CHAPTER XVI--The Struggle in the Mountain Pass
Near the summit of Blackstone Edge, an unfrequented road running at aheight of between 1200 and 1300 feet over the serrated Pennine Hills,five men were lying upon the short, dark-green grass in a slight hollowwithin ten yards of the highway. There was little about their appearancethat demanded attention. A casual observer might in pardonable errorhave taken them for a party of Lancashire mill operatives out for aday's enjoyment.
At intervals one of the party would roll over on his side, produce apair of prismatic glasses from his pocket, and peer with considerablecaution over the ridge of the hollow, focusing the binoculars upon thewinding ribbon-like "slag" road that ascended steeply from the town ofRochdale, the factory chimneys of which were just discernible throughthe murky Lancashire atmosphere. Then, with a guttural grunt thatbetokened disappointment, he would replace the glasses and relapse intoa stolid contemplation of his silent comrades. The hot sun pouringpitilessly upon the heavily-clad men did not tend to improve theirphysical comfort. Several times they cursed the tormenting flies,expressing their murmured epithets in the German tongue.
At last one of the men spoke.
"Are you sure that he is coming this way, Hans?" he asked, addressingthe man with the binoculars. "Perhaps he has taken it into his head totake the other road--the Stanedge Pass, it is called."
"These Englishmen are so pig-headed that they rarely change theirminds," replied Hans. "It is often as well that they do not. I have iton excellent authority that he leaves Liverpool at nine, addresses aconference at Bolton at eleven, and receives a deputation at Rochdale attwo. Now, is it conceivable that he would go a roundabout way toHalifax when this is the shortest and easiest route?"
"He may take the railway train," suggested another of the band, as heshifted an automatic pistol from his hip pocket, where it seriouslyinterfered with his ease, to his breast coat pocket.
"Knowing our man as I do," declared Hans, "I do not think it likely,unless his motor breaks down over these atrocious cobbled roads. No, Ithink we are soon to meet our expected visitor. Now, are you allthoroughly acquainted with your duties? There must be no failure. Evenpartial success is not sufficient. Complete obliteration of the man, afinal disappearance, is what is required, and what must beaccomplished."
A resolute chorus of assent rose from the four subordinates. Theirleader, levelling his binoculars, studied the road for the twentiethtime.
The five were members of a German Secret Service agency. Provided withregistration cards, obtained with the greatest ease, since no attempthad been made to verify the particulars demanded by law; speakingEnglish with a flawless Lancashire accent, members of a trade union, andfully conversant with the peculiarities of industrial life, the men wereable to carry on their nefarious scheme with little risk of detection.
After a run of minor activities, an opportunity was about to occurwhereby they might render an important service to the Fatherland. Ahigh official was engaged upon an industrial tour of Lancashire andYorkshire, with the intention of increasing the already huge output ofmunitions from the factories temporarily given over to the production ofwar-like stores. The magnetic personality of the man made the task aneasy one to him, although others less gifted would have encounterednothing but opposition had they proposed the same conditions to theindependent operatives of Lancashire and Yorkshire. He was one of thevery few Government officials who understood the northern temperament.When others would have "rubbed them up the wrong way", this level-headedstatesman was able to enlist the whole-hearted sympathies of blunt andoutspoken audiences. His persuasive powers were worth an army corps tothe Commander-in-Chief of the British troops in France.
The five Germans had laid their plans well. Their proposed operationshad met with full approval from head-quarters at Berlin, and the resultof their efforts was anxiously awaited by the German Government. Sinceabduction left a loophole in the complete furtherance of the plot,Teutonic thoroughness and frightfulness had devised a more drastic plan.
At the summit of the Blackstone Edge is a large lake or reservoir, itsunfenced sides shelving steeply to a depth, in a certain place, of fiftyfeet. It would be a comparatively simple matter to wreck the car,murder its occupants if they still survived the fall from the overturnedvehicle, and topple the wreckage into the dark waters of the mountainlake.
A cloud passed athwart the sun. The sweltering heat gave place to apiercing cold. The Huns shivered in the cold wind and grumbled at thekeenness of the English June. Overhead three gaunt crows flew, cawingdismally. With Teutonic superstition one of the men called hiscompanions' attention to the ill omen.
"Nonsense, Otto!" protested the man known as Hans. "The ill luck isdirected against the man for whom we are waiting so patiently. Ha!Here comes the car."
