Tish Marches On (4 page)

All of us then took up our positions at the windows, leaning out and watching with profound anxiety. What was our relief when we heard a foghorn close at hand, and suddenly saw the ship, in all its glory, directly beneath us. There was a solitary man on the top deck, and we all saw him at the same time.

He saw us too, and never so long as I live shall I forget his face as he stared up at us. He seemed to stagger and then look again, and it did not require Aggie’s frenzied sneezing to tell us who it was.

It was Charlie Sands!

The next instant one of our hooks caught firmly in the window of a small deckhouse beside him. He must have heard the sound, for he turned and looked at it. Then, to our horror, a blast of hot air from one of the funnels caught us and whirled us high in the air, and the structure was lifted bodily from the deck and collapsed with a loud crash.

Not only that. We had the agony of seeing a small piece of timber strike him, and of seeing him knocked from his feet!

There was of course nothing to be done. The
Snark
was moving on into the fog again, and the last we saw of Charlie Sands he was sitting upright amidst the wreckage, holding both hands to his head and gazing after us with a dazed look on his face.

This, I think, adequately explains the so-called attack on the
Crostic
. To state that we deliberately destroyed the wireless cabin and antennae on that ship, thus leaving it temporarily helpless in fog and heavy seas, is entirely false; as is the statement referring to our red flag.

I must admit that the incident left us all rather shaken; especially what had happened to Charlie Sands. But after a luncheon of scrambled eggs and tea we felt stronger, and Tish was more her old and confident self.

“It is apparent,” she observed, “that we have crossed the Atlantic and may soon be over foreign soil. In that case—”

“Id that case,” said Aggie bitterly, “I suppose it will cobe up ad get us!”

For that was now our problem. Tish finished the second sock thoughtfully.

“We must be anchored to something,” she observed. “We cannot run the risk of floating indefinitely over Europe, or of being blown back across the sea. It should be possible,” she added, “for one of us to be lowered on a rope and thus make fast to some stationary object before it is too late.”

Aggie at once burst into tears, but Tish’s solution seemed to be the obvious one; the more so as—the fog now clearing—the
Snark
was seen to be not far above the surface of the water, and moving slowly before a gentle breeze. Not only was this the case. Not far ahead, and apparently anchored, was a small boatlike structure—shall I ever forget it?—which offered possibilities for the purpose.

“As the lightest of the three, Aggie,” Tish remarked, “this duty should fall to you. I hope that you will do it cheerfully.”

“What do you wadt be to do? Sig?” Aggie demanded.

In the end, however, she agreed; in a short time, the rope under her arms, we were lowering her carefully, and finally had the great joy of seeing her beneath us, safe and sound.

All would have been well, or at least better, had she been able at once to secure the rope. But unfortunately she had just then one of her violent sneezing attacks, the rope slipped out of her hands, and we had the agony of seeing it trailing in the water and leaving her behind.

It was too much. Leaning out a window we could see her anguished face, contorted for another sneeze, and the faint wave of her hand that was her feeble gesture of farewell.

Sad as this was, it was nothing to what followed. We had been puzzled by the fact that no crew had appeared on the boat, and we had drifted only a mile or so away when we understood. Tish caught my arm and pointed back to where our poor companion was now merely a small dot in the distance.

A plane was diving out of the clouds directly at her, and a moment later there was an explosion and a splash of water beside her.

It was then that we knew the truth. In a world threatened with war, an American torpedo had first left us helpless. Now foreign planes were using Aggie—and the boat—as a target!

How describe what followed? How explain our feelings as plane after plane dived from the sky, dropped its deadly charge, and rose again? What did it matter that, with the clearing of the weather, our gas expanded and we found ourselves high in the air again? Or that soon far beneath us we saw green fields and even a town or two? Our poor Aggie was lost, we feared, forever.

“And that is war,” Tish said. “Attacking helpless women. Like little boys playing marbles, Lizzie! And to what end? To what end?”

I could make no reply.

