Black August gs-10 Read online

  Black August

  ( Gregory Sallust - 10 )

  Dennis Wheatley

  circa 1960

  First Gregory Sallust book published, number 10 in chronological order.

  England, involved through the ruin of other countries, is faced with financial collapse and revolution, bringing panic, street-fighting and an uncontrolled exodus from the cities to the countryside, where bands of starving people wander, pillaging for food.

  Out of the terror and the bloodshed steps Gregory Sallust, to take the leadership of a group of men and women seeking only to survive: to lead them through bitter hardship and terrible hazard to a rural settlement which they fortify against invasion, and which, at first, seems reasonably secure.

  Black August

  by Dennis Wheatley

  1

  The Prophet of Disaster

  The bright July sunshine gave the ultimate degree of brilliance to the many coloured flowers in the stationmaster's garden. From a field, not far away the sweet scent of clover drifted in through the windows of the waiting train, and in the drowsy heat the hum of insects came clearly to the man and girl seated in one of the third class compartments.

  They were strangers and had not spoken, yet he had been very conscious of her presence ever since she had scrambled in, just as the train was leaving Cambridge.

  For a time his paper had absorbed him. It seemed that the curtain had gone up on the last act of that drama entitled: 'The Tragedy of Isolation,' which the United States Government forced by the pressure of their less educated masses had produced in the middle 193O's.

  From that time onwards America had been driven more and more in upon herself, while Europe rotted, racked and crumbled. Now, faced with critical internal troubles of their own, the States had finally closed the door upon the outside world by a sweeping embargo; prohibiting all further exports to bankrupt Europe which could no longer pay, even in promises; refusing entrance on any terms to all but their own nationals, and enforcing a rigid censorship on their news.

  The girl was staring out of the window at a placid cow, which ambled down a lane beyond the station under the casual guidance of a ragged boy, who swished now and then at the hedgerows with his stick. As the young man glanced at her his quick blue eyes took in the headline of the paper lying at her side:

  'FURTHER SABOTAGE BY POLES MORE GERMAN GARRISONS WITHDRAWN'

  and his mind leapt back to the previous summer. With superb generalship, the veteran officers of the German army had carried out a classic campaign, subduing the whole of Poland in the short space of ten weeks while the French army looked on, biting their nails with fury yet impotent to help their allies, being themselves in the throes of that revolution which terminated the nine months' reign of the Fascist puppet king, Charles XI of France.

  And now Poland was slowly driving out the conqueror compelling the Germans to concentrate their forces in the larger towns by interference with supplies, the destruction of waterworks, electric plant, railway lines and bridges.

  'Where will it all end!' he speculated for the thousandth time; starvation rampant in every city in Europe millions of unemployed in every country eking out a miserable existence in so called Labour Armies on state rations; Balkan and Central European frontiers disintegrating from month to month, while scattered, ill equipped armies fought on broken fronts, for whom, or for what cause, they now scarcely knew; Ibn Saud's dynasty dominant in the near East, gobbling up the Mesopotamian kingdoms created by Britain after the first Great War, and, with the simple, clear cut faith of the Koran for guide, turning their backs contemptuously upon their protests of the Christian powers, now impotent to stay their Moslem ambitions.

  France was rapidly becoming Communist; Germany in a desperate plight, her commerce at a standstill, and only kept from open Bolshevism by martial law.

  England had kept out of the strife for the last ten years; the will of the people for once dominating the folly of the politicians, but creeping poverty was driving her horribly near the precipice, and if the United States could no longer help, another month might see her too in a state of anarchy.

  Looking out upon the little wayside station and the country all about it flooded with sunshine, serene and peaceful, it seemed impossible yet he knew it to be true.

  The clang of a couple of milk cans farther down the platform shattered the silence, a whistle blew, and the train an unhurried local chugged on in the direction of Ipswich.

