I RIDE DOWN INTO TEMPLE: AND AM WELL TREATED THERE.
And now I did indeed abandon myself to despair. Few would have given a
groat for my life, with that crew at my heels; and I least of all, now
that my dear comrade was lost. The wound in my shoulder was bleeding
sore—I could feel the warm stream welling—yet not so sore as my heart.
And I pressed my knees into the saddle flap, and wondered what the end
would be.
The sorrel mare was galloping, free and strong, her delicate ears laid
back, and the network of veins under her soft skin working with the
heave and fall of her withers: yet—by the mud and sweat about her—I
knew she must have travelled far before I mounted. I heard a shot or two
fired, far up the road: tho’ their bullets must have fallen short:
at least, I heard none whiz past. But the rebels’ shouting was clear
enough, and the thud of their gallop behind.
I think that, for a mile or two, I must have ridden in a sort of swoon.
’Tis certain, not an inch of the road comes back to me: nor did I once
turn my head to look back, but sat with my eyes fastened stupidly on the
mare’s neck. And by-and-bye, as we galloped, the smart of my wound, the
heartache, hurry, pounding of hoofs—all dropp’d to an enchanting lull.
I rode, and that was all.
For, swoon or no, I was lifted off earth, as it seemed, and on easy
wings to an incredible height, where were no longer hedges, nor road,
nor country round; but a great stillness, and only the mare and I
running languidly through it.
“Ride!”
Now, at first, I thought ’twas someone speaking this in my ear, and
turn’d my head. But ’twas really the last word I had heard from Delia,
now after half an hour repeated in my brain. And as I grew aware of
this, the dullness fell off me, and all became very distinct. And the
muscles about my wound had stiffen’d—which was vilely painful: and the
country, I saw, was a brown, barren moor, dotted with peat-ricks: and I
cursed it.
This did me good: for it woke the fighting-man in me, and I set my
teeth. Now for the first time looking back, I saw, with a great gulp of
joy, I had gained on the troopers. A long dip of the road lay between
me and the foremost, now topping the crest. The sun had broke through at
last, and sparkled on his cap and gorget. I whistled to Molly (I could
not pat her), and spoke to her softly: the sweet thing prick’d up
her ears, laid them back again, and mended her pace. Her stride was
beautiful to feel.
I had yet no clear idea how to escape. In front the moors rose
gradually, swelling to the horizon line, and there broken into steep,
jagged heights. The road under me was sound white granite and stretch’d
away till lost among these fastnesses—in all of it no sign of man’s
habitation. Be sure I look’d along it, and to right and left, dreading
to spy more troopers. But for mile on mile, all was desolate.
Now and then I caught the cry of a pewit, or saw a snipe glance up from
his bed; but mainly I was busied about the mare. “Let us but gain the
ridge ahead,” thought I, “and there is a chance.” So I rode as light as
I could, husbanding her powers.
She was going her best, but the best was near spent. The sweat was
oozing, her satin coat losing the gloss, the spume flying back from her
nostrils—“Soh!” I called to her: “Soh! my beauty; we ride to save an
army!” The loose stones flew right and left, as she reach’d out her
neck, and her breath came shorter and shorter.
A mile, and another mile, we passed in this trim, and by the end of it
must have spent three-quarters of an hour at the work. Glancing back, I
saw the troopers scattered; far behind, but following. The heights were
still a weary way ahead: but I could mark their steep sides ribb’d
with boulders. Till these were passed, there was no chance to hide. The
parties in this race could see each other all the way, and must ride it
out.
And all the way the ground kept rising. I had no means to ease the
mare, even by pulling off my heavy jack-boots, with one arm (and that my
right) dangling useless. Once she flung up her head and I caught sight
of her nostril, red as fire, and her poor eyes starting. I felt her
strength ebbing between my knees. Here and there she blundered in her
stride. And somewhere, over the ridge yonder, lay the Army of the West,
and we alone could save it.
The road, for half a mile, now fetched a sudden loop, though the country
on either side was level enough. Had my head been cool, I must have
guessed a reason for this: but, you must remember, I had long been giddy
with pain and loss of blood—so, thinking to save time, I turned Molly
off the granite, and began to cut across.
The short grass and heath being still frozen, we went fairly for the
first minute or so. But away behind us, I heard a shout—and it must
have been loud to reach me. I learn’d the meaning when, about two
hundred yards before we came on the road again, the mare’s forelegs went
deep, and next minute we were plunging in a black peat-quag.
