Dickson McCunn - Complete 'Gorbals Die-hards' Series. Buchan John
with a knee on his chest and two hands at his throat.
“Heritage,” he gasped. “Help!”
There was a sound of furniture scraped violently on the floor. A gurgle from Dickson served as a guide, and the Poet suddenly cascaded over the combatants. He felt for a head, found Leon’s and gripped the neck so savagely that the owner loosened his hold on Dickson. The last-named found himself being buffeted violently by heavy-shod feet which seemed to be manoeuvring before an unseen enemy. He rolled out of the road and encountered another pair of feet, this time unshod. Then came the sound of a concussion, as if metal or wood had struck some part of a human frame, and then a stumble and fall.
After that a good many things all seemed to happen at once. There was a sudden light, which showed Leon blinking with a short loaded life-preserver in his hand, and Heritage prone in front of him on the floor. It also showed Dickson the figure of Dougal, and more than one Die-Hard in the background. The light went out as suddenly as it had appeared. There was a whistle and a hoarse “Come on, men,” and then for two seconds there was a desperate silent combat. It ended with Leon’s head meeting the floor so violently that its possessor became oblivious of further proceedings. He was dragged into a cubby-hole, which had once been used for coats and rugs, and the door locked on him. Then the light sprang forth again. It revealed Dougal and five Die-Hards, somewhat the worse for wear; it revealed also Dickson squatted with outspread waterproof very like a sitting hen.
“Where’s Dobson?” he asked.
“In the boiler-house,” and for once Dougal’s gravity had laughter in it. “Govey Dick! but yon was a fecht! Me and Peter Paterson and Wee Jaikie started it, but it was the whole company afore the end. Are ye better, Jaikie?”
“Ay, I’m better,” said a pallid midget.
“He kickit Jaikie in the stomach and Jaikie was seeck,” Dougal explained. “That’s the three accounted for. I think mysel’ that Dobson will be the first to get out, but he’ll have his work letting out the others. Now, I’m for flittin’ to the old Tower. They’ll no ken where we are for a long time, and anyway yon place will be far easier to defend. Without they kindle a fire and smoke us out, I don’t see how they’ll beat us. Our provisions are a’ there, and there’s a grand well o’ water inside. Forbye there’s the road down the rocks that’ll keep our communications open… But what’s come to Mr. Heritage?”
Dickson to his shame had forgotten all about his friend. The Poet lay very quiet with his head on one side and his legs crooked limply. Blood trickled over his eyes from an ugly scar on his forehead. Dickson felt his heart and pulse and found them faint but regular. The man had got a swinging blow and might have a slight concussion; for the present he was unconscious.
“All the more reason why we should flit,” said Dougal. “What d’ye say, Mr. McCunn?”
“Flit, of course, but further than the old Tower. What’s the time?” He lifted Heritage’s wrist and saw from his watch that it was half-past three. “Mercy. It’s nearly morning. Afore we put these blagyirds away, they were conversing, at least Leon and Dobson were. They said that they expected somebody every moment, but that the car would be late. We’ve still got that Somebody to tackle. Then Leon spoke to me in the dark, thinking I was Dobson, and cursed the wind, saying it would keep the Danish brig from getting in at dawn as had been intended. D’you see what that means? The worst of the lot, the ones the ladies are in terror of, are coming by sea. Ay, and they can return by sea. We thought that the attack would be by land, and that even if they succeeded we could hang on to their heels and follow them, till we got them stopped. But that’s impossible! If they come in from the water, they can go out by the water, and there’ll never be more heard tell of the ladies or of you or me.”
Dougal’s face was once again sunk in gloom. “What’s your plan, then?”
“We must get the ladies away from here—away inland, far from the sea. The rest of us must stand a siege in the old Tower, so that the enemy will think we’re all there. Please God we’ll hold out long enough for help to arrive. But we mustn’t hang about here. There’s the man Dobson mentioned—he may come any second, and we want to be away first. Get the ladder, Dougal… Four of you take Mr. Heritage, and two come with me and carry the ladies’ things. It’s no’ raining, but the wind’s enough to take the wings off a seagull.”
Dickson roused Saskia and her cousin, bidding them be ready in ten minutes. Then with the help of the Die-Hards he proceeded to transport the necessary supplies—the stove, oil, dishes, clothes and wraps; more than one journey was needed of small boys, hidden under clouds of baggage. When everything had gone he collected the keys, behind which, in various quarters of the house, three gaolers fumed impotently, and gave them to Wee Jaikie to dispose of in some secret nook. Then he led the two ladies to the verandah, the elder cross and sleepy, the younger alert at the prospect of movement.
“Tell me again,” she said. “You have locked all the three up, and they are now the imprisoned?”
“Well, it was the boys that, properly speaking, did the locking up.”
“It is a great—how do you say?—a turning of the tables. Ah—what is that?”
At the end of the verandah there was a clattering down of pots which could not be due to the wind, since the place was sheltered. There was as yet only the faintest hint of light, and black night still lurked in the crannies. Followed another fall of pots, as from a clumsy intruder, and then a man appeared, clear against the glass door by which the path descended to the rock garden. It was the fourth man, whom the three prisoners had awaited. Dickson had no doubt at all about his identity. He was that villain from whom all the others took their orders, the man whom the Princess shuddered at. Before starting he had loaded his pistol. Now he tugged it from his waterproof pocket, pointed it at the other and fired.
The man seemed to be hit, for he spun round and clapped a hand to his left arm. Then he fled through the door, which he left open.
Dickson was after him like a hound. At the door he saw him running and raised his pistol for another shot. Then he dropped it, for he saw something in the crouching, dodging figure which was familiar.
“A mistake,” he explained to Jaikie when he returned. “But the shot wasn’t wasted. I’ve just had a good try at killing the factor!”
CHAPTER 10
DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY
Five scouts’ lanterns burned smokily in the ground room of the keep when Dickson ushered his charges through its cavernous door. The lights flickered in the gusts that swept after them and whistled through the slits of the windows, so that the place was full of monstrous shadows, and its accustomed odour of mould and disuse was changed to a salty freshness. Upstairs on the first floor Thomas Yownie had deposited the ladies’ baggage, and was busy making beds out of derelict iron bedsteads and the wraps brought from their room. On the ground floor on a heap of litter covered by an old scout’s blanket lay Heritage, with Dougal in attendance.
The Chieftain had washed the blood from the Poet’s brow, and the touch of cold water was bringing him back his senses. Saskia with a cry flew to him, and waved off Dickson who had fetched one of the bottles of liqueur brandy. She slipped a hand inside his shirt and felt the beating of his heart. Then her slim fingers ran over his forehead.
“A bad blow,” she muttered, “but I do not think he is ill. There is no fracture. When I nursed in the Alexander Hospital I learnt much about head wounds. Do not give him cognac if you value his life.”
Heritage was talking now and with strange tongues. Phrases like “lined Digesters” and “free sulphurous acid” came from his lips. He implored some one to tell him if “the first cook” was finished, and he upbraided some one else for “cooling off” too fast.
The girl raised her head. “But