It was a friendly letter, which relieved me a good deal from my
anxieties; but what I could not bear was the thought that the Duke would
think me a deserter. I made up my mind that I would get away from that
house at the first opportunity, so as to rejoin the Duke, to whom I felt
myself pledged. But in the meantime, until I could get away, I resolved
to make the best of my imprisonment. I was nettled by Aurelia's tone of
superiority. I would show her, as I had shown her before, that my wits
were just as nimble as hers. A few minutes after the letter had been
read, she held a parley with me through the keyhole.
“Mr. Martin Hyde. Are you going to shoot me?”
“No, Miss Carew, though I think you deserve it.”
“You won't try to get away if I open the door?”
“I mean to get away as soon as ever I get half a chance.”
“I've got three men with me at the door here.”
“Oh. Very well. But you just wait till I get a chance.”
“Don't be so bloodthirsty, Mr. Martin Hyde. Now, I'm coming in to talk
with you. No pistols, mind. Not one.”
“I've promised I won't shoot. You might believe a fellow. But I mean to
get away, remember. Just to show you.”
She opened the door after that, a brown, merry Aurelia, behind whom I
could see three men, ready to stop any rush. They closed the door behind
her after she had entered.
“Well,” she said, smiling. “Will you not shake hands with me, Martin
Hyde?”
“Yes,” I said, “I will shake hands. But you played a very mean trick, I
think. There.”
“You mustn't think me mean,” she answered. “I don't like mean people.
Now promise me one thing. You say you are going to run away from us. You
won't run away from me when I am with you, will you?”
“No,” I said, after thinking this over, to see if it could be twisted
into any sort of trap, likely to stop my escape. “I will not. Not while
I am with you.”
“That's right,” she said. “We can go out together, then. Now you've
promised, suppose we go out into the garden.”
We went into the garden together, talking of every subject under the sun
but the subject nearest to our hearts at the moment. I would not speak
of her capture of me; she would not speak of the Duke's march towards
Taunton. There was some constraint whenever we came near those subjects.
She was a very merry, charming companion; but the effect of her talk
that morning was to make me angry at being trapped by her. I looked over
the countryside for guiding points in case I should be able to get away.
Axminster lay to the southeast, distant about six miles; so much I could
reckon from the course of our morning's ride. I could not see Axminster
for I was shut from it by rolling combes, pretty high, which made a
narrow valley for the river. To the west the combes were very high,
strung along towards Taunton in heaps. Due east, as I suspected, quite
near to us, was Chard, where by this time the Duke must have been
taking up his position. Taunton I judged (from a mile-stone which we had
passed) to be not much more than a dozen miles from where I was. I have
always had a pretty keen sense of position. I do not get lost. Even in
the lonely parts of the world I have never been lost. I can figure out
the way home by a sort of instinct helped by a glimpse at the sun. When
I go over a hill I have a sort of picture-memory of what lies behind,
to help me home again, however tortuous my path is on the other side. So
the few glimpses which I could get of the surrounding country were real
helps to me. I made more use of them than Aurelia suspected.
We were much together that day. Certainly she did her best to make my
imprisonment happy. In the evening she was kinder; we were more at ease
together; I was able to speak freely to her.
“Aurelia,” I said, “you risked your life twice to warn me.”
“That's not quite true, Martin,” she said. “I am a government spy,
trusted with many people's lives. I had other work to do than to warn a
naughty boy who wanted to see what the ghosts were.” I was startled at
her knowing so much about me; she laughed.
“Well,” she said, “I like you for it. I should have wanted to see them
myself. But the ghost-makers are scattered far enough now.”
“All the same, Aurelia,” I said, “I thank you for what you did for me. I
wish I could do something in return.” She laughed.
“Well,” she said, “you were very kind in the ship. You were a good enemy
to me then. Weren't you?”
“Yes,” I said, “I beat you properly on the ship. I carried the Duke's
letters in my pistol cartridges, where you never suspected them. The
letters which were in the satchel I forged myself after I got on board.
If you'd not been a silly you'd have seen that they were forged.”
