The Big Six: A Novel

by Arthur Ransome

  “And then what?” said Pete, though he knew already.

  “You sit tight. Nobody won’t see you under that bush in black dark. That’ll be me he come after. I’m to go bolting, making all the noise I can. And if that old villain come after, well …” Bill chuckled quietly. “We shift that plank…. Anyways that don’t matter what happen so long’s he don’t get Dick’s camera. You sit tight till all’s clear and then nip out and bring it along and we take it to Dick. But whatever you do don’t be copped with it … Sh!….”

  Pete held his breath and listened. It was nothing. Only that old horse in the meadow ablowing through his nose. A twig tickled the back of Pete’s neck. He put up a hand and snapped it off. He heard Bill start.

  “It’s only me,” said Pete.

  “Don’t make such a blame row,” said Bill.

  Pete felt again for the thin, springy tube from the camera and for the press-button on the end of it. He found it and let it go again. Silly to go breathing so fast. Nothing to worry about, not really. He made himself breathe slow and regular, with the result that he nearly fell asleep. An old bream turned with a quiet splash somewhere out on the river and Pete listened for it to splash again. He heard a rabbit stamping the ground and all but pressed the button, but guessed what it was in time. He heard, far away in the meadows below the level of the river, the lumbering tread of the old horse. He heard a car on the road Ludham way. That light in the sky must be over Yarmouth. Something small ran close by him. One of them old rats. Nothing was going to happen. It was all for nothing, and Pete wished he was rolled round in his rug in his bunk in the Death and Glory. That Dot was too clever with her plans. Why, they might lie a month of nights and nobody’d come meddling with the old Cachalot. Why should they? And even if that Dot were right, whoever it were casting boats off would have his eyes open and likely had seen the detectives making ready. Sleeping in his bed he’d be, not getting cramp like us. Pete wondered if Bill was thinking the same. What would the others say if, after all, they were to go home?

  “Bill,” he whispered.

  There was no answer whatever. Just for a moment he thought that Bill had gone. And then he heard voices.

  The voices were coming from the direction of the road. Coming nearer. Whoever it was must have come into the meadow from the road and be walking along the near side of that ditch. There was a scrambling noise. They were coming up the bank from the low meadow. Steps came nearer along the bank. Tom and Dick back again, or could it be Tom and Joe? Had time gone on that fast? And then Pete froze. He could not hear what was being said, but he somehow knew that these people who were coming were not the Coots. And not one villain; but two at least. They were talking low and coming quick. Were they going to walk right over Bill?

  Looking over his shoulder through the leaves, he saw the faint glimmer of a torch flashed at the ground. There it was again. Whoever these newcomers might be, they would see Bill, lying there in the grass, even if they did not stumble over him.

  Nearer the steps came and nearer. Pete watched for that faint glimmer of the torch. He heard no more talking. Suddenly the torch showed only a few yards away. The newcomers were close to him, almost on the top of Bill.

  Funny the way they were using that torch. He never saw more than a glimmer of it, as if they were shading it so that it should not be seen by anybody but themselves. Dot must have been right. It could be nobody but the villains. They had fallen into the trap and were on their way to cast loose the Cachalot just as she had said they would. But if they were going to tread on Bill now the game would be up and the trap laid for nothing.

  “Close here,” said a voice startling Pete so much that he very nearly gave himself away. They had passed Bill. They were between Pete and the river, going close by his bush. What if Bill had heard them coming and had wriggled down into the meadow so as not to be caught by them? He would never be able to get back to fire that flash. Pete felt the press-button in his hand. Press it or not? No good if there was to be no flash…. Yet…. What had Bill said? Press it if he heard anybody there. He pressed. There was a faint click as the shutter of the camera opened. It sounded to Pete, crouching under his bush in the dark, as if everybody in the world must have heard it. But nothing happened.

