'Well, you'll be the first to get it in the neck if that's the truth so you'd best take us the safest way,' Cattermole laughed with a bitter, scornful savagery. 'Why else d'you think I saved you from being lynched on the hill there? Come on, chaps, who wants red meat for supper!'
It was useless to argue further. Maddened by hunger the mob were prepared to take any risk and were as clay in the hands of their determined leader. With an answering shout they followed Cattermole from the dell as he pushed Kenyon before him, jabbing him in the back with his own pistol.
Muttering and cursing as they stumbled in the darkness the whole party streamed across the heath and out on to the road, then in a straggling body they set off towards Shingle Street.
As he trudged along, the unwilling head of the procession, Kenyon racked his brains for a way out of his dilemma. There were by paths through the marshes by which he could lead these maniacs so that they would get very near the defences before the challenge came, but that would be a sheer betrayal of his friends, yet there was no prospect of escape if he did otherwise and his whole soul revolted against the thought of a sudden and violent death.
In twenty minutes the short journey was accomplished; he stood again with the salt breath of the sea filling his lungs and heard the murmur of the surf upon the beaches. Only a few hundred yards in front lay Gregory's outposts.
'Which way now?' came a sharp whisper? 'And remember you'll get all that's left in this the moment your people open fire that is if you can't stop 'em. Now march!' Cattermole thrust the revolver into the middle of his back again.
'To the left,' he gulped, 'it will be easier there,' and he felt the hair prickling on his scalp as he lead them deliberately in the direction of Silas's Redoubt, the strong point in Gregory's whole system of defences.
A sickening fear filled him that when the time came his courage would ebb away. Wedged in front of the party he would stand no earthly chance of surviving the murderous hail of bullets which would sweep across the open fields, and if by some miracle he did, Cattermole would shoot him from behind.
As they advanced across the seemingly endless field a light wind rustled the tall grasses. No sign of life came from the fortifications, invisible in the pitch blackness relieved neither by moon nor stars, and for a moment it flashed into Kenyon's mind that perhaps after all the garrison would be taken by surprise. It would mean life to him, but what of the others, and Ann might be among them now for there could be no doubt that she had got clean away. At every second he expected to stumble into one of the stake filled pits the sentries must be sleeping. Then a tiny bell tinkled in the distance, someone had stumbled over one of Gregory's alarm wires and instantly the challenge rang out:
'Halt! who goes there!'
'Friend,' rasped Kenyon.
'Halt, friend, and give the countersign!'
Even in the second of horror and dismay, his gorge rising in a sickening fear, Kenyon found himself admiring Gregory for the faultless training of his little band. There was no trace of hesitation in the swift reply.
With a superhuman effort he braced himself. Then with all the force of his lungs, he yelled: 'I am Lord Fane but captured by the enemy Guard, turn out!'
A single rifle cracked, then with a savage will to live he kicked out violently behind and flung himself flat, dragging the two men who held his pinioned arms down with him.
His heel met solid flesh there was a grunt and then a deafening report as the pistol went off behind his ear. Next second the whole emplacement had leapt into flame. Silas was in action.
Kenyon kneed one of his captors in the belly and kicked the other in the face, stood up, staggered, fell again while the bullets sang and whistled overhead. Screams, curses, blasphemies came from the miserable people caught in that open field of fire so skilfully planned by a brilliant tactician. He jerked himself to his knees only to flop head foremost into a muddy ditch. He wriggled out and lurched up the steep bank, catching his feet in one of the treacherous, low lying nets and sprawled his full length, howling with pain as an upturned nail penetrated his thigh. Groaning, he wriggled free of it, scrambled up once more and blundered on, uncertain of his position yet instinctively trying to avoid those horrid, stake filled pits. A bullet, searing like a red hot iron, ploughed through his shoulder. Another streaked through his hair, then suddenly a voice came sharp and clear only a few yards ahead: 'Cease fire' and on a lower note but quite distinct: 'They must have had enough by now. It may teach them to stick to their blasted ship.'
Sobbing like a child, Kenyon swayed towards the dark figure. It was Gregory, calmly directing fire from the parapet. As he fell against the earthworks Rudd, catching a glimpse of him, leaned forward with levelled pistol, then thinking better of it, seized him by the collar and dragged him in.
'Made a prisoner, eh?' Gregory's voice was cold. 'Best shoot him and have done we've no use for useless mouths in Shingle Street.'
But Rudd had felt the cords that secured Kenyon's arms and pulled him over on his back. He stopped for a second to peer into the begrimed and bloody face, then he stood up.
'Lumme, if it ain't our bloomin' Lord.'
'What!' snapped Gregory.
'It is, sir, Mr. Fane 'imself, or I'm a Dutchman.'
Then Gregory was kneeling beside him in the trench, his arms were free again, and Rudd was holding a flask of spirits to his lips.
'Well done, Fane! Well done!' Gregory repeated over and over again with an unaccustomed tenderness in his voice. 'Thank God you got away. I suppose those blasted sailors caught you on your return trip?'
'Sailors,' gasped Kenyon, spluttering as the fiery spirit burnt in his throat, 'what sailors?'
'Why those damned mutineers of course. The Shark anchored off here this afternoon and sent a landing party. They want to collar our supplies.'
'These aren't sailors,' Kenyon stammered. 'You've been massacring those poor devils of farmers that we robbed.'
'Easy now,' Gregory threw an arm about his shoulders. 'It's their own damn fault if they're fool enough to attack us here. The only people I'm scared of are the mutineers you see they've got guns.'
At that moment there was a dull boom to seaward, a flash, and almost instantly a livid explosion on the beach a few yards short of the Martello Tower.
22
The Strongest Shall Go Down into the Pit'
'It's this little upsydisy wot we bin havin's woke 'em up, sir,' Rudd dec'ared.
'That's about it.' Gregory stared through his night glasses out over the darkened waste to seaward; 'seeing us attacked they thought it a good time to join in.'
The clouds which had obscured the sky were travelling fast, and through a partial break some stars now lessened the blackness with a faint uncertain light.
The destroyer was just visible, a jagged outline low in the water, less than a mile from the shore. A flash came from her bow, another dull boom followed and almost instantly the crack of the shell as it landed in the marsh beyond the tower.
'They're bracketin' on the Albert 'All,' said Rudd.'
'They shouldn't need to,' Gregory grunted, 'but even if they're amateurs they're devilish dangerous with that gun. We must evacuate the tower at once give Lord Fane a hand come on!'
With Rudd's aid Kenyon limped down the trench; his shoulder had gone numb but his thigh was hurting badly where the nail had caught it, his chest was smarting, although he had been little more than singed, and his head seemed to open and shut with every step he took.
Gregory paused for a moment further along, where Silas was leaning against a traverse, hands in pockets, near a Lewis gun.