“So that was why,” she said. “Those letters gave everybody more anxious
work than you've any notion of. Oh, Martin, though, I helped to drug you
to get those letters. It was terrible. Terrible. Will you ever forgive
me?”
“Why, yes, Aurelia,” I said. “After all, it was done for your King. Just
as I mean to run away from here to serve mine. All is fair in the King's
service. Let us shake hands on that.” We shook hands heartily, looking
into each other's eyes.
“By the way,” I said, “where did you get to that day in Holland, when I
got the letters from you?”
“Ah,” she answered, “you made me like a wildcat that day. I nearly
killed you, twice. You remember that low parapet on the roof? I was
behind that, waiting for you with a loaded pistol. You were all very
near your deaths that morning. In the King's service, of course.
For just a minute, I thought that you would climb up to examine that
parapet. What a crazy lot you all were not to know at once that I was
there! Where else could I have been?”
“Well,” I answered, “I beat you in the ride, didn't I? You thought
yourself awfully clever about that horse at the inn. Well, I beat
you there. I beat you in the race. I beat you with my letters to the
Dutchman. I beat you over those forgeries.”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “I can beat all the men in your Duke's service.
Every one. Even clever Colonel Lane. Even Fletcher of Saltoun. But a
boy is so unexpected, there's no beating a boy, except with a good
birch rod. You beat me so often, Martin, that I think you can afford to
forgive me for tricking you once in bringing you here.”
“I shall beat you in that, too, Miss Carew,” I said; “for I mean to get
away from you as soon as I can.”
“So you say,” she said. “But we have club men walking all round this
house all night, as well as sentries by day, guarding the stock.
Your gang of marauders will find a rough welcome if they come for
refreshments here.”
Even as she spoke, there came a sudden crash of fire-arms from the
meadows outside the garden. About a dozen men came hurrying out of the
house with weapons in their hands, among them a big, fierce-looking
handsome man, who drew his sword as he ran.
“That is my uncle, Travers Carew,” said Aurelia. “He owns this property.
He wants to meet you.” There came another splutter of fire-arms from the
meadows. “Come,” she said. “We'll see what it is. It is the Duke's men
come pillaging.”
We ran through a gate in the wall into an apple-orchard, where the Carew
men were already dodging among the trees towards the enemy. There was
a good deal of shouting, but the tide of battle, as they call it, the
noise of shots, the trampling of horses, had already set away to the
left, where the enemy were retreating, with news, as I heard later, that
the militia held the Abbey in force. The Carew men came back in a few
minutes with a prisoner. He had been captured while holding the horses
of two friends, who had dismounted to drive off some of the Carew
cattle. He said that the attack had been made by a party of twenty of
the Duke's horse, sent out to bring in food for the march. They had
scattered at the first discharge of fire-arms, which had frightened them
horribly, for they had not expected any opposition. The frightened men
never drew rein till they galloped their exhausted horses into Chard
camp, where they gave another touch of dejection to the melancholy Duke.
As for the prisoner, he was sent off under guard to Honiton gaol; I
don't know what became of him. He was one of more than three thousand
who came to death or misery in that war. They said that he was a young
farmer, in a small way, from somewhere out beyond Chideock. The war
had been a kind of high-spirited frolic for him; he had entered into it
thoughtlessly, in the belief that it would be a sort of pleasant ride to
London, with his expenses paid. Now he was ended. When he rode out with
bound hands from the Carew house that evening, between two armed riders,
he rode out of life. He never saw Chideock again, except in the grey
light of dawn, after a long ride upon a hurdle, going to be hanged
outside his home. Or perhaps he was bundled into one of the terrible
convict ships bound for Barbadoes, with other rebels, to die of
small-pox on the way, or under the whip in the plantations.
After this little brush, with its pitiful accompaniment, which filled
me full of a blind anger against the royal party, so much stronger, yet
with so much less right than ours, I was taken in to see Sir Travers
Carew. He had just sent off the prisoner to Honkon, much as he would
have brushed a fly from his hand. He had that satisfaction with himself,
that feeling of having supported the right, which comes to all those who
do cruel things in the name of that code of unjust cruelty, the criminal
law. He looked at me with rather a grim smile, which made me squirm.
