I LOSE THE KING’S LETTER; AND AM CARRIED TO BRISTOL.
Almost before daylight we were afoot, and the first ray of cold sunshine
found us stepping from the woods into the plain, where now the snow was
vanished and a glistening coat of rime spread over all things. Down here
the pines gave way to bare elms and poplars, thickly dotted, and among
them the twisting smoke of farmstead and cottage, here and there, and
the morning stir of kitchen and stable very musical in the crisp air.
Delia stepped along beside me, humming an air or breaking off to
chatter. Meeting us, you would have said we had never a care. The road
went stretching away to the northwest and the hills against the sky
there; whither beyond, we neither knew nor (being both young, and one,
by this time, pretty deep in love) did greatly care. Yet meeting with a
waggoner and his team, we drew up to enquire.
The waggoner had a shock of whitish hair and a face purple-red above,
by reason of the cold, and purple-black below, for lack of a barber. He
purs’d up his mouth and look’d us slowly up and down.
“Come,” said I, “you are not deaf, I hope, nor dumb.”
“Send I may niver!” the fellow ejaculated, slowly and with
contemplation: “’tis an unseemly sight, yet tickling to the mirthfully
minded. Haw—haw!” He check’d his laughter suddenly and stood like a
stone image beside his horses.
“Good sir,” said Delia, laying a hand on my arm (for I was growing
nettled), “your mirth is a riddle: but tell us our way and you are free
to laugh.”
“Oh, Scarlet—Scarlet!” answer’d he: “and to me, that am a man o’
blushes from my cradle!”
Convinced by this that the fellow must be an idiot, I told him so, and
left him staring after us; nor heard the sound of his horses moving on
again for many minutes.
After this we met about a dozen on the road, and all paus’d to stare.
But from one—an old woman—we learn’d we were walking toward Marlboro’,
and about noon were over the hills and looking into the valley beyond.
’Twas very like the other vale; only a pleasant stream wound along the
bottom, by the banks of which the road took us. Here, by a bridge, we
came to an inn bearing the sign of “The Broad Face,” and entered: for
Captain Settle’s stock of victuals was now done. A sour-fac’d woman met
us at the door.
“Do you stay here,” Delia advis’d me, “and drink a mug of beer while I
bargain with the hostess for fresh food.” She follow’d the sour-fac’d
woman into the house.
But out she comes presently with her cheeks flaming and a pair of
bright eyes. “Come!” she commanded, “come at once!” Setting down my
half emptied mug, I went after her across the bridge and up the road,
wondering. In this way we must have walk’d for a mile or more before she
turn’d and stamp’d her little foot—
“Horrible!” she cried. “Horrible—wicked—shameful! Ugh!” There were
tears in her eyes.
“What is shameful?”
She made no reply, but walk’d on again quickly.
“I am getting hungry, for my part,” sigh’d I, after a little.
“Then you must starve!”
“Oh!”
She wheel’d round again.
“Jack, this will never do. If you are to have a comrade, let it be a
boy.”
“Now, I am very passably content as things are.”
“Nonsense: at Marlboro’, I mean, you must buy me a suit of boy’s
clothes. What are you hearkening to?”
“I thought I heard the noise of guns—or is it thunder?”
“Dear Jack, don’t say ’tis thunder! I do mortally fear thunder—and
mice.”
“’Twouldn’t be thunder at this time of year. No, ’tis guns firing.”
“Where?—not that I mind guns.”
“Ahead of us.”
On the far side of the valley we enter’d a wood, thinking by this to
shorten our way: for the road here took a long bend to eastward. Now, at
first this wood seem’d of no considerable size, but thicken’d and spread
as we advanced. ’Twas only, however, after passing the ridge, and when
daylight began to fail us, that I became alarm’d. For the wood grew
denser, with a tangle of paths criss-crossing amid the undergrowth. And
just then came the low mutter of cannon again, shaking the earth. We
began to run forward, tripping in the gloom over brambles, and stumbling
into holes.
