CHAPTER V
THE CHIEF'S REWARD
During the next two hours they saw, in the distance, three morecorpses. Frequent shots were fired, but whence they did not know.Single prowlers were becoming rare; they encountered rather groupsconsisting of men of all classes and nationalities, who had joined forpurposes of defence. But quarrels broke out within these groups, themoment there was the least booty in dispute, or even the faintest hopeof booty. No discipline was accepted save that imposed by force.
When one of these wandering bands seemed to be approaching them, Simoncarried his rifle ostentatiously as though on the point of taking aim.He entered into conversation only at a distance and with a forbiddingand repellent air.
Dolores watched him uneasily, avoiding speech with him. Once she hadto tell him that he was taking the wrong direction and to prove hismistake to him. But this involved an explanation to which he listenedwith impatience and which he cut short by grumbling:
"And then? What does it matter if we keep to the right or to the left?We know nothing. There is nothing to prove that Rolleston has takenMiss Bakefield with him on his expedition. He may have imprisoned hersomewhere, until he is free to return for her . . . so that, infollowing him, I risk the chance of going farther away from her.. . ."
Nevertheless, the need of action drew him on, however uncertain thegoal to be achieved. He could never have found heart to apply himselfto investigations or to check the impulse which urged him onward.
Dolores marched indefatigably by his side, sometimes even in front.She had taken off her shoes and stockings. He watched her bare feetmaking their light imprint in the sand. Her hips swayed as she walked,as with American girls. She was all grace, strength and suppleness.Less distracted, paying more attention to external things, she probedthe horizon with her keen gaze. It was while doing so that she cried,pointing with outstretched hand:
"Look over there, the aeroplane!"
It was right at the top of a long, long upward slope of the wholeplain, at a spot where the mist and the ground were blended till theycould not say for certain whether the aeroplane was flying through themist or running along the soil. It looked like one of thosesailing-ships which seem suspended on the confines of the ocean. Itwas only gradually that the reality became apparent: the machine wasmotionless, resting on the ground.
"There is no doubt," said Simon, "considering the direction, that thisis the aeroplane that crossed the river. Damaged by Mazzani's bullet,it flew as far as this, where it managed to land as best it could."
Now the figure of the pilot could be distinguished; and he too--astrange phenomenon--was motionless, sitting in his place, his headalmost invisible behind his rounded shoulders. One of the wheels washalf-destroyed. However, the aeroplane did not appear to have sufferedvery greatly. But what was this man doing, that he never moved?
They shouted. He did not reply, nor did he turn round; and, when theyreached him, they saw that his breast was leaning against thesteering-wheel, while his arms hung down on either side. Drops ofblood were trickling from under the seat.
Simon climbed on board and almost immediately declared:
"He's dead. Mazzani's bullet caught him sideways behind the head.. . . A slight wound, of which he was not conscious for some time, tojudge by the quantity of blood which he lost, probably withoutknowing. . . . Then he succeeded in touching earth. And then . . .then I don't know . . . a more violent hemorrhage, a clot on thebrain. . . ."
Dolores joined Simon. Together they lifted the body. No foot-pads hadpassed that way, for they found the dead man's papers, watch andpocket-book untouched.
His papers, on examination, were of no special interest. But theroute-map fixed to the steering-wheel representing the Channel and theold coast-lines, was marked with a dot in red pencil and the words:
"Rain of gold."
"He was going there too," Simon murmured. "They already know of it inFrance. And here's the exact place . . . twenty-five miles from wherewe are . . . between Boulogne and Hastings . . . not far from the Bancde Bassurelle. . . ."
And, quivering with hope, he added:
"If I can get the thing to fly, I'll be there myself in half an hour.. . . And I shall rescue Isabel. . . ."
Simon set to work with a zest which nothing could discourage. Theaeroplane's injuries were not serious: a wheel was buckled, thesteering-rod bent, the feed-pipe twisted. The sole difficulty arosefrom the fact that Simon found only inadequate tools in the tool-boxand no spare parts whatever. But this did not deter him; he contrivedsome provisional splices and other repairs, not troubling about theirstrength provided that the machine could fly for the time required:
"After all," he said to Dolores, who was doing what she could to helphim, "after all, it is only a question of forty minutes' flight, nomore. If I can manage to take off, I'm sure to hold out. Bless mysoul, I've done more difficult things than that!"
