TAKEN!
WE must go back in time, something like an hour and a half or two
hours, and follow the police and warders after they left Morwell, to
understand how it happened that Martin fell into their hands. They had
retired sulky and grumbling. They had been brought a long way, the two
warders a very long way, for nothing. When they reached the down, one
of the warders observed that he was darned if he had not turned his
ankle on the rough stones of the lane. The other said he reckoned they
had been shabbily treated, and it was not his ankle but his stomach had
been turned by a glass of cider sent down into emptiness. Some cold
beef and bread was what he wanted. Whereat he was snapped at by the
other, who advised him to kill one of the bullocks on the moor and make
his meal on that.
‘Hearken,’ said Joseph; ‘brothers, an idea has struck me. We have not
captured the man, and so we shan’t have the reward.’
‘Has it taken you half an hour to discover that?’
‘Yes,’ answered Joseph simply. ‘Thinking and digesting are much the
same. I ain’t a caterpillar that can eat and digest at once.’
‘I wish I’d had another glass of cider,’ said one of the constables,
‘but these folk seemed in a mighty haste to get rid of us.’
‘There is the “Hare and Hounds” at Goatadon,’ said Joseph.
‘That is a long bit out of the road,’ remonstrated the constable.
‘What is time to us police!’ answered Joseph. ‘It is made to be killed,
like a flea.’
‘And hops away as fast,’ said another.
‘Let us get back to Tavistock,’ said a warder.
‘Oh, if you wish it,’ answered Joseph; ‘only it do seem a cruel pity.’
‘What is a pity?’
‘Why, that you should ha’ come so far and not seen the greatest wonder
of the world.’
‘What may that be?’
‘The fat woman,’ answered Joseph Woodman. ‘The landlady of the “Hare
and Hounds.” You might as well go to Egypt and not see the pyramids, or
to Rome and not see the Pope, or to London and not see the Tower.’
‘I don’t make any account of fat women,’ said the warder, who had
turned his ankle.
‘But this,’ argued Joseph, ‘is a regular marvel. She’s the fattest
woman out of a caravan—I believe the fattest in England; I dare say the
very fattest in the known world. What there be in the stars I can’t
say.’
‘Now,’ said the warder, who had turned his stomach, ‘what do _you_ call
fat?’ He was in a captious mood.
‘What do I call fat?’ repeated Joseph; ‘why, that woman. Brother, if
you and I were to stretch our arms at the farthest, taking hold of each
other with one hand, we couldn’t compass her and take hold with the
other.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said the warder emphatically.
‘’Tain’t possible a mortal could be so big,’ said the other warder.
‘I swear it,’ said Joseph with great earnestness.
‘There is never a woman in the world,’ said the warder with the bad
ankle, ‘whose waist I couldn’t encircle, and I’ve tried lots.’
‘But I tell you this woman is out of the common altogether.’
‘Have you ever tried?’ sneered the warder with the bad stomach.
‘No, but I’ve measured her with my eye.’
‘The eye is easy deceived as to distances and dimensions. Why, Lord
bless you! I’ve seen in a fog a sheep on the moor look as big as a
hippopotamus.’
‘But the landlady is not on the moor nor in a fog,’ persisted Joseph.
‘I bet you half-a-guinea, laid out in drink, that ‘tis as I say.’
‘Done!’ said both warders. ‘Done!’ said the constables, and turning to
their right, they went off to the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ two miles out of
their way, to see the fat woman and test her dimensions.
Now this change in the destination of the party led to the capture of
Martin, and to the wounding of the warder who complained of his stomach.
The party reached the little tavern—a poor country inn built where
roads crossed—a wretched house, tarred over its stone face as
protection against the driving rains. They entered, and the hostess
cheerfully consented to having her girth tested. She was accustomed to
it. Her fatness was part of her stock-in-trade: it drew customers to
the ‘Hare and Hounds’ who otherwise would have gone on to Beer Alston,
where was a pretty and pert maid.
Whilst the officers were refreshing themselves, and one warder had
removed his boot to examine his ankle, the door of the room where they
sat was opened and Martin came in, followed by Watt. His eyes were
dazzled, as the room was strongly lighted, and he did not at first
observe who were eating and drinking there. It was in this lonely inn
that he and Walter were staying and believed themselves quite safe. A
few miners were the only persons they met there.
As Martin stood in the doorway looking at the party, whilst his eyes
accustomed themselves to the light, one of the warders started up.
‘That is he! Take him! Our man!’
Instantly all sprang to their feet except Joseph, who was leisurely in
all his movements, and the warder with bare foot, without considering
fully what he did, threw his boot at Martin’s head.
Martin turned at once and ran, and the men dashed out of the inn after
him, both warders catching up their guns, and he who was bootless
running, forgetful of his ankle, with bare foot.
The night was light enough for Martin to be seen, with the boy running
beside him, across the moor. The fires were still flickering and
glowing; the gorse had been burnt and so no bushes could be utilised as
a screen. His only chance of escape was to reach the woods, and he ran
for Morwell.
But Martin, knowing that there were firearms among his pursuers, dared
not run in a direct line; he swerved from side to side, and dodged,
to make it difficult for them to take aim. This gave great facilities
to the warder who had both boots on, and who was a wiry, long-legged
fellow, to gain on Martin.
‘Halt!’ shouted he, ‘halt, or I fire!’
Then Martin turned abruptly and discharged a pistol at him. The man
staggered, but before he fell he fired at Martin, but missed.
