A RACE FOR LIFE
Kate had walked away without a thought of attempting to gather the
subject of her uncle’s conversation with Redmore. She resolved at once
to seek her father and obtain from him permission to house the
unfortunate wife with her children in his cottage. She had been told
that he had gone to a farm lying somewhat to the right of the Ashburton
road, near the prominent and stately rock citadel of Sharpitor. She
therefore ascended the long, steep hill, up which scrambles the high
road from Dart-meet.
Halfway up the ascent is an oblong mass of granite, lying in the moor,
which goes by the name of the Coffin Stone, because on it coffins are
rested by those who are bearing a corpse to its lasting resting-place in
the distant churchyards of Buckland or Ashburton. Kate had reached this
stone, and was panting for breath, when she heard shouts and cries in
the valley she was leaving, and, leaping upon the Coffin Stone, she saw
a swarm of men on the opposite bank of the Dart—the Brimpts side—running
in the direction of the bridge, headed by her uncle, who was then
levelling a gun he carried.
From her elevation she could not only see but hear everything.
“An incendiary! He set fire to a stack. A pound to any man who takes
him, alive or dead!” shouted Pasco, and to Kate every word was audible.
Then she saw the flash of the gun, and a little later heard the report.
The shot had missed, for her uncle urged on the men to run and not let
the scoundrel escape, and he himself lagged behind to reload his barrel.
She looked for the fugitive, but was able to see him for one moment
only, as he leaped a ruinous fence in his flight down stream.
Why was he taking that direction? Because the way into the fastnesses of
the moorland was closed to him by his pursuers. He could not run up the
hill that Kate ascended, as he would be exposed throughout, without the
smallest cover, to the gun of Pepperill. Though a course down the river
led ultimately into inhabited land, yet between the moor and population
lay the great woodland belt of Buckland and Holme Chase, where the river
wound its way in sweeps among dense forest and rock, and where Redmore
knew he could hide with the greatest ease. But before he could be in the
woodland he had a long stretch of moor to traverse, where there was no
road, at best a fisherman’s track, among rocks scattered in confusion,
among heather and furze bushes, with here and there sloe and thorn trees
and an occasional “witch beam” or rowan growing out of the rocks. Almost
immediately after the junction of the East with the West Dart, the
united stream doubles round Sharpitor, that shoots high above it on one
side, and under the ridges of Benjietor on the other side, in whose lap
grows a little copse, and which, from its crags to the water’s edge, is
green with bracken in summer, but at this period was russet with
withered leaves. Thence smoke rose—some boys had ignited the gorse, and
the flames ran among the withered ferns and the fallen oak-leaves, and
blackened and burnt the copse.
Kate hastened on her way. She knew that on reaching the head of the
ridge a short distance intervened between the road and the precipices of
Sharpitor that overhung the ravine. Thence she could see all that
followed—if Roger Redmore succeeded in turning the moorland spur round
which the river foamed.
Hot, trembling, and breathless, Kate ran, then halted to gasp, then ran
on, and did not rest for more than a minute till she had reached the
vantage-point on the rocks, and looked down into a wondrous ravine of
river, granite boulder, and glaring golden furze, and with the blue
smoke of the smouldering fern forming a haze that hung in its depths,
but which rose in places above the rocky crests of the moor and showed
brown against the luminous sky.
Kate ensconced herself among the piles of granite, with a “clatter,” as
it is locally termed, at her feet, a mass of rocky ruin, composed of
granite, in fragments of every size and in various conditions of
disintegration.
She saw Redmore as he doubled the foot of the mountain, and for awhile
had the advantage of being invisible to his pursuers, and safe from the
gun of Pepperill. He stood on a great rock half-way out of the water,
and looked about him. He was resolving what to do, whether to continue
his course down stream, or to endeavour to conceal himself at once. The
fire and smoke on the farther side in the bosom of Benjietor made it
impossible for him to secrete himself there—every lurking-place was
scorched or menaced by the flames. The slope of Sharpitor on his left,
though strewn with the wreckage of the crags above, offered no safe
refuge; it was exposed to full light, without any bushes in it other
than the whortle and heather. Roger did not take long to make up his
mind; he pursued his course down the river, now wading, then scrambling
over stones, then leaping from rock to rock, and then again flying over
a tract of smooth turf. Occasionally the wind, playing with the smoke,
carried a curl of it across the river, and drew it out and shook it as a
veil, obscuring Redmore from the eyes of Kate, who watched him in
panting unrest, and with prayers for his safety welling up in her heart.
Then shouts—the men who hunted him had rounded the flank of Shapitor,
and had caught sight of the man they were endeavouring to catch. One
fellow, with very long legs, familiar with the ground, accustomed all
his life to the moor, was making great way, and bade fair to catch
Roger.
Redmore looked behind him. He had cast away his axe, and was therefore
unarmed, but was lightened for the race.
“A sovereign to the man who catches him!” yelled Pepperill. “Knock him
down, brain him!”