For a mile or so this lasted: and then, without warning, I heard a sound
behind me, and look’d back, to find Delia sunk upon the ground.
“Jack, here’s a to-do!”
“What’s amiss?”
“Why, I am going to swoon!”
The words were scarce out, when there sounded a crackling and snapping
of twigs ahead, and two figures came rushing toward us—a man and a
woman. The man carried an infant in his arms: and tho’ I call’d on them
to stop, the pair ran by us with no more notice than if we had been
stones. Only the woman cried, “Dear Lord, save us!” and wrung her hands
as she pass’d out of sight.
“This is strange conduct,” thought I: but peering down, saw that Delia’s
face was white and motionless. She had swoon’d, indeed, from weariness
and hunger. So I took her in my arms and stumbled forward, hoping to
find the end of the wood soon. For now the rattle of artillery came
louder and incessant through the trees, and mingling with it, a
multitude of dull shouts and outcries. At first I was minded to run
after the man and woman, but on second thought, resolv’d to see the
danger before hiding from it.
The trees, in a short while, grew sparser, and between the stems I
mark’d a ruddy light glowing. And then I came out on an open space upon
the hillside, with a dip of earth in front; and beyond, a long ridge
of pines standing up black, because of a red glare behind them; and
saw that this came not from any setting sun, but was the light of a
conflagration.
The glare danced and quiver’d in the sky, as I cross’d the hollow. It
made even Delia’s white cheek seem rosy. Up amid the pines I clamor’d,
and along the ridge to where it broke off in a steep declivity. And lo!
in a minute I look’d down as ’twere into the infernal pit.
There was a whole town burning below. And in the streets men were
fighting, as could be told by their shouts and the rattle and blaze of
musketry. For a garment of smoke lay over all and hid them: only the
turmoil beat up as from a furnace, and the flames of burning thatches,
and quick jets of firearms like lightning in a thundercloud. Great
sparks floated past us, and over the trees at our back. A hot blast
breath’d on our cheeks. Now and then you might hear a human shriek
distinct amid the din, and this spoke terribly to the heart.
Now the town was Marlboro’, and the attacking force a body of royal
troops sent from Oxford to oust the garrison of the Parliament, which
they did this same night, with great slaughter, driving the rebels out
of the place, and back on the road to Bristol. Had we guess’d this,
much ill luck had been spared us; but we knew nought of it, nor whether
friends or foes were getting the better. So (Delia being by this time
recover’d a little) we determined to pass the night in the woods, and on
the morrow to give the place a wide berth.
Retreating, then, to the hollow (that lay on the lee side of the ridge,
away from the north wind), I gather’d a pile of great stones, and spread
my cloak thereover for Delia. To sleep was impossible, even with the
will for it. For the tumult and fighting went on, and only died out
about an hour before dawn: and once or twice we were troubled to hear
the sound of people running on the ridge above. So we sat and talked in
low voices till dawn; and grew more desperately hunger’d than ever.
With the chill of daybreak we started, meaning to get quit of the
neighborhood before any espied us; and fetch’d a compass to the south
without another look at Marlboro’. At the end of two hours, turning
northwest again, we came to some water meadows beside a tiny river (the
Kennet, as I think), and saw, some way beyond, a high road that cross’d
to our side (only the bridge was now broken down), and further yet, a
thick smoke curling up; but whence this came I could not see. Now we
had been avoiding all roads this morning, and hiding at every sound of
footsteps. But hunger was making us bold. I bade Delia crouch down
by the stream’s bank, where many alders grew, and set off toward this
column of smoke.
By the spot where the road cross’d I noted that many men and horses had
lately pass’d hereby to westward, and, by their footmarks, at a great
speed. A little further, and I came on a broken musket flung against the
hedge, with a nauseous mess of blood and sandy hairs about the stock
of it; and just beyond was a dead horse, his legs sticking up like bent
poles across the road. ’Twas here that my blood went cold on a sudden,
to hear a dismal groaning not far ahead. I stood still, holding my
breath, and then ran forward again.
