Johnstone of the Border

"They're in the drawing-room. Wait here," Elsie whispered; and the next moment Madge was alone.

It was very cold and the darkness was daunting, but she tried to brace herself. Her brother was engaged in dangerous work, and the secret conference that was being held in the room across the hall might threaten him. Then, Rankine had some part in the business. She felt a thrill that brought the blood to her face and gave her courage as she determined that no harm should come to him.

The murmur in the drawing-room grew louder, and Madge wondered if she could get nearer to it. Advancing cautiously into the hall, she tried to remember where the furniture was; but her outstretched hand struck something that rattled, and she stopped, alarmed. She had been on the point of knocking down a vase, and it was plain to her that further progress would involve risk. Elsie had some plan, and a noise would spoil it. Madge went back to her post and waited there in the darkness, highly strung and shivering.

Elsie, in the meantime, had left the house and crept round it on the grass until she reached a greenhouse built against one side of the drawing-room. The door was open, as she had expected, and, feeling for the edge of a flower-stand, she followed it up until she could crouch down beside the steps leading to a French window. It was closed but not latched, for when she ran her fingers along the joint, she felt an aperture; but she dared not try to pull it open. Still, she could see in. The lamps had not been lighted, but an electric torch lay on the table and threw a ring of light on the opposite wall, two or three feet from the ground. The rest of the room was in darkness, but a dim illumination which spread beyond the bright beam showed two figures faintly.

The men sat at the table. Elsie could not hear what they said; for their voices were low and they spoke in curt sentences. As soon as they had finished their business, one of them would get up and go, and she might not be able to steal away in time; besides, another man might come in by the door behind her. She must risk trying to open the window. She got her fingernails into the crack; but the hinges began to grate, and she let her hand drop. The voices, however, were now a trifle more distinct and she recognized one as her uncle's. Only a word or two was audible here and there, and she could not connect them with what she missed; but, after a time, she heard Staffer say:

"All falls through unless Williamson gets into touch.."

"He must.. should be there now.. low water," said the other man.

Elsie missed Staffer's answer, but soon she caught:

"Andrew Johnstone and the American.."

"Must be stopped.. know too much.. No scruples.. can't hesitate."

Staffer laughed; and Elsie shuddered at his half-heard voice.

"I don't.. do what you like.. But make sure.. know too much.. both dangerous."

Elsie shrank down as Staffer rose and the light traveled along the wall, but the men crossed the floor and she heard a cupboard being opened. They were now near the hall door and she missed what they said; but she had heard enough and must escape before the stranger left by the window.

Stealing out of the greenhouse, she ran back, with her brain busily at work. Madge was waiting where she had left her. Together they crept up the back stairs and into Madge's room.

Elsie was very calm when at last she felt it safe to speak.

"They came to the door once. What did you hear?" she asked in a whisper.

"The wreck. About three hours. There before high water! It wasn't Staffer's voice."

Elsie pressed her arm, and, listening eagerly, they heard a stealthy footstep in the passage. Then the handle of Elsie's door shook, as if it had been touched, and there was silence.

They waited for a few minutes while Elsie thought quickly. The situation, though still obscure, was getting clearer. Andrew was interfering with something it was necessary that Williamson should do, and Staffer had told his visitor that he could stop him as he liked, but must make sure. There had been something horribly threatening in his laugh as he said that Andrew and Whitney knew too much. The visitor was to do what he had undertaken, about low water, near a wreck.

The question was: What had he undertaken?

"What is that?" Madge whispered, turning to the open window.

A faint throbbing came out of the dark. It was some distance off, but Elsie recognized it as a motor running down the valley.

"It's the man going to Annan," she said. "Listen while I explain – "

Her conclusions grew clearer and more logical as she put them into words, and she got up resolutely when she had finished.

"We can do nothing more; Dick must help us now."

Stealing down the passage, she entered his room and shook him gently. He awoke, and she put her hand on his face to check the exclamation she half expected.

"It's Elsie; you mustn't make a noise," she whispered. "Do you know anything about a wreck?"

"I know where it is," he answered drowsily.

