“There,” he said, not unkindly, “there's a nice little 'ome for yer. Now
you, tell me wot you were doing spying on me. First of all, 'ave you
any money?” He did not wait for me to answer, but dug his hands into my
pockets at once, taking every penny I had, except a few shillings
which were hidden in my belt. He did not see my belt, as I had taken to
wearing it next my skin, since I began to follow the wars. I feared from
the greed which showed in all his movements that he vas going to strip
me; but he did not do so, thinking, no doubt, that none of my clothes
would fit his body.
“Well,” he said, in his snarling beast voice, “wot's up 'ere, with all
these folk brought their beasts 'ere?”
I told him that the Duke had come co fight for the crown of England,
with the result, as I supposed, that the country people dared not trust
their live-stock at home, for fear of having them pillaged. He seemed
pleased at the news; but being an utter wild beast, far less civilized
than the lowest savage ever known to me, he showed his pleasure by
hoping that the rich (whom he cursed fluently) might have their heads
pulled off in the war, while as for the poor (the farmers close by us)
he hoped that they might lose every beast they owned. “Do 'era good,”
he said. “Now,” he went on, “are you come spying 'ere along of the
farmers?”
“No,” I said, “I am a servant of the Duke's, riding out to look for the
militia.”
“Ah,” he said. “Are yer, cocky? 'Ow'm I to know that?”
“Well,” I said, “Look at my hands. Are they the hands of a farmer?”
“No,” he said. “No, Mister stuck-up flunkey, they ain't. I s'pose yet
proud of yet 'ands. I'll 'ave yer wait at table on me.” He seemed to
like the notion: for he repeated it many times, while he dug out hunks
of cold ham with his file, from the meat which I had felt as I crawled
in
“'Ow proud I dig
A'unk a cold pig”
he sang, as he gulped the pieces down. It was partly a nightmare, partly
very funny. I was not sure if he was mad, probably he was mad, but being
down in the burrow there, in the half darkness, hearing that song, made
me feel that I was mad; it was all a very terrible joke; perhaps madness
affects people like that. At last I spoke to him again.
“Sir,” I said, “I've been up since two this morning. Give me a hunk of
cold pig, too. I'm half-starved.”
“'Elp yourself, can't yer?” he snarled. “Oo'm I to wait on yer?” Then,
very cunningly, he put in, “'Ave you got a knife on yer?”
“No,” I said cautiously, “I've got no knife,” which was a lie; I did not
wish my knife to go the same way as the money. He gave me some cold
pig, very excellent ham it was, too, for which I was very thankful. He
watched my greediness with satisfaction. I ate heartily when I saw that
my confident way with him had made him more tender towards me.
“Yes,” he snorted. “Per'aps you ain't been lying to me after all. Now
'ow long will these blokes be up the 'ill 'ere?” I did not know that;
but I supposed that they would go home directly the Duke's army had got
as far, say, as Taunton. “But,” I added, “the Duke may be beaten. If
he's beaten, all this part will be full of troops beating every bush for
the rebels.” He swore at this; but his curses were only designed to hide
his terror.
“Could a fellow get to sea,” he said in a whining tone. “Could a poor
fellow in trouble slip away to sea, now, at one of these seaport towns?
Boy, I been livin' like a wild beast all the way from Bristol, this two
months. I didn't kill the feller; not dead. The knife only went into 'im
a very little way, not more'n a inch. I was raised near 'ere at a farm.
So I knowed of this 'ere burrow. I got 'ere two days ago, pretty near
dead. Now I been penned up from the sea by these farmers comin' 'ere,
doin' swottin' sentry-go all round me. I tell yer, I'll cut up sour, if
they pen me in, now I'm so near got away. I been with Avery. They call
Avery a pirate. They said I was a pirate. It's 'anging if they ketch
me. Do yer think I could get away to Lyme or some place, to get took
into a ship?” I told him, no; because I knew from what Lord Grey had
told me, that the Channel was full of men-of-war searching every
ship which hove in sight; besides, he did not look to me to be a very
promising hand for a captain to take aboard.
“All the same,” he said, “I got to risk it. You say there may be troops
coming?”
“As for that,” I answered, “the troops may be here at any moment from
Exeter or Honiton. They've arrested hundreds of people everywhere
around. You'd better stay in the burrow here.” He did not pay much
attention to what I said. He cursed violently, as though he were a
bag-pipe full of foul words being slowly squeezed by some player. At
last he crawled to the passage, foaming out incoherently that he would
show them, he would, let them just wait.
“You stay 'ere,” he said. “If I find you follerin' me, I'll mash your 'ed
into that much slobber.” He showed me a short piece of rope which he had
twisted, sailor fashion, so as to form a handle for a jagged piece of
flint, which, as I could see, had been used on some one or something
quite recently.
