I TAKE THE ROAD.
So puffed up was I by the condescension of the two princes, and my head
so busy with big thoughts, that not till I was over the bridges and
climbing the high ground beyond South Hincksey, with a shrewd northeast
wind at my back, could I spare time for a second backward look. By this,
the city lay spread at my feet, very delicate and beautiful in a silver
network, with a black clump or two to southward, where the line of
Bagley trees ran below the hill. I pulled out the letter that Anthony
had given me. In the moonlight the brown smear of his blood was plain to
see, running across the superscription:
“_To our trusty and well beloved Sir Ralph Hopton, at our Army in
Cornwall—these._”
’Twas no more than I look’d for; yet the sight of it and the king’s red
seal, quicken’d my step as I set off again. And I cared not a straw for
Dr. Kettle’s wrath on the morrow.
Having no desire to fall in with any of the royal outposts that lay
around Abingdon, I fetched well away to the west, meaning to shape
my course for Faringdon, and so into the great Bath road. ’Tis not my
purpose to describe at any length my itinerary, but rather to reserve
my pen for those more moving events that overtook me later. Only in the
uncertain light I must have taken a wrong turn to the left (I think near
Besselsleigh) that led me round to the south: for, coming about daybreak
to a considerable town, I found it to be, not Faringdon, but Wantage.
There was no help for it, so I set about enquiring for a bed. The town
was full, and already astir with preparations for cattle-fair; and
neither at the “Bear” nor the “Three Nuns” was there a bed to be had.
But at length at the “Boot” tavern—a small house, I found one just
vacated by a couple of drovers, and having cozen’d the chambermaid to
allow me a clean pair of sheets, went upstairs very drowsily, and in
five minutes was sleeping sound.
I awoke amid a clatter of voices, and beheld the room full of womankind.
“He’s waking,” said one.
“Tis a pity, too, to be afflicted thus—and he such a pretty young man!”
This came from the landlady, who stood close, her hand shaking my
shoulder roughly.
“What’s amiss?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“Why, ’tis three of the afternoon.”
“Then I’ll get up, as soon as you retire.”
“Lud! we’ve been trying to wake thee this hour past; but ’twas
sleep—sleep!”
“I’ll get up, I tell you.”
“Thought thee’d ha’ slept through the bed and right through to the
floor,” said the chambermaid by the door, tittering.
“Unless you pack and go, I’ll step out amongst you all!”
Whereat they fled with mock squeals, calling out that the very thought
made them blush: and left me to dress.
Downstairs I found a giant’s breakfast spread for me, and ate the hole,
and felt the better for it: and thereupon paid my scot, resisting the
landlady’s endeavor to charge me double for the bed, and walked out to
see the town.
“Take care o’ thysel’,” the chambermaid bawled after me; “nor flourish
thy attainments abroad, lest they put thee in a show!”
Dark was coming on fast: and to my chagrin (for I had intended
purchasing a horse) the buying and selling of the fair were over, the
cattle-pens broken up, and the dealers gather’d round the fiddlers,
ballad singers, and gingerbread stalls. There were gaming booths, too,
driving a brisk trade at Shovel-board, All-fours, and Costly Colors; and
an eating tent, whence issued a thick reek of cooking and loud rattle of
plates. Over the entrance, I remember, was set a notice: “_Dame Alloway
from Bartholomew Fair. Here are the best geese, and she does them as
well as ever she did_.” I jostled my way along, keeping tight hold on my
pockets, for fear of cut-purses; when presently, about halfway down the
street, there arose the noise of shouting. The crowd made a rush toward
it; and in a minute I was left alone, standing before a juggler who had
a sword halfway down his throat, and had to draw it out again before
he could with any sufficiency curse the defection of his audience; but
offered to pull out a tooth for me if I wanted it.
I left him, and running after the crowd soon learn’d the cause of this
tumult.
’Twas a meagre old rascal that someone had charged with picking pockets:
and they were dragging him off to be duck’d. Now in the heart of Wantage
the little stream that runs through the town is widen’d into a cistern
about ten feet square, and five in depth, over which hung a ducking
stool for scolding wives. And since the townspeople draw their water
from this cistern, ’tis to be supposed they do not fear the infection. A
long beam on a pivot hangs out over the pool, and to the end is a chair
fasten’d; into which, despite his kicks and screams, they now strapped
this poor wretch, whose grey locks might well have won mercy for him.
Souse! he was plunged: hauled up choking and dripping: then—just as he
found tongue to shriek—souse! again.
’Twas a dismal punishment; and this time they kept him under for a full
half minute. But as the beam was lifted again, I heard a hullaballoo and
a cry—
“The bear! the bear!”