"Andrew's there to-night, isn't he?"

"It's possible," said Dick, lifting himself on his elbow. "Why do you ask?"

She told him what she had overheard, and he was silent for a moment, though she knew that he was now wide awake.

"Andrew must be warned," he said; "and the other fellow's got a start. I couldn't get the car out without bringing Staffer down, and Whitney's motorcycle is at the Burnfoot. I'll have to take my bicycle."

Elsie noted that he had shown no surprise, which was curious, and that he was very cool. Then she remembered that he had not been looking well for some days.

"Can't you get a fisherman to go?" she suggested. "You could give him a guarded message or a note."

Dick smiled.

"I'll have to take a fisherman, but I'm going. Andrew's a very good sort and I owe him something." His tone changed strangely. "Will you give me a kiss, Elsie? You haven't done so since we were kiddies – but I'd like you to."

Elsie stooped and kissed his cheek and he put his hand on hers.

"Thank you, dear. Now you'll have to go. I must start as soon as possible."

She left him, wondering at something unusual in his manner; and five minutes afterward Dick crept down the back stairs. When he wheeled out his bicycle, the lamp would not burn and he had no time to look for fresh carbide. It was difficult to keep on the drive, and he feared that Staffer might hear the crash if he ran into the border and fell, but he avoided this, and opened the gate at the lodge without wakening its occupants.

The valley was dark, the road wet, and Dick could scarcely see the clipped hedgerows. Indeed, at first, he ran on to the grass, but by degrees his eyes got used to the gloom and he let the bicycle coast down a long hill. It gave him a good start, but when he came to the bottom, the hill in front was steep, and he knew a stern effort would be needed, as he changed to the low gear. He was distressed and panting hard when he was half-way up, and as he forced the cranks round, the tires slipped and skidded in the mud. The trees that stretched their bare branches overhead kept the road soft, but it seemed to him that they also shut out the air. He could not breathe in the thick gloom beneath them, and his heart was throbbing painfully.

This was the kind of thing he had been especially warned against; but he could not stop. The wind was light, and, allowing for some loss of time in waking a fisherman and getting his boat away, it would be past low-water when they approached the wreck. Remembering what had happened the night the lamp went out, Dick saw that Andrew's danger would begin when the flood-tide raced across the sands.

The breeze met him in the face when the road turned toward the coast at the summit of the hill. He found it refreshing, but it threatened to increase his labor and the mud got worse as he ran down to the seaboard plain. Light mist thickened the gloom and the bicycle skidded badly when he struck the boggy strip along the half-seen hedgerows. Still he toiled on, while the perspiration dripped from his forehead and he got dizzy. The exertion he was making was not sufficient cause for this, but he had paid for rashly running upstairs at a Lockerbie hotel a few days before. Something the doctor had warned him of had happened, and he had not recovered from it yet. For all that, he must reach the lower end of the channel before the tide began to flow.

He knew the road well, but he could not distinguish where he was, and was half afraid he had taken a wrong turning, until a few faint lights shone out ahead. These must mark the outskirts of Annan. Five minutes later he ran down the main street. The houses were dark, and he had some trouble to find the narrow lane that turned off to the waterside. There were no lights here, but the road was paved, and when he passed under a railway bridge tall black buildings rose between him and the river. A sour smell came from the wet mud-banks behind them, and the splash of running water warned him that the tide was falling fast. He must lose no time if he meant to get away before the boats were left aground.

He passed a silent factory and a long, shadowy mill; a schooner's masts rose out of the gloom, and he was in the open. When the road stopped near a wharf-shed, Dick pushed the bicycle through a gap in a hedge and across a field, until he reached a very muddy lane. He would rather have left the machine; but time did not permit; and for the next five minutes he jolted furiously among the pools and ruts. Somehow, he saved himself from falling, and jumped down when a dark row of houses, on rising ground, cut against the sky. Throwing the bicycle against a fence, he climbed the hill, breathing hard, while his head swam and he felt the heavy thumping of his heart.

When he knocked at the door, a man came down and took him into a small, plainly furnished room. He was a big fellow, with keen blue eyes, and a brown face covered with fine wrinkles.

