Chapter XII. How Mr. McCunn Committed an Assault Upon an Ally

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

Dickson always maintained that his senses did not leave him for
more than a second or two, but he admitted that he did not remember
very clearly the events of the next few hours. He was conscious of
a bad pain above his eyes, and something wet trickling down his
cheek. There was a perpetual sound of water in his ears and of men's
voices. He found himself dropped roughly on the ground and forced to
walk, and was aware that his legs were inclined to wobble. Somebody
had a grip on each arm, so that he could not defend his face from
the brambles, and that worried him, for his whole head seemed one
aching bruise and he dreaded anything touching it. But all the time
he did not open his mouth, for silence was the one duty that his
muddled wits enforced. He felt that he was not the master of his
mind, and he dreaded what he might disclose if he began to babble.

Presently there came a blank space of which he had no
recollection at all. The movement had stopped, and he was allowed to
sprawl on the ground. He thought that his head had got another whack
from a bough, and that the pain put him into a stupor. When he
awoke he was alone.

He discovered that he was strapped very tightly to a young
Scotch fir. His arms were bent behind him and his wrists tied
together with cords knotted at the back of the tree; his legs were
shackled, and further cords fastened them to the bole. Also there
was a halter round the trunk and just under his chin, so that while
he breathed freely enough, he could not move his head. Before him
was a tangle of bracken and scrub, and beyond that the gloom of
dense pines; but as he could see only directly in front his prospect
was strictly circumscribed.

Very slowly he began to take his bearings. The pain in his
head was now dulled and quite bearable, and the flow of blood had
stopped, for he felt the encrustation of it beginning on his cheeks.
There was a tremendous noise all around him, and he traced this to
the swaying of tree-tops in the gale. But there was an undercurrent
of deeper sound--water surely, water churning among rocks. It was a
stream--the Garple of course--and then he remembered where he was
and what had happened.

I do not wish to portray Dickson as a hero, for nothing would
annoy him more; but I am bound to say that his first clear thought
was not of his own danger. It was intense exasperation at the
miscarriage of his plans. Long ago he should have been with Dougal
arranging operations, giving him news of Sir Archie, finding out how
Heritage was faring, deciding how to use the coming reinforcements.
Instead he was trussed up in a wood, a prisoner of the enemy, and
utterly useless to his side. He tugged at his bonds, and nearly
throttled himself. But they were of good tarry cord and did not give
a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter rage filled his eyes and
made furrows on his encrusted cheek. Idiot that he had been, he had
wrecked everything! What would Saskia and Dougal and Sir Archie do
without a business man by their side? There would be a muddle, and
the little party would walk into a trap. He saw it all very clearly.
The men from the sea would overpower them, there would be murder
done, and an easy capture of the Princess; and the police would turn
up at long last to find an empty headland.

He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself, and at the
thought genuine panic seized him. There was no earthly chance of
escape, for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till such
time as his enemies had time to deal with him. As to what that
dealing would be like he had no doubts, for they knew that he had
been their chief opponent. Those desperate ruffians would not
scruple to put an end to him. His mind dwelt with horrible
fascination upon throat-cutting, no doubt because of the presence of
the cord below his chin. He had heard it was not a painful death; at
any rate he remembered a clerk he had once had, a feeble, timid
creature, who had twice attempted suicide that way. Surely it could
not be very bad, and it would soon be over.

But another thought came to him. They would carry him off in
the ship and settle with him at their leisure. No swift merciful
death for him. He had read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill
in torture, and now they all came back to him--stories of Chinese
mercenaries, and men buried alive, and death by agonizing inches.
He felt suddenly very cold and sick, and hung in his bonds, for he
had no strength in his limbs. Then the pressure on this throat
braced him, and also quickened his numb mind. The liveliest terror
ran like quicksilver through his veins.

