HOW JOAN SAVED THE ARMY OF THE WEST; AND SAW THE FIGHT ON BRADDOCK DOWN.
But the pain of my hurt followed into my dreams. I woke with a start,
and tried to sit up.
Within the kitchen all was quiet. The old savage was still stretch’d on
the floor: the cat curled upon the hearth. The girl had not stirr’d: but
looking toward the window hole, I saw night out side, and a frosty star
sparkling far down in the west.
“Joan, what’s the hour?”
“Sun’s been down these four hours.” She turned her face to look at me.
“I’ve no business lying here.”
“Chose to come, lad: none axed thee, that _I_ knows by.”
“Where’s the mare? Must set me across her back, Joan, and let me ride
on.”
“Mare’s in stable, wi’ fetlocks swelled like puddens. Chose to come,
lad; an’ choose or no, must bide.”
“’Tis for the General Hopton, at Bodmin, I am bound, Joan; and wound or
no, must win there this night.”
“And that’s seven mile away: wi’ a bullet in thy skull, and a peat quag
thy burial. For _they_ went south, and thy road lieth more south than
west.”
“The troopers?”
“Aye, Jack: an’ work I had this day wi’ those same bloody warriors: but
take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat cake while I tell
thee.”
And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor
beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how
I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was
this:—
When I dropp’d forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback,
thinking me dead. But (to quote her) “‘no good,’ said I, ‘in cuddlin’ a
lad ’pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho’ he _have_ a-got curls like
a wench: an’ dead or ‘live, no use to wait for others to make sure.’”
So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the
“Jew’s Kitchen;” and where that was, even with such bearings as I had,
she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly
stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead
the sorrel down to stable.
Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a _Whoop!_ up the road; and
there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down hill
toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on
leading the mare down the slope.
In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out
“Where’s he to?”
“Who?” asks Joan, making out to be surprised.
“Why, the lad whose mare thou’rt leadin’?”
“Mile an’ half away by now.”
“How’s that?”
“Freshly horsed,” explains Joan.
The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore ’twas a lie; but
luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge.
They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun
bellied sergeant call’d “Silence!” and asked the girl, “did she loan the
fellow a horse?”
Here I will quote her again:—
“‘Sir, to thee,’ I answer’d, ‘no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey
Robin.’
“‘That’s a lie,’ he says; ’an’ I won’t believe thee.’
“‘Might so well,’ says I; ‘but go to stable, an’ see for thysel’
(Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that’s _his’n_
lookout.)”
They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure
enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had
logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and
spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching
the tor and the moors below it. I learn’d too, that Joan had come in for
some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering
to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buffcoat. And at
length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the
moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at
Braddock before night.
“Where is this Braddock?”
“Nigh to Lord Mohun’s house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south,
and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies.”
“Then go I must,” cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the
trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant
gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them.
I told of the King’s letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord
Stamford’s men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the
rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day’s march between the
two, and none but I to carry the warning. And “Oh, Joan!” I cried, “my
comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never
man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels’ hands. Alas! that I could
neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to
lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have traveled two
hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord
Stamford come up, all’s lost. Even now they be outnumber’d. So lift me,
Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I’ll win to Bodmin yet.”
“Reckon, Jack, thou’d best hand _me_ thy letter.”
Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply
spoken; but stared at her like an owl.
“There’s horse in stall, lad,” she went on, “tho’ no Grey Robin.
Tearaway’s the name, and strawberry the color.”
“But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the
left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here ’tis, Joan,
see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of
Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be
known for the King’s: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand
before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will
bless you for’t.”
“Hope so, I’m sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick
witted.”
So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.
“Shan’t forgit, now,” she said, at length; “an’ so hearken to me for a
change. Bide still, nor fret thysel’. Here’s pasty an’ oat cake, an’ a
keg o’ water that I’ll stow beside thee. Pay no heed to feyther, an’ if
he wills to get drunk an’ fight wi’ Jan Tergagle—that’s the cat—why
let’n. Drunk or sober, he’s no ’count.”
