CHAPTER XXIV

A LEVY EN MASSE

To lie on one's back, bitted like a horse, trussed like a chicken, with flies and midges disporting themselves, unchecked, about one's features, and ants making adventurous journeys among one's clothes, is a situation that, to say the least of it, puts a strain upon a man's patience and equanimity. It is not greatly eased by the liberty of his eyes when their range is limited by dense overhanging foliage, which stirs in the breeze, opening tantalising glimpses of a sunbright sky.

On his turfy couch Warrender lay, groaning inwardly, cursing himself for delaying his errand, and Fate for bringing his enemies just then upon the scene; vexing his soul with visions of his companions caught unawares, and of Mr. Pratt still chained to his post; blaming himself, with the insight of the afflicted, for having countenanced a scheme that usurped the functions of the officers of the law. A fly feasted on his nose; gnats buzzed in and out of his ears; ants chased one another over his neck and up his arms, causing him to feel one multitudinous and intricate itch.

He had tried to wriggle himself free from his bonds, but Rush had not been poacher and fisher for nothing. Desisting from his vain struggles, he lay mumbling his gag, shaking his head like a tormented horse, and, as the minutes passed, sweating with alarm.

Presently his straining ears caught the faint regular thud of oars turning in rowlocks. The sound drew nearer. He tried to shout, but was capable of nothing more than a gurgling grunt. The knowledge that a boat was rounding the southern end of the island set him a-throb with hope, anxiety, despair--for what should bring the oarsman to shore? If, indeed, he should land, what should draw him to this overgrown spot, or cause him to pry among the bushes? The sound began to recede; the boat was passing on down the river; his momentary hopefulness was crushed under the weight of disappointment.

But after a little while his numb spirit was revivified by the sound of oars approaching again. He listened with throbbing eagerness. The movements were not now so regular; they were interrupted; presently they ceased altogether. Then he heard a rustle, and a slight thud as of some light-footed person jumping ashore. Again he tried to shout, but only the feeblest groan issued. All was silent. The new-comer, whoever it was, had seemingly not moved. But--was that not a cry?--a faint coo-ee, like an attenuated echo rather than a substantive sound. It came again, a little louder. After an interval, a third time, louder still. But there was no footstep, no rustling of branches, or swishing in trodden grass.

Frenzied by the thought of some one standing within easy reach of him--some one, too, who was seeking, if not him, at any rate somebody--Warrender jerked his jaw until he succeeded in shifting a little the handkerchief knotted behind his poll; and, blowing out his cheeks, he fetched from the depth of his throat a note like the boom of a bull-frog. He heard--or was it fancy?--a muffled exclamation. Again he boomed. Then--surely he was not mistaken?--a light-toned voice, asking, with the breathless utterance of surprise, "Who is it?" He could but reply with his inarticulate bass note. Footsteps came towards him; then hesitated. He boomed encouragement.

"Where are you?"

The words were scarcely above a whisper. Boom, boom! The swishing footsteps advanced, leaves clashed together, twigs snapped, and Warrender, feeling that his throat would crack and his cheeks burst, kept up his hollow note in moto continuo--accelerando--crescendo, as the hoped-for relief drew nearer.

Presently, after what seemed an age, the foliage above his head was gently, timorously parted, and his eyes beheld amazement, concern, indignation in the face of Lilian Crawshay.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, pushing through the shrub. "What--why--oh, you poor thing!"

She dropped on her knees, lifted his head, and swiftly untied the knot in the handkerchief.

"Thank you," he gasped.

"Who did it? What does it mean? But presently--presently. Your arms!"

Turning, she sought to untie the knots. They were too firm, the rope too coarse, for her little fingers.

"My knife--coat pocket," murmured Warrender.

In a trice she found the knife; even its keen blade she had to use as a saw before the bonds were severed. Warrender got up, stiffly. He stretched his aching arms, shook himself, stamped his feet.

"I can't thank you enough," he said, the words coming hoarsely through his parched lips.

"But who had the wickedness----? Never mind; tell me presently. What can I do? There is something--something terrible, I know. What can I do to help?"

"Will you row me to our camp? As we go, I shall be able to explain. My voice is coming back."

"Yes, let us go. Let me help you."

She took his arm, hurried him on his cramped legs to the skiff that lay half on the bank, and, hauling this into the water, assisted him to the stern thwart. Then she turned, ran a few steps to Rush's boat, and brought from it Warrender's cap.

"But for this----" she began. "Oh, it's too horrible!"

Springing to her seat facing him, she unshipped the sculls and began to pull up stream.

"I rowed to your camp," she said. "My father gave me a message for you. I was surprised to find it deserted, and came down, thinking I might see some of you on the water. But there was no sign of you, and I was returning when I caught sight of the cap in Rush's boat. I wondered. I knew it belonged to one of you, and it surprised me to find it there. I got ashore. Did you hear me coo-ee? It was very soft; I hardly knew what to think."

Warrender nodded.

"Then I heard that strange sound. I was a little frightened; but after a moment I thought it might be Mr. Pratt; he is funny sometimes. It was when you didn't answer that I thought something must be wrong, and--well, you know. I am so glad I didn't run away. How long had you been in that dreadful position?"

