Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘’Alf a sec’, miss, we’ll soon make you comfy.’ A grinning soldier folded his great coat into a cushion and utilised those of his comrades as pillows for her back.

  ‘Oh, thanks—thank you most awfully. But are you quite sure you don’t need them yourself?’

  ‘Not me, miss; and maybe we’re in for a longish run.’

  ‘How too thrilling. I adore motoring at night, but do tell me, where are we going?’ Veronica stretched out her slim legs and wriggled comfortably down into her khaki nest.

  ‘Ah! Now you’re askin’ something.’ The man closed one eye with a knowing wink. ‘I can’t say fer certain but—’

  He settled himself beside Veronica and they continued the conversation in low voices. Kenyon, knowing her so well could imagine the grave face with which she hid her amusement while she led the soldier on to talk.

  The lorries rumbled down Union Road but at the corner where Albion Street leads off to the docks and Blackwall Tunnel, they were forced to slow down. In front of the low dilapidated houses where the street market is held there was a dense mass of people.

  Harker touched Kenyon on the shoulder and pointed to the opposite side of the street. ‘That’s a cheery poster, isn’t it?’

  ‘PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD’ stood out in letters a foot high on a great hoarding. For the moment it looked as if the crowd meant mischief. They booed and cat-called, but the set faces of the soldiers as they trained their rifles on the mob, obviously only waiting for an order to open fire, overawed even the boldest roughs, and they passed the danger point without a clash.

  In the long length of Evelyn Street there were fewer people, only huddled groups gathered here and there on the steps before the dilapidated but still lovely Georgian doorways; yet when they reached its end, it seemed that the whole population of the neighbourhood had gathered in the open space at the entrance of Creek Road. The crowd had evidently broken into the public-house on the corner earlier in the evening, and now they reeled about the pavements, fighting drunk after their unaccustomed orgy of strong spirits.

  A black mass of people packed the street from side to side making it impossible to pass, and immediately the leading lorry appeared one or two youths began to throw broken glasses and beer bottles. Without hesitation Gregory Sallust blew his whistle and the machine-guns started their horrid stutter again.

  Kenyon noticed that a strange look of blank surprise seemed to come over the faces of the people who were hit, then like puppets whose limbs could not support them, they sagged and fell. With incredible speed the mob faded away, scattering in all directions. One great fat man who was evidently too drunk to stand, remained seated on the pavement, a comical air of fright on his round face as he feebly flapped his hands in a futile endeavour to wave away the bullets; with drunkard’s luck he escaped destruction, and was still there hiccoughing and flapping—the only unwounded person in the street—when the lorries moved on again.

  Ann had buried her face in the cool tarpaulin directly the shooting began. She felt that she would be physically sick if she witnessed any more slaughter, and she stopped her ears to shut out the screaming of the wounded.

  Turning up Church Street and over Deptford Bridge they left the Dockland area for the quiet peacefulness of Blackheath. At a steady pace the lorries forged through the night up the long hill past Woolwich Hospital and on through Welling and Bexley Heath; yet although it was well past midnight every publichouse in these outer suburbs had at its doors a little gathering of people wrought to such a pitch of excitement by the events of the last few days that, obviously loath to disperse to their homes, they had forced the landlords to keep open for fear of looting.

  At last when they had passed Crayford they were out in the open country, and were able for a few miles to drink in the clear night air purified by its passage through the wooded giades and Kentish gardens; but all too soon they rumbled past scattered houses again, and then down the hill into Dartford.

  Here too the people seemed to have no thought of bed, but stood on the pavements eyeing them curiously as they passed, and when they reached the main street they found it crowded. From the way the men began to handle their rifles Kenyon feared that there would be further bloodshed, and when the lorry drew to a halt he peered forward anxiously.

  He soon saw that it was not the crowd which caused the delay but a solid barrier of empty cars and vans drawn purposely across the street. A group of men stood near it armed with cudgels, and their leader, a plump, prosperous-looking individual, came forward. Sallust got down to meet him.

