Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan John

      “Good Lord, we’ll get into a horrible row. The whole thing may be a mistake, and we’ll be had up for wholesale homicide. No man shall fire unless I give the word.”

      The Commander-in-Chief looked at him darkly. Some bitter retort was on his tongue, but he restrained himself.

      “It appears,” he said, “that ye think I’m doin’ all this for fun. I’ll no’ argy wi’ ye. There can be just the one general in a battle, but I’ll give ye permission to say the word when to fire… Macgreegor!” he muttered, a strange expletive only used in moments of deep emotion. “I’ll wager ye’ll be for sayin’ the word afore I’d say it mysel’.”

      He turned to the Princess. “I hand over to you, till I am back, for I maun be off and see to the Die-Hards. I wish I could bring them in here, but I daren’t lose my communications. I’ll likely get in by the boiler-house skylight when I come back, but it might be as well to keep a road open here unless ye’re actually attacked.”

      Dougal clambered over the mattresses and the grand piano; a flicker of waning daylight appeared for a second as he squeezed through the door, and Sir Archie was left staring at the wrathful countenance of McGuffog. He laughed ruefully.

      “I’ve been in about forty battles, and here’s that little devil rather worried about my pluck and talkin’ to me like a corps commander to a newly joined second-lieutenant. All the same he’s a remarkable child, and we’d better behave as if we were in for a real shindy. What do you think, Princess?”

      “I think we are in for what you call a shindy. I am in command, remember. I order you to serve out the guns.”

      This was done, a shot-gun and a hundred cartridges to each, while McGuffog, who was a marksman, was also given a sporting Mannlicher, and two other rifles, a .303 and a small-bore Holland, were kept in reserve in the hall. Sir Archie, free from Dougal’s compelling presence, gave the gamekeeper peremptory orders not to shoot till he was bidden, and Carfrae at the kitchen door was warned to the same effect. The shuttered house, where the only light apart from the garden-room was the feeble spark of the electric torches, had the most disastrous effect upon his spirits. The gale which roared in the chimney and eddied among the rafters of the hall seemed an infernal commotion in a tomb.

      “Let’s go upstairs,” he told Saskia; “there must be a view from the upper windows.”

      “You can see the top of the old Tower, and part of the sea,” she said. “I know it well, for it was my only amusement to look at it. On clear days, too, one could see high mountains far in the west.” His depression seemed to have affected her, for she spoke listlessly, unlike the vivid creature who had led the way in.

      In a gaunt west-looking bedroom, the one in which Heritage and Dickson had camped the night before, they opened a fold of the shutters and looked out into a world of grey wrack and driving rain. The Tower roof showed mistily beyond the ridge of down, but its environs were not in their prospect. The lower regions of the House had been gloomy enough, but this bleak place with its drab outlook struck a chill to Sir Archie’s soul. He dolefully lit a cigarette.

      “This is a pretty rotten show for you,” he told her. “It strikes me as a rather unpleasant brand of nightmare.”

      “I have been living with nightmares for three years,” she said wearily.

      He cast his eyes round the room. “I think the Kennedys were mad to build this confounded barrack. I’ve always disliked it, and old Quentin hadn’t any use for it either. Cold, cheerless, raw monstrosity! It hasn’t been a very giddy place for you, Princess.”

      “It has been my prison, when I hoped it would be a sanctuary. But it may yet be my salvation.”

      “I’m sure I hope so. I say, you must be jolly hungry. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of tea for you.”

      She shook her head. She was looking fixedly at the Tower, as if she expected something to appear there, and he followed her eyes.

      “Rum old shell, that. Quentin used to keep all kinds of live stock there, and when we were boys it was our castle where we played at bein’ robber chiefs. It’ll be dashed queer if the real thing should turn up this time. I suppose McCunn’s Poet is roostin’ there all by his lone. Can’t say I envy him his job.”

      Suddenly she caught his arm. “I see a man,” she whispered. “There! He is behind those far bushes. There is his head again!”

      It was clearly a man, but he presently disappeared, for he had come round by the south end of the House, past the stables, and had now gone over the ridge.

      “The cut of his jib us uncommonly like Loudon, the factor. I thought McCunn had stretched him on a bed of pain. Lord, if this thing should turn out a farce, I simply can’t face Loudon… I say, Princess, you don’t suppose by any chance that McCunn’s a little bit wrong in the head?”

      She turned her candid eyes on him. “You are in a very doubting mood.”

      “My feet are cold and I don’t mind admittin’ it. Hanged if I know what it is, but I don’t feel this show a bit real. If it isn’t, we’re in a fair way to make howlin’ idiots of ourselves, and get pretty well embroiled with the law. It’s all right for the red-haired boy, for he can take everything seriously, even play. I could do the same thing myself when I was a kid. I don’t mind runnin’ some kind of risk—I’ve had a few in my time—but this is so infernally outlandish, and I—I don’t quite believe in it. That is to say, I believe in it right enough when I look at you or listen to McCunn, but as soon as my eyes are off you I begin to doubt again. I’m gettin’ old and I’ve a stake in the country, and I daresay I’m gettin’ a bit of a prig—anyway I don’t want to make a jackass of myself. Besides, there’s this foul weather and this beastly house to ice my feet.”

      He broke off with an exclamation, for on the grey cloud-bounded stage in which the roof of the Tower was the central feature, actors had appeared. Dim hurrying shapes showed through the mist, dipping over the ridge, as if coming from the Garplefoot.

      She seized his arm and he saw that her listlessness was gone. Her eyes were shining.

      “It is they,” she cried. “The nightmare is real at last. Do you doubt now?”

      He could only stare, for these shapes arriving and vanishing like wisps of fog still seemed to him phantasmal. The girl held his arm tightly clutched, and craned towards the window space. He tried to open the frame, and succeeded in smashing the glass. A swirl of wind drove inwards and blew a loose lock of Saskia’s hair across his brow.

      “I wish Dougal were back,” he muttered, and then came the crack of a shot.

      The pressure on his arm slackened, and a pale face was turned to him. “He is alone—Mr. Heritage. He has no chance. They will kill him like a dog.”

      “They’ll never get in,” he assured her. “Dougal said the place could hold out for hours.”

      Another shot followed and presently a third. She twined her hands and her eyes were wild.

      “We can’t leave him to be killed,” she gasped.

      “It’s the only game. We’re playin’ for time, remember. Besides, he won’t be killed. Great Scott!”

      As he spoke, a sudden explosion cleft the drone of the wind and a patch of gloom flashed into yellow light.

      “Bomb!” he cried. “Lord, I might have thought of that.”

      The girl had sprung back from the window. “I cannot bear it. I will not see him murdered in sight of his friends. I am going to show myself, and when they see me they will leave him… No, you must stay here. Presently they will be round this house. Don’t be afraid for me—I am very quick of foot.”

      “For God’s sake, don’t! Here, Princess, stop,” and he clutched at her skirt. “Look here, I’ll go.”

      “You can’t.