Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  He stood listening for some time. He had good ears. He thought he heard a fox bark in the distance. Besides that—nothing. He yawned again, and went back to sleep.

  The sentry, having given proof of his vigilance and received no thanks, felt that he had earned a further rest, and took it; but not for long, being waked again by the sound of shots which were too near to be doubtful.

  He looked out from his refuge to see a group of his comrades standing unarmed, in a sleepy bewilderment, already in the hands of their enemies, whose rifles menaced them, and to observe that some resistance was being offered farther along the road, where a house stood from which shots were being exchanged with those by whom it was surrounded.

  He was a prudent man, and one who could estimate the probabilities of such a position very easily. He went home.

  Arriving there, on the back of a horse which he had been prompt enough to secure without observation, he had no scruple in providing for his requirements from Cooper’s stores with the liberality which the severity of the season suggested, and disappeared into the wilderness, with Nance Weston for company.

  His subsequent experiences might not be uninteresting, for he was a man of character, and adventures found them, but they would be out of place here. We must watch him ride away, and for the time forget him.

  Seventeen men, who were less fortunate than he, stood in a group on the main road in Cowley Thorn. Their hands were tied, and half a dozen men who stood round them with loaded rifles made the idea of escape unpopular.

  Martin surveyed them with embarrassment, and Burman, who stood beside him, with unconcealed disfavour.

  They were an unsavoury group. The countenances of most of them illustrated the attractive candour with which Nature is accustomed to own her errors. They were not improved by the fact that they had not washed for two days, more or less, and that those who were without the usual straggle of beard had not shaved for a similar or longer period.

  “You won’t keep this scum?” said Burman bluntly.

  “I don’t see what else I can do,” Martin answered. The prospect was far from pleasing. It was made worse by the fact that there were a dozen men at Helford Grange, including Butcher himself, who had surrendered in the same way. The surprise had been almost too great, the success too complete, to please him.

  Cooper, sleeping with a well-bolted door, and with eight of his best men in the same house, was still offering resistance, and Martin, not wishing to sacrifice life without necessity, had withdrawn his own men somewhat (now better weaponed than before by the capture of Butcher’s arsenal), to give him time to think it over.

  “You’ll be sorry if you do,” Burman persisted. He was a farmer, and he regarded them with a professional eye. They were poor stock. Poor stock, not worth its keep. The fool hopes the impossible, and goes on feeding. The wise man kills it off.

  “Well,” he said, “I shall close Helford again if you do. You must face your own troubles. I’ll have no vermin there.”

  Martin was silent. He knew he spoke sense. He had paid heavily more than once before for the hesitation which now troubled his mind. But he knew also that he could never give an order to shoot men in cold blood. He had no jail, even had he been disposed to confine them. What could he do except give them life for a promised loyalty, and hope for the best?

  “They’ve been badly led,” he said. It was the best excuse he could think of, but he knew that most of them had chosen their leader, and many would have been better pleased with a worse one.

  “You’ll be keeping their leader next, like you have Butcher. What’ll be the change when the fighting’s over?”

  “I don’t think they’ll fight again,” Martin answered. What was the use of talking?

  “No. A shot in the back’s more likely.”

  Well, if so, it was a risk that had to be taken. He couldn’t refuse quarter to men who yielded without a blow. “And now here he comes,” said Burman.

  Captain Cooper was walking down the road, with his hands raised over his head. He had decided that he could gain nothing by a prolonged resistance, and he might lose much.

  He had been impressed, also, by the fact that the first of his men who had shown his head had been shot through it by Jack Tolley’s rifle. He had learned to face facts.

  “You can name your price,” he said, as he came up to Martin. “I give you best.”

  Burman brought his shot-gun to his shoulder, and fired both barrels.

  Cooper collapsed on the road. He lay on his face, and the blood spread out on both sides, over the frozen road.

  Burman turned to Martin.

  “I’m not under your orders, Captain Webster. We bargained that. But I’ve done what you couldn’t do, and you’ll thank me later. I’d rather it had been that cur Butcher, but he’ll be no trouble alone. I expect he’s finished pricing the tea.” He paused a moment as Martin did not reply, and then said: “Friends still?” and held out his hand.

  Martin hesitated, and then took it.

  “There’s some things has to be done, though we mayn’t like doing them,” Burman added. “It’s all in Joshua. I suppose you’ll save the rest now. If I knew how long you’ll live I could tell how long you’ll be sorry. But I shan’t interfere again.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The morning sun was still low, shining from a clear sky upon a frozen world, and there was little stir of life at Upper Helford, except among those that anxiety did not allow to rest, when Steve Fortune came back to the farmhouse door with a note from Martin to Helen to say that all was well and that the women could return to their homes as quickly as the necessary arrangements could be completed. He added that there were about twenty men more or less seriously wounded who were in urgent need of attention.

