SCAMMEL’S DEATH.
Some days disappeared after Boddily’s departure without news from
him. There came a letter to say he had explored the neighbourhoods
of the Bullockshed, Tenterhook, Sheepshank, and Swagsides estates,
where game abounded, and where Scammel was known to haunt; but he
had disappeared from those places for some time. There was no trace
of him. A week more, and Tom had been through Elvaston and Shipley
woods, and on into the neighbourhood of the preserves of the Dukes
of Devonshire and Rutland, on the borders of the Peak of Derbyshire,
and no news of him of late. Then another like interval, and Tom had
explored the vicinities of the Lords Vernon, Bagot, Anson, and
Gower, in Staffordshire, and still no news. Then he was bending his
course towards Leicestershire. Amongst poachers, where Scammel was
a great leader but a few years ago, he was now missed, and many
thought him dead; but Boddily found nowhere any news of his death.
In the lodging-houses of tramps, who came across all sorts of people
accustomed to ply their daily or nocturnal arts amongst the farms and
villages, no news. Tom was puzzled, but not disheartened. The man, he
felt, had stepped out of his ordinary haunts for concealment. No such
persons as the Shalcrosses were, or had been, seen for a good while
in all the regions of trampdom. Wherever they lay perdu, they were,
he felt sure, together.
During the time that Boddily was absent, Nathan Hopcraft had
evidently grown more uneasy, and had gone over to Fair Manor one
Sunday to inquire for him. Sylvanus Crook told him Thomas Boddily
was away about his master’s business. He would tell him when he
came back that he, Nathan Hopcraft, had inquired after him. But as
Sylvanus was in the secret of Tom’s absence, to allay Nathan’s fears
he went on to the house, and brought him out a large piece of cold
roast-beef, wrapped in a newspaper, to take home with him—a most
savoury offering to Hopcraft’s gigantic appetite.
It was towards the end of September when Tom suddenly made his
appearance at the Grange. He had discovered Scammel. Far away in a
heathery glen in Charnwood Forest, in Leicestershire, he had come
upon a gipsies’ camp. It was mid-day, and all the men and younger
women were absent on their rounds; a few old crones only were there,
and an old cur or two, which ran out to a distance to meet and bark
at Boddily. But there was something in Tom’s tramp-like appearance,
and his quiet welcoming of them that soon silenced them, and they
followed him and licked his hands caressingly. On coming up, Tom
squatted down familiarly, and entered into talk with the old women.
He asked them how far to the next village, and the houses best to
call at. This information the old dames readily gave, and offered him
some stew from their kettle on the fire, which sent out a savoury
smell. But just as Tom was about to accept it, his eye casually fell
on an open cabin, formed of sticks bent into hoop shape, and saw,
lying on the straw there, fast asleep, no other than the man of his
search. It was Scammel’s black head and sunburnt sullen face, and
no mistake. Tom nodded familiarly towards him, and said, “The palla
there looks tired.”
“Yes,” said one of the old women, with a significant smile; “out much
at night—supplies the pot there.”
“Aha!” said Tom; “a good butty, that; don’t let us disturb him.”
“You can’t readily do that,” said another old woman: “when he does
sleep a crack o’ thunner would not wake him.”
Tom despatched his stew, praised it highly, and then said he must
make use of the day while it lasted, and visit some of the farms.
He bade them good-day, and limped off. Tom had found his game, but
he saw difficulties in taking it. Scammel had evidently allied
himself with the gipsies to secure a retreat away from villages
and lodging-houses, amongst which news circulates freely over the
country; and with three hundred pound reward hanging over his head
the fewer companions the better. He could turn out at night, forage
amongst the hares and pheasants, and sleep quietly under watch of the
old crones in the day. They had allowed Tom to approach, from his
orthodoxly trampish look; but how was he to approach by day over that
open heath with men sufficient to take the ruffian napping?
Tom pondered this point long and anxiously as he strode along. “How
shall I bring Latter, and, say, Ralph Chaddick, Sir Henry’s powerful
head-keeper, to this camp, without starting the game and seeing
Scammel run for it into the next woods? If he were once up, he would
put a couple of bullets from his double-barrel through any two of us
as soon as look at us.” Tom sat on a hill and looked round. Every way
were difficulties. They could not approach the camp in any direction
without coming into full notice from it. Though to-day all the men
were away, it might not be so every day. If any of these were there,
the difficulty was greater. Reflecting on these matters, and putting
them into all possible shapes, Tom reached the next village, and
entered the Cat and Fiddle public-house, and sitting down, called for
his pint. As a tramp he did not presume to enter into conversation
with the two or three farmers who were chatting over their glasses
there. He soon learned that they had all got their harvests over,
and were “taking their ease in their inn” a little, in a state of
comfortable complacency over their good fortune. As Tom seemed to
listen to their discourse with considerable interest, one of them
said—
“Well, traveller, and have you got your harvest pretty well?”
