by Henry Wade
“Thank God”, he said. “I thought I’d bungled it again.”
David laughed.
“He turned a bit just as you fired”, he said. “Never mind; you’ve got him all right; he won’t get up again.”
They walked forward and stood looking down at the stag. A small patch of blood showed on the shoulder. The beast was not quite dead; an occasional gasping breath shook its body, but otherwise it lay quite still and its eyes were already glazing.
“Cut the windpipe, I think”, said David; “smashed the shoulder too; wonderful how he stood up at all.”
He tapped the stag’s horn sharply with his stick; there was no sign of feeling.
“Unconscious. The knife’ll do it.”
He clapped Eustace on the shoulder.
“Good for you. Nothing wrong with your aim, but it went in at an angle because of his turning—just missed the heart but cut the windpipe. You’ll have to be blooded.”
Eustace started. His heart began to quicken now; the time was coming.
“I’d like . . . I’d like to gralloch him if you’ll show me”, he said.
David looked at him with surprise.
“Would you really? It’s a messy job, you know. Got a knife?”
Eustace shook his head and David unhitched his own long knife from his belt and opened it.
“Coat off. Sleeves up”, he said, setting the example.
Eustace felt the point and edge of the knife on his thumb. Perfect. His eyes, if he could have known it, were glittering with excitement. David took hold of the stag’s horns and pulled the head round, stretching the neck for the ‘bleeding’ thrust.
“Just above the breast-bone”, he said.
Eustace took a step forward, struck his foot against a rock and stumbled against David, thrusting the knife into his groin. The unfortunate man staggered back.
“God! You’ve stuck me!” he cried. “Pull it out!”
Eustace gave a sharp tug and the blade, which had not gone in very far, came out. A gush of blood spurted out on to his hand. With a groan of pain David sank back on to the heather, clutching at his knickerbockers.
“Oh Lord! Oh David! I’m . . . I’m frightfully sorry . . . what have I done?”
Eustace was overwhelmed with delight at the success of his thrust; he felt certain that he had severed the femoral artery, just at the junction of thigh and abdomen. It would be almost impossible to stop the haemorrhage, even if he had wanted to. Completely confident and master of himself now, his acting was superb. Dropping his knife, he sank down beside his cousin and stared in horror at the flowing blood. David glared at him, white-faced.
“What the hell were you doing? Here, we must stop this. Fold up your handkerchief! Tear up your shirt! Quick, man! Bandages! We must make a tourniquet somehow or I shall bleed to death.”
With fumbling hands he tore open his knickerbockers, thrust them down, then placed Eustace’s folded handkerchief against the wound and pressed it tight. Eustace had wrenched off his shirt and, as he tore it into strips, David bound them tightly round his thigh. Eustace’s fingers itched to do the job properly, but he could not help admiring the way this layman set about the work—these war soldiers knew too much. Still, the wound was too high up for easy bandaging with such inadequate material. His aim had been a shade too low; his intention had been to sever the artery at the base of the abdomen, perhaps half an inch above the crease of the thigh; then the abdominal muscles would have made it impossible to keep pressure on the artery. As it was, the wound was exactly on the crease, where bandaging, even with a tourniquet, was intensely difficult.
“Break the end off my stick and shove it through the bandage; only a short bit. That’s it, now twist it. God! Now tie the ends above and below. That’s the best we can do. God knows if it’ll stop it. Or how I’ll ever get down from here.”
“I’ll go and get help”, said Eustace anxiously.
“There’s no one to get; the launch is the only hope and it won’t be back for hours yet. I can’t wait here alone. It might start again and I’m getting weak. I might not be able to stop it. You must stay with me. When Donald comes in sight, light three smoke fires; there’s paper and matches in my pocket; collect bracken and heather and get them ready. He’ll put his glass on them and you must semaphore. Can you semaphore?”
“No”, lied Eustace. “I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll teach you. S.O.S. is all he’ll want.”
