The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  The shrapnel from the anti-aircraft barrage fell by fits and starts. The noise of the guns was deafening; lurid glares lit the horizon to tell of fires. The hideous screams of siren bombs mingled with the duller bursts, but there was none close by. Even so, Earle felt the terrific pull of it all. Mortimer linked arms with him and shouted.

  “Demoralizing, what? Don’t let it get you. Saps the vitality out of a man; the strain is beyond comprehension. How these poor devils in public shelters can stand it night after night without breaking down, is simply extr’ordinary. Hello! There’ve been fire pellets dropped hereabouts, eh?”

  The glare-lit streets were by no means empty. Parties of men and women were fighting the deadly little thermite spurts of flame, ambulances were on the move, air raid police and wardens were going about their business. It was almost with astonishment that Earle found a tube station opening before them and heard the roar of a train as they descended.

  Now the hell of fire and battle and bomb was shut out; the silence seemed peaceful and terrible. And, with barely space to step, the huddle of humanity outspread before them like a sea; people crowded everywhere in solid masses, sometimes to the very edge of the tracks. The platforms were jammed with men, women, children, on blankets and pillows and bare concrete.

  And most were asleep. The voluntary curfew which ended all amusements and singing had long ago been imposed. Earle wrinkled his nose at the foul air; then a train came in with a crash, and Mortimer was shoving him aboard.

  They got off at the Temple and the train drew out.

  “You’ve picked us a job,” said Earle. “Well, go to it! Red hat and red feather that perks it up in front. That’s all I can tell you.”

  They separated, and the weary search began. Even to pick a way among these sprawled human masses was difficult; babies were squalling, half-clad people resented disturbance, the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Half an hour of it exhausted the possibilities and left Earle all but sick, as he made his way to the entrance where the tall figure in the inverness awaited him.

  “Last train coming through in a moment,” said Mortimer. “Best make for the Bank, eh?”

  A few moments later they were plunging through the darkness again, while far above death rained down, relentless.

  When they stepped out amid new yeasty masses of humanity, the scene was different. No sleep here, no peace, no escape! The city was catching it hot and heavy this night, shelters had been hit or emptied. The platforms here were surging masses…hurt people, refugees from fire and wreckage. Surgeons and Auxiliary Ambulance women were bustling about.

  To Earle, it was at first ghastly confusion and panic; then he began to understand. Groups broke into singing; waves of song roared along under the tunnels. Wan-eyed men cursed the Jerries, women talked excitedly, children scrambled about, but there was in reality neither panic nor confusion. As he roved about, keeping an eye cocked for red feather and bonnet, he comprehended that there was even a certain orderly grouping among these people. In the main, they had their own nooks and corners here, to which they came night after night.

  Long weeks and months of this cave-dwelling life had given them mutual acquaintance. The long platform was like a vast club of the unfortunate. Rough hilarity and comments were exchanged among groups. From these ranks had been recruited spotters and firefighters; places were even reserved for some absent ones.

  But there was never a sign of the red bonnet with its perky feather.

  Up and down and across, Earle wended his way, even searching the corners for that telltale headgear, until glances began to follow him uneasily. A man came sauntering after him, then another man; when at length he took note of them and turned, half a dozen others were crowding forward.

  “Lookin’ for something, matey?” came the question. “Might be we could help.”

  Earle became aware of the figures, of the questioning faces and eyes. He perceived that his activity had been noted and resented. A smile came to his lips.

  “I am,” he replied. “For a young woman named McFee. I don’t know where to locate her; thought she was here. She has a red bonnet with a feather in it.”

  “S’elp me if ’e aynt a bloody optimist!” rose a voice. “Red bonnet wif a feather—go look in St. Jymes Park, lad!”

  There was an outbreak of laughter. Earle’s frank explanation, however, had relieved the tension. News of his quest was handed on by a dozen voices. A woman came pushing forward.

  “And wad it be a Canadian lassie?” she demanded.

  “Aye!” said Earle eagerly. “You know her?”

