Chapter Eighteen.
Wild Pike.
Before breakfast on the following morning, Scarfe, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement with a college friend to spend a day with him, rode off to catch the train at Overstone, and consequently was not present when the post arrived, and with it a telegram from London for Mr Rimbolt. Raby, who had been on the watch, could scarcely allow her uncle time to examine its contents before claiming it; and had it contained bad news, the chance of breaking them would have been out of the question. But it did not contain bad news. On the contrary, as Raby devoured the few official lines she became radiant with pride and happiness. The telegram was a copy of a dispatch received the evening before at the War Office:—
“News is to hand of a sharp brush with the Afghans on the 4th inst. at —, two days’ march from Kandahar. About mid-day the—Hussars, commanded by Major Atherton, in advance of the main body, encountered and dislodged from a defile on the right bank of the river a considerable body of the enemy, who fled to the plain. It becoming evident the enemy was at hand in force, a battery of field guns was pushed forward, under the escort of a troop of Hussars; and the main body followed in two columns. The cavalry meanwhile, having cleared the defile and chased the enemy into the plain beyond, became involved in a desperate scrimmage, the Afghans having descended in full force into the plain with the evident intention of cutting them off from the main body. Major Atherton, completely hemmed in, made a desperate stand, in which upwards of twenty of his men perished, the gallant officer himself having his horse shot under him. The guns meanwhile, escorted by Captain Forrester, of the—Hussars, gained the head of the defile, where they were immediately surrounded by the enemy. A brilliant resistance here ensued, in which more than half of the escort were killed in their effort to save the guns. Towards the end, Captain Forrester nearly single-handed kept the enemy at bay until the cavalry, breaking through, and joining forces with the two columns of the main body as they emerged on the plain, effectually turned the position and saved the guns. The loss of the enemy was very considerable, and it is considered that this action clears the way to Kandahar, which the troops are expected to occupy in two days without further resistance. Our loss, considering the perilous position of the cavalry and gunners, was comparatively slight. Captain Forrester at the last moment fell after a resistance as heroic as any witnessed in the course of the campaign. Major Atherton received a scratch on the wrist; which, however, is not likely to disable him even temporarily. The main body never came into action at all, and suffered no casualties. A full list of the killed and wounded is appended.”
Jeffreys, who found himself almost as eager for news as if he had been personally interested, found it difficult to wait patiently until Mr Rimbolt came after breakfast to the library.
“Is there news from the war?” he asked.
“Yes—good news, Miss Atherton has the telegram. Her father took part in a very brilliant engagement a day or two ago, which appears to have cleared the way to Kandahar. He was scratched, but not seriously.”
Jeffreys received this good news with great satisfaction. It was a relief to him to hear it in the first instance not from Raby’s lips, for he never knew what to do or say on such occasions.
“Miss Atherton must be very proud,” said he, returning to his work.
He was not, however, destined to remain long undisturbed. Raby, radiant and excited, entered the library a few minutes later.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, “such splendid news. Has uncle told you? I thought you would like to read the telegram; here it is.”
Jeffreys looked his congratulations as he took the paper.
“Read it aloud, Mr Jeffreys,” said the happy girl, “I should like to hear how it sounds.” Jeffreys smiled and began to read; Raby, who knew it all by heart, seeming to check off every word.
Suddenly, however, in the middle of the narrative the reader started and changed colour, and became unaccountably breathless.
“The guns meanwhile, escorted by—” he had got so far.
“‘Captain Forrester of the—Hussars.’ Go on,” said Raby.
It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?” said she, suddenly alarmed herself; “it is good news, isn’t it? and he has only got a scratch!”
“Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you.”
“But you look—perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there.”
“I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?”
And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys’ shoulders, promised to be a long walk.
Jeffreys’ first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester’s father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades’ howl of execration and saw the boy’s white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy’s cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield’s look of horror—he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals.
Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer’s name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled!
Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud.
“Hullo,” said Percy, in the path before him, “you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet’s miserable too. Scarfe’s gone to Sharpfield, and won’t be back till late. Raby’s so taken up with her precious telegram that she won’t look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you’re looking as if you’d just been hung.”
“What are you in the blues about?” said Jeffreys, brightening up a bit.
“Oh, everything. It’s so slow here, nothing to do. Can’t play games all day, and you won’t let me smoke, and the library hasn’t a single story worth reading, and it’s beastly cold; and upon my word,” said the boy, who was genuinely miserable, “I’d as soon go and sit on the top of Wild Pike as fool about here.”
“The best thing you could do—I’ll go and sit with you,” said Jeffreys.
