Of our Adventures under the Bridge and the Privations we there
Endured, and of my Interview with Fairfax and its Sad Results.
I.
The meadows were half under water: the Carleton Dyke had overflowed
its banks, and ere we had well dipped into the low fields, our feet
were sinking at every step into the marshy ground, or splashing
loudly into some pool that stared at us in the faint light. ’Twas
bad going, i’ faith, but neither of us paid much heed to it, our
minds being set on gaining the road beyond. But when we came to the
Dyke itself, which we were bound to cross, we found ourselves in a
pretty position, for it had widened a good six yards, and there was
no means of crossing it nearer than the ford, which was too near
Hardwick village for my liking or our safety. “There’s only one
way,” says I, “I must carry you over, cousin, otherwise you will
not get across dryshod.”
“I have not been dryshod since we came into these meadows,” says
she, “and methinks you’ll have no easy task in carrying me across
there.”
“Why,” says I, “I don’t look for ease in adventures of this sort,”
and I stepped into the Dyke and took her from the bank into my
arms. “Faith!” says I, “I had no idea that you were so heavy,
cousin. ’Tis well that I have but a half-score of yards to carry
you.”
“Set me down!” says she, trying to slip out of my grasp. “I had
rather be drowned----”
But what else she meant to say was lost to me, for at that moment
there rang out a musket shot that had been fired somewhere in the
fields over which we had already passed, and ere the sound died
away, it was followed by another discharge.
“They cannot have discovered our flight!” says I, and pushed on
through the water to set her down on dryer ground. “Now, cousin,”
I says, taking her hand, “we must run for it. There’s so little
shelter in these meadows that they can see us at fifty yards’
distance, but if we can make the road, we can hide behind the trees
under Went Hill, if they follow us. And so run, cousin,” I says,
“run, if you’ve no mind to fall into their hands.”
Now there was then but one field ’twixt us and the road, and that
not a very wide one, but they had been stubbing trees in it that
autumn, and as ill-luck would have it, I ran in my haste upon a
root that had been left half-out of the ground, and so twisted my
ankle that I fell, groaning with pain. “I believe my leg’s broke,”
says I, when I could speak. “Egad, cousin, was ever aught so
unlucky! And what shall we do now?”
“First find out where you are hurt,” says she, and kneels down by
me in the wet grass. “Try to move your leg,” she says. “’Tis not
broke, I think--you must have twisted your foot, cousin.”
“I am stopped,” says I, pulling myself up and trying to walk. “I
am not good for twenty yards,” and I took her arm and endeavoured
to step out, with no more effect than to make me cry out with the
pain. “And hark ye there, cousin! We’re followed.” I heard the
sound of voices beyond the Dyke. “We are undone!” says I, cursing
our ill-fate to myself. “They will be upon us in a few moments.”
She stood supporting me and looking about her as if she sought
for some means of escape. Suddenly she clutched my arm. “If you
could contrive to get forward to the top of the field,” she says,
“we might hide under the bridge for awhile. Nobody would think of
looking for us there.”
“Egad!” says I. “The very notion--naught could serve our need
better.” But when I tried to walk I found that I was crippled as
surely as old Matthew that goes with two crutches and hobbles at
that. If I did but set my foot to the ground I was like to scream
with the pain of it, and though I leaned heavily on Alison’s arm,
the agony I suffered was so great that the sweat rolled off my
forehead, and I turned sick. “Alas!” says she, “If I could but
carry you.”
“Why,” groans I, “I wish you could, cousin, but since you can’t, I
must make other shift. Let’s see if I can’t crawl on my hands and
knees,” I says, getting to the ground with some difficulty. And
finding that I made progress in this lowly attitude, we went on
to the corner of the field, pausing now and then to listen to the
voices in our rear.
