HOW MR. McCUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY
Dickson always maintained that his senses did not leave him for more
than a second or two, but he admitted that he did not remember very
clearly the events of the next few hours. He was conscious of a bad pain
above his eyes, and something wet trickling down his cheek. There was a
perpetual sound of water in his ears and of men's voices. He found
himself dropped roughly on the ground and forced to walk, and was aware
that his legs were inclined to wobble. Somebody had a grip on each arm,
so that he could not defend his face from the brambles, and that worried
him, for his whole head seemed one aching bruise and he dreaded anything
touching it. But all the time he did not open his mouth, for silence was
the one duty that his muddled wits enforced. He felt that he was not the
master of his mind, and he dreaded what he might disclose if he began to
babble.
Presently there came a blank space of which he had no recollection at
all. The movement had stopped, and he was allowed to sprawl on the
ground. He thought that his head had got another whack from a bough, and
that the pain put him into a stupor. When he awoke he was alone.
He discovered that he was strapped very tightly to a young Scotch fir.
His arms were bent behind him and his wrists tied together with cords
knotted at the back of the tree; his legs were shackled, and further
cords fastened them to the bole. Also there was a halter round the trunk
and just under his chin, so that while he breathed freely enough, he
could not move his head. Before him was a tangle of bracken and scrub,
and beyond that the gloom of dense pines; but as he could only see
directly in front his prospect was strictly circumscribed.
Very slowly he began to take his bearings. The pain in his head was now
dulled and quite bearable, and the flow of blood had stopped, for he
felt the incrustation of it beginning on his cheeks. There was a
tremendous noise all around him, and he traced this to the swaying of
tree-tops in the gale. But there was an undercurrent of deeper
sound--water surely, water churning among rocks. It was a stream--the
Garple of course--and then he remembered where he was and what had
happened.
I do not wish to portray Dickson as a hero, for nothing would annoy him
more; but I am bound to say that his first clear thought was not of his
own danger. It was intense exasperation at the miscarriage of his plans.
Long ago he should have been with Dougal arranging operations, giving
him news of Sir Archie, finding out how Heritage was faring, deciding
how to use the coming reinforcements. Instead he was trussed up in a
wood, a prisoner of the enemy, and utterly useless to his side. He
tugged at his bonds, and nearly throttled himself. But they were of
good tarry cord and did not give a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter
rage filled his eyes and made furrows on his encrusted cheeks. Idiot
that he had been, he had wrecked everything! What would Saskia and
Dougal and Sir Archie do without a business man by their side? There
would be a muddle, and the little party would walk into a trap. He saw
it all very clearly. The men from the sea would overpower them, there
would be murder done, and an easy capture of the Princess; and the
police would turn up at long last to find an empty headland.
He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself, and at the thought the
most genuine panic seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape,
for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till such time as his
enemies had time to deal with him. As to what that dealing would be like
he had no doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief opponent.
Those desperate ruffians would not scruple to put an end to him. His
mind dwelt with horrible fascination upon throat-cutting, no doubt
because of the presence of the cord below his chin. He had heard it was
not a painful death; at any rate he remembered a clerk he had once had,
a feeble, timid creature, who had twice attempted suicide that way.
Surely it could not be very bad, and it would soon be over.
But another thought came to him. They would carry him off in the ship
and settle with him at their leisure. No swift merciful death for him.
He had read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in torture, and now
they all came back to him--stories of Chinese mercenaries, and men
buried alive, and death by agonising inches. He felt suddenly very cold
and sick, and hung in his bonds for he had no strength in his limbs.
Then the pressure on his throat braced him, and also quickened his numb
mind. The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver through his veins.