  ‘What’s under that tarpaulin?’ asked the man pompously.

  ‘Supplies,’ said Gregory briefly.

  ‘Right! Drive into that yard on the left, will you?’

  ‘What the devil for?’

  ‘To unload. I’m on the Food Committee here, and I have orders to commandeer everything which is brought into the town.’

  ‘Hardly army rations, I think.’

  ‘Yes, everything. The Government is down and out so it’s up to each town to fend for itself now. Why should the soldiers be given preference when there’re hundreds of starving families within a mile of where I stand?’

  ‘Not to mention yourself, eh?’ Sallust’s tone had grown suddenly harsh.

  ‘Now, look here, I’d have you know I’m acting on behalf of the Mayor and Corporation.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve plenty of people to support me.’ The man jerked his head angrily in the direction of his newly enrolled Civic Guard.

  Sallust raised his right eyebrow in symmetry with the left. ‘You don’t seriously suggest that these people would stand a chance against the rifles of my men, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The pompous man drew himself up stiffly. ‘But English soldiers would never fire upon law-abiding citizens. If you refuse I shall address them and I have no doubt that they will agree to their food being distributed among the starving women and children of Dartford.’

  ‘Sorry—but I’ve no time to argue. Tell your people to get that barrier aside at once.’

  ‘Nothing is allowed to pass without permission from the Mayor.’

  ‘To hell with the Mayor!’ snapped Gregory, and jerking out his automatic he jabbed it hard into the fat man’s stomach. ‘Get that barrier moved, d’you hear?’

  The Mayor’s representative paled and stepped quickly back, but Sallust followed. Several of the Civic Guard advanced with threatening faces, but a good-humoured voice came from the lorry:

  ‘Just a little to one side, if you don’t mind, gentlemen; these things is apt to go off sudden, an’ somebody might get ’urt.’ Mr. Rudd leaned negligently from the driver’s seat, a cigarette stuck behind his left ear and a very modern looking pistol dangling loosely from his right hand.

  ‘This is an outrage,’ exclaimed the offended citizen.

  Sallust ignored him, turning swiftly to the others: ‘Do I shoot this bird—or do you move those cars?’

  ‘Better let them through,’ said a thin-faced fellow in a bowler hat.

  ‘Right!—get busy then.’ Gregory returned his pistol to its holster and smiled suddenly at his late victim; ‘Give my love to the Mayor, will you? If I survive I must drop a line to him and recommend you for the Freedom of Dartford—you’d make a good Mayor yourself.’

  Veronica let out a hoot of laughter, and glancing up, Sallust gave her a quick, apprising look before clambering back on to the front of the lorry.

  Ten minutes later the obstructions had been dragged aside. The convoy moved on its way; another brief sight of the open country beyond the last houses of Dartford, and they were running under the railway bridge into the single street which composes the old waterside village of Greenhithe. No one except Sallust was aware of it, but half a mile beyond the hamlet lay their immediate destination.

  He had chosen it for a number of reasons. It was more or less in the direction in which he wished to go yet an oasis off the beaten track, where it wa
s highly improbable that he would find trouble, and thus he could be reasonably certain of securing a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep for his men before proceeding further; moreover, having once been a cadet on H.M.S. Worcester, which lay off the shore, he knew the country round about which might prove advantageous.

  He had even made up his mind as to the quarters he meant to occupy. A large, old-fashioned house called Ingress Abbey, said to have been built out of the stones of old London Bridge, which stood sequestered in a dip midst forty acres of its own grounds looking out over the Thames estuary. He had stared at the house so often during the years he had spent in the Worcester, wondering who lived there and if they had cakes for tea. It would be amusing now, he thought, to eat the cakes and stare at the old wooden battleship. Of course the house might not be occupied, for who with sufficient income to keep it up would care to live overlooking the mud flats of the Thames—their only neighbours longshoremen and the riff-raff of the seven seas cast up by the world’s shipping.