She hid the letter in her bosom, and stepp’d to the door. On the
threshold she turned—
“Jack—forgot to ax: what be all this bloodshed about?”
“For Church and King, Joan.”
“H’m: same knowledge ha’ I o’ both—an’ that’s naught. But I dearly
loves fair play.”
She was gone. In a minute or so I heard the trampling of a horse: and
then, with a scurry of hoofs, Joan was off on the King’s errand, and
riding into the darkness.
Little rest had I that night; but lay awake on my bracken bed and
watched the burning peat-turves turn to grey, and drop, flake by flake,
till only a glowing point remained. The door rattled now and then on the
hinge: out on the moor the light winds kept a noise persistent as town
dogs at midnight: and all the while my wound was stabbing, and the
bracken pricking me till I groaned aloud.
As day began to break, the old man picked himself up, yawned and lounged
out, returning after a time with fresh turves for the hearth. He noticed
me no more than a stone, but when the fire was restack’d, drew up his
chair to the warmth, and breakfasted on oat cake and a liberal deal of
liquor. Observing him, the black cat uncoil’d, stretch’d himself,
and climbing to his master’s knee, sat there purring, and the best of
friends. I also judged it time to breakfast: found my store: took a
bite or two, and a pull at the keg, and lay back—this time to sleep.
When I woke, ’twas high noon. The door stood open, and outside on the
wall the winter sunshine was lying, very bright and clear. Indoors, the
old savage had been drinking steadily; and still sat before the fire,
with the cat on one knee, and his keg on the other. I sat up and
strain’d my ears. Surely, if Joan had not failed, the royal generals
would march out and give battle at once: and surely, if they were
fighting, not ten miles away, some sound of it would reach me. But
beyond the purring of the cat, I heard nothing.
I crawl’d to my feet, rested a moment to stay the giddiness, and
totter’d across to the door, where I lean’d, listening and gazing south.
No strip of vapor lay on the moors that stretch’d—all bathed in the
most wonderful bright colors—to the lip of the horizon. The air was
like a sounding board. I heard the bleat of an old wether, a mile off,
upon the tors; and was turning away dejected, when, far down in the
south, there ran a sound that set my heart leaping.
’Twas the crackling of musketry.
There was no mistaking it. The noise ran like wildfire along the hills:
before echo could overtake it, a low rumbling followed, and then the
brisker crackling again. I caught at the door post and cried, faint with
the sudden joy—
“Thou angel, Joan!—thou angel!”
And then, as something took me by the throat—“Joan, Joan—to see what
thou seest!”
A long time I lean’d by the door post there, drinking in the sound that
now was renewed at quicker intervals. Yet, for as far as I could see,
’twas the peacefullest scene, though dreary—quiet sunshine on the
hills, and the sheep dotted here and there, cropping. But down yonder,
over the edge of the moors, men were fighting and murdering each other:
and I yearn’d to see how the day went.
Being both weak and loth to miss a sound of it, I sank down on the
threshold, and there lay, with my eyes turned southward, through a gap
in the stone fence. In a while the musketry died away, and I wondered:
but thought I could still at times mark a low sound as of men shouting,
and this, as I learn’d after, was the true battle.
It must have been an hour or more before I saw a number of black specks
coming over the ridge of hills, and swarming down into the plain toward
me: and then a denser body following. ’Twas a company of horse, moving
at a great pace: and I guessed that the battle was done, and these were
the first fugitives of the beaten army.
On they came, in great disorder, scattering as they advanced: and now,
in parts, the hill behind was black with footmen, running. ’Twas a rout,
sure enough. Once or twice, on the heights, I heard a bugle blown, as if
to rally the crowd: but saw nothing come of it, and presently the notes
ceased, or I forgot to listen.
The foremost company of horse was heading rather to the eastward of
me, to gain the high road; and the gross pass’d me by at half a mile’s
distance. But some came nearer, and to my extreme joy, I learn’d from
their arms and shouting, what till now I had been eagerly hoping, that
’twas the rebel army thus running in rout: and tho’ now without strength
to kneel, I had enough left to thank God heartily.
