Chapter XXII: The Struggle on the Cliffs

"A MATTER O' fower moiles, sir," replied an old fisherman in answer to Peter's inquiry as to the way to Scarby. "That is, if you'll be taking t' cliff path, which I wouldn't advise you, seeing as 'ow you'm a stranger. 'Tain't pertickler safe is yon path. Follow the righthand road. 'Tis a bit roughish in parts, but main passable."

Mr. Barcroft thanked the man for his information and set out briskly upon his way. Twilight had already set in, to add to the difficulties of the last stage of the journey of the intrepid Peter. Ahead rose the steep hill terminating in a frowning cliff--the first of three such ridges that lay betwixt him and Scarby. Away on his left he could discern a momentary glimpse of the North Sea, now grey and sullen and mottled by patches of fog that drifted slowly with the faint westerly breeze.

At a mile from Tongby railway station he struck the fork roads. The one to the left was the cliff-path, an almost grass-grown track, marked at regular intervals by whitewashed stones--necessary guides for the coastguards on a pitch-black night when a false step might hurl the incautious pedestrian to his death over the brink of a three-hundred-foot cliff. The right-hand way was a little _better_, although, judging by its condition, rarely used except by country carts. On either side the ground was rugged and thickly covered with gorse.

Wilder grew the countryside as Peter breasted the first of the three hills. Stunted trees, standing out against the crimson afterglow of the sky, assumed weird and fantastic shapes. To the faint moaning of the wind and the murmur of the sea came an accompaniment in the form of the cries of countless seabirds that find a nesting-place in the frowning face of those almost perpendicular cliffs.

Inland all was darkness. The narrow valleys contained human habitations, no doubt, but there was not a sign of their presence.

Peter's thoughts turned to his son as he looked seaward. Somewhere out there--it might be a matter of a few miles or of hundreds--Billy was serving King and country, perhaps snugly sheltered in the "Hippodrome's" wardroom, or, on the other hand, cutting through the darkness at an altitude of several hundred feet. It was not a pleasant task on a late autumnal night. With his trained imagination Peter could picture his boy out there--simply because of the German Emperor's insane ambition.

"Not content to let well alone," soliloquised Peter, "even when the German Empire was on the high road to commercial success and internal prosperity, the All Highest must butt in and try to upset everything. Incidentally Wilhelm has done the British Empire a lasting service. He has cemented it far more effectively than centuries of legislation. He has welded it into a homogeneous whole; he has awakened every Briton worthy of the name to a sense of his individual responsibility to the colossal task that confronts him. And, by Jove, we mean to see this business through. No half measures. A lasting peace built upon the ruins of German militarism."

Peter's reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of creaking cart-wheels and the steady patter of a beast of burden.

"Wonder if that is Butterfly?" he thought. "Now, if Mr. Pattercough is of the same type as friend Stigler and a bit of a tough customer I'd best lie low. Somehow I hardly like to argue the point about the lawful ownership of a donkey in this desolate spot."

There were plenty of places of concealment. Barcroft selected the shelter afforded by a gorse-bush close to the left hand side of the road. Immediately opposite was a beaten track that evidently effected a junction with the cliff path. At any rate, it wound in that direction, following the steeply sloping sides of a narrow, rugged valley.

The cart approached slowly. The driver seemed in no hurry, for he made no attempt either by word of mouth or by the application of his whip to hasten the animal. Only when the vehicle was opposite Peter's place of concealment did the man utter a subdued "Woa."

The donkey--for such it was--made no attempt to stop. "That's Butterfly for a dead cert," commented Peter.

The man uttered an imprecation, jumped from the cart and tugged viciously at the animal's bridle. Then, by main force, he backed the donkey a short distance along the side track.

"Plenty o' time," Barcroft heard him remark. "Better an hour too early than five minutes too late."

"Awkward habit, expressing one's thoughts aloud," mused Peter. "I do it myself occasionally, and I know. Now, what are you doing with a loaded cart on this unfrequented road at this time of night? I scent a mystery. I'll wait an hour and see what happens. If nothing, then I will kick myself for being an inquisitive ass."

