CHAPTER XXII
THE STRUGGLE ON THE CLIFFS
"A MATTER O' fower moiles, sir," replied an old fisherman in answerto Peter's inquiry as to the way to Scarby. "That is, if you'll betaking t' cliff path, which I wouldn't advise you, seeing as 'owyou'm a stranger. 'Tain't pertickler safe is yon path. Follow therighthand road. 'Tis a bit roughish in parts, but main passable."
Mr. Barcroft thanked the man for his information and set out brisklyupon his way. Twilight had already set in, to add to thedifficulties of the last stage of the journey of the intrepid Peter.Ahead rose the steep hill terminating in a frowning cliff--the firstof three such ridges that lay betwixt him and Scarby. Away on hisleft he could discern a momentary glimpse of the North Sea, now greyand sullen and mottled by patches of fog that drifted slowly withthe faint westerly breeze.
At a mile from Tongby railway station he struck the fork roads. Theone to the left was the cliff-path, an almost grass-grown track,marked at regular intervals by whitewashed stones--necessary guidesfor the coastguards on a pitch-black night when a false step mighthurl the incautious pedestrian to his death over the brink of athree-hundred-foot cliff. The right-hand way was a little _better_,although, judging by its condition, rarely used except by countrycarts. On either side the ground was rugged and thickly covered withgorse.
Wilder grew the countryside as Peter breasted the first of the threehills. Stunted trees, standing out against the crimson afterglow ofthe sky, assumed weird and fantastic shapes. To the faint moaning ofthe wind and the murmur of the sea came an accompaniment in the formof the cries of countless seabirds that find a nesting-place in thefrowning face of those almost perpendicular cliffs.
Inland all was darkness. The narrow valleys contained humanhabitations, no doubt, but there was not a sign of their presence.
Peter's thoughts turned to his son as he looked seaward. Somewhereout there--it might be a matter of a few miles or of hundreds--Billywas serving King and country, perhaps snugly sheltered in the"Hippodrome's" wardroom, or, on the other hand, cutting through thedarkness at an altitude of several hundred feet. It was not apleasant task on a late autumnal night. With his trained imaginationPeter could picture his boy out there--simply because of the GermanEmperor's insane ambition.
"Not content to let well alone," soliloquised Peter, "even when theGerman Empire was on the high road to commercial success andinternal prosperity, the All Highest must butt in and try to upseteverything. Incidentally Wilhelm has done the British Empire alasting service. He has cemented it far more effectively thancenturies of legislation. He has welded it into a homogeneous whole;he has awakened every Briton worthy of the name to a sense of hisindividual responsibility to the colossal task that confronts him.And, by Jove, we mean to see this business through. No halfmeasures. A lasting peace built upon the ruins of Germanmilitarism."
Peter's reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of creakingcart-wheels and the steady patter of a beast of burden.
"Wonder if that is Butterfly?" he thought. "Now, if Mr. Pattercoughis of the same type as friend Stigler and a bit of a tough customerI'd best lie low. Somehow I hardly like to argue the point about thelawful ownership of a donkey in this desolate spot."
There were plenty of places of concealment. Barcroft selected theshelter afforded by a gorse-bush close to the left hand side of theroad. Immediately opposite was a beaten track that evidentlyeffected a junction with the cliff path. At any rate, it wound inthat direction, following the steeply sloping sides of a narrow,rugged valley.
The cart approached slowly. The driver seemed in no hurry, for hemade no attempt either by word of mouth or by the application of hiswhip to hasten the animal. Only when the vehicle was oppositePeter's place of concealment did the man utter a subdued "Woa."
The donkey--for such it was--made no attempt to stop. "That'sButterfly for a dead cert," commented Peter.
The man uttered an imprecation, jumped from the cart and tuggedviciously at the animal's bridle. Then, by main force, he backed thedonkey a short distance along the side track.
"Plenty o' time," Barcroft heard him remark. "Better an hour tooearly than five minutes too late."
"Awkward habit, expressing one's thoughts aloud," mused Peter. "I doit myself occasionally, and I know. Now, what are you doing with aloaded cart on this unfrequented road at this time of night? I scenta mystery. I'll wait an hour and see what happens. If nothing, thenI will kick myself for being an inquisitive ass."