Cool and indomitable, the old Coldstreamer showed Eustace the arm-positions for the three vital letters, showed him how to make the smoke fires, sent him for water, ate his own lunch, drank a little whisky from his flask.
“That’s all we can do for the moment”, he said. “God, Eustace, what were you up to?”
“I . . . I stumbled. I completely lost my balance.”
“It seems impossible. Why were you holding the knife so high as to get me there?”
“I’m most frightfully sorry, David. I can’t tell you . . . I can never forgive myself.”
David stared at him, a frown on his face.
“I can’t understand . . .” he began, then suddenly collapsed in a dead faint.
Instantly Eustace leapt forward, thrust his fingers under the bandage and pulled apart the lips of the wound. He felt the warm blood well over his fingers. Gently he moved the leg, increasing the flow of blood. Suddenly David’s eyes opened, stared at him. Taken by surprise, Eustace recoiled with a gasp. With an effort David sat up, looked down at his disarranged bandage, then back at Eustace, suspicion blazing in his eyes.
“God! You did it on purpose! You’re trying to kill me! You bloody murderer, if I could get at that rifle. . . .”
Eustace jumped back, picked up the rifle. But the effort had been too much for David; he had fainted again. Eustace kept his distance, afraid to get into the grips of this desperate, dying man. He picked up the knife and hid it behind a rock. Time passed; it was two o’clock. Again David opened his eyes; as consciousness returned to him he looked at Eustace with a cold fury of rage, at the same time trying to press the tourniquet down into position. Eustace knew that a steady drain of blood must be going on now, that it was only a matter of time—an hour or two. But he could not face those fierce, implacable eyes; he moved round behind David; the dying man tried to follow him with his head, as if suspecting an attack from behind. Eustace walked over the crest and sat down, staring out to sea.
Now that the thing was done, reaction began to set in and he found himself trembling. It was an awful thing to have done. Accustomed as he was to blood and the horror of approaching death, he thought he would never get the look in David’s eyes out of his mind. He couldn’t face them again while the man lived. While he lived? God, supposing he recovered? In sudden panic Eustace sprang to his feet, crept back to the ridge to see. . . . David had disappeared!
With a stifled cry Eustace looked wildly round. Impossible that . . . ah, there he was, ten yards down the hill, lying on his face. He must have been trying to crawl down and have fainted again. Cautiously Eustace approached, the rifle in his hand. Could this be a trick to get him within reach? No, there was no mistaking that look; the man was out. Not dead yet; there was a flutter in the pulse; but it was very unlikely that he would ever regain consciousness. Taking the heavy body under the arms, Eustace dragged it back to its original position by the stag, arranged it as comfortably as possible; examined the wound—yes, there was still a slight steady ooze.
Eustace looked about him. It was getting on for three; Donald might be back before long; he must tidy up before anyone came. In the first place, the stag; he had forgotten all about it. Now he found that the poor beast had died without the aid of the knife-thrust that had found a different billet. Never mind; a thrust must be made—a partial thrust—to support his story. That done, Eustace wiped his own fingermarks from the handle of the knife, clasped David’s hand round it, let the knife drop beside him. He examined the ground and found smears of blood on the grass and
stones where David had dragged himself along; he obliterated them. That was all. He sat down to wait. Four o’clock came; no sign of the launch. David’s pulse still fluttered, but only a doctor could have found it now. 4.30. Ah, there was the launch, just coming round the point. In a minute Eustace had the three fires burning, tall columns of smoke rising, bending as they came into the wind. Through his glass he saw Donald reach for his own, direct it on the smoke. Eustace jumped up and signalled. S.O.S. . . . S.O.S. . . . went his arms. He saw Donald jump up, signal R.D., then swing the launch in towards the nearest point of the shore, drop anchor, leap into the dinghy and pull furiously for the shore.
As he watched the man come bounding up the hill Eustace realized that the crisis had come. Could he make them believe his story?
“Ma God, sirr, what’s happened to the Captain?”
Panting and pouring with sweat, Donald stood staring at the white still face, the blood-stained bandages.