The pedlar was not going to be inactive. Unharnessing the donkey--Peter was now absolutely convinced that it was Butterfly--he led the animal to a patch of grass-land hidden from the road by the bushes, a task requiring considerable physical strength. This done he backed the cart from the path until the gorse hid it from the watcher's sight.

Ten long minutes passed. The pedlar, swinging his arms vigorously, for the night air was chilly, made no attempt to look up or down the road. The person or persons he expected were evidently not approaching from that direction. Presently he walked to the cart, removed something from under the tarpaulin--it was too dark to see what the article was--and set off along the side track.

At fifty yards he surmounted a steep rise and disappeared the other side. The sound of his footsteps, deadened by the nature of the soil, quickly died away.

"Now I'll investigate," decided Barcroft. "If he returns in a hurry there'll be trouble. Friend Pattercough looks like a quarrelsome card. However, I'll risk it."

He stole cautiously to the place where the donkey and cart stood. Butterfly, indifferent to the attentions of her lawful master, browsed steadily at the scanty herbage. The cart, although inanimate, was far more interesting. It was piled high with faggots and bundles of brushwood, a tarpaulin being tightly lashed over the top of the load. Mingled with the scent of the newly-cut wood was the faint odour of petrol.

Without the slightest hesitation Barcroft probed the load with his stick. The ferrule grated against metal--the side of a tin. Again and again he tried; the bottom of the cart was packed with petrol-cans.

"Now, if I set fire to this little lot who would stand the racket?" inquired Peter. "This is obviously intended to be used illicitly--for supplying German submarines, although I can't be sure on that point. On the other hand, how would I stand under the Defence of the Realm regulations if I started a gorgeous bonfire? An hour too soon, he said; well, there's a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes gone, I should imagine. Remains enough time for me to get to Scarby, rout out the coastguards and put a stopper on this little game."

With this praiseworthy resolution Barcroft hurried off, keeping to the grassy ground in order to deaden the sound of his footsteps. His prowess as a long-distance runner had not entirely departed, although lack of training tried his wind sorely.

At the outskirts of the darkened village he came to a row of grey lime-washed cottages in front of which a tall flagstaff loomed up against the misty starlight.

"Halt!" exclaimed a hoarse voice peremptorily.

Peter halted. Confronting him was a greatcoated, gaitered, bearded man in seaman's uniform.

"'Gainst orders to use this path after dark," quoth the coastguardsman. "What's your name? And what are you doing running like this at this time o' night?"

"How many men have you at the station?" asked Barcroft breathlessly.

"Eh? What do you want this information for?" demanded the man suspiciously. "You'd best come along with me an' give no trouble. Strikes me there's something that ain't proper jonnick."

Barcroft preceded the seaman up the shingled path leading to the watch house.

"Look here, my man," he said authoritatively. "You had better inform your chief officer and turn out the detachment. I've hurried here expressly to tell you that a man from the village, Pattercough by name, is running a cargo of petrol. Barcroft's my name. I have documents to prove it. Also I have a son a commissioned officer in the Service, as you will find if you refer to a Navy List."

"In that case I ask your pardon," replied the coastguard, whose badges proclaimed him to be a chief petty officer. "I'm in charge, sir. This station is partly closed down since the war. I've only a few Boy Scouts to give you a hand--an' smart, plucky youngsters they are, too."

"Any special constables in the village?"

"Not one, sir; in fact, there ain't what one might call an able-bodied man in the place, barring this Pattercough. Tribunal exempted him 'evings only knows what for."

"Then turn out the Scouts," said Peter. "They'll come in jolly useful. There's no time to be lost."

Quickly half a dozen of the lads were on the spot, falling in at the word of command from the patrol leader. In a few words Barcroft explained the situation, enjoining silence until the petty officer gave the word for action.

"I'll just telephone through to Tongby and let our chaps know," said the coastguard.

In orderly formation the party set off to the place where the pedlar had left his cart. At "Scouts' Pace"--alternately walking and running--the distance was quickly covered. Butterfly and the load were still in sombre isolation. "He made off in that direction," whispered Peter.