The pedlar was not going to be inactive. Unharnessing thedonkey--Peter was now absolutely convinced that it was Butterfly--heled the animal to a patch of grass-land hidden from the road by thebushes, a task requiring considerable physical strength. This donehe backed the cart from the path until the gorse hid it from thewatcher's sight.
Ten long minutes passed. The pedlar, swinging his arms vigorously,for the night air was chilly, made no attempt to look up or down theroad. The person or persons he expected were evidently notapproaching from that direction. Presently he walked to the cart,removed something from under the tarpaulin--it was too dark to seewhat the article was--and set off along the side track.
At fifty yards he surmounted a steep rise and disappeared the otherside. The sound of his footsteps, deadened by the nature of thesoil, quickly died away.
"Now I'll investigate," decided Barcroft. "If he returns in a hurrythere'll be trouble. Friend Pattercough looks like a quarrelsomecard. However, I'll risk it."
He stole cautiously to the place where the donkey and cart stood.Butterfly, indifferent to the attentions of her lawful master,browsed steadily at the scanty herbage. The cart, althoughinanimate, was far more interesting. It was piled high with faggotsand bundles of brushwood, a tarpaulin being tightly lashed over thetop of the load. Mingled with the scent of the newly-cut wood wasthe faint odour of petrol.
Without the slightest hesitation Barcroft probed the load with hisstick. The ferrule grated against metal--the side of a tin. Againand again he tried; the bottom of the cart was packed withpetrol-cans.
"Now, if I set fire to this little lot who would stand the racket?"inquired Peter. "This is obviously intended to be usedillicitly--for supplying German submarines, although I can't be sureon that point. On the other hand, how would I stand under theDefence of the Realm regulations if I started a gorgeous bonfire? Anhour too soon, he said; well, there's a quarter of an hour or twentyminutes gone, I should imagine. Remains enough time for me to get toScarby, rout out the coastguards and put a stopper on this littlegame."
With this praiseworthy resolution Barcroft hurried off, keeping tothe grassy ground in order to deaden the sound of his footsteps. Hisprowess as a long-distance runner had not entirely departed,although lack of training tried his wind sorely.
At the outskirts of the darkened village he came to a row of greylime-washed cottages in front of which a tall flagstaff loomed upagainst the misty starlight.
"Halt!" exclaimed a hoarse voice peremptorily.
Peter halted. Confronting him was a greatcoated, gaitered, beardedman in seaman's uniform.
"'Gainst orders to use this path after dark," quoth thecoastguardsman. "What's your name? And what are you doing runninglike this at this time o' night?"
"How many men have you at the station?" asked Barcroft breathlessly.
"Eh? What do you want this information for?" demanded the mansuspiciously. "You'd best come along with me an' give no trouble.Strikes me there's something that ain't proper jonnick."
Barcroft preceded the seaman up the shingled path leading to thewatch house.
"Look here, my man," he said authoritatively. "You had better informyour chief officer and turn out the detachment. I've hurried hereexpressly to tell you that a man from the village, Pattercough byname, is running a cargo of petrol. Barcroft's my name. I havedocuments to prove it. Also I have a son a commissioned officer inthe Service, as you will find if you refer to a Navy List."
"In that case I ask your pardon," replied the coastguard, whosebadg
es proclaimed him to be a chief petty officer. "I'm in charge,sir. This station is partly closed down since the war. I've only afew Boy Scouts to give you a hand--an' smart, plucky youngsters theyare, too."
"Any special constables in the village?"
"Not one, sir; in fact, there ain't what one might call anable-bodied man in the place, barring this Pattercough. Tribunalexempted him 'evings only knows what for."
"Then turn out the Scouts," said Peter. "They'll come in jollyuseful. There's no time to be lost."
Quickly half a dozen of the lads were on the spot, falling in at theword of command from the patrol leader. In a few words Barcroftexplained the situation, enjoining silence until the petty officergave the word for action.
"I'll just telephone through to Tongby and let our chaps know," saidthe coastguard.
