HOW BURROUGH BECAME A DUMMY MAN.
It was early morning when Burrough awoke. He had never intended
going to sleep, but drowsiness had come, and he had succumbed to it.
He blinked his eyes when the clear light met them, and wondered what
was the meaning of the grey ruin which surrounded him. Then he
remembered, and hastily pulled himself round. The bed of heather was
empty. The little boots had disappeared from the broken hearthstone
where turves still smoked and smouldered; and the satchel too was
gone. Burrough looked about the ruin through the rents in its walls. A
couple of horned sheep scampered away when they saw him; a shaggy pony
stared with wild eyes. There was not a trace of Beatrice.
For a moment Burrough felt resentful. She might have waited for him,
or at least have aroused him to say she was going, and that she
preferred to depart alone. She was not the sort of girl who would care
what the villagers said about her; yet for the sake of peace she would
prefer they should not know how she had passed the night with him in
the ruin of Steeperton Cleave. That no doubt was why she had wished to
steal alone into the village before anyone would be astir. She had not
disturbed him out of pity for his weariness. She had acted quite
wisely. It was not her fault they had been stormbound; but the
evil-thinking minds and slandering tongues of the villagers might very
well determine that it had been his.
The “fulness,” as a Dartmoor dame would have called the mist, had
vanished. It was difficult to imagine it in the clear sunshine of the
early morning. The rain had dried off the whortleberries, and the wind
was nothing but a murmur. The only distinct sound came from the river
tumbling through the ruin of its bridge below.
Burrough was too lazy to think. The sensuous waves of warm
gorse-scented air lulled him into a feeling of perfect peace. He
tumbled upon the springy heather, and tried to imagine the future--a
future with Beatrice--but did not think for long. His eyes closed and
he was soon again in the land of dreams.
He woke with a muffled cry, and raised his hand to his head as though
to avert a blow. It seemed to him that the pixy blacksmith had come
beside him with a huge hammer and intent to murder. The phantom had
indeed aimed a blow at his head, but he had dragged himself away in
time, and the hammer had fallen upon the rock hard by and shivered it
with a noise like thunder. The echoes were still ringing upon the
moor. Before Burrough could fully awaken the noise came again. There
was a furious hissing, followed by a deafening shock. The ruin
trembled. Dust came down like rain, and after it a lump of peat fell
upon Burrough’s chest. He was up at once, muttering, “A thunderstorm!
Good Heaven! When is the weather going to be fine again?”
The next moment he was laughing, because he perceived that it was as
fine a summer’s morning as the heart could desire. So Beatrice had not
gone after all. She was upon the other side of the wall, and had
amused herself by throwing peat over it, as a hint it was time for him
to get up. As for the noise, it had probably been caused by her
rolling stones down the steep descent to the river. He picked up a
piece of peat and threw it over the wall. No reply came, although he
persuaded himself he heard a muffled laugh. He rushed outside. Nobody
was there.
In an instant Burrough was back in the ruin, as though he had been
Tregeagle with the devils at his heels. What was it that had made the
mysterious building a ruin and destroyed the old clapper bridge below?
What had aroused him and flung that turf upon his chest? Those ugly
iron cylinders scattered all over the surrounding moor gave the
answer. What a fool he had been to forget the artillery. He was upon
the range. A shell might fall at any moment and blow him into
fragments.
“On this day of all days in my life!” he muttered with shivering lips.
During the next few moments his mind worked rapidly. Was it because of
the danger that Beatrice had hurried away in the first dimness of the
morning? That could not be, because if the idea had occurred to her
she would not have left him sleeping at the mercy of the gunners. Was
it a chance shell which had fallen near the ruin? He knew the firing
was sometimes erratic, and he remembered the sheep and the pony he had
seen upon looking out earlier. These thoughts did not bring much
consolation, because he knew the cleave was upon the Cranmere range.
He had slept five hours since seeing those animals, and since then the
moormen would have rounded them up and driven them off. Naturally they
had not searched inside the ruin. They could not have expected to find
a man sleeping there.
