IN AND OUT OF THE “GOLDEN RAM”
Though the dawn of another day had broken, slate-colored clouds still
hid the sun and a mist like a fine rain hung in the air; even the white
horse and the gray, standing saddled and ready in the inn yard, touched
noses as if they vowed the weather bad. Hugh slapped their flanks and
settled their damp manes, while he waited for Strangwayes to pay the
reckoning to the mildly curious host, but the process proved so long
that at last he mounted into the saddle and ambled slowly out into the
highway. Turning the gray horse’s nose to the west he paced forward,
with his heart a-jump at the thought that yonder in the mist before him
real danger that tested men’s courage might be lurking.
A gay clatter of hoofs on the uneven roadway made him turn just as
Strangwayes came abreast of him. At once Hugh blurted out what was
uppermost in his thoughts: “Do you think, Dick, the host spoke true? Are
there enemies before us? What think you?”
“I think there be two whose words are not to be over-trusted: a woman
when she will have a boon of you, and a tavern-keeper when he will have
you to tarry in his lodgings.”
“Then you believe the host’s talk of Roundheads—”
“Mere words to frighten children. It troubles me not the half as much as
his showing me just now that Butler must have borne more northward.
Well, let the Irish rogue go hang! We’ll push on as we are and reach
Shrewsbury,—some day.—Come up, you crows’ meat!” This to the white
horse, whose nose was at its knees.
“To-day will be but as yesterday, then, without any danger?” asked Hugh,
a thought relieved, yet with room for a feeling of grievous
disappointment at being cheated of his looked-for adventure.
Strangwayes’ telltale eyes laughed immoderately, though he kept his
mouth grave: “You’ll have all the adventures you need, after you reach
the king’s army. Still, as I have an honest liking for you, mayhap, if
you’re a good lad, I’ll find you one ere we come thither.”
Then they fell to speaking of all they would do, when once they were
enrolled among his Majesty’s followers, and, what with talking and
urging on their laggard horses, they kept themselves employed till past
noon. “We’ll bait here,” Strangwayes announced, as rounding a curve they
got sight of a tiny hamlet half concealed beneath a hill. “Then we’ll
make a long stage this afternoon and sleep the night well within the
borders of Shropshire.”
At that cheering thought they put the horses to their best pace and
clattered through the village street quite gallantly, though there were
none to admire them, save a flock of geese, and a foolish-looking girl,
who seemed the whole population of the little place. Thus they came to
the farther end of the hamlet, where, a bit retired from the neighboring
cottages, stood a shabby inn, before which hung a sign-board bearing a
faded yellow sheep. “Golden Ram!” Strangwayes translated it. “Mutton
would suit me as well!”
They rattled into the little inn yard, ducking down in their saddles to
save their heads from the bar across the low gateway, and drew rein just
in time to avoid riding down a flurried serving-maid. Strangwayes almost
fell out of his saddle, so promptly he dismounted to reassure her.
“You’re not harmed, my lass?” he asked anxiously, slipping one arm about
her as if he expected her to faint, though, from her fine fresh color,
that did not seem likely. Hugh had already seen something of his
friend’s civilities to barmaids, so he kept to his saddle and felt
rather foolish, when suddenly the host, a scrawny man with a lantern
face, appeared in the doorway. At sight of him Strangwayes, in his turn,
looked a bit foolish, and stepping away from the maid began briskly,
“Well, friend, what can you give us to dinner?” There he paused
dumfounded, and stared, then cried out: “Heaven keep us! If it be not my
constant friend Emry, as busy as ever! Verily, ’tis a true saying that
the Lord will not see the righteous forsaken.”
“Lieutenant Strangwayes was always a merry gentleman,”
Constant-In-Business Emry replied, with a rather dubious countenance.
“Tut, tut! You’re all mistaken, my man. I abominate merriment as much as
I do ale. Which calls it to my mind I am uncommon dry and thirsty. Jump
down, Hugh. We’ll have experience of a Puritan tavern.”