  Plenty knew her, it seemed. Information dinned upon him. She had been here an hour earlier; then she had gone to serve in the rolling kitchens being installed against the morrow’s need. Yes, she was a friend of many here—

  “The kitchens? Where are they?” demanded Earle.

  “Aldwych Close, off Bishopsgate. Just up the way.”

  Earle swung around. On the opposite platform he saw the tall black figure of Mortimer striding about; he shouted, others shouted. He waved his arm toward the entrance and Mortimer replied with a wave of comprehension. Followed by a storm of plaudits and hearty wishes, Earle pushed his way through the throngs.

  He met Mortimer, imparted his news breathlessly, and they mounted to the street. A policeman held up his hand.

  “We’re having it a bit thick in this district,” he said warningly. “Better stay under cover unless it’s urgent.”

  “It’s urgent,” said Mortimer, his voice brooking no dispute. The policeman touched his tin hat and stepped back.

  Then it hit them like a blow—the barrage, the continuous shell-burst in golden splashes above, the hammering, thudding roars, the lurid glare that turned night into hideous hellfire. Mortimer, luckily, claimed to know the way.

  The wide street was a mass of rubble; houses were ablaze, firemen at work. Shrapnel showered in all directions. Earle was absolutely appalled by the inferno above and around. A siren bomb screamed. The scream grew and grew; Mortimer yanked him bodily into an areaway—the horror burst just across the street. A house there simply went all to bits and showered, but the area saved them from the concussion. Earle wanted most desperately to turn and run for it; fear was in him like a crawling weight.

  They kept on. Just ahead, a house and its shelter had been hit. Firemen, wardens, women with ambulances; all were frantically at work, the ambulances skittering off with wounded. Mortimer got directions and Earle followed him on, unhappily. They dodged from house to house, daring the shrapnel where they must. It was a miracle, thought Earle, that they got through alive.

  But they did get through. Mortimer pointed, during a paused wait, to an open court ahead, just across the street.

  “There it is,” he shouted. “They’ll have a shelter—”

  The scream came in a terrific crescendo; they were hugging a doorway close. The burst was across the street—just where Mortimer was pointing. Fire leaped against the lurid heavens. The concussion flattened them where they stood, as though an invisible hand shoved them against that door; bricks and stone came down all around. A tremendous crash hit Earle’s steel hat, and he crumpled momentarily, then was up, wiping blood from his face. Mortimer tugged at him. Everything across the way was gone in jumbled skeleton ruin.

  A man came at them, running, gasping, screaming.

  “The shelter!” His voice was like a whisper against the tumult. “Come down atop, the ’ouse did—fair atop—”

  Other men, several women, came in wild panic. Mortimer’s voice blared at them like a bugle. He broke their terror, got them in hand. Earle seconded him. They flung themselves at the smoking ruins opposite. Smoke flickered up into flame.

  Earle had them all going at it like a wrecking crew. He went at it himself. They fought the flames frantically, with anything at hand. They dragged out beams, stones, bricks. Other men came along with tools; the steel helmets of firemen glittered. Earle looked around for Mortimer and found him
gone, his voice gone.

  Two women had lifted him to one side. Earle went to him and knelt in swift dismay. A bit of shrapnel had dented into the helmet; nothing worse. Earle left him to the two women and flung himself back into the work. It was maddening, frantic work. A bomb crunched across the street and fragments showered around, striking down two men.

  Somebody screamed…an arm was extending from the rubble, a limp naked arm. They dug around it. Earle lifted out a body. A woman, with no head. He went violently sick and turned aside. But, after a bit, he was working again with spasmodic horror clutching at him. Had that headless figure been the girl? No way of telling.

  They were making headway amid the ruins, but there was gas in the air; an evil omen. If it ignited, God help the poor souls beneath! Everyone held back, breathless, panting. Earle plunged at it; he passed out the stones and bricks, others tailed on and lifted the beams. Splintered wood, furniture, metal—a man who knew the place was guiding their work.

  Earle crumpled up, exhausted, gas-stricken. He was pulled out of the way and another took his place. He stood off at one side; somebody held a flask to his lips, and the liquor helped clear his head. He was trembling, yet impatient to be back at it.