Now at that point there runs a narrow stream from the coppice on
Went Hill into the Dyke in the valley, and it is carried under the
road from Darrington Mill to Wentbridge by a bridge of stone, so
deeply sunk into the ground that you might walk over it a thousand
times and see naught of it. There is a thick hedgerow at each end
of this bridge, and moreover another hedgerow runs along the side
of the stream, going up to the coppice on one side and down to
the Dyke on the other, so that the entrances are shielded from
observation. You may stand there and see naught of the bridge
itself, and if you find occasion to wonder how the stream comes
under the road, you will tell yourself that ’tis by means of a pipe
or culvert, or some such contrivance. But Alison and I knew of this
bridge, for we had hidden in it in our boy and girl days, and there
was room in it to hide a score of folk, though the quarters were
damp enough to give a whole village the rheumatics.
I made shift to crawl through the bushes into the arch of the
bridge, carrying with me sundry thorns and prickles, whose smart
I regarded no more than a pin-prick, so acute was the pain which
I suffered from my foot. The water rose high in the channel, but
I managed to clamber to some stones that stood above the stream,
and there I sat me down, groaning as loudly as I dared, while
Alison stood at my side. And after a time, hearing no sound from
without, and judging that our pursuers, if indeed we were pursued,
had gone another way, I contrived to get off my foot-gear in order
to examine my hurt. Then I found that my ankle was swollen to such
a thickness as reminded me of Sir Nicholas’s gouty foot, and the
remembrance of that, and how he used to curse it when it tweaked
him, put me into a more hopeful humour. “Come,” says I, “there’s
naught broken, cousin--’tis but a bad sprain. Let’s be thankful,” I
says, “that there’s so much cold water at hand--’tis a good thing
for a hurt of this sort.” I put my foot into the stream and found
much relief, though the water was icy cold. “If I can but get the
stiffness out of it,” says I, “we’ll make good progress yet.”
“It will be morning soon,” she says, glancing out of the bridge.
“The sky is already growing light. We shall have little chance of
escape in the daytime, shall we?”
“Why,” says I, “I had certainly meant us to be clear of Barnsdale
ere day broke. But we must do the best we can. ’Tis the fortune of
war--and yet I did not think to escape all that we’ve gone through
these four days past, and be brought down by a tree-root. But it’s
these small matters,” I says, with the air of a philosopher, “that
lead to great results.”
“I am in no humour for speculations,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “you must certainly be suffering much discomfort,
cousin, but I don’t see how we can help it. Will you not endeavour
to sit down by me here?--’tis a dampish seat, this heap of stones,
but I think you will prefer it to standing. And you have a flask of
wine there, and some food--we shall neither of us be the worse for
a drop of one and a bite of t’other,” I says. She made no answer
for a while, but presently she contrived to seat herself at my
side, and brought out the wine and food from beneath her cloak.
“You take everything in a very philosophical spirit, Master
Richard,” says she, giving me the flask.
“Why, faith, cousin,” says I, “why not? ’Tis my humour to take
things that way. There was my uncle, now, would fume and fret
himself into a fever if all went not as he wished, but it never did
him any good that I could see. Take things as they come, say I.”
“’Tis a poor fashion,” says she, “for it shows that you have no
special care for aught.”
“Now methinks ’tis you that wax philosophic,” I says. “And, faith,
I don’t follow you. As for caring for aught, why, I have cared for
a deal o’ things, but as I never got most of them I came to the
conclusion that it was better to want naught.”
“Oh,” says she, “and what, pray, did you care for and want that
you didn’t get?”
“Why,” says I, “I wanted to be a country gentleman, with no more
anxiety than the rearing of cattle and the making of an occasional
ballad or sonnet.”
“Oh, a poet!” says she.
“Why, say a rhymester,” says I. “Heigh-ho! I was all for a quiet
life--and here I am in a wet ditch, with a lame leg--plague take
it!--and as good a chance of being hanged or shot as any man in
England. Nevertheless,” says I, “there’s the present enjoyment of
conversing with you, cousin, which is----”
But there, like a woman, she went off at a tangent.
“Master Richard,” says she, “what made you turn rebel?”
