The Thunderous Enemy

Chapter 29

WHEN Rogan cut the engine and jumped out of the shooting brake, there was no sign of Brendan and the rain hissing down into the water of the dam was the only sound. Hannah moved around the brake to join him . . . . . . . . . . . . . “I wonder where he is?”

“God knows, but we’ve got to get moving. If we don’t get through the tunnel and down to Ambleside Road within fifteen minutes, we’ve had it.”

There was a sudden restless baaing and several sheep ran between the ruined houses, scattering to avoid Brendan who raced after them brandishing a stick. They plunged up the mountainside and he paused, slightly out of breath, and grinned.

‘I thought I’d better set them free.“ ’Never mind about them now, we’ve got to get going. Where are the mailbags?”

“I put them in the punt, Mr. Rogan.” They hurried round the side of the dam and through the clump of trees that masked the old landing stage. Brendan had moored the punt to a rusty iron ring and several inches of water slopped in the bottom. The mailbags were in the prow where it was dry, and Hannah sat down on them. Rogan crouched in the centre and Brendan shoved off from the rear.

The sound of the rain faded as they moved into the cold darkness and he looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock and it wasn’t dark till seven thirty, which didn’t help. It wouldn’t take the police long to work out what had happened when they found the shooting brake. One fast patrol car to block the end of the

other valley was all that it would take. Certainly, if d**k Vanbrugh was in on things, the hunt was up with a vengeance.

And what happened if the jeep wasn’t there? But he pushed that thought away from him. If they could get down to the Ambleside road and reach the track that led between Rydal Water and Grasmere to Elterwater they might stand a chance. Beyond was the lonely road over Wrynose and old packhorse tracks that crossed over the fells to the coast, places where only a jeep or a similar vehicle could go.

They drifted out into the heavy rain and bumped against the side of the stone landing stage. Brendan scrambled up and fastened the line, then gave Hannah a hand and Rogan passed up the two mailbags.

Brendan ran on ahead through the trees and Rogan and the girl followed. When they reached the old stable, the boy had already got the doors open, revealing the jeep.

He opened the rear door and Rogan heaved the two mailbags inside. “All right, let’s get moving.”

Brendan scrambled into the rear, Hannah got into the passenger seat and Rogan slid behind the wheel. He pulled out the choke and pressed the starter and the engine turned over at once. In one smooth movement he reversed out of the stable, swung the wheel, moved into first gear and roared down the track towards the mouth of the valley.

“We’ll try that route you told me about on Wednesday,” he said to Hannah.

 “Do we stand a chance?”

“All depends on how quickly they get a car round to this side. If we can reach that track you told me about leading across to Elterwater and get off the main road, we might surprise them yet.”

He drove very fast, his foot hard against the boards and the jeep responded magnificently. Five minutes later, they turned up through a clump of fir trees and reached the main road.

Rogan barely paused, swung the wheel to the right and drove along the road towards Rydal. “How far?” he shouted above the roaring of the engine. “Half a mile, no more,”

Rain hammered against the windscreen so hard that the wipers had difficulty in coping. He leaned forward anxiously as a truck passed them going the opposite way and then Hannah was tugging at his arm.

He saw the gate in a clump of fir trees in the same moment and braked, skidding a little. As he swung the wheel and stopped, the girl jumped down and opened the gate. Rogan drove through and waited for her to close it again. A moment later, they were moving on through the trees and when he looked in the mirror, he could no longer see the road.

His throat was dry and there was sweat on his forehead. His hand trembled slightly when he raised it to brush away the sweat.

 “Would you look at that, now? I’ve got the shakes.” He gave her a quick grin. “Maybe I’m getting too old for this sort of caper.”

“That’ll be the day.”

She produced matches and cigarettes from one of her pockets, lit one and put it in his mouth. Rogan inhaled deeply and sighed. “I needed that.” ‘First hurdle over safely,“ she said. He nodded. ”That’s about the size of it. How do you feel?“

“As if I’m really crashing out of something for the first time in my life.”