“But middling, sir,” said Tom; “my fields lie rather wide asunder.”
“I reckon so,” said the farmer; “and a pretty good stock of gleaners
in ’em.”
“True, sir,” said Tom.
“Yet you manage to get your bread, I daresay?”
“Well,” said Tom, “if I don’t get bread I manage to get cake,
perhaps, or a piece of cold pudding. I never knew the want of bread,
thank God, but once, and then I made a pretty good shift with
pie-crust.”
“Oh, you did, eh?” said the man, brightening up; for he saw Tom had
something in him; and a bit of clever talk was rather a novelty down
there. The place was much troubled with stagnation of ideas.
“You’re not unreasonable, at any rate,” said the farmer, all the rest
kindling up considerably.
“No,” said Tom, “not quite as unreasonable as a neighbour of mine,
who, when he went home to his dinner, asked his wife why she had not
made a pudding. ‘Because,’ said the wife, ‘there was no flour in the
house.’ ‘Then,’ said the husband, ‘why did not you make a bit of a
dumpling?’”
“Bread of idleness, I reckon,” said another, “is sweeter to you,
young fellow, than any other, whether white or brown, fine flour or
seconds, with a glass of summat strong occasionally to scare the cold
off your stomach.”
“Gentlemen,” said Tom, “it’s no idle affair, I can assure you, to
shuffle from town to town with a lame leg;”—and Tom drew his right
foot in with an expression of well-affected pain in his face. “You’ve
heard, no doubt, of the old man on his death-bed that his wife was
giving a lot of messages to carry to her relations in the next world,
when he interrupted her with, ‘Hold thy tongue, old woman; dost think
I can go stumping all over heaven with my lame leg to carry thy
gossip?’ That man knew, gentleman, what a burden a lame leg is.”
The farmers, who had evidently never heard of the stumping about
heaven story before, laughed heartily.
“How did you get lamed, young man?” asked one.
“In service, sir.”
“What, you’ve bin a sodger, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ay, ay, that’s where you’ve picked up your knowledge. Now I see. I
reckon you’ve learned th’ Eleventh Commandment?”
“No,” said Tom, “what’s that?”
“Not know that, an bin a sodger? Why, th’ Eleventh Commandment is—‘As
new debts come on so fast, thou shalt not pay the old ’uns.’”
“Well, thank heaven,” said Tom, “I’ve no occasion for book-keeping.
I’ve no credit to give, and I get as little. Blessed are those that
have nothing, for they cannot lose it. Now, I reckon you gentlemen
farmers find many slips betwixt the cup and lip. I can tell you of a
funny thing as happened to an alderman of our town.”
“Where’s your town? I thought all towns were alike to your trade.”
“Well, that’s just it,” said Tom; “but Tag-town, in the land of
Green Ginger, where the houses are built of black-puddings and
thatched with pancakes, and with windows that used to be glazed
with barley-sugar, but the lads have broken all the panes. That is
my particular town; and there, as I was going to say, is a jolly
alderman, a big, broadchested, hearty, laughing man he is, and pokes
his fingers in your sides when he tells you a good story. Well, he
has a fine, large garden, and in the middle of it a fine, large lawn,
and in the middle of the lawn is a fine, large oak-tree. Now, the
grass of the lawn had become thin, and the alderman told his gardener
to dig up his lawn, and sow it with barley for the fowls, and next
year they would turf the lawn again. The gardener thought this an
odd fancy, but said he to himself, aldermen arn’t farmers, nor yet
gardeners.”
“He wor right there,” said the farmers.
“Nothing would serve our alderman, but the lawn must be dug up and
sown with barley, and so it was at spring. The barley came up and
grew finely, and the alderman said to the gardener, ‘Well, John, we
shall have a fine crop here.’
“‘No, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘you’ll excuse me, but you’ll just
have none at all.’”
“‘None at all; why not?’ said the alderman. ‘It looks very healthy.’
“‘It does so,’ said the gardener; ‘but mark my word—you won’t have no
barley here.’
“‘Why, how is that?’ demanded the alderman.
“‘I can’t just say,’ said the gardener, ‘but that’s how it will be.’
“The alderman thought the gardener very stupid, and every time he
went round his garden he looked particularly at the barley plot. It
grew and flourished, and as summer came in it shot into ear, and the
alderman said to the gardener, ‘You’re all wrong, John. You never saw
a finer, healthier, more promising crop of barley in your life.’