  Then he saw a glimmer from the torch again, this time on the smooth white-painted sides of the Cachalot. It went out. There was nothing but black darkness. People were fumbling along the bank.

  “It’s them. It’s them,” Pete whispered to himself, and kept his finger pressed hard on the button. Why didn’t Bill fire that flash and be done with it? If only Bill would give a sign, a whisper … anything, just to let him know that he was not alone, within a yard or two of the villains and able to do nothing … nothing. As near as all that and he did not know who they were.

  He heard the faint clink of a rond anchor on the Cachalot’s deck. Gosh! In another minute they’d have her adrift and be gone and everything would be too late, and there’d be another boat cast off and everybody believing the Coots had done it.

  There was another faint clink.

  That would be the other anchor.

  And then, suddenly, there was a click in the grass close behind him and a tremendous hissing flare of white light. A tuft of grass glittered silver. Trees across the river showed in the darkness. The Cachalot gleamed for a moment. Pete blinked in spite of himself. He had seen a white face that might be anybody’s … figures leaning out from the bank … pushing…. And then the white light had died away and he was staring into darkness blacker than before.

  A voice shouted. “After him! Quick! Don’t let him get away!…”

  The torch flashed close by him. Somebody, stumbling in the dark, brushed against the branches behind which Pete was lurking. Somebody else rushed past.

  Behind him there was a noise of running, wild, helterskelter running. Bill must be bolting for his life.

  “We saw you,” somebody shouted.

  Suddenly, close one after the other, there were two heavy splashes, followed by curses and more splashing.

  “They’re in the ditch,” said Pete to himself. “That give Bill a chance.” He remembered that he was still squeezing the press-button of the camera. He released it. What had Dick said? Press again after the flash die down? He pressed again and heard the shutter click.

  He listened. The noise of the chase was already far away.

  “Bill’ll give ’em a run,” said Pete to himself. “See in the dark like a cat Bill can. Better’n Joe. And they can’t likely. There’s a lot of good mud in that ditch.” He chuckled and found his teeth chattering at the same time.

  He began to think of what he ought to do. Sit tight till all’s clear, they had said. Well, he had done that. First of all there was the camera. He felt for it carefully. Yes, it was all right. Still standing on its tripod. Might easily have got smashed up when that one come blundering by. He felt its legs. He did not know how to make them shut up. He would have to carry the camera just as it was. No matter for that. In the cabin of the Death and Glory, with a decent light, perhaps Joe would get the legs off it. Or they could take it to Dick. Pete waited a little longer. All was quiet. He crawled out from under his bush and stood up, getting used to the darkness which had seemed very black after that white flash. Holding the camera in one hand, he felt for his torch with the other, but decided it was not safe to use it for fear of bringing the villains rushing back. He peered out from the bank. Yes, there she was, anchored in the river. They had cast her off, but the mudweight had held her. The Cachalot was all right.

  Bother that camera. Worse than a fishing rod it was. Two of the legs closed together and caught his finger. He felt for the third leg, closed it against the other two and held all three together. Then, with his right hand pawing into the dark so as not to run into anything and hurt the camera, he set out for the Death and Glory, stopping every few steps to listen. Them villains might be coming back if Bill had given them the slip.

  He met no one on the
bank, but did not try to cross the ditch. Instead, he slipped along at the side of it till he came to the meadow gate and then hurried along the road at a good pace, glad to have firm ground under his feet. He passed the Ferry Inn, where there was still a light in an upper window, came to the fence along the edge of the Wilderness, climbed over it, and began feeling his way through the osier bushes along the side of the dyke. He stopped suddenly. Someone was talking in the darkness ahead. Lucky he hadn’t dared to use his torch. Lucky he hadn’t yelled out “Ahoy, Death and Glory!” He very nearly had, just to hear his own voice and not feel so horribly alone.

  Someone was talking angrily.

  THE MOMENT

  “He’s there all right,” said a voice. And then came a noise of loud banging on a door.