“Ay, men must eat,” sighed Emry. “Though my calling may smack of the
carnal taint, yet ’tis not all ungodly, since—”
“Don’t trouble yourself for that,” Strangwayes replied. “Faith, I never
thought to surprise you in so honest a calling.”
With that he led the way into the inn, where he and Hugh dined together
in an upper chamber. The food was none of the best, Hugh privately
thought, but Strangwayes praised it mightily to the maid who served
them, the same they had encountered in the courtyard. She was a
stepdaughter of Emry, who had married her mother, the now deceased
hostess of the “Golden Ram,” so she told Strangwayes, and added much
more touching Emry, who seemed the same old Puritan malcontent of
Wilterswick. Soon the talk turned from him to gayer matters, for the
girl was fresh-faced and black-eyed, so Strangwayes gave more heed to
her than to his meat and drink. Hugh, feeling more foolish and out of
place than ever, choked down his food quickly, then left the room, and,
as he closed the door, heard a suppressed squeak: “Don’t ’ee, sir. An
thou kiss me again I’ll scream.”
Hugh stamped downstairs and stood glowering out into the courtyard,
where the mist was now dribbling down in a slow rain. He watched the
grayish streaks it made across the black openings of the sheds opposite
the inn porch, and athwart the gaping door of the stable at his right. A
wretched chilly day it was, and—why need Dick Strangwayes play the fool
because a wench had red cheeks? When he heard his friend’s step he did
not even turn his head, and then Strangwayes came up alongside him, and
clapping one arm about his shoulders said in a low tone, “Jealous of a
tavern maid, or I’ll hang myself!” Then he walked off laughing and
disappeared into the stable.
But when Strangwayes came out again some time later the laughter had
gone from his face, and in its stead was a troubled, angry look that
made Hugh forget his petty vexation and run down from the porch to meet
him. “What has happened, Dick?” he begged.
“Why, nothing,” replied Strangwayes, and took hold of his arm, so they
paced up and down the courtyard together, “and yet everything is amiss.
The white horse has gone lame.”
“Is that all?”
“Enough. Unless you fancy walking ten miles through the mud and rain to
the next village. I do not.”
“You can ride my horse. That is, he’s yours, of course.”
“Or you might carry me,” Strangwayes answered soberly. “No, Hugh,
neither you nor I will walk that ten miles nor the half of it, dragging
a hobbled horse behind us.”
“Well, at worst,” Hugh tried to speak cheerfully, “we shall but lose a
few hours.”
“Ay, is that all? Tell me this, Hugh: why did a sound horse go lame in
the mere course of dinner?”
“Then it’s possible ’twas done with fore-thought?” Hugh cried.
“Perchance they mean—”
“Hush, hush, you fire-eater!” Strangwayes interrupted hastily. “If ’twas
the inn people lamed the horse they did it only to stay us here, that
they might profit by our tarrying. Or to hinder us in our journey, for
this knave Emry has no love unto me.”
Yet Strangwayes, Hugh took note when they returned to the house, was
merry as ever in his talk with the lean-visaged Emry. He ordered a
chamber for the night, and then, free to go and come as he pleased, went
sauntering into every corner of the hostelry, from the common room to
the sheds and stable. About twilight the journey ended in the kitchen,
where, finding Emry’s stepdaughter at work, Strangwayes seated himself
on a table and entered into ardent conversation with her about
butter-making.
Left to himself, Hugh sat down on the settle and, poking the fire
vigorously, watched the embers die down and then flare up again, while
the light waned or reddened throughout the room. Bits of the smoky
ceiling and black walls started into sudden radiance, or the fire gleam
was given back by a copper kettle or pewter plate, and once the sudden
blaze lit up the two who were by the table. Strangwayes’ face was half
shadowed by his long hair, so only his clean-cut chin and confident
mouth showed vividly; but the girls face, with drooping eyelids and
sober lips that now were silent, was very clear to see.