“‘That’s quite true, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘but mark my word, sir,
you’ll never get a bushel of barley out of this plot.’
“The alderman was quite exasperated with the gardener, and went away
saying, ‘You’re a fool, John, that’s all.’ The weather grew hot,
and when the alderman went home on Saturday, the barley looked quite
ripe, and he ordered John with much triumph to cut it on Monday.
“Now, the alderman, after his good dinner on Sunday, got an extra
good Sunday nap in his arm-chair, and very cross was he to be woke up
out of the sweetest sleep by somebody, and to see John, the gardener,
standing in his Sunday suit before him, and with his hat in his hand.
“‘Hang it, John,’ said he, ‘you are getting more stupid than ever.
Why do you come in and wake me up in this manner?’
“‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said John, ‘but I want you to come
into the garden, and see a sight.’
“‘Be hanged to your sights!’ said the alderman; ‘what is it? Can’t
you say what it is?’
“‘I can’t exactly say, sir,’ said John. ‘I’d rather your worship saw
it yourself. You don’t see such a sight in a barley-plot every day.’
“At the mention of the barley, up jumped the alderman with a very red
face, and nearly fell on the floor, for his legs were asleep yet;
but, when he got a little right, out he went.
“‘Come quietly,’ said John, ‘as quietly as possible;’ and he led him
along a grass-walk, and begged him not to speak, nor even to cough,
or he would spoil all. At last, from under cover of the trees, he
points, and the alderman, to his astonishment and consternation, saw
the oak tree in the middle of the barley plot as black as his hat,
all over with rooks, and the barley under was as black as his hat
too. There were thousands and thousands, and they were all as silent
as so many undertakers at a funeral. The alderman could stand it no
longer, but out he rushed and shouted—Shoo! and up went the rooks
with such a sough, and a whistle of wings, and a cacawing, that was
enough to deafen a cataract itself.
“‘It is that cursed old crow,’ said the gardener, ‘that I seed
perched on the tree yesterday morning at six o’clock when I came to
my work. I knew he would go and tell all the crows round the country
what a pretty barley-plot your worship had got here. I know them
black gentlemen of old, and I’ve been expecting him some time.’
“‘Then why didn’t you shoot him?’ said the alderman in a great rage.
“‘Ha! shoot him!’ said the gardener. ‘I must cotch him first, and
plug his nostrils up, for he can smell powder a mile off. But it is
just what I said—it is all up with the barley.’
“‘Have done with your stupid nonsense,’ said the alderman. ‘Hire a
dozen men, and have it all down in half an hour in the morning: but
you had rather see those devils of crows eat it, eh? It would make
your prophesying true.’
“‘Not a bit of it,’ said John; ‘I shall miss all this good barley in
the winter for the fowls; but I knew how it would be.’
“The alderman went away very crusty: he had lost his nap, and a good
deal of barley. Next morning comes John and three or four men, to mow
and carry away the barley, to secure it from the crows, but the crows
had been there for three hours before John came at six, and had not
left a single ear on the stalks.”
“Well, seize me,” said one of the farmers, “but that’s a good story,
and just like them rooks.”
“A deep old file that gardener,” said the others. “You know a thing
or two, young fellow, we can see. Now I dare say as you go on through
the country, you can put a bit of wire in your pocket and snickle a
puss now and then. That makes a good supper at the lodging-house.
There’s rare living there, I hear; jolly beggars all when you getten
together.”
“There’s a deal of fun there often,” said Tom; “and if you farmers
and the gentlemen landlords could but hear yourselves talked of
by some witty rogues—taken off, as they call it—you’d hardly know
yourselves again. But as to poaching, I can tell you the prettiest
feat of that kind that ever came off, and done by a sort of a
gentleman too.”
“Let’s have it,” said the farmers, for they had not had such an
entertaining fellow for a very long while to listen to. “Landlord,
another pint for him, to wet his whistle, it mun get dry with so much
talk.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Tom; “but I never allow myself above a
pint.”
“Then put this pint to our score, landlord,” said the farmer. “And
this bit of poaching?”
“It was this,” said Tom. “In the town of C——ff, in South Wales, where
I was once quartered with the regiment, there was a young fellow,
a travelling portrait-painter. He dressed like a gentleman, but
rather, just a bit, seedily, and he wore fine light boots; but one
day I heard him say, as a gentleman was taking him to his house to
paint some young ladies, ‘I see my boots are burst at the side; I am
ashamed to go into a good house, and into the presence of ladies; but
the misfortune is, my feet are so tender I can’t wear good boots.’