And turning, I saw a great brown form lumbering down the street behind,
and driving the people before it like chaff.
The crowd at the brink of the pool scatter’d to right and left, yelling.
Up flew the beam of the ducking stool, reliev’d of their weight, and
down with a splash went the pickpocket at the far end. As well for my
own skin’s sake as out of pity to see him drowning, I jumped into the
water. In two strokes I reach’d him, gained footing, and with Anthony’s
sword cut the straps away and pull’d him up. And there we stood, up to
our necks, coughing and spluttering; while on the deserted brink the
bear sniff’d at the water and regarded us.
No doubt we appear’d contemptible enough: for after a time he turned
with a louder sniff, and went his way lazily up the street again. He had
broken out from the pit wherein, for the best part of the day, they had
baited him; yet seemed to bear little malice. For he saunter’d about
the town for an hour or two, hurting no man, but making a clean sweep
of every sweet stall in his way; and was taken at last very easily, with
his head in a treacle cask, by the bear ward and a few dogs.
Meanwhile the pickpocket and I had scrambled out by the further bank and
wrung our clothes. He seemed to resent his treatment no more than did
the bear.
“Ben cove—’tis a good world. My thanks!”
And with this scant gratitude he was gone, leaving me to make my way
back to the sign of “The Boot,” where the chambermaid led me upstairs,
and took away my clothes to dry by the fire. I determin’d to buy a
horse on the morrow, and with my guineas and the King’s letter under the
pillow, dropp’d off to slumber again.
My powers of sleep must have been nois’d abroad by the hostess: for next
morning at the breakfast ordinary, the dealers and drovers laid down
knife and fork to stare as I enter’d. After a while one or two lounged
out and brought in others to look: so that soon I was in a ring of
stupid faces, all gazing like so many cows.
For a while I affected to eat undisturbed: but lost patience at last and
addressed a red-headed gazer——
“If you take me for a show, you ought to pay.”
“That’s fair,” said the fellow, and laid a groat on the board. This came
near to putting me in a passion, but his face was serious. “’Tis a real
pleasure,” he added heartily, “to look on one so gifted.”
“If any of you,” I said, “could sell me a horse——”
At once there was a clamor, all bidding in one breath for my custom. So
finishing my breakfast, I walked out with them to the tavern yard, where
I had my pick among the sorriest-looking dozen of nags in England, and
finally bought from the red-haired man, for five pounds, bridle, saddle,
and a flea-bitten grey that seem’d more honestly raw-boned than the
rest. And the owner wept tears at the parting with his beast, and
thereby added a pang to the fraud he had already put upon me. And I rode
from the tavern door suspecting laughter in the eyes of every passer-by.
The day (’twas drawing near noon as I started) was cold and clear, with
a coating of rime over the fields: and my horse’s feet rang cheerfully
on the frozen road. His pace was of the soberest: but, as I was no
skilful rider, this suited me rather than not. Only it was galling to be
told so, as happened before I had gone three miles.
’Twas my friend the pickpocket: and he sat before a fire of dry sticks a
little way back from the road. His scanty hair, stiff as a badger’s,
now stood upright around his batter’d cap, and he look’d at me over the
bushes, with his hook’d nose thrust forward like a bird’s beak.
“Bien lightmans, comrade—good day! ’Tis a good world; so stop and
dine.”
I pull’d up my grey.
“Glad you find it so,” I answered; “you had a nigh chance to compare it
with the next, last night.”
“Shan’t do so well i’ the next, I fear,” he said with a twinkle: “but
I owe thee something, and here’s a hedgehog that in five minutes’ll be
baked to a turn. ’Tis a good world, and the better that no man can count
on it. Last night my dripping duds helped me to a cant tale, and got me
a silver penny from a man of religion. Good’s in the worst; and life’s
like hunting the squirrel—a man gets much good exercise thereat, but
seldom what he hunts for.”
“That’s as good morality as Aristotle’s,” said I.
“’Tis better for _me_, because ’tis mine.” While I tether’d my horse he
blew at the embers, wherein lay a good-sized ball of clay, baking. After
a while he look’d up with red cheeks. “They were so fast set on drowning
me,” he continued with a wink, “they couldn’t spare time to look i’ my
pocket—the ruffin cly them!”
He pull’d the clay ball out of the fire, crack’d it, and lo! inside was
a hedgehog cook’d, the spikes sticking in the clay, and coming away with
it. So he divided the flesh with his knife, and upon a slice of bread
from his wallet it made very delicate eating: tho’ I doubt if I enjoyed
it as much as did my comrade, who swore over and over that the world
was good, and as the wintry sun broke out, and the hot ashes warm’d his
knees, began to chatter at a great pace.
