Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Not including rape? Impossible to suppress a shiver. But—why believe a word he said? Time was running out for her, faster than she had expected. “Oh, take the light away,” she whimpered as he moved toward the door. “It hurts my eyes. If you’d only untie my hands, so I could move about a bit …”

  “I’m sorry.” He picked up the light. “But I’ll take this, if you prefer the dark, and the rats.”

  “Don’t!” It was almost a shriek, which she let dwindle off into a bout of hysteria that would have done Aunt Tretteign credit. And all the time, as he moved, lantern in hand, toward the door and out of sight, her hands were frantically busy behind her back, remembering what Little Eagle had taught her. These few moments, while he was giving the men downstairs their orders, were probably all the chance she would get. Now, more than ever (was the knot working loose?) how pleasant living seemed. Just breathing, and eating—even being unhappy, being in despair seemed a privilege. To be alive … to suffer … to know, this is I, Christina. Irreplaceable. Irreplaceable? What would Ross think if he came back to find her vanished? Would he guess what had happened to her? Would he know that she had died for him? Probably not. Ah! There! The knot had given. Blood brother, Little Eagle, you could not save my father’s life, but you may save mine. The knots that tied her to the chair were easier, since the man who had tied them had already dismissed her as negligible. Free, she made herself sit for a moment, massaging life into her stiff limbs, before she risked slipping out of her shoes, standing up and moving, soft-footed, to the door. Thank God, at least this much of what he had told her had been true. The door did not lock. Very gently, she pulled it open. Darkness, and the sound of voices below.

  M. Tissot was giving his orders. “Wait for full dark.” He sounded impatient to be off. “In the meantime, she’s yours.”

  “Full dark? Dawn more like. There’s life in that one. No, no. We’ll see all’s right and tight before dawn. But in the meantime …”

  Cold shivers ran down her spine at his tone. No use hoping to bribe these two with promises. No time to be lost either. Willing it to silence, she pulled the door farther open. Now, she could see a gleam of light, thrown up from the bottom of the stairway that faced her. Very cautiously, she slipped out into the hall, blessing the silent floorboards. Downstairs, one of the men laughed. “A hard night’s work,” he said.

  She had been in many marsh cottages like this one—small farmhouses, they had been once, when the wool trade was at its height. There would be one other bedroom on this floor. Yes, here was its door, and ajar, thank God. The voices downstairs sounded further off as she tiptoed in. The chances of being betrayed by a creaking floorboard were so much less. And her eyes were used to the darkness now; she half felt, half saw her way to the window, which should look out over the back of the house.

  It was stuck fast with years of disuse. Wait for the bustle of M. Tissot’s leaving? No, time was running out too fast for her already. She found her way back across the room and tied the rope that had bound her to what seemed the only piece of furniture, a musty cot. No way of telling, in the dark, what kind of condition it was in. No time to wonder. It was, simply, her only chance. She moved to the window again, the rope end in her hand. Most of the tiny panes of glass had been broken long since—there would be no shatter of glass below. Now! The violence of the push she gave almost sent her out through the window as it swung open with a loud creak of rusted hinges. No time to think; no time to listen. Already, she was on the window sill, the cord in her hand. Not too far down, surely? These marsh houses were built low, crouching close to the ground to be out of the wind. Anyway—the rope burned her hands. She landed, jarred but unhurt, in what must once have been the cottage garden. A rank smell of nettles and something prickly under her stockinged feet. Fool … she had left her shoes behind. No time to be thinking of that. How could she listen when her heart beat so loudly? She made herself stand for a moment; made herself breathe slow and even. Yes—around at the front, M. Tissot was mounting his horse. With luck he would be gone before the others discovered her escape. From what she had seen of them, their pursuit would be very much less dangerous than his.

