Chapter XIII. The Coming of the Danish Brig

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

Mr. John Heritage, solitary in the old Tower, found much to
occupy his mind. His giddiness was passing, though the dregs of a
headache remained, and his spirits rose with his responsibilities.
At daybreak he breakfasted out of the Mearns Street provision box,
and made tea in one of the Die-Hard's camp kettles. Next he gave
some attention to his toilet, necessary after the rough-and-tumble
of the night. He made shift to bathe in icy water from the Tower
well, shaved, tidied up his clothes and found a clean shirt from his
pack. He carefully brushed his hair, reminding himself that thus had
the Spartans done before Thermopylae. The neat and somewhat pallid
young man that emerged from these rites then ascended to the first
floor to reconnoitre the landscape from the narrow unglazed
windows.

If any one had told him a week ago that he would be in so
strange a world he would have quarrelled violently with his
informant. A week ago he was a cynical clear-sighted modern, a
contemner of illusions, a swallower of formulas, a breaker of
shams--one who had seen through the heroical and found it silly.
Romance and such-like toys were playthings for fatted middle-age,
not for strenuous and cold-eyed youth. But the truth was that now
he was altogether spellbound by these toys. To think that he was
serving his lady was rapture-ecstasy, that for her he was
single-handed venturing all. He rejoiced to be alone with his
private fancies. His one fear was that the part he had cast himself
for might be needless, that the men from the sea would not come, or
that reinforcements would arrive before he should be called upon.
He hoped alone to make a stand against thousands. What the upshot
might be he did not trouble to inquire. Of course the Princess
would be saved, but first he must glut his appetite for the
heroic.

He made a diary of events that day, just as he used to do at
the front. At twenty minutes past eight he saw the first figure
coming from the House. It was Spidel, who limped round the Tower,
tried the door, and came to a halt below the window. Heritage stuck
out his head and wished him good morning, getting in reply an amazed
stare. The man was not disposed to talk, though Heritage made some
interesting observations on the weather, but departed quicker than
he came, in the direction of the West Lodge.

Just before nine o'clock he returned with Dobson and Leon.
They made a very complete reconnaissance of the Tower, and for a
moment Heritage thought that they were about to try to force an
entrance. They tugged and hammered at the great oak door, which he
had further strengthened by erecting behind it a pile of the
heaviest lumber he could find in the place. It was imperative that
they should not get in, and he got Dickson's pistol ready with the
firm intention of shooting them if necessary. But they did nothing,
except to hold a conference in the hazel clump a hundred yards to the
north, when Dobson seemed to be laying down the law, and Leon spoke
rapidly with a great fluttering of hands. They were obviously
puzzled by the sight of Heritage, whom they believed to have left
the neighbourhood. Then Dobson went off, leaving Leon and Spidel on
guard, one at the edge of the shrubberies between the Tower and the
House, the other on the side nearest the Laver glen. These were
their posts, but they did sentry-go around the building, and passed
so close to Heritage's window that he could have tossed a cigarette
on their heads.

It occurred to him that he ought to get busy with camouflage.
They must be convinced that the Princess was in the place, for he
wanted their whole mind to be devoted to the siege. He rummaged
among the ladies' baggage, and extracted a skirt and a coloured
scarf. The latter he managed to flutter so that it could be seen at
the window the next time one of the watchers came within sight. He
also fixed up the skirt so that the fringe of it could be seen, and,
when Leon appeared below, he was in the shadow talking rapid French
in a very fair imitation of the tones of Cousin Eugenie. The ruse
had its effect, for Leon promptly went off to tell Spidel, and when
Dobson appeared he too was given the news. This seemed to settle
their plans, for all three remained on guard, Dobson nearest to the
Tower, seated on an outcrop of rock with his mackintosh collar
turned up, and his eyes usually on the misty sea.

By this time it was eleven o'clock, and the next three hours
passed slowly with Heritage. He fell to picturing the fortunes of
his friends. Dickson and the Princess should by this time be far
inland, out of danger and in the way of finding succour. He was
confident that they would return, but he trusted not too soon, for
he hoped for a run for his money as Horatius in the Gate. After
that he was a little torn in his mind. He wanted the Princess to
come back and to be somewhere near if there was a fight going, so
that she might be a witness of his devotion. But she must not
herself run any risk, and he became anxious when he remembered her
terrible sangfroid. Dickson could no more restrain her than a child
could hold a greyhound....But of course it would never come to that.
The police would turn up long before the brig appeared--Dougal had
thought that would not be till high tide, between four and five--and
the only danger would be to the pirates. The three watchers would be
put in the bag, and the men from the sea would walk into a neat
trap. This reflection seemed to take all the colour out of
Heritage's prospect. Peril and heroism were not to be his lot--only
boredom.