“Keep on believing that and it’ll come true.” They crossed the bridge and he changed down and drove along the narrow track between the trees. It took them no more than three or four minutes to reach the Elterwater road, another five to reach the village itself. The streets were deserted in the heavy rain and he drove quietly through, following Hannah’s directions until, at Eltermere, he turned into a side road that skirted Little Langdale village. A quarter of an hour after leaving the Ambleside road, they were moving alongside Little Langdale Tarn and starting the long climb up to Wrynose.

The road lifted steeply before them, mist crowding in across the mountains, and the jeep climbed steadily, its engine deepening to a full-throated roar as he changed down through the gears.

Gradually, the mist enfolded them, and when they reached the top of the pass visibility was down to twenty or thirty yards. Rogan stayed in a low gear on the

way down the steep hill to Wrynose Bottom and they followed the course of the Duddon River. Ten minutes later, they came to the place where the road forked, one arm climbing to Hard Knott, the other following the valley to Seathwaite and Ulpha.

“Give me another cigarette," he said.

The girl lit one and put it in his mouth and Brendan leaned over the back of the bench seat. “H-how are we doing, Mr. Rogan?”

“So far, so good, son.” Rogan pulled in at the side of the road. “Let’s have another look at that map.”

He examined it quickly, a slight frown on his face. “No way round Seathwaite and Ulpha from the looks of things.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Hannah said.

“It’s possible. They’ve had plenty of time to pass the word around by now.”

She had another look at the map and traced a line across the fells. “There’s an unfenced road here. It won’t be very good but it runs across Thwaites Fell to the coast. We’d still have to go through Ulpha, but it would cut out the other places.”

“Where does it start?”

 “Beckfoot, a couple of miles on the far side of Ulpha.”

“Good enough.”

He drove away quickly, and as they passed through the little village of Seathwaite the mist seemed to be thinning a little, but the rain continued to fall relentlessly as they dropped down through the pleasant wooded valley. The main street was deserted, but as they approached the village inn, Hannah clutched Rogan’s arm tightly. A police sergeant in peaked cap and heavy blue raincoat stood on the steps talking to a middle-aged woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Rogan drove steadily past, but when he glanced in the mirror, they were both watching the jeep as it moved away along the main street. The sergeant turned and said something to the woman and they went into the inn quickly.

“Did you see that?” Hannah said.

Rogan nodded grimly. “We’ll have to take that unfenced load over the top now. No choice.”

He pushed his foot down hard until the needle flickered on sixty and the old jeep roared along the road, spurning the gravel. It took them no more than two or three minutes to reach Beckfoot and he braked, and flung the jeep into the side turning.

They climbed into another world, grey and sombre, dark crags, dripping with moisture, looming out of the mist on either hand. The road stretched before them, unfenced, but surprisingly well surfaced and the jeep slowed as the slope lifted before them.

The roaring of the engine in low gear was almost unbearable and the old aluminium body rattled alarmingly. Rogan checked the petrol gauge and saw they were down to the last gallon.

“How far have we got to go?” he shouted. Hannah had another look at the map. “About six miles to Bootle, but we don’t need to go right in. There’s a track branching down to the coast road. A mile, maybe two, to Marsh-End. Have we enough petrol?”

He nodded and changed into top gear as they breasted the slope and moved past Mere Crags across a jagged plateau, shrouded in fog.

It came to him, with something like surprise, that they had nearly made it, that with any kind of luck at all another ten minutes, fifteen at the most, should see them at Marsh-End. The road started to drop steeply into a grey void and he took it on the run, braking on the corners instead of changing to a low gear . . . . . . . . . . . . ..

About a quarter of a mile outside Bootle they came to a finger-post sign carrying the legend Whicham, and turned into a narrow, rutted track that brought them on to the coast road three or four minutes later.

Mist drifted in across the marsh carrying the good salt smell of the sea, and Rogan’s spirits lifted. The signpost for Marsh-End loomed out of the gloom . . . . . . . . . .

He turned into the track and they lurched over the rutted surface through the trees beside the creek and rolled to a halt in the yard.

When he switched off the engine and turned to Hannah her eyes were shining. “So we made it after all?”