  Her breathing was easier now, and she could just make out the shapes of things. Not quite dark yet, thank God. It had seemed an age since they caught her, but it could not be all that long. The search would only just be out at the Grange. And how far away was she? She did not even know what direction to take, and there were no stars to guide her. But—away. Already she was half walking, half crawling through the undergrowth of the desolate garden. Briars scratched her face. Raspberry canes? Here was a tangle of undergrowth that must once have been a hedge around the little garden, but ragged, now, and blown sideways by the wind, so that she struggled through it without too much difficulty. On the other side, of course, would be a ditch.

  Yes, her foot slipped down—far down in the darkness—and she caught a thorny branch of the hedge to steady herself. The ditch would not—probably—be very wide, or very deep. How much time had she? She turned to peer back toward the house. No sounds, yet, of discovery or pursuit. Instead, M. Tissot’s voice, raised in farewell at the front of the house, and then the noise of a horse being ridden off, fast, in the other direction. So much for Tissot. But—it meant that time was running out for her. Any minute now, the men would go upstairs and find her gone. What would they do? They were English—probably Londoners—but stupid; followers rather than framers of orders. They would find her gone, find the broken window, search the garden. This was elementary.

  She had decided already. No time to work around the house to the front where the road lay. Besides, this was probably what they would expect her to do. Instead, she let herself down, gently, into the ditch, and found, as she expected, a bottom of about a foot and a half of water and a great deal of mud that sucked around her stockinged feet. Under normal circumstances, it would have been horrible.

  Tall reeds brushed against her face. She had a struggle to get through them, but at least they helped her to keep upright. And—here was the other side. She climbed out and found—thank God—a typical field of marsh grass. But—which way to go? She had lost all sense of direction during that interminable blindfolded walk. A shout from the house settled the question for her. They had discovered her escape. Direction, for the moment, mattered little as long as it was away.

  She did not dare run, for fear of falling and twisting an ankle, but set forward across the field at a brisk walk, straining her ears as she went to try and make out what was happening back at the house. They were blundering about now in the garden, shouting and swearing. With luck, they would assume she was hidden somewhere there, and lose time searching.

  But—take nothing for granted. She kept moving steadily away from the house, tripping from time to time on a patch of rough grass, or a hole in the ground, grateful for the sure touch of her stockinged feet. Something was trickling down her face. Blood, of course. She must have scratched herself many times in that wild dash through the hedge. But that—like her drenched and muddy skirts—was trivial compared with the vital question of … which way? She had crossed the field now and come, inevitably, to another ditch. Foolish, surely, to cross this one in blind flight as she had the last? Or—cross this one, and then try to find a path? Yes—a moment’s consideration settled it. She was only a field’s width from her pursuers. No time, yet, for lingering.

  She set her teeth and struggled down the steep bank. This ditch was deeper; the mud sucked at her knees; something rustled close by. A water rat, she told herself, just as frightened as she was. Don’t think about fright. Don’t think about snakes underfoot. The ditch was wider, too, than the other one, but here at last, was the other bank and another field of grass. And—a sudden scurry of movement around her stopped the thudding of her heart for a moment. Absurd—these were sheep. And—if her pursuers were listening, were intelligent, the sheeps’ outraged baaing as they woke and scattered would tell them where she was.

&n
bsp; Thank God M. Tissot was not there. She moved forward steadily. Her feet had found a sheep track. Follow it. It might lead nowhere, but, equally, it might lead to a gate, a real path.

  In fact, it led to another ditch. Could she be walking around in circles? Suppose this new ditch was, in fact, the one she had already crossed. Don’t think like that—defeated thinking. But, it was true; already she was not quite sure which way she had come—where the house was. At the realization, she made herself stop and listen. No lights anywhere, no sound but a sheep, quite near her, munching away at the grass. No, she was wrong. Now she could hear, not very far off, the steady growl of the sea. And then, a new sound: horses’ hoofs. Had one of the men ridden after M. Tissot? Most likely: Well, then, that was the direction of the road, and she was still steadily getting away from the house.

