‘Well, then we would have sailed straight into a trap.’
‘But…but how do they know what time to expect you?’
‘Oh, they know. Within an hour or so they know. It’s a matter of the tides. On some full tides you would never get near the shore, for they sweep to the cliffs.’
When Rory next saw the light he thought to himself, I can’t count now, but he knew that he had counted aright when he heard a sound like a groan coming from Ben. ‘How many flashes did you see there, boy?’ Ben asked now.
‘I thought it was four.’
‘It was four.’
‘Is that worse?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s worse.’ Ben did not speak for some time. He seemed to be concentrating on the sheet and the tiller; then of a sudden he said to Rory, ‘Here, catch hold for a minute!’ And when Rory had taken the tiller Ben swiftly undid his topcoat, then his under jacket and waistcoat. From inside the shirt he now pulled out a small calico bag and, having opened it, he drew out one of the little circles of tobacco. ‘You know what I’m going to do, boy?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Rory briefly.
‘Feel that.’ He pushed a circle of tobacco into Rory’s hand. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s one of them cartwheels of baccy, blue baccy.’ Rory laid harsh emphasis on the words.
‘Blue baccy indeed. Blue baccy,’ repeated Ben. ‘And I’m going to trust you with it. Now listen, boy. We may have to split up and run for it. If they get wind of us, they’ll likely chase one or the other; ’tisn’t likely there’ll be enough of them to divide up. If you should be cornered and you haven’t time, get rid of it. Here’s a trick. Open your coats.’
Rory did as he was bid; then he felt Ben’s hand fumbling in his shirt and he shivered when the coil of tobacco was pushed against his flesh.
‘You’ve got a belt on, haven’t you?’
‘Aye, you know I have.’
‘Well, should you be running and they’re on you, loosen your belt, give yourself a shake and it’ll drop down your trouser leg. Take your stockings off.’
‘Me stockings?’
‘Aye, boy.’ Ben’s voice was harsh with impatience. ‘Your stockings, it could drop on top of them and be caught up.’
Rory unlaced his boots and took off his stockings, and he almost groaned aloud as he put his bare feet back into the cold wet boots.
‘Now listen further. We’re going to land where it’s pretty rocky. The boat’ll have to take its chance, and so will we, for we’ll be up to our necks in water until we reach the cliff…Can you swim?’
‘No.’ The word was short but it held a long tremor.
‘Well, I’ll stay close to you until we reach the cliff. It goes almost straight up there, but there are a number of rough paths. You’ll go one way and I’ll go the other; the light’ll be breaking, you’ll be able to see. It’s covered with gorse and low scrub, there’s plenty to hang on to, and it’s riddled with hidey-holes. Before it’s full light find one and stay there until you reckon it’s safe to make your way to the top of the cliff. Up there, there’s a field, and beyond it a narrow road. Don’t ask your way of anybody, for you won’t know whether it’s friend or foe you’re talking to. Look for the signpost; that’ll lead you to Axminster, then on to the house. If I get away the other road—and I will—I’ll come looking for you. Now you’ve got all that?’
‘Aye,’ said Rory, but with uncertainty.
‘Good! Well now, brace yourself, boy…’
They were running before the wind when Ben gave the warning. His voice was grim, he said, ‘When I say jump, jump. You’ll likely go straight down to the bottom for I can’t pinpoint exactly where we are in this light, but we’re not far off the shore. Of that I’m certain. The only thing is, if you value your life don’t cry out. Do you hear me?’
Rory had no voice with which to answer. He knew that once he dropped into the water he would drown; he hadn’t the faintest idea how to swim. For a flashing moment he had a strange experience. He could have sworn he saw Lily smiling at him, and her face wasn’t plain, it was bonny. And she had young Sammy with her. Of all the family he thought he loved Sammy the best.
The picture vanished as Ben’s voice hissed in his ear, ‘Over with you!’ Then he was pushed.
Down, down, down, he went into the cold black water, and he knew that this was death.