’Twas so curious to see the plain thus suddenly fill’d with rabble,
all running from the south, and the silly startled sheep rushing
helter-skelter, and huddling together on the tors above, that I forgot
my own likely danger if any of this revengeful crew should come upon me
lying there: and was satisfied to watch them as they straggled over the
moors toward the road. Some pass’d close to the cottage; but none seem’d
anxious to pause there. ’Twas a glad and a sorry sight. I saw a troop of
dragoons with a standard in their midst; and a drummer running behind,
too far distracted even to cast his drum away, so that it dangled
against his back, with a great rent where the music had been; and then
two troopers running together; and one that was wounded lay down for a
while within a stone’s throw of me, and would not go further, till at
last his comrade persuaded him; and after them a larger company, in
midst of whom was a man crying, “We are sold, I tell ye, and I can point
to the man!” and so passed by. There were some, too, that were galloping
three stout horses in a carriage, and upon it a brass twelve pounder.
But the carriage stuck fast in a quag, and so they cut the traces and
left it there, where, two days after, Sir John Berkeley’s dragoons found
and pulled it out. And this was the fourth, I had heard, that the King’s
troops took in that victory.
Yet there were not above five or six hundred in all that I saw; and I
guessed (as was the case) that this must be but an off-shoot, so to say,
of the bigger rout that pass’d eastward through Liskeard. I was thinking
of this when I heard footsteps near, and a man came panting through a
gap in the wall, into the yard.
He was a big, bareheaded fellow, exceedingly flush’d with running, but
unhurt, as far as I could see. Indeed, he might easily have kill’d me,
and for a moment I thought sure he would. But catching sight of me,
he nodded very friendly, and sitting on a heap of stones a yard or two
away, began to draw off his boot, and search for a prickle, that it
seem’d had got into it.
“’Tis a mess of it, yonder,” said he, quietly, and jerk’d his thumb over
his shoulder.
By the look of me, he could tell I was on the other side; but this did
not appear to concern him.
“How has it gone?” asked I.
“Well,” says he, with his nose in the boot; “we had a pretty rising
ground, and the Cornishmen march’d up and whipp’d us out—that’s
all—and took a mort o’ prisoners.” He found the prickle, drew on his
boot again, and asked—
“T’other side?”
I nodded.
“That’s the laughing side, this day. Good evening.”
And with that he went off as fast as he came.
’Twas, may be, an hour after, that another came in through the same
gap: this time a lean, hawk-eyed man, with a pinch’d face and two ugly
gashes—one across the brow from left eye to the roots of his hair, the
other in his leg below the knee, that had sliced through boot and flesh
like a scythe-cut. His face was smear’d with blood, and he carried a
musket.
“Water!” he bark’d out as he came trailing into the yard. “Give me
water—I’m a dead man!”
He was stepping over me to enter the kitchen, when he halted and said—
“Art a malignant, for certain!”
And before I had a chance to reply, his musket was swung up, and I felt
my time was come to die.
But now the old savage, that had been sitting all day before his fire,
without so much as a sign to show if he noticed aught that was passing,
jump’d up with a yell and leap’d toward us. He and the cat were on the
poor wretch together, tearing and clawing. I can hear their hellish
outcries to this day: but at the moment they turn’d me faint. And the
next thing I recall is being dragged inside by the old man, who shut the
door after me and slipp’d the bolt, leaving the wounded trooper on the
other side. He beat against it for some time, sobbing piteously for
water: and then I heard him groaning at intervals, till he died. At
least, the groans ceased; and next day he was found with his back
against the cottage wall, stark and dead.
Having pulled me inside, Joan’s father must have thought he had done
enough: for on the floor I lay for hours, and passed from one swoon into
another. He and the cat had gone back to the fire again, and long before
evening both were sound asleep.
So there I lay helpless, till, at nightfall, there came the trampling of
a horse outside, and then a rap on the door. The old man started up and
opened it: and in rushed Joan, her eyes lit up, her breast heaving, and
in her hand a naked sword.
“Church and King, Jack!” she cried, and flung the blade with a clang on
to the table. “Church and King! O brave day’s work, lad—O bloody work
this day!”
And I swooned again.