  Weary unto death with his thoughts of folly, bloodshed and disaster, the young man glanced again at the girl and caught her eye for a second. The thought that she might be willing to talk offered a most pleasing distraction. He pulled off his soft hat and flung it on the seat beside him, disclosing a crop of auburn hair; then he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees and smiled at her:

  'I see you've finished your paper am I being rude, or would it amuse you to talk for a bit?'

  She regarded him steadily for a moment from beneath half lowered lids. He looked a nice young man blue eyed and slightly freckled; he wore a suit of brown plus fours, ancient but still retaining the cachet of a good tailor and his hands were well cared for.

  'Why not?' she said lightly; 'being a lazy person I left it to the very last moment to get up this morning and forgot my book in the rush to catch the train, so you may fill the gap and entertain me if you like!'

  'Splendid! My name's Kenyon Wensleadale what's yours? That is unless you'd rather remain anonymous?'

  She shook her dark head: 'It is Ann Croome.'

  'What a nice old fashioned name,' he said, 'and may I ask if Mistress Ann Croome often travels on this antiquated line?'

  'No, only I've been staying with a friend in Cambridge one of the four year students at Girton, and I'm spending the rest of my holiday at Orford; the air buses were full, so I thought it would be quicker to come this way than via London.'

  'It is too; though not much since they've fitted the main lines with the mono rail. Were you at Girton yourself?'

  'Yes, came down last year I'm a full blown secretary now!'

  'And how do you like it?'

  'It's a bore sometimes, especially on the sunny days; but at least it means independence. The only other alternative is a life of good works on a microscopic allowance with an aged uncle at Orford; in fact, if my firm crashes I shall have no choice, and I'm afraid they may before long.'

  'Things are pretty bad, aren't they?'

  'Bad?' Ann's dark eyebrows lifted, wrinkling her broad forehead, 'they couldn't be much worse!'

  'I don't know,' he said thoughtfully, 'I'm afraid they are going to be before we're very much older. This American business…"

  'Oh, I'm sick to death of America! The whole of my young life the papers have been crammed with what America is going to do and what America hasn't done and what the jolly old Empire is going to do if America doesn't!'

  'Yes, that's true. Still, this embargo is going to be the very devil; it looks like the last straw to me.'

  'I don't know; if we took a leaf out of their book and stopped lending money to the bankrupt countries, things might improve a lot.'

  'Ah, that's just the trouble. England isn't self supporting, and if we can't keep our trade with the outside world we’re done.'

  'I wonder? Germany is sticking to her moratorium, and so is Spain. People are dying by the thousand every day in Central Europe! they can't buy bread, let alone the things we are making, and the Balkans are in such a mess that the papers say we have even refused to supply them with any more munitions to carry on their stupid war. So what is the good of all this commercial nonsense if there are no customers left who can pay for what they buy?'

  'There is still the Empire the Argentine Scan
dinavia Belgium, Holland, Italy lots of places.'

  She frowned. 'They say the Italian state ration just isn't enough to live on.'

  'I know, but Mussolini laid the foundations of the new Italy so well that they will pull through somehow. He is one of the few who will survive when the history of this century comes to be written.'

  'And Lenin.'

  He laughed. 'Lenin, eh? you know, you don't look like a Bolshevik.'

  'Don't I?' she smiled mischievously, 'and what do Bolsheviks look like? Are you one of those people who imagine that they all have straggly hair and dirty finger nails?'

  ’No not exactly ' he wavered, 'still…'

  'Well, as it happens I'm a Marxist, and I think Lenin was a greater man than Mussolini.'

  'Really?

  'Yes, really,' she mocked: the set of her square chin with its little pointed centre showed an unusual obstinacy in her otherwise essentially feminine face.

  Kenyon Wensleadale smoothed back his auburn hair and made a wry grimace. 'Anyhow, Lenin made a pretty hopeless mess,' he countered. 'Things were bad enough in Russia when they were running their last Five Year Plan, but since that broke down it has been absolute chaos.'

  'Things would have been different if Lenin had lived.'

  'I doubt it though they might have taken a turn for the better if the Counter revolution had come off two years ago.'