“Why, sir, but for the pretty uncertainty of things I’d as lief die here
as I sit——”
He broke off at the sound of wheels, and a coach with two postillions
spun past us on the road.
I had just time to catch a glimpse of a figure huddled in the corner,
and a sweet pretty girl with chestnut curls seated beside it, behind the
glass. After the coach came a heavy broad-shoulder’d servant riding on
a stout grey; who flung us a sharp glance as he went by, and at twenty
yards’ distance turn’d again to look.
“That’s luck,” observed the pickpocket, as the travelers disappear’d
down the highway: “To-morrow, with a slice of it, I might be riding in
such a coach as that, and have the hydropsy, to boot. Good lack! when I
was ta’en prisoner by the Turks a-sailing i’ the _Mary_ of London,
and sold for a slave at Algiers, I escap’d, after two months, with Eli
Sprat, a Gravesend man, in a small open boat. Well, we sail’d three
days and nights, and all the time there was a small sea bird following,
flying round and round us, and calling two notes that sounded for all
the world like ‘Wind’ard! Wind’ard!’ So at last says Eli, ‘’Tis heaven’s
voice bidding us ply to wind’ard.’ And so we did, and on the fourth day
made Marseilles; and who should be first to meet Eli on the quay but a
Frenchwoman he had married five years before, and left. And the jade had
him clapp’d in the pillory, alongside of a cheating fishmonger with a
collar of stinking smelts, that turn’d poor Eli’s stomach completely.
Now there’s somewhat to set against the story of Whittington next time
’tis told you.”
I was now for bidding the old rascal good-bye. But he offer’d to go with
me as far as Hungerford, where we should turn into the Bath road. At
first I was shy of accepting, by reason of his coat, wherein patches of
blue, orange-tawny and flame-color quite overlaid the parent black: but
closed with him upon his promise to teach me the horsemanship that I so
sadly lacked. And by time we enter’d Hungerford town I was advanced so
far, and bestrode my old grey so easily, that in gratitude I offer’d him
supper and bed at an inn, if he would but buy a new coat: to which he
agreed, saying that the world was good.
By this, the day was clouded over and the rain coming down apace. So
that as soon as my comrade was decently array’d at the first slopshop
we came to, ’twas high time to seek an inn. We found quarters at “The
Horn,” and sought the travelers’ room, and a fire to dry ourselves.
In this room, at the window, were two men who look’d lazily up at our
entrance. They were playing at a game, which was no other than to race
two snails up a pane of glass and wager which should prove the faster.
“A wet day!” said my comrade, cheerfully.
The pair regarded him. “I’ll lay you a crown it clears within the hour!”
said one.
“And I another,” put in the other; and with that they went back to their
sport.
Drawing near, I myself was soon as eager as they in watching the snails,
when my companion drew my notice to a piece of writing on the window
over which they were crawling. ’Twas a set of verses scribbled there,
that must have been scratch’d with a diamond: and to my surprise—for I
had not guess’d him a scholar—he read them out for my benefit. Thus the
writing ran, for I copied it later:
“_Master Ephraim Tucker_, his dying councell to wayfardingers; to seek
_The Splendid Spur_.
“Not on the necks of prince or hound,
Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,
May gold from the deriding ground
Keep sacred that we sacred bind
Only the heel
Of splendid steel
Shall stand secure on sliding fate,
When golden navies weep their freight.
“The scarlet hat, the laurell’d stave
Are measures, not the springs, of worth;
In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,
Man’s airy notions mix with earth.
Seek other spur
Bravely to stir
The dust in this loud world, and tread
Alp-high among the whisp’ring dead.
“_Trust in thyself_,—then spur amain:
So shall Charybdis wear a grace,
Grim Aetna laugh, the Lybian plain
Take roses to her shrivell’d face.
This orb—this round
Of sight and sound—
Count it the lists that God hath built
For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.
“FINIS-Master Tucker’s Farewell.”
“And a very pretty moral on four gentlemen that pass their afternoon a
setting snails to race!”
At these words, spoken in a delicate foreign voice we all started round:
and saw a young lady standing behind us.
Now that she was the one who had passed us in the coach I saw at once.
But describe her—to be plain—I cannot, having tried a many times.
So let me say only that she was the prettiest creature on God’s earth
(which, I hope, will satisfy her); that she had chestnut curls and a
mouth made for laughing; that she wore a kirtle and bodice of grey silk
taffety, with a gold pomander-box hung on a chain about her neck; and
held out a drinking glass toward us with a Frenchified grace.
