The bridge had stretched between two flat rocks, the one on the far bank being several feet nearer the stream than its opposite number, and the iron stanchions to which the wooden structure had been fastened still protruded from the crevices on the bank on which they stood. The river here was about twelve yards wide and ran swiftly through a tiny gorge toward shallow rapids about fifty yards downstream. It was probably ten feet deep where it passed the bridgehead, but because of the height of the banks at this point there were no shallows on either side. Elsewhere the stream broadened to as much as sixty feet but, even there, was far too deep and too swift-running for wading. Lockhart sounded it here and there with a tall bullrush, but in most places the bed shelved very steeply, and Graham soon made up his mind that their chance of crossing lay in getting the rope across the bottleneck and anchoring it on the farther side. Then, with luck, he thought, the file might cross singly, clinging to the rope and being hauled up the bank by whoever had gone over first.
Lockhart said soberly, “No matter how strong a swimmer you be, sir, you’ll not make yon bank with a heavy rope attached to ’ee, for when her’s wet her’ll weigh considerable! Still, mebbe we can get over that if us makes a guide rope to carry the big ’un. Seed it done, I have, when I was a little lad!” He looked more than usually thoughtful as he plodded back to the hamlet.
The landscape was still empty of life and movement. Not a sheep or goat showed on the hillside and even the birds seemed to have deserted the area. It was so quiet and still that Graham made up his mind to attempt the crossing in daylight and, having gained the south bank, to make for the woods on the horizon, where there was good cover and a chance of making bivouac for the night. It was curious, he thought, how new was this prejudice on his part for cover. Always as a boy he had loved moors and gorse-grown hills, preferring them to the deep woods that covered the area close to his home, yet now he was beginning to hate open country, reflecting that from the very commencement of their flight he had hugged trees, scrub-sown crevices and gullies, feeling naked and defenseless in the open. He outlined his plan to Gwyneth and the men, and there was no dissension, no argument at all. Each of them was aware that safety lay only in the deep woods on the far side of the river and each shared Graham’s distrust of the open.
Before they left, Lockhart made his guideline, a hodgepodge of twine unwound from the cracked stock of a musket and lengthened by the unpicked hemline of Gwyneth’s tattered green dress. All the time the man’s blunt, skillful fingers were busy with the task Graham was conscious of the woman’s anxious attention, and he said, more to reassure himself than her, “I once swam across the Medway for a wager.” But although she threw him a swift glance and Watson whistled approval, not one of them ceased to watch Lockhart until he stood up, looped his line around his elbow and said, “I reckon her’ll do, zir, but dornee put much strain on her!” Glad to relieve tension, they made ready to go.
On the way down the riverbank to the spot they had chosen, Graham’s fear left his belly, replaced there by a sense of exhilaration that continued to mount until he was standing on the rock above the torrent watching Lockhart fasten one end of the belfry rope to the iron stanchion. He would have thought that the prospect of plunging into the swift current would terrify him, but now that the actual moment was here he grasped at the opportunity of contributing something positive to their salvation. Day after day, throughout the whole of the interminable trek, he had been dismayed by a feeling of personal inadequacy. First it had been the sergeant who had led and afterward, in all but title, the woman. Every crisis that had been passed since Captain Sowden fell dead at the bridge had been met by one of the others, and each time this had occurred Graham had known shame. It was the bulk of Strawbridge that had enabled them to climb the rock face and pass into the woods, and it had been the sergeant’s reckless courage that had covered their escape from the lancers. Later it had been Gwyneth who charted their route and poor, stupid Strawbridge who had facilitated their escape from the partisans. Even the invaluable rope had been secured by Watson’s agility, but now at last he was about to do something that not one of them could attempt and the knowledge steadied his nerve and lifted his spirits as he stripped to his drawers and issued his final instructions.