  And presently he was back. Cheery word arrived that a full fire-crew were coming. Two more bodies were lifted up, both men. The ruins of a staircase showed emptily. It made a tunnel down into the debris and muck. Walls above were toppling, others were threatening to tumble at each instant. Below there, said the guide, was the door to the shelter.

  A fireman with an axe shoved past Earle. A cry burst from him; shrapnel cut through his body. Earle caught up the axe and dropped into the deathly tunnel, just as a wall came crashing down. A stone struck his back; he thought he was done for, but recovered, found the axe again and crawled down.

  Here was the end; the glare in the sky showed him what blocked everything. A doorway with a beam athwart it, holding it. Not a large beam, thank heaven! He fell to work at it, chopping in the confined space.

  Screams of warning filtered down from above, and a crash, stones toppling all about him. He chopped on. There was a pounding at the other side of the door; all alive in there! The axe was through the beam at one side; he attacked the other. His tin hat was gone, blood smeared his eyes, his body was wrenched with pain, but he chopped and chopped, grimly desperate, holding himself to it through aching agony.

  Unexpectedly, those on the other side of the door gave assistance. The door opened toward him with weight behind it, the beam flew asunder…and the severed portion rushed at him, struck him across the head, laid him flat. Frantic people trampled over him to escape. He was helpless to move or speak.

  Someone, however, had an electric torch, and the flashlight found him, revealed him. The rush stopped. He was extricated, and as the light swept across his grimed and bloody features, as he wiped the blood from his eyes and tried to speak, he heard a cry.

  “You! Oh, it’s you! Canuck!”

  The beam of light swept to her. She was beside him—the McFee girl—the red bonnet with the feather! Earle tried to say something, but he was too far gone. He just collapsed in a heap and everything was darkness for him.

  When he wakened, it was to a more confining darkness; presently he realized that he was in bed. Yet there was a weight on his eyes, and his head hurt dully. He put up a hand and touched a bandage, and understood.

  “Hello! Awake, are you?” It was the dominant, uncompromising voice of Lord Mortimer.

  “I seem to be, yes,” said Earle. “Hospital?”

  “No; my house.” Mortimer gripped his hand heartily, and sat on the bedside. “You’re a bit banged up about the head; you’ll need those bandages for a few days, so take it easy.”

  “But look here!” exclaimed Earle in alarm. “I only had a two-day leave, you know—”

  “I’ve attended to that already; a word in the right quarter took care of everything. Your leave’s extended indefinitely, or will be; think no more about it.”

  “Okay.” Earle relaxed with a sigh of relief. “Good of you to attend to it.”

  “Good of me? Why, you confounded young rascal! I’m in your debt for life! Hello, here’s Jenkins with a spot of lunch…it’s getting on to noon, you know. We’ll have you sitting up in a few minutes, and the nurse can lend you a hand at feeding.” The nurse? Earle recollected everything now, and shivered at the memory of blood and fire and hell. Then he heard the voice of Jenkins. “Will you have your coffee white or black, my lord?”

  Mortimer touched his wrist, significantly.

  “He’s speaking to you, Pugwash,”

  “Oh!” Earle laughed a little. “Black, thanks.”

  He was raised, pillows were stuffed behind him. Mortimer spoke again.

  “All right, lad. Jenkins has gone. Put out your left hand.”

  Earle obeyed, gropingly. His hand was caught in soft fingers.

  “The nurse?” he questioned. “Look here! I want to ask about that girl—did you get in touch with her? Was she the right one?”

  “Right as right,” said Mortimer. “And a thousand quid in your pocket to boot. That was the advertised offer, you know.”

  “Oh, damn the money!” Earle exclaimed. “I want to see her again. I liked her face, her eyes—tired, brave eyes they were.”

  He heard a laugh; and the soft fingers tightened on his hand.

  “You’ll see her soon enough, Canuck,” she said. “I’m the nurse, understand? I owe you a lot, too.”

  “Oh! I get it. Took advantage of a blind man, did you?” Earle squeezed her fingers. “And all because Jenkins picked me up on a street corner. Talk about luck!”