His joy once more bubbled over in vivacious talk. He sang, laughed,jeered at Rolleston and pictured the ruffian's face at seeing thisimplacable archangel descending from the skies. All the same, rapidlythough he worked, he realized by six o'clock in the evening that hecould scarcely finish before night and that, under these conditions,it would be better to put off the start until next morning. Hetherefore completed his repairs and carefully tested the machine,while Dolores moved away to prepare their camp. When twilight fell,his task was finished. Happy and smiling, he followed the path on hisright which he had seen the girl take.
The plain fell away suddenly beyond the ridge on which the aeroplanehad stranded; and a deeper gully, between two sand-hills, led Simon toa lower, basin-shaped plain, in the hollow of which shone a sheet ofwater so limpid that he could see the bed of black rock at the bottom.
This was the first landscape in which Simon perceived a certain charm,a touch of terrestrial and almost human poetry; and at the far end ofthe lake there stood the most incredible thing that could be imaginedin this region which only a few days earlier had been buried under thesea: a structure which seemed to have been raised by human hands andwhich was supported by columns apparently covered with fine carving!
Dolores stepped out of it. Tall and shapely, with slow, sedatemovements, she walked in to the water, among some stones standingupright in the lake, filled a glass and, bending backwards, drank afew sips. Near by, a trace of steam, rising from a pannikin on aspirit-stove, hovered in the air.
Seeing Simon, she smiled and said:
"Everything's ready. Here's tea, white bread and butter."
"Do you mean it?" he said, laughing. "So there were inhabitants at thebottom of the sea, people who grew wheat?"
"No, but there was some food in that poor airman's box."
"Very well; but this house, this prehistoric palace?"
It was a very primitive palace, a wall of great stones touching oneanother and surmounted by a great slab like those which top the Druiddolmans. The whole thing was crude and massive, covered with carvingswhich, when examined closely, were merely thousands of holes bored bymolluscs.
"Lithophagic molluscs, Old Sandstone would call them. By Jove, howexcited he would be to see these remains of a dwelling which datesthousands and thousands of centuries back and which perhaps has othersburied in the sand near it . . . a whole village, I dare say! Andisn't this positive proof that this land was inhabited before it wasinvaded by the sea? Doesn't it upset all our accepted ideas, since itthrows back the appearance of men to a period which we are notprepared to admit? Oh, you Old Sandstone, if you were only here! Whattheories you could evolve!"
Simon evolved no theories. But, though the scientific explanation ofthe phenomenon meant little to him, how acutely he felt itsstrangeness and how deeply stirring this moment seemed to him! Beforehim, before Dolores, rose another age and in circumstances that madethem resemble two creatures of that age, the same desolate, barbaroussurroundings, the same dangers, the same pitfalls.
And the same peace. From the threshold of their refuge stretched
aplacid landscape made of sand, mist and water. The faint sound of alittle stream that fed the lake barely disturbed the infinite silence.
He looked at his companion. No one could be better adapted to thesurrounding scene. She had its primitive charm, its wild, rathersavage character and all its mysterious poetry.
The night stretched its veil across the lake and the hills.
"Let us go in," she said, when they had eaten and drunk.
"Let us go in," he said.
She went before, then, turned to give him her hand and led him intothe chamber formed by the circle of stone slabs. Simon's lamp wasthere, hanging from a projection in the wall. The floor was coveredwith fine sand. Two blankets lay spread.
Simon hesitated. Dolores held him by a firmer pressure of the hand andhe remained, despite himself, in a moment of weakness. Besides, shesuddenly switched off the lamp and he might have thought himselfalone, for he heard nothing more than the infinitely gentle lapping ofthe lake against the stones upon the beach.
It was then and really not until then that he perceived the snarewhich events had laid for him by drawing him closer to Dolores duringthe past three days. He had defended her, as any man would have done,but her beauty had not for a moment affected his decision, orstimulated his courage. Had she been old or ugly, she would have foundthe same protection at his hands.
