a hard one.

  If the men’s loyalty failed at such a test—well, the future was with Cooper, and not with him.

  And what then would be his end? And what the fates of Claire and of Helen?

  The following day Helen went over to Upper Helford, taking her children with her. She returned nest morning, having left them in Chris’s charge.

  She came home soaked and tired. The weather was still bad. Snow was falling, that melted as it fell, and the field-paths were deep in mud.

  She found Muriel with Martin. She noticed, as she entered, that Muriel looked ill and dispirited.

  “What I want to ask you,” Martin was saying, “is this. Suppose you should have a message from me at any time, day or night, that Cooper is moving to attack us, could you get your people to evacuate the camp at once? I should want them to leave everything, and come just as they are—to come by Bycroft Lane, and across the park, and then by the fields over to Cowley Thorn, to be accommodated in the houses there.”

  “No. I don’t think I could. Not at any time of night or weather. And I should need a better reason than I have yet.… Can’t you find some way of peace without more fighting?”

  She spoke wearily, being ill and tired. She added, “They won’t like leaving all their things. How soon would they get back?”

  “I can’t say that,” Martin answered. He was tired also, and he had hoped for readier co-operation here than he seemed likely to get. “If the women don’t value their husbands, or the men their wives, more than their other possessions, they must take the consequences.… I’m not starting a war…. I believe that Cooper is preparing to attack us at the present moment. What do you suppose he wants? What sort of life do you suppose there’ll be for Helen or Claire, or for yourself, if Cooper and Butcher do as they like here? And I can tell you this—most of the men who are any good won’t be alive then. You can make the best of what are left.”

  He spoke with an irritation which arose from the unexpected nature of the opposition which he felt he was meeting, but Muriel kept both her self-control and the position which she had taken.

  “I’m not refusing to help you. I’m only asking to understand. And it’s no use promising something I couldn’t do. Why not ask Tom?”

  Helen interposed. “Tom doesn’t go far from Chris these days, if he can help it.” She spoke in an effort to change the tone of the conversation.

  Her words drew Muriel’s attention to herself. “Wherever have you been? You’re wetter than I am. And you look tired out.”

  “I expect we’re all rather tired,” Helen answered. “Unless it’s Claire. I left her helping to reload the boat. It’s wonderful how she keeps on…. I’ve been to leave the children at Upper Helford.”

  “At Upper Helford!” The fact that Helen should have done that, and returned to take her part here, impressed Muriel with the seriousness of the position as no words from Martin would have been likely to do.

  He answered her exclamation. “Yes. It’s the only safe place. I should have sent every child there already, and every woman that could be sheltered, but for the effect it would have.… I’m afraid I didn’t explain very patiently, but it seems to me that, if they attack us, it will be a fight that neither side can afford to lose. It will be a fight to a finish, and, I’m afraid, without much mercy on either side. You’ll find that what Cooper’s men will want will be the women alive and the men dead.

  “Miss Temple, the real trouble’s this. We’re scattered over an area of several square miles, and we can’t defend it. We’re bound to close up, or we shall be defeated in detail. If I get all the men together, I can’t force
a fight where I like, because Cooper’s men are mounted. Would the women like them to raid the camp while the men are away? Would the men like to leave them to such a chance…? There’s one thing we do know—Cooper will have to come by the upper road if he is to make a junction with Butcher. If he has any sense—and he has that—he’ll come over the heath, where the horses can move quickly. We are bound to hold Cowley Thorn, because it covers the landing-place, and, if we’re beaten, Upper Helford’s the only retreat we’ve got. Besides that, it’s the only point from which we can strike back. You can guess what would happen if we were drawn into the open country in this weather…. There’s another thing that we’re not telling anyone, but I can trust you not to repeat it. We’ve scarcely any ammunition, and Butcher probably guesses that, if he doesn’t know it. But we don’t want it to get about yet among our own men.”

  Muriel said, “I expect you’re right; and I’ll do what I can if it comes to that. But I hope it won’t.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Joe Harker slipped wearily off his horse as he came up to Captain Cooper, who had seen his approach and stood waiting for his report.

  Joe was two stone lighter than when he had ridden off from the scene of Bellamy’s death three or four months ago to take the news to Cooper which had ended in his abortive raid. But this had been a hard ride, even for his present condition, and the weather was execrable.

  “Well,” said Cooper, giving his subordinate the hard gaze, devoid of geniality, which was his common regard of either friend or enemy, “what tale does he tell now?”

  Martin Webster did well not to undervalue his antagonist. Cooper was a man who had not been accustomed to fail through miscalculation or lack of foresight. His plans were clear and methodical. He had fought hard for the business successes of his earlier experience, and he had learnt the value of efficiency. He had always found that the price of error must he paid, and that it is usually a high one. He was destitute of ideality or imagination, and it followed, among other consequences, that he was not unreasonably elated by success, nor depressed by failure.

  We have seen him twice in retreat, and in both instances he had shown himself formidable. On both occasions he had shown the ability to judge promptly and act decisively and, by so doing, though he had known defeat, he had avoided disaster.

  Had he succeeded in establishing an alliance with Martin, he would have watched for an opportunity of displacing him, but he would not have forced or contrived it. He would not have allowed the wish for that event to develop any premature or hazardous action.

  Because he saw that an alliance with Butcher would alter the balance of probabilities—might, indeed, turn the scale decisively—he would not, therefore, conclude an easy bargain, or omit any precaution that he could devise for his own advantage.

  “He says he’s ready any time,” Joe answered, “and the sooner the better.”

  “When does he want us to move?”

  “He says, two nights after the full moon there will be two sentinels that he can trust between the Belsham Road and the common. We shall get right through to Cowley Thorn before anyone knows it.

  “He says, don’t make any preparations till the last minute. He doesn’t want any suspicion.”