He endured some moments of this anguish, till after many despairing
clutches at his wits he managed to attain a measure of self-control. He
certainly wasn't going to allow himself to become mad. Death was death
whatever form it took, and he had to face death as many better men had
done before him. He had often thought about it and wondered how he
should behave if the thing came to him. Respectably, he had hoped;
heroically, he had sworn in his moments of confidence. But he had never
for an instant dreamed of this cold, lonely, dreadful business. Last
Sunday, he remembered, he had been basking in the afternoon sun in his
little garden and reading about the end of Fergus MacIvor in _Waverley_
and thrilling to the romance of it; and then Tibby had come out and
summoned him in to tea. Then he had rather wanted to be a Jacobite in
the '45 and in peril of his neck, and now Providence had taken him most
terribly at his word.
A week ago----! He groaned at the remembrance of that sunny garden. In
seven days he had found a new world and tried a new life, and had come
now to the end of it. He did not want to die, less now than ever with
such wide horizons opening before him. But that was the worst of it, he
reflected, for to have a great life great hazards must be taken, and
there was always the risk of this sudden extinguisher.... Had he to
choose again, far better the smooth sheltered bypath than this accursed
romantic highway on to which he had blundered.... No, by Heaven, no!
Confound it, if he had to choose he would do it all again. Something
stiff and indomitable in his soul was bracing him to a manlier humour.
There was no one to see the figure strapped to the fir, but had there
been a witness he would have noted that at this stage Dickson shut his
teeth and that his troubled eyes looked very steadily before him.
His business, he felt, was to keep from thinking, for if he thought at
all there would be a flow of memories, of his wife, his home, his books,
his friends, to unman him. So he steeled himself to blankness, like a
sleepless man imagining white sheep in a gate.... He noted a robin below
the hazels, strutting impudently. And there was a tit on a bracken
frond, which made the thing sway like one of the see-saws he used to
play with as a boy. There was no wind in that undergrowth, and any
movement must be due to bird or beast. The tit flew off, and the
oscillations of the bracken slowly died away. Then they began again, but
more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird that caused them. It
must be something down at the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or
a fox, or a weasel.
He watched for the first sign of the beast, and thought he caught a
glimpse of tawny fur. Yes, there it was--pale dirty yellow, a weasel
clearly. Then suddenly the patch grew larger, and to his amazement he
looked at a human face--the face of a pallid small boy.
A head disentangled itself, followed by thin shoulders, and then by a
pair of very dirty bare legs. The figure raised itself and looked
sharply round to make certain that the coast was clear. Then it stood up
and saluted, revealing the well-known lineaments of Wee Jaikie.
At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by that certainty of instinct
which is independent of proof, like the man who prays for a sign and has
his prayer answered. He observed that the boy was quietly sobbing.
Jaikie surveyed the position for an instant with red-rimmed eyes and
then unclasped a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his thumb. He
darted behind the fir, and a second later Dickson's wrists were free.
Then he sawed at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied them
together, and then--most circumspectly--assaulted the cord which bound
Dickson's neck to the trunk. There now remained only the two bonds which
fastened the legs and the body to the tree.
There was a sound in the wood different from the wind and stream. Jaikie
listened like a startled hind.
"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you bide where ye are and let on
ye're still tied up."
He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as a rat, while two of
the tinklers came up the slope from the waterside. Dickson in a fever of
impatience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remaining bonds so that
he could at least have made a dash for freedom. And then he realised
that the boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was, he would have
stood no chance in a race.
One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. He had been running hard,
and was mopping his brow.
"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin' anchor ayont the Dookits
whaur there's a beild frae the wund and deep water. They'll be landit in
half an 'oor. Awa' you up to the Hoose and tell Dobson, and me and Sim
and Hob will meet the boats at the Garplefit."
The other cast a glance towards Dickson.
"What about him?" he asked.
The two scrutinised their prisoner from a distance of a few paces.
Dickson, well aware of his peril, held himself as stiff as if every bond
had been in place. The thought flashed on him that if he were too
immobile they might think he was dying or dead, and come close to
examine him. If they only kept their distance, the dusk of the wood
would prevent them detecting Jaikie's handiwork.
"What'll you take to let me go?" he asked plaintively.
"Naething that you could offer, my mannie," said Ecky.
"I'll give you a five-pound note apiece."
"Produce the siller," said the other.