He endured some moments of this anguish, till after many
despairing clutches at his wits he managed to attain a measure of
self-control. He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to become
mad. Death was death whatever form it took, and he had to face death
as many better men had done before him. He had often thought about
it and wondered how he should behave if the thing came to him.
Respectably, he had hoped; heroically, he had sworn in his moments
of confidence. But he had never for an instant dreamed of this
cold, lonely, dreadful business. Last Sunday, he remembered, he had
basking in the afternoon sun in his little garden and reading about
the end of Fergus MacIvor in Waverley and thrilling to the romance
of it; and Tibby had come out and summoned him in to tea. Then he
had rather wanted to be a Jacobite in the '45 and in peril of his
neck, and now Providence had taken him most terribly at his word.

A week ago---! He groaned at the remembrance of that sunny
garden. In seven days he had found a new world and tried a new life,
and had come now to the end of it. He did not want to die, less
now than ever with such wide horizons opening before him. But that
was the worst of it, he reflected, for to have a great life great
hazards must be taken, and there was always the risk of this sudden
extinguisher....Had he to choose again, far better the smooth
sheltered bypath than this accursed romantic highway on to which he
had blundered....No, by Heaven, no! Confound it, if he had to
choose he would do it all again. Something stiff and indomitable in
his soul was bracing him to a manlier humour. There was no one to
see the figure strapped to the fir, but had there been a witness he
would have noted that at this stage Dickson shut his teeth and that
his troubled eyes looked very steadily before him.

His business, he felt, was to keep from thinking, for if he
thought at all there would be a flow of memories--of his wife, his
home, his books, his friends--to unman him. So he steeled himself
to blankness, like a sleepless man imagining white sheep in a
gate....He noted a robin below the hazels, strutting impudently.
And there was a tit on a bracken frond, which made the thing sway
like one of the see-saws he used to play with as a boy. There was
no wind in that undergrowth, and any movement must be due to bird or
beast. The tit flew off, and the oscillations of the bracken slowly
died away. Then they began again, but more violently, and Dickson
could not see the bird that caused them. It must be something down
at the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox, or a
weasel.

He watched for the first sign of the beast, and thought he
caught a glimpse of tawny fur. Yes, there it was--pale dirty
yellow, a weasel clearly. Then suddenly the patch grow larger, and
to his amazement he looked at a human face--the face of a pallid
small boy.

A head disentangled itself, followed by thin shoulders, and
then by a pair of very dirty bare legs. The figure raised itself
and looked sharply round to make certain that the coast was clear.
Then it stood up and saluted, revealing the well-known lineaments of
Wee Jaikie.

At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by that certainty
of instinct which is independent of proof, like the man who prays
for a sign and has his prayer answered. He observed that the boy
was quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position for an instant
with red-rimmed eyes and then unclasped a knife, feeling the edge of
the blade on his thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second
later Dickson's wrists were free. Then he sawed at the legs, and
cut the shackles which tied them together, and then--most
circumspectly-- assaulted the cord which bound Dickson's neck to the
trunk. There now remained only the two bonds which fastened the legs
and the body to the tree.

There was a sound in the wood different from the wind and
stream. Jaikie listened like a startled hind.

"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you bide where ye are
and let on ye're still tied up."

He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as a rat, while
two of the tinklers came up the slope from the waterside. Dickson
in a fever of impatience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his
remaining bonds so that he could at least have made a dash for
freedom. And then he realized that the boy had been right. Feeble
and cramped as he was, he would have stood no chance in a race.

One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. He had been
running hard, and was mopping his brow.

"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin' anchor ayont
the Dookits whaur there's a bield frae the wund and deep water.
They'll be landit in half an 'oor. Awa' you up to the Hoose and tell
Dobson, and me and Sim and Hob will meet the boats at the
Garplefit."

The other cast a glance towards Dickson.

"What about him?" he asked.

The two scrutinized their prisoner from a distance of a few
paces. Dickson, well aware of his peril, held himself as stiff as if
every bond had been in place. The thought flashed on him that if
he were too immobile they might think he was dying or dead, and come
close to examine him. If they only kept their distance, the dusk of
the wood would prevent them detecting Jaikie's handiwork.

"What'll you take to let me go?" he asked plaintively.

"Naething that you could offer, my mannie," said Ecky.

"I'll give you a five-pound note apiece."