At the present moment--he realized it suddenly--he was thinking ofDolores not as a companion of his adventures and his dangers but asthe most beautiful and attractive of creatures. He reflected that she,perturbed like himself, was not sleeping either, and that her eyeswere seeking him through the darkness. At her slightest movement, thedelicate perfume with which she scented her hair, mingled with thewarm emanations that floated on the breeze.
She whispered:
"Simon. . . . Simon. . . ."
He did not reply. His heart was oppressed. Several times she repeatedhis name; then, no doubt believing him asleep, she rose and her nakedfeet lightly touched the sand. She went out.
What was she going to do? A minute elapsed. There was a sound as ofrustling clothes. Then he heard her footsteps on the beach, followedalmost immediately by the splash of water and the sound of dropsfalling in a shower. Dolores was bathing in the darkness.
Simon was next hardly able to detect what was scarcely moreperceptible than the swan's gliding over the surface of the pond. Thesilence and peace of the water remained unbroken. Dolores must haveswum towards the centre of the lake. When she returned, he once moreheard the pattering of drops and the rustle of clothes while shedressed.
He rose suddenly, with the intention of going out before she entered.But she was quicker than he anticipated and they met on the threshold.He drew back, while she asked him:
"Were you going, Simon?"
"Yes," he said, seeking a pretext. "I am anxious about the aeroplane. . . some thief. . . ."
"Yes . . . yes," she said, hesitatingly. "But I should like first. . . to thank you. . . ."
Their voices betrayed the same embarrassment and the same profoundagitation. The darkness hid them from each other's eyes; yet howplainly Simon saw the young woman before him!
"I've behaved as I should to you," he declared.
"Not as other men have done . . . and it is that which touched me.. . . I was struck by it from the beginning. . . ."
Perhaps she felt by intuition that any too submissive words wouldoffend him, for she did not continue her confession. Only, after amoment's pause, she murmured:
"This is our last night alone. . . . Afterwards we shall be parted bythe whole of life . . . by everything. . . . Then . . . hold me tightto you for a little . . . for a second. . . ."
Simon did not move. She was asking for a display of affection of whichhe dreaded the danger all the more because he longed so eagerly toyield to it and because his will was weakening beneath the onslaughtof evil thoughts. Why should he resist? What would have been a sin anda crime against love at ordinary times was so no longer at this periodof upheaval, when the play of natural forces and of chance gave risefor a time to abnormal conditions of life. To kiss Dolores' lips atsuch a moment: was it worse than plucking a flower that offers itselfto the hand?
They were united by the favouring darkness. They were alone in theworld; they were both young; they were free. Dolores' hands wereoutstretched in despair. Should he not give her his own and obey thisdelicious dizziness which was overcoming him?
"Simon," she said, in a voice of supplication. "Simon. . . . I ask solittle of you! . . . Don't refuse me. . . . It's not possible that youshould refuse me, is it? When you risked your life for mine, it wasbecause you had a . . . a feeling . . . a something. . . . I am notmistaken, am I?"
Simon was silent. He would not speak to her of Isabel, would not bringIsabel's name into the duel which they were fighting.
Dolores continued her entreaties:
"Simon, I have never loved any one but you. . . . The others . . . theothers don't count. . . . You, the look in your eyes gave me happinessfrom the first moment. . . . It was like the sun shining into my life.. . . And I should be so happy if there were a . . . a memory betweenus. You would forget it. . . . It would count for nothing with you.. . . But for me . . . it would mean life changed . . . beautified.. . . I should have the strength to be another woman. . . . Please,please, give me your hand. . . . Take me in your arms. . . ."
Simon did not move. Something more powerful than the impulse of thetemptation restrained him: his plighted word to Isabel and his lovefor her. Isabel's image blended with Dolores's image; and, in hisfaltering mind, in his darkened conscience, the conflict continued.. . .
Dolores waited. She had fallen to her knees and was whisperingindistinct words in a language which he did not understand, words ofplaintive passion of whose distress he was fully sensible, and whichmounted to his ears like a prayer and an appeal.
In the end she fell weeping at his feet. Then he passed by, withouttouching her.