"To Black Ghyll Bay then," replied the petty officer. "Artful bounder! He knew when our patrols pass, and chose his time."

With redoubled caution the party set off in single file, the sailor leading the way and Peter following up at the rear of the Scouts. Not a sound betrayed their presence--it was mainly owing to the fact that they all wore well-used foot gear.

Presently Peter found himself on the point of cannoning into the back of the Scout just ahead of him. The party had halted. With out the slightest confusion they concealed themselves behind a row of bushes that grew almost on the edge of the cliff. The petty officer raised one hand and pointed.

Through the darkness Barcroft could just distinguish the outlines of a human form crouching in the gorge barely ten yards on his right front, where the cliff began to fall away and form a ravine known as Black Ghyll.

At intervals the man in hiding raised his head and peered cautiously over the thick bush. Not once did he look behind. His attention was centred solely upon the foreshore or else seaward; he was totally oblivious of the fact that he was being watched intently by eight pairs of eyes.

Out to sea everything seemed swallowed up in pitch-black darkness. Only the measured beating of the groundswell upon the shingly shore gave the watchers any indication, apart from their local knowledge, that the wide North Sea was almost at their feet. The stars, too, had disappeared from view, for the mist had increased and was now threatening to develop into a regular sea-fog.

Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a faint ray of light emanating from a mere pinprick of luminosity. Short flash--obscuration--long flash--obscuration--short flash: that was all, but sufficient to indicate that out in that void of Cimmerian gloom some one was signalling.

The suspect rose and leaned forward. It looked as if he were spread-eagled over the gorse-bush. For quite a minute he remained there, then leaving his place of concealment he made his way towards the beach, crouching as stealthily as a panther behind every obstacle until he made sure of his ground.

Perhaps it was the strain of watching in the darkness; perhaps the thought that the suspect might escape; but whatever the motive the fact remained that one of the Scouts, uttering a loud yell, broke from cover and dashed towards the man, brandishing his staff like a Berserk.

"That's done it!" mentally ejaculated Peter. The premature and unauthorised action left no alternative.

"At him, lads!" shouted the petty officer. The fellow stood his ground, expostulating angrily. But his words fell unheeded. Like a pack of hounds the eager and alert youngsters literally threw themselves upon the suspect, and bore him to the ground.

Over and over they rolled, the gorse crackling under their weight. Only a few gaunt stumps prevented the struggling mob from tumbling over the brink of the fearful abyss. Unable to bear a hand Peter and the petty officer stood well-nigh breathless with suspense, expecting every minute to see the suspect and his assailants topple into space.

The struggle was short-lived. The fellow's efforts at resistance ceased. Bound hand and foot and with the ten-stone patrol leader sitting on his chest he realised that the game was up.

"Get your staves, lads," ordered the patrol-leader. "Form a stretcher. We'll carry him as far as the cart."

"Strikes me I hear engines," declared the coastguardsman. "There, what's that?"

A dull, rasping sound and the splash of disturbed water broke the silence. A moment later the night breeze carried the unmistakable noise of a vessel's engines running at full speed ahead.

The petty officer was quick to act. Raising his hands to his mouth he shouted in stentorian tones:

"Ship ahoy! Go full speed astern instantly. You're heading straight for Black Ghyll."

The clang of the engine-room telegraph bell followed quickly, to the accompaniment of short, crisp orders and the trample of boots upon a metal deck.

It was already too late. With a rending crash the vessel, whatever she might be, ran bows on to the jagged rocks.

"That's done it! Her number's up," exclaimed the petty officer. "Now, lads, four of you come with me. There's work to be done there, I reckon. The others stay with this gentleman and guard the prisoner till we return."

"Look here," said the captive in well-nigh breathless expostulation. "You've made a rotten mistake. Spoilt everything."

Peter felt his heart give a furious beat. Regardless of regulations he bent over the prostrate prisoner and struck a match.

The flickering flame revealed the indignant features of Philip Entwistle.