He told Lockhart to make all of them undress and roll their shoes and clothes into bundles that could be maneuvered along the downward slant of the rope when it was made taut. The muskets could come across the same way and Lockhart showed them how to make running slings of their crossbelts and attach their weapons and bundles of clothes to the buckles. The men showed a curious unwillingness to strip before the woman, and Watson particularly wriggled with embarrassment, until Gwyneth, making nothing of it, hoisted the tatters of her gown and tucked them into the waistband of the white drawers that Graham had given her. But when he saw her tie her brogues together and hang them around her neck he protested.
“You would do better to put them in one of the bundles,” he said, but she shook her head and helped him to fasten the guideline around his waist.
“I have crossed many rivers in this fashion,” she said. “Go upstream as far as the line will reach. In that way you will get a few yards’ leeway when the current catches you.”
He decided to follow her advice and they walked along the rock for the length of the line, standing a little apart from the others as they took their private leave taking.
“Will you wade as far as you can?” she asked, and he said no, he would dive, for this would give him a start over the current. Then he turned, facing the stream, and braced himself, but as he did so he felt her hand on his shoulder and looking over his shoulder he saw that her lip was trembling. Her sudden weakness surprised him and he said brusquely, “I’ll get across, never worry!”
She replied in a whisper, “Then God bless you, Mr. Graham, for it’s a brave thing for any man to attempt!”
At that he hesitated no longer, leaping from the elevated rock with every ounce of his strength. As he rushed down he heard them give a thin, scattering cheer and then the current seized him like a dead leaf and he was turning over and over in midstream with walls of water rushing down upon him in a mood of savage frolic.
There were underwater rocks that he had not suspected and one of them grazed his side as another struck his instep like a blow from a club. Striking out madly, he fought his way to the surface, throwing up his head and beating the water in a frenzy. The torrent was ice cold, but he was so occupied with maintaining his slanting direction that he noticed nothing but its effort to hold him to the center of the current. Twice, as he slid over submerged rocks, he bobbed up shoulder-high, and the second time, spinning like a twig, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the group on the bank. Then his knees buckled under him as he touched bottom and clawed at the edge of the slab-sided platform of rock forming the farther bridgehead, losing it, finding it again and finally rolling over and over into a runnel where the torrent swept over his head but failed to dislodge him.
He rose to the surface dazed and spent, but as he staggered clear he remembered to lift his hand in acknowledgment of the cheer that piped across the river. Only then did he remember the guideline attached to his wrist and in sudden panic he clutched at it, finding it still secure and dragging at him as he crawled higher up the bank.
He was very cold now, his body shuddering as he gulped the moist air, but as soon as he got his breath he began capering and slapping himself like a boy on a frosty morning. Then he heard Lockhart hailing, saw that the gamekeeper was signaling him to pull on the guideline and a moment later heard the bell rope slide into the water, and he pulled it in hand over hand, bracing himself against the rock to counter its drag. There was a single bent spike embedded in the runnel where the bridge had been anchored and he knotted the sodden rope around the metal. As he did so, however, he felt a sharp pricking sensation under his ribs and, glancing down, was surprised to see a film of blood spreading over his thigh. The rock had lacerated his side just above th
e hip and when he put weight on his left leg it pained him and he remembered the impact of the boulders on his instep. The shock of the water, however, had invigorated him and he made light of his injuries, signaling to Lockhart to loop the first of the bundles on the running noose. The firearms came over easily, propelled by their own weight, sliding just clear of the water, but the transfer of the bundles proved a tricky and tiresome business, necessitating a prolonged series of tugs from Graham’s side and sometimes sagging into the stream, from which they had to be jerked free and set in motion once more. Every bundle that reached him was soaked, but he laid them out in a row and shouted to the men to begin their crossing.
Watson came first, managing it very expertly, for he was the most agile among them and his weight was insignificant. He came across like a monkey, balancing on the rope, using his crossed legs as a pulley and making the journey in under a minute. He laughed as he scrambled ashore and turned to shout encouragement to Curle, who followed far less expertly and, to judge by his expression, with considerable anxiety. Then Gwyneth slung herself across the rope, ignoring Watson’s spate of advice, not a word of which she could have heard above the roar of the water.