Thinks I, certainly not, but the tenderness is, I guess, in the
pocket. Well this young fellow painted little portraits for lockets
of many of the young gentlemen and their sweethearts, but somehow
he never seemed to get richer. He was well known by staying in the
town some months, and one day, passing a game-dealer’s, he saw a
wonderfully fine woodcock. He stopped, admired it, cheapened it, and
bought it for four-and-sixpence. ‘I’ll call and pay you for it in a
day or two, he said to the dealer, but I will take it and show it to
a friend.’ So he carried it away with him, went straight to one of
the principal inns in the town, showed it to the landlord, and said,
‘See what I have brought you! It is the finest woodcock I ever saw,
and fat too.’
“‘Oh, thank you,’ said the landlord; ‘you are very kind; you must
come and partake of it to-morrow.’
“‘To-morrow—no, I can’t dine with you to-morrow, but I’ll stay and
dine with you to-day instead, if you ask me; I don’t care myself for
game.’
“Said and done. The artist knew that it was then exactly the
landlord’s hour. They dined together, got very friendly over their
wine; the landlord had the woodcock brought in to admire it afresh.
“‘By-the-by,’ said the painter; ‘it would be a shame to pluck that
bird and not to take a portrait of it. Give me leave to carry it
home, you shall have both it, and a good sketch of it, early in the
morning.’
“‘You are very good,’ said the landlord; and the young man carried
off the woodcock when he went. The next day, at the same hour, he
went to another inn, played the same game, got another dinner,
carried back the bird to paint it, but instead of painting it, he now
skinned it, had the bird nicely dressed, cooked, and eat it himself.
Immediately after dinner he carried the skin to a bird-stuffer’s,
ordered him to set it up in his best style, and send it to the museum
of the town. He left written on a paper—‘Presented to the public
Museum of C——ff, by J. D——, Esq.’
“All this was done. The two landlords wondered that the woodcock
never came, the bird-stuffer delivered the stuffed bird, and the
label with it, to the keeper of the museum; but when both he and the
game-dealer called for their money, they found that J. D——, Esq., had
left the town immediately after this transaction. He had made three
dinners out of the bird, and had received a vote of thanks from the
committee of the museum, without its having cost him a farthing.
The story is famous in C——ff, and the bird is conspicuous yet in the
museum, and with the label of presentation attached, by J. D——, Esq.”
“My!” said the farmer; “that’s living by yer wits, and no doubt on’t.
That wor a dead nap, that painter fellow. That woodcock wor worth
keeping for a show.”
“Yes,” said Tom; “the painter made game of the game-dealer himself,
and stuffed both himself, the landlords, and the bird-stuffer in
first-rate style.”
“A pretty rogue, though,” said one of the farmers. “He wanted laying
by the heels in the stocks for a few hours, and pelting wi’ mud.”
“Oh, trust him,” said Tom; “he’d get his deserts in the end. I never
knew a dirty cur that went barking and nibbling horses’ heels, that
did not get a clout on the head some day.”
As Tom said this, in came a countryman with a two-quart stone bottle,
which he carried by a string tied by the neck. The landlord took the
man’s money without an observation.
“You see that,” said one of the farmers; “our squire’s keepers
complain dreadful of the decrease of their game in the woods there on
the forest.”
“Ay, that they do,” said another, “and the cause is plain as
daylight. It’s them gipsies camped there.”
“It’s one gipsy, a huge, dare-devil looking fellow,” said the first;
“who lies in the straw all day, and turns out only at night. They
should look out for him and nab him.”
“Ay, faith, but how?”
“Nothing easier,” said the first farmer. “This woodman lives in the
cottage on the edge of the wood, just behind the gipsy camp. He’s in
league with them, as I know. Every afternoon he calls here for the
man’s ale—that’s his weakness—and every evening, punctually at eight
o’clock, the big black fellow walks down there, and they empty that
bottle together, and then it’s time for the poaching business.”
“Ay, how came you to find that out?” asked another.
“No matter,” said the first; “I know it, and any couple of good stout
fellows who would watch for him at eight o’clock would be sure to
find him.”
“Yes, but they must first know that he poaches, and be able to prove
it on him.”
“Well, of course; but that’s soon done by a keeper that will have a
quick eye upon him.”
Tom had now heard enough. His lingering and story-telling here had
been no loss of time. He drank off his beer, made his bow to the
farmers, and shuffled off. He followed the man with the bottle,
saw him take a cart road through the woods, and, keeping within
the trees, followed till he saw the cottage, and the man enter
it. “Good,” said he; “now I know my lesson.” Tom lost no time in
changing his clothes, and washing his face in a pool. He then thrust
his wallet, with the old ragged toggery, into a large gorse-bush,
and, like a smart servant out of livery, and in a neat Glengarry cap
instead of a hat, cut across the country to the great Leicester road,
and by coach next day was at Hillmartin, where he got down and walked
to Woodburn.