Heaven can tell how we won through. It must have been still partly
frozen, and perhaps we were only on the edge of it. I only know that as
we scrambled up on solid ground, plastered and breathless, I looked at
the wintry sun, the waste, and the tall hill tow’ring to the right of
us, and thought it a strange place to die in.
For the struggle had burst open my wound again, and the blood was
running down my arm and off my fingers in a stream. And now I could
count every gorsebush, every stone—and now I saw nothing at all. And
I heard the tinkling of bells: and then found a tune running in my
head—’twas “Tire me in tiffany,” and I tried to think where last I
heard it.
But sweet gallant Molly must have held on: for the next thing I woke up
to was a four-hol’d cross beside the road: and soon after we were over
the ridge and clattering down hill.
A rough tor had risen full in front, but the road swerved to the left
and took us down among the spurs of it. Now was my last lookout. I tried
to sway less heavily in the saddle, and with my eyes searched the plain
at our feet.
Alas! Beneath us the waste land was spread, mile upon mile: and I
groaned aloud. For just below I noted a clump of roofless cabins, and
beyond, upon the moors, the dotted walls of sheep-cotes, ruined also:
but in all the sad-color’d leagues no living man, nor the sign of one.
It was done with us. I reined up the mare—and then, in the same motion,
wheeled her sharp to the right.
High above, on the hillside, a voice was calling.
I look’d up. Below the steeper ridge of the tor a patch of land had been
cleared for tillage: and here a yoke of oxen was moving leisurely before
a plough (’twas their tinkling bells I had heard, just now); while
behind followed the wildest shape—by the voice, a woman.
She was not calling to me, but to her team: and as I put Molly at the
slope, her chant rose and fell in the mournfullest singsong.
“So-hoa! Oop Comely Vean! oop, then—o-oop!”
I rose in my stirrups and shouted.
At this and the sound of hoofs, she stay’d the plough and, hand on hip,
looked down the slope. The oxen, softly rattling the chains on their
yoke, turn’d their necks and gazed. With sunk head Molly heaved herself
up the last few yards and came to a halt with a stagger. I slipp’d out
of the saddle and stood, with a hand on it, swaying.
“What’s thy need, young man—that comest down to Temple wi’ sword
a-danglin’?”
The girl was a half-naked savage, dress’d only in a strip of sacking
that barely reach’d her knees, and a scant bodice of the same, lac’d in
front with pack thread, that left her bosom and brown arms free. Yet she
appear’d no whit abash’d, but lean’d on the plough-tail and regarded me,
easy and frank, as a man would.
“Sell me a horse,” I blurted out: “Twenty guineas will I give for
one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King’s
errand.”
“Then get thee back to thy master, an’ say, no horse shall he have o’
me—nor any man that uses horseflesh so.” She pointed to Molly’s knees,
that were bow’d and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her
mouth.
“Girl, for God’s sake sell me a horse! They are after me, and I am
hurt.” I pointed up the road. “Better than I are concerned in this.”
“God nor King know I, young man. But what’s on thy saddle cloth, there?”
’Twas the smear where my blood had soak’d: and looking and seeing
the purple mess cak’d with mud and foam on the sorrel’s flank, I felt
suddenly very sick. The girl made a step to me.
“Sell thee a horse? Hire thee a bedman, more like. Nay, then, lad—”
But I saw her no longer: only called “oh-oh!” twice, like a little
child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp’d forward on her
breast.
* * * * * * *
Waking, I found myself in darkness—not like that of night, but of a
room where the lights have gone out: and felt that I was dying. But
this hardly seem’d a thing to be minded. There was a smell of peat and
bracken about. Presently I heard the tramp of feet somewhere overhead,
and a dull sound of voices that appear’d to be cursing.
The footsteps went to and fro, the voices muttering most of the time.
After a bit I caught a word—“Witchcraft”: and then a voice speaking
quite close—“There’s blood ’pon her hands, an’ there’s blood yonder
by the plough.” Said another voice, higher and squeaky, “there’s scent
behind a fox, but you don’t dig it up an’ take it home.” The tramp
passed on, and the voices died away.
By this I knew the troopers were close, and seeking me. A foolish
thought came that I was buried, and they must be rummaging over my
grave: but indeed I had no wish to enquire into it; no wish to move
even, but just to lie and enjoy the lightness of my limbs. The blood was
still running. I felt the warmth of it against my back: and thought it
very pleasant. So I shut my eyes and dropp’d off again.
Then I heard the noise of shouting, far away: and a long while after
that, was rous’d by the touch of a hand, thrust in against my naked
breast, over my heart.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
“Joan,” answered a voice, and the hand was withdrawn.