"Produce the siller," said the other.

"It's in my pocket."

"It's no' that. We riped your pooches lang syne."

"I'll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you there. Honour
bright."

Ecky spat. "D'ye think we're gowks? Man, there's no siller
ye could pay wad mak' it worth our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet
there and ye'll see some queer things ere nicht. C'way, Davie."

The two set off at a good pace down the stream, while
Dickson's pulsing heart returned to its normal rhythm. As the sound
of their feet died away Wee Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed
now and very business-like. He slit the last thongs, and Dickson
fell limply on his face.

"Losh, laddie, I'm awful stiff," he groaned. "Now, listen.
Away all your pith to Dougal, and tell him that the brig's in and
the men will be landing inside the hour. Tell him I'm coming as
fast as my legs will let me. The Princess will likely be there
already and Sir Archibald and his men, but if they're no', tell
Dougal they're coming. Haste you, Jaikie. And see here, I'll never
forget what you've done for me the day. You're a fine wee
laddie!"

The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dickson painfully and
laboriously set himself to climb the slope. He decided that his
quickest and safest route lay by the highroad, and he had also some
hopes of recovering his bicycle. On examining his body he seemed to
have sustained no very great damage, except a painful cramping of
legs and arms and a certain dizziness in the head. His pockets had
been thoroughly rifled, and he reflected with amusement that he, the
well-to-do Mr. McCunn, did not possess at the moment a single
copper.

But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his escape had given
him an assurance of ultimate success. Providence had directly
interfered on his behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely
meant that it would see him through. But his chief emotion was an
ardour of impatience to get to the scene of action. He must be at
Dalquharter before the men from the sea; he must find Dougal and
discover his dispositions. Heritage would be on guard in the Tower,
and in a very little the enemy would be round it. It would be just
like the Princess to try and enter there, but at all costs that must
be hindered. She and Sir Archie must not be cornered in stone
walls, but must keep their communications open and fall on the
enemy's flank. Oh, if the police would only come it time, what a
rounding up of miscreants that day would see!

As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and he saw the
sky, he realized that the afternoon was far advanced. It must be
well on for five o'clock. The wind still blew furiously, and the
oaks on the fringes of the wood were whipped like saplings.
Ruefully he admitted that the gale would not defeat the enemy. If
the brig found a sheltered anchorage on the south side of the
headland beyond the Garple, it would be easy enough for boats to
make the Garple mouth, though it might be a difficult job to get out
again. The thought quickened his steps, and he came out of cover on
to the public road without a prior reconnaissance. Just in front of
him stood a motor-bicycle. Something had gone wrong with it for its
owner was tinkering at it, on the side farthest from Dickson. A
wild hope seized him that this might be the vanguard of the police,
and he went boldly towards it. The owner, who was kneeling, raised
his face at the sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his
eyes.

He recognized them only too well. They belonged to the man he
had seen in the inn at Kirkmichael, the man whom Heritage had
decided to be an Australian, but whom they now know to be their
arch-enemy--the man called Paul who had persecuted the Princess for
years and whom alone of all beings on earth she feared. He had been
expected before, but had arrived now in the nick of time while the
brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said that he had a devil's
brain, and Dickson, as he stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness
in his straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff jaw and
his pale eyes.

He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky and dizzy as
he was, with freedom newly opened to him and the mental torments of
his captivity still an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He
saw before him the villain of the drama, the one man that stood
between the Princess and peace of mind. He regarded no
consequences, gave no heed to his own fate, and thought only how to
put his enemy out of action. There was a by spanner lying on the
ground. He seized it and with all his strength smote at the man's
face.

The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at his machine,
had raised his head at Dickson's approach and beheld a wild
apparition- -a short man in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and
long smears of blood on his cheeks. The next second he observed the
threat of attack, and ducked his head so that the spanner only
grazed his scalp. The motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang
to his feet, and found the short man, very pale and gasping, about
to renew the assault. In such a crisis there was no time for
inquiry, and the cyclist was well trained in self-defence. He
leaped the prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant could get in
a blow brought his left fist into violent contact with his chin.
Dickson tottered a step or two and then subsided among the
bracken.