"I don't know--an age."

"And was it Rush?"

"Yes. I must tell you. The foreigners at the Red House----"

"Oh, I guessed! Dear old Father was so mysterious. Did he tell you to keep it from me?"

"Well, yes, he did."

"I knew it. Why does a man like to play the ostrich? I knew ages ago there was something strange happening, and we poor women creatures mustn't be startled, shocked. Daddy is an Early Victorian. Is it so very horrid?"

"It's a long story. D'you mind if I tell you later? I want you to land, if you will, at the camp, and go across to your house as quickly as possible, and ask Mr. Crawshay to bring every man he can muster, armed, to the tower in Mr. Pratt's grounds. One thing I had better tell you at once: the foreigners had Mr. Pratt a prisoner in the tower."

"Good gracious! Mr. Ambrose Pratt?"

"Yes. Here we are. Please give my message at once. Mr. Crawshay will partly understand. Impress on him that speed is vital."

"And you?"

"I am going to rush up to the village in the motor-boat."

"But are you able?"

"Quite. The stiffness is wearing off. Tell Mr. Crawshay I am taking some men--all the able-bodied men I can collect--to the tower, and if he can somehow send a message to the nearest town for the police----"

"Yes; I understand. We've no telegraph or telephone in this benighted place, but it shall be done. You are quite sure you can manage alone? I don't think you are fit for much exertion, you know."

"I'm quite all right," replied Warrender, smiling as he handed the girl ashore. "By the way, Pratt and Armstrong are in the tower. Will you tell Mr. Crawshay that? And speed is all important."

"I'll run like a hare. Good-bye. I do hope----"

She left her thought unsaid, and, gathering her skirt, fled across the field towards her home.

Ten minutes afterwards, Warrender ran the motor-boat alongside the landing-stage, sprang ashore, and hurried up to the Ferry Inn. The door was open--it was the mid-day interval for refreshment--and he saw a good many familiar figures with their elbows on the bar, or tipping up the pots which Joe Rogers, in his shirt-sleeves, had drawn for them. His arrival precisely at this moment could not have happened more luckily. Rogers greeted him with a smile; Henery Drew and one or two others nodded and went on drinking. No one spoke; the countryman takes a minute or two to think of an opening.

"Rogers, my friends, I want your help," said Warrender. The rustics looked at him solemnly. He went on, not pausing to choose his words: "Those foreigners are forging Treasury notes in Mr. Pratt's tower. They have Mr. Pratt himself a prisoner there." Eyes widened; pots were suspended in mid course. "My chums have got in and are holding the place against them. I want every man of you to come with me and lend a hand. With your help we'll collar the whole gang. There's no time to lose."

No one moved. Rogers stood staring, with his hand on the draw-pull. The others gaped.

"Don't you understand?" cried Warrender. "Mr. Pratt's in danger. They're desperate criminals--six or eight of them against three. You, Mr. Drew--you're a soldier. Rogers----"

"What have they done to my sister Molly?" shouted Rogers. "Neighbours all, do 'ee hear? Mr. Pratt, as we thought abroad--'od rabbit it all, come on!" He darted round the counter.

"Got a gun, Rogers?" asked Warrender.

"Ay, there's a fowling-piece in the parlour," cried the man, running back again.

"I've got one up along," said Drew. "Do 'ee say now! I'll fetch 'en."

"Stay!" said Warrender. "There isn't time. You must bring what you can. Don't delay. Sticks, forks, spades--you've a mattock there," he added, addressing a man on the settle against the wall. "Bring it along. All of you bring what you can lay hands on. Mr. Drew, you're an active man. Run up into the village and collect all the men you can find, and take them up to the Red House by the road. Set a couple to guard the gate, lead the rest on to the tower. You others, borrow some garden tools from Rogers--or anything; and come with me. Here's Rogers." The innkeeper, minus his wig, came back with his fowling-piece. "You'll lend your tools?"

"Ay sure. In the shed, neighbours; you do know the way. My poor Molly!"

"I give you five minutes!" cried Warrender. "Come down to the ferry. I'll wait for you--five minutes only."

He hurried out, followed by Rogers. The younger men among the rest, bestirring themselves at last, went round the inn into the garden. Within five minutes a group of seven, armed with hoe, rake, spade, mattock, fork, fowling-piece, and coal-hammer, was gathered on the landing-stage.

"Squeeze into the boat," said Warrender. "I'll run you down and land you opposite No Man's Island. You must pack tight."

They crowded into the boat. Warrender opened the throttle. A shriek was heard, and Mrs. Rogers came flying out of the inn, flourishing her husband's wig.

"Joe, you gawkhammer, you've left your hair behind."

"Make it into a stew and be jowned to it!" shouted Rogers, as the boat hummed away.

Landing on the bank opposite the cottage, the party hurried through the plantation, Warrender taking the lead.

"No talking, men," he said.

They emerged into the park. The tower came in sight. From the roof a dense column of brown smoke rose straight into the still air. Rogers groaned.

"God send we be in time!" he murmured, as he pounded heavily along.