“Cousin,” says I, drawing my leg out of the water where I had kept
it till it was numbed through. “Why do you ask me such a question?”
“Because,” says she, “you observed just now that you cared for
naught, and I don’t understand how a man can join a cause unless he
has some care for it.”
“Lord!” says I. “You are too deep for me. I must have meant--nay,
faith,” I says, “I don’t think I know what I did mean.”
She laughed merrily at that--I think it was the first time since I
came to the Manor. “Why, let me help you to your wits,” says she.
“Would you join the rebels to-morrow, if you were able?”
“Aye, indeed!” says I.
“And why?” says she.
“Because my sympathies are with them,” says I. “I am for liberty
and against oppression. Being a true Englishman,” I says, “I hate
this Star-Chambering and extortioning of honest folk’s money.”
“I wonder how much you know about it,” says she.
“About as much as yourself,” says I.
“God save the King!” says she.
“Faith, he needs it!” says I.
After that we sat in a miserable silence for full half-an-hour.
It was then growing light, and the dawn came with a sharp burst
of sleet that penetrated the bushes and stung our faces as we sat
huddled under the bridge. “A dreary morning, cousin,” I says.
A low booming roar came echoing across the fields. I forgot my
hurt and tried to start to my feet. “Cannon!” says I. “They are
bombarding the old place after all. And yet surely----”
But she had rushed to the mouth of the bridge and forced her way
through the bushes, and there she stood, gazing across the dank
fields towards the old house. The roar of the cannon came again.
She drew back within the bridge, and dropping at my side burst into
a passion of bitter weeping.
“Come, cousin,” says I, laying my hand on her arm, “be
comforted----”
She turned her face suddenly upon me, all aflame with anger.
“Comforted?” says she, “Shame upon you, Richard Coope! Oh, cowards
that we are, to have skulked from the old place like rats from a
sinking ship! Doesn’t it shame you,” she says, “to sit here in a
ditch when you ought to be there defending your own?”
“Why, cousin,” says I, “considering that it’s through no choice of
my own that I sit in this ditch, it doesn’t; and as to defending my
own, why, there’s naught in the old house that’s mine save a book
or two. It’s not my property,” I says, nursing and groaning over my
lame leg.
“But it’s mine,” says she, drying her tears.
“Then go and defend it,” I says, sulkily. “You were better
employed in that than in preaching to me.”
She turned her face and stared at me long and hard.
“You have the rarest faculty for saying insolent things,” says she.
“Faith, it’s a poor one in comparison with yours!” says I, testily
enough.
She coloured up to the eyes at that. Egad, she had no liking for
such plain talk! But she stared at me again and then at my foot,
which was at that moment exceeding painful.
“Can I do aught to relieve you?” she says.
“I wish you could,” says I. “But you can’t, and so there’s an end
on’t.”
“Oh,” she says, bridling, “if you don’t wish to talk with me----”
and she drew herself away. But after a time she looked round at me
again.
“Will they destroy the old house?” she says.
“I don’t know, cousin,” says I. “They seem to have given over
firing at it, but these two shots will have knocked some lath and
plaster about.”
She looked at my foot which I was dipping in the water again.
“What a misfortune!” she says. “I cannot abide this idleness. It
irks me to sit here, doing naught, as if we were rats in a cage.”
But since we were helpless I made no answer to her, and so there
we sat, miserable as you please, and without the grey dawn widened
into a dull morning.
II.
The morning wore away in a sore discomfort until it came near to
noon. Upon several occasions we heard folks pass along the road
above our heads, and now and then a cart rumbled by, or a horseman
made our hiding-place echo with the ring of his beast’s feet. But
we heard no more of the cannon nor anything in the neighbouring
meadows of our pursuers. As for my lame foot it was so damaged that
I could see there was no chance of our going onward that day. The
plentiful doses of cold water which I had administered to it had
seemed to keep down the inflammation, but the swelling was still so
great and the stiffness so stubborn that I could make no use of my
leg from the knee downwards.
