THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG
Mr. John Heritage, solitary in the old Tower, found much to occupy his
mind. His giddiness was passing, though the dregs of a headache
remained, and his spirits rose with his responsibilities. At daybreak he
breakfasted out of the Mearns Street provision box, and made tea in one
of the Die-Hards' camp kettles. Next he gave some attention to his
toilet, necessary after the rough-and-tumble of the night. He made shift
to bathe in icy water from the Tower well, shaved, tidied up his clothes
and found a clean shirt from his pack. He carefully brushed his hair,
reminding himself that thus had the Spartans done before Thermopylæ. The
neat and somewhat pallid young man that emerged from these rites then
ascended to the first floor to reconnoitre the landscape from the narrow
unglazed windows.
If any one had told him a week ago that he would be in so strange a
world he would have quarrelled violently with his informant. A week ago
he was a cynical clear-sighted modern, a contemner of illusions, a
swallower of formulas, a breaker of shams--one who had seen through the
heroical and found it silly. Romance and such-like toys were playthings
for fatted middle-age, not for strenuous and cold-eyed youth. But the
truth was that now he was altogether spellbound by these toys. To think
that he was serving his lady was rapture--ecstasy, that for her he was
single-handed venturing all. He rejoiced to be alone with his private
fancies. His one fear was that the part he had cast himself for should
be needless, that the men from the sea should not come, or that
reinforcements would arrive before he should be called upon. He hoped
alone to make a stand against thousands. What the upshot might be he did
not trouble to inquire. Of course the Princess would be saved, but first
he must glut his appetite for the heroic.
He made a diary of events that day, just as he used to do at the front.
At twenty minutes past eight he saw the first figure coming from the
House. It was Spidel, who limped round the Tower, tried the door, and
came to a halt below the window. Heritage stuck out his head and wished
him good morning, getting in reply an amazed stare. The man was not
disposed to talk, though Heritage made some interesting observations on
the weather, but departed quicker than he came, in the direction of the
West Lodge.
Just before nine o'clock he returned with Dobson and Léon. They made a
very complete reconnaissance of the Tower, and for a moment Heritage
thought that they were about to try to force an entrance. They tugged
and hammered at the great oak door, which he had further strengthened by
erecting behind it a pile of the heaviest lumber he could find in the
place. It was imperative that they should not get in, and he got
Dickson's pistol ready with the firm intention of shooting them if
necessary. But they did nothing, except to hold a conference in the
hazel clump a hundred yards to the north, when Dobson seemed to be
laying down the law, and Léon spoke rapidly with a great fluttering of
hands. They were obviously puzzled by the sight of Heritage, whom they
believed to have left the neighbourhood. Then Dobson went off, leaving
Léon and Spidel on guard, one at the edge of the shrubberies between the
Tower and the House, the other on the side nearest the Laver glen. These
were their posts, but they did sentry-go around the building, and passed
so close to Heritage's window that he could have tossed a cigarette on
their heads.
It occurred to him that he ought to get busy with camouflage. They must
be convinced that the Princess was in the place, for he wanted their
whole mind to be devoted to the siege. He rummaged among the ladies'
baggage, and extracted a skirt and a coloured scarf. The latter he
managed to flutter so that it could be seen at the window the next time
one of the watchers came within sight. He also fixed up the skirt so
that the fringe of it could be seen, and, when Léon appeared below, he
was in the shadow talking rapid French in a very fair imitation of the
tones of Cousin Eugènie. The ruse had its effect, for Léon promptly went
off to tell Spidel, and when Dobson appeared he too was given the news.
This seemed to settle their plans, for all three remained on guard,
Dobson nearest to the Tower, seated on an outcrop of rock with his
mackintosh collar turned up, and his eyes usually turned to the misty
sea.
By this time it was eleven o'clock, and the next three hours passed
slowly with Heritage. He fell to picturing the fortunes of his friends.
Dickson and the Princess should by this time be far inland, out of
danger and in the way of finding succour. He was confident that they
would return, but he trusted not too soon, for he hoped for a run for
his money as Horatius in the Gate. After that he was a little torn in
his mind. He wanted the Princess to come back and to be somewhere near
if there was a fight going, so that she might be a witness of his
devotion. But she must not herself run any risk, and he became anxious
when he remembered her terrible sangfroid. Dickson could no more
restrain her than a child could hold a greyhound.... But of course it
would never come to that. The police would turn up long before the brig
appeared--Dougal had thought that would not be till high tide, between
four and five--and the only danger would be to the pirates. The three
watchers would be put in the bag, and the men from the sea would walk
into a neat trap. This reflection seemed to take all the colour out of
Heritage's prospect. Peril and heroism were not to be his lot--only
boredom.