Great was the exultation at Tom’s success. It was soon arranged that
Tom, with Job Latter, the constable blacksmith, Ralph Chaddick,
Sir Henry’s keeper, and Luke Palin, Sir Henry’s groom,—Latter the
strongest, and the two others the most active young fellows of the
neighbourhood,—should set out before light in the morning; two in a
spring cart, and two on horseback, and should make all speed to the
place of Scammel’s retreat. It was calculated that they could reach
the neighbourhood by evening, and, putting up their horses at a
neighbouring village, be ready for the eight o’clock enterprise. All
this they readily accomplished, and so anxious were Sir Henry and
George Woodburn that they rode thither themselves.
The proximity of the woods to the woodman’s house, rendered it easy
to watch Scammel’s movements, and very little after the time named by
the farmer they saw his well-known tall figure coming down the heath,
and enter the house. “The first thing,” said Sir Henry, “on rushing
into the house, look out for Scammel’s gun, and seize it if you can,
or, if he have time, he will give one of you the charge.” It was now
at the end of September, getting fast dark, and the four men, taking
a little, cautious circuit, came up at the back of the house. The
window-shutters were not closed, and, by the light of the fire, they
saw Scammel seated facing the hearth, with his back towards them. His
gun was laid on a table at his right hand. The woodman and his wife
were seated by the chimney, to the left of Scammel, and had each a
mug of ale in their hands. At once there was a rush. Scammel started
up, but only to be pinioned by Latter’s iron gripe; his gun, towards
which he stretched out his hand, was adroitly drawn back by Luke
Palin. In another moment there was a tremendous struggle. Scammel,
who possessed enormous strength, twisted himself partly loose, by a
violent effort, from Latter’s clutch, and came face to face, but it
was only to be caught in a hug worthy of a great grizzly bear of the
American forests, whilst Palin and Chaddick also closed upon him.
The struggle was then furious. Scammel put forth his huge strength;
he kicked, he bit, he foamed at the mouth, and swore terribly. But
Latter held fast as a vice to him, and Chaddick drew a noose round
his ankles, and forcing them together, prevented his ferocious
kicks. It was, however, like four fierce beasts writhing and raging
together; but at length Scammel was thrown, and Latter fell upon him,
whilst Chaddick and Palin bound faster round his legs their strong
cords; and at length the savage ruffian, giving in as beaten, and
lying stupid and speechless, they managed to roll him over, pinion
his arms securely behind him, and thus had him at their mercy. During
all this time the woodman and his wife stood helpless and trembling.
The light spring cart was soon brought by Boddily and Palin through
the wood and over the heath; Scammel was hoisted in, and Sir Henry
Clavering and George Woodburn came and took a view of him. There the
great strong fellow lay on the straw at the bottom of the cart with
his eyes shut, and his features, rendered almost black with rage,
wore a sullen air of dogged endurance. Having seen their criminal
secured, Sir Henry and George rode away with great satisfaction.
Before leaving, inquiries were made after the Shalcrosses by Boddily
and his companions, but either the woodman and his wife knew
nothing, or would say nothing, though offered money.
By the next afternoon the party had managed to reach Cotmanhaye
Manor, where Simon Degge was ready to assist Sir Henry in hearing
the charge against Scammel, for Hopcraft was now arrested, and, on
hearing of Scammel’s being secured, was all eagerness to prove him
the murderer. The magistrates had heard Hopcraft once this forenoon,
who had sworn that Scammel had committed the murder at the Ferry,
precisely as described in Dr. Leroy’s letter, and Hopcraft excused
himself by saying that Scammel had taken him by surprise, and then
swore to murder _him_ too if he said anything. As for himself, he
vowed that he had taken no part in the murder. He had only seen it in
terror and fear of his own life.
“But,” said the magistrates, “you helped to throw Mr. Drury into the
river, and you accepted part of the money.”
Hopcraft was dreadfully frightened to hear that this was known, and
said, “But the man was dead when he was thrown into the river, and
what could I do? He would have murdered me if I had refused either
that, or to take some of the money.” Hopcraft was remanded till the
arrival of Scammel, and he was now ordered up. The magistrates were
seated in the library looking on to the lawn. As the afternoon was
one of those so intensely hot about three o’clock in September, one
of the French windows was left open. The prisoner, bound fast in all
the coils of cords in which he had been enveloped on his capture, was
carried in by two of the men and laid in the middle of the floor.
Around stood Palin, Latter, Chaddick, and Boddily, all bearing
obvious traces of their exertions for nearly two days and a night.