A little after twelve two of the tinklers appeared with some
news which made Dobson laugh and pat them on the shoulder. He
seemed to be giving them directions, pointing seaward and southward.
He nodded to the Tower, where Heritage took the opportunity of
again fluttering Saskia's scarf athwart the window. The tinklers
departed at a trot, and Dobson lit his pipe as if well pleased. He
had some trouble with it in the wind, which had risen to an uncanny
violence. Even the solid Tower rocked with it, and the sea was a
waste of spindrift and low scurrying cloud. Heritage discovered a
new anxiety--this time about the possibility of the brig landing at
all. He wanted a complete bag, and it would be tragic if they got
only the three seedy ruffians now circumambulating his fortress.

About one o'clock he was greatly cheered by the sight of
Dougal. At the moment Dobson was lunching off a hunk of bread and
cheese directly between the Tower and the House, just short of the
crest of the ridge on the other side of which lay the stables and
the shrubberies; Leon was on the north side opposite the Tower door,
and Spidel was at the south end near the edge of the Garple glen.
Heritage, watching the ridge behind Dobson and the upper windows of
the House which appeared over it, saw on the very crest something
like a tuft of rusty bracken which he had not noticed before.
Presently the tuft moved, and a hand shot up from it waving a rag of
some sort. Dobson at the moment was engaged with a bottle of
porter, and Heritage could safely wave a hand in reply. He could now
make out clearly the red head of Dougal.

The Chieftain, having located the three watchers, proceeded to
give an exhibition of his prowess for the benefit of the lonely
inmate of the Tower. Using as cover a drift of bracken, he wormed
his way down till he was not six yards from Dobson, and Heritage had
the privilege of seeing his grinning countenance a very little way
above the innkeeper's head. Then he crawled back and reached the
neighbourhood of Leon, who was sitting on a fallen Scotch fir. At
that moment it occurred to the Belgian to visit Dobson. Heritage's
breath stopped, but Dougal was ready, and froze into a motionless
blur in the shadow of a hazel bush. Then he crawled very fast into
the hollow where Leon had been sitting, seized something which
looked like a bottle, and scrambled back to the ridge. At the top he
waved the object, whatever it was, but Heritage could not reply, for
Dobson happened to be looking towards the window. That was the last
he saw of the Chieftain, but presently he realized what was the
booty he had annexed. It must be Leon's life-preserver, which the
night before had broken Heritage's head.

After that cheering episode boredom again set in. He
collected some food from the Mearns Street box, and indulged himself
with a glass of liqueur brandy. He was beginning to feel miserably
cold, so he carried up some broken wood and made a fire on the
immense hearth in the upper chamber. Anxiety was clouding his mind
again, for it was now two o'clock, and there was no sign of the
reinforcements which Dickson and the Princess had gone to find. The
minutes passed, and soon it was three o'clock, and from the window
he saw only the top of the gaunt shuttered House, now and then
hidden by squalls of sleet, and Dobson squatted like an Eskimo, and
trees dancing like a witch-wood in the gale. All the vigour of the
morning seemed to have gone out of his blood; he felt lonely and
apprehensive and puzzled. He wished he had Dickson beside him, for
that little man's cheerful voice and complacent triviality would be
a comfort....Also, he was abominably cold. He put on his
waterproof, and turned his attention to the fire. It needed
re-kindling, and he hunted in his pockets for paper, finding only
the slim volume lettered Whorls.

I set it down as the most significant commentary on his state
of mind. He regarded the book with intense disfavour, tore it in
two, and used a handful of its fine deckle-edged leaves to get the
fire going. They burned well, and presently the rest followed. Well
for Dickson's peace of soul that he was not a witness of such
vandalism.

A little warmer but in no way more cheerful, he resumed his
watch near the window. The day was getting darker, and promised an
early dusk. His watch told him that it was after four, and still
nothing had happened. Where on earth were Dickson and the Princess?
Where in the name of all that was holy were the police? Any minute
now the brig might arrive and land its men, and he would be left
there as a burnt-offering to their wrath. There must have been an
infernal muddle somewhere.... Anyhow the Princess was out of the
trouble, but where the Lord alone knew....Perhaps the reinforcements
were lying in wait for the boats at the Garplefoot. That struck him
as a likely explanation, and comforted him. Very soon he might hear
the sound of an engagement to the south, and the next thing would be
Dobson and his crew in flight. He was determined to be in the show
somehow and would be very close on their heels. He felt a peculiar
dislike to all three, but especially to Leon. The Belgian's small
baby features had for four days set him clenching his fists when he
thought of them.

The next thing he saw was one of the tinklers running hard
towards the Tower. He cried something to Dobson, which woke the
latter to activity. The innkeeper shouted to Leon and Spidel, and
the tinkler was excitedly questioned. Dobson laughed and slapped
his thigh. He gave orders to the others, and himself joined the
tinkler and hurried off in the direction of the Garplefoot.
Something was happening there, something of ill omen, for the man's
face and manner had been triumphant. Were the boats landing?

As Heritage puzzled over this event, another figure appeared
on the scene. It was a big man in knickerbockers and mackintosh,
who came round the end of the House from the direction of the South
Lodge. At first he thought it was the advance-guard from his own
side, the help which Dickson had gone to find, and he only
restrained himself in time from shouting a welcome. But surely their
supports would not advance so confidently in enemy country. The man
strode over the slopes as if looking for somebody; then he caught
sight of Leon and waved to him to come. Leon must have known him,
for he hastened to obey.