While Burrough’s mind was at work his hands were busy methodically
packing his knapsack. He did not lose his head, as he had lately done
with Beatrice, and he managed to retain his self-restraint. He knew it
was no good running wildly about the moor, like a hunted rabbit
looking for a hole to dive into. He was aware that the particular part
upon which the ruin stood was not visible from the firing point
because of the steep slope of the cleave. It would be madness to run
up the hill, stand upon the sky-line and signal. He might be mistaken
for one of the dummy-men. He had been told by an artillery sergeant
that at a great distance the rippling currents of air rising from the
moor frequently gave an appearance of motion to the dummies and
perplexed the gunners in their aim. Then he thought of the field
telegraph and of the possibility of the firing being stopped if he
were to cut the wire. A patrol might be sent out to discover why
communication had been put a stop to. But he had no instrument except
a pocket-knife, and the wire could not be cut with that. The only
course open was to find a shell-proof shelter where he could hide
himself until the mid-day interval.
These thoughts passed rapidly through Burrough’s brain. He slung on
his knapsack. He was a practical man in some respects, and had no idea
of leaving his property behind. He passed out of the ruin, and as he
did so the hissing began again; he cowered like a frightened animal,
and a shell burst far above, flinging masses of peat into the air.
Another followed almost immediately, and then a couple passed overhead
screaming like the whist hounds. He heard them burst far ahead and
breathed more freely as he scrambled down.
Fear returned, however, before he reached the old bridge. He looked
back and discovered a spectral dummy upon the crest of the hill. While
he was looking the wooden man vanished, to the accompaniment of
another terrific explosion, and the storm of stones and divots was
renewed.
“Hot work,” muttered Burrough, trying to smile. “Very hot work.”
His first thought was naturally the selfish one of self-preservation.
His second was gratification that Beatrice had slipped away in the
early morning. It would have been terrible if she had been there,
exposed to instant death or mutilation in some horrible form. The
strong beautiful body of Beatrice scarred and crippled! The very
thought made him shudder as his own danger had not done.
There was no shelter to be found upon the treeless moor. Reaching the
river in safety Burrough rushed over the rocks like a frightened
water-vole, looking for a hole to creep into. Near the old bridge he
hesitated. There was a shelf of rock jutting out from the side of the
cleave and overhanging the river. The bombardment continued like a
tremendous thunderstorm. Burrough scrambled down, dragged himself
beneath the ledge, and crouched among the ferns, with the water
splashing below, and the noise of war above.
Not more than a few minutes had passed when an earthquake came. The
ground shook, the great shelf which pressed upon him like the roof of
a vault trembled, and some small rocks rattled overhead and plunged
into the river. When peace became restored Burrough reconsidered his
position by the light of a few fresh discoveries. As he dug his hands
into the bracken they came in contact with something hard and round.
It was a shell. As he looked down he noticed that huge masses of the
river’s bank had been broken off. Some portions had not been cut away
completely, but were hanging forward over the water; other parts had
been blown into the stream. Burrough quickly concluded that his
present position was as bad a one as he could have chosen. He noticed
that the shells were falling either some way above the ruin or some
way below, that is to say, across the high moor where the dummies had
been stationed early that morning while he was asleep, and along the
river. He remembered that the gunners were instructed to respect the
stone antiquities of the moor as far as they could. They were not
permitted to bombard the picturesque tors, or to drop their shells
where stone avenues and kistvaens were known to exist. The ruin was
therefore the safest place. It was between two fires, which was better
on the whole than being in the direct line of one.
Burrough lost no time in returning to the place which had sheltered
Beatrice and himself from the storm. It was a very different and far
more terrible storm which was raging then. He went up the steep ascent
at an astonishing speed, and tumbled into the ruin sweating and
breathless. As he made for the old fireplace a small pony stampeded in
a panic from the corner. Evidently the shaggy little beast had become
separated from its companions, and had been overlooked by the
range-clearers. Burrough called to the animal in vain. All men were
its enemies. It made off to the open moor, calling for its comrades,
mane and tail streaming in the breeze. Quite possibly it had been left
deliberately on the range by the moorman who owned it. If it were
destroyed the compensation money might amount to the value of many
ponies.