  Once through Greenhithe he halted the convoy and took the lead himself—up the steep hill which joins the main road, then round a hairpin bend down the curved black darkness of the Abbey drive shut in by the swaying tree-tops. Out into the open again, the river shimmered dully on their left and the big square house loomed up gaunt and stark among its shrubberies to the landward side, against the pale starlight of the summer night.

  The lorries were turned and parked with military precision, their bonnets towards the gate, ready to set off at any moment. Gregory sent the sergeant to reconnoitre the house and told Rudd to get enough food out of the lorry to provide a good meal for the troops; then he paraded his force, numbered them off by sixes and selected a guard by making every sixth man take a pace to the front. He posted one sentry on the lorries, and one each to the front and back of the house, then sent the remainder, in charge of a corporal, up to the lodge at the entrance to the drive with instructions that another should be posted on the gate and the balance used as relief every two hours throughout the night.

  The sergeant returned to make his report: The house is empty, sir, but furnished—might be a school or something from the look of things; I was h’obliged to force an entrance.’

  ‘Very good, sergeant. March the men in. They can occupy the whole of the ground floor. Pick any men you want for fatigues from the Greyshirts.’ He swung quickly on Harker: ‘You’ve no objection to that, have you? My men are doing guard.’

  ‘No, that’s fair enough,’ the American nodded.

  Sallust turned to Kenyon, Ann, and Veronica who were standing just behind him; ‘We may as well go in. Rudd will have some food for us presently, but it will take a little time to get the fires going, I expect.’

  Inside, the soldiers had already flung off their heavy accoutrements and were busy securing the best corners in the downstairs rooms for the night. As Gregory glanced about him he remembered how he used to come down by an early train on rejoining ship the first day of the term, in order to bag the softest mattress, and he smiled good-naturedly at the men. One room on the ground floor, he noted, was a chapel, panelled with lovely old Flemish carving; in the left hand corner by the altar stood a War Memorial.

  He looked into another room converted into a sick bay and saw with approval that one of the Greyshirts had opened up the medicine chest and was busy treating the cuts and bruises of the wounded.

  Rudd had already annexed the Greyshirt, Bob, as his assistant, and they were busy lighting the fire in a room filled with working models of aeroplanes, upstairs. He stood up as Gregory came in.

  ‘Issued the rations?’ asked the General.

  ‘Yes, sir! Tinned ’am and beans is wot they get ternight, but I got a little something speshul fer you and the ladies.’

  ‘Good! Did you tell the Corporal of the Guard to keep an eye on that lorry?’

  ‘Yes, sir! Told ’im ’is own muvver wouldn’t know ’im termorrer mornin’ if there was so much as a pineapple chunk missin’ aht of a tin.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Gregory agreed, as Quartermaster-Sergeant—batman to the General—Lorry Driver—Mr. Rudd left the room. Then he undid his Sam-Browne belt and flung it into a corner while the others sank wearily on to the stiff-backed chairs.

  Harker came in. ‘I’ve been having a chat with the boys,’ he announced. Told them that they’d better muck in with your crowd since we may be together for some little time.’

  ‘Good, we shall be.’ Gregory stretched his feet to the blaze. ‘What’s your name, by the by?’

  ‘Silas Gonderport Harker. What’s yours?’

  ‘Gregory Sallust. Do you know these people here—by name, I mean?’

  The American shook his head.

  ‘Well, the lady with the big eyes is Ann Croome, and this tall chap is Kenyon Fane.’ He looked at Veronica and hesitated. ‘I’m not quite certain about you myself?’

  ‘Veronica Wensleadale. I’m Fane’s sister,’ she added.

  ‘I thought so.’ He grinned. ‘Well, now we all know each other.’

  ‘You are a strange bird for a British General,’ said Harker thoughtfully.

  ‘Any complaints?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘Right. Do you accept my absolute and unquestioned command of this party, or do you wish to clear out with your men?’

  ‘It suits me to stick to you for the time being if you’re willing.’

  ‘Good, then let’s get below and see if the men are getting their rations.’

  Gregory buckled on his belt again and the American followed him out of the room.