“There’s been a dreadful accident, Donald”, stammered Eustace, real agitation now helping him to play his part. “He was just starting to bleed the stag when it struck out—drove the knife into his leg. It must have cut an artery or something; we couldn’t stop it bleeding.”
Donald examined the bandage.
“Ye’ve made a fine tourniquet; that should have done the trick. He’s no deid?”
“No, I don’t think so, but he’s fainted several times. I’m afraid he’s very bad. We must carry him down.”
With the help of the two sticks and the coats they made a rough stretcher, slung the rifle and glasses over their shoulders and made off slowly down the hill. Donald had picked up the knife, folded it and put it in his pocket. Fortunately the going was smoother, or their frail stretcher would not have stood the strain. It took them an hour to get down to the shore; they lifted the stretcher into the dinghy and a minute or two later from the dinghy into the gently swaying launch, placing it on the floor. While Donald turned his back to start the engine Eustace bent down and felt for the pulse; there was no longer even the faintest flutter.
Chapter Eleven
The Procurator Fiscal
THE voyage in the launch back to Glenellich was a terrible strain upon Eustace’s nerves. The sight of the dead man lying on the bottom of the boat, covered only with a tarpaulin, was bad enough, but it was Donald’s persistent questioning that nearly drove him to distraction. Not that the boatman showed any sign of being suspicious; he was merely curious and excited; at their first meeting Eustace had thought him calm and imperturbable but now he talked incessantly, having to hear the story over and over again, airing his own theories, recounting the experiences of others—the ‘accident lore’ of the west coast.
It was nearly seven o’clock when they got back to the little harbour, and to his dismay Eustace saw that Blanche and Joan, with old McShail, were waiting for them at the pier, the stalker scanning them through his glass. Suddenly Eustace realized what had happened; the officious Donald had lowered the launch’s red ensign to half-mast and McShail had instantly spotted it. The landing, the explanation of the accident, the carrying of David’s body into the house, all these were a long-drawn-out nightmare to Eustace, who was already exhausted by what he had been through. Joan Hope-Fording was white and hysterical, Blanche much the calmer of the two, though she obviously felt the shock terribly. McShail was respectfully sympathetic, but full of technical inquisitiveness; Eustace managed to put him off on to Donald.
It was Blanche who took charge of the situation. A doctor must be sent for, and as there was no telephone at Glenellich Donald would have to run across to Mallaig in the launch. At the same time the police had better be told. She did not know what Scottish procedure was or whether they had Coroners, but the police would deal with that. Eustace had better have a bath and some dinner before anyone started worrying him with questions. Eustace had already given her a brief account of the accident and was intensely thankful to be left in peace for a while. He lay for half an hour in a boiling mustard bath—without shirt and jacket, his heavy overcoat had not saved him from getting terribly cold in the launch—and gradually his nerves calmed down and he was able to think. He knew that he had a severe ordeal in front of him—the questioning that was bound to come from doctor and police—but he believed he could outwit them and the great, triumphant fact remained that he had done what he came up to do; David was out of his path, and as soon as old Barradys and the invalid Desmond went their inevitable way he would reap his rich reward.
It was ten o’clock before they heard the sound of the launch returning. There was fairly bright moonlight and in it Eustace could see that there was a second, larger launch behind the Glenellich boat. In a few minutes two figures came ashore, one of them in police uniform. The other, a sturdy little man, at once approached Eustace and introduced himself.
“I’m Dr. Kennedy”, he said. “No doubt you’ll be Mr. Eustace Hendel that Donald was telling us about. This is a terrible affair, sir. I have brought over Police-Constable Laing of the County Constabulary. You understand that there’ll have to be an enquiry, of course. Everything will be done to avoid distressing you and Captain Hendel’s relatives and friends, but there are certain inevitable formalities.”
Eustace nodded to the policeman, and led the way to the gun-room, in which David’s body was lying. The two men stood looking down at the tragic figure. Dr. Kennedy bent down and undid the tourniquet, which was still in position.
“You made a good job of that”, he said. “That would have stopped it if anything could.”