Then one man heaved a stone, picked out of the river, and threw it. A
vain attempt. He was not within reach of Redmore; but in a pursuit, none
can quite consider what is possible, and measure distances with nicety,
without much greater coolness than is possessed by men running and
leaping over difficult ground. The long-legged man kept forging ahead,
with his elbows close to his sides; he had distanced the rest. He was
fleet of foot, he sprang from stone to stone without pausing to
consider, and without ever missing his footing. Roger advanced slowly:
he was unaccustomed to such difficult ground; sometimes he fell; he
floundered into the river up to his armpits and scrambled out with
difficulty. His pursuer never got into the water. The man had not merely
long legs, he had a long nose and protruding eyes, and as he ran, with
his elbows back, he held his forefingers extended, the rest folded.
Every stride brought him nearer to Redmore, and Roger, who had just
scrambled upon a rock in the river, saw that he must be overtaken, and
he prepared for the inevitable struggle.
Kate, leaning forward in her eagerness, at this moment displaced a large
block, that slid down, turned on its edge and rolled, then leaped, then
bounded high into the air, crashed down on another rock, and from it
leaped again in its headlong course.
The girl held her breath. It seemed as though the rock must strike the
running pursuer, and if it struck him it would inevitably be his death.
The rattle of displaced stones, the crash of the block as it struck, the
cries of those behind, who saw the danger, arrested the long-legged man.
He halted, and looked up and around, and at that moment the stone
whizzed past and plunged into the river. Kate saw in a moment the
advantage thus gained, and in palpitating haste threw down every stone
she could reach or tilt over from its resting-place, where nicely
balanced, thus sending a succession of volleys of leaping, whistling
stones across the path, between the pursued and the pursuers.
She heard shouts and execrations from those who were coming up, and who
stood still, not daring to continue their course, and run the risk of
having their brains beaten out by one of the falling stones. She
regarded them not. Her one idea was to save Roger. She could see that
the man for whom she acted had recognised her intervention, and
continued his flight. She could see that the pursuers were stationary,
uncertain what to do.
Then her uncle again raised his gun. Kate put her hands to her mouth and
called to Roger, who looked over his shoulder, and dropped behind a
stone just as the gun was discharged.
Then he picked himself up once more and ran on. Kate dared not desist.
She continued to send block after block rolling. Some were shattered in
their descent, and resolved themselves into a cloud of whizzing
projectiles. Some in striking the soil set a mass of rubble in motion
that shot down and threw up a cloud of dust.
She was hot, weary, her hands wounded. But the consciousness of success
strung her to renewed exertion. Pasco Pepperill called the party in
pursuit together. He shouted up the height to the girl. Who it was there
engaged in dislodging stones he couldn’t discern, for Kate kept herself
concealed as far as possible, and the confusion of the granite rocks
thrown into heaps and dislocated, served to disguise the presence of
anyone among them. He threatened, but threatened in vain; Kate did not
stay her hand to give time to listen to what he cried.
After a brief consultation, as the avalanche did not decrease, the party
resolved to cross the river and continue the pursuit down it on the
farther side, through the smoke and over the ashes of the conflagration.
By this means Roger Redmore could be kept in sight, and possibly it
would be more easy to run over the charred soil among bushes reduced to
ash. Moreover, few, if any, of the stones dislodged by Kate had
sufficient weight and velocity to carry them to the farther side of the
river.
Accordingly, the party began to step on the rocks that projected from
the water, or to wade, so as to reach the farther side, Pepperill
lingering behind reloading his gun, and keeping his eye on the fugitive.
Then a sudden idea struck him, and, calling to the men to proceed as
they had proposed, he started to climb the steep tide of Sharpitor, at a
point where not menaced by the falling stones, judging that by this
means he would dislodge the person who had come to the assistance of the
fugitive, and at the same time be able to follow the flight of the
latter with his eye better than below, and to obtain a more leisurely
shot at him when a suitable occasion offered, as his poising himself on
a rock, or halting to resolve on his course.
Kate desisted from sending down volleys of stones, till the occasion
should arise again. She watched the flight of Roger, and perceived that
he was aiming at a coppice which was in a fold of the hills
undiscernible by those on the farther side of the river; by means of
this coppice, if he could reach it, Roger would be able to effect his
escape.
In three minutes he was safe; then Kate drew a long breath. At the same
moment she was touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, saw her
father.
“What’s all this about? What’s this shouting and firing of guns?”
“Oh, father, I hope I have not done wrong! Uncle and all the men are
after Roger Redmore.”
“Who is he?”
“The man who burnt Mr. Pooke’s ricks, and he has been working for you
here—and uncle recognised him, and sent the men to take him, and he ran
away, and I have helped him.”
“You?”
“Yes; by rolling down rocks.”
Jason burst into a fit of laughter. “Come, that is fine. You and I,
Kitty, aiders and abettors of an incendiary. Is he clear off now?”
“Yes; but here comes uncle up the steep side.”
Jason hobbled to the edge of the rock, and, leaning over called,
“Halloo, Pasco! Here we are waiting for you—Kitty Alone and I.”