I pass over the remainder of that day, which was endless. There was no gentle presence in the cabin, and Aggie’s red petticoat waving in the wind was but a sad and tragic reminder. But our own situation was soon to become precarious. As evening fell and the gas contracted we began to descend, and darkness found us barely above the treetops.

Tish lowered our handling ropes again, in the hope that they would catch on something and anchor us. But soon matters took a serious turn. In passing over a small hamlet we brushed a number of chimneys, and could hear bricks falling and people shouting; and at last the unbelievable happened.

For some time we had heard small reports from below, and finally something struck the teakettle with a sharp ping.

Tish made a light and examined it.

“They are shooting at us, Lizzie,” she said. “Throw out what you can. We must rise again.”

This, I dare say, is the origin of the clipping entitled: “Constable Struck By Frying Pan,” which lies before me now. But I must admit that the hostility shown to us, strangers as we were, puzzled us greatly. It was only later that we learned the facts: the steamer
Crostic
, having repaired its wireless, had warned that it had been attacked by a dirigible carrying a red flag, and that the entire country had been notified by the British Broadcasting Company to be on the alert.

But our strange journey was almost over. We had little to throw overboard. Soon we became aware of a hissing over our heads and realized that the branch of a tree or a chimney pot had torn the dirigible. Then we were bumping across a field, and at last were able to step onto terra firma again.

Never so long as I live shall I forget what followed. The
Snark
, wounded to death, lay behind us, a huddled and expiring mass; while along a number of roads motorcars, bicycles, and people afoot were converging on us.

The first to arrive was a constable on a motorcycle, with a bandage on his head and a most unpleasant manner. He at once caught Tish by the arm and held on to her.

“You’ll come along with me,” he said grimly. “Just about killed me, you did. We’ll teach you Russians something you won’t forget! Women, too! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?”

“Russians!” said Tish. “Don’t dare to call us that.”

He seemed bewildered.

“Did you or did you not come in that dirigible?” he demanded.

Never have I so admired Tish as in this emergency. She drew herself up haughtily and stared at him.

“What dirigible?” she inquired coldly.

He let go of her arm, and as by that time a crowd was gathering, he turned fiercely on it.

“’Op it,” he said. “’Op it and somebody ring the chief constable. I’ll ’ave to stand by ’ere.”

It was then that Tish turned to me and spoke in a low voice.

“We are in England, Lizzie,” she said quietly.

It was indeed true. Driven by storm and wind, we had crossed the broad Atlantic and were now on a golf course in Sussex. But Tish’s superb courage did not fail her, even then.

“We must get out of here as quickly as possible,” she observed. “To be arrested would be indeed serious, as we have no passports. Also there is the possibility that Aggie has survived. In that case—”

She did not finish, but I understood; and I feel that the later statement that we stole a car that night and deliberately wrecked it is not justified. Our one thought was to proceed to London and notify the British Admiralty of Aggie’s situation. As to wrecking the car, who would have believed that the English drive on the left side of the road?

As it happened, our escape was not difficult. The crowd was now dense and in the general excitement Tish led the way through it. Shortly after, we found ourselves in a lane, with what we have since learned was a fine Daimler car. The engine was running, and soon we had left the excitement behind us and were on a main road.

Driving proved exceedingly difficult, however, and even Tish was surprised.

“These people are crazy with excitement,” she said. “Never again will I believe that they are stolid or phlegmatic. They are
all
on the wrong side.”

Nevertheless, after some narrow escapes, we had put the remains of the
Snark
some ten miles or so behind us when trouble came. We struck a car head on, and I narrowly escaped going through the windshield. (This probably explains the statement that one of the escaping bandits was injured, as my nose bled quite badly.)

It was impossible to go on, especially as a man got out of the other car and began shouting at us.

“What the bloody h— do you mean, driving on the wrong side of the road?” he yelled. “You’ve broken my leg!”

“If you don’t know your right hand from your left,” Tish said, “why blame me?”

“A woman, by God!” he said profanely. “A woman, of course!”

