'If you say so,' said Peregrine. 'All the same I'd have thought we '
'I am not interested in what you think. I'm in charge and those are my orders.' And without waiting for an answer, Glodstone went back to the lookout. That ought to keep the stupid bastard quiet, he thought. It did.
Later that night they set out. Peregrine was grimly silent. 'We're going up-river,' Glodstone told him, 'I've an idea we'll find some shallows there.'
Peregrine said nothing but when half an hour later they scrambled down the hillside and crossed the road to the water's edge it was obvious that Glodstone had been mistaken. The Boose ran darkly past and curved away towards the cliff at the top of which the Château loomed weirdly against the starlit sky. Not even Glodstone's imagination could endow the place with anything more romantic than grim menace and when a car swept round the bend in the road above them, its headlights briefly illuminating the river, he was frankly shocked. Dark swirls of water indicated that the Boose was both deep and fast-flowing.
'Well, at least one thing is clear,' he said. 'We know now why they're not watching this side. It's too well protected. The river sees to that.'
Beside him, Peregrine merely grunted.
'And what's that supposed to mean?' asked Glodstone.
'You told me to keep my trap shut and just listen,' said Peregrine. 'Those were your orders and that's what I'm doing.'
'And I suppose you don't agree with me?' said Glodstone.
'About what?'
'That it's impossible to get across here,' said Glodstone and immediately regretted it.
'I could swim across easily enough if that's what you mean.'
'It's not a risk I'm prepared to allow you to take. We'll have to try further on.'
But though they stumbled along the bank for half a mile the river grew wider and less inviting. Glodstone had to admit defeat. 'We'll just have to look for another route downstream in daylight tomorrow,' he said.
'I don't see why you won't let me swim across with the rope,' said Peregrine. 'I could tie it to something on the other side and you could haul yourself over on it.'
'And what about the guns and the equipment in the rucksacks? They'd get soaked.'
'Not necessarily. Once you're over I can come back and get them. The Major '
But Glodstone had had enough of Major Fetherington's methods. 'If you get across.'
'I shall,' said Peregrine and taking the coil of rope and winding it round his waist he waded into the river.
Left to himself, Glodstone sat disconsolately in the darkness. To conjure up some courage he concentrated his thoughts on the Countess. She had warned him that the affair would be hazardous and she had obviously been telling the truth. On the other hand she had taken a terrible risk herself in writing to him. Above all she had appealed to him as a gentleman, and gentlemen didn't flinch in the face of a mere river. After all, his father had fought at Jutland and a maternal great-uncle had assisted in the bombardment of Alexandria in 1881. There had even been a Midshipman Glodstone at Trafalgar. With such a nautical tradition in the family he couldn't fail in his duty now. And in any case it would never do to show the slightest fear in front of Peregrine. The brute was cocky enough as it was.
All the same, he was decidedly disappointed when Peregrine returned with the news that there was nothing to it. 'A bit of a current, that's all, but it's all right if you swim upstream and anyway you'll have the rope.'
Glodstone took off his boots and, tying the laces together, looped them across his shoulders. The main thing was to act quickly and not to think. Even so, he hesitated as he took hold of the wet rope. 'You're absolutely certain you saw nothing suspicious over there? The last thing we want is to walk into a trap.'
'I didn't see anything except rocks and things. And anyway you said they're not watching this side because '
'I know what I said. You don't have to keep repeating it all the time. Now as soon as I'm over I'll give a tug on the rope as a signal. Have you got that straight?'
'Yes,' said Peregrine, 'but shouldn't I get the rope taut and tied to something?'
Glodstone didn't hear him. He had already plunged into the river and was experiencing to the full what Peregrine had described as 'a bit of current'. To Glodstone's way of thinking not that he had much opportunity for thought the lout didn't know a current from a maelstrom. And as for swimming upstream...Desperately fighting to keep his head above water and failing (tying his boots round his neck had been a ghastly mistake, the bloody things had filled with water and acted as sinkers), holding his breath when he went under and spouting when he came up, Glodstone clung to the rope for dear life and was swept downstream at a rate of knots. Only the rope saved him and just as he knew he was drowning, he banged into a rock, found himself bobbing in some slightly less turbulent water, and his feet touched ground. For a moment he lay there before scrambling up onto a rock ledge. It was still below water but it served as a seat and when the water had drained from his eye he saw that he was at the base of the cliff. He hadn't much use for cliffs but in the circumstances they were infinitely preferable to the swirling river. Glodstone edged himself away from it and stood up. As he did so he gave a tug on the rope.
Upstream, Peregrine responded. He'd been having some difficulty getting his hands on the cord in the darkness but had finally found it. And now came the signal that Glodstone was safely across. Peregrine dragged on the rope. So, for a moment, did Glodstone, but the imminent prospect of being hauled back into that infernal torrent combined with his inability to stand upright on the slimy rock proved too much for him. With a groan he slumped down and let go. He knew now with a terrible certainty that he should never have brought Peregrine. 'The bloody moron,' he muttered, before realizing that his only hope lay in the moron realizing what had happened. It was a faint hope but he clung to it as desperately as he did to the rock. As usual he was wrong. Peregrine was busy devising a method of carrying the guns and rucksacks across without getting them wet. On their way up the river he had noticed what looked like a rubbish tip. Worming his way along the bank he made a number of other interesting discoveries, among them an ancient bedstead, a rotted garden frame, several plastic sacks filled with garbage, something that felt and smelt like a dead dog and finally an old oil drum. This was just what he needed. He dragged it back and was about to put the rucksacks in when it dawned on him that it wouldn't float upright unless weighted down. After searching around for some rocks he climbed back to the road and brought down a painted concrete block which marked the verge. He dumped it in and tying the drum to the rope, let it out. The thing stayed upright. Only then did he put the guns and rucksacks in and, wedging the thing against the bank, undid the rope from the tree.
Five minutes later he was on the opposite bank. 'I've got everything ready to pull across,' he whispered. There was no reply. Crouching down he stared up the rocky hillside and was wondering where Glodstone had got to when something moved and a boulder rolled down to his left followed by a cascade of small stones. Evidently Glodstone had gone ahead to recce, and as usual was making a bad job of it. Presumably he'd be back in a minute or two and in the meantime the equipment had to be brought across.