  “I’m not so sure,” rejoined Mortimer. “There’s a saying: You never know your luck! You may call it luck, my lad, but I’d call it destiny, damme if I wouldn’t! Now, young lady, get some of that food into him. At the moment, your job is to feed the Earl of Pugwash!”

  She laughed softly, and obeyed.

  * * * *

  You never know your luck! Those words recurred to Earle of a morning, later on, when Diana McFee came to him with a newspaper and, white-cheeks, pointed to an Admiralty announcement. Earle glanced at it, and caught his breath. A west-bound ship gone, and most of those aboard gone with her—Canadians, Americans—flyers who had ferried the bombers across and were heading back for more bombers. He looked up at her and met her eyes.

  “Why, it was my gang!” he muttered. “My gang—and I’d be with them, if I hadn’t been held here! I’d have been on that ship.”

  “But you’re here,” she said, gravely. “And a lucky thing, if you ask me.”

  “I’ll ask you, all right!” Earle’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, I’ll ask you; I’ll push my luck, never fear! Luckiest man in the world, that’s what I am.”

  And he had no cause to doubt it, when he did ask her.

  D’ARTAGNAN (Part 1)

  PREFACE

  This story augments and incorporates without alteration a fragmentary manuscript whose handwriting has been identified as that of Alexandre Dumas, and as such authenticated by Victor Lemasle, the well known expert of Paris. So far as can be learned, it has remained unpublished hitherto.

  No romantic tale can be attached to this manuscript, though one is tempted to weave a fantastic and plausible prologue after the fashion of Rider Haggard. The Thounenin will, whose existence in a French collection of old documents possibly suggested the story to the author, has been secured and is in the possession of the publisher. This sheet of old vellum, stamped with the arms of Lorraine and signed by Leonard, hereditary grand tabellion of the province, is in itself a curiosity.

  In here presenting a complete story, the writer has no apologies to offer. Nothing can be learned about this tale from the life or literary remains of Dumas. The child about whom it centers will be recognized as the Vicomte de Bragelonne, hero of the later novels of the series, whose parentage is very plainly set forth by Dumas in “Twenty Years After.” The publish
er, who is the owner of the manuscript in question, is of course fully informed as to what portion of this novel is from the pen of Dumas, and what from the typewriter of

  —H. Bedford-Jones.

  Ann Arbor, April 1, 1928

  CHAPTER 1

  INTRODUCING A QUEEN, A SOLDIER, AND A ROGUE

  On the second Thursday in July, 1630, the ancient city of Lyon had become the second capital of France. Louis XIII and Cardinal de Richelieu, who had been with the army in Savoy, were returned to Grenoble; the court and the two queens had come to Lyon. Paris was empty as the grave, and between Lyon and Grenoble fluctuated all court business, since Marie de Medici, the queen-mother, acted as regent while Louis XIII was on campaign.

  On the south side of the Place des Terreaux, overlooking the Saone to the left and the Rhone to the right, stood the vast convent of the Dames Benedictines. This massive building, of which today only the directory remains, rang loud with voices and glittered bravely with gay costumes and weapons. Musketeers guarded the high gates, coaches thundered in the paved courtyard, and at the river-bank below the fair green gardens waited gilded barges; in truth, at this moment two queens of France were residing within its walls.

  In an upper room, beside a tiny fire that burned in the wall-hearth to dispel the chill of morning, sat a woman who read a letter in some agitation. Despite the tapestry adorning the walls, and the handsome curtains of the bed, the room bore an air of severity and plainness which spoke of the conventual surroundings.

  The woman who sat in this room was about thirty; that is to say, at the height of womanly perfection; the velvety softness of her skin, her powdered chestnut hair, and her beautiful hands, combined to make her appear much younger. Pride mingled with a gentle sadness in her features; a certain lofty majesty in her mien was tempered by kindliness and sweetness. Her eyes were quite brilliant, yet now a cloudy phantom of terror was gathering in their liquid depths, as she read the disturbing phrases of this letter:

  Though it grieves me to trouble you, yet you must be placed on guard. Knowing this goes direct to your hand, I write plainly and trust you to destroy it at once.