A little after twelve two of the tinklers appeared with some news which
made Dobson laugh and pat them on the shoulder. He seemed to be giving
them directions, pointing seaward and southward. He nodded to the Tower,
where Heritage took the opportunity of again fluttering Saskia's scarf
athwart the window. The tinklers departed at a trot, and Dobson lit his
pipe as if well pleased. He had some trouble with it in the wind, which
had risen to an uncanny violence. Even the solid Tower rocked with it,
and the sea was a waste of spindrift and low scurrying cloud. Heritage
discovered a new anxiety--this time about the possibility of the brig
landing at all. He wanted a complete bag, and it would be tragic if they
got only the three seedy ruffians now circumambulating his fortress.
About one o'clock he was greatly cheered by the sight of Dougal. At the
moment Dobson was lunching off a hunk of bread and cheese directly
between the Tower and the House, just short of the crest of the ridge on
the other side of which lay the stables and the shrubberies; Léon was on
the north side opposite the Tower door, and Spidel was at the south end
near the edge of the Garple glen. Heritage, watching the ridge behind
Dobson and the upper windows of the House which appeared over it, saw on
the very crest something like a tuft of rusty bracken which he had not
noticed before. Presently the tuft moved, and a hand shot up from it
waving a rag of some sort. Dobson at the moment was engaged with a
bottle of porter, and Heritage could safely wave a hand in reply. He
could now make out clearly the red head of Dougal.
The Chieftain, having located the three watchers, proceeded to give an
exhibition of his prowess for the benefit of the lonely inmate of the
Tower. Using as cover a drift of bracken, he wormed his way down till
he was not six yards from Dobson, and Heritage had the privilege of
seeing his grinning countenance a very little way above the innkeeper's
head. Then he crawled back and reached the neighbourhood of Léon, who
was sitting on a fallen Scotch fir. At that moment it occurred to the
Belgian to visit Dobson. Heritage's breath stopped, but Dougal was
ready, and froze into a motionless blur in the shadow of a hazel bush.
Then he crawled very fast into the hollow where Léon had been sitting,
seized something which looked like a bottle, and scrambled back to the
ridge. At the top he waved the object, whatever it was, but Heritage
could not reply, for Dobson happened to be looking towards the window.
That was the last he saw of the Chieftain, but presently he realised
what was the booty he had annexed. It must be Léon's life-preserver,
which the night before had broken Heritage's head.
After that cheering episode boredom again set in. He collected some food
from the Mearns Street box, and indulged himself with a glass of liqueur
brandy. He was beginning to feel miserably cold, so he carried up some
broken wood and made a fire on the immense hearth in the upper chamber.
Anxiety was clouding his mind again, for it was now two o'clock, and
there was no sign of the reinforcements which Dickson and the Princess
had gone to find. The minutes passed, and soon it was three o'clock, and
from the window he saw only the top of the gaunt shuttered House, now
and then hidden by squalls of sleet, and Dobson squatted like an
Eskimo, and trees dancing like a witch-wood in the gale. All the vigour
of the morning seemed to have gone out of his blood; he felt lonely and
apprehensive and puzzled. He wished he had Dickson beside him, for that
little man's cheerful voice and complacent triviality would be a
comfort.... Also, he was abominably cold. He put on his waterproof, and
turned his attention to the fire. It needed re-kindling, and he hunted
in his pockets for paper, finding only the slim volume lettered
_Whorls_.
I set it down as the most significant commentary on his state of mind.
He regarded the book with intense disfavour, tore it in two, and used a
handful of its fine deckle-edged leaves to get the fire going. They
burned well, and presently the rest followed. Well for Dickson's peace
of mind that he was not a witness of such vandalism.
A little warmer but in no way more cheerful, he resumed his watch near
the window. The day was getting darker, and promised an early dusk. His
watch told him that it was after four, and still nothing had happened.
Where on earth were Dickson and the Princess? Where in the name of all
that was holy were the police? Any minute now the brig might arrive and
land its men, and he would be left there as a burnt-offering to their
wrath. There must have been an infernal muddle somewhere.... Anyhow the
Princess was out of the trouble, but where the Lord alone knew....
Perhaps the reinforcements were lying in wait for the boats at the
Garplefoot. That struck him as a likely explanation, and comforted him.
Very soon he might hear the sound of an engagement to the south, and the
next thing would be Dobson and his crew in flight. He was determined to
be in the show somehow and would be very close on their heels. He felt a
peculiar dislike to all three, but especially to Léon. The Belgian's
small baby features had for four days set him clenching his fists when
he thought of them.
The next thing he saw was one of the tinklers running hard towards the
Tower. He cried something to Dobson, which Heritage could not catch, but
which woke the latter to activity. The innkeeper shouted to Léon and
Spidel, and the tinkler was excitedly questioned. Dobson laughed and
slapped his thigh. He gave orders to the others, and himself joined the
tinkler and hurried off in the direction of the Garplefoot. Something
was happening there, something of ill omen, for the man's face and
manner had been triumphant. Were the boats landing?
As Heritage puzzled over this event, another figure appeared on the
scene. It was a big man in knickerbockers and mackintosh, who came round
the end of the House from the direction of the South Lodge. At first he
thought it was the advance-guard from his own side, the help which
Dickson had gone to find, and he only restrained himself in time from
shouting a welcome. But surely their supports would not advance so
confidently in enemy country. The man strode over the slopes as if
looking for somebody; then he caught sight of Léon and waved him to
come. Léon must have known him, for he hastened to obey.