He grinned and squeezed her hands. “I hope you’re a good sailor. It’s a rough crossing in a small boat.”

Fog rolled in across the marsh, pushed by the wind, and he opened the door and got out. Brendan pulled the mailbags to the ground and dragged them round to him. The house was strangely quiet and the windows stared blindly down at them like dark eyes. Rogan frowned, picked up the mailbags and crossed to the door. Hannah opened it for him and led the way along the narrow passage.

Colum O’More was in the easy chair by the fire, his head lolling to one side. As Rogan dropped the mailbags, Hannah moved forward and examined the old man quickly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Is he dead?” Rogan said.

She shook her head. “He’s very cold, though.”

There was no fire in the grate and Rogan went to the sideboard, opened it and found a bottle of Irish whiskey. He half filled a glass, went back to the chair and forced a little of it between the old man’s lips.

 Colum O’More coughed, his head shaking from side to side and then his eyes opened suddenly. He looked at Rogan blankly for a moment and recognition dawned.

“Sean boy,” he said in Irish. “Is it yourself?”

“And none other, Colum ,” Rogan answered in the same language. The old man’s eyes moved to Hannah and he smiled.

“You too, girl, dear.”

She looked desperately at Rogan. “I don’t understand?”

“Give him a moment to pull himself together.”

O’More ran a hand over his face, shook himself and reached for the glass of whiskey. He took it down with a single swallow and shuddered. “God save us all, but that’s better," he said in English.

When he looked up there was a different expression in his eyes and he seemed more alert. “But what are you doing here? What’s gone wrong?”

“We’re a day early, that’s all,” Rogan said, “and every peeler in the country on

the prowl for us. We’ll have to be moving, Colum.”

“You’ve pulled it off?”

Rogan dumped the two mailbags on the table. “That we have.” The old man stared at him incredulously. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven.”

“But that can’t be.” Colum O’More shook his head vigorously. T had a bad attack just after I got up this morning so I took some of my pills. Maybe more than I should have done.“

“Now that, I can believe. Are your things packed?”

“There’s a suitcase in the bedroom, it’s got everything I need.“

Rogan turned to Hannah. “Make him a hot drink. I’ll send Brendan on ahead to the boat with the suitcase. There are one or two things he can be doing to help us make a quick exit.”

Hannah nodded and went out and Rogan got the suitcase from the bedroom and took Brendan across the courtyard at the rear of the farm to where the track through the marsh began.

 “You’ll come to a stone causeway a couple of hundred yards from here,” he said. “Just beyond it, there’s a narrower path to the right. Follow that and you’ll come to a motor launch. She’s tied fore and aft. Cast off and hold her ready on a single line. We’ll be along in ten minutes.” The boy nodded eagerly and moved away, the case bumping against his right leg. Rogan went back into the house. O’More still sat in his chair by the fire and as Rogan entered the room, Hannah came in from the kitchen with a coffee pot and cups on a tray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“What happens when we get to Ireland?” she said as she started to pour. “Do we just sail boldly in?”

Colum O’More chuckled. “Hardly that, girl. There’s a quiet place I know and good friends not far away. That’s where I’ll be leaving you and Sean.” She looked up at Rogan. “Then what?” ‘We’ll go to my father’s place in Kerry. I never made things easy for a peeler in my life, not even an Irish one. They can come for me, there.“ Her face clouded over at once. ”Prison again?“ O’More laughed harshly. ”But not for long, girl, make no mistake about that. What you might call a necessary formality. You’ll be back in his arms inside a month.“ She looked up at Rogan anxiously. ”Is that the truth?“ ’Since when have I lied to you?” Rogan kissed her gently on the forehead. “Get your coat on, we’d better be making a move.”

He felt her stiffen in his arms as she looked behind him and a cold wind gently touched him on the back of the neck. In the mirror above the mantelpiece, he saw the door swing open, framing a police motorcyclist, strangely anonymous, broad goggles masking his eyes beneath the peak of the white uniform crash helmet.

He unfastened his chin strap, pulled off his helmet and goggles and Harry Morgan smiled out at them . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..