“Cousin,” says I, “look upon me as done for. I am winged as
absolutely as a partridge that can only use its feet. It will be
days before I can walk,” I says, groaning more with chagrin than
with pain, though I had enough and to spare of that.
“Well?” says she.
“I don’t know what we’re to do next,” says I, sore perplexed.
“There isn’t a house nearer than Darrington Mill, and you musn’t go
there. If you go along the road to Wentbridge you’ll be seen. But
when night falls you might try it, cousin. Dare you travel alone?”
I says.
She looked round at me and laughed.
“Dare!” says she. “Dare, indeed!”
“Then will you?” says I.
“No,” says she, prompt enough.
“And why not?” says I.
“Because I shall not leave you,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could
see you in safety.”
“’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,”
says she.
“’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which
smarts the more--your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you
might be more civil,” I says.
“Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with
her eyes.
“I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again.
“Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle, “confess,
cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we
should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to
death.”
“No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in
a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or
stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my
eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would
prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over
to Anthony Dacre.”
She gave me a cool stare.
“And what harm would there be in that?” says she.
“What?” says I.
“I say what harm would there be in that?” she says.
“Oh, you did say so, did you?” says I. “Faith, I thought you did,
but then I thought you didn’t.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” says she.
“Nay,” says I, “how do I know? I have given up trying to understand
women.”
“Anthony Dacre,” says she, musingly, “is a handsome man, and a most
devoted cavalier.”
“I wish I had my fingers at his throat!” says I.
“No man could be more attentive to ladies than he,” she says, still
musing. “His manner is of the best.”
“Is it?” says I. “I wish he would come here and show us some of it.”
“He looks better in a withdrawing-room,” says she, giving the
merest glance at my torn and mud-stained garments.
“I daresay he will grace some corner of hell,” says I, savage as a
bear with a sore lug.
She turned and looked at me.
“You and I don’t seem to agree,” she says.
“Faith! I don’t care whether we do or not!” I says, like to weep
with the pain of my foot, and the vexation into which she threw me.
She gave me a sharp glance, and suddenly I saw her eyes melt in the
curiousest fashion. She was sitting near me on the wet stones and
she put out her hand to mine with a quick gesture. But what she had
it in mind to say or do----
There was a rustle at the mouth of the bridge, and we turned our
heads to see a great hound glaring at us from between the bushes
that his shoulders had pushed aside. “Tracked, by God!” says I, and
without a thought I snatched a pistol from my belt and fired at the
brute’s open jaws. He fell, a quivering heap, into the stream at
our feet, and the noise of the pistol rolled and echoed along the
bridge, “Oh, foolish!” she cried, “they will hear it--they cannot
be far off.” She looked at the dog and I saw her eyes fill with
tears. “Poor dog!” said she.
But now that danger was at hand I was quick to think and to act. I
drew out the bag of gold that I had carried--she already had the
jewels in another bag--and handed it to her. “Here,” says I, “take
this, cousin--and cousin,” I says, “whether we’ve agreed or not
don’t forget that I tried to serve you. A curse on this foot o’
mine!” I says, struggling to get into a standing posture, “I’d give
anything----”
There came the tramp of feet without and the sound of men pushing
their way through the hedgerows. “The dog headed this way,” says
a voice. “Why, this is the old bridge!” says another. But by that
time I had got to my feet and drawn the other pistol from my belt.
“Behind me, Alison!” says I, “We’ll have a life or two ere we
yield.”
The bushes were suddenly filled with men. I saw Anthony Dacre’s
face amongst the throng, and Merciful Wiggleskirk peering round the
corner. I levelled the pistol full at Anthony and laughed to see
him duck his head. “Coward!” says Alison in my ear. “Spare your
powder for better men, Dick.”
She had never called me Dick before--at any rate, since we were
children. I turned hastily to her. “Sweetheart!” I says, “this is
the end, but by heaven, I love you!”