  “I don’t need advice from him. You can go back and tell him that the deal’s on, but he must come himself to arrange it. I’ll see him tomorrow night, at this time, in Burchell’s Hollow.”

  Joe looked perturbed and doubtful.

  “He won’t do that.”

  “Then the deal’s off. I don’t trust Butcher,” he said shortly.

  “He hates Captain Webster.”

  “He doesn’t love me overmuch.”

  “He doesn’t only hate him—he’s afraid.”

  Cooper saw the force of that argument, but he saw also that those who advance through fear may retreat through a stronger impulse of the same quality.

  “He must come himself,” he said finally.

  “He’ll say it’s a needless risk.”

  “Tell him I’m the best judge as to what I need. He’ll come.”

  Cooper did not distrust Butcher particularly; he was of a kind that he could easily understand. He could be trusted—to look after himself. He was not a man to engage in a complexity of avoidable plotting, or to attempt to betray both sides at once. He was not at all likely to be in any genuine alliance with Martin. Cooper did not doubt that the invitation was serious, and sent in good faith. But he meant that Butcher should be committed as deeply as possible. He meant to prove that Butcher was prepared to take some risks to gain his co-operation. He suspected that, when it came to the actual fighting, Butcher would not be there. Well then, if he wouldn’t fight, he must take his share of the risks in another way. Butcher didn’t fight; he squirmed. Very well, he must squirm. He spoke his thought aloud. “If he won’t fight, he’ll squirm.”

  Joe partly followed his thought, but he didn’t like the idea. It seemed a foolish risk, and needless. He was quite willing to be the intermediary of the negotiation. He felt capable, and it gave him importance. It meant a reward, to be claimed at the right time.

  Besides, he didn’t feel sure of persuading Butcher to take the risk. It might even lead to the end of the negotiations if both men were equally obstinate. But he knew that Cooper meant what he said, and that opposition was rarely profitable. He ventured a reminder.

  “You know the warning he’s had. If he’s caught with us, it’s most likely he’ll hang him.”

  Captain Cooper laughed. “Why not…? But he won’t be caught. If he is, he’s no good to me. I don’t want men who can’t keep their own skins.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Captain Cooper and Joe were both right about Butcher’s feelings—and his decision.

  He didn’t like going, but he went.

  In fact, there was little risk. He had spies whom he could trust, for the good reason that they had little to hope for from Martin. He went and returned by night, meeting Cooper in an old saw-pit hollow, by the light of a moon that was near the full, and the whiteness of a thin snowfall that barely covered the ground in the more sheltered places.

  Dimly seen, to each other as they were, each was yet conscious of the change which had taken place in the other since they had gone separate ways some months ago.

  Cooper was harder, leaner, and his voice, which had always been of a metallic quality, was harsher and more dominating, easily changing into a tone of menace, and with a tendency to rise easily, which it had learnt from the controlling of others in the open air.

  Butcher could not be leaner than before—was, in fact, somewhat less so, and of a more muscular quality; his difference lay in the fact that the veneer of gentility which he had worn in his stockbroking days, and which had been thinning four months ago, was now entirely lost, and his appearance and manners approximated more nearly to those of a suave and unscrupulous huckster.

  The conversation was short and pointed. The weather did not invite delay, and Cooper had gained his purpose in forcing Butcher to meet him.

  There was already a basis of understanding between them. Cooper was to rule, and own and control the land. Butcher was to be the monopolist of all commercial transactions.

  Butcher had one new point on which he wished for an understanding. He had lost his son, and he had a natural desire to replace him with another heir. But it was a matter on which Cooper was disposed to be contemptuously complacent.

  “Webster’s widows?” he said. “You could have both if you liked. Only I promised one to Joe, when he brought in the first news about her. I don’t believe in breaking a business promise. Of course, if she pushes into the row and gets killed, as she’s the sort to do, that’s her trouble…. Oh, she’s like that, is she? Well, Joe’ll have to nurse it when it comes…. Yes, you can have the other. More your sort, is she? Don’t think I’ve seen that one. They’re all much alike to me.… Second night after the full moon…? No, early morning’s the time. No night work for
me. An hour before sunrise. We shall come along the Belsham Road, and then through Larkshill, and push on straight for the railway. Why? Why, because I’m not a fool. Because, if they suspect anything, they’ll look for us across the common, or up the road from Larkshill to Cowley Thorn. They’ll think we shall aim first, at joining you, and lay their plans accordingly. Of course, you’ll attack separately. Why not? You’ve only to see that they don’t get between you and Helford Grange. If they’re too strong, you can fall back, can’t you? You’ll do your part, as long as you keep them busy. Only don’t lie low and do nothing, or you’ll be sorry afterwards…. We couldn’t keep together, anyway. My men are mounted. I’ve trained them more than a bit since last time. I reckon they’re good for Webster’s lot at two to one, and perhaps rather more than that…. Yes. That’s all. There’s this infernal snow coming again…. The second night after the full moon. One hour before dawn. We shall be there.”

  He did not know that Steve Fortune lay at the top of the bank above him, very wet and uncomfortable, but hearing every word he said, and a good deal of Butcher’s replies.

  But when he got back to the shelter of his own roof, and sat with John Coe, his farm-bailiff, and the one man to whom he gave some measure of trust and confidence, he said contemptuously:

  “That’s Butcher’s idea of planning—a week beforehand; and I’ll bet there’ll be half a dozen that know of it by this time tomorrow. I think I could tell which night it will be, but I shan’t say, even to you. It won’t be the night we’ve arranged. That’s the one thing certain.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Steve Fortune brought this news to Martin nest morning.

  It gave shape and definiteness to the menace under which they had been living, and stirred the preparations for defence to a redoubled activity.