  His own men were tired, and he still required their services in many ways; could Helen send some of the women, many of whom, having crossed by the boats in the earlier days, should be fit to come at once, to undertake such duties? As the need was urgent, Steve would guide any of them by the underground passage who might be willing to come that way.

  Helen only delayed to give the good news to Chris, and went to find Muriel.

  It could not be said of either of them that they were fit for further exertion, but it was not a call to be disregarded.

  “Claire’s asleep, and I wouldn’t wake her. She’s done her share,” Helen explained, “and Chris will get the best crews she can together for the boats from the men that are still here, and take as many as they will hold. I expect they’ll all want to get home at once now. But it’ll be about three hours before they can start. I don’t suppose many of the women will be willing to go the underground way unless we do it.”

  Muriel said, “You look worn out, and I’m afraid I’m too tired to be much good when we get there, but I’ll come if you really think it will make that difference…. I’m glad it’s all over. There ought to be better times now.”

  They went together to enlist the help that was needed.

  It was scarcely an hour later that Steve, with about a dozen women behind him, led them through a passage which, now that he knew it, was no longer fearful.

  The passage sloped down for a long distance, and then became level. It was damp and cold, and very dimly lit by a series of lamps which Tom and his fellow-workers had fitted to the roof.

  Muriel had the dog with her. He went on for a short distance gaily enough, and then whined, and hung back till Steve called him, when he ran on without further protest.

  They were less than half-way through when Helen noticed that Muriel was falling behind, and went back to her.

  She had stopped beneath the light of one of the lamps, and seated herself on a piece of timber which had been brought for repairing the tunnel and left unused.

  It had been about there that the falls had been worst, and the repairs most extensive.

  “I’m afraid I’m too tired to come on just yet, but please don’t wait. I shall be all right in a few minutes.
”

  “You don’t look tired: you look ill.”

  “I’m not as strong as I was, and I’ve done a good deal since yesterday. But I don’t want you to wait. There’ll be so much to be done…. I’ll come on when I’ve rested.”

  “You’re not fit to do anything more.”

  “If I don’t feel better I’ll go back.”

  “I think someone ought to be with you.”

  “No, please, Helen. You’ll be needed there. I should be wretched if I felt I were keeping you. And there’s really no need at all. And—there are times when we all like to be alone.”

  The last plea was not easily to be ignored, especially by one of Helen’s training and temperament. She went on reluctantly.

  Muriel had spoken no more than the truth in saying that she wanted to be alone.

  She had worked beyond her strength, and the stresses of the last two days had produced an emotional exhaustion beyond the experience of those who had reacted with a simpler selfishness.

  She was aware now, too vividly aware, of the misery of those who were wounded, and were so unlikely to be well tended—of the thirst, the cold, the pain…. But she could do no more. She had fallen out of the ranks. After she had rested awhile she would go back. “His little ones at home.” If God would not use her further, even that must be taken patiently…. But she did not want to think. She was too tired. She only wanted to rest. Above all, she had not wanted to talk. She was glad Helen had gone. But Helen always understood, though her own feelings were so carefully covered…. And the pain was coming again—that came so often now….

  It could only have been for a few moments, for there can be many thoughts in a little space, and Helen’s steps had not died in the distance, when a spray of water fell on Muriel’s hand, and did not cease.

  She looked up and saw a tiny jet that shot out from the opposite wall, beneath the lamp. A very thin jet, but coming out very strongly. Did it mean that the sea was breaking in?

  She forgot the pain she was feeling, in a panic instinct of flight.

  Then with the thought there came to her the memory of a tale that she had read in childhood of someone—was it boy or man?—who had saved a dyke in Holland through which the seas were breaking by inserting his arm in the hole by which the water had commenced to enter. It might have been nothing more than a tale.

  She stood irresolute. If she ran after those who had gone before, she could give them warning, and they would hasten. Surely she could do a more certain good in that way, and her own life would have no better chance than the others. She knew suddenly that she did not want to die. She had been fighting against death all these months. Striving to ignore the pain: to persuade herself that it was less intense, or less frequent. Praying for miracles. Had there not even been a vague, unquietened hope that it was not too late—that out of this strange chaos to which the world had fallen might come the things that she had never known—love, children, home? She did not want to die.

  The pause of uncertainty was no longer than a footstep takes; but every thought and action that her life had known, every faith and doubt, every valour and weakness, were in the scales that trembled to the decision that she was taking. Then she had crossed the tunnel, and her hand was pressed upon the cold clay soil from which that jet of water burst.

  And as she did this, fear left her mind. It faltered back for a moment as the thought came that if the pressure of her hand could prevent the passage of the water entirely, it might not get worse, and, if she could endure long enough, help would be sure to come. Hope came at the thought, and fear re-entered with it.

  But the hope died quickly. She saw that it could not be. Her hand could do no more than check, it could not staunch, the flow.

  She began to doubt whether her efforts could really make much difference, whether they would be sufficient to save those who were still such a short distance ahead, so unconscious of the danger behind them.

