Her words revealed to d.i.c.kson the preposterousness of the whole situation, and for all his anxiety he laughed. "Five laddies, a middle-aged man and an auld wife," he cried. "Dod, it"s pretty hopeless.
It"s like the thing in the Bible about the weak things of the world trying to confound the strong."
"The Bible"s whiles richt," Mrs. Morran answered drily. "Come on, for there"s no time to lose."
The door opened again to admit the figure of Wee Jaikie. There were no tears in his eyes, and his face was very white.
"They"re a" round the Hoose," he croaked. "I was up a tree forenent the verandy and seen them. The la.s.sie ran oot and cried on them from the top o" the brae, and they a" turned and hunted her back. Gosh, but it was a near thing. I seen the Captain sklimmin" the wall, and a muckle man took the la.s.sie and flung her up the ladder. They got inside just in time and steekit the door, and now the whole pack is roarin" round the Hoose seekin" a road in. They"ll no" be long over the job, neither."
"What about Mr. Heritage?"
"They"re no" heedin" about him any more. The auld Tower"s bleezin"."
"Worse and worse," said d.i.c.kson. "If the police don"t come in the next ten minutes, they"ll be away with the Princess. They"ve beaten all Dougal"s plans, and it"s a straight fight with odds of six to one. It"s not possible."
Mrs. Morran for the first time seemed to lose hope. "Eh, the puir la.s.sie!" she wailed, and sinking on a chair covered her face with her shawl.
"Laddies, can you no" think of a plan?" asked d.i.c.kson, his voice flat with despair.
Then Thomas Yownie spoke. So far he had been silent, but under his tangled thatch of hair, his mind had been busy. Jaikie"s report seemed to bring him to a decision.
"It"s gey dark," he said, "and it"s gettin" darker."
There was that in his voice which promised something, and d.i.c.kson listened.
"The enemy"s mostly foreigners, but Dobson"s there and I think he"s a kind of guide to them. Dobson"s feared of the polis, and if we can terrify Dobson he"ll terrify the rest."
"Ay, but where are the police?"
"They"re no" here yet, but they"re comin". The fear o" them is aye in Dobson"s mind. If he thinks the polis has arrived, he"ll put the wind up the lot.... _We_ maun be the polis."
d.i.c.kson could only stare while the Chief of Staff unfolded his scheme. I do not know to whom the Muse of History will give the credit of the tactics of "infiltration"--whether to Ludendorff or von Hutier or some other proud captain of Germany, or to Foch, who revised and perfected them. But I know that the same notion was at this moment of crisis conceived by Thomas Yownie, whom no parents acknowledged, who slept usually in a coal cellar, and who had picked up his education among Gorbals closes and along the wharves of Clyde.
"It"s gettin" dark," he said, "and the enemy are that busy tryin" to break into the Hoose that they"ll no" be thinkin" o" their rear. The five o" us Die-Hards is grand at dodgin" and keepin" out of sight, and what hinders us to get in among them, so that they"ll hear us but never see us? We"re used to the ways o" the polis, and can imitate them fine.
Forbye we"ve all got our whistles, which are the same as a bobbie"s birl, and Old Bill and Peter are grand at copyin" a man"s voice. Since the Captain is shut up in the Hoose, the command falls to me, and that"s my plan."
With a piece of chalk he drew on the kitchen floor a rough sketch of the environs of Huntingtower. Peter Paterson was to move from the shrubberies beyond the verandah, Napoleon from the stables, Old Bill from the Tower, while Wee Jaikie and Thomas himself were to advance as if from the Garplefoot, so that the enemy might fear for his communications. "As soon as one o" ye gets into position he"s to gie the patrol cry, and when each o" ye has heard five cries, he"s to advance.
Begin birlin" and roarin" afore ye get among them, and keep it up till ye"re at the Hoose wall. If they"ve gotten inside, in ye go after them.
I trust each Die-Hard to use his judgment, and above all to keep out o"
sight and no let himsel" be grippit."