"It's in my pocket."
"It's no' that. We riped your pooches lang syne."
"I'll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you there. Honour bright."
Ecky spat. "D'ye think we're gowks? Man, there's no siller ye could pay
wad mak' it worth our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet there and ye'll see
some queer things ere nicht. C'way, Davie."
The two set off at a good pace down the stream, while Dickson's pulsing
heart returned to its normal rhythm. As the sound of their feet died
away Wee Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed now and very
business-like. He slit the last thongs, and Dickson fell limply on his
face.
"Losh, laddie, I'm awful stiff," he groaned. "Now, listen. Away all your
pith to Dougal, and tell him that the brig's in and the men will be
landing inside the hour. Tell him I'm coming as fast as my legs will let
me. The Princess will likely be there already and Sir Archibald and his
men, but if they're no', tell Dougal they're coming. Haste you, Jaikie.
And see here, I'll never forget what you've done for me the day. You're
a fine wee laddie!"
The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dickson painfully and laboriously
set himself to climb the slope. He decided that his quickest and safest
route lay by the highroad, and he had also some hopes of recovering his
bicycle. On examining his body he seemed to have sustained no very great
damage, except a painful cramping of legs and arms and a certain
dizziness in the head. His pockets had been thoroughly rifled, and he
reflected with amusement that he, the well-to-do Mr. McCunn, did not
possess at the moment a single copper.
But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his escape had given him an
assurance of ultimate success. Providence had directly interfered on his
behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely meant that it would
see him through. But his chief emotion was an ardour of impatience to
get to the scene of action. He must be at Dalquharter before the men
from the sea; he must find Dougal and discover his dispositions.
Heritage would be on guard in the Tower and in a very little the enemy
would be round it. It would be just like the Princess to try and enter
there, but at all costs that must be hindered. She and Sir Archie must
not be cornered in stone walls, but must keep their communications open
and fall on the enemy's flank. Oh, if the police would only come in
time, what a rounding-up of miscreants that day would see!
As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and he saw the sky, he
realised that the afternoon was far advanced. It must be well on for
five o'clock. The wind still blew furiously, and the oaks on the fringes
of the wood were whipped like saplings. Ruefully he admitted that the
gale would not defeat the enemy. If the brig found a sheltered anchorage
on the south side of the headland beyond the Garple, it would be easy
enough for boats to make the Garple mouth, though it might be a
difficult job to get out again. The thought quickened his steps, and he
came out of cover on to the public road without a prior reconnaissance.
Just in front of him stood a motor-bicycle. Something had gone wrong
with it for its owner was tinkering at it, on the side farthest from
Dickson. A wild hope seized him that this might be the vanguard of the
police, and he went boldly towards it. The owner, who was kneeling,
raised his face at the sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his
eyes.
He recognised them only too well. They belonged to the man he had seen
in the inn at Kirkmichael, the man whom Heritage had decided was an
Australian, but whom they now knew to be their arch-enemy--the man
called Paul who had persecuted the Princess for years and whom alone of
all beings on earth she feared. He had been expected before, but had
arrived now in the nick of time while the brig was casting anchor.
Saskia had said that he had a devil's brain, and Dickson, as he stared
at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his straight brows and a
remorseless cruelty in his stiff jaw and his pale eyes.
He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky and dizzy as he was, with
freedom newly opened to him and the mental torments of his captivity
still an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw before him the
villain of the drama, the one man that stood between the Princess and
peace of mind. He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his own
fate, and thought only how to put his enemy out of action. There was a
big spanner lying on the ground. He seized it and with all his strength
smote at the man's face.
The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at his machine, had raised
his head at Dickson's approach and beheld a wild apparition--a short man
in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and long smears of blood on his
cheeks. The next second he observed the threat of attack, and ducked his
head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp. The motor-bicycle
toppled over, its owner sprang to his feet, and found the short man,
very pale and gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a crisis
there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist was well trained in
self-defence. He leaped the prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant
could get in a blow brought his left fist into violent contact with his
chin. Dickson tottered back a step or two and then subsided among the
bracken.