The cold night air caressed his features. He walked away at a rapidpace, pronouncing Isabel's name with the fervour of a believerreciting the words of a litany. He turned towards the plateau. Whenalmost there, he lay down against the slope of the hill and, for along time before falling asleep, he continued to think of Dolores asof some one whose memory was already growing dim. The girl wasbecoming once more a stranger. He would never know why she had lovedhim so spontaneously and so ardently; why a nature in which instinctmust needs play so imperious a part had found room for such noblefeelings, humility and delicacy and devotion.
In the earliest moments of the dawn he gave the aeroplane a finalexamination. After a few tests which gave him good hopes of success,he went back to the dwelling by the lake. But Dolores was gone. For anhour he searched for her and called to her in vain. She haddisappeared without even leaving a footprint in the sand.
On rising above the clouds into the immensity of a clear sky allflooded with sunlight, Simon uttered a cry of joy. The mysteriousDolores meant nothing to him now, no more than all the dangers bravedwith her or all those which might still lie in wait for him. He hadsurmounted every obstacle, escaped every snare. He had been victoriousin every contest; and perhaps his greatest victory was that ofresisting Dolores' enchantment.
It was ended. Isabel had triumphed. Nothing stood between her and him.He held the steering-wheel well under control. The motor was workingto perfection. The map and the compass were before his eyes. At thepoint indicated, at the exact spot, neither too much to the right nortoo much to the left, neither overshooting nor falling short of themark, he would descend within a radius of a hundred yards.
The flight certainly took less than the forty minutes which he hadallowed for. In thirty at most he covered the distance, without seeinganything but the moving sea of clouds rolling beneath him in whitebillows. All he could do now was to fling himself upon it. Afterstopping his engine, he drew closer and closer, describing greatcircles. Cries or rather shouts and roars rose from the ground, asthough multitud
es were gathered together. Then he entered the rollingmist, through which he continued to wheel like a bird of prey.
He never doubted Rolleston's presence, nor the imminence of the fightwhich would ensue between them, nor its favourable outcome, followedby Isabel's release. But he dreaded the landing, the critical rock onwhich he might split.
The sight of the ground showing clear of the mist reassured him. Awide and, as it seemed to him, almost flat space lay spread like anarena, in which he saw nothing but four disks of sand which mustrepresent so many mounds and which could be easily avoided. The crowdkept outside this arena, save for a few people who were running in alldirections and gesticulating.
At closer quarters, the soil appeared less smooth, consisting ofendless sand-coloured pebbles, heaped in places to a certain height.He therefore gave all his attention to avoiding collision with theseobstacles and succeeded in landing without the slightest shock and instopping quite quietly.
Groups of people came running about the aeroplane. Simon thought thatthey wished to help him to alight. His illusion did not last long. Afew seconds later, the aeroplane was taken by assault by some twentymen; and Simon felt the barrels of two revolvers pushed against hisface and was bound from head to foot, wrapped in a blanket, gagged anddeprived of all power of movement, before he could even attempt theleast resistance.
"Into the hold, with the rest of them!" commanded a hoarse voice."And, if he gives trouble, blow out his brains!"
There was no need for this drastic measure. The manner in which Simonwas bound reduced him to absolute helplessness. Resigning himself tothe inevitable, he counted that the men carrying him took a hundredand thirty steps and that their course brought him nearer to theroaring crowd.
"When you've quite done bawling!" grinned one of the men. "And thenmake yourselves scarce, see? The machine-gun's getting to work."
They climbed a staircase. Simon was dragged up by the cords that boundhim. A violent hand ransacked his pockets and relieved him of his armsand his papers. He felt himself again lifted; and then he dropped intoa void.
It was no great fall and was softened by the dense layer of captivesalready swarming at the bottom of the hold, who began to swear behindtheir gags.
Using his knees and elbows, Simon made room for himself as best hecould on the floor. It must have been about nine o'clock in themorning. From that moment, time no longer counted for him, for hethought of nothing but how to defend the place which he had wonagainst any who might seek to take it from him, whether formeroccupants or new-comers. Voices muffled by gags uttered furioussnarls, or groaned, breathless and exhausted. It was really hell.There were dying men and dead bodies, the death-rattle of Frenchmenmingling with Englishmen, blood, sticky rags and a loathsome stench ofcarrion.