"Noo ye can tell me what ye want," he said.

Dick gave him a rather inadequate explanation, and the fisherman looked thoughtful.

"Weel," he said, "I dinna' understand it athegither, but it's enough if ye think Mr. Andrew's in trouble." He paused for a moment, as if pondering, and then resumed: "The big shrimp-boat would take us doon faster, but she draws four feet and we'd want a punt to get ashore. I'm thinking we'll take the whammeler. She's a smart bit craft and we could pull her if there was need."

He gave Dick a bundle of black oilskins.

"Pit these on. Ye'll need them."

Dick thought this probable, for he was wearing only his thin, ordinary clothes.

"Thanks," he said, as he got into the oilskins, which were softer and more pliable than any he had seen in shops. "You see, I left in rather a hurry."

"I ken. An' noo we'll start."

His curtness was reassuring, for Dick knew his countrymen. The fellow's immediate business was to take him to the wreck, and he would fix his mind on doing so. It was obvious that there was something mysterious about their errand, but although the Scot is as curious as other people, he seldom asks unnecessary questions when there is work to be done. His habit is to concentrate upon the main issue.

They left the house, and a few minutes later crept along a slippery plank to a boat lying against a timber framework on which nets were dried. She was sharp at both ends, half-decked, and about twenty feet long; with a short, thick mast. Now that the tide had ebbed, the river mouth was about a dozen yards across, and a row of larger craft, sheering to and fro in the eddies, nearly filled the channel. Behind these, a cluster of white buildings and a low promontory loomed out of the dark. On the opposite side, a high gravel bank seemed to close the narrow entrance.

"Lowse the stern-mooring!" said the fisherman; and there was a harsh rattle of chain as the boat slid out into the stream.

He threw an oar into the sculling notch and they drifted away, slipping between the trawl-boats that rose out of the gloom and vanished astern. A minute later, the stream boiled noisily along the gravel bank, the white buildings faded, and they were swept into the darkness that brooded over the Firth. The fisherman hoisted a small, black lugsail and jib, and took the tiller as the boat listed gently down to a biting wind.

"Maybe ye'll find it warmer in the for'ad den," he said. "Ye can light the bit stove and set the kettle on."

Dick was shivering, and he was glad to crawl through a hatch into a narrow dark hole, where he lay down, after feeling for and lighting the stove. There was no room between floor and deck-beams to sit comfortably, but an old sail and some ropes made a couch on which he could rest. He felt shaky, and an unpleasant faintness threatened to overcome him.

He heard the water splash against the planks and felt the boat list. That was comforting, because he thought it was fourteen miles to the wreck. Still, the ebb would run nearly four miles an hour, there was some wind, and the whammel boats sailed fast. If his companion could keep her off the ground as the banks dried and the channel narrowed, they ought to arrive by low-water.

CHAPTER XXIX

WHEN THE TIDE TURNED

The wind fell as the tide drained out, and belts of mist hung motionless about the sands when the whammel boat crept slowly down to the mouth of the channel. The sail lay on deck, and Dick panted as he pulled an oar while his companion sculled astern. He felt faint, and the heavily ballasted boat was hard to move, but he thought the tide was turning now and he knew that he must hold out. Occasionally he turned and looked ahead, but saw nothing except the mist. There were no birds about, the water was smooth, and everything was very quiet. At length, a tall mast grew out of the haze and Dick stopped rowing.

"The Rowan. Scull her in to the bank," he said. "I want to see where the dinghy is."

They could not find her, but presently came upon a whammel boat lying near the edge of the sand.

"It's the Nance that Tam Grahame selt awa'," the fisherman remarked. "I canna' see what she's doing here with naebody on board."

"We'll pull off to the yacht," Dick replied.

The dinghy was not astern when they boarded the Rowan; and when Dick went below and lighted a lamp, his companion looked puzzled.

"It's queer! There's seeven feet o' watter, and Mr. Andrew wouldna' swim ashore."

"Not when he had the dinghy."

"But she's no' on the bank."

