The Devil's Making (49 page)

I glanced behind me but could see no one. I began running again, in a crouch, at a steady rhythm. There were a few rocks, and I ran over grass between and around bushes. Rabbits scattered in all directions and now and again I flushed a grouse which whirred up and away. The sun, straight ahead and high in the sky, beat down on my bare head. My mouth was parched and my eyes kept filming over with sweat pouring from my hair. I mopped my brow as I ran. Although Beaumont was stronger, my long legs helped me on this open terrain. This gave me hope of catching up. Beaumont slowed down at the top of a rise against the metallic blue sky. He crouched down in the grass. I kept running flat out. Then I saw a flash and a puff of smoke beside Beaumont and heard a gunshot. I kept running. A crack to one side of me and another gunshot. Beaumont was shooting at me, I realized rather stupidly – now from about a hundred yards away, too far to have much chance of hitting me. But I slowed down and began dodging from bush to bush crouching as low as I could. As I tacked across my original direction I noticed two figures coming up from behind – Delacombe and another marine. I darted forward again.

Beaumont was about fifty yards in front of me, leaning forward with his back to me over a boulder in a clump of bushes, resting the barrel of his revolver on his left arm to fire ahead. He fired. Then I heard a crack in the air to one side, and another shot from behind me. At the same time I could see what Beaumont was firing at – a white building not more than a hundred yards in front, where some blue uniformed soldiers were scuttling around. I drew my own revolver from one pocket, and its ammunition clip from the other, stumbling as I slammed the clip in, and yelled ‘Beaumont!' Beaumont fired again, but my shout had caused him to jerk. He steadied the barrel carefully for another shot. A shot cracked past me again from behind, and Beaumont swung round as I leapt on him and tried to grapple him to the ground. Panting harshly, we wrestled in a crouching position. I felt a bang on my head as Beaumont hit me with his revolver, and fell. But I managed to hook Beaumont with an arm and he came tumbling over on top of me. His gun went off with a terrific crash just beside my ear, then I saw his leg near my right hand, pressed the muzzle of my revolver against the calf, and fired. He screamed angrily and pushed me away with superhuman force. I rolled across the ground feeling a moment of terror that I would be shot. But suddenly there was an ear-splitting noise of bangs and thuds from up in front. I stopped rolling, lay on my stomach and lifted my head, but I could see only a bush, and to one side Beaumont lying clutching his leg with an expression of agony on his face.

The din was terrific. The Americans in front of us must be firing at random, but since the ground sloped down behind me and Beaumont, the bullets were all cracking overhead. Then I saw a long blue figure scuttling along the ground up to Beaumont, grappling briefly with him, then pulling away holding Beaumont's revolver. It was Delacombe. Leaving Beaumont, he wriggled across to me, and shouted ‘Have you got a white handkerchief?'

‘Yes.'

I dug for my handkerchief as Delacombe shouted, ‘Damned Yankees! Typical! Civil War tactics. Massive waste of ammunition. It's quite safe really! Unaimed!'

Delacombe took my handkerchief, shook it out, then to my surprise leapt to his feet, with the bullets still cracking all around, and waved the handkerchief. It took what seemed a long time, ten seconds at least, for the fire to slacken, and still a few bullets snapped by.

The firing stopped. My ears were ringing. There was a smell of gunpowder. Smoke drifted by in wisps. I decided to stand up, and did, although my legs were like jelly. I walked over to Beaumont who was sitting up holding his leg, biting his lip. His face looked yellow. Delacombe's companion, a Marine Sergeant, appeared at my elbow. ‘I'll have it fixed up in no time, Sir', he said to Beaumont, and took a field dressing from his pouch. Beaumont rolled up his trouser leg, soaked with blood, a sick expression on his face. I turned to look around. Delacombe had stopped waving the handkerchief and was standing waiting for a group of Americans who were ambling across the grass, revolvers and carbines dangling in their hands. They were dressed in a similar blue to the Marines, but with brown leather belts and cloth caps. Their uniforms were crumpled and untidy. The front man, evidently an officer from his gold braided epaulettes, had a thick black beard, a hooked nose, and big brown eyes.

‘Ep!' Delacombe called out.

‘Del!' Said the officer. ‘What the hell's this?'

‘No one hurt I hope?'

‘Naw. But what
is
this?'

The two men shook hands. ‘Just old Beaumont here, out potting rabbits.' Delacombe said. ‘Got too enthusiastic. Potted himself in the leg.'