The road took a twist that led me face to face with a small whitewashed
cottage, smear’d with black stains of burning. For seemingly it had been
fir’d in one or two places, only the flames had died out: and from the
back, where some out-building yet smoulder’d, rose the smoke that I
spied. But what brought me to a stand was to see the doorway all
crack’d and charr’d, and across it a soldier stretch’d—a green-coated
rebel—and quite dead. His face lay among the burn’d ruins of the door,
that had wofully singed his beard and hair. A stain of blood ran across
the door stone and into the road.
I was gazing upon him and shuddering, when again I heard the groans.
They issued from the upper chamber of the cottage. I stepped over the
dead soldier and mounted the ladder that led upstairs.
The upper room was but a loft. In it were two beds, whereof one was
empty. On the edge of the other sat up a boy of sixteen or thereabouts,
stark naked and moaning miserably. With one hand he seem’d trying to
cover a big wound that gaped in his chest: the other, as my head rose
over the ladder, he stretch’d out with all the fingers spread. And this
was his last effort. As I stumbled up, his fingers clos’d in a spasm of
pain; his hands dropp’d, and the body tumbled back on the bed, where it
lay with the legs dangling.
The poor lad must have been stabb’d as he lay asleep. For by the bedside
I found his clothes neatly folded and without a speck of blood. They
were clean, though coarse; so thinking they would serve for Delia, I
took them, albeit with some scruples at robbing the dead, and covering
the body with a sheet, made my way downstairs.
[Illustration: “Oh, Jack—they do not fit at all!”—Page 121.]
Here, on a high shelf at the foot of the ladder, I discover’d a couple
of loaves and some milk, and also, lying hard by, a pair of shepherd’s
shears, which I took also, having a purpose for them. By this time,
being sick enough of the place, I was glad to make all speed back to
Delia.
She was still waiting among the leafless alders, and clapp’d her hands
to see the two loaves under my arm.
Said I, flinging down the clothes, and munching at my share of the
bread—
“Here is the boy’s suit that you wish’d for.”
“Oh, dear! ’tis not a very choice one.” Her face fell.
“All the better for escaping notice.”
“But—but I _like_ to be notic’d!”
Nevertheless, when breakfast was done, she consented to try on the
clothes. I left her eyeing them doubtfully, and stroll’d away by the
river’s bank. In a while her voice call’d to me—
“Oh, Jack—they do not fit at all!”
“Why, ’tis admirable!” said I, returning, and scanning her. Now this was
a lie: but she took me more than ever, so pretty and comical she look’d
in the dress.
“And I cannot walk a bit in them!” she pouted, strutting up and down.
“Swing your arms more, and let them hang looser.”
“And my hair. Oh, Jack, I have such beautiful hair!”
“It must come off,” said I, pulling the shears out of my pocket.
“And look at these huge boots!”
Indeed, this was the main trouble, for I knew they would hurt her in
walking: yet she made more fuss about her hair, and only gave in when
I scolded her roundly. So I took the shears and clipp’d the chestnut
curls, one by one, while she cried for vexation; and took occasion of
her tears to smuggle the longest lock inside my doublet.
* * * * *
But, an hour after, she was laughing again, and had learned to cock the
poor country lad’s cap rakishly over one eye: and by evening was walking
with a swagger and longing (I know) to meet with folks. For, to spare
her the sight of the ruin’d cottage, I had taken her round through the
fields, and by every bypath that seem’d to lead westward. ’Twas safer to
journey thus; and all the way she practic’d a man’s carriage and airs,
and how to wink and whistle and swing a stick. And once, when she left
one of her shoes in a wet ditch, she said “d—n!” as natural as life:
and then—
We jump’d over a hedge, plump into an outpost of rebels, as they sat
munching their supper.
