THE OLD OAK.--THE KING'S DESPAIR.
The very same morning, after the rain had ceased, the keeper who looked
after the great woods at the other end of the Long Pond set out with his
gun and his dogs to walk round the preserves. Now the dogs he took with
him were the very best dogs he had, for that night a young gentleman,
who had just succeeded to the estate, was coming down from London, and
on the following morning would be sure to go out shooting. This young
gentleman had unexpectedly come into the property through the death of
the owner, who was shot in his bedroom by a burglar. The robber had once
been his groom, and the squirrel told Bevis how it all happened through
a flint falling out of the hole in the bottom of the waggon which
belonged to the old farmer in whose orchard Kapchack had his palace.
The heir had been kept at a distance during the old gentleman's
lifetime, for the old gentleman always meant to marry and have a son,
but did not do so, and also always meant to make a will and leave the
best part of his estate to somebody else, but he did not do so, and as
the old toad in the rhubarb patch told Bevis afterwards when he heard
the story, if you are only going to do a thing, it would be no use if
you lived a thousand years, it would always be just the same. So the
young fellow, who had been poor all his life, when he thus suddenly
jumped into such a property, was not a little elated, and wrote to the
keeper that he should come down and have some shooting.
The keeper was rather alarmed at this, for the former owner was not a
sporting man, and did not look strictly after such things, so that the
game had been neglected and had got scarce; and what was worse, the dogs
were out of training. He therefore got up early that morning, intending
to go his rounds quickly, and then take the dogs out into the stubble,
and try and thrash them into some use. Presently, as he walked along, he
came to the glade in the woods, and saw the dead hawk hanging from the
trap up in the old oak-tree. Pleased to find that his trap, so cunningly
placed, had not been prepared in vain, he went up to the oak, leaned his
gun against the trunk, ordered the dogs to lie down (which they did with
some reluctance), and then climbed up into the tree to re-set the gin.
He took the hawk from the trap (his feathers were all draggled and wet
from the rain), and threw the dead bird down; and, whether it was that
the act of throwing it caused an extra strain upon the bough, or whether
the storm had cracked it in the night, or whether it had rotted away
more than appeared on the surface, or whether it was all of these things
together, certain it is the bough broke, and down came the keeper thud
on the sward. The bough fell down with him, and as it fell it struck
the gun, and the gun exploded, and although the dogs scampered aside
when they heard the crack, they did not scamper so quick but one of them
was shot dead, and the other two were mortally wounded.
For a while the keeper lay there stunned, with the wet grass against his
face. But by-and-by, coming to himself, he sat up with difficulty, and
called for assistance, for he could not move, having sprained one ankle,
and broken the small bone of the other leg. There he sat and shouted,
but no one came for some time, till presently a slouching labourer (it
was the very same who put up the wire by the copse in which the hare was
caught) chanced to pass by outside the wood. The keeper saw him, but
hoarse with shouting, and feeling faint too (for a sprained ankle is
extremely painful), he could not make him hear. But he bethought him of
his gun, and dragging it to him, hastily put in a cartridge and fired.
The report drew the labourer's attention, and peering into the wood, he
saw some one on the ground waving a white handkerchief. After looking a
long time, he made up his mind to go and see what it was; but then he
recollected that if he put his foot inside the wood he should be
trespassing, and as he had got a wire in his pocket that would be a
serious matter. So he altered his mind, and went on.
Very likely the keeper was angry, but there was no one to hear what he
said except the dead hawk. He would have fired off fifty cartridges if
he had had them, but as he did not like a weight to carry he had only
two or three, and these did not attract attention. As for the labourer,
about midday, when he sat down to lunch in the cart-house at the farm
where he worked with the other men, he did just mention that he thought
he had seen something white waving in the wood, and they said it was
odd, but very likely nothing to speak of.
One of the wounded dogs ran home, bleeding all the way, and there crept
into his kennel and died; the other could not get so far, but dropped in
a hedge. The keeper's wife wondered why he did not come home to dinner,
but supposed, with a sigh, that he had looked in at an alehouse, and
went on with her work.