Almost immediately Martin saw some black figures in front of him, and
stood, hesitating what to do. The figures were those of boys who were
spreading the fires among the furze bushes, but he thought that his
course was intercepted by his pursuers. Before he had decided where to
run he was surrounded and disarmed.
The warder was so seriously hurt that he was at once placed on a
gate and carried on the shoulders of four of the constables to Beer
Alston, to be examined by Mr. Coyshe and the ball extracted. This left
only three to guard the prisoner, one of whom was the warder who had
sprained his ankle, and had been running with that foot bare, and who
was now not in a condition to go much farther.
‘There is nothing for it,’ said Joseph, who was highly elated, ‘but
for us to go on to Morwell. We must lock the chap up there. In that
old house there are scores of strong places where the monks were
imprisoned. To-morrow we can take him to Tavistock.’ Joseph did not
say that Jane Welsh was at Morwell; this consideration, doubtless, had
something to do with determining the arrangement. On reaching Morwell,
which they did almost at once, for Martin had been captured on the down
near the entrance to the lane, the first inquiry was for a safe place
where the prisoner might be bestowed.
Jane, hearing the noise, and, above all, the loved voice of Joseph, ran
out.
‘Jane,’ said the policeman, ‘where can we lock the rascal up for the
night?’
She considered for a moment, and then suggested the corn-chamber. That
was over the cellar, the walls lined with slate, and the floor also of
slate. It had a stout oak door studded with nails, and access was had
to it from the quadrangle, up a flight of stone steps. There was no
window to it. ‘I’ll go ask Miss Barbara for the key,’ she said. ‘There
is nothing in it now but some old onions. But’—she paused—’if he be
locked up there all night, he’ll smell awful of onions in the morning.’
Reassured that this was of no importance, Jane went to her mistress for
the key. Barbara came out and listened to the arrangement, to which
she gave her consent, coldly. The warder could now only limp. She was
shocked to hear of the other having been shot.
A lack of hospitality had been shown when the constables and warders
came first, through inadvertence, not intentionally. Now that they
desired to remain the night at Morwell and guard there the prisoner,
Barbara gave orders that they should be made comfortable in the
hall. One would have to keep guard outside the door where Martin
was confined, the other two would spend the night in the hall, the
window of which commanded the court and the stairs that led to the
corn-chamber. ‘I won’t have the men in the kitchen,’ said Barbara, ‘or
the maids will lose their heads and nothing will be done.’ Besides,
the kitchen was out of the way of the corn-chamber.
‘We shall want the key of the corn-store,’ said Joseph, ‘if we may have
it, miss.’
‘Why not stow the fellow in the cellar?’ asked a constable.
‘For two reasons,’ answered Joseph. ‘First, because he would drink the
cider; and second, because—no offence meant, miss—we hope that the
maids’ll be going to and fro to the cellar with the pitcher pretty
often.’
Joseph was courting the maid of the house, and therefore thought it
well to hint to Barbara what was expected of the house to show that it
was free and open.
The corn-room was unlocked, a light obtained, and it was thoroughly
explored. It was floored with large slabs of slate, and the walls
were lined six feet high with slate, as a protection against rats and
mice. Joseph progged the walls above that. All sound, not a window.
He examined the door: it was of two-inch oak plank, and the hinges of
stout iron. In the corner of the room was a heap of onions that had
not been used the preceding winter. A bundle of straw was procured and
thrown down.
‘Lie there, you dog, you murderous dog!’ said one of the men, casting
Martin from him. ‘Move at your peril!’
‘Ah!’ said the lame warder, ‘I only wish you would make another attempt
to escape that I might give you a leaden breakfast.’ He limped badly.
In running he had cut his bare foot and it bled, and he had trodden on
the prickles of the gorse, which had made it very painful.
‘There’s a heap of onions for your pillow,’ said Joseph. ‘Folks say
they are mighty helpful to sleep—’ this was spoken satirically; then
with a moral air—’But, sure enough, there’s no sleeping, even on an
onion pillow, without a good conscience.’
As the men were to spend the night without sleep—one out of doors,
to be relieved guard by the other, the lame warder alone excused the
duty, as he was unable to walk—Barbara ordered a fire to be lighted in
the great hall. The nights were not cold, but damp; the sky was clear,
and the dew fell heavily. It would, moreover, be cheerful for the men
to sit over a wood fire through the long night, and take naps by it if
they so liked. Supper was produced and laid on the oak table by Jane,
who ogled Joseph every time she entered and left the hall.
She placed a jug on the table. Joseph went after her.
‘You are a dear maid,’ he said, ‘but one jug don’t go far. You must
mind the character of the house and maintain it. I see cold mutton. It
is good, but chops are better. This ain’t an inn. It’s a gentleman’s
house. I see cheese. Ain’t there anywhere a tart and cream? Mr. Jordan
is not a farmer: he’s a squire. I’d not have it said of me I was
courting a young person in an inferior situation.’
The fire was made up with a faggot. It blazed merrily. Joseph sat
before it with his legs outspread, smiling at the flames; he had his
hands on his knees. After having run hard and got hot he felt chilled,
and the fire was grateful. Moreover, his hint had been taken. Two jugs
stood on the table, and hot chops and potatoes had been served. He had
eaten well, he had drunk well. All at once he laughed.
‘What is the joke, Joe?’
‘I’ve an idea, brother. If t’other warder dies I shall not have to pay
the half-guinea because I lost my bet. He was so confounded long in the
arm. That will be prime! And—we shall share the reward without him!
Beautiful!’
‘Umph! Has it taken you all this time to find that out? I saw it the
moment the shot struck. That’s why I ran on with a bad foot.’