  But—if she was to continue to do so, she must find a path. This time she turned along beside the ditch. If she kept going around the field, presently she must find a way out and a path. Don’t think that it would very likely lead back to the house. If she found nothing at the corner, where the ditch turned, she would have to go back and try the other way.

  It was awkward keeping along the side of the ditch in the dark. Once, she slipped, nearly fell in and had to stand for a minute or two, fighting down panic. No time for that. No time even to think about lying down on the soft, damp grass and waiting for morning. In the morning, it was true, she would be able to see her way, but so would they. And—this stretch of land behind Dungeness was the wildest, the most deserted of the whole bleak marsh. No use thinking daylight would bring help. Her help must come from herself.

  Here was the corner of the ditch, and here—her tired feet slipped in the mud—was a real path. She went forward, hands outstretched. Yes, the ditch was bridged with earth here, and a rickety gate barred the way. She kilted drenched petticoats and climbed precariously up. It swayed under her weight, but held, and she paused to look about her from this point of slight vantage. Yes, there, behind her, all too near, still, was a light that must be in the house she had left. Nothing else. No glint of lanterns between it and her. Doubtless while one of the men went after M. Tissot, the other was contenting himself with a new search of the house and garden.

  She had a little time then, and at last she was on a path—doubtless the one the sheep used. So—in the end it should take her to some lonely marshland farm. Unlucky that the Tretteign land was all the other way, toward Rye, so that she had had no reason to visit these parts.

  Lord, she was tired. Once again, the idea of lying down, here, in the field, and sleeping, surged up to tempt her. Lunacy. She made herself walk steadily on. With luck, M. Tissot would be too occupied with his pursuit of Ross to care much about her escape. But—don’t count on it. Here was another gate, rather more solid than the last one. Don’t let yourself linger, sitting in precarious comfort on the top of it. Down again, and on …

  And so for three more fields, while the blood dried on her face and little shivers of cold and fatigue began to run through her. How much longer could she go on? Madness to think of resting—the clammy touch of her wet petticoats was a reminder of what she would suffer if she stopped. No—at all costs she must find help, shelter …

  Was she talking to herself? Whispering, “Help, shelter,” to the time of her stumbling feet? Well, if it kept her going … and here was another gate. As before, she let herself pause for a moment on top to look about. No sign, now, of the house she had left, no sound but the mutter of the sea and a sudden shriek that tore along her nerves. But it was only some small marsh creature caught by a stoat—a ferret? She shivered in sympathy and climbed tiredly down from the gate. Here was a new surface for her bruised feet. Gravel, surely; almost a road? The one that led to the house? It might be. Go slowly, carefully. Listen, keep listening …

  The gravel was noisy torture, but she found a grass verge and pushed herself steadily along, pausing from time to time to quiet her ragged breathing and listen for the sound of a horse. A small doubt nagged at her. How sure was she of her direction? Suppose this was indeed the road to the house she had left—and she was going toward it? Possible? Likely? Probable? And—would she know the house?

  The answer, of course, was, bleakly, no. They had taken off her blindfold inside. If she was not careful, she might knock on her captors’ door, asking for help. This was defeated thinking again. Don’t let yourself …

  Anyway, she would soon know. Something was looming up ahead of her, blacker than the general blackness of the night. No light showed anywhere. Well—it must be very late. No wonder if there was no one stirring. People kept early hours, out here on the marsh. And, surely, this total darkness and silence must be a good sign. Back at the house she had left, they would still be searching for her. And she was almost sure that the road had stopped at that house; here, it went past.