During the course of the afternoon, or it might have been in theevening, a tremendous noise broke out, like the sound of a great sheafof rockets, and forthwith the numberless crowd roared at the top ofits voice, with the frenzied fury of an insurgent mob. Then, suddenly,through it all, came orders shouted in a strident voice, more powerfulthan the tumult. Then a profound silence. And then a crack of sharp,hurried explosions, followed by the frightful rattle of a machine-gun.
This lasted for at least two or three minutes. The uproar hadrecommenced; and it continued until Simon could no longer hear thefizzing of the fireworks and the din of the shooting. They seemedstill to be fighting. They were dispatching the wounded amid cursesand shrieks of pain; and a batch of dying men was flung into the hold.
The evening and the night wore through. Simon, who had not touchedfood since his meal with Dolores beside the lake, was also sufferingcruelly from the lack of air, the weight of the dead and the living onhis chest, the gag which bruised his jaw and the blanket which wrappedhis head like a blind, air-tight hood. Were they going to leave him todie of starvation and asphyxia, in this huddle of sticky, decomposingflesh, above which floated the inarticulate plaint of death?
His bandaged eyes received a feeling as though the day were breaking.His torpid neighbours were swarming like slimy reptiles in a tub.Then, from above, a voice growled:
"No easy job to find him! . . . Queer notions the chief has! As welltry and pick a worm out of the mud!"
"Take my boat-hook," said another voice. "You can use it to turn thestiffs over like a scavenger sorting a heap of muck. . . . Lower downthan that, old man! Since yesterday morning, the bloke must be at thebottom. . . ."
And the first voice cried:
"That's him! There, look, to the left! That's him! I know my ropearound his waist. . . . Patience a moment, while I hook him!"
Simon felt something digging into him that must have been the spike ofthe boat-hook catching in his bonds. He was hooked, dragged along andhoisted from corpse to corpse to the top of the hold. The menunfastened his legs and told him to stand up:
"Now then, you! Up with you, my hearty!"
His eyes still bandaged, he was seized by the arms and led out of thewreck. They crossed the arena, whose pebbles he felt under foot, andmounted another flight of steps, leading to the deck of another wreck.There the men halted.
From here, when his hood and gag were removed, Simon could see thatthe arena in which he had landed was surrounded by a wall made ofbarricades added according to the means at hand: ships' boats,packing-cases and bales, rocks, banks of sand. The hulk of atorpedo-boat was continued by some cast-iron piping. A stack ofdrain-pipes was followed by a submarine.
All along this enclosure, sentinels armed with rifles mounted guard.Beyond it, kept at a distance of more than a hundred yards by themenace of the rifles and of a machine-gun levelled a little way to therear, the swarm of marauders was eddying and bawling. Inside, therewas an expanse of yellow pebbles, sulphur-coloured, like those whichthe madwoman had carried in her bag. Were the gold coins mixed withthose pebbles and had a certain number of resolute, well-armed robbersclubbed together to exploit this precious field? Here and there rosemounds resembling the truncated cones of small extinct volcanoes.
Meantime, Simon's warders made him face about, in order to bind him tothe stump of a broken mast, near a group of prisoners whom otherwarders were holding, like so many animals, by halters and chains.
On this side was the general staff of the gang, sitting for the momentas a court-martial.
In the centre of a circle was a platform of moderate height, edged byten or a dozen corpses and dying men, some of the latter struggling inhideous convulsions. On the platform a man who was drinking sat orrather sprawled in a great throne-like chair. Near him was a stoolwith bottles of champagne and a knife dripping with blood. Beside himwas a group of men with revolvers in their hands. The man in the chairwore a black uniform relieved with decorations and stuck all over withdiamonds and precious stones. Emerald necklaces hung round his neck. Adiadem of gold and gems encircled his forehead.
When he had finished drinking, his face appeared. Simon started. Fromcertain details which recalled the features of his friend EdwardRolleston, he realized that this man was no other than WilfredRolleston. Moreover, among the jewels and necklaces, was a miniatureset in pearls, the miniature and the pearls of Isabel Bakefield.
The Tremendous Event Page 13