They were six in all, and must have been sitting like mice: for all I
know of it is this. I had climb’d the hedge first, and was helping
Delia over, when out of the ground, as it seem’d, a voice shriek’d,
“Run—run!—the King’s men are on us!” and then, my foot slipping, down
I went on to the shoulders of a thick-set man, and well-nigh broke his
neck as he turn’d to look up at me.
At first, the whole six were for running, I believe. But seeing only
a lad stretch’d on his face, and a second on the hedge, they thought
better of it. Before I could scramble up, one pair of hands was screw’d
about my neck, another at my heels, and in a trice there we were
pinion’d.
“Fetch the lantern, Zacchaeus.”
’Twas quickly lit, and thrust into my face; and very foolish I must have
look’d. The fellows were all clad in green coats, much soil’d with mud
and powder. And they grinn’d in my face till I long’d to kick them.
“Search the malignant!” cried one. “Question him,” call’d out another;
and forthwith began a long interrogatory concerning the movements of his
Majesty’s troops, from which, indeed, I learn’d much concerning the late
encounter: but of course could answer nought. ’Twas only natural they
should interpret this silence for obstinacy.
“March ’em off to Captain Stubbs!”
“Halloa!” shouted a pockmarked trooper, that had his hand thrust in on
my breast: “bring the lantern close here. What’s this?”
’Twas, alas! the King’s letter: and I bit my lip while they cluster’d
round, turning the lantern’s yellow glare upon the superscription.
“Lads, there’s promotion in this!” shouted the thick-set man I had
tumbled on (who, it seem’d, was the sergeant in the troop): “hand me the
letter, there! Zacchaeus Martin and Tom Pine—you two bide here on duty:
t’other three fall in about the prisoners—quick march!’ The wicked have
digged a pit—’”
The rogue ended up with a tag from the Psalmist.
We were march’d down the road for a mile or more, till we heard a loud
bawling, as of a man in much bodily pain, and soon came to a small
village, where, under a tavern lamp, by the door, was a man perch’d up
on a tub, and shouting forth portions of the Scripture to some twenty or
more green-coats assembled round. Our conductor pushed past these, and
enter’d the tavern. At a door to the left in the passage he halted, and
knocking once, thrust us inside.
The room was bare and lit very dimly by two tallow candles, set in
bottles. Between these, on a deal table, lay a map outspread, and over
it a man was bending, who look’d up sharply at our entrance.
He was thin, with a blue nose, and wore a green uniform like the rest:
only his carriage proved him a man of authority.
This Captain Stubbs listened, you may be sure, with a bright’ning eye to
the sergeant’s story; and at the close fix’d an inquisitive gaze on the
pair of us, turning the King’s letter over and over in his hands.
“How came this in your possession?” he ask’d at length.
“That,” said I, “I must decline to tell.”
He hesitated a moment; then, re-seating himself, broke the seal, spread
the letter upon the map, and read it slowly through. For the first time
I began heartily to hope that the paper contain’d nothing of moment. But
the man’s face was no index of this. He read it through twice, folded it
away in his breast, and turn’d to the sergeant—
“To-morrow at six in the morning we continue our march. Meanwhile keep
these fellows secure. I look to you for this.”
The sergeant saluted and we were led out. That night we pass’d in
handcuffs, huddled with fifty soldiers in a hayloft of the inn and
hearkening to their curious talk, that was half composed of Holy Writ
and half of gibes at our expense. They were beaten men and, like all
such, found comfort in deriding the greater misfortunes of others.
Before daylight the bugles began to sound, and we were led down to the
green before the tavern door, where already were close upon five hundred
gather’d, that had been billeted about the village and were now forming
in order of march—a soil’d, batter’d crew, with torn ensigns and little
heart in their movements. The sky began a cold drizzle as we set out,
and through this saddening whether we trudged all day, Delia and I being
kept well apart, she with the vanguard and I in the rear, seeing only
the winding column, the dejected heads bobbing in front as they bent to
the slanting rain, the cottagers that came out to stare as we pass’d;
and hearing but the hoarse words of command, the low mutterings of the
men, and always the monotonous _tramp-tramp_ through the slush and mire
of the roads.