The keeper shouted again when his throat got less hoarse, but all the
answer he obtained was the echo from the wood. He tried to crawl, but
the pain was so exquisite he got but a very little way, and there he had
to lie. The sun rose higher and shone out as the clouds rolled away, and
the rain-drops on the grass glistened bright till presently they dried
up.
With the gleaming of the sun there was motion in the woods: blackbirds
came forth and crossed the glades; thrushes flew past; a jay fluttered
round the tops of the firs; after a while a pheasant came along the
verge of the underwood, now stepping out into the grass, and now back
again into the bushes. There was a pleasant cawing of rooks, and several
small parties of wood-pigeons (doubtless from Choo Hoo's camp) went
over. Two or three rabbits hopped out and fed; humble-bees went buzzing
by; a green woodpecker flashed across the glade and disappeared among
the trees as if an arrow had been shot into the woods.
The slow hours went on, and as the sun grew hotter the keeper, unable to
move, began to suffer from the fierceness of the rays, for anything
still finds out the heat more than that which is in movement. First he
lifted his hat from time to time above his head, but it was not much
relief, as the wind had fallen. Next he tried placing his handkerchief
inside his hat. At last he took off his coat, stuck the barrels of his
gun into the ground (soft from the rain), and hung the coat upon it.
This gave him a little shadow. The dead oak-tree having no leaves cast
but a narrow shade, and that fell on the opposite side to where he was.
In the afternoon, when the heat was very great and all the other birds
appeared to have gone, a crow came (one of Kauc's retainers) and perched
low down on an ash-tree not more than fifty yards away. Perhaps it was
the dead dog; perhaps it was the knowledge that the man was helpless,
that brought him. There he perched, and the keeper reviled him, wishing
that he had but saved one of his cartridges, and forgetting that even
then the barrels of his gun were too full of earth. After a while the
crow flew idly across to the other side of the glade, and went out of
sight; but it was only for a short time, and presently he came back
again. This the crow did several times, always returning to the ash.
The keeper ran over in his mind the people who would probably miss him,
and cause a search to be made. First there was his wife; but once, when
he had been a long time from home, and she in a great alarm had sought
for him, she found him drunk at the alehouse, and he beat her for her
trouble. It was not likely that she would come. The lad who acted as his
assistant (he had but one, for, as previously stated, the former owner
did not shoot) was not likely to look for him either, for not long
since, bringing a message to his superior, he discovered him selling
some game, and was knocked down for his pains. As for his companions at
the alehouse, they would be all out in the fields, and would not
assemble till night: several of them he knew were poachers, and though
glad enough to share his beer would not have looked towards him if in
distress.
The slow hours wore on, and the sun declining a little, the shadow of
the dead oak moved round, and together with his coat sheltered him
fairly well. Weary with the unwonted labour of thinking, the tension of
his mind began to yield, and by-and-by he dropped asleep, lying at full
length upon his back. The crow returned once more to the ash, and looked
at the sleeping man and the dead dog, cleaned his beak against the
bough, and uttered a low croak. Once he flew a little way out towards
them, but there was the gun: it was true he knew very well there was no
powder (for, in the first place, he could not smell any, and, secondly,
if there had been any he knew he should have had the shot singing about
his ears long before this; you see, he could put two and two together),
still there was the gun. The dog does not like the corner where the
walking-stick stands. The crow did not like the gun, though it was stuck
in the ground: he went back to the ash, cleaned his bill, and waited.
Something came stealthily through the grass, now stopping, now advancing
with a creeping, evil motion. It was the weasel. When he stole away from
the wood-pile, after escaping from the trap, he made up the field
towards the copse, but upon reflection he determined to abandon his lair
in the hollow elm, for he had so abused Bevis's good-nature that he
doubted whether Bevis might not attack him even there despite the
squirrel. He did not know exactly where to go, knowing that every
creature was in secret his enemy, and in his wounded state, unable to
move quickly or properly defend himself, he dreaded to trust himself
near them. After a while he remembered the old dead oak, which was also
hollow within, and which was so far from the copse it was not probable
Bevis would find it.