  ‘What is he doing in that get-up?’ asked Ann directly they had gone.

  ‘Do you know him then?’ inquired Veronica.

  ‘Of course. He was living in Gloucester Road. He said he was a journalist then.’

  ‘Why worry,’ Kenyon shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘He’s damned efficient, anyhow.’

  Veronica raised her eyebrows. ‘But you must admit it’s odd.’

  ‘Not really. He must have been doing Secret Service work before.’ He sank his head between his hands; it was aching abominably now that the excitement was over.

  When Sallust returned he found them sitting in silence, the flickering light of the fire the only relief to the shadows of the room; in another few moments they would all have been sound asleep. Behind him came Rudd, who switched on the lights and began to clear the big table of its charts and models. Ann looked at Gregory and marvelled. His lean face seemed ten years younger and he showed no trace of weariness despite the long day.

  Silas Harker appeared carrying a couple of bottles. ‘All I could find,’ he said. ‘The cellar’s as dry as a bone so I had to rob the sanatorium.’

  ‘Better than nothing,’ Gregory agreed, looking at the bottles, ‘although I’d give the earth for a quart of champagne.’

  Rudd left them again and came back with a steaming dish of sausages and macaroni. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologised, ‘but we’re out of spuds. There’s tinned goosgogs an’ a bit of cheese to foller—will that be all right?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Sallust drew his chair to the top of the table. ‘Let us go in to dinner,’ he observed dryly; ‘Harker, will you take the bottom of the table and act as Mr. Vice?’

  The American’s plump face wrinkled into a smile. ‘Just what does that mean?’

  ‘Quite simple. After we’ve fed, Rudd will serve the Invalid Port, I shall stand up and say “Mr. Vice, The King!”—you will then spring smartly to your feet and say: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The King!” upon which we shall all drain a bumper to His Majesty. That clear?’

  ‘Sure,’ Harker grinned.

  ‘Right, we shall then, ladies and gentlemen, return the compliment to my second-in-command by drinking the health of the President of the United States—after which we shall sink into a drunken slumber. Let’s eat the sausages while they’re hot.’

  His ironic humour had the effect of rousing the others from their lethargy. They had eaten
nothing for the best part of twelve hours, and once they tasted food they fell to ravenously.

  For twenty minutes they laughed and ate, forgetting for the moment their strange situation. The toasts were drunk as the General had directed, then he lit a cigarette and sank back in his chair.

  ‘We’ll get some sleep in a minute,’ he announced, ‘but first I want to talk to you. I suppose you realise that we are all in an appalling mess?’

  A succession of nods greeted his statement.

  ‘Good. Well, quite frankly, I don’t want you with me. Women are a handicap at such a time, but when Rudd spotted Ann at that window I couldn’t very well leave her to be burnt alive—and my sentimentality having’ got the better of my common sense, I had to save you all. Having gone so far, if you wish to stay with me I’ll take you along, but it’s on the understanding that you take your orders unreservedly from me, otherwise you must clear off tomorrow morning and face whatever is coming on your own.’

  ‘I’ve always adored soldiers,’ said Veronica brightly, ‘and I should feel so safe under your protection, Mon Général.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he smiled, ‘and since your request, Ann, of a few hours ago to take you with me, seems to have been granted by Providence despite my refusal, I know your answer already. What about you, Fane?’

  ‘My first duty is to the girls. If they are agreed about it I am quite prepared to take my orders from you.’

  ‘Good. Had any military experience?’

  ‘O.T.C. at Eton.’

  Sallust nodded. ‘I’m glad of that. You see, present conditions are quite exceptional. Here am I, with the rank of Brigadier and entitled to the command of about four thousand men, stuck in charge of these lorries and a miserable platoon, without even a subaltern under me. But the whole Military Organisation is upside down so it’s up to me to act on my own initiative and make the best arrangements that I can. If you travel with us you will have to do your whack, so I propose to appoint you as temporary officer under Harker, who has some sort of claim to the job already, and the two of you can help me run this outfit.’