The plan, like all great tactics, was simple, and no sooner was it expounded than it was put into action. The Die-Hards faded out of the kitchen like fog-wreaths, and d.i.c.kson and Mrs. Morran were left looking at each other. They did not look long. The bare feet of Wee Jaikie had not crossed the threshold fifty seconds, before they were followed by Mrs. Morran"s out-of-doors boots and d.i.c.kson"s tackets. Arm in arm the two hobbled down the back path behind the village which led to the South Lodge. The gate was unlocked, for the warder was busy elsewhere, and they hastened up the avenue. Far off d.i.c.kson thought he saw shapes fleeting across the park, which he took to be the shock-troops of his own side, and he seemed to hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of song. Jaikie was giving tongue, and this was what he sang:
"Proley Tarians, arise!
Wave the Red Flag to the skies, Heed nae mair the Fat Man"s lees, Stap them doun his throat!
Nocht to loss except our chains, We maun drain oor dearest veins-- A" the worrld shall be our gains----"
But he tripped over a rabbit wire and thereafter conserved his breath.
The wind was so loud that no sound reached them from the House, which blank and immense now loomed before them. d.i.c.kson"s ears were alert for the noise of shots or the dull crash of bombs; hearing nothing, he feared the worst, and hurried Mrs. Morran at a pace which endangered her life. He had no fear for himself, arguing that his foes were seeking higher game, and judging, too, that the main battle must be round the verandah at the other end. The two pa.s.sed the shrubbery where the road forked, one path running to the back door and one to the stables. They took the latter and presently came out on the downs, with the ravine of the Garple on their left, the stables in front, and on the right the hollow of a formal garden running along the west side of the House.
The gale was so fierce, now that they had no wind-break between them and the ocean, that Mrs. Morran could wrestle with it no longer, and found shelter in the lee of a clump of rhododendrons. Darkness had all but fallen, and the house was a black shadow against the dusky sky, while a confused greyness marked the sea. The old Tower showed a tooth of masonry; there was no glow from it, so the fire, which Jaikie had reported, must have died down. A whaup cried loudly, and very eerily: then another.
The birds stirred up Mrs. Morran. "That"s the laddies" patrol," she gasped. "Count the cries, d.i.c.kson."
Another bird wailed, this time very near. Then there was perhaps three minutes" silence, till a fainter wheeple came from the direction of the Tower. "Four," said d.i.c.kson, but he waited in vain on the fifth. He had not the acute hearing of the boys, and could not catch the faint echo of Peter Paterson"s signal beyond the verandah. The next he heard was a shrill whistle cutting into the wind, and then others in rapid succession from different quarters, and something which might have been the hoa.r.s.e shouting of angry men.
The Gorbals Die-Hards had gone into action.
Dull prose is no medium to tell of that wild adventure. The sober sequence of the military historian is out of place in recording deeds that knew not sequence or sobriety. Were I a bard, I would cast this tale in excited verse, with a lilt which would catch the speed of the reality. I would sing of Napoleon, not unworthy of his great namesake, who penetrated to the very window of the ladies" bedroom, where the framework had been driven in and men were pouring through; of how there he made such pandemonium with his whistle that men tumbled back and ran about blindly seeking for guidance; of how in the long run his pugnacity mastered him, so that he engaged in combat with an unknown figure and the two rolled into what had once been a fountain. I would hymn Peter Paterson, who across tracts of darkness engaged Old Bill in a conversation which would have done no discredit to a Gallogate policeman. He pretended to be making reports and seeking orders. "We"ve gotten three o" the deevils, sir. What"ll we dae wi" them?" he shouted; and back would come the reply in a slightly more genteel voice: "Fall them to the rear. Tamson has charge of the prisoners." Or it would be: "They"ve gotten pistols, sir. What"s the orders?" and the answer would be: "Stick to your batons. The guns are posted on the knowe, so we needn"t hurry." And over all the din there would be a perpetual whistling and a yelling of "Hands up!"