"I imagine she's out at sea, by now," Dick said grimly. "How long do you think the Nance has been here?"

"Maybe half an hour. Her keel's weel in the ground and the tide doesna' fall much on the last o' the ebb. They're no' expecting to be back until the flood makes, because her anchor's up the bank."

"That's what I thought," said Dick. "Now, I will tell you that Andrew is in danger. I had meant to find him, but I don't feel well enough. I suppose you can use a gun?"

"We get a shot at a whaup or shellduck whiles. Ye're no' looking weel."

Dick lifted a big 10-bore gun from a rack and searched a locker for cartridges.

"Fours," he said, putting down a packet. "I think you'd better have B's. Here they are."

The fisherman looked at him curiously as he took the cartridges, which were loaded with large shot; and Dick smiled.

"You may meet the man who set the punt adrift," he explained. "I want you to go to the wreck and find my cousin. Tell him to be careful, because one of the gang has come down the channel after him. If there's trouble going on when you get there, do what you think best; but bring Andrew back. The police won't blame you afterward if you have to use the gun."

The man nodded quietly, and Dick knew that he could be trusted.

"Ye'll be for staying here. Will I light the stove?"

"No," said Dick. "I imagine it would be safer if I waited in your boat. She'll be needed when the tide flows, and I can make myself comfortable in the den."

The fisherman sculled the boat ashore and put out an anchor; and then he went away across the bank and Dick crept into the forecastle. The stove was still burning, and the small, dark place was warm. It had been a strain to hold out until all that was necessary had been done, and now he was glad to lie down among the ropes and sails. There was a weight on his chest, his breathing was hard, and his pulse seemed to be getting sluggish. He wished he had some brandy or there was somebody about; but he must not give in yet. The boat would be needed when Andrew came back and it might be tampered with.

While the fisherman and Dick had been hurrying to them, Andrew and Whitney, well armed, crossed the bank toward the wreck and then separated at a short distance from her. Andrew went straight forward while his comrade made a round so as to approach her from the other side. Hitherto, their visits had led to nothing, but Rankine seemed to think it would be different this time.

When he got near the wreck, Andrew found that the tide had scoured out a pool round her after part, and this threatened to make things difficult. His figure would be visible against the pale gleam of the water and he could not get across without splashing. He must go round, but this would take him away from the place where it was easiest to get on board. For all that, he must not make a noise, and he moved cautiously across the wet sand until he reached the broken timbers on the edge of the pool.

He heard the water trickle through the vessel's seams and the murmur of the languid surf in the distance, but presently he thought there was something else. The sound seemed to come from inside the wreck. He moved a few yards nearer and then stopped, with his feet in the pool, listening hard. There was a curious snap and crackle, like the striking of matches; and, looking up, Andrew saw that something was sticking out from the masthead. His lips set in a hard line. A wireless installation was at work, perhaps giving a message that would send another ship to its doom. But it looked as if he could surprise and seize the operator, and he meant to do so, though he realized what the consequences might be.

It was, however, impossible to climb up with the gun in his hand, and he was sorry that he had brought it. Leaning it against the wreck, he found a rest for his hand and lifted himself to a stringer. His head and shoulders were now above the top of the vessel's ribs, but he did not see how he was to reach the deck, which had fallen in abreast of where he was. While he looked about there was a sharp report behind him and a tremor in the wood. It had been struck by a bullet a few inches from his side. Letting go quickly, he fell back with a splash.

Andrew was afterward uncertain whether he lost his hold in alarm or dropped back with instinctive caution. He came down in the water, and did not get up, because a dark figure stood on the other side of the pool and he feared that a movement would draw a bullet. His gun was some yards away; but Andrew thought he would be nearly invisible against the side of the wreck so long as he kept still, and the shot would bring Whitney to his help.

There was a shout from the deck, and Andrew recognized Williamson's voice. He was obviously alarmed, but the other man called out sharply in German, ordering him back. Andrew imagined from this that the message he was transmitting was of urgent importance, or perhaps the newcomer had another to send.