Hugh turned once more to the embers and paid the others no further heed,
till Strangwayes came to his side with the noisy announcement that, the
kitchen being a very delectable place, they would eat supper there. So
the maid lit candles and fetched them food, though she kept silent, even
to Strangwayes’ gayest nonsense. At the last she brought wine, as he
bade, and filling a glass held it out to him. Hugh, glancing up, left
eating to stare at the girl’s white face, and Strangwayes of a sudden
caught hold of her arm. “What’s wrong with you, wench?” he asked
abruptly.
At that the wine went slopping to the floor. “Don’t ’ee tell, sir,” the
girl murmured, under her breath, “father’d kill me, if he knew. But
there be Roundhead troopers,—they come hither to-night.”
A side glance from Strangwayes checked the exclamation that was on the
tip of Hugh’s tongue. The girl went on softly: "Father said: ‘He is a
swaggering child of Satan, this Papist Strangwayes. A shall not go out
of the “Golden Ram” till he goes strapped to another man’s saddle-bow.’"
Strangwayes’ nostrils contracted, but he said nothing, merely whistled
between his teeth. “A merry fellow your father is,” he broke silence at
length; “he does not deserve to have so good a lass for his daughter.
Here’s a half-crown to pay for the good wine your floor will scarce
appreciate, and here’s a kiss for yourself. And prithee fetch me more
drink.”
As the girl turned away, Hugh, for all his hot excitement, found wit
enough to say softly: “For the host’s talk of Roundheads ’twas mere
words to frighten children.”
“My boy,” Strangwayes replied, “if you do not hold your tongue as to
that, I’ll put you on the sound horse and pack you off to the next
village.” Then his face turned cheery as ever, as the maid came back
with the glass of wine, which he sipped slowly, questioning her softly
meantime: “What hour will these people come, do you know?”
“About mid-evening, I heard father say.”
“How many?”
“Only five or six. A grand officer and some common men. They were here
yesternight and before that.”
“Are there any men in the inn save your worthy, busy father and his
groom?”
“No others. But they are keeping watch of the inn gate and the stairs to
the upper story.”
Strangwayes drained off the last of the wine, then rose. “Tell me one
thing,” he asked, “is there any way from the upper floor into the
stable?”
“Through the loft above the kitchen.”
“It may chance your father and his man will be here in the kitchen the
next hour; then, if you love me, lass, keep up a great clattering of
your pans. Here, Hugh, take a brace of candles and off with you to bed.”
Hugh went slowly into the common room, where sat Emry, to all
appearances wrapped in pious meditations, and passed firmly up the
stairs. How the little flames of the candles flickered, he observed, and
how light and eager he felt; yet there was a kind of foolish trembling
in his knees.
Scarcely within the chamber Strangwayes rejoined him. “Are you satisfied
with this brave adventure, my man?” was his greeting.
Hugh nodded. “I know you’ll bring us through safe, Dick.”
“Humph! To do that we need but to slip out at a window of the inn. I’ve
a better plan, Hugh, if you’ll come in with me. We cannot bear off our
noble white steed and our fleet gray, for to ride hence is the surest
means to fall foul of these Roundheads. Then say we lurk here and, turn
and turn about, possess ourselves of two of their horses.”
“That’s your plan?” Hugh repeated amazedly. “Why, yes, of course I’ll
follow, if you bid. But you must tell me what to do.”
“First, here are the brace of pistols from my holsters,” Strangwayes
answered; “you are to take one of them. I grieve I cannot make two of my
rapier, but ’tis impossible. Now, note you, we go to bed—”
“What do you mean?” Hugh cried.
“No, no, no, don’t pull off your coat yet. To the mind of
Constant-in-the-Devil’s-Work Emry we take ourselves to bed, for we blow
out our candles, save this one, which I cut down till it will burn not
above half an hour. And I set it where the light will smite through the
window. Now tread softly and follow me.”
Outside the chamber the corridor was very dark and still, so that the
least creak of a board was appallingly loud, but there was no other
noise, save the faint sound of a girl’s singing in the kitchen below.
Down the corridor they passed what seemed immeasurable lengths, till
Hugh’s knees ached with the slow step, step, to a point where he felt
for sheer nervousness he must stamp or shout or do something foolish.