I would sing, too, of Wee Jaikie, who was having the red-letter hour of his life. His fragile form moved like a lizard in places where no mortal could be expected, and he varied his duties with impish a.s.saults upon the persons of such as came in his way. His whistle blew in a man"s ear one second and the next yards away. Sometimes he was moved to song, and unearthly fragments of "Cla.s.s-conscious we are" or "Proley Tarians, arise!" mingled with the din, like the cry of seagulls in a storm. He saw a bright light flare up within the house which warned him not to enter, but he got as far as the garden-room, in whose dark corners he made havoc. Indeed he was almost too successful, for he created panic where he went, and one or two fired blindly at the quarter where he had last been heard. These shots were followed by frenzied prohibitions from Spidel and were not repeated. Presently he felt that aimless surge of men that is the prelude to flight, and heard Dobson"s great voice roaring in the hall. Convinced that the crisis had come, he made his way outside, prepared to hara.s.s the rear of any retirement. Tears now flowed down his face, and he could not have spoken for sobs, but he had never been so happy.
But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie, for it was he who brought fear into the heart of Dobson. He had a voice of singular compa.s.s, and from the verandah he made it echo round the House. The efforts of Old Bill and Peter Paterson had been skilful indeed, but those of Thomas Yownie were deadly. To some leader beyond he shouted news: "Robison"s just about finished wi" his lot, and then he"ll get the boats." A furious charge upset him, and for a moment he thought he had been discovered. But it was only Dobson rushing to Leon, who was leading the men in the doorway. Thomas fled to the far end of the verandah, and again lifted up his voice. "All foreigners," he shouted, "except the man Dobson. Ay. Ay. Ye"ve got Loudon? Well done!"
It must have been this last performance which broke Dobson"s nerve and convinced him that the one hope lay in a rapid retreat to the Garplefoot. There was a tumbling of men in the doorway, a muttering of strange tongues, and the vision of the innkeeper shouting to Leon and Spidel. For a second he was seen in the faint reflection that the light in the hall cast as far as the verandah, a wild figure urging the retreat with a pistol clapped to the head of those who were too confused by the hurricane of events to grasp the situation. Some of them dropped over the wall, but most huddled like sheep through the door on the west side, a jumble of struggling, panic-stricken mortality. Thomas Yownie, staggered at the success of his tactics, yet kept his head and did his utmost to confuse the retreat, and the triumphant shouts and whistles of the other Die-Hards showed that they were not unmindful of this final duty....
The verandah was empty, and he was just about to enter the House, when through the west door came a figure, breathing hard and bent apparently on the same errand. Thomas prepared for battle, determined that no straggler of the enemy should now wrest from him victory, but, as the figure came into the faint glow at the doorway, he recognised it as Heritage. And at the same moment he heard something which made his tense nerves relax. Away on the right came sounds, a thud of galloping horses on gra.s.s and the jingle of bridle reins and the voices of men. It was the real thing at last. It is a sad commentary on his career, but now for the first time in his brief existence Thomas Yownie felt charitably disposed towards the police.
The Poet, since we left him blaspheming on the roof of the Tower, had been having a crowded hour of most inglorious life. He had started to descend at a furious pace, and his first misadventure was that he stumbled and dropped d.i.c.kson"s pistol over the parapet. He tried to mark where it might have fallen in the gloom below, and this lost him precious minutes. When he slithered through the trap into the attic room, where he had tried to hold up the attack, he discovered that it was full of smoke which sought in vain to escape by the narrow window.
Volumes of it were pouring up the stairs, and when he attempted to descend he found himself choked and blinded. He rushed gasping to the window, filled his lungs with fresh air, and tried again, but he got no further than the first turn, from which he could see through the cloud red tongues of flame in the ground room. This was solemn indeed, so he sought another way out. He got on the roof, for he remembered a chimney-stack, cloaked with ivy, which was built straight from the ground, and he thought he might climb down it.