The two were about thirty yards from Heritage's window. Leon
was telling some story volubly, pointing now to the Tower and now
towards the sea. The big man nodded as if satisfied. Heritage noted
that his right arm was tied up, and that the mackintosh sleeve was
empty, and that brought him enlightenment. It was Loudon the factor,
whom Dickson had winged the night before. The two of them passed
out of view in the direction of Spidel.

The sight awoke Heritage to the supreme unpleasantness of his
position. He was utterly alone on the headland, and his allies had
vanished into space, while the enemy plans, moving like clockwork,
were approaching their consummation. For a second he thought of
leaving the Tower and hiding somewhere in the cliffs. He dismissed
the notion unwillingly, for he remembered the task that had been set
him. He was there to hold the fort to the last--to gain time,
though he could not for the life of him see what use time was to be
when all the strategy of his own side seemed to have miscarried.
Anyhow, the blackguards would be sold, for they would not find the
Princess. But he felt a horrid void in the pit of his stomach, and
a looseness about his knees.

The moments passed more quickly as he wrestled with his fears.
The next he knew the empty space below his window was filling with
figures. There was a great crowd of them, rough fellows with
seamen's coats, still dripping as if they had had a wet landing.
Dobson was with them, but for the rest they were strange figures.

Now that the expected had come at last Heritage's nerves grew
calmer. He made out that the newcomers were trying the door, and he
waited to hear it fall, for such a mob could soon force it. But
instead a voice called from beneath.

"Will you please open to us?" it called.

He stuck his head out and saw a little group with one man at
the head of it, a young man clad in oilskins whose face was dim in
the murky evening. The voice was that of a gentleman.

"I have orders to open to no one," Heritage replied.

"Then I fear we must force an entrance," said the voice.

"You can go to the devil," said Heritage.

That defiance was the screw which his nerves needed. His
temper had risen, he had forgotten all about the Princess, he did
not even remember his isolation. His job was to make a fight for
it. He ran up the staircase which led to the attics of the Tower,
for he recollected that there was a window there which looked over
the space before the door. The place was ruinous, the floor filled
with holes, and a part of the roof sagged down in a corner. The
stones around the window were loose and crumbling, and he managed to
pull several out so that the slit was enlarged. He found himself
looking down on a crowd of men, who had lifted the fallen tree on
which Leon had perched, and were about to use it as a battering
ram.

"The first fellow who comes within six yards of the door I
shoot," he shouted.

There was a white wave below as every face was turned to him.
He ducked back his head in time as a bullet chipped the side of the
window.

But his position was a good one, for he had a hole in the
broken wall through which he could see, and could shoot with his
hand at the edge of the window while keeping his body in cover. The
battering party resumed their task, and as the tree swung nearer, he
fired at the foremost of them. He missed, but the shot for a moment
suspended operations.

Again they came on, and again he fired. This time he damaged
somebody, for the trunk was dropped.

A voice gave orders, a sharp authoritative voice. The
battering squad dissolved, and there was a general withdrawal out of
the line of fire from the window. Was it possible that he had
intimidated them? He could hear the sound of voices, and then a
single figure came into sight again, holding something in its
hand.

He did not fire for he recognized the futility of his efforts.
The baseball swing of the figure below could not be mistaken. There
was a roar beneath, and a flash of fire, as the bomb exploded on the
door. Then came a rush of men, and the Tower had fallen. Heritage
clambered through a hole in the roof and gained the topmost parapet.
He had still a pocketful of cartridges, and there in a coign of the
old battlements he would prove an ugly customer to the pursuit.
Only one at a time could reach that siege perilous....They would not
take long to search the lower rooms, and then would be hot on the
trail of the man who had fooled them. He had not a scrap of fear
left or even of anger--only triumph at the thought of how properly
those ruffians had been sold. "Like schoolboys they who
unaware"--instead of two women they had found a man with a gun. And
the Princess was miles off and forever beyond their reach. When
they had settled with him they would no doubt burn the House down,
but that would serve them little. From his airy pinnacle he could
see the whole sea-front of Huntingtower, a blur in the dusk but for
the ghostly eyes of its white-shuttered windows.

Something was coming from it, running lightly over the lawns,
lost for an instant in the trees, and then appearing clear on the
crest of the ridge where some hours earlier Dougal had lain. With
horror he saw that it was a girl. She stood with the wind plucking
at her skirts and hair, and she cried in a high, clear voice which
pierced even the confusion of the gale. What she cried he could not
tell, for it was in a strange tongue....

But it reached the besiegers. There was a sudden silence in
the din below him and then a confusion of shouting. The men seemed
to be pouring out of the gap which had been the doorway, and as he
peered over the parapet first one and then another entered his area
of vision. The girl on the ridge, as soon as she saw that she had
attracted attention, turned and ran back, and after her up the
slopes went the pursuit bunched like hounds on a good scent.

Mr. John Heritage, swearing terribly, started to retrace his
steps.