He then started limping toward us, and once more flight became necessary. It was dawn and my nose had just stopped bleeding when at last we found a country inn and staggered inside. There was a woman there, and she regarded us with cold eyes.

“We would like a room, and something to eat,” Tish said.

And I shall never forget my despair when she replied: “All I ’ave at this hour is some hot tea and maybe an egg or two.”

We reached London and a small hotel later in the day, and in the interval while our clothing was being dried and pressed we sent out for all the newspapers. As I have said, the
Times
on page fourteen had a brief article entitled “Unusual Discovery On A Sussex Golf Course.” But the
Daily Mail
had it spread all over the front page. There was a picture of the
Snark
, now merely a limp and huddled piece of canvas in a field. There was a picture of the constable with his bandage, entitled “Victim of Attack From Air.” There was our poor Aggie’s red petticoat, with a bullet hole through it, and beneath: “Was This Used As Red Flag?” And worst of all Tish’s rifle was shown and captioned: “Are Armed Communists, Denied Passports, Reaching England By Air?”

Lacking clothing, we could not pursue our search for Aggie. It was necessary indeed to retire to our beds, and we had barely done so when there came a thunderous knocking at the door.

Almost immediately it opened, and there was Charlie Sands, with a policeman behind him and a most dreadful look on his face.

He gave us one glance and then turned to the officer.

“All right,” he said briefly. “It’s them. Stand by outside, will you?”

I fairly cringed when I had a good look at him. One eye was completely closed, and there was a large lump on his forehead. But he addressed himself to Tish.

“I presume,” he said, “that you are the Communists. I gather that it was you who hit the constable with a frying pan. And I know damned well that you attacked the
Crostic
. Look at me and you’ll know why. But what I want to know is if you did this.”

He then jerked a newspaper from his pocket:

“A strange discovery was reported by the Royal Flying Corps today. At practice off the Solent they discovered a woman on a floating target.

“The woman was uninjured but suffering from shock and a slight attack of jaundice. She could tell no connected story, merely stating that she had reached the target by a rope, and that she and some friends were hunting sharks and that they had hung somebody on a church steeple.

“By her accent she is an American, but hospital authorities cannot be certain, as she had a heavy cold. Normal in some ways, she had an attack of shrieking hysteria when offered scrambled eggs and tea.”

He read that aloud, and then stared at us malignantly through his one eye.

“I presume,” he said, “that this is Aggie. What I want to know is, who did you hang on that church steeple? And why?”

It was then that Tish told him the story. Halfway through he sat down, as though his legs would not hold him. But he listened patiently.

“I see,” he said at last. “Perfectly natural, all of it. I suppose it’s that knock on the head that makes me dizzy. I gather,” he added, “that you feel all right. You haven’t a cold or anything?”

“Why should
I
?” Tish inquired.

He groaned and got up.

“That’s it,” he said in a strange voice. “You lasso a torpedo and it merely takes you for a ride. You put Aggie on a target and six good pilots fail to hit her. You hang a poor devil on a church steeple and even take the belt that holds up his trunks. You put a liner’s wireless out of commission in a fog, practically destroy me, damage a Daimler car, and injure a peer of the realm—and you haven’t even a sniffle. It is too much. Far, far too much. You ought to suffer. For two English farthings I would call in that officer and send you to jail.”

Fortunately, we still had some blackberry cordial left, and Tish gave him some at once. It calmed him somewhat, although he still remained resentful.

“I came here to do a piece of work,” he said, “and what happens? I can’t even put on my hat! Look at this bump!”

But he did consent to send the policeman away, and I breathed more freely. It was over the matter of the Coronation that he and Tish finally differed, he insisting that we return to America immediately, and Tish refusing to go.

“I have come through a considerable strain,” she said, “and I shall remain. I am entitled to a rest.”

“A rest!” he exclaimed violently. “I’d like to bet that you feel better at this minute than I do.”

“Nevertheless, I shall remain,” Tish stated. “I may not see the Coronation itself, but I shall see as much as possible.”