Then he heard the faint squeak of a door, as Strangwayes, a black figure
in the dusk, swung it gently ajar, and he stepped cautiously into a
loft, where a square of fainter darkness at the left showed a window was
cut. After a moment he found it lighter here than in the corridor, so,
groping with more confidence, he was presently at Strangwayes’ heels.
Right below he heard the muffled voice still singing words that were
undistinguishable. “That’s a rare wench,” Strangwayes just breathed.
“And here’s the hole into the stable loft. Count sixty ere you follow,
or you’ll be putting your heels through my skull.”
A long sixty it was, but Hugh counted ten more to be certain, then,
crawling through a low window that bruised his head, hung an instant by
his hands, while he wondered how far it was to fall. Just there
Strangwayes put his arms about him and rolled him over into a pile of
hay. “Not above a foot to drop, Hugh,” he whispered, with a suppressed
chuckle, “but an inch is as bad as a mile in the dark. For the rest of
the way I am sure; I used my eyes this afternoon.”
They quickly slid down from the hay-loft to the floor of the barn, and
as they went Hugh found time, perilous though the moment was, to feel
half shamed that Strangwayes was taking such care of him, as if he were
a little boy. The lighter square of the opening guided them to the
stable door, where Strangwayes caught Hugh’s arm. “Briskly now; they may
be spying from the gate. But softly.”
Hugh fairly held his breath in the three quick paces across the corner
of the courtyard till he found the grateful, pitchy darkness of a shed
around him. He smelt the freshness of new litter, heard it rustle about
his ankles, and then Strangwayes pulled him down beside him amidst
trusses of straw. “You understand, Hugh,” he whispered, “if we stayed in
the stable these knaves of troopers might mistake us for hay, when they
came to feed their horses, and the mistake would grieve us all. Now here
in the shed we can lie close till they leave the stable under guard of a
man or two, and then we will follow the fundamental maxim of warfare and
supply ourselves from the enemy. Unless they come first to rouse us in
our beds. Look you, Hugh, yonder, that little light, is our chamber.
There, it has gone out,” he added presently. “Now, when next we see a
light in that room, we’ll know they have gone thither and discovered our
removal, and we must be up and doing.”
Then for a long time there was silence betwixt them, while Hugh thought
of many things and felt the brave pistol under his coat. He tried to
make out a single star in the misty night that was around them, and he
strained his ears with listening for hoof-beats, till he wearied of it
and put his head down on his arms. Presently Strangwayes took him in the
ribs with his elbow. “Hugh,” he whispered in an odd, half-jesting voice,
“have you courage?”
“In truth, I was wondering,” Hugh blurted out. Strangwayes put his arm
about him as they lay, and once more many moments ran by. Then suddenly
Strangwayes whispered sharply, “Hark!”
Hugh raised his head, and he, too, caught, far off upon the highway, the
thud, thud of swiftly approaching horses, that slackened in speed but
grew louder and louder. He felt his heart thump shamefully, and,
reaching out his hand, griped Strangwayes’ coat. Then the hoofs sounded
right upon them, and there came shouts of men and the clatter of horses
across the inn yard. Through the misty darkness shone a sudden light,
against which Hugh could see outlined the top of the straw-pile. He saw,
too, Strangwayes, with his bare head uplifted, peer out through an
armful of the loose straw he held up before him, and he heard him
whisper: “Six men, Hugh. Two are officers, I judge. One of them has
passed into the inn. The rest are heading into the stable.”
Hugh pulled himself up on his knees and gazed out. There were torches in
the inn yard that made a half circle of light about the stable door, but
left the rest black as ever. Men were leading horses into the stable,
and calling and swearing to each other, so they could be heard even
after the great door swallowed them up. The house itself was silent as
before, but a moment later, and, even as he gazed, from the farther
window in the upper story a faint light streamed out. “Curse them! They
need not have gone prowling so soon,” Strangwayes rapped out between his
teeth. “We must make a dash for it. They are only five against two.”
