Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  Steve reported fully, including the allocation of “Webster’s widows,” which left no doubt of the spirit in which their opponents would use the victory, if they should obtain it.

  Martin warned him not to give any hint to others of the knowledge which he had gained—a little-needed warning, for Steve was not loosely talkative. But Martin feared lest word might be carried to Butcher, which would cause their plans to be altered, even if it did not produce an immediate crisis. He wanted time. The full moon was three days ahead. He had five days.

  It was a peculiarity of the position that Butcher’s men were still moving freely among them—or as freely as he permitted, for he was incessantly watchful to avoid being surprised by any sudden attack that Martin might direct against him. He knew that Martin must now be aware of his enmity, but, while his men were accepted in their due turns for the patrol work, he supposed that he was not suspected of any collusion with Cooper, and relied upon the reputation for neutrality which he had gained during the earlier hostilities.

  He had cautiously enlisted three or four further men whom he had known to be discontented, and who awaited his call to join him openly at Helford Grange. He had put that place into as good a state of defence as his resources permitted, and his fourteen men were well armed. He kept them from further expeditions on the pretext of adverse weather, and Martin appeared to accept this explanation, while he debated inwardly whether it would not be best to make a sudden attack upon the Grange before the date which had been fixed for Cooper’s coming.

  Thus there was general pretence, but little deception. There was probably no one within the district who did not move under a sense of impending catastrophe.

  Of the scattered population in the woods and in isolated dwellings, some came closer in, and others disappeared into the farther wilderness, preferring to take their chances of cold and solitude, rather than to await the fury of the storm of human passions which was overshadowing them.

  James Hatterley and his wife were among those who disappeared in this way, and his hollow tree was left without a tenant.

  On the last night before the full moon there was a larger exodus, about twenty people, men and women, disappearing during the night, with two of the three remaining carts. They were led by a man who had been on the last expedition against the Bellamy gang, and their destination was the tunnel in which Martin and Claire had been found, which they hoped they might be able to make endurable for the remainder of the winter months.

  Martin heard of these defections without regret. He had little use for the cowardly or the irresolute, and the reduction in numbers simplified the hardest part of the problem which confronted him.

  On the following morning he had a message from Burman that Tom had finished the work on which he had been occupied, and hoped to return himself during the next day.

  It was a needed encouragement; for, under an outer aspect of confidence, he was aware that the continued strains of work and anxiety were threatening a physical collapse, which might be fatal, not only to himself, but to all who were dependent upon him.

  The secret plan which he had formed seemed more hazardous as the time approached which must test it, with the lives of all who were dearest, or who relied upon him, staked on its success.

  For the first time in his life he found himself unable to obtain the sleep he needed. He was vexed by a constant neuritis, rendering the use of his left arm painful and difficult.

  He found himself constantly wondering, as he looked on the faces around him, whether they would be alive in a week’s time, or in what condition of misery that he had brought upon them. He saw now that he could so easily have made some compromise with Butcher which would have delayed this crisis, if it had not averted it permanently.

  He watched the weather, hoping secretly for a deep snow such as would render Cooper’s attack impracticable.

  That afternoon he went over to Upper Helford himself to inspect what had been done, and on his return he made a public announcement that, as there was apprehension of an attack by Cooper, all women and children who were willing could be accommodated there until quieter times. He found that there was no difficulty in filling the available boats, even though it meant the abandonment of their homes to those who went, and the four boats made a loaded journey, in the course of which one was nearly swamped in the wintry sea.

  For the first time for a fortnight Claire came home that evening. She reported that there was now sleeping accommodation for all the women and children who were likely to avail themselves of the protection it offered. Loft, and stable, and byre had been utilized, and some rough protection had been erected for the ejected cattle.

  “I want you to take Helen back with you tomorrow,” Martin said. “It’s a useless risk staying here longer.”

  The two women looked at each other, and Helen shook her head.

  Claire said, “Why shouldn’t you? It’s my turn to be home for a bit now.”

  “I didn’t mean that you should stay instead,” Martin interposed. “I want you both there. We don’t know what may happen any moment now.”

  “Claire’s occupied too much with the boat to look after you here,” Helen answered. “I’m not going till you do.”

  “I don’t need any looking after—and Betty can do that anyway.”

  “Betty’s going tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged that with Phillips.”

  “I’d much rather you’d go,” Martin answered; but he did not contest it further. He felt as though matters were beyond his control, and must happen as fate should lead.

  He went out of the room, and Helen said, “Of course, I couldn’t go and tell Betty to stay, though she was willing enough. I don’t really mind, now that the babies are safe. I suppose Upper Helford really is safe, whatever happens here?”

  “Oh, it’s safe enough,” Claire answered confidently. “Tom’s put some extra barbed wire that he got from the camp along the shore side. There was a good bit there before that. I should be sorry for anyone who goes that way if he isn’t wanted…. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. Martin always comes out all right in the end.”