Excruciating pain dragged him upwards. It was Ben’s hand grabbing his hair. His head rose above the waves and he began to thrash out with his arms and legs. Just as he was about to sink once more he felt Ben’s hand under his chin; and then his body seemed to slide over Ben’s, and it was as if he were resting on it.
An eternity later, his feet touched something firm and his head came up out of the water. Then with Ben’s arm about his back, he was stumbling towards the shore.
When he felt the water receding and knew he was dragging his feet up a hard slope all he desired was to throw himself flat and rest, but Ben’s arm kept him going.
It was as he raised his head and peered through the early morning mist towards the towering cliffs in front of him that the shot rang out and for a moment he felt Ben’s arm drop away from him, but before he fell to his knees the arm was around him again; and now they were running in step like two children in a three-legged race.
As they scrambled up the cliff path, the desperation of the situation seemed to clear his mind and he used his hands frantically to pull himself upwards and away from the shouts coming now from below them. When a voice rang clear through the air shouting ‘Stop! In the name of the law!’ and something sharp hit the rock face ahead of them, he couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe that they were being fired on. A silly voice inside his head kept saying that he was Rory McAlister, apprentice wheelwright to Mr Cornwallis; he had never done anything really wrong in his life except scrumping apples; there was that once he had stolen a hen because the bairns had had no food for two days, not even bread. He could have been imprisoned for stealing a hen, he knew that, but he had been desperate…And he was desperate now. Oh dear God, aye he was desperate now—and so was Ben.
Rory realised to what extent Ben was desperate and in fear when he gasped, ‘My God! Not that, not firing.’
Of a sudden, Ben pulled him to a halt and gasped again, ‘Go on. Make to your right. There’s ledges and a cave or two near the top. Go in as far as you can and lie low.’
‘You come an’ all.’
‘Don’t be a damn fool, boy. You stay and they’ll get us both, and May would rather have half a loaf than no bread.’
When Rory didn’t move, Ben, on an oath, caught hold of his arm, and once more they were scrambling upwards together.
The second ping hit the rock just above Rory’s head, and the shock made him gasp. Then he was gasping, not only from the fact that they were being fired on, but from the sight before his eyes. They were now standing close together, pressed tight against the cliff face, and as the mist cleared for a moment he looked to where, a few feet away, the cliff dropped sheer to the wave-lashed rocks below.
‘Listen, boy. Now listen, and do what I say without argument. Go this minute. It’s your last chance, for when this mist lifts you’ll be a walking target.’
‘What about you?’ Of a sudden Rory felt a deep affection for this man. But whatever he felt, he must stand by him, for strangely he knew that in one way or another Ben had stood by him during the past twenty-four hours.
‘Don’t worry about me, I know the place like the back of my hand. I can get away on me own, and quick if I’m not hampered. But you, you must take advantage of the mist, so go on straight up the path. Do as I told you before, get hidden and stay there. I’m going straight up over the top.’ He jerked his head upwards. ‘There’s a path above here only fit for a mountain goat. Go on now.’ Almost on a laugh he thrust Rory from him. But Rory hadn’t taken half a dozen reluctant steps along the cliff-face path when he swung round on the sound of a stifled groan. Standing transfixed, he saw Ben swaying as
he held the side of his neck with both hands while blood gushed through his fingers.
‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!’ He heard himself crying the words aloud; but before he could make any move to help Ben he saw his body sway like the top of a tree in a gentle wind, then slowly fall forward …
There was no cry, no sound at all, until he heard a broken splash like a piece of iron makes when it hits the water.
He couldn’t move; nor could he see for his eyes were blind with tears; all he could do was moan, ‘Oh Ben! Ben! Ben!’ He had never called him Ben, but once before. Now it was as if he had known him all his life as Ben, Ben his friend.
There was the sound of voices coming up the cliff, excited voices coming nearer, nearer.