  Then, why was she so reluctant to turn off it, to knock on the door and ask for help? Was it merely fatigue, dulling thought and clouding judgment that made this dark group of buildings seem so sinister, crouched, waiting by the road? Of course it was. In a minute she would be warm by a fire, telling her story to some sleepy farmer. She turned off the road past the dark shape of an outbuilding, and moved toward the house, feeling her way carefully over the surface of a neglected courtyard. And now, too late, she realized in a flash what had made her afraid of the house. Her quick ears had told her that there was something—someone—stirring in the dark courtyard, but her slow mind had refused to take in the message. She whirled at a movement behind her, felt a violent blow on the back of her head and fell into blackness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her head was splitting. Where was she? She moved, feebly, on the narrow bed, and pain and memory seared through her. She had walked straight back into M. Tissot’s trap. Absurd—lunatic—pitiful. But—why was she alive? And unbound? It would hurt horribly to open her eyes. It did.

  For a few seconds, the room swam in front of them, then, with a painful effort, she made them focus. A different room. Hope surged up in her. Surely, a different house? Lived in, this one, though on a level of penurious poverty. Where, then; why?

  She must have spoken the last word aloud, for it brought a rustling from the corner of the room behind the bed. Too painful to turn her head. She waited, and a woman moved forward into her line of vision. “Hush.” An urgent finger on pale lips enforced the whispered command, but the tired face seemed friendly enough, only anxious, desperately anxious—frightened? She might be any age—very likely was little older than Christina herself, but dragged down by poverty, beyond caring about herself, a slattern with great clumps of dark, neglected hair falling around the haggard face.

  “Hush!” she said again and moved forward close to the bed, to lean down and whisper, “If you’re lucky, they’ll forget about you. If not, I’ll do what I can.”

  “They?” But as she whispered it, Christina was afraid she knew, and the woman’s obvious fright at the question confirmed her fear. She had escaped from M. Tissot, only to stumble on one of the smugglers’ marshland hideouts. Miraculous that they had not killed her at once.

  The woman had moved away toward the door. She opened it, very carefully, just a crack, and they both strained their ears, listening to the mumble of voices below. Men—a great many of them, by the sound of it. A meeting of the whole gang? Disastrous. The woman sighed, shrugged and closed the door as carefully as she had opened it.

  Close to the bed again, she whispered as carefully as before.

  “They’re still arguing. My Pete’s taking your part. The others …” She let it hang. “One thing—there’s not much time. They’ll have to get going. There aren’t very many more hours of full dark and some of them have got to get clear up to the weald.” A look of terror gave life to the weary face. “Don’t tell them I said that. They’d kill me.”

  “Of course not.” It was all horribly clear now. She had stumbled on the gang in the very act of sharing out a haul and m
aking off with it on the dangerous journey down the dark ways inland and so to London.

  “What—” The woman’s upraised hand stopped her. Someone was coming upstairs.

  “Shut your eyes.” It was the merest breath. “You’ve not waked.”

  Good advice, surely? She closed her eyes and made herself lie limp on the bed as the door was flung open and a man’s rough voice said, “Well, how is she?”

  “Dead, by the looks of her. I don’t know what Mr. Ross will say.”

  So they knew who she was. Was that good, or bad? Very likely it had saved her life so far.

  So far. The man was swearing at the woman in a tone that suggested she was his wife. “To hell with Mr. Ross,” he concluded. “The question is, what’s to do with her?” From the sound of his voice he was moving forward, nearer to the bed. “The only secret woman’s a dead one.”

  “No!” She must have flung herself between him and the bed. “What’s she seen? Nothing! Anyway—you know she said nothing, before. Why should she now? Let me keep her here till all’s safe. Pete—I know about her. Betty tells me things. She’s good. Pete, she’s going to start a school for the children, so they needn’t grow up as we have, with nothing. You can’t let them kill her.”

  “The children again! Can you think of nothing else!” But his voice was no nearer. “I suppose we could keep her here. I’m not on the run tonight. You’d look after her?”

  “Of course. Pete—they’d pay. I’m sure they would.”

  “The old man?” This was clearly a new idea. “I reckon you might have something there.” A shout from downstairs. “Right, I’m coming.… I’ve to see them on the way. Shouldn’t be too long. You won’t mind being locked in with her.”