He found the chimney and began the descent, confidently, for he had once borne a good reputation at the Montanvert and Cortina. At first all went well, for stones stuck out at decent intervals like the rungs of a ladder, and roots of ivy supplemented their deficiencies. But presently he came to a place where the masonry had crumbled into a cave, and left a gap some twenty feet high. Below it he could dimly see a thick ma.s.s of ivy which would enable him to cover the further forty feet to the ground, but at that cave he stuck most finally. All round the lime and stone had lapsed into debris, and he could find no safe foothold. Worse still, the block on which he relied proved loose, and only by a dangerous traverse did he avert disaster.
There he hung for a minute or two, with a cold void in his stomach. He had always distrusted the handiwork of man as a place to scramble on, and now he was planted in the dark on a decomposing wall, with an excellent chance of breaking his neck, and with the most urgent need for haste. He could see the windows of the House and, since he was sheltered from the gale, he could hear the faint sound of blows on woodwork. There was clearly the devil to pay there, and yet here he was helplessly stuck.... Setting his teeth, he started to ascend again. Better the fire than this cold breakneck emptiness.
It took him the better part of half an hour to get back, and he pa.s.sed through many moments of acute fear. Footholds which had seemed secure enough in the descent now proved impossible, and more than once he had his heart in his mouth when a rotten ivy stump or a wedge of stone gave in his hands, and dropped dully into the pit of night, leaving him crazily spread-eagled. When at last he reached the top he rolled on his back and felt very sick. Then, as he realised his safety, his impatience revived. At all costs he would force his way out though he should be grilled like a herring.
The smoke was less thick in the attic, and with his handkerchief wet with the rain and bound across his mouth he made a dash for the ground room. It was as hot as a furnace, for everything inflammable in it seemed to have caught fire, and the lumber glowed in piles of hot ashes.
But the floor and walls were stone, and only the blazing jambs of the door stood between him and the outer air. He had burned himself considerably as he stumbled downwards, and the pain drove him to a wild leap through the broken arch, where he miscalculated the distance, charred his shins, and brought down a red-hot fragment of the lintel on his head. But the thing was done, and a minute later he was rolling like a dog in the wet bracken to cool his burns and put out various smouldering patches on his raiment.
Then he started running for the House, but, confused by the darkness, he bore too much to the north, and came out in the side avenue from which he and d.i.c.kson had reconnoitred on the first evening. He saw on the right a glow in the verandah which, as we know, was the reflection of the flare in the hall, and he heard a babble of voices. But he heard something more, for away on his left was the sound which Thomas Yownie was soon to hear--the trampling of horses. It was the police at last, and his task was to guide them at once to the critical point of action.... Three minutes later a figure like a scarecrow was admonishing a bewildered sergeant, while his hands plucked feverishly at a horse"s bridle.
It is time to return to d.i.c.kson in his clump of rhododendrons.
Tragically aware of his impotence he listened to the tumult of the Die-Hards, hopeful when it was loud, despairing when there came a moment"s lull, while Mrs. Morran like a Greek chorus drew loudly upon her store of proverbial philosophy and her memory of Scripture texts.
Twice he tried to reconnoitre towards the scene of battle, but only blundered into sunken plots and pits in the Dutch garden. Finally he squatted beside Mrs. Morran, lit his pipe, and took a firm hold on his patience.
It was not tested for long. Presently he was aware that a change had come over the scene--that the Die-Hards" whistles and shouts were being drowned in another sound, the cries of panicky men. Dobson"s bellow was wafted to him. "Auntie Phemie," he shouted, "the innkeeper"s getting rattled. Dod, I believe they"re running." For at that moment twenty paces on his left the van of the retreat crashed through the creepers on the garden"s edge and leaped the wall that separated it from the cliffs of the Garplefoot.
The old woman was on her feet.
"G.o.d be thankit, is"t the polis?"
"Maybe. Maybe no". But they"re running."
Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard Dobson"s voice.