Both were now on their feet among the straw, and Strangwayes had made a
step to the opening of the shed, when Hugh caught his arm. “Wait, wait,
Dick,” he panted, the words instinctively saying themselves, “that’s but
a small chance. Nay, I am not afraid; ’tis only I have a better way.
With my ragged clothes,—I’ll slip my cap under my jacket,—they’ll think
me a stable-boy. Let me go first into the stable. Perhaps I can get a
couple of horses out into the court. Yes, I am going.”
Strangwayes gave a glance at the lighted window. “If you’re beset, call.
God speed!” he whispered, and Hugh ran out from the shed.
For a moment his eyes were dazzled with the sudden light about him, then
he blinked it away and went forward. He seemed scarcely to feel the
solid ground beneath him, nor to hear his own step, for the pounding of
the blood in his temples. Yet there was no fear nor any feeling within
him, only he saw the opened door to the lighted stable, and he stepped
in boldly.
There he halted and of a sudden griped at the side of the door to hold
himself erect. For just before him, saddled, bridled, and all, stood two
horses, a black and a bay, which he had last caressed in the stable of
Everscombe Manor. Beside the bay loitered a stalwart young officer, who
at his step glanced up and showed the face of Peregrine Oldesworth.
“Hugh!” he cried amazedly, and the troopers, unsaddling the horses at
the farther end of the stable, looked up at the cry.
Hugh felt his nerves tingle, but with a calmness that seemed no part of
him he walked into the stable. “Good even, Cousin Peregrine,” he said
quietly, though his voice shook a trifle. “May I lead out the horses to
water?” His hands closed on the reins of the bay and the black.
“What are you doing here?” Peregrine asked astonishedly.
“What I can,” Hugh replied, with growing confidence.
“You’ve come down in the world, Master Runaway,” said Peregrine, and by
his look Hugh knew he was not sorry that his proud cousin should groom
his horse. That triumphant look strengthening him mightily, he
deliberately faced the horses about and led them the few steps to the
door. “I’m down, Cousin Peregrine,” he said, with a quick laugh, “but
maybe I’ll be up in the saddle again.”
“What are you about with the horses?” Peregrine cried, with a first
realization that all was not well. “Halt, there!”
For answer Hugh gave a cry of “Dick!” and jerking at the bits brought
the two horses into the courtyard on the run. The beasts were plunging
and wrenching at their bridles, behind him he heard the stamp of men
rushing across the stable,—all in a second,—then a dark figure had
sprung out from the shelter of the shed. “Look to yourself, Hugh!”
Strangwayes shouted, and helter-skelter Hugh made a spring for the back
of the bay horse. He got the reins in his hand anyhow and his leg across
the saddle, then, griping the pommel and the horse’s mane, clung for his
life as the frightened animal dashed for the gate. Men were shouting and
running, he heard the thud of another horse behind him, the crack of a
pistol, then, as he galloped past the inn, a casement suddenly swung
open. A bar of light dazzled in his eyes, and for the fraction of an
instant he saw the face of Thomas Oldesworth, as he leaned out, pistol
in hand. He heard the report of the shot, and then he flung himself
forward in the saddle to save his head from the bar at the gate.
Now he was out on the highway, the bay plunging and leaping beneath him,
and groping wildly he got one foot into the stirrup. Just then the black
horse with its bareheaded rider came abreast of him, passed him, and
Hugh galloped blindly at its heels. Well in the rear he heard the beat
of other horse-hoofs, but he had both feet in the stirrups now and the
reins in his hands, so he turned boldly into the fields behind the black
horse. There was a dark wall, he remembered, that he jumped recklessly,
and a stretch of rough ground, where he must hold his reins taut. There
the black slackened pace somewhat and Hugh galloped up breathless.
“We’ll give them the slip yet, will we not?” he cried, and then he heard
Strangwayes breathing in quick painful gasps, and saw he sat drooping
forward in his saddle. “Dick, Dick,” he almost screamed, “sure, you’re
not—”
“Ay,” Strangwayes panted, “I’m hit.”