Soon Burrough became positively elated. Hidden away in the chimney he
felt that the odds were very much in his favour. It had stood through
many a summer’s war; and though no doubt it was only a question of
time before a badly-aimed shell fell and demolished it, there was no
good reason why such a disaster should occur upon that particular day.
Burrough tried to forget that portions of the old stone building had
been shattered by misdirected efforts. Broken blocks were close to his
feet; there was an ugly rent in the jagged wall opposite; through that
hole he perceived a shallow pit which could not have been made by
anything except one of those huge new projectiles--but it was foolish
to think of such things. He turned to other matters. He wondered
whether the pony would escape and rejoin its herd that evening, with a
tale of its wonderful adventures, including the stupid frightened man
who had driven it out of its shelter--or whether it would be lying
dead or horribly wounded upon the high moor between the dummies. That
was another unpleasant thought, and others followed. Burrough
remembered the tales that were current concerning the recklessness of
the artillerymen. How they had been known to take aim at pedestrians
wandering upon the moor, and to attribute any fatal consequence to
accident. Well, that need not trouble him, because he was completely
hidden. What was much more disquieting was the fear lest some raw
beginner might be firing presently. Such a one was as likely to drop a
projectile upon the ruin as upon Cranmere.
From his position in the chimney upon the remains of last night’s fire
Burrough could look upon the corner where he and Beatrice had spent
those happy hours. He could see her bed of heather. The pony had
trampled upon it and defiled it, but it was still the place where she
had rested. He could see the exact spot where her head had been. He
thought of the wild evening--the whirling mists, the savage wind, the
pitiless rain; of Beatrice sitting upon the heather, toasting her damp
feet, full of her west-country folk-lore; of himself full of his
passion for her. He saw her saucy face, her mocking eyes, her wilfully
lisping lips, sometimes quivering over the woes of Tregeagle,
sometimes laughing at them. He thought of his own words, “You
witch-girl! You gipsy!” Of his kisses not refused. Of his wild
promises apparently accepted. Of her sweet murmurs which might have
meant everything, or little, or nothing--just her everyday nonsense,
but softer, sweeter, sillier than ever before.
Folk-lore and passion in the white mists and weird wind of Dartmoor
had given place to sheer commonplace day with the horrible reality of
its war-game.
“If I were to be killed here, what a haunted ruin this would be!” said
Burrough. “Every night a poor lonely ghost, bending over an imaginary
fire, kneeling to take off imaginary boots--but very real to the
ghost--listening to a fairy-tale, then rushing out with yells. The
gunners would be requested to sweep the place off the face of the
moor.”
Burrough had neglected to wind his watch the preceding evening, and
the next time he looked at it he found it was not going; but by the
position of the sun he guessed it was not far off noon. The firing
would therefore not continue much longer, and before it would be
renewed he could easily place himself in a position of perfect safety.
As the shells were bursting at a considerable distance he left the
chimney, and sitting upon a rock watched the whirling clouds and the
fountain of peat and stones flung upward. Then he heard a weird
hissing, and rushed back to his place of shelter. A shell exploded
beside the river, just above the old bridge, and some stones fell on
the very spot where Burrough had been standing. The ruin trembled, and
dust rained down the chimney.
After that there was peace. Burrough sat huddled upon the hearthstone,
not venturing to stir outside for close upon half-an-hour, but not
another shot was fired. At length he came out and waited several
minutes in the open. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, and ran
out of the ruin, like a boy released from school with a half-holiday
to spend.
His shortest way back was along the range, across the field of battle
where the dummy corpses were lying grievously wounded. One at least
had survived. Burrough saw the grey shape leaning upon the crest of
the hill as he came up. He walked straight towards it; and he was
about two hundred yards away, and still some little distance below,
when that catastrophe occurred which shivered the dummy soldier into
fragments. It was the last shot and a well-aimed one. The wooden
splinters were hurled in all directions; and where the dummy had stood
appeared a dark hole in the peat.
One of the splinters caught Burrough just above the right eye. He
staggered, spun round, then fell upon his back and lay still upon the
heather.