“What!” said the boy, “do you mean it? Will you come?”
“Of course I will; I have nothing special to do to-day, and I’ve never been up a mountain in winter before.”
“We shall get a splendid view. Sure it won’t grind you?” said the boy, who, under Scarfe’s influence, had come to look upon every exertion as a thing to be shirked.
“My dear fellow, I shall enjoy it, especially with you,” said Jeffreys.
“Hurrah—bring Julius too—and I’ll get some grub to take. It’s only ten now, and it’s not dark till after four, so we have a good six hours.”
A few minutes later they started, Percy leaving word for his mother that they were going for a long tramp, and would be back for dinner.
It was a perfect winter’s day. The air was keen and frosty and promised magnificent views. The wind was not strong enough to be benumbing, and the sun overhead was cheering and now and then even warm.
“Hadn’t we better take overcoats, in case it comes on cold at the top?” said Jeffreys as they were starting.
“Oh no—they’re a frightful grind to carry, and we are sure to be baked before we get up.”
“I think I will take mine,” said Jeffreys, “and it will be no bother to carry yours.”
Percy protested, but, luckily for them, Jeffreys carried his point.
Wild Pike was one of those mountains, not uncommon in that district, which are approached from the back by a long gradual slope, but on the front present a scooped-out precipitous face, as if broken in half on that side.
It was this steeper side which faced Wildtree, and Percy would have scorned to approach the monster from any other quarter. From where they stood the narrow path zigzagged for about one thousand feet onto one of the upper shoulders of the mountain. Following this, the track brought them to what seemed like the basin of some old volcano hollowed out under the summit.
It was necessary to cross this depression, and by a narrow ledge at the foot of the great cliff gain the other side, where another zigzag ascent brought them onto the rocky slope leading over a quarter of a mile of huge boulders to the summit.
The passage across the face of the mountain was the most difficult part of the ascent. It lay along a narrow ledge hanging, so it seemed, half-way down the perpendicular cliff which rose out of the hollow, crater-like basin sheer up to the summit.
It was tolerably level, but the narrowness of the track and the precipitous height above and below called for a cool head and a steady foot. In frosty weather like the present it needed special caution, and every step had to be carefully judged on the treacherous path. However, they passed it safely. Julius alone seemed to find it difficult. The dog was strangely awkward to-day.
He slid about where the others walked steadily, and whimpered at obstacles which they seemed scarcely to heed.
“Now for the grub,” cried Percy, as they landed safely on the other side. “I say, Jeff, I call that something like a mountain, don’t you? I’m quite sorry we’re over the worst of it, aren’t you?”
“We’ve got the view to see yet,” responded Jeffreys.
“We shall be up in half an hour.”
“And it will take us as long to come down as to go up to-day,” said Jeffreys, “so we ought not to lose much time.”
Off they started again after a hurried but highly appreciated meal, in which the dog took only a very moderate share. The remaining portion of the ascent was simple enough. The zigzag onto the top shoulder was if anything less steep than the lower one, and the path, being rougher underfoot, was less treacherous.
The scramble over the loose rocks at the top onto the cairn was not altogether plain sailing. In summer it was easy enough, but now, with the surface of the great boulders as slippery as glass, it was hardly to be traversed except on the hands and knees.
Poor Julius floundered about pitifully, unable to keep his feet, and disappearing bodily now and then among the interstices of the rocky way. Even Percy and Jeffreys stumbled once or twice awkwardly, and reached the summit with bruised limbs. But finis coronat opus, especially on a mountain.
As they sprang up the cairn a view unequalled in grandeur broke upon them. The frosty air was without haze in any quarter. The Scotch hills beyond the border and the broad heaving sea lay apparently equally within reach, and on the farthest western horizon even the fairy-like outline of the distant Irish hills, never visible except in the clearest winter weather, shone out distinctly.
“Isn’t it scrumptious?” exclaimed Percy, as he flung himself breathless onto the cairn. “If we had waited a year we couldn’t have picked out such a day. Why, that must be Snowdon we see over there, and the high ground out at sea, Holyhead?”
Thus they went on, delightedly recognising the landmarks north, south, east, and west, and forgetting both the hour and the rising breeze.
“Why, it’s two o’clock!” cried Percy presently, looking at his watch, and shivering at the same time.
“Put on your coat,” said Jeffreys; “the wind’s getting up a bit, and we shall have it in our faces going down.”
As they started to descend they became aware of a sudden change in the hitherto cloudless day. The western horizon, which had just now been unfolding its distant beauties, seemed lost in a fine haze, which spread north and south, blotting out one after another the glories of landscape on which they had scarcely ceased to feast their eyes.