‘Oh yeah? And who's
this?
Doesn't look like one of yours.'

‘Friend of mine. Sergeant Hobbes, Victoria police. Over for lunch. Hobbes, this is Lieutenant Epstein.'

‘Good day,' Epstein said. We shook hands. ‘You potting rabbits too?'

‘Oh yes. Never saw so many in my life.'

‘We thought you were ‘potting'
us.
In fact I'd swear a bullet or two came our way.'

‘I'm terribly sorry,' Delacombe said. ‘If the truth be told, Ep, I'm afraid our friend Beaumont got a little “corked” at lunch. We all got somewhat carried away, I'm afraid. But goodness, your chaps know how to raise a storm. I thought we'd run into the Battle of Gettysburg.'

‘American firepower,' Epstein said, and winked. He turned to look at Beaumont, and stepped over to him, crouching down to examine the leg. ‘Point blank range,' he said. ‘You fall on your revolver, George?'

Beaumont did not reply. He sat looking glumly down at the leg where the blood was already seeping through the field dressing.

‘Bone broken?' Delacombe was asking the Sergeant.

‘We can lend you a stretcher', Epstein said, ‘and a wagon to get him back to your camp.'

‘Very handsome of you,' said Delacombe. ‘The stretcher would be very handy. No need for the wagon. I have a detachment coming along the main road. They can carry him.'

‘They're not potting rabbits too?' said Epstein, raising his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

‘Heavens no. On patrol. Sergeant!'

‘Sah!' The sergeant saluted.

‘Go and find the detachment and get two men to come and take the stretcher.'

The Sergeant stepped off briskly.

Epstein turned and issued his orders: ‘Schwartz, Watson, go get a stretcher for this officer.'

The men saluted with their palms facing down, and ambled off across the field.

‘An army of free born Americans,' said Epstein.

‘Fine-looking chaps,' Delacombe said soothingly.

‘You look as if you've run all the way down the island,' Epstein said, looking at my filthy torn trousers.

‘I was chasing a rabbit through some bushes. Not worth it really.'

‘This war started up over a pig,' said Epstein. ‘I'm sure glad it didn't start up again over a rabbit. Tell me the whole story some time, Del.'

‘When I know it all, I shall, Ep. I appreciate your forbearance.'

‘Not at all. Let's get together soon. I believe Mr Eliot in Friday Harbour is going to invite us both to a luncheon party Sunday week.'

‘Oh good. Then we'll be able to have a chat.'

The two men saluted each other. ‘So long, then,' Epstein said with a wry smile at us all. Then he headed back across the grass, his soldiers ambling behind, to the white house where the stars and stripes flew listlessly from the rooftop under the beating sun.

28

The road back to English Camp, farther inland than the way I had come, went dead straight through the forest and past occasional patches of cleared land with farmhouses exactly like those around Victoria. It was mainly in the shade, so the walk was less tiring than I had feared. I felt physically buoyant, although mentally oppressed at the prospect of interrogating Beaumont again, and at having shot him and probably broken his leg.

Pemberton had come along the road with the Marine detachment, and he and Delacombe and I walked back side by side. Once Pemberton had been told what had happened there was little to say. ‘Decent chap, Epstein.' Delacombe remarked. But he looked cross and grim. Beaumont followed in a stretcher carried by shifts of Marines. He and Delacombe did not look at each other.

At the camp Beaumont was brought to the blockhouse. His leg would be bandaged and splinted by a ‘surgeon' – a Corporal who specialised in First Aid. After a drink of ale on Delacombe's verandah, during which little more was said, the three of us walked across the grass to the blockhouse. It was late afternoon, and it had been decided that Pemberton and I would stay overnight.

Beaumont was in a bed in the third floor dormitory of the blockhouse. A small table had been brought in, and a marine secretary, a Corporal, would take notes. The four of us sat around the table on plain wooden chairs, leaving one side open facing Beaumont's bed. He was half sitting up, propped by a bolster and pillows. His face looked grey in the diffuse but bright light which entered from the embrasures and was reflected from the whitewashed walls.

Delacombe opened the proceedings by warning Beaumont that he should take heed of the fact whatever he said might be used as evidence in any of three possible charges against him: that he was guilty of a civil murder; that he had drawn a weapon on his commanding officer; and that he had fired against an opposing army during a state of truce.

‘I admit to all three,' Beaumont said in his strange mechanical voice. ‘I killed McCrory. I drew my revolver on you, Sir. I shot at the Americans.'