“Mogador Jack,” he said, “'e don't like people follerin' 'im.” With that
he left me alone in the burrow, wondering, now that it was over, why he
had not killed me. He left me quite stunned; his sudden coming into my
life had been so strange. It was unreal, like a dream, to have been
in an ancient Briton's burial-chamber with a mad old pirate who had
committed murder. But now that he had gone, I was eager to go, too, if
it could be managed. I would not stay there till the brute came back, in
spite of that flint club. After waiting some little time, during which,
I felt sure, he was waiting for me at the door of the burrow, I took
out my pistol. I examined the charge to see that all was well; then very
cautiously, I began to crawl up the passage, with my pistol in my hand.
I waited for some minutes near the door, trying to convince myself by
the lie of the shadows outside that he was crouched there, ready for me.
But it seemed safe. I could see no shadow at all except the tremulous
fern-shadows. At last I took off my coat as a blind. I flung it through
the doorway, with some force, to see if it would draw him from his
hiding. Nothing happened. The ruffian did not pounce upon it. I took
a few long breaths to hearten me; it was now or never. I shut my eyes,
praying that the first two blows might miss my head, so that I should
have time to fire. Then, on my back, with my pistol raised over my head,
I forced myself out with every muscle in my body. I leaped to my feet on
the instant, quickly glancing round for the madman, swinging my pistol
about with my finger hard on the trigger. He was not there, after all.
I might have spared myself the trouble. I was alone there in the fern,
within earshot of a murmur of voices, talking excitedly. I was not going
to spy into any more secrets. I was going to get out of that camp cost
what it might. I made one rush through the fern in the direction of the
rampart, shoving the stalks aside, as a bull knocks through jungle in
Campeachy. In thirty steps I was clear of the fern, charging slap into a
group of people who were giving brandy to the sentry, whom I had passed
but a little while before. He was bleeding from a broken wound on his
pretty hard Saxon skull. He was not badly hurt, for he was swearing
lustily; but he had been stunned just long enough for my pirate man to
strip him. He was dressed now in a pair of leather gaiters, all the rest
of his things had been taken, the pistol with them, I saw all this at
a glance, as I charged in among them. I took it all in, guessing in one
swift gleam of comprehension, exactly what had happened there, as my
pirate made his rush for freedom. There was no time to ask if my guess
were right or not.
“Out of my way,” I shouted, shoving my pistol towards the nearest of the
group. “Out of my way, or I shall fire.” They made way for me. I charged
down hill by the way I had come. Some one cried “Stop en.” Another
shouted “Shoot en, maister.” There came a great bang of a gun over my
head. But I was going down hill like a rabbit, into the gorse, into the
bracken, into the close cover of the heath. Glancing back, I saw a dozen
excited people rushing down the rampart after me. Some flung stones;
some ran to catch horses to chase me. But I had the start of them. I was
down the hill, over the hedge, in the lane, in no time. There, a hundred
yards away, I saw my friends the troopers leading my cob. I shouted to
them. They heard me. They came up to me at a gallop. In ten seconds more
we were sailing away together.
“You been getting into scrapes, master,” said one of the troopers. “You
doan't want to meddle with the folk in these parts.”
“No,” said the other, with a touch of insolence in his voice. “So your
master may find, one of these fine days.” Being mindful of the Duke's
honour, I told the man to mind his own business, which he said he meant
to do, without asking my opinion. After that we rode on together a
little heated, till we were out of sight of the combe, where I had had
such a startling adventure.
After another hour of riding, we pulled up at the garden gate of an old
grey handsome house which stood at some distance from the road. I asked
one of the troopers who lived in this house. He said that it was an old
Abbey, which belonged to Squire; but that we were to leave word there
of the Duke's movements, “for Squire be very 'tached to the Protestants;
besides he'll give us a breakfast. Sure to.” We left our horses at the
gate while we walked up to the house. A pretty girl, who seemed to know
one of the men, told us to come in, while she got breakfast for us.
“Squire,” she said, “would be glad to hear what was going on; for he was
that given up to the soldiers we couldn't hardly believe.” We were
shown down a long flagged corridor to a little cool room which looked as
though it had once been the abbot's cell. It had a window in it, looking
out upon a garden in full flower, a little rose garden, covered with
those lovely bushes of old English red single roses, the most beautiful
flower in the world. The window was large, but the space of it was
broken up by stone piers, so that no pane of glass was more than six
inches wide. I mention this now, because of what happened later. There
was not much furniture in the room; but what there was was very good.
There was an old Dutch pewter jug, full of sweet-williams, on the
table. On the wall' there was a picture of a Spanish gentleman on a
cream-coloured, fat handsome little horse. Together they looked very
like Don Quixote out for a ride with his squire. The two troopers left
me in this room, while they went off to the kitchen. Presently the
servant came in again, bringing me a noble dish of breakfast, a pigeon
pie, a ham, a jar of preserved quince, a honeycomb, a great household
loaf, newly baked, a big quart jug full of small beer. I made a very
honest meal. After eating, I examined the room. There was tapestry over
one part of the wall. It concealed a little low door which led to what
had once been the abbot's fishpond, now a roofed-in bath-house, where
one could plunge into eight feet or so of (bitterly cold) spring water.
This bath-house was some steps lower than the little dining room. It
was lighted by a skylight directly over the bath. It had no other window
whatever. After examining the bath, wishing that I had known of it
before eating, I went back to the dining room, where the servant was
clearing away the food.