Besides, there were several men-servants of the house.
The prisoner looked like some savage bear borne down by force,
or some demon captured and secured in magic cords. His face was
nearly black with rage and hate, and casting a fierce glance at the
magistrates, he said, “Is this the way you treat men before they are
proved guilty of any crime. Take off the d—d ropes that are cutting
me to the bone, and see the devil’s work your scoundrel men have
done.”
“As to your crime,” said Mr. Degge, “we have full evidence of that on
the oath of Nathan Hopcraft.”
“Ha!” said the writhing prisoner with a demon scowl, “that is the way
the wind blows, eh? That is the dirty earth-worm that would swear
away my life, eh? Release me. I will swear not to attempt to escape,
as how could I?”—looking round—“Release me! let me stretch my limbs,
and chafe them, or my heart will burst with rage. I will show you
what that wretch is. I will show who is the murderer.”
“Show us that,” said Mr. Degge, “and then we will ease your cords.”
“Never!” said Scammel, with a voice full of fury, “never whilst I am
thus tortured will I speak a word. Release me a few moments to make
my limbs feel alive, and I will tell you all. I don’t want to save
myself; I would rather die and have done with this hell of a world
than not, but that crawling, creeping earth-worm—oh! I will give him
his due.”
The magistrates consulted a moment and then told Palin and Chaddick
to stand in the open window, and the other men to range themselves in
file round the prisoner. They then bade Latter and Boddily to loose
his cords. This they did promptly, the prisoner groaning as one after
another gave way, the very loosening seeming to send each time a pang
through him. As soon as he was at liberty, he reared himself up a
figure so tall and stalwart as to make even the magistrates feel the
imprudence of their concession.
“Put the handcuff on the prisoner’s right hand, and secure him to
yourself, Latter,” said Sir Henry.
“Stop a bit,” said the prisoner, “let me first chafe my limbs a
little,” and with that he threw off his coat, drew up his sleeves,
and showed the deep and livid trenches which the cords had left in
his flesh. He held them up and cried, “Is that British? Is that
Christian treatment?” and with that he began to chafe his arms with
his hands. Then he pulled off his leggings, and began chafing his
legs. Then buttoning his shirt sleeves again, he said, “Now for that
villain that says I did it!” He held out his right hand for Latter
to clasp on the handcuff, but in the same instant he gave a spring
forward, dashed his head into the chest of Luke Palin, who stood in
the open window, sent him spinning to a distance out on the lawn, and
was through the window like a shot.
“Hold him! seize him!” shouted Sir Henry Clavering, at the same
moment starting up and giving chase without his hat. Boddily,
Chaddick, and several of the young men-servants rushed after him like
a dash of enraged hornets from their hole. Scammel was already across
the lawn, springing over the sunk fence into the park at a bound like
that of a buck, and was in full career towards the other side of
the park where there was a great mass of wood bounding it. The park
descended rapidly on that side towards the river, which, more to the
right, skirted its bottom. It was amazing with what speed Scammel
flew down the hill, considering how his limbs had been corded and
cramped for above twelve hours. But Sir Henry, who ran splendidly,
was gaining fast upon him, spite of the proverb, that a stern chase
is a long chase. Tom Boddily was close upon Sir Henry, and said, “For
God’s sake, Sir Henry, don’t attempt to seize that fellow yourself,
he has the strength of a giant and the will of a devil. With one
blow he would drop you as a butcher drops an ox.” Sir Henry made no
reply, but still put out all his strength to overtake Scammel. Behind
came half a dozen others, running with different speeds. On the lawn
by the house, Simon Degge, Thomas Clavering, and the women servants
were seen eagerly watching this extraordinary chase, and from an
open window above, Lady Clavering might be seen, evidently in great
agitation, watching it also.
All at once Scammel suddenly altered his course, and wheeling to
the right, made for the river. There was a deep ditch and high park
palings on the side towards which he had been running, and this had
probably flashed on his mind. Boats lay at their moorings in the
river; if he got one, he might yet give them a wild chase across the
meadows or hide himself in some thicket, or amid the flags and weeds
of one of the sluggish streams that crept rather than ran through
them. The sight of Scammel’s change of course changed instantly that
of all the pursuers. Those behind seemed brought nearer to him by
the change, his goal being different. But he was far enough ahead
of even Sir Henry and Boddily to reach the river bank some distance
before them, for he was in everyday training from his predatory and
nocturnal habits.
There were two boats chained to their posts, but, to his
mortification, the mooring-chains were fast locked. Catching up a
large pebble, he began hammering desperately at one of the locks, and
then plucking violently at the chain. It resisted all his efforts.
The pursuers were at hand; he turned and plunged into the stream.