  And seeing this, she saw also that it did not matter. She saw the high purpose of life, which overshadows its eternal frustration, its reiterated futility.

  In those few minutes that she stood there, how much she knew, and thought, and remembered! Death might be near, but life triumphed….

  The water was spraying out from each side of the pressed palm, and between her fingers. It was deadly cold, numbing her hand. She moved it for a second, thinking to improve its position, and a stream as from a hosepipe shot out across the tunnel. She was able to push her hand into the hole, and, for a moment, she stayed it. Surely they would be safe by now!

  The light flickered, and went out. She was in a darkness such as the earth’s surface can never know…. There came to her a vision of that Whitsunday morning when she had wakened to sunlight, and fresh air, and to a shadow of death, which she had fought, and then accepted with the words of an earlier confidence. “To be with Christ, which is far better.”

  The rush of water was too strong for her arm to contend against it. She thought that it was breaking in at other points also. Surely they must be safe by now! She gave up the useless effort.

  She did not know that she spoke aloud in the darkness, “which is far better.”

  The confident words died, and the ocean-floor fell in.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  It was nearly midday before Martin was able to relinquish control to the hands of others almost as tired as he, and to return with Helen to Upper Helford—for his own home was in ashes—for the rest he needed.

  They went in the returning boats, and he slept heavily for a few hours, and then waked with a stiff and aching body, but with a mind alert and restless, so that he rose, and went out, and walked for a time upon the northern cliffs, which looked upon an ocean that showed no limit.

  He saw that for the moment the fight was won.

  Whether for good or evil, he had become the ruler of this little land, this isolated tribe, and he could do with them what he would.

  By one stroke of successful strategy, by the accident of that discovered passage, he had made a name which would be a tradition of greatness long after he had ceased to be. But he did not know that. He saw less, and he saw farther.

  He saw the futility of all endeavour. He might rule with an old wisdom, or a new foolishness, but he would die, and his will with him, and even that which he had sown in wisdom might be brought by others to a foolish flower.

  Was it not even too much to hope that the present isolation would continue?

  Might not all the coercions of the old civilization be existing still?

  Might not any morning bring the sight of smoke-trailed funnels, and the black menace of the lifted guns?

  There would be no use in weapons. As the curse of European civilization smote the islands of the Pacific in an earlier century, so, if it came here, must it smite, remorseless in its penetration, until they should have become the customers of its vices once again.

  Surely, if belief could be in any personal devil, he had been the whisperer in the ears of the laboratory workers, guiding them in successive centuries to the invention of black powder and of a hundred subsequent more fiendish evils, steeling their hearts by the appeals of greed or vanity to put their knowledge into the hands of their fellows. Even Dante might have failed to imagine a sufficient hell for such as they.

  He remembered that terrible bureaucratic slavery which the waters covered, when every man had been compelled to walk; the same road at the same pace as his neighbours; when he could not take pleasure, or work, for his own gain or his fellows’ good, but at the licensed times; when he could not find a corner of England so remote that he could build a home to his own liking without the interference and restraint of others; when he could not teach his own child in his own way, but it must be raped from him to be patterned in the common mould.

  There was no hope but in isolation….

  He became aware that the wind was colder, and that the night was falling around him. “The night cometh, when no man can work.” The words
entered his mind as a warning, and as an unescapable doom. What use was there in thought and anxious effort in a world in which the night was always approaching.

  His influence might be good or evil, but it would pass like a shadow, like an impression in water. The water might give way very easily to the moving hand, but it would close as easily behind it, and what would be altered? And the hand was Life, the water Time. Was it not a wiser rule to accept the inevitable end, and not to exhaust its brevity with a useless effort? “The night cometh, when no man can work.”

  And then the thought came that these were the words of one who had the gift of putting the deepest wisdom into a simplicity of words, and that he had used them to a directly opposite argument.

  It was because of that approaching darkness that the labour should neither be delayed nor stinted. Taking no anxious thought for the morrow, the day’s work must be done as best we may, because the darkness is so certain—and so near.

  The new order of life which he was striving to build with such partial success, with such inevitable errors, might disappear tomorrow, but what he did today would have become a fact unchangeable, the significance of which was beyond his seeing.

  The night moved round the earth. It followed daylight men are followed by the overtaking feet of death, but there was no finality in its triumph.

  For behind it followed forever the indifferent dawn.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sydney Fowler Wright (1874-1965) penned over seventy volumes of science fiction, fantasy, classic mysteries, historical novels, poetry, and non-fiction, many of them being published by the Borgo Press imprint of Wildside Press.

  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY S. FOWLER WRIGHT

  Arresting Delia: An Inspector Cleveland Classic Crime Novel

  The Attic Murder: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel

  The Bell Street Murders: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel

  Beyond the Rim: A Lost Race Fantasy

  Black Widow: A Classic Crime Novel