With their heads just showing above the ridge, the five kept theapproaching motor under close observation. It was climbing rapidly,leaving in its wake a cloud of dust that drifted slowly across the deepvalley on the left-hand side of the curve. Presently an unmistakablerasping sound announced the fact that the driver, finding the gradienttoo severe, had let in the lowest gear.
"Are you certain it is he?" asked one of the Huns. "There are four inthe car?"
"Did you suppose he would travel alone?" retorted his leader. "That ishe right enough--the man in civilian clothes. The other is a militarystaff officer. The red in his cap proves that. The younger men aredoubtless his secretaries--valets perhaps. Yes, it is our man. Now,make ready."
Giving a glance in the opposite direction in order to make certain thatno one was approaching from the Yorkshire side of the Pass, Hanscautiously placed a small battery within easy reach of his fat, podgyfingers. From the battery ran a couple of fine wires through thestretch of grass, terminating at an inconspicuous greyish object lyingin the centre of the road in the midst of a scatter of loose stones.
At the critical moment a touch upon the firing-key of the batteryand----
----
"Why are you so keen upon the East Coast route, Crosthwaite?" asked theadmiral. "It's a jolly sight longer."
"That I admit," replied the general. "But I know it, which makes a vastdifference. The Carlisle road is jolly rough, especially over ShapSummit."
"By the by, George, here is a little problem for you," said AdmiralSefton. "Which is the farthest west, Liverpool or Edinburgh?"
George looked at Leslie for assistance. That worthy, having heard thequestion put many times before, took an astonishing interest in apoliceman at the street corner.
"Well, sir," replied George, "Liverpool is on the west coast; Edinburghon the east----"
"Within a few miles," corrected the admiral. "Therefore I should imaginethat Liverpool is more to the west."
"Then look it up on the map," exclaimed Admiral Sefton triumphantly."You'll find you're wrong. That's why I couldn't understand yourfather's intention of keeping to the East Coast route until he explainedhis preference."
"We'll do it quicker, too," rejoined Crosthwaite, Senior. "Once we'reclear of the outskirts of Manchester we'll reel off the miles likewinking. Here you are: Rochdale, Halifax, Bradford, and Harrogate,striking the Great North Road at Boroughbridge."
The journey was resumed, the admiral, as before, sitting withCrosthwaite Senior, while George and Leslie, comfortably ensconced inthe rear seats, were surreptitiously examining a formidable-lookingair-pistol that Leslie Sefton had smuggled into his portmanteau.
It was modelled after a Service weapon, having the same weight andbalance. The barrel was rifled, and was capable of sending a lead slugwith considerable force and low trajectory from a distance of fiftyyards.
"We'll take pot shots at rabbits on the way," declared Leslie. "Thegovernor won't hear the sound. It makes very little noise, and theengine will drown that. There'll be hundreds of bunnies up there," andhe pointed to the still-distant outlines of the frowning Pennines.
Up and up, out of the dreary manufacturing district, the car climbed,until the moist smoky atmosphere of the cotton-mills gave place to thekeen bracing air of the hills.
Both lads, alive to the possibilities of using the air-pistol, hung onto the side of the car, their eyes roving the grass-land in the hope ofspotting a likely target.
The car had been climbing on low gear, but now the gradient became less.The travellers were nearing the summit of Blackstone Edge.
Suddenly Leslie levelled the weapon, aiming at what he took to be thebody of a rabbit showing above the top of a hillock. He was on thepoint of pressing the trigger when a loud crash, followed by a cloud ofsmoke and dust immediately behind the car, almost caused the pistol todrop from his grasp.
"What's that?" exclaimed Admiral Sefton.
"Tyre burst, I'm afraid," replied Crosthwaite Senior, momentarilyexpecting the car to swerve. Applying the brakes he brought the car to astandstill, with the engine still running, and prepared to investigatethe extent of the damage.
The Huns' carefully-laid plans had gone awry through Leslie Sefton'sinstrumentality. The lad had mistaken one of the miscreants' caps for arabbit. Hans, under the impression that the attempt had been discovered,and that one of the occupants of the car was levelling a pistol at him,suddenly lost his nerve. He depressed the firing-key of the battery asecond or so too late. Instead of the detonation occurring immediatelyunderneath the motor, it expended its force harmlessly in the air.
"By Jove, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed the admiral as a rapid fusillade wasopened upon the stationary car. "Modern highwaymen!"
"Keep down, lads," ordered the general sharply, for the nickel bulletswere singing overhead like a swarm of angry bees. "Under the seat,Sefton. Be sharp!"
"Never!" expostulated the admiral sturdily.