  “I can’t help worrying. Martin never worried before, but he does now, though he won’t let people see it.”

  “Yes, I know that. Who wouldn’t, with a plan like his? But you’ll find he’ll keep to it, all the same.… We shall all be glad when it’s over…. I hope the weather won’t get any worse.… They overloaded the boats today.”

  Chapter Seventy

  It was the evening of the first night after the full moon. The weather had been so rough that they had been unable to use the smaller boats, and, though Claire had made one passage in the lugger successfully, she had only taken four women, no others being willing to face the storm, and she had had so much difficulty in returning that she had given up the idea of a second attempt, and brought Chris up to the house with her.

  She found Tom there, and Jack Tolley, taking instructions from Martin as to the procedures of the next morning, which broke off as they entered.

  “I brought Chris up for the night,” she said, in explanation. “There’s nothing wrong, but the wind’s worse than ever tonight, and there’s a bad sea, and what’s the use of taking the boat over empty to bring it back in the morning? There wasn’t anyone but Monty and Pettifer at the landing-place when we got in.”

  They knew that wind and rain were the explanations of that solitude, for there was no longer any unwillingness on the part of the women to seek the safety of Upper Helford.

  Feeling had changed during the last two days. It was not that there had been any open act of hostility to alarm them. There was still nothing but Pellow’s empty forge, and the fact that twenty people, more or less, had fled to the inclemencies of the wilderness, and that Butcher’s men had not been seen since yesterday, to give indication of impending danger; but a feeling of disquiet, vague but urgent, had disturbed even the slowest and the most reluctant.

  It was only this evening, and to the men th
at were now with him, that Martin had told the news that Steve had brought, fixing the attack which would be made upon them at the end of the following night, and even now he had warned them not to mention the fact to any.

  “We don’t want them,” he said, “to change their plans because they think we suspect them. But we’ll clear the railway camp completely tomorrow, and we’ll finish getting the women over, if the weather’s at all possible.”

  As Claire entered he had ceased speaking, to listen to her report. It was a day lost. It meant that the complete evacuation which he had planned would be impossible tomorrow. But they must do what they could. Anyway, they would finish clearing the railway camp in the morning. The women must come to Cowley Thorn for the night, as he had first intended

  They had nothing to fear for tonight—and in such weather! But Tom said he would make his way round the patrols, all the same. He would leave nothing to chance.

  No man had worked harder than he during the last weeks, and none showed so little sign of fatigue, either of mind or body. He was of a disposition that works with the expenditure of a minimum of nervous force, and he was under the influence of Chris’s contrasting vivacity.

  “Can’t I come with you?” she said eagerly, and changed to a frown of petulance at the chorus of negative which the proposal caused. It was her first night on the mainland, though she had brought the lugger to the landing-stage in Claire’s company several times previously. That was the extent of her father’s permission, even now that he had gained confidence in Martin, and was offering the asylum of the island to the threatened settlement, and though he was aware that she would not be likely to be far from Tom, nor to be ill-protected when he was near.

  But now, under this stress of weather, Claire her out of the loneliness of the last few months to this place of excitements, and it would have been a heavenly ending to a day of storm and struggle could she have tramped six miles of rough ways in rain and wind in the company of the man with whose slower moods she could play so easily, and with the romance of shadowy danger in the darkness of the farther fields.

  It was the measure of her triumphant audacity (perhaps to the judgment of a colder reason, of selfishness and ignorance also) that the gravity of those among whom she moved had no power to impress her. Even Claire’s confident courage seemed to her tame, with the taint of maturity. But to Tom it was as adorable when it urged to a reckless adventure of curiosity as when it tempted and then eluded with audacious teasing.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  That night Martin could not rest. He had slept somewhat better than usual the night before, having arrived at that stage of his plans at which there seemed nothing more to be arranged, and it only remained to see to what issue they would lead.

  After a busy morning, during which he had felt more alert and more confident in himself than had been the case for several previous days, he had yielded to Helen’s urging, and taken further sleep in the afternoon.

  The night found him restless, with a sense of impending evil which would not leave his mind.

  He had been trained by his profession to a severity of mental discipline which did not easily rebel, nor was he accustomed to receive such rebellion complacently.

  He went over all the preparations he had made, all the orders he had given, and decided that nothing had been over-looked, nothing more could be done till the morning came.

  He was alone in the house with the four women. Phillips was taking his turn in the patrol work, and would not be back till three o’clock.

  There was nothing in that. He had no fear of a personal attack. The doors and windows were strongly bolted and barred. It had been arranged that at any threat of danger they should retire into the kitchen, which had its own defensive preparations, and await relief. A shot would be heard in the nearer houses of Cowley Thorn, where nearly thirty of his men were barracked, and would bring help in about four minutes.

  Besides, there were several reasons making the occurrence of such an attack as unlikely as its success. He thought of that possibility, and discarded it. It was not that which vexed his mind.