“I hope you enjoyed your breakfast, sir,” she said.
“Yes, thank you, very much indeed,” I answered.
“Squire will be down d'reckly, sir,” she said. “If you will please to
make yourself at home.” I made myself at home, as she desired, while
she, after a few minutes, took away the soiled plates, leaving all the
other things on the side-board, ready for dinner. I noticed that she
smiled in a rather strange way as she drew to the door behind her.
I loitered away about half an hour, waiting for the squire to come. As
he did not come, I turned over the books on the shelves, mostly volumes
of plays, the Spanish Tragedy, the Laws of Candy, Love Lies a Bleeding,
etc., four plays to a volume in buckram covers. I was just getting
tired of All for Love, when I heard a footstep in the passage outside.
I thought that I would ask the passenger, whoever it might be, for
how much longer the squire would keep me waiting. I was anxious about
getting back to the army. It was dangerous to straggle too far from the
Duke's camps when unbeaten armies followed on both his wings. So I went
to the door to learn my fate at once. To my great surprise I found that
I could not open it. It was locked on the outside. The great heavy
iron lock had been turned upon me. I was a prisoner in the room there.
Thinking that it had been done carelessly, I beat upon the door to
attract the man who passed down the passage, calling to him to turn the
key for me so that I might get out. The footsteps did not pause. They
passed on, down the corridor, as though the man were deaf. After that
a fury came upon me. I beat upon the door for five minutes on end, till
the house must have rung with the clatter; but no one paid any attention
to me, only, far away, I heard a woman giggling, in an interval when I
had paused for breath. The door was a heavy, thick oak door, bound with
iron. The lock was a bar of steel at least two inches thick; there was
no chance of getting it open. Even firing into the lock with my little
pistol would not have helped me; it would only have jammed the tongue of
steel in its bed. I soon saw the folly of trying to get out by the door;
so I turned to the window, which was more difficult still, or, if not
more difficult, more tantalizing, since it showed me the free garden
into which one little jump would suffice to carry me. But the closely
placed piers of stone made it impossible for me to get through the
window. It was no use trying to do so. I should only have stuck fast,
midway. I began at once to pick out the mortar of the pier stones with
my knife point. It was hopeless work, though, for the old monks had used
some cement a good deal harder than the stones which it bound together.
I could only dig away a little dust from its surface. That way also was
barred to me. Then I went down to the bathing-chamber, hoping that there
would be some way of escape for me there. I hoped that the escape pipe
of the bath might be a great stone conduit leading to a fish-pond in
the garden. It was nothing of the sort. It was a little miserable leaden
pipe. I beat all round the walls, praying for some secret door, but
there was nothing of any use to me, only a little iron ventilator high
up, big enough to take my head, but nothing more. As for the skylight
over the bath, it was beyond my reach, high up. For the moment I could
see no means of getting to it. I went back to the dining room to give
another useless pounding to the door. My head was full of miserable
forebodings; but as yet I suspected merely that I had been caught by
some sudden advance of militia. Or perhaps the squire had laid plans
to get information from one who knew the Duke. Perhaps I had been lured
away specially by one hungry for the King's good opinion. Or could it be
Aurelia? Whatever it was, I was trapped, that was the terrible thing. I
was shut up there till my enemy, whoever it was, chose to deal with me.
I was in arms against the ruling King of England; everybody's hand would
be against me, unless my own hands helped me before my enemies came.
My first thought was to get the table down the steps, to make a bridge
across the bath, from which I could reach the skylight. This I could not
do at first; for being much flustered, I did not put the table-leaves
down. Until I knocked them down in my hurry they kept me from dragging
the table from the dining room. When I got it at last into the
bath-room, I found that it would not stretch across the water: the legs
were too close together, as I might have seen had I kept my wits about
me. I could think of no other way of getting out.
I went back disheartened to the dining room, dragging my coat behind
me. The first thing which I saw was a letter addressed to me in a hand
already known to me. The letter lay on the floor on the space once
covered by the table. As it had not been there when I dragged the table
downstairs, someone must have entered the room while I was away. I
opened the letter in a good deal of flurry. It ran as follows:
“Dear Martin Hyde:--As you will not take a sincere friend's advice, you
have to make the best of a sincere adviser's friendship. You did me a
great service. Let me do you one. I hope to keep you an amused prisoner
until your captain is a beaten man. By about three weeks from this 26th
of June we shall hope to have made you so much our friend that you will
not think of leaving us. May I make a compact with you? Please do not
shoot me with that pistol of yours when I bring you some supper tonight.
That is one part of it. The other is this. Let us be friends. We know
all about you. I have even talked to Ephraim about you. So let us make
it up. We have been two little spit fires. At any rate you have. Let us
be friends. What sorts of books do you like to read? I shall bring you
some story-books about ghosts, or about red Indians. Which do you like
best? I like red Indians myself. I suppose you, being a man, like ghosts
best. Your sincere friend Aurelia Carew. Who by the by thinks it best
to warn you that you had not better try to get up the chimney, as it is
barred across. She hopes that the table did not fall into the bath.”