After that, I think I must have swooned and fallen. When I came
to my senses again I was lying on the road above the bridge, with
Alison and Merciful Wiggleskirk at my side, and Anthony Dacre
talking to an officer on horseback close by. I strove to rise, half
wondering where I was, and it was only the pain in my foot that
suddenly reminded me of our position.
III.
Having fairly recovered my senses I looked round me and found that
we were in the midst of a score or so of troopers, apparently under
command of a middle-aged officer who seemed fierce enough to eat
hot lead. This worthy, turning from Anthony Dacre, with whom he had
been conversing, presently approached me and enquired if I were now
in a condition to travel.
“Aye,” says I, “but not a-foot, sir.”
“You shall have a mount, Master Coope,” says he, and beckons a
trooper to bring up a horse, upon which I clambered with some pain
and difficulty. “We must make what haste we can,” says he, “for
Fairfax is somewhat impatient to meet you.”
He gave me a curious, knowing look as he turned from me to Alison.
“As for you, madam,” he says, “I fancy that some arrangement has
been made for you by your kinsman, Master Dacre; you are free, at
any rate, so far as I am concerned.”
“If Mistress Alison will accept my poor protection as far as her
father’s house--” says Anthony, coming forward. But half-a-dozen
paces away he stopped, frightened, I think, by the look she gave
him.
“Liar!” she said, and looked him up and down ere she turned away.
She came up to me and laid her hand on my arm, “I am going with
you,” she says in a low voice. “I am afraid--that man frightens me.
What is it they will do to you, Richard?”
“Shoot me, I expect, cousin,” says I. There was naught to be gained
by keeping the truth from her.
She went over to the officer. “Sir,” says she, “you will make me
your debtor if you will carry me to Pomfret with you. I have a mind
to go there,” she says, looking hard at him.
The man looked from her to Anthony. “Why, madam,” says he, “sure
you are free to do what you please, and I should feel it an honour
to give you any assistance, but----”
“You are to go with me to your father’s, cousin,” says Anthony,
with a frown on his black face. “It was on these conditions only
that I secured your liberty.”
But she paid no more heed to him than if he had been a stone. She
still looked at the officer. “Then you will take me with you, sir?”
she says.
“Faith, and so I will, mistress,” says he, “if you can make shift
to ride on one of my men’s saddles.”
“You are wrong, Captain Stott,” says Anthony Dacre, “I agreed with
Sands----”
“Look you, Master Dacre,” says the other, “the young woman is free,
and I know naught of your arrangements with Sands or anybody else.
And since she asks me for a lift into Pomfret,” he says, “why, she
shall have it, and there’s an end.”
This matter being settled, much to Anthony Dacre’s chagrin and
the further souring of his naughty temper, we presently set out
for Pomfret, going thither by way of Darrington Mill and Carleton
village, in passing through which the folk came out of their houses
to stare at us. It gave me much pain to ride, and Captain Stott
urged us forward at a brisk pace. But going up Swan Hill we came
to a gentle walk and Stott brought his horse alongside mine and
inquired after my condition.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I suffer somewhat smartly, I promise you, and
this jolting does naught to help me.”
“Well,” says he, “you will have a speedy quittance of your pain,
young gentleman, for as I am an honest man I believe Fairfax will
shoot you.”
“I expect naught else,” says I.
“You’re mighty cool about it,” says he, “and I admire you for that.
Lord! what is there that’s better than war for taking the sentiment
out of a man? I am sure you’ll face a file of my troopers very
brave,” he says, looking narrowly at me. “’Twill be but justice,
young gentleman, for your offence was exceeding grave.”
“Sir,” says I, “you seem to know a deal more of my offence than I
know myself. To tell you the truth,” says I, “I am in that state of
mind which prevents me from caring whether I offend or not.”
“Oh, tired of life,” says he.
“On the contrary,” says I. “I want very much to live, and am
cursing my fate as earnestly as I can. And yet,” I says, giving him
a smile that was doubtless as grim as his own, “I am wise enough to
know that all the cursing in the world won’t alter things.”