’Tis like a bad dream to me, and I will not dwell on it. That night
we pass’d at Chippenham—a small market town—and on the morrow went
tramping again through worse weather, but always amid the same sights
and sounds. There were moments when I thought to go mad, wrenching at my
cords till my wrists bled, yet with no hope to escape. But in time, by
good luck, my wits grew deaden’d to it all, and I march’d on with the
rest to a kind of lugubrious singsong that my brain supplied. For hours
I went thus, counting my steps, missing my reckoning, and beginning
again.
Daylight was failing when the towers of Bristol grew clear out of the
leaden mist in front; and by five o’clock we halted outside the walls
and beside the ditch of the castle, waiting for the drawbridge to be let
down. Already a great crowd had gather’d about us, of those who had come
out to learn news of the defeat, which, the day before some fugitives
had carried to Bristol. To their questions, as to all else, I listen’d
like a man in a trance: and recall this only—that first I was shivering
out in the rain and soon after was standing beside Delia, under guard
of a dozen soldiers, and shaking with cold, beneath a gateway that led
between the two wards of the castle. And there, for an hour at least, we
kick’d our heels, until from the inner ward Captain Stubbs came striding
and commanded us to follow.
Across the court we went in the rain, through a vaulted passage, and
passing a screen of carved oak found ourselves suddenly in a great hall,
near forty yards long (as I reckon it), and rafter’d with oak. At the
far end, around a great marble table, were some ten or more gentlemen
seated, who all with one accord turn’d their eyes upon us, as the
captain brought us forward.
The table before them was litter’d with maps, warrants, and papers; and
some of the gentlemen had pens in their hands. But the one on whom my
eyes fastened was a tall, fair soldier that sat in the centre, and held
his Majesty’s letter, open, in his hand: who rose and bow’d to me as I
came near.
“Sir,” he said, “the fortune of war having given you into our hands, you
will not refuse, I hope, to answer our questions.”
“Sir, I have nought to tell,” answer’d I, bowing in return.
With a delicate white hand he wav’d my words aside. He had a handsome,
irresolute mouth, and was, I could tell, of very different degree from
the merchants and lawyers beside him.
“You act under orders from the—the—”
“Anti-Christ,” put in a snappish little fellow on his right.
“I do nothing of the sort,” said I.
“Well, then, sir, from King Charles.”
“I do not.”
“Tush!” exclaim’d the snappish man, and then straightening himself
up—“That boy with you—that fellow disguis’d as a countryman—look at
his boots!—he’s a Papist spy!”
“There, sir, you are wrong!”
“I saw him—I’ll be sworn to his face—I saw him, a year back, at Douai,
helping at the mass! I never forget faces.”
“Why, what nonsense!” cried I, and burst out laughing.
“Don’t mock at me, sir!” he thunder’d, bringing down his fist on the
table. “I tell you the boy is a Papist!” He pointed furiously at Delia,
who, now laughing also, answer’d him very demurely—
“Indeed, sir—”
“I saw you, I say.”
“You are bold to make so certain of a Papist—”
“I saw you!”
“That cannot even tell maid from man!”
“What is meant by that?” asks the tall soldier, opening his eyes.
“Why, simply this, sir: I am no boy at all, but a girl!”
There was a minute, during which the little man went purple in the face,
and the rest star’d at Delia in blank astonishment.
“Oh, Jack,” she whisper’d in my ear, “I am so very, very sorrow: but I
_cannot_ wear these hateful clothes much longer.”
She fac’d the company with a rosy blush.
“What say you to this?” ask’d Colonel Essex—for ’twas he—turning round
on the little man.
“Say? What do I say? That the fellow is a Papist, too. I knew it from
the first, and this proves it!”