He didn’t know at what stage he turned and ran; he didn’t know he was crying. He didn’t realise what he was doing until he too felt himself falling. But the scream that whirled up in him didn’t escape his mouth for it was strangled as he landed face forwards into some kind of bush. His face, his neck, his hands and his bare legs between the top of his boots and the bottom of his trousers were so pierced with some spiky form of foliage as to make him want to cry out, but as if Ben were still with him and were guiding him, telling him to make no sound, he lay as he had fallen and kept perfectly still.
There came to him the sound of the sea below him, the sea in which Ben was now lying. The tears spurted afresh from his eyes, and he could make no move to wipe them away, nor did he want to.
Mingled with the sound of the sea now there came men’s voices, one quite close, just above him in fact. It was impossible, he thought, that the man could not see him.
He heard a voice from a distance shouting, ‘Can you get down there?’ and the voice close to him answering, ‘Not here. Nowhere along here. We’ll have to go back to the cove.’
A third voice was shouting now, ‘Can you see him?’
‘No; no sign of him. And I doubt if there will be; the tide will take him out.’
‘Come down and we’ll take the boat out…You think there was only the one?’
‘That’s all I saw.’
Now the third voice came from well up the cliffs, thin and high, calling, ‘I’m sure I spotted two of them.’
There came to Rory now the sound of scrambling steps, and another voice was joined to the first one that was just above him, and the second voice said, ‘He’d be on his own; his pal Hawkins left a few weeks ago, got cold feet, Crawford said; but he said Bachelor would go on alone for he could handle the boat well. It was only the getting out and in was the trouble.’
The other voice answered now, ‘A pity they didn’t all go over the cliffs together. I think she would have preferred it to where they’re going. Mind you, I wouldn’t give tuppence for Crawford’s chances if he’s still alive when they get back. Giving the whole show away just because she shot his dog. An’ the Captain was right after all to wait. If he had raided the house last week he would have missed this haul.’
‘Well, he has missed it, hasn’t he?’ came the other voice. ‘It’s down there, on him.’
‘Oh, there’s a chance yet. We may pick him up as the tide goes out.’
There was the sound of scrambling feet above him, and when the sound had faded away he did not move, not even to raise his head. There was in him no inclination to stir even a finger. His body seemed a dead weight. Although he knew he was bleeding in several places it didn’t seem to matter. His heart was heavy as lead, more so than ever his body was or could be.
After some time he became aware of full daylight seeping through the tangled bushes above him, and when at last he decided to lift his head and shoulders to find out exactly where he was, he realised that part of his disinclination to move was that he couldn’t because of some injury. When he went to put pressure on his left elbow to raise his head the pain was so excruciating that he almost fainted.
What had happened to him? Had he broken his back? His neck? Don’t be stupid, he said to himself; try again.
He tried again, with the same result. Something had happened to his arm; he must have broken it. Now what was he going to do? How would he get out of this wherever he was with a broken arm? Well, he must find out. Try his other side. He put pressure on his right elbow and drew in a long breath when he found that he could raise himself a little, but not without sweat-creating pain.
Having pushed his head upwards through the prickly tangle, the sight below him almost made him retch, for he seemed to be dangling in mid-air above sharp-pointed bare rocks. No longer covered with the tide, their nakedness made them appear even more cruel than they had been when Ben’s body hurtled towards them.
He drew his head slowly back and took one long slow deep breath; then cautiously, very cautiously, he attempted to push himself back through the tangle towards the face of the cliff, but found this impossible. What he had to do, he knew, was to stand up. He must find out exactly where he was and what chance he had of getting out of it.
Slowly, he swivelled himself round and looked upwards. There above him, about six feet away, was the sloping path from which he had fallen, but as he gazed at it he thought, it might as well be sixty feet for he’d never be able to reach it.
He gently eased himself again into the gorse and tried to think. If his arm hadn’t been hurt he might have made it because the cliff sloped upwards less steeply here. If it hadn’t been so, he realised he would, in his fall, have missed the ledge and the haven of gorse clumps. Well, there was only one thing for it, he’d have to shout for help.