“He showed me how to do it”, said Eustace. “He was wonderful.”
There was an effective catch in his voice. He really did feel admiration for David . . . now that he was dead.
“Ay, he would be. I know his sort. Donald told us what happened but no doubt Laing will want your own account. I’ll make a short examination here, but of course there’ll have to be a P.M. Just tell me this; did the knife stay in the wound? How far did it go in?”
“I don’t really know”, said Eustace. “I was a yard or two away. I saw him bend down to bleed the stag and the stag strike out with its fore-leg. David fell back clutching his leg and then I saw him throw the knife on the ground. I think he must have pulled it out.”
Dr. Kennedy nodded.
“It looks like that”, he said. “It’s a nasty wound with a blade that size, even if it isn’t very deep.”
By the light of his torch he carefully examined the wound, clucking his tongue as he did so.
“Severed the femoral artery at the base of the abdomen; half an inch lower and your tourniquet might have saved him. Well, I can’t do any more here. You’d like to hear what happened, I expect, Laing.”
The constable pulled out a massive note-book.
“If Misterr Hendel will give me a full narrrative for ma reporrt”, he said.
Slowly, with long pauses while the constable scribbled, Eustace told his tale, described shortly the voyage round, the stalk, the shooting of the stag.
“My cousin took off his coat to gralloch the stag”, he went on. “I was a few yards away, unloading the rifle. I saw him, as I told you, bend down to put the knife in its throat and as . . .”
“Half a minute”, said Dr. Kennedy. “Was the stag dead then? I’m no deer-stalker myself; I don’t know what happens.”
“I thought it was dead”, said Eustace, who realized that this was thin ice, “but apparently it wasn’t, because as the knife pricked its throat it struck out with its foot. It must have been not quite dead.”
“Not necessarily”, said the doctor. “There was a case in this country not long ago where a man was killed by a blow from an ox he was actually skinning. And I’ve even heard of a surgeon doing a post-mortem getting a slog in the eye from the dead man’s arm.”
He chuckled, quite unmoved by the presence of the body on which he was to do just such an examination tomorrow.
“Ay, I mind that slaughterhoose case”, said Laing. “
And A’ve hearrd tell of a case just like this, of a stalker being wounded by a stag he was bleeding. Likely Jim McShail would mind who it was.”
There was a step in the passage, the door opened, and in walked the stalker, carrying the two rifles which he had been oiling. Dr. Kennedy winked at Eustace, as if to show what he thought of the coincidence.
“We were calling to mind yon case of a stalker who had just such an accident as this”, said Laing. “Do ye mind who it was, James McShail?”
McShail methodically put away the rifles before answering.
“There was Angus McDonald o’ Glenfarran that was struck in the face by a staag as he took hold of its fut; he lost an ee. An’ there was yon Adams up at Runie, a daft fellow. He put his blade into the ghilly’s wrist.”
“Na, na, James; I didna mean them. There was a case away back, I’ve heard ma faither speak of it. A case like this where the staag strruck the knife into a stalker’s leg.”
Eustace was not sure whether to be pleased or anxious at this delving into the past. No doubt it was the case of the Fannich stalker that Laing had in mind. But McShail had not heard of it, and Eustace was allowed to continue his story.
“I saw the stag’s leg jerk out and David stagger back. His back was slightly towards me. I saw him throw the knife on the ground and then collapse. I ran up to him and found him holding his hands against the wound. We bandaged it as best we could—as you saw, doctor—but we couldn’t stop the bleeding. The launch had gone to Mallaig; I wanted to try and get back here for help but David didn’t want to be left. We waited for the launch. He was gradually getting weaker all the time and he was unconscious before Donald got back with the launch. I think he was dead before we got him down; I couldn’t feel his pulse at all when we got him on board. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“And a very clear account”, said Dr. Kennedy. “If you don’t want to ask any questions, Laing, I’d like to be getting home. I’ve got a confinement I’m expecting some time tonight.”
Police-Constable Laing closed his note-book.