  He sat on in the library as the hours passed, reviewing all that he had done, or failed to do, in the last four months, and wondering whether it were about to end in abortion, or would lead to the foundation of better things than had yet been reached.

  If he could win now, he felt that the way ahead would rot be impossibly difficult. Doubtless, there would be blunders, disappointments, discouragements enough, but yet, if he could win this fight, he felt good hope for the future. If he could win this fight. If—

  And if not?

  It was useless—worse than useless—to dwell on such a possibility. He must not fail.

  He had confidence in his own plans—he had the advantage of knowing those of his opponents. They were going to attack tomorrow night—toward dawn. That was because it was the night on which two of Butcher’s men were to be on the watch between Belsham Road and…but if Cooper were going to attack as Steve reported, he would not come by the Belsham Road. Then why had he accepted Butcher’s date? Simply because Butcher had proposed it.

  Might he not have thought of that afterward, and changed his plans?

  He heard the voices of Helen and Claire. They had not gone to bed either. Perhaps they were as restless as he. He went into the dining-room, and found them before the fire.

  But they were talking of other days.

  A chance reference by Helen to a school-friend, whom the had both known in Cheltenham many years earlier, had brought up reminiscences of the strange, already half-forgotten world, and they had been talking without regard to time, and in oblivion of all the anxieties which had been pressing upon him.

  “I can’t rest tonight,” he said. “I think I’ll take a ride round, as soon as Phillips returns, and see that everything’s all right. I shall feel easier tomorrow, when we have cleared the camp—and Larkshill too, if we can persuade them to come.”

  “You can’t ride tonight,” Helen said. “The weather’s worse rather than better. And what use could it be?”

  He told them of the doubt that had entered his mind.

  “If they should have seen that there can be no special advantage in tomorrow night, mightn’t they alter the date, and, if so, wouldn’t they make it earlier rather than later, when they heard that we’re moving all the women to Upper Helford?”

  “They can’t make it much earlier now,” Helen remarked, with some reason.

  “Mightn’t they decide not to attack us at all, if we must go without fighting?” Claire asked. “They get almost everything we’ve got, and they know that we couldn’t all stay there forever.”

  It was one of the doubts that had been in Martin’s own mind, and, if they acted in that way, he was not sure that it would help his plans. It would look rather silly if nothing happened and they had to return at last to their deserted and plundered homes. But he knew that things wouldn’t be quite like that. He had one card to play which they could not guess. And, in any case, with the women in safety, he could use his men more freely. No, he didn’t really fear that.

  But he did want it over quickly. There was no accommodation—scarcely the barest shelter—for so many at Upper Helford. There must be discomforts, even privations, from the first. Hardened as most of them were, there might be disease if it should continue.

  The crisis could not come too quickly—after tonight.

  “I shouldn’t think they’d be likely to do much in this weather,” Claire suggested. “It wouldn’t suit Butcher’s rheumatism.”

  He was aware that he must seem unreasonable in this midnight anxiety, but it would not leave him.

  A lover of the occult might have connected his disquiet with the long line of horsemen that moved very silently along a road nearly ten miles away. But there is a simpler alternative.

  Was the weather really so impossible? He went to the garden door, unbarred it, and looked at the night.

  It was still windy. A
cold wind from the north-west. But the sky was clearing, and the moon shone on pools in which the ice was forming. It would be colder before the dawn.

  He closed the door, and went back into the dining-room.

  “I’ll wait till Phillips comes before deciding. He won’t be long now. Then perhaps I’ll lie down. But there’s no sense in you both sitting up as well.”

  But they said they did not want to sleep either. They sat and talked of old and distant things, with silent intervals, as do those who wait for the news of birth or death, or of a surgeon’s work in an adjoining room.

  Then Phillips came.

  He had news, though it was of no certain import.

  Joe Harker had ridden in about two hours ago, and was with Butcher at the Grange. His horse had been unsaddled, and it seemed probable that he was not returning.

  That might mean a message that Cooper’s plans had been changed. It might only mean that he was the bringer of final plans for tomorrow night.

  “I wish you’d get my horse, Phillips. I’m going to take a ride round before I turn in.”

  Phillips was slow to move.

  “I don’t think I’d do that, sir. If I may say so, sir.”

  Phillips thought of his master first. If others wouldn’t keep a good look-out for themselves, they should be the ones to suffer.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t, Phillips, and you might be wiser than I. But I think I shall all the same.”

  Helen was silent. Sympathetically, she was feeling something of the apprehension which disturbed his mind.

  Claire may have felt it also. She said, “It seems a crazy thing to do; but if you must go you’d better take my horse. She’s so sure-footed in the dark.”

  She thought also that she was so much the swifter. Probably the best of her kind that the island held

  She fetched him the automatic which she had been carrying and which had done them such good service in the tunnel fight. He would take no other weapon.

  Would he take some more cartridges? There were only about a dozen left, besides those with which it was loaded. No, it didn’t matter. It was unlikely that he would have any occasion to use it.