“There’s a mist out there,” said Percy, as they scrambled down the boulders; “I hope to goodness it will keep away from us.”
“The wind is a little north-west; it may drive it south of us, but it is spreading at a great rate.”
“Never mind; it will be rather a joke if it comes. I could find the way down with my eyes shut, and I’ve often wanted to be in a regular fog up here,” said Percy.
“I don’t know what you feel,” responded Jeffreys; “but I’m rather glad we brought our coats. Isn’t it cold?”
The wind which met them seemed charged with cold, and after a while began to scatter a feathery sleet in their faces.
Percy whistled.
“We didn’t bargain for that, I say,” said he. “I hope it shuts up before we cross over the ledge down there.”
Julius howled dismally. He, too, guessed what this blinding shower-bath foreboded, and stumbled along, miserable and shivering.
The higher zigzag, which had seemed easy enough two hours ago, tried them sorely now. The sleet half blinded them, and the fresh moisture, freezing as it fell, caused them to slip and slide at every step. Still they got down it somehow, and turned to face the narrow track along the cliff. Percy, much as he repined at the change in the elements, felt no doubt as to the possibility of getting over.
“We may have to crawl a bit of the way if this sort of thing goes on,” said he, “but it’s straight enough sailing.”
“Would it be better,” suggested Jeffreys, “to go to the top again and get down by the Sharpenholme track?”
“We shouldn’t get home till midnight if we did; besides, I don’t know the way. We’re all right this way if we look sharp.”
The wind had now increased to a tempest, and beat against the side of the great cliff with a sound like the sea breaking on an iron-bound shore. They could scarcely hear one another speak; and poor Julius’s whines were drowned in the great clamour.
“Do you mind my going first?” said Percy; “I know the path better than you.”
Jeffreys nodded, and they started. The first step they took on that ledge threatened for a moment to be their last. The wind, gathering fury every moment, beat Percy to his knees, and nearly sent Jeffreys staggering over the ledge.
“We shall have to crawl,” said Percy. “It’s no use waiting. The wind and sleet are going to make a night of it, and we shall gain nothing by waiting.”
The start was begun again—this time cautiously and on all-fours. Even so the wind seemed once or twice as if it would sweep them from the ledge. Yard by yard they crawled on. The driving mist fell like a pall over the mountain, and in a few minutes they could not even see a yard in front of them. Had the wind blown crosswise, or in any other way than that in which it came, they would have been swept off before twenty yards were accomplished. As it was, they were almost pinned to the cliff by the fury of the blast.
They must have proceeded a quarter of the way across, and had reached a spot where the ledge rose slightly. Even up this slight incline, with the mist freezing under them, it was impossible to crawl; and Percy, drawing himself cautiously to his feet, attempted to stand.
As he did so, the wind, gathering itself into a furious blast, caught him and hurled him against the rocky wall. He recoiled with a sharp cry of pain, and next moment would have fallen into the abyss beneath, had not Jeffreys’ strong arm caught him and held him. His legs were actually off the ledge, and for a moment it seemed as if both he and his protector were doomed. But with a tremendous effort the prostrate Jeffreys swung him back onto the track.
“Are you hurt?” he called.
“My arm,” said Percy. “I’m afraid I can’t get on. I’ll try.”
But the attempt only called up a fresh exclamation of pain.
“We must wait,” said Jeffreys. “Try to sit up, old fellow. I’ll help you.”
It was evident that the boy’s arm, if not broken, was so severely damaged as to render it powerless.
“I could stay here, I think,” said he, “if you went on, Jeff.”
“Nonsense!” said Jeffreys; “we’ll send Julius to fetch help. Here, Julius, good dog,” said he, patting the dog’s head and pointing down to the valley, “go and fetch them here. Fetch Appleby, and Walker, and Mr Rimbolt. Go along, good fellow.”
The dog, who had been crawling behind them, looked wistfully at his master and licked the hand that caressed him. Then, stepping carefully across them as they sat with their backs to the rock and their feet beyond the edge of the path, he departed.
He was out of sight almost a yard away, but they heard him whine once as the wind dashed him against the cliff.
“Julius, good dog, fetch them!” shouted Jeffreys into the mist.
A faint answering bark came back.
Next moment, through the storm, came a wild howl, and they heard him no more.
Jeffreys guessed only too well what that howl meant; but he never stirred, as with his arm round Percy, and his cloak screening him from the wind, he looked hopelessly out into the night and waited.