'On the ground all of you!' came the swift command. 'Ready with your rifles there!' and instantly the party flattened themselves upon the shingle, scuttling for any dip or runnel which might afford them greater protection.
Silas and Veronica dropped together and as the unknown enemy to their front opened a rapid fire, he clutched her to him, burying her head beneath his chest in an effort to shield her more effectually.
Gregory's order came clear and strong: 'Aim for their flashes. Fire!'
'Silas, what is it?' Veronica's muffled voice was hardly audible above the crackling of the musketry. 'Have we run into the farmers after all?'
'No, they've got no arms. This must be a landing party from the ship.' As he spoke that staccato note that they had grown to know and dread, the horrid rat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat of a machine gun, struck upon their ear drums.
Veronica gasped as a flying pebble struck her on the leg and shrank closer to him.
'It's them all right,' he added. 'I wish to God I could get you out of this,' but even as he glanced over his shoulder seeking a way of escape, final calamity swept upon them. The beam of the searchlight shifted, slowly, relentlessly, from the wrecked village, across the now blasted Redoubt, and came to rest upon them as they lay in little crouching groups half buried in the shingle; its fierce blinding light throwing every man and every movement into sharp relief before the enemy.
The machine guns were silent for a second, and then burst out anew trained now upon the writhing figures, their bullets clicking sharply on the stones or thudding dully as they found a human mark.
'Oh, hell!' groaned Silas, 'this is sheer bloody massacre.'
A man in front leapt up with a sudden scream and then dropped down again; another sprang up to run and fell with half a dozen bullets in his back. A small boy, with a seemingly charmed life, jumped to his feet and, head down, fists doubled, pelted up the slope into the safety of the darkness. A woman followed but fell before she had gone five yards, shot through both legs.
Suddenly the firing ceased. For a moment Silas waited, then cautiously he lifted his head from the cold stones. Clear in the relentless light beyond the rows of bodies Gregory was standing upon a mound waving a large white handkerchief above his head.
Silently but profanely Silas cursed himself. By following Gregory's party on to the North Beach at a little distance he had thought to use them as cover until he and his precious charge were free of danger from the farmers. Now they had been caught by the landing party from the Shark.
Bitterly he regretted that he had not stuck to his former plan of heading south, but to suggest running for it now was to risk instant annihilation.
As he watched, Gregory walked slowly towards the enemy.
'Had enough?' asked the leader of the mutineers sternly as he came forward to meet the defeated General.
'Yes,' Gregory's voice was even, but the scar above his eyebrow showed a livid white; 'don't think you've beaten me though, we haven't fired a dozen shots the whole evening, and I would have fought you for a year if you hadn't had that blasted gun.'
'Fortune o' war,' said the sailor grimly.
'Yes, and I want the honours of war.'
'Not likely,' came the quick reply. 'You should ha' surrendered when you were asked this afternoon; now you bin an' killed four of my men your crowd are for it, an' make no mistake!'
'Not for myself,' said Gregory gruffly, 'you can do what the hell you like with me, but leave these poor fishermen out of it, and the handful of soldiers whose only crime has been to obey my orders!'
'Officers excepted?'
’Yes one’s dead, and the other is a couple of miles away by this time.'
'All supplies an' livestock must be handed over to us, I'll shoot anyone who hides so much as a rabbit.'
'Yes, you're entitled to the spoils of victory.'
'All right, it's the officers an' cattle I come to get, so I'll accept your surrender.'
'Thanks, I'm grateful.' Gregory extended his automatic, holding it by the barrel, and the sailor's hand closed over the butt.
So, with the searchlight playing on the scarred and weary survivors, the burning village in the background, and the defences, which they had worked so hard to perfect, lying in ruins about them, ended the uneven battle of Shingle Street.
23
The Terrible Journey
After her sharp tussle Ann stumbled through the heather and bracken, terrified each moment that a restraining hand would fall upon her shoulder, but Kenyon's desperate resistance held their assailants until she was well away and, once assured of her escape, she threw herself panting into a ditch near the coppice.
For a little while she feared that they might search for her with torches, but the sounds of fighting ceased and, peering cautiously from her hiding place, she could see no moving forms between her and the camp fire that lit the dell, so she crawled out and gave a low whistle.
No answering note came from the surrounding moor and after repeating the experiment once or twice she decided that Kenyon must have been captured. For a moment the idea of trying to fetch help from Shingle Street occurred to her but, even if she could reach it, would Gregory be willing to send a force sufficiently large to cope with this big gathering, and was Kenyon still alive?
Her fingers plucked feverishly at the strands of coarse grass as she thought that he might be already dead, and she realised at once the necessity of finding out what had happened to him before endeavouring to reach Shingle Street by herself.
She began to creep forward slowly and carefully, fearful that the snapping of every twig might mean discovery, and after ten minutes of cautious manoeuvring managed to reach a position some ten yards from the backs of the nearest men, where she could see the hollow.
Kenyon was nowhere to be seen, and for a little she was filled with new hope that he might have escaped in a different direction to herself, but the bonfire interfered with a large section of her view so that she could not be certain.
A little man with fair lank fair hair and eyes that glittered fanatically in the firelight was haranguing the crowd.
Ann could not catch all he said but snatches of his discourse came to her borne on the night air: 'Our brothers black, white and brown An era of new Freedom Already the towns are organising '
The man nearest her spoke in a gruff voice to his companion, a frail looking woman. 'They ain't organisen' Communist though.'
'Ain't they, Jim?'
'No; too sensible be half.'
'What be 'em a doen' then?'
'Blow me if I know, but the chap I spoke to on the road today say as how the Mayor were back an' the Greyshirts a handen' out vittals from the Town Hall.'
'Think o' that now; in Ipswich do 'ee mean?'
'Yer and other places too!'
'Don't 'ee believe that,' cut in another labourer, ' 'tis a Soviet what's been set up it be true about the vittals, though only for the townsfolk they 'on't part with any for the likes o'we!'
'Well, if it do be the Communists that be a wonderful pity!'
'What the 'ell's it matter 'oo it be so long as they stop a murdering o' each other; seein' as the old lot let us down so bad, I'm all for given' the others a chance.'
' England won't never go Bolshie; happens us'll be all dead afore then.'
'If you fared as hungry as what I do, you'd go Bolshie all right; ain't you a commen' on this party tonight?'
'That be different thing; they stole my horse and tumbril, not to mention the bins and eggs. It be only human nature to want your own back.'
'You be right,' said the woman. 'Fair's fair, as I alius do say.' The agitator sat down and Cattermole took his place. With feverish impatience Ann listened to his speech, for until they made some move she had no means of ascertaining if Kenyon was still among them and every now and then she shuddered at the thought that he might be lying murdered in a nearby ditch.