He did not lose his senses, but he had no more strength in him. He felt
horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic
figure, towered above him. "Who the devil are you?" he was asking. "What
do you mean by it?"
Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to speak he
would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes.
Angry beyond question they were, but surely not malevolent. Indeed, as
they looked at the shameful figure on the ground, amusement filled them.
The face relaxed into a smile.
"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. And then into it came
recognition. "I've seen you before. I believe you're the little man I
saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want
to murder me?"
Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being wofully
shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was as beautiful as a devil--he
remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was
magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.
"What's your name?" the voice was asking.
"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of
nausea.
"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer.
"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and despair.
"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be
mistaken?"
Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his
hands above his aching head.
"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," he groaned.
"Paul! Paul who?"
"Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot."
Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other's
face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a
bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing
brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given
brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist ran
his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind the
turf-dyke of the old bucht.
"Now you are going to tell me everything," he said. "If the Paul who is
your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies."
But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly received
a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend.
Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she was rooted
to Huntingtower with all its terrors?
"Are you sure you name's no' Alexis?" he asked.
"In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a Russian.
But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I call myself
Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told you about
Alexis?"
"Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly. "Man, she's been looking
for you for weeks. You're terribly behind the fair."
"She!" he cried. "For God's sake tell me all you know."
"Ay, she--the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you at
this moment she's somewhere down about the old Tower, and there's
boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I must
be off. The story will keep. Losh, it's very near the darkening. If
you're Alexis, you're just about in time for a battle."
But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was still
deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency to crumple.
"I'm fair done," he moaned. "You see, I've been tied up all day to a
tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on that bicycle and
hurry on, and I'll hirple after you the best I can. I'll direct you the
road, and if you're lucky you'll find a Die-Hard about the village. Away
with you, man, and never mind me."
"We go together," said the other quietly. "You can sit behind me and
hang on to my waist. Before you turned up I had pretty well got the
thing in order."
Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the Russian put the
finishing touches to the machine, and as well as his anxiety allowed put
him in possession of the main facts of the story. He told of how he and
Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of the first meeting with Saskia, of
the trip to Glasgow with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the
factor, of last night's doings in the House, and of the journey that
morning to the Mains of Garple. He sketched the figures on the
scene--Heritage and Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals
Die-Hards. He told of the enemy's plans so far as he knew them.
"Looked at from a business point of view," he said, "the situation's
like this. There's Heritage in the Tower, with Dobson, Léon and Spidel
sitting round him. Somewhere about the place there's the Princess and
Sir Archibald and three men with guns from the Mains. Dougal and his
five laddies are running loose in the policies. And there's four
tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians pushing up from the
Garplefoot, and a brig lying waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise
there's the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear kens when
they'll turn up. It's awful the incompetence of our Government, and the
rates and taxes that high!... And there's you and me by this roadside,
and I'm no more use than a tattie-bogle.... That's the situation, and
the question is what's our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in
play till the police come, and at the same time we must keep the
Princess out of danger. That's why I'm wanting back, for they've sore
need of a business head. Yon Sir Archibald's a fine fellow, but I doubt
he'll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no' to hold or bind. Our first
job is to find Dougal and get a grip of the facts."
"I am going to the Princess," said the Russian.
"Ay, that'll be best. You'll be maybe able to manage her, for you'll be
well acquaint."
"She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced wife."
"Keep us!" Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful thought of Heritage. "What
ailed you then no' to look after her better?"
"We have been long separated, because it was her will. She had work to
do and disappeared from me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then
she sent me word, when the danger became extreme, and summoned me to her
aid. But she gave me poor directions, for she did not know her own plans
very clearly. She spoke of a place called Darkwater, and I have been
hunting half Scotland for it. It was only last night that I heard of
Dalquharter and guessed that that might be the name. But I was far down
in Galloway, and have ridden fifty miles to-day."
"It's a queer thing, but I wouldn't take you for a Russian."