“Gentlemen, my father is sick, and will taste no water but what is
freshly drawn. I ask you not to brave Charybdis or Aetna, but to step
out into the rainy yard and draw me a glassful from the pump there: for
our servant is abroad in the town.”
To my deep disgust, before I could find a word, that villainous old
pickpocket had caught the glass from her hand and reached the door. But
I ran after; and out into the yard we stepp’d together, where I pump’d
while he held the glass to the spout, flinging away the contents time
after time, till the bubbles on the brim, and the film on the outside,
were to his liking.
’Twas he, too, that gain’d the thanks on our return.
“Mistress,” said he with a bow, “my young friend is raw, but has a
good will. Confess, now, for his edification—for he is bound on a long
journey westward, where, they tell me, the maidens grow comeliest—that
looks avail naught with womankind beside a dashing manner.”
The young gentlewoman laughed, shaking her curls.
“I’ll give him in that case three better counsels yet: first (for by his
habit I see he is on the King’s side), let him take a circuit from this
place to the south, for the road between Marlboro’ and Bristol is, they
tell me, all held by the rebels; next, let him avoid all women, even
tho’ they ask but an innocent cup of water; and lastly, let him shun
thee, unless thy face lie more than thy tongue. Shall I say more?”
“Why, no—perhaps better not,” replied the old rogue hastily, but
laughing all the same. “That’s a clever lass,” he added, as the door
shut behind her.
And, indeed, I was fain, next morning, to agree to this. For, awaking, I
found my friend (who had shar’d a room with me) already up and gone, and
discovered the reason in a sheet of writing pinn’d to my clothes——
“Young Sir,—I convict myself of ingratitude: but habit is hard to
break. So I have made off with the half of thy guineas and thy horse.
The residue, and the letter thou bearest, I leave. ’Tis a good world,
and experience should be bought early. This golden lesson I leave in
return for the guineas. Believe me, ’tis of more worth. Read over those
verses on the windowpane before starting, digest them, and trust me, thy
obliged,
“Peter, The Jackman.
“Raise not thy hand so often to thy breast: ’tis a sure index of hidden
valuables.”
Be sure I was wroth enough: nor did the calm interest of the two snail
owners appease me, when at breakfast I told them a part of the story.
But I thought I read sympathy in the low price at which one of them
offer’d me his horse. ’Twas a tall black brute, very strong in the
loins, and I bought him at once out of my shrunken stock of guineas.
At ten o’clock, I set out, not along the Bath road, but bearing to the
south, as the young gentlewoman had counselled. I began to hold a high
opinion of her advice.
By twelve o’clock I was back at the inn door, clamoring to see the man
that sold me the horse, which had gone dead lame after the second mile.
“Dear heart!” cried the landlord; “they are gone, the both, this hour
and a half. But they are coming again within the fortnight; and I’m
expressly to report if you return’d, as they had a wager about it.”
I turn’d away, pondering. Two days on the road had put me sadly out of
conceit with myself. For mile upon mile I trudged, dragging the horse
after me by the bridle, till my arms felt as if coming from their
sockets. I would have turn’d the brute loose, and thought myself well
quit of him, had it not been for the saddle and bridle he carried.
* * * * *
’Twas about five in the evening, and I still laboring along, when, over
the low hedge to my right, a man on a sorrel mare leap’d easily as a
swallow, and alighted some ten paces or less in front of me; where he
dismounted and stood barring my path. The muzzle of his pistol was in my
face before I could lay hand to my own.
“Good evening!” said I.
“You have money about you, doubtless,” growled the man curtly, and in a
voice that made me start. For by his voice and figure in the dusk I knew
him for Captain Settle: and in the sorrel with the high white stocking
I recognized the mare, Molly, that poor Anthony Killigrew had given me
almost with his last breath.
The bully did not know me, having but seen me for an instant at “The
Crown,” and then in very different attire.
“I have but a few poor coins,” I answer’d.
“Then hand ’em over.”
“Be shot if I do!” said I in a passion; and pulling out a handful from
my pocket, I dash’d them down in the road.
For a moment the Captain took his pistol from my face, and stooped to
clutch at the golden coins as they trickled and ran to right and
left. The next, I had struck out with my right fist, and down he went
staggering. His pistol dropped out of his hand and exploded between
my feet. I rush’d to Molly, caught her bridle, and leap’d on her back.
’Twas a near thing, for the Captain was rushing toward us. But at the
call of my voice the mare gave a bound and turn’d: and down the road I
was borne, light as a feather.
A bullet whizz’d past my ear: I heard the Captain’s curse mingle with
the report: and then was out of range, and galloping through the dusk.