  'Thanks.' Ann took a cigarette from the case he held out. 'I wonder what's happening there now.'

  'When the Ogpu had butchered the remnant of the intelligentsia, they must have gone home to starve with the rest of the population, I imagine, and the whole country is gradually sinking back into a state of barbarism. The fact that their wireless stations have been silent for the last six months tells its own story.'

  'I think that the way the capitalist countries strangled young Russia at its birth is tragic, but perhaps it would be best now if the Japs did take over the wreck.'

  He shook his head impatiently ' Japan’s far too powerful already with the whole of the Pacific seaboard in her hands from Kamchatka to Malaya. The new Eastern Empire would be the biggest in the world if they were allowed to dominate Russia as well.'

  Ann gave a sudden chuckle of laughter. 'Ha! ha! afraid of the old Yellow Peril bogey, eh?' With a little jerk she drew her feet up under her and leaned forward a small, challenging figure, framed in the corner of the compartment.

  . 'Yes,' said Kenyon. But he was not thinking of the Yellow Peril he was studying her face. The broad forehead, the small straight nose, the rather wide mouth, tilted at the corners as if its owner constantly enjoyed the joke of life and her eyes, what colour were they not green or brown, but something of both in their dark background, necked over with a thousand tiny points of tawny light. They were very lovely eyes, and they were something more they were merry, laughing eyes.

  She looked down suddenly, and the curve of her long dark lashes hid them for a moment as she went on. 'Well, who's going to stop the Japs? we can't anyway.'

  'No, but it's pretty grim, isn't it? the whole thing I mean. The world seems to have gone stark, staring crazy. Ever since the end of the 1920's we've had nothing but crashes and revolutions and wars and dictatorships. God alone knows where it is all going to end.'

  'International Socialism,' said Ann firmly, 'that's the only hope, but ever since I've been old enough to have any fun some sort of gloom has been hanging over the country. Half the people I know are living on somebody else because their firm has gone broke or their investments don't pay. I'm sick of the whole thing so for goodness' sake let's talk of something else.'

  'Sorry,' he smiled, 'one gets so into the habit of speculating as to what sort of trouble is coming to us next! Do you live in Suffolk?'

  'No, London got to because of my job.'

  'Where abouts?'

  ' Gloucester Road.'

  'That's South Kensington, isn't it?'

  'Yes, it's very handy for the tubes and buses.'

  'Have you got a fiat there?'

  'A flat!' Ann's mouth twitched with amusement. 'Gracious, no! I couldn't afford it. Just a room, that's all.'

  'In a hotel?'

  'No, I loathe those beastly boarding houses. This is over a shop. There are five of us; a married couple, a journalist, another girl and myself. It is run by an ex service man whose wife left him the house. We all share a sitting room, and there's a communal kitchen on the top floor. It is a queer spot, but it is cheap and there are no restrictions, so it suits me. Where do you live?'

  'With my father, in the West End.'

  'And what do you do?'

  'Well, I'm a Government servant of sorts, at least I hope to be in a few weeks' time if I get the job I'm after.'

  'I wonder how you'll like being cooped up in an office all day? You don't look that sort of man.'

  'Fortunately I shan't have to be a good part of my work will be in Suffolk. Do you come down to Orford often?'

  She shook her dark curly head. 'No, only for holidays. You see, I like to dress as nicely as I can, and even that's not easy on my screw so it's Orford with Uncle Timothy or nothing!'

  Kenyon smiled. He liked the candid way in which she told him about herself. 'What is Uncle Timothy like?' he inquired.

  'A parson and pompous!' the golden eyes twinkled. 'He's not a bad old thing, really, but terribly wrapped up in the local gentry.'

  'Do you see a lot of them?'

  'No, and I don't want to!'

  'Why the hate they're probably quite a nice crowd.'

  'Oh, I've nothing against them, but I find my own friends more intelligent and more amusing besides the women try to patronise me, which I loathe.'

  He laughed suddenly. 'The truth is you're an inverted snob!'