In orderly formation the party set off to the place where the pedlarhad left his cart. At "Scouts' Pace"--alternately walking andrunning--the distance was quickly covered. Butterfly and the loadwere still in sombre isolation. "He made off in that direction,"whispered Peter.
"To Black Ghyll Bay then," replied the petty officer. "Artfulbounder! He knew when our patrols pass, and chose his time."
With redoubled caution the party set off in single file, the sailorleading the way and Peter following up at the rear of the Scouts.Not a sound betrayed their presence--it was mainly owing to the factthat they all wore well-used foot gear.
Presently Peter found himself on the point of cannoning into theback of the Scout just ahead of him. The party had halted. With outthe slightest confusion they concealed themselves behind a row ofbushes that grew almost on the edge of the cliff. The petty officerraised one hand and pointed.
Through the darkness Barcroft could just distinguish the outlines ofa human form crouching in the gorge barely ten yards on his rightfront, where the cliff began to fall away and form a ravine known asBlack Ghyll.
At intervals the man in hiding raised his head and peered cautiouslyover the thick bush. Not once did he look behind. His attention wascentred solely upon the foreshore or else seaward; he was totallyoblivious of the fact that he was being watched intently by eightpairs of eyes.
Out to sea everything seemed swallowed up in pitch-black darkness.Only the measured beating of the groundswell upon the shingly shoregave the watchers any indication, apart from their local knowledge,that the wide North Sea was almost at their feet. The stars, too,had disappeared from view, for the mist had increased and was nowthreatening to develop into a regular sea-fog.
Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a faint ray of light emanatingfrom a mere pinprick of luminosity. Short flash--obscuration--longflash--obscuration--short flash: that was all, but sufficient toindicate that out in that void of Cimmerian gloom some one wassignalling.
The suspect rose and leaned forward. It looked as if he werespread-eagled over the gorse-bush. For quite a minute he remainedthere, then leaving his place of concealment he made his way towardsthe beach, crouching as stealthily as a panther behind everyobstacle until he made sure of his ground.
Perhaps it was the strain of watching in the darkness; perhaps thethought that the suspect might escape; but whatever the motive thefact remained that one of the Scouts, uttering a loud yell, brokefrom cover and dashed towards the man, brandishing his staff like aBerserk.
"That's done it!" mentally ejaculated Peter. The premature andunauthorised action left no alternative.
"At him, lads!" shouted the petty officer. The fellow stood hisground, expostulating angrily. But his words fell unheeded. Like apack of hounds the eager and alert youngsters literally threwthemselves upon the suspect, and bore him to the ground.
Over and over they rolled, the gorse crackling under their weight.Only a few gaunt stumps prevented the struggling mob from tumblingover the brink of the fearful abyss. Unable to bear a hand Peter andthe petty officer stood well-nigh breathless with suspense,expecting every minute to see the suspect and his assailants toppleinto space.
The struggle was short-lived. The fellow's efforts at resistanceceased. Bound hand and foot and with the ten-stone patrol leadersitting on his chest he realised that the game was up.
"Get your staves, lads," ordered the patrol-leader. "Form astretcher. We'll carry him as far as the cart."
"Strikes me I hear engines," declared the coastguardsman. "There,what's that?"
A dull, rasping sound and the splash of disturbed water broke thesilence. A moment later the night breeze carried the unmistakablenoise of a vessel's engines running at full speed ahead.
The petty officer was quick to act. Raising his hands to his mouthhe shouted in stentorian tones:
"Ship ahoy! Go full speed astern instantly. You're heading straightfor Black Ghyll."
The clang of the engine-room telegraph bell followed quickly, to theaccompaniment of short, crisp orders and the trample of boots upon ametal deck.
It was already too late. With a rending crash the vessel, whatevershe might be, ran bows on to the jagged rocks.
"That's done it! Her number's up," exclaimed the petty officer."Now, lads, four of you come with me. There's work to be done there,I reckon. The others stay with this gentleman and guard the prisonertill we return."
"Look here," said the captive in well-nigh breathless expostulation."You've made a rotten mistake. Spoilt everything."
Peter felt his heart give a furious beat. Regardless of regulationshe bent over the prostrate prisoner and struck a match.
The flickering flame revealed the indignant features of PhilipEntwistle.