“You will certainly be shot,” says he.
“Well, sir,” I says, “then I will be shot. But if you would oblige
a dying man--and you seem assured that I am one--say naught of
it to my cousin there,” says I, pointing to Alison, who rode a
little in advance, and out of earshot. “She has some inkling of it
already, but you have such a cold-blooded style of saying things,”
says I, “that she’ll look upon you as a butcher.”
“Why, ’tis my trade, lad,” says he, and laughs. “But I’ll respect
your wish, seeing that it’s one of the last you’ll ever utter.”
We were now come to Pomfret, and for some moments I forgot my own
affairs in looking about me and noting the evidences of warfare
which were on every side. As we drew nearer to the marketplace I
saw many houses that had been shattered by the Castle artillery and
now stood in ruins. Beyond the Moot Hill we passed the Main Guard,
which they had erected at the top of Northgate, and out of which
came several Parliamentarians to see us pass, and inquire of their
fellows as to our business. Captain Stott, however, hurried us
forward along Skinner Lane, and so we presently came to Fairfax’s
camp, which was at the rear of a great horn-work that they had
thrown up for the beleaguering of the Castle. We were now in full
view of the Castle itself, and occasionally noted the discharge
of its cannon which chiefly played, however, against the fort on
Baghill, from whence most annoyance was caused to the besieged.
Fairfax and Sands were closeted together in a farmhouse close by
the camp, and thither Captain Stott conducted us and bade his men
help me down from my horse. I was making shift to hobble along,
leaning on the arm of a trooper, when Sands himself suddenly came
out of the house and met us. He looked from me to Alison and seemed
resentful of her presence.
“What do you do here, mistress?” says he, rudely. “I cannot
remember that we sent you for any woman, Captain Stott,” he says.
“That matter, I think, was arranged with Master Dacre there.”
“She came of her own accord,” says Stott. “She was free to go where
she pleased for aught that I know to the contrary.”
“What is your business here, mistress?” says Sands. But ere she
could reply he fell into a sudden fury. “Come!” says he, “get you
gone, mistress, get you gone!--what, have we not had enough of
trouble with you Coopes this last day or two that you must give us
more? See her out of the camp, Master Dacre,” he says, turning upon
Anthony. “See her to her father’s house as you arranged with me.”
He turned from them and looked at me with a severe displeasure in
his eyes. “Richard Coope, eh?” says he. “Bring him within--we are
anxious to make acquaintance with you, Master Coope.”
“Sir,” says I, as I hobbled into the farmhouse after him, “I claim
your protection on behalf of my cousin, Mistress French, without
there.”
“She hath another cousin to protect her,” says he, ill-temperedly.
“We have given her safe-conduct to her father’s house, and there’s
an end on’t.”
“But----” says I.
“I’ll hear no more,” says he, savage as a bear, and he walked
forward and into a room, the door of which he closed behind him.
The three troopers that had me in charge waited in the passage with
me in their midst. I looked from one to the other, and recognising
Merciful Wiggleskirk amongst them, I begged him to run outside and
see whether Alison had departed, and if not, to entreat her from
me to seek out some friend in the town rather than trust herself
to Anthony Dacre. This he did, but presently returned, saying that
Mistress French had ridden away, and Master Dacre and his two men
with her, whereat I turned sick at heart, and cared no more as to
what might happen to me.
After some little time the door of the chamber into which Sands had
withdrawn was opened again, and an officer looked out and bade the
troopers bring me within. I hobbled into the room and found myself
standing at the foot of a great table, at the head of which sat a
man whom I immediately took to be Sir Thomas Fairfax himself. Sands
sat by him on his right, and two other officers were placed on his
left, while Captain Stott stood half-way along the table. They
all gazed at me with some curiosity, and faith, I daresay I was a
pretty sight to behold, for I had had no time to smarten myself up
for four days, and the mud of the ditch was thick on my clothes.