  'Perhaps,' she agreed, with a quick lowering of her eyelids, the thick dark lashes spreading like fans on her cheeks; 'but they seem such a stupid, vapid lot yet because of their position they still run everything; so as I'm in inclined to be intolerant, it is wisest that I should keep away from their jamborees.'

  Kenyon nodded. 'If you really are such a firebrand you’re probably right, but you mustn't blame poor old Uncle Timothy if he fusses over them a bit. After all, the landowners have meant bread and butter to the local parson in England for generations, so it is only part of his job.'

  'Church and State hang together, eh?'

  'Now that's quite enough of that,' he said promptly, 'or we'll be getting onto religion, and that's a thousand times worse than politics.'

  'Are you er religious?' she asked with sudden serious ness.

  'No, not noticeably so but I respect other people who are whatever their creed.'

  'So do I,' her big eyes shone with merriment, 'if they leave me alone. As I earn my own living I consider that I'm entitled to my Sunday morning in bed!'

  'How does that go in Gloucester Road?'

  'Perfectly as we all have to make our own beds! that, to my mind, is one of the beauties of the place.'

  'What making your own bed?'

  'Idiot! of course not, but being able to stop in it without any fuss and nonsense.'

  'Yes,' he said thoughtfully, 'you're right there rich people miss a lot of fun, they have to get up because of the servants!'

  The train rumbled to a halt in the little wayside station of Elms well. The carriage door was flung open, and a queer, unusual figure stumbled in. Kenyon drew up his long legs with a barely concealed frown, but he caught the suggestion of a wink from Ann and looked again at the newcomer.

  He was very short, very bony, his skinny legs protruded comically from a pair of khaki shorts and ended in a pair of enormous untanned leather boots. He carried the usual hiker's pack and staff, and a small, well thumbed book which he proceeded at once to read. The close print and limp black leather binding of the book suggested some religious manual. Its owner was of uncertain age, his face pink and hairless, his head completely bald except for a short fringe of ginger curls above his ears.

  As the train
moved on again Kenyon turned back to Ann. 'What were we talking about? getting up in the morning, wasn't it?'

  'Yes, and how rottenly the world is organised!'

  'I know, it's absurd to think that half the nicest people in it have to slave away at some beastly job for the best years of their lives when they might be enjoying themselves in so many lovely places.'

  'Would you do that if you had lots of money?'

  I might

  'Then I think you would be wrong.' The tawny eyes were very earnest. 'I'd love it for a holiday, but everybody ought to work at some job or another, and if the rich people spent less of their time lazing about and gave more thought to the welfare of their countries the world might not be in such a ghastly state.'

  'Lots of them do work,' he protested, 'what about the fellows who go into the Diplomatic sit on Commissions enter Parliament, and all that sort of thing?'

  'Parliament!' Ann gurgled with laughter. 'You don't seriously believe in that antiquated collection of fools and opportunists, do you?'

  'Well, as a matter of fact I do. A few wrong 'uns may get in here and there, but it is only the United British Party which is holding the country together. If it hadn't been for them we should have gone under in the last crisis.

  'United British Claptrap!' she retorted hotly, 'the same old gang under a new name that's all.'

  'Well, you've got to have leaders of experience, and there are plenty of young men in the party.'

  'Yes, but the wrong kind of young man. Look at this Marquis of Fane who's standing in the by election for mid Suffolk.'

  'Lord Fane? yes, well, what about him?'

  'Well, what can a Duke's son know about imports and taxation? Huntin' and shootin' and gels with an “e” and gof without an “i” are about the extent of his experience I should think. It is criminal that he should be allowed to stand; Suffolk is so hide bound that he'll probably get in and keep out a better man.'

  Kenyon grinned at the flushed face on the opposite side of the carriage, and noted consciously how a tiny mole on her left cheek acted as a natural beauty spot. It was amusing to hear this pocket Venus getting worked up about anything so dull as politics. She had imbibed it at Girton, he supposed. 'You think this Red chap, Smithers, is a better man than Fane then?' he asked.