Alexis finished his work and put away his tools. "For the present," he
said, "I am an Englishman, till my country comes again to her senses.
Ten years ago I left Russia, for I was sick of the foolishness of my
class and wanted a free life in a new world. I went to Australia and
made good as an engineer. I am a partner in a firm which is pretty well
known even in Britain. When war broke out I returned to fight for my
people, and when Russia fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in
France and fought with them till the Armistice. And now I have only one
duty left, to save the Princess and take her with me to my new home till
Russia is a nation once more."
Dickson whistled joyfully. "So Mr. Heritage was right. He aye said you
were an Australian.... And you're a business man! That's grand hearing
and puts my mind at rest. You must take charge of the party at the
House, for Sir Archibald's a daft young lad and Mr. Heritage is a poet.
I thought I would have to go myself, but I doubt I would just be a
hindrance with my dwaibly legs. I'd be better outside, watching for the
police.... Are you ready, sir?"
Dickson not without difficulty perched himself astride the luggage
carrier, firmly grasping the rider round the middle. The machine
started, but it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor going till
the descent towards the main Auchenlochan road. On the slope it warmed
up and they crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There was to be no
pleasant April twilight, for the stormy sky had already made dusk, and
in a very little the dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that
Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of the roadside pines till
it whistled shrilly on its fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and,
this being accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at Dougal's feet.
"What's the news?" he demanded.
Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve his looks.
"Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads, making either
twenty-three or twenty-four men--they were gey ill to count--has landed
at Garplefit and is makin' their way to the auld Tower. The tinklers
warned Dobson and soon it'll be a' bye wi' Heritage."
"The Princess is not there?" was Dickson's anxious inquiry.
"Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were for joinin' him, but I
wouldn't let them. She came wi' a man they call Sir Erchibald and three
gemkeepers wi' guns. I stoppit their cawr up the road and tell't them
the lie o' the land. Yon Sir Erchibald has poor notions o' strawtegy. He
was for bangin' into the auld Tower straight away and shootin' Dobson if
he tried to stop them. 'Havers,' say I, 'let them break their teeth on
the Tower, thinkin' the leddy's inside, and that'll give us time, for
Heritage is no' the lad to surrender in a hurry.'"
"Where are they now?"
"In the Hoose o' Dalquharter, and a sore job I had gettin' them in.
We've shifted our base again, without the enemy suspectin'."
"Any word of the police?"
"The polis!" and Dougal spat cynically. "It seems they're a dour crop to
shift. Sir Erchibald was sayin' that him and the lassie had been to the
Chief Constable, but the man was terrible auld and slow. They convertit
him, but he threepit that it would take a long time to collect his men
and that there was no danger o' the brig landin' afore night. He's wrong
there onyway, for they're landit."
"Dougal," said Dickson, "you've heard the Princess speak of a friend she
was expecting here called Alexis. This is him. You can address him as
Mr. Nicholson. Just arrived in the nick of time. You must get him into
the House, for he's the best right to be beside the lady.... Jaikie
would tell you that I've been sore mishandled the day, and am no' very
fit for a battle. But Mr. Nicholson's a business man and he'll do as
well. You're keeping the Die-Hards outside, I hope?"
"Ay. Thomas Yownie's in charge, and Jaikie will be in and out with
orders. They've instructions to watch for the polis, and keep an eye on
the Garplefit. It's a mortal long front to hold, but there's no other
way. I must be in the Hoose mysel'. Thomas Yownie's headquarters is the
auld wife's hen-hoose."
At that moment in a pause of the gale came the far-borne echo of a shot.
"Pistol," said Alexis.
"Heritage," said Dougal. "Trade will be gettin' brisk with him. Start
your machine and I'll hang on ahint. We'll try the road by the West
Lodge."
Presently the pair disappeared in the dusk, the noise of the engine was
swallowed up in the wild orchestra of the wind, and Dickson hobbled
towards the village in a state of excitement which made him oblivious of
his wounds. That lonely pistol shot was, he felt, the bell to ring up
the curtain on the last act of the play.