The next moment Sir Henry was at the boat, produced a key, and though
with an agitated hand and panting for breath, unlocked the chain, and
whilst he pushed off the boat, gave Tom Boddily the key to unlock
the other. Quickly they were both in the first boat, and were cutting
the water after the fugitive. Sir Henry was a master in handling his
oars, and sent the light skiff forward with an admirable speed. Tom
offered to take an oar. “No, Boddily, take the boat-hook, and mind
that the scoundrel does not come so near as to grapple us; if he do,
we shall entirely be swamped, and must swim for it. If he attempt it,
push him off, and don’t be afraid of pricking him with the spike.
See! the fellow is a knowing one. He won’t battle with the current by
cutting directly across; he is dropping down stream slantwise to the
meadow shore; we must keep him off there at all costs.”
Away pulled Sir Henry, taking a course somewhat nearer to the
meadow shore on their left hand; and now the other boat was rapidly
advancing, with two rowers and two other strong men in her, and
endeavouring to cut below the swimmer. With stupendous strength and
agility the daring haunter of woods and midnight fields ploughed
his way through the water. His muscular arms sent back waves like a
strong pair of oars, and that black, curly head of his rose at every
vigorous stroke more visibly above the stream. As Sir Henry drew
nearer to him, they could see the savage scowl of his dark eyes, and
the seething wrath with which he blew the clear waves from his lips.
“He is a dangerous customer, Tom,” said Sir Henry; “we must give him
a wide berth, always guarding against his escape to the shore, till
the other boat is at hand. We must play with our fish, and exhaust
him as much as possible, for, at all odds, he would do some mischief
at close quarters.”
But now the sound of the oars of the other boat caught Scammel’s
ear. He turned his head hastily that way, and then a darker hue came
over his savage features. The whites of his eyes showed glaringly as
he glanced first at one shore and then at the other. Suddenly he
changed his course, and struck further down the main current.
“That,” said Sir Henry, “is to ease himself. By throwing himself
on the rapid current, he hopes to ride ahead of us, and then gain
the shallows to the left, not far off, where he could run for it.
But all in vain! The stream carries us with still more ease and
velocity. See! he evidently flags. His strokes are less vigorous; his
body is deeper in the water. He can only keep it out of his mouth
and nostrils by blowing like a porpoise. Ha! he fails. See that
yellow-black hue—that sullen, despairing expression of his face! And
the other boat is just upon him: let us close in.”
At this moment they were in a rapid, whirling current, caused by
the stream rushing round the projection of an island. At once the
desperate poacher and murderer cast a furious glance on one boat
and then on the other, from which several hands were already
straining to seize him; and throwing aloft his arms over his head,
with a savage, half-drowned exclamation, “Damnation!” he went down
perpendicularly like a stone. There was a burst of horror from all in
the boats.
“Keep a sharp look-out!” cried Sir Henry; “steady your boats!—don’t
let them drift, if you can help it!”
All eyes were strained to catch a sight of the black head again
emerging, but it was nowhere to be seen.
“Mark something on the shore,” said Sir Henry, “to determine the spot
he went down at.”
“I have done it,” said Boddily. “That ivied tree on the island.”
Still all were watching for a reappearance of Scammel. Seconds,
minutes—five, ten minutes—went over, when Sir Henry said, “The wretch
has escaped us and the gallows. He will not rise again alive. He
did not mean it when he went down. Go for the drags to the Hall.
Remember, Boddily’s ivied tree. The corpse will be washed more or
less downwards from that mark. The water here is very deep.”
There was an awed silence amongst the men in the other boat. The
sudden violent death of a human being even of the worst and most
ruffianly of our race, falls with a strange sensation on the mind.
Sir Henry bade the other boat remain on the look-out. Boddily should
put him on shore, and the drags should be quickly brought off.
By this time, every inhabitant of the Hall and parsonage, except Mr.
Thomas Clavering, had made their way down to the bank of the river,
at the bottom of the park, and some of the house and farm-servants
had crossed to the island, and appeared on its shore, all in
breathless inquiry. As the boat drew near the shore, Sir Henry saw
Lady Clavering in great anxiety and agitation, surrounded by her
maids, and with his uncle and Mr. Degge.
“Have you got him?” inquired Mr. Degge.
“No,” replied Sir Henry.
“What! has he escaped, then?”
“Yes,” said Sir Henry; “beyond our pursuit. He is drowned.”
“Drowned!” exclaimed a score of voices; “drowned?”
“Yes,” said Sir Henry, as he stepped on shore; “he is drowned, sure
enough; he preferred drowning to the gallows. I can understand his
feelings.”
“Poor fellow!” said Lady Clavering, with tears starting to her eyes.