‘Then we shall have to hear your account of these events,' Delacombe said coolly.

‘Sir, with respect, I decline to explain why I killed McCrory. It's a sordid little story which I find utterly undignified. If you pass me a piece of paper, I shall write on it that I killed him, using the Bowie knife which you can find in my quarters, in revenge for a personal insult. But that's all I shall ever say for the record. I believe it's all that is necessary for the civil authorities to clear up their case. Not for the record, but for personal reasons, I should appreciate it if I could have a private interview with Mr Hobbes, to whom I shall tell my motives for the crime – to satisfy his curiosity, and to relieve myself of a certain burden. But, to repeat, all I am prepared to do for the record is write a simple confession of the fact. To do more would be humiliating. And I can't stand humiliation.'

‘Would that be acceptable to you, Commissioner? Delacombe asked Pemberton.

‘It's in your hands, Captain. You're the authority in this case. Certainly a signed confession will be enough for me to clear up the civil case at once.'

‘With regard to the murder, Mr Beaumont, I find your proposal acceptable,' said Delacombe. ‘It would also make procedures simple if you acknowledge in writing that you drew your revolver on me. But I must have your explanation of why you fired on the Americans.'

‘I did so in order to provoke a renewal of hostilities. I hate the Yankees', Beaumont said drily, ‘and I should like to see the rotters removed at once from this island by force of British arms. That's all.'

‘You can write that down too. You know that all three of these crimes are capital offenses.'

‘I am aware of that, Sir.'

Delacombe asked the secretary to give Beaumont pen and paper. We all sat very still as Beaumont scratched out three statements on separate sheets.

When he had finished, the secretary took the sheets to Delacombe, who read them. Then he and Pemberton witnessed them, signing them as in the presence of the secretary and me, and we also signed.

Delacombe stood up, and the others did the same. For a moment, I thought Delacombe might say something to Beaumont, or even shake his hand. Instead he turned away, his face grave. ‘I suggest you stay and have your talk now,' he said to me, ‘then join us at the house for dinner.'

Everyone left the room except me. I put my notebook and pencil in my pocket, and pulled my chair over to the bed. Beaumont and I looked at each other.

‘I hold no grudge against you, Hobbes,' said Beaumont calmly. ‘You were merely performing your duty, as I should have in your place. I can see you deduced I was the culprit by a process of elimination. There could have been no evidence that I was on Vancouver Island that day. I'm sure nobody saw me – apart from McCrory. “That Devil George” he said, did he?' Beaumont paused for reflection. ‘
I
should say
he
was the devil. “Shouldst thou see the devil, cast him out!” A favourite quotation of my mother's. She's a very religious woman. I'm afraid her heart will be broken by all this. But no. I don't believe it will. Nothing will break her heart. She will stay alive for ever.'

Beaumont paused for thought, his wavering eyes gone still. Then they began wavering again as he looked at me. ‘Now I shall tell you my story. Please repeat it to no one. Not even Aemilia whom I suppose you will marry some day.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘No? Too bad. But I shall tell you because I know you put a lot of thought into the crime – I mean solving it. And of course a short statement on paper is not a satisfactory confession. I believe in confession, don't you? Such a shame our church has abolished it. I'm not really a bad man, Hobbes. I do my duty. Always have. But I have not been happy. I joined the Marines because my father was a naval man. I should have joined the cavalry. The Marines were a compromise. Never compromise, Hobbes. It's bad for the soul. Of course the Marines did a superb job at Sebastopol, and their reputation was high when I joined. But since that they have not seen much action. Cavalry have, of course – in India. Most of my career has been spent at sea, actually. I become sea sick easily – unless I am in control of the boat. That's why I like sailing and rowing. The last two years I've been here, and it has been very agreeable. But I couldn't have asked for a worse commander than Delacombe. He gives a man too much leeway. It may be good for some chaps. But not for me. I have to be kept busy all day long. Otherwise I brood. I become melancholy. And since I don't like drink much – it can make me ill – I can't soothe myself that way. Delacombe is of course an excellent soldier. No criticisms there. Brave man. Proved himself in the Crimea. But he's what the Yankees call “easy going”. Like this whole island. It's a sort of little terrestrial Paradise, for one thing. Where a bloodless war was started over a pig! There's nothing much to do except visit among the English settlers and the better sort of Americans. And of course supply and provision the camps, do manoeuvres, and so on. It is, mind you, a jolly well run camp.