  Pete crept on. Were they trying to break into the old boat?

  The flashing of torches showed him where the Death and Glory lay, moored at the mouth of the dyke. But what were those figures in the cockpit?

  “You may as well come out now as later,” said a voice.

  Pete stopped dead. Was Bill back in the Death and Glory, or was Joe there alone? For a moment he thought of charging to the rescue. Then he remembered the camera. It was Dick’s camera. More than that, it was at the moment the most important thing in the world. “Bring it along and we’ll take it to Dick,” Bill had said. “But whatever you do don’t get copped with it.”

  There was only one thing to do and that was to get the camera with its precious photograph safely into Dick’s hands.

  He turned and on tiptoe went back to the road, climbed over the fence and made for Mrs. Barrable’s. How late was it? He did not know. There were still lights behind the blinds in some of the houses, but not in all, and when he came to Mrs. Barrable’s he found every window dark. They had gone to bed long ago. Wake them? He felt at his feet for a handful of gravel. If only he knew which was Dick’s window. Should he bang at the front door and hope Dick would be the first to hear him? That Dick ought to have string hanging down from his window like Tom. Then he thought of taking the camera to Tom. But what if he should meet the villains on the way there and be caught with the camera in his hands? He had a better idea. He would run home, leave the camera at home where no villains would think of looking for it and he could then go back to the Death and Glory, tell the others it was safe and get up early and take it to Dick first thing in the morning.

  He hurried along, turned the corner and came to his own house. Here he had hoped all would be in darkness, but he found a light still burning in an upstairs window. Well, they didn’t lock the door at night, that was one thing. He slipped round into the back yard, opened the scullery door, and, putting the camera on the floor for safety’s sake, felt his way across the room. He found the switch and turned on the electric light.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s only me, Mum.”

  “PETE! What in the name of goodness are you doing?” His mother was already coming downstairs. “Why aren’t you asleep hours ago? Something wrong with your boat? Joe and Bill both promise me you go to bed regular.”

  “It’s all right,” Pete explained. “I’ve just got to leave something for Dick. I’ll fetch it in the morning.”

  “You won’t,” said his mother. “Do you think I’m going to let you go off again, wandering round the village in the middle of the night? You’ll go to your bed here this minute and don’t let me hear a peep out of you till I wake you.”

  “But, Mum, I’ve got to go back. Chaps trying to break into our boat….”

  “You won’t stop them,” said his mother. “Do you know what time it is? Now then, into bed with you.”

  “But….”

  “If you’re not into bed in two minutes you’ll do no more boating this year. I’ll begin to think Mr. Tedder’s right.”

  Pete found himself upstairs and beside his bed without knowing how he got there. He wriggled away. “There’s that camera,” he said.

  “What camera?” said his mother.

  “I left it on the floor,” said Pete.

  For one wild moment he thought of slipping out again and bolting for it. But his mother came down with him into the scullery and herself picked up the camera.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “It’s not mine. It’s that Dick’s,” he said, “and Dick’s got to have it first thing.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said his mother. “You can take it to him in the morning. Into bed with you now. Upstairs. Be quick. I’ll stay with you till you’re under the blankets.”

  And Pete, ex-pirate, salvage man, member of the Bird Protection Society, member of the Coot Club, detective and part-owner of the Death and Glory, found himself being tucked up and even kissed.

  “Not another peep out of you,” said his mother, as she closed the door on him.

  For a minute or two he lay, wondering what best to do. And the next thing he knew was the morning sun shining through the window.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  SIEGE OF THE DEATH AND GLORY

  JOE had his orders. He was to keep the lantern lit in the Death and Glory and the door closed, so that anybody who came to spy would think that the crew were at home. He stoked up the fire, played a tune or two on his mouth organ and then got old Ratty out for company.