However, I made my best bow, and was then forced to clutch and hold
by the table lest I should fall, for the pain in my leg was turning
me sick again.
“Master Richard Coope,” says Fairfax, looking at me.
“The same, sir,” says I.
“You seem to be in some distress,” says he, not unkindly.
“Sir,” I says, “I have hurt my foot, and the pain is exceeding sore
at this moment.”
“Give Master Coope a chair,” says he.
“I thank you, sir,” says I, very polite. “Faith!” thinks I, “he is
surely going to shoot me, or he would not be so attentive.” And I
sat down and tried not to groan at the agony which every movement
gave me.
“Now, Master Coope,” says he, “we have had you brought here after
much trouble and annoyance to question you of your late doings.”
He paused and looked at me.
“Sir,” I says, regarding him steadily, “I am prepared to answer any
question you are pleased to put to me.”
“Are you so?” says he. “Be assured, Master Coope, that we shall
deal justly with you. And since we are sitting in court-martial
upon you, you shall know what it is that you are charged with.”
He took up a paper from the table. “You are charged,” he says,
looking at it, “with a grave offence, namely, that you, being
duly entrusted with the conveyance of a despatch from General
Cromwell to me, Sir Thomas Fairfax, did desert your commission,
and, attaching yourself to the enemies of the Parliament, did do,
and cause to be done, many things hurtful to the cause which you
had sworn to further. What say you to that, Master Coope?” he says,
regarding me keenly.
“Sir,” says I, “if you will listen to my defence I shall hope to
make myself clear to you.”
“You shall have all the consideration that is right,” says he. “So
tell us your story, Master Coope, without fear.”
“I am a poor hand at it,” says I, “but this is a plain tale and the
truth,” and I pulled my wits together and put the matter plainly
before them. I told them how I had lost my horse, how I had chanced
to overhear Anthony Dacre’s plot, how I had gone to the Manor
House to warn my uncle, and had been trapped there ere I could
leave, and how I had contrived to forward the despatch by Merciful
Wiggleskirk. “And that,” says I, coming to an end, “is the truth
of this matter, wherein, if I have done wrong, it has been for the
sake of folk that were dear to me. And, gentlemen,” says I, looking
from one to the other, “if there were need I would do it again--and
I have no more to say.”
After I had finished none of them spoke for awhile, but at last
Fairfax looked at Sands. “I wish,” says he, “that we knew more
about this man Dacre and the plot which his kinsman Coope alleges
against him.” But Sands shook his head. “’Tis neither here nor
there, Sir Thomas,” says he. “What have we to do with plots about
carrying off a young woman? Here is Richard Coope confessing,
yea, and glorifying himself because of it, that he deserted his
commission, and joined himself to his uncle in resisting our
warrant. A clearer case,” says he, “I never heard.”
Then the four of them withdrew into another apartment, leaving me
there with Stott and the troopers. “Thy foot will not pain thee
much longer, young man!” says Stott. “Faith,” says I, conceiving a
great dislike to him all of a sudden, “’tis well for you, sir, that
I am unable to use it!” And there might have been a pretty row
between us but that Sir Thomas and the others came back and took
their seats. I glanced at Sands, and knew what was coming.
Fairfax looked at me with some kindness as he began to speak.
But there was naught kind about his words. I had deserted my
commission, and thereby caused great annoyance to the Parliament;
I had joined myself with the Royalists, and had brought about the
death of a useful officer, and it was impossible that my serious
offence could be overlooked. And so I was to be shot at daybreak of
the following morning.
I think I got to my feet and bowed to him when he made an end.
And I must have winced with the pain that every movement gave me,
for he looked at me with some consideration. “I am sorry that you
suffer,” says he. “I will send my surgeon to see to your hurt.”
“I am greatly your debtor, sir,” says I. And so we parted with
much politeness on both sides, and the troopers helped me out, and
presently installed me in a neighbouring cottage, with Merciful
Wiggleskirk as a guard, and my own thoughts for amusement.