Thither he bent his painful steps, for his broken rib hurt him very
much, and after many pauses to rest, presently, in the afternoon, he
came near. Lifting his head above the grass he saw the dead dog, and the
sleeping keeper; he watched them a long time, and seeing that neither of
them moved he advanced closer. As he approached he saw the dead hawk,
and recognised one of Ki Ki's retainers; then coming to the dog, the
blood from the shot wounds excited his terrible thirst. But it had
ceased to flow; he sniffed at it and then went towards the man.
The crow, envious, but afraid to join the venture, watched him from the
ash. Every few inches the weasel stayed, lifted his head; looked, and
listened. Then he advanced again, paused, and again approached. In five
minutes he had reached the keeper's feet; two minutes more and he was by
his waist. He listened again; he sniffed, he knew it was dangerous, but
he could not check the resistless prompting of his appetite.
He crept up on the keeper's chest; the crow fidgeted on the ash. He
crept up to the necktie; the crow came down on a lower bough. He moved
yet another inch to the collar; the crow flew out ten yards and settled
on the ground. The collar was stiff, and partly covered that part of the
neck which fascinated the weasel's gaze. He put his foot softly on the
collar; the crow hopped thrice towards them. He brought up his other
foot, he sniffed--the breath came warm from the man's half-open lips--he
adventured the risk, and placed his paw on the keeper's neck.
Instantly--as if he had received an electric shock--the keeper started
to his knees, shuddering; the weasel dropped from his neck upon the
ground, the crow hastened back to the ash. With a blow of his open hand
the keeper knocked the weasel yards away; then, in his rage and fear,
with whitened face, he wished instead he had beaten the creature down
upon the earth, for the weasel, despite the grinding of his broken rib,
began to crawl off, and he could not reach him.
He looked round for a stick or stone, there was none; he put his hand in
his pocket, but his knife had slipped out when he fell from the tree. He
passed his hands over his waistcoat seeking for something, felt his
watch--a heavy silver one--and in his fury snatched it from the swivel,
and hurled it at the weasel. The watch thrown with such force missed the
weasel, struck the sward, and bounded up against the oak: the glass
shivered and flew sparkling a second in the sunshine; the watch glanced
aside, and dropped in the grass. When he looked again the weasel had
gone. It was an hour before the keeper recovered himself--the shuddering
terror with which he woke up haunted him in the broad daylight.
An intolerable thirst now tormented him, but the furrow was dry. In the
morning, he remembered it had contained a little water from the rain,
which during the day had sunk into the earth. He picked a bennet from
the grass and bit it, but it was sapless, dried by the summer heat. He
looked for a leaf of sorrel, but there was none. The slow hours wore on;
the sun sank below the wood, and the long shadows stretched out.
By-and-by the grass became cooler to the touch; dew was forming upon it.
Overhead the rooks streamed homewards to their roosting trees. They
cawed incessantly as they flew; they were talking about Kapchack and
Choo Hoo, but he did not understand them.
The shadows reached across the glade, and yonder the rabbits appeared
again from among the bushes where their burrows were. He began now to
seriously think that he should have to pass the night there. His ankle
was swollen, and the pain almost beyond endurance. The slightest attempt
at motion caused intense agony. His one hope now was that the same
slouching labourer who had passed in the morning would go back that way
at night; but as the shadows deepened that hope departed, and he doubted
too whether any one could see him through the underwood in the dark. The
slouching labourer purposely avoided that route home. He did not want to
see anything, if anything there was.
He went round by the high road, and having had his supper, and given his
wife a clout in the head, he sauntered down to the alehouse. After he
had taken three quarts of beer, he mentioned the curious incident of the
white handkerchief in the woods to his mates, who congratulated him on
his sense in refraining from going near it, as most likely it was one of
that keeper's tricks, just to get somebody into the wood. More talk, and
more beer. By-and-by the keeper's wife began to feel alarmed. She had
already found the dead dog in the kennel; but that did not surprise her
in the least, knowing her husband's temper, and that if a dog disobeyed
it was not at all unusual for a cartridge to go whistling after him.