  Old Ratty sat on the table and Joe gave him a nut and began eating nuts himself. But Ratty did not eat fast enough for Joe, and presently Joe put the bag away because he was eating a great deal more than his share. Then he and Ratty played an old game of theirs, Joe putting the rat into his sleeve, and the rat working its way up the sleeve and coming out somewhere else. Joe looked up at the old alarm clock. It must be nearly an hour since Bill and Pete had gone off to take their places watching for the tiger.

  Suddenly Joe stiffened. What was that, moving on the rond outside? The curtains made it impossible for anybody to see in, though they let plenty of light through. Anybody outside could see that the lantern was burning. Joe waited. There was just the slightest movement of the boat. Someone was touching her, trying to look through the windows, or feeling the chimney.

  “Bed-time, Bill,” said Joe loudly. “Young Pete ought to be asleep.”

  He listened, but could hear nothing.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “It don’t take half an hour to get a pair of boots off.”

  Again he listened. He waited a long time. Then he put old Ratty back in his box, watched the long tail curl out of sight into the cotton wool, and put the box on the shelf over his bunk. Nothing seemed to be stirring outside. Gone, whoever it was. Mighty quiet too. Almost it looked as if that Dot had been right and the villain had come, as she had said he would, to make sure first that the Death and Glories were at home, before going on to cast off the Cachalot. Cautiously, Joe opened the cabin door, waited a moment and crawled out into the cockpit.

  If that had been the villain, he must be getting near the Cachalot by now. And Bill and Pete were there waiting for him, ready to spring the trap. Would it work, or would it not? Bill would do his part all right. But Pete? Joe for half a minute thought of trying to join them. But what would be the good of that? Upset the whole plan for nothing.

  It was a dark night, and down river there was nothing to be seen but a soft curtain of blackness, with just that dim glow over far away Yarmouth. Joe tried to make up his mind just where in that darkness the Cachalot must be, with the detectives lurking beside her, one ready with the camera, the other with the flashlight outfit in its biscuit-box shield. What if the powder didn’t catch? And that Pete! Never taken a photo in all his life. Much better, thought Joe, if we’d all laid for them and dashed out and caught them in the act.

  And then, suddenly, a white flare lit up the darkness beyond the Ferry. Trees and the inn showed suddenly black against a silver glow. Then all was dark again.

  “They’ve done it,” said Joe to himself. “They’ve done it. Gee whizz! And now what! Was that a shout?”

  He jumped ashor
e and started off along the dyke towards the road. He stopped, listened, and turned back. His orders were clear enough. To stand by the boat. He stood on the bank, with a hand on the gunwale of the Death and Glory.

  What was happening? Had Bill got away? What if the villain had caught Pete, camera and all? Again he thought of bolting to their help.

  Then he heard running footsteps on the road from the Ferry.

  He got aboard. Nearer and nearer the footsteps were coming. They hesitated. They came on again. They stopped. He could hear other footsteps, racing down the road. Then in the Wilderness, close to the Death and Glory, someone was crashing through the willow bushes. The next moment, there was Bill clambering aboard, panting fit to burst.

  “Two of ’em,” panted Bill. “Near trod on me, they did. Quick. Quick. Into the cabin. They’ll be here in two ticks. Close behind….”

  “Pete,” said Joe. “What about Pete?”

  “Lying low till they gone,” said Bill. “He’s all right. There was only the two of ’em and they both come after me. Heard ’em splash one after t’other. I drop that plank in the ditch for ’em. Go on. Get the door shut…. Get the key inside….”

  Bill lay puffing on his bunk. Joe fumbled desperately with the key. Already he could hear people stumbling through the bushes. He caught a glimpse of a torch. And that old key, which always fell out when he didn’t want it to, was sticking in the lock on purpose. It came loose at last, Joe put it into the lock from inside, closed the door, locked it, plumped down on his bunk and waited.

  “They’re close here,” he said. “Who are they? Did you see ’em?”

  “That thing fair blind me,” said Bill. “But there was two of ’em. And they cast her off. I see that.”