He did not lose his senses, but he had no more strength in
him. He felt horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up. The
cyclist, a gigantic figure, towered above him. "Who the devil are
you?" he was asking. "What do you mean by it?"

Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to
speak he would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog at
the angry eyes. Angry beyond question they were, but surely not
malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on the
ground, amusement filled them. The face relaxed into a smile.

"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. And then into it
came recognition. "I've seen you before. I believe you're the
little man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to
explain why you want to murder me."

Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being
woefully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a
devil--he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous.
This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean
grave face.

"What's your name?" the voice was asking.

"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between
spasms of nausea.

"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer.

"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and
despair.

"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the
honour to be mistaken?"

Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had
clasped his hands above his aching head.

"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," he groaned.

"Paul! Paul who?"

"Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot."

Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in
the other's face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and
carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed,
his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them.
Then he was given brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his
nausea. The cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a
seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old bucht.

"Now you are going to tell me everything," he said. "If the
Paul who is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are
allies."

But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had
suddenly received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy,
but also a friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for
whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors?

"Are you sure your name's no' Alexis?" he asked.

"In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am
a Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk,
and I call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form.
Who told you about Alexis?

"Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly. "Man, she's
been looking for you for weeks. You're terribly behind the
fair."

"She!" he cried. "For God's sake, tell me what you mean."

"Ay, she--the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I
tell you at this moment she's somewhere down about the old Tower,
and there's boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up,
man, for I must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it's very near
the darkening. If you're Alexis, you're just about in time for a
battle."

But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was
still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency
to crumple. "I'm fair done," he moaned. "You see, I've been tied up
all day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on
that bicycle and hurry on, and I'll hirple after you the best I can.
I'll direct you the road, and if you're lucky you'll find a
Die-Hard about the village. Away with you, man, and never mind
me."

"We go together," said the other quietly. "You can sit behind
me and hang on to my waist. Before you turned up I had pretty well
got the thing in order."

Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the Russian put
the finishing touches to the machine, and as well as his anxiety
allowed put him in possession of the main facts of the story. He
told of how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of the first
meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow with the jewels, of the
exposure of Loudon the factor, of last night's doings in the House,
and of the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple. He sketched
the figures on the scene--Heritage and Sir Archie, Dobson and his
gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards. He told of the enemy's plans so far as
he knew them.

"Looked at from a business point of view," he said, "the
situation's like this. There's Heritage in the Tower, with Dobson,
Leon, and Spidel sitting round him. Somewhere about the place
there's the Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns from
the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are running loose in the
policies. And there's four tinklers and God knows how many foreign
ruffians pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying waiting to
carry off the ladies. Likewise there's the police, somewhere on the
road, though the dear kens when they'll turn up. It's awful the
incompetence of our Government, and the rates and taxes that high!...
And there's you and me by this roadside, and me no more use than a
tattie-bogle....That's the situation, and the question is what's our
plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in play till the police
come, and at the same time we must keep the Princess out of danger.
That's why I'm wanting back, for they've sore need of a business
head. Yon Sir Archibald's a fine fellow, but I doubt he'll be a bit
rash, and the Princess is no' to hold or bind. Our first job is to
find Dougal and get a grip of the facts."

"I am going to the Princess," said the Russian.

"Ay, that'll be best. You'll be maybe able to manage her,
for you'll be well acquaint."

"She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced wife."

"Keep us!" Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful thought of
Heritage. "What ailed you then no' to look after her better?"

"We have been long separated, because it was her will. She
had work to do and disappeared from me, though I searched all Europe
for her. Then she sent me word, when the danger became extreme, and
summoned me to her aid. But she gave me poor directions, for she
did not know her own plans very clearly. She spoke of a place
called Darkwater, and I have been hunting half Scotland for it. It
was only last night that I heard of Dalquharter and guessed that
that might be the name. But I was far down in Galloway, and have
ridden fifty miles today."

"It's a queer thing, but I wouldn't take you for a
Russian."