"Not you, I mean," almost roared his companion by way of apology."You'll find a Webley under the seat. Look alive, man! It's loadedonly in one chamber."
Leslie Sefton's first impulse was to duck, until remembering that hestill held a loaded weapon, although it was but an air-pistol, in hishand, he rested the barrel upon the padded back of the seat and aimed atthe nearest of the assailants.
It was an excellent shot. The little bullet struck Hans just above theright eye. With an oath the German clapped both hands to his injury,dropping his pistol as he did so, and began to dance round and round inagony.
"Four to four now," exclaimed the lad, taking into no account the factthat the supposed highwaymen were all well armed. He jerked back thebarrel of the air-pistol and inserted another pellet, the zest of thefight gripping him with the utmost intensity.
Meanwhile Crosthwaite Senior had let in the clutch, and had succeeded inturning the car in the direction of the attackers. Altogetherunprepared for this manoeuvre, the four separated, two making to theright, and the others, keeping close together, edging away to the left,still maintaining a hot and erratic fire.
Bending low behind the wind-screen, the plate-glass of which was already"starred" in several places by the impact of the bullets, the generalurged the car straight in the direction of the men on his left. Even ashe did so, the admiral, who had discovered the loaded revolver, blazedaway on his left, with the result that Otto lost all present and futureinterest in the welfare of the Fatherland.
"Lucky shot," exclaimed Admiral Sefton modestly. "Very lucky shot. Inthe centre of his fat forehead, by Jove!"
Only on rare occasions, since those far-off days when he was a younglieutenant, had the retired naval officer handled a revolver, but hisskill and deadly precision remained. Leisure hours, spent with hisfavourite dog and gun amidst his preserves, had done much to keep thehardy admiral's eye as bright and his hand as steady as of yore, whenhis revolver practice was the envy of his messmates on the oldgunnery-ship Excellent.
Ejecting the empty cartridge case, the admiral loaded all six chambers.Then, ready to resume the encounter, he again levelled the weapon, atthe same time protesting audibly that the first shot was a mere fluke.
Giving scant heed to his friend's remarks, Crosthwaite Senior kept thecar full in the direction of his particular quarry. Over the low bankbordering the road the heavy vehicle mounted, lurching dangerously as itdid so. Only by sheer chance did it escape being capsized, as theoffside wheels rose three feet clear of the soft, grass-grown soil.
"Dash it all, Crosthwaite!" protested the admiral. "Fairly spoiled myshot that time. Easy ahead, man, or you'll have us all overboard."
Loud yells from another of the Huns showed that the admiral's secondshot, if not so deadly as the first, had "scored an outer". Leaving hiscompanions to continue the treacherous attack, the wounded man ran asfast as he could, still bellowing with pain, and holding his coat tailswith both hands.
Only two Huns remained. Wildly firing, they stood their ground untilthe car was within a few feet of them.
In his keenness Major-General Crosthwaite had not taken sufficientnotice of the nature of the ground. Mounting a steep hillock, the carswerved and toppled completely over, pinning the admiral beneath thechassis and throwing the other occupants headlong upon the turf.
In a flash the two Germans seized their opportunity. One, levelling hisautomatic pistol, fired point-blank at the prostrate general, the bulletpassing completely through his uplifted arm and flattening itselfagainst his silver cigar-case. Before the miscreant could loadagain--it was the last cartridge in the magazine--George flung himselfupon him.
The remaining Hun, finding that his automatic weapon was likewise empty,and mindful of Leslie's brandished air-pistol, was chary of closing withthe lad. Incautiously, young Sefton levelled the pistol and fired, thepellet merely penetrating the German's coat and waistcoat, andinflicting a slight scratch on his chest.
In a trice, the Hun guessed the comparatively feeble nature of theBritish lad's weapon. He knew that seconds would have to elapse beforethe air-pistol could be reloaded. Mentally comparing his size with thatof the fifteen-year-old youth, he came to the conclusion that it wassafe to close.
Leslie, far from declining the unspoken challenge, threw himself at hisopponent, and two pairs of desperately earnest antagonists were lockedin deadly combat. It was long odds, for, with Crosthwaite Seniorhelpless with a bullet through his arm, and the admiral imprisonedbeneath the overturned car, no help seemed likely to be forthcoming fromthat direction. To make matters worse, Hans, the leader of the gang,having quieted down after the first acute pain, had seen how thingsstood, and, recovering his pistol, had cautiously approached, seeking afavourable opportunity to turn the already-wavering scale.