The two were about thirty yards from Heritage's window. Léon was telling
some story volubly, pointing now to the Tower and now towards the sea.
The big man nodded as if satisfied. Heritage noted that his right arm
was tied up, and that the mackintosh sleeve was empty, and that brought
him enlightenment. It was Loudon the factor, whom Dickson had winged the
night before. The two of them passed out of view in the direction of
Spidel.
The sight awoke Heritage to the supreme unpleasantness of his position.
He was utterly alone on the headland, and his allies had vanished into
space, while the enemy plans, moving like clock-work, were approaching
their consummation. For a second he thought of leaving the Tower and
hiding somewhere in the cliffs. He dismissed the notion unwillingly, for
he remembered the task that had been set him. He was there to hold the
fort to the last--to gain time, though he could not for the life of him
see what use time was to be when all the strategy of his own side seemed
to have miscarried. Anyhow, the blackguards would be sold for they would
not find the Princess. But he felt a horrid void in the pit of his
stomach, and a looseness about his knees.
The moments passed more quickly as he wrestled with his fears. The next
he knew the empty space below his window was filling with figures. There
was a great crowd of them, rough fellows with seamen's coats, still
dripping as if they had had a wet landing. Dobson was with them, but
for the rest they were strange figures.
Now that the expected had come at last Heritage's nerves grew calmer. He
made out that the newcomers were trying the door, and he waited to hear
it fall, for such a mob could soon force it. But instead a voice called
from beneath.
"Will you please open to us?" it said.
He stuck his head out and saw a little group with one man at the head of
it, a young man clad in oilskins whose face was dim in the murky
evening. The voice was that of a gentleman.
"I have orders to open to no one," Heritage replied.
"Then I fear we must force an entrance," said the voice.
"You can go to the devil," said Heritage.
That defiance was the screw which his nerves needed. His temper had
risen, he had forgotten all about the Princess, he did not even remember
his isolation. His job was to make a fight for it. He ran up the
staircase which led to the attics of the Tower, for he recollected that
there was a window there which looked over the ground before the door.
The place was ruinous, the floor filled with holes, and a part of the
roof sagged down in a corner. The stones around the window were loose
and crumbling and he managed to pull several out so that the slit was
enlarged. He found himself looking down on a crowd of men, who had
lifted the fallen tree on which Léon had perched, and were about to use
it as a battering ram.
"The first fellow who comes within six yards of the door I shoot," he
shouted.
There was a white wave below as every face was turned to him. He ducked
back his head in time as a bullet chipped the side of the window.
But his position was a good one, for he had a hole in the broken wall
through which he could see, and could shoot with his hand at the edge of
the window while keeping his body in cover. The battering party resumed
their task, and as the tree swung nearer, he fired at the foremost of
them. He missed, but the shot for a moment suspended operations.
Again they came on, and again he fired. This time he damaged somebody,
for the trunk was dropped.
A voice gave orders, a sharp authoritative voice. The battering squad
dissolved, and there was a general withdrawal out of the line of fire
from the window. Was it possible that he had intimidated them? He could
hear the sound of voices, and then a single figure came into sight
again, holding something in its hand.
He did not fire, for he recognised the futility of his efforts. The
baseball swing of the figure below could not be mistaken. There was a
roar beneath, and a flash of fire, as the bomb exploded on the door.
Then came a rush of men, and the Tower had fallen.
Heritage clambered through a hole in the roof and gained the topmost
parapet. He had still a pocketful of cartridges, and there in a coign of
the old battlements he would prove an ugly customer to the pursuit.
Only one at a time could reach that siege perilous.... They would not
take long to search the lower rooms, and then would be hot on the trail
of the man who had fooled them. He had not a scrap of fear left or even
of anger--only triumph at the thought of how properly those ruffians had
been sold. "Like schoolboys they who unaware"--instead of two women they
had found a man with a gun. And the Princess was miles off and forever
beyond their reach. When they had settled with him they would no doubt
burn the House down, but that would serve them little. From his airy
pinnacle he could see the whole sea-front of Huntingtower, a blur in the
dusk but for the ghostly eyes of its white-shuttered windows.
Something was coming from it, running lightly over the lawns, lost for
an instant in the trees, and then appearing clear on the crest of the
ridge where some hours earlier Dougal had lain. With horror he saw that
it was a girl. She stood with the wind plucking at her skirts and hair,
and she cried in a high, clear voice which pierced even the confusion of
the gale. What she cried he could not tell for it was in a strange
tongue....
But it reached the besiegers. There was a sudden silence in the din
below him and then a confusion of shouting. The men seemed to be pouring
out of the gap which had been the doorway, and as he peered over the
parapet first one and then another entered his area of vision. The girl
on the ridge, as soon as she saw that she had attracted attention,
turned and ran back, and after her up the slopes went the pursuit
bunched like hounds on a good scent.
Mr. John Heritage, swearing terribly, started to retrace his steps.