Alexis finished his work and put away his tools.

"For the present," he said, "I am an Englishman, till my
country comes again to her senses. Ten years ago I left Russia, for
I was sick of the foolishness of my class and wanted a free life in
a new world. I went to Australia and made good as an engineer. I am
a partner in a firm which is pretty well known even in Britain. When
war broke out I returned to fight for my people, and when Russia
fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in France and fought
with them till the Armistice. And now I have only one duty left, to
save the Princess and take her with me to my new home till Russia is
a nation once more."

Dickson whistled joyfully. "So Mr. Heritage was right. He
aye said you were an Australian....And you're a business man!
That's grand hearing and puts my mind at rest. You must take charge
of the party at the House, for Sir Archibald's a daft young lad and
Mr. Heritage is a poet. I thought I would have to go myself, but I
doubt I would just be a hindrance with my dwaibly legs. I'd be
better outside, watching for the police....Are you ready, sir?"

Dickson not without difficulty perched himself astride the
luggage carrier, firmly grasping the rider round the middle. The
machine started, but it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor
going till the descent towards the main Auchenlochan road. On the
slope it warmed up and they crossed the Garple bridge at a fair
pace. There was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy
sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the dark would fall.
So sombre was the evening that Dickson did not notice a figure in
the shadow of the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its
fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being accomplished
with some suddenness, fell off at Dougal's feet.

"What's the news?" he demanded.

Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve his looks.

"Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads, making
either twenty-three or twenty-four men--they were gey ill to
count--has landed at Garplefit and is makin' their way to the auld
Tower. The tinklers warned Dobson and soon it'll be a' bye wi'
Heritage."

"The Princess is not there?" was Dickson's anxious inquiry.

"Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were for joinin'
him, but I wouldn't let them. She came wi' a man they call Sir
Erchibald and three gamekeepers wi' guns. I stoppit their cawr up
the road and tell't them the lie o' the land. Yon Sir Erchibald has
poor notions o' strawtegy. He was for bangin' into the auld Tower
straight away and shootin' Dobson if he tried to stop them.
'Havers,' say I, 'let them break their teeth on the Tower, thinkin'
the leddy's inside, and that'll give us time, for Heritage is no'
the lad to surrender in a hurry.'"

"Where are they now?"

"In the Hoose o' Dalquharter, and a sore job I had gettin'
them in. We've shifted our base again, without the enemy
suspectin'."

"Any word of the police?"

"The polis!" and Dougal spat cynically. "It seems they're a
dour crop to shift. Sir Erchibald was sayin' that him and the
lassie had been to the Chief Constable, but the man was terrible
auld and slow. They persuadit him, but he threepit that it would
take a long time to collect his men and that there was no danger o'
the brig landin' before night. He's wrong there onyway, for they're
landit."

"Dougal," said Dickson, "you've heard the Princess speak of a
friend she was expecting here called Alexis. This is him. You can
address him as Mr. Nicholson. Just arrived in the nick of time.
You must get him into the House, for he's the best right to be
beside the lady...Jaikie would tell you that I've been sore
mishandled the day, and am no' very fit for a battle. But Mr.
Nicholson's a business man and he'll do as well. You're keeping the
Die-Hards outside, I hope?"

"Ay. Thomas Yownie's in charge, and Jaikie will be in and out
with orders. They've instructions to watch for the polis, and keep
an eye on the Garplefit. It's a mortal long front to hold, but
there's no other way. I must be in the hoose mysel'. Thomas
Yownie's headquarters is the auld wife's hen-hoose."

At that moment in a pause of the gale came the far-borne echo
of a shot.

"Pistol," said Alexis.

"Heritage," said Dougal. "Trade will be gettin' brisk with
him. Start your machine and I'll hang on ahint. We'll try the road
by the West Lodge."

Presently the pair disappeared in the dusk, the noise of the
engine was swallowed up in the wild orchestra of the wind, and
Dickson hobbled towards the village in a state of excitement which
made him oblivious of his wounds. That lonely pistol shot was, he
felt, the bell to ring up the curtain on the last act of the
play.