But when the evening came, and the darkness fell; when she had gone down
to the alehouse, braving his wrath, and found that he was not there,
the woman began to get hysterical. The lad who acted as assistant had
gone home, so she went out into the nearest stubble herself, thinking
that her husband must have finished his round before lunch, and was
somewhere in the newly-reaped fields. But after walking about the
rustling stubble till she was weary, she came back to the alehouse, and
begged the men to tell her if they had seen anything of him. Then they
told her about the white handkerchief which the slouching poacher had
seen in the wood that morning. She turned on him like a tiger, and
fiercely upbraided him; then rushed from the house. The sloucher took up
his quart, and said that he saw "no call" to hurry.
But some of the men went after the wife. The keeper was found, and
brought home on a cart, but not before he had seen the owl go by, and
the dark speck of the bat passing to and fro overhead.
All that day Bevis did not go to the copse, being much upset with the
cheat the weasel had played him, and also because they said the grass
and the hedges would be so wet after the storm. Nor did anything take
place in the copse, for King Kapchack moped in his fortress, the
orchard, the whole day long, so greatly was he depressed by the
widespread treason of which the owl had informed him.
Choo Hoo, thinking that the treaty was concluded, relaxed the strictness
of discipline, and permitted his army to spread abroad from the camp and
forage for themselves. He expected the return of the ambassador with
further communications, and ordered search to be made for every dainty
for his entertainment; while the thrush, for whom this care was taken,
had not only ceased to exist, but it would have been impossible to
collect his feathers, blown away to every quarter.
The vast horde of barbarians were the more pleased with the liberty
accorded to them, because they had spent so ill a night while the gale
raged through their camp. So soon as the sun began to gleam through the
retreating clouds, they went forth in small parties, many of which the
keeper saw go over him while lying helpless by the dead oak-tree.
King Kapchack, after the owl had informed him of the bewildering maze of
treason with which he was surrounded, moped, as has been said before,
upon his perch. In the morning, wet and draggled from the storm, his
feathers out of place, and without the spirit to arrange them, he seemed
to have grown twenty years older in one night, so pitiable did he
appear. Nor did the glowing sun, which filled all other hearts with joy,
reach his gloomy soul. He saw no resource; no enterprise suggested
itself to him; all was dark at noonday.
An ominous accident which had befallen the aged apple-tree in which his
palace stood contributed to this depression of mind. The gale had
cracked a very large bough, which, having shown signs of weakness, had
for many years been supported by a prop carefully put up by the farmer.
But whether the prop in course of time had decayed at the line where the
air and earth exercise their corroding influence upon wood; or whether
the bough had stiffened with age, and could not swing easily to the
wind; or whether, as seems most likely, the event occurred at that
juncture in order to indicate the course of fate, it is certain that the
huge bough was torn partly away from the trunk, leaving a gaping cavity.
Kapchack viewed the injury to the tree, which had so long sustained his
family and fortune, with the utmost concern; it seemed an omen of
approaching destruction so plain and unmistakable that he could not look
at it; he turned his mournful gaze in the opposite direction. The day
passed slowly, as slowly as it did to the keeper lying beneath the oak,
and the king, though he would have resented intrusion with the sharpest
language, noticed with an increasing sense of wrong that the court was
deserted, and with one exception none called to pay their respects.
The exception was Eric, the favourite missel-thrush, who alone of all
the birds was allowed to frequent the same orchard. The missel-thrush,
loyal to the last, came, but seeing Kapchack's condition, did not
endeavour to enter into conversation. As for the rest, they did not
venture from fear of the king's violent temper, and because their
unquiet consciences made them suspect that this unusual depression was
caused by the discovery of their treachery. They remained away from
dread of his anger. Kapchack, on the other hand, put their absence down
to the mean and contemptible desire to avoid a falling house. He
observed that even the little Te-te, the tomtit, and chief of the
secret police, who invariably came twice or thrice a day with an account
of some gossip he had overheard, did not arrive. How low he must have
fallen, since the common informers disdained to associate with him!