At first she tried Watson’s method, kneeling in the slack of the rope and propelling herself forward by her crossed feet, but less than halfway across she lost her balance and swung around so abruptly that each one of them shouted with alarm as they saw her supported by her hands, with her legs deep in the water. Graham jumped in waist-deep, but her voice sang across the space between them as she shouted, “Go back, I’m coming over!” He retreated up the bank as she swung at arm’s length, the current tugging at her legs. Then, with a carefully judged action, she drew herself higher, hooking one leg clear of the flood so that it gave her the leverage to begin moving again.
Astonishingly a note of comedy entered the scene. It was droll to see her clinging so, with her ample behind an inch or so clear of the water and her brogues emerging like grotesque earrings from her trailing hair. First Watson began to laugh and then Graham found himself laughing too, as slowly and painstakingly she eased herself along the rope in a series of contractions and expansions, her tresses dipping the water with every foot she progressed. When at last they pulled her onto the bank she said breathlessly, “I was a fool to listen to you, Watson! I should have done better to start out like that!” And she advised Graham to give the rope another turn around the stanchion before Lockhart or Croyde attempted the crossing.
Lockhart was now shouting something that Graham could not catch, and then, to the four gathered on the western bank, it seemed as though the two men on the farther bank were engaged in some kind of argument, for Lockhart made a number of threatening gestures and Croyde squared up to him as though a fight was imminent, but in the end the gamekeeper turned away and spat on his hands preparatory to straddling the rope. He climbed across awkwardly but doggedly, taking more than twice as long to cross as had the others, but he arrived without incident. When Graham reached down to help him to the top of the bank he said breathlessly, “Croyde won’t leave that belt he’s wearing! I reasoned with the vool, but it was useless. You should have took it from him bevore you crossed, sir, for what’s in it belongs to all of us!” He turned to the others as though for confirmation of the claim.
Graham had noted the heavy canvas girdle when Croyde had peeled off his breeches, but he had not recognized it as the money belt that Gwyneth had spoken of back at the partisan camp. He could not understand from Lockhart’s grumbling remark whether the gamekeeper meant that the money belonged to the file as loot or, in the more official sense, as part of their traveling equipment, but it did not seem to him to have much importance now, for they were unlikely to need money during the remainder of their journey. He said briefly, “To hell with Croyde’s belt. Get dressed, all of you, and head for the woods at the double!” Then, turning, he beckoned urgently to Croyde, who was standing at the edge of the flat rock, presumably trying to pluck up courage to cross.
The ex-smuggler had not needed to be reminded of the belt by Lockhart. He had watched, with the deepest concern, Graham’s initial struggle in the flood and afterward the perilous crossing of the drummer and the woman. Although he had a wider experience of the sea than any of them, he hated and feared water, and only the prospect of being left behind among murderous partisans and the French encouraged him to consider trusting his weight to the slender thread stretched over a leaping torrent. He could not swim a stroke and it seemed to him that the rope had stretched a good deal under the passage of the others and was likely to sag below the surface level before he was halfway across.
He had thought about the belt as soon as he learned they were to cross the river on a rope, and his common sense told him that it was folly to make the attempt handicapped by something weighing several pounds, yet it called for more resolution than he possessed to abandon money he had carried thus far. Ever since he had buried his friend Lickspittle the belt had been a source of comfort and security to him, giving him something that he had never possessed, confidence in the future and in his ability to stand on his own without having to lean upon others. He had parted with the guinea because the woman had made it very clear to him that unless the partisan Pedrillo could be bribed they would be murdered out of hand, and he had to admit that events had proved her correct. Prior to becoming the owner of the belt he had never thought very much at all, but possession of money converted him into a contemplative man and it seemed to him, looking back on the incident of the bribe, that the guinea had been well invested, for in some strange manner it had led to their escape from the partisans. Surely this, if anything, proved the power of money, and who but a fool would abandon a double handful of silver pieces on the bank of a river in the wilderness? He stood looking down on the rope and occasionally casting a glance at the gesticulating Graham and the others beside him, who were now dressing themselves preparatory to marching off. He was terrified of beginning the crossing but even more frightened by the prospect of being left behind to fend for himself. Yet he could not bring himself to throw aside the belt, and the longer he hesitated the heavier and more constricting it seemed to become, enclosing his waist like a girdle of chain mail and chafing the flesh of his belly below the navel. His thick fingers toyed with the knots above the hipbone, and the roar of the torrent filled his brain with a tumult of doubts and fears, making him grimace and fidget under the scourge of indecision.