There were two boats some way from the shore. They’d be the Excise men trying to recover Ben’s body. Poor Ben! Poor Ben! But he mustn’t start blubbing again. What would Ben have done in a position like this? he now asked himself. Would he have yelled to the men down there to come and rescue him? No, no, because he would have thought of the consequences…transportation.
Sit tight. It was as if Ben was speaking to him. Wait till the boats move off, then get on your feet and see how far you are from the top. In the meantime sit still and save your breath.
He nodded in answer to his own thoughts. Yes, that’s what he would do.
The pain in his shoulder was making him sick, and although his clothes were wet he was very dry inside, like he used to be after eating salt herring. It was all the seawater he had swallowed. He would have drowned if it hadn’t been for Ben…He mustn’t keep thinking of Ben; he would go to pieces if he thought of Ben.
The sun came out and filtered through the gorse. His head and face felt warm but the rest of his body was shivering. He lay back and closed his eyes, and when next he opened them and peered out to sea through the branches there was no sign of the two boats.
Cautiously, he looked to the right and to the left of him. The cliff curved away on both sides, and he realised that the spot where he was was almost where the cliff jutted out. This, in a way, was an advantage…Now how to reach that path!
His limbs cramped and trembling, he slowly drew himself upwards. He had no idea how firm was his actual foothold. Standing, he was still breast high in the gorse and when he went to press his way to the actual rock face he found that his thigh, on one side, was impeded by something.
When he put his hand down and felt a small jut of rock his heart gave an excited leap. Once he could get a foot onto that he’d be within reach of the path. But what if he found he couldn’t make the haul to the path?…Well! It was all or nothing, now or never. If he stopped to think any more he’d get frightened, and if he waited very much longer his limbs would be too stiff to do anything. If only he had the use of his other hand. Well, he hadn’t, had he, so he’d better get going, hadn’t he?
As if he were being pushed he leant forward against the tangle of branches and pressed one knee through it until it was touching the edge of the foothold. Then, reaching upwards, he grasped a niche in the cliff face and slowly, cautiously, drew up his other leg until the sole of his boot was resting on the tiny ledge. Now, holding his breath, he le
ant his body against the slope of the cliff, released his one hand hold and groped upwards. The reaction of relief when his fingers came over the edge of the path was almost as disastrous as if he had lost his foothold altogether for, being too confident, he lifted his feet too sharply from the ledge and for a split second found himself dangling in mid-air before his foot found its hold again.
Dear Lord! Dear God! That was a near one.
He lay against the rock gasping for a moment. The position now was, would he have strength enough in his one arm to pull himself up? He doubted it. His eyes moved over the face of the rock. Just in front of him, level with his chin, was a long fissure. If he could bear to press his bad arm on that it might help. But it would all have to be done in one movement; get his elbow into the fissure, press and heave himself onto the path with his good hand.
Taking a deep breath, he raised himself on tiptoe, stretched his body to its full extent, got his left forearm resting on the fissure, put all his strength into the pull of his right arm and heaved his body upwards…His shoulders were over the top of the rock, his chest was on the path, his belly following, then his legs.
Oh, thank you, God. Thank you, God. He had made it. He lay still, his face pressed to the rough uneven surface of the cliff path. Then cautiously he drew himself to his feet and, keeping close to the wall of rock, moved along it. A few yards further on it curved away and sloped gently upwards. Five minutes later his feet touched grass, and there he was, in the field that Ben had spoken of.
He didn’t pause to look back down the cliff that had so nearly taken his life, but now, at a shambling run, crossed the field and made for a group of trees at the far side of it.
The trees were the beginning of a stretch of woodland, and he walked on until he came to some thick scrub, and there, lying close under its shelter, he rested and took stock of the situation.
What was he to do? Well, there was one thing he needn’t do now, and that was to go back to that house. But what about the…blue baccy? Until now he had forgotten what he was carrying. Slowly he dropped his gaze to his waistline, then pushed his hand in between his coats. There it was, stuck against his flesh; the little cartwheel of baccy.
Rory's Fortune Page 11