Towards the evening he sent for his son, Prince Tchack-tchack, with the
intention of abdicating in his favour, but what were his feelings when
the messenger returned without him! Tchack-tchack refused to come. He,
too, had turned away. Thus, deserted by the lovely La Schach, for whom
he had risked his throne; deserted by the whole court and even by his
own son; the monarch welcomed the darkness of the night, the second of
his misery, which hid his disgrace from the world.
The owl came, faithful by night as the missel-thrush by day, but
Kapchack, in the deepest despondency, could not reply to his remarks.
Twice the owl came back, hoping to find his master somewhat more open to
consolation, and twice had to depart unsuccessful. At last, about
midnight, the king, worn out with grief, fell asleep.
Now the same evening the hare, who was upon the hills as usual, as she
came by a barn overheard some bats who lived there conversing about the
news which they had learnt from their relations who resided in the woods
of the vale. This was nothing less than the revelations the dying hawk
had made of the treacherous designs of Ki Ki and the weasel, which, as
the owl had suspected, had been partly overheard by the bats. The hare,
in other circumstances, would have rejoiced at the overthrow of King
Kapchack, who was no favourite with her race, for he had, once or twice,
out of wanton cruelty, pecked weakly leverets to death, just to try the
temper of his bill. But she dreaded lest if he were thrust down the
weasel should seize the sovereignty, the weasel, who had already done
her so much injury, and was capable of ruining not only herself but her
whole nation if once he got the supreme power.
Not knowing what to do herself for the best, away she went down the
valley and over the steep ridges in search of a very old hare, quite
hoar with age--an astrologer of great reputation in those parts. For the
hares have always been good star-gazers, and the whole race of them, one
and all, are not without skill in the mystic sciences, while some are
highly charged with knowledge of futurity, and have decided the fate of
mighty battles by the mere direction in which they scampered. The old
hare no sooner heard her information than he proceeded to consult the
stars, which shone with exceeding brilliance that night, as they often
do when the air has been cleared by a storm, and finding, upon taking
accurate observations, that the house of Jupiter was threatened by the
approach of Saturn to the meridian, he had no difficulty in pronouncing
the present time as full of danger and big with fate.
The planets were clearly in combination against King Kapchack, who must,
if he desired to avoid extinction, avoid all risks, and hide his head,
as it were, in a corner till the aspect of the heavens changed. Above
all things let him not make war or go forth himself into the combat; let
him conclude peace, or at least enter into a truce, no matter at what
loss of dignity, or how much territory he had to concede to conciliate
Choo Hoo. His person was threatened, the knife was pointed at his heart;
could he but wait a while, and tide as it were over the shallows, he
might yet resume the full sway of power; but if he exposed his life at
this crisis the whole fabric of his kingdom might crumble beneath his
feet.
Having thus spoken, the hoary astrologer went off in the direction of
Stonehenge, whose stones formed his astrolabe, and the hare, much
excited with the communication she had received (confirmed as it was too
by the facts of the case), resolved to at once warn the monarch of his
danger. Calling a beetle, she charged him with a message to the king:
That he should listen to the voice of the stars, and conclude peace at
no matter what cost, or at least a truce, submitting to be deprived of
territory or treasure to any amount or extent, and that above all things
he should not venture forth personally to the combat. If he hearkened he
would yet reign; if he closed his ears the evil influence which then
threatened him must have its way. Strictly enjoining the beetle to make
haste, and turn neither to the right nor the left, but to speed straight
away for the palace, she dismissed him.
The beetle, much pleased to be employed upon so important a business,
opened his wing-cases, began to hum, and increasing his pace as he went,
flew off at his utmost velocity. He passed safely over the hills,
descended into the valley, sped across the fields and woods, and in an
incredibly short space of time approached the goal of his journey. The
wall of the orchard was in sight, he began to repeat his message to
himself, so as to be sure and not miss a word of it, when going at this
tremendous pace, and as usual, without looking in front, but blundering
onwards, he flew with his whole force against a post. His body, crushed
by the impetus of its own weight, rebounded with a snap, and he fell
disabled and insensible to the earth.