He must have remained standing there for several minutes before he saw the others on the far bank pick up their equipment and turn their backs on him. It was a mere ruse on Graham’s part to compel Croyde to make up his mind one way or the other, but Croyde at once interpreted the movement as a concerted decision to abandon him. With a grunt of dismay he laid hold of the rope and inched himself clear of the rock platform, wobbling perilously as his knees and feet scrabbled for a grip, then swinging right around and dangling as the woman had done in midstream. He was aware, however, that the others had turned their faces to the river again and were now awaiting him, and the relief arising from this encouraged him to drag himself clear of the bank so that he looked down on an inverted picture of the boiling water and half-submerged rocks pointing up at him like the snouts of sharks.
His fears regarding the sag of the rope were well founded. Before he had traveled half the distance the water was splashing his face so that he jerked his head higher and higher, clasping the rope with his forearms and bending his body in an arc in a desperate attempt to hoist himself clear of the dragging current. It was then, when he was more than halfway across, that he saw the drifting log bearing down on him. It was not a very large log, just a heavy branch of pine with a growth of dead twigs sprouting from it and a tangle of brier trailing from one of the projections. It was heading straight for him, and in the extremity of his terror he saw it not as a branch weighing a few pounds but as the trunk of a huge tree, capable of smashing into his awkwardly poised body like a giant battering ram and drivin
g him down into the water. The rope at this point was almost touching the surface, and the floating branch was stopped by it, part of the flotsam shooting under Croyde’s arched back and tugging at him gently and insistently. As the twigs touched his bare skin he screamed and lost his foothold and for a moment swung by his hands chest-deep in the flood. Then, as the twigs probed and shifted, he remembered the belt. It was as though the piece of debris were a spidery water creature intent on depriving him of his money before devouring him as prey. With the whole of his being he resented and opposed this spoliation, and in an effort to combat the thrust of the branches he whipped his left hand from the rope and struck at the twigs, beating the water and kicking out with both legs in an attempt to assist the current in freeing the horrid thing and sending it on its journey downstream. For a few seconds, while the others pranced and shouted on the bank, he hung by one hand, but while he did so other pieces of driftwood began to pile up behind the spray of branches. Their weight, added to the relentless drag of the current, tore his right hand from the rope and sent him rolling over and over in the brown flood. The weight of the belt dragged him down into ten or twelve feet of rushing water and in the struggle below the surface he once more became entangled in the hateful embrace of the twigs. They saw him rise once or twice as the midstream current seized him and then he disappeared as the pine branches bobbed up and spun in the slow swirl of the bend above the rapids.
Graham, Watson and Curle rushed along the bank shouting, Graham with the guideline coiled like a lasso ready to be thrown the moment Croyde appeared among the white breaks of the water, but he did not reappear—and would not do so until a succession of dry summers reduced the torrent to a trickle and exposed Croyde’s skeleton wedged between two rocks like a bolt of metal hammered into the crevices of a wall. That was years after the war, when two boys were looking for trout under the stones, and it was a lucky find for the village as a community. The belt was still there, anchored by weed to the stones, and the money in it was used to buy materials for a strong metal bridge at the very spot where Croyde had fought his losing battle with the piece of flotsam.
Too Few for Drums Page 15