“Poor fellow!” said Sir Henry. “My dear Ann, do you recollect what he
was?”
“Yes, yes!” said Lady Clavering; “but he was a man, and to know that
he has rushed into eternity with all his crimes on his soul, one
cannot help deeply feeling such a thing. But I know what a wretch he
was.”
Sir Henry made no answer, but gave his arm to his wife; and they
began their way homeward, talking of the singularity of this event as
they ascended.
“One thing,” said Sir Henry; “I think the news of Scammel’s death
should be kept from Hopcraft, or he may draw in his horns, when he
knows there is no more fear of him. He seemed disposed otherwise to
be communicative.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Degge, “his fear being gone, he may tell
us all he knows of Scammel’s part of the murder, though he will take
care to conceal his own.”
“Well,” said Sir Henry, “that is of less consequence; we have
his full testimony on oath of Scammel committing the murder, and
plundering the body. Now there is a curious incident come to
light. On the trial of Mr. Woodburn, the suspicion was thrown with
overwhelming force on him, because it was said that it was clear no
robbery had been contemplated. It must, therefore, have been a work
of malice. Yet, here we have proof that robbery was committed. It is
clear to me that Dr. Leroy’s dream is correct in this respect, and
when he saw the murderer take out Mr. Drury’s watch, and then put it
back again, and so by his pocket-book, it was because Scammel had the
shrewdness to apprehend that these might somehow or other lead to his
detection, if taken and made use of.”
“I see,” said Mr. Degge, “I see. Yes, that is very curious. Now could
not this fact, of a separate amount of money in Mr. Drury’s pocket,
be ascertained by an examination of his accounts?”
“Right! a good idea!” said Sir Henry. “George Woodburn can, I have no
doubt, clear all that up. The accounts are all in Mr. Drury’s desk at
Bilt’s Farm. I believe he kept most minute and accurate ones. I have
very little question but his Bank pass-book will, in connection with
his day-book, show that perfectly. George must write to Miss Drury,
and get permission to make the examination. Elizabeth will render
every possible aid in working out the solution of this mystery.”
“Oh, it will be a great pleasure to George, and to us all,” said Lady
Clavering, “to be able to clear our dear father in her eyes. She has
always firmly and nobly declared that such a crime was impossible
from such a quarter.”
“In the morning,” said Sir Henry, “we will, if convenient to you, Mr.
Degge, bring up Hopcraft again. To-day I don’t feel as if I could go
through anything more.”
“No,” said Mr. Degge, laughing; “after such a race, and such a
catastrophe, you may well claim a rest. And what a race that was! As
I stood and watched, I thought it was one of the finest things I had
ever seen. That tall, black, brawny fellow making a desperate push
for his life, and going off the ground like a wild Indian; and you!
’pon my word, I could not have imagined that you could run so! The
way you held out was splendid, and shows that your field sports have
given you extraordinary stamina. And that Boddily; why, he seems up
to anything. It was a neck-and-neck affair between yourself and him!
Altogether the event is like a dream to me. I don’t know how I feel.
I shall not be myself till I have slept upon it.”
“No!” said Lady Clavering, “a week won’t set me right again. I cannot
describe the horror that seized me, when I saw Sir Henry following so
closely on the heels of that desperado. ‘He will turn on him and kill
him!’ I exclaimed, ‘Oh! that some good angel could warn him of his
danger.’”
“Well then, my dear, you had your wish: a good angel did warn me, and
that was Tom Boddily.”
“God reward him for it!” said Ann; “and I must reward him, too,
somehow.”
“That man,” said Mr. Degge, “has his wits about him if any man has.
He is a treasure. I don’t covet my neighbour’s goods, but I do envy
Mr. Heritage the possession of such a servant.”
“Ay,” said Sir Henry, “look at the tact of Mrs. Heritage, who saw in
a moment, in the poor, ragged haymaker, the trusty and clever fellow
that he is.”
“True!” said Mr. Degge, with a merry smile, “the spirit moved her, no
doubt.”
They were now at the Hall; and Mr. Degge, though pressed to stay
dinner, took his horse and rode home. No doubt, he felt the strange
desire there is in every mortal soul of spreading news. He wanted to
tell them at home of this extraordinary occurrence. And he wanted
to call at Woodburn Grange to tell it, for George Woodburn, though
deeply interested in the examination of Scammel, had felt so
excessively wearied with his long ride in Leicestershire and loss of
sleep, that he had gone home.
The men on the river continued their dragging till it was quite dark,
but without any success. Already the news of this startling affair,
the arrest and drowning of Scammel, had flown round the country, and
to Castleborough, with a multitude of fabulous additions.