It was plain that the men must not be allowed to finish their work, and Andrew wondered whether he could creep back to where his gun lay while the fellow's attention was diverted. He was getting up cautiously when the enemy's pistol flashed and a spurt of water splashed into his face. Then there was a streak of light and a heavier report farther back on the sands, and his antagonist turned and ran a few yards along the beach.

Andrew knew that Whitney could not have fired the shot. But at the moment this was not important; he must get his gun while the man was occupied. As he felt for it he heard Whitney run round the stern of the wreck. He was safe now; but that crackling sound had begun again, and at all costs Williamson must be stopped. Besides, Andrew had a signal of his own to make. Leaving the gun, he climbed up a timber and had just reached the deck when an indistinct figure rushed across it and vanished over the broken bulwarks on the opposite side. Then a patter of feet on the sand indicated that Williamson was escaping.

For all that, Andrew stopped, and, dragging a tin from his pocket, put it on the rail and struck a match. As he dropped it into the tin a bright blaze sprang up. Then he jumped down to the sand and seized his gun. The fellow who had shot at him had disappeared and there was nobody in sight; but he could hear men running on the other side of the wreck.

"Come on!" Whitney's voice reached him out of the darkness.

As he splashed through the water around the vessel's stern he saw two figures on the sand. One he took to be Whitney and the other was evidently a friend. Making an effort, he caught them up, and Whitney began to talk in breathless gasps.

"An Annan man – Dick sent him. Think coastguards will see your flare?"

"Where's Williamson and the other fellow?" Andrew asked quickly.

"Close ahead. They were going back to the channel, but couldn't get past us. What about the tide?"

Andrew began to understand the situation. While he was trying to surprise Williamson, his assailant had quietly come up behind him; and he, in turn, had been followed by the man Dick had sent. The fugitives must now make for the Scotch shore, or risk being shot at if they tried to go around his party's flank. In order to prevent this, he must extend his line.

"Spread out!" he cried. "Tide's flowing now, and the water will be in the gut when we get there!"

Whitney and the fisherman moved off left and right, and Andrew, glancing round, saw that his flare was burning. The men they followed could not see it because they faced the other way, and although there was some mist, he thought the signal would warn the coast-patrol, whom Rankine had told to keep a good lookout. They ran on, splashing across wet sand and into pools. Sometimes they caught a glimpse of two figures ahead and sometimes lost them in the haze. It was hard to tell whether they were gaming or not. Andrew dared not stop to take off his long boots, and the Annan man, hampered by his oilskins, was falling back; but Whitney was running well and drawing in front.

The sound of the advancing tide steadily grew louder, and a breeze was getting up. As the three men came panting out of a belt of mist a streak of water glimmered among the sands, and beyond it a black hillside rose from the dusky beach. The fugitives were plainer now, and it looked as if they could not escape; but the men held on steadily, and Andrew wondered what depth there was in the gutter. Glancing to one side, he thought he saw something moving along the edge of the channel; but he could not be sure because there was mist about the spot, and he could not stop to get a better view, for he was determined to follow Williamson.

A few minutes later he saw the men in front stop at the edge of the water, and he wondered why they did so. The channel was rapidly widening and they must cross at once or surrender. Instead, they ran along the bank for some distance and stopped again; and Andrew now saw that a white boat was moving along the opposite side. Changing his course, he ran on, panting hard, and saw that the men in front were waiting. A moment later one plunged into the channel while his comrade stood still.

As Andrew got nearer, there were two or three quick, bright flashes, and he heard a bullet pass his head and saw the sand spurt up at Whitney's feet. The fellow meant to stop them while his partner got a start; or perhaps he imagined that the water was too deep to cross.

Whitney stopped. A puff of smoke blew about him and there was a heavy report. The man on the bank staggered, fired his pistol again, and splashed awkwardly into the water. A moment later Andrew plunged in. He was close to the fellow now, but he had dropped his gun, because he did not mean to shoot. The man turned and raised his pistol, but his arm fell back, and Andrew sprang upon him.

They went down, and the stream boiled about them, but Andrew held on, and a minute later Whitney was at his side. They dragged their prisoner out.