The darkness had lifted somewhat, and though something stood between me
and the light, I mark’d a number of small specks, like points of gold
dotted around me—
“Joan—what besides?”
“Joan’s enough, I reckon: lucky for thee ’tis none else. Joan o’ the Tor
folks call me, but may jet be Joan i’ Good Time. So hold thy peace, lad,
an’ cry out so little as may be.”
I felt a ripping of my jacket sleeve and shirt, now clotted and stuck to
the flesh. It pain’d cruelly, but I shut my teeth: and after that came
the smart and delicious ache of water, as she rinsed the wound.
“Clean through the flesh, lad:—in an’ out, like country dancin’. No
bullet to probe nor bone to set. Heart up, soce! Thy mother shall kiss
thee yet. What’s thy name?”
“Marvel, Joan—Jack Marvel.”
“An’ marvel ’tis thou’rt Marvel yet. Good blood there’s in thee, but
little enow.”
She bandaged the sore with linen torn from my shirt, and tied it round
with sackcloth from her own dress. ’Twas all most gently done: and then
I found her arms under me, and myself lifted as easy as a baby.
“Left arm round my neck, Jack: an’ sing out if ’tis hurtin’ thee.”
It seemed but six steps and we were out on the bright hillside, not
fifty paces from where the plough yet stood in the furrow. I caught a
glimpse of a brown neck and a pair of firm red lips, of the grey tor
stretching above us and, further aloft, a flock of field fare hanging in
the pale sky; and then shut my eyes for the dazzle: but could still
feel the beat of Joan’s heart as she held me close, and the touch of her
breath on my forehead.
Down the hill she carried me, picking the softest turf, and moving
with an easeful swing that rather lull’d my hurt than jolted it. I was
dozing, even, when a strange noise awoke me.
’Twas a high protracted note, that seem’d at first to swell up toward
us, and then broke off in half a dozen or more sharp yells. Joan took no
heed of them, but seeing my eyes unclose, and hearing me moan, stopped
short.
“Hurts thee, lad?”
“No.” ’Twas not my pain but the sight of the sinking sun that wrung the
exclamation from me—“I was thinking,” I muttered.
“Don’t: ’tis bad for health. But bide thee still a-while, and shalt lie
’pon a soft bed.”
By this time, we had come down to the road: and the yells were still
going on, louder than ever. We cross’d the road, descended another
slope, and came all at once on a low pile of buildings that a moment
before had been hid. ’Twas but three hovels of mud, stuck together in
the shape of a headless cross, the main arm pointing out toward the
moor. Around the whole ran a battered wall, patched with furs; and from
this dwelling the screams were issuing—
“Joan!” the voice began, “Joan—Jan Tergagle’s a-clawin’ my
legs—Gar-rout, thou hell cat—Blast thee, let me zog! Pull’n off
Joan—Jo-an!”
The voice died away into a wail; then broke out in a racket of curses.
Joan stepped to the door and flung it wide. As my eyes grew used to the
gloom inside, they saw this:—
A rude kitchen—the furniture but two rickety chairs, now toss’d on
their faces, an oak table, with legs sunk into the earth, a keg of
strong waters, tilted over and draining upon the mud floor, a ladder
leading up to a loft, and in two of the corners a few bundles of bracken
strewn for bedding. To the left, as one entered, was an open hearth;
but the glowing peat-turves were now pitch’d to right and left over the
hearthstone and about the floor, where they rested, filling the den with
smoke. Under one of the chairs a black cat spat and bristled: while in
the middle of the room, barefooted in the embers, crouched a man. He was
half naked, old and bent, with matted grey hair and beard hanging
almost to his waist. His chest and legs were bleeding from a score of
scratches; and he pointed at the cat, opening and shutting his mouth
like a dog, and barking out curse upon curse.
No way upset, Joan stepped across the kitchen, laid me on one of the
bracken beds, and explain’d—
“That’s feyther: he’s drunk.”
With which she turn’d, dealt the old man a cuff that stretch’d him
senseless, and gathering up the turves, piled them afresh on the hearth.
This done, she took the keg and gave me a drink of it. The stuff scalded
me, but I thanked her. And then, when she had shifted my bed a bit, to
ease the pain of lying, she righted a chair, drew it up and sat beside
me. The old man lay like a log where he had fallen, and was now snoring.
Presently, the fumes of the liquor, or mere faintness, mastered me, and
my eyes closed. But the picture they closed upon was that of Joan, as
she lean’d forward, chin on hand, with the glow of the fire on her brown
skin and in the depths of her dark eyes.
[Illustration: Joan]