“So,” he said, “this is the young rebel, is it? Do you know that I could
send you off to Honiton gaol with that poor fellow there?” This made my
heart die; but something prompted me to put a good face on it.
“Sir,” I said, “I have done what my father thought right. I don't wish
to be treated better than any other prisoner. Send me to Honiton, sir.”
“No,” he said, looking at me kindly. “I shall not send you to Honiton.
You are not in arms against the King's peace, nor did you come over from
Holland with the Duke. I can't send you to Honiton. Besides, I knew your
father, Martin. I was at college with him. He was a good friend of
mine, poor fellow. No, sir, I shall keep you here till the Duke's crazy
attempt is knocked on the head. I think I can find something better for
you to do than that fussy old maid, your uncle, could. But, remember,
sir. You have a reputation for being a slippery young eel. I shall take
particular pains to keep you from slipping out of my hands. But I do not
wish to use force to your father's son. Will you give me your word not
to try to escape?”
“No,” I answered, sullenly. “I won't. I mean to get away directly I
can.”
“Come,” he said kindly, “we tricked you rather nastily. But do you
suppose, Martin, that your father, if he were here, would encourage your
present resolutions? The Duke is coming (nearly unprepared) to bring a
lot of silly yokels into collision with fully trained soldiers ten times
more numerous. If the countryside, the gentry, the educated, intelligent
men, were ready for the Duke, or believed in his cause, they would join
him. They do not join him. His only adherents are the idle, ignorant,
ill-conditioned rogues of this county, who will neither fight nor obey,
when it comes to the pinch. I do not love the present King, Martin, but
he is a better man than this Duke. The Duke will never make a king. He
may be very fit for court-life; but there is not an ounce of king in
him. If the Duke succeeds, in a year or two he will show himself so
foolish that we shall have to send for the Prince of Orange, who is a
man of real, strong wisdom. We count on that same prince to deliver us
from James, when the time is ripe. It is not ripe, yet. I am telling you
bitter, stern truth, Martin. Now then. Let me have your promise not to
continue in the service of this doomed princeling, your master. Eh? What
shall it be?”
“No,” I said, “that's desertion.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “It is a custom of war. Come now. As a
prisoner of war, give me your parole.”
“You said just now that I was not a prisoner of war,” I answered.
“Very well, then,” he said. “I am a magistrate. I commit you add
suspected person. Hart! Hart!” (Here he called in a man-servant.) “Just
see that this young sprig keeps out of mischief. Think it over, Mr.
Martin. Think it over.”
In a couple of minutes I was back in my prison cells, locked in for the
night, with neither lamp nor candle. A cot had been made up for me in a
corner of the room. Supper was laid for me on the table, which had been
brought back to its place. There was nothing for it but to grope to bed
in the twilight, wondering how soon I could get away to what I still
believed to be a righteous cause in which my father wished me to fight.
I slept soundly after my day of adventure. I dreamed that I rode into
London behind the Duke, amid all the glory of victory, with the people
flinging flowers at us. But dreams go by contraries, the wise women say.
I was a full fortnight, or a little more, a prisoner in that house.
They treated me very kindly. Aurelia was like an elder sister. Old Sir
Travers used to jest at my being a rebel. But I was a prisoner, shut
in, watched, kept close. The kindness jarred upon me. It was treating
me like a child, when I was no longer a child. I had for some wild weeks
been doing things which few men have the chance of doing. Perhaps, if I
had confided all that I felt to Aurelia, she would have cleared away my
troubles, made me see that the Duke's cause was wrong, that my father
would wish his son well out of civil broils, however just, that I had
better give the promise that they asked from me. But I never confided
really fully in her. I moped a good deal, much worried in my mind. I
began to get a lot of unworthy fancies into my head, silly fancies,
which an honest talk would have scattered at once. I began to think from
their silence about the Duke's doings that his affairs were prospering,
that he was conquering, or had conquered, that I was being held by this
loyalist family as a hostage. It was silly of me; but although in many
ways I was a skilled man of affairs, I had only the brain of a child, I
could not see the absurdity of what I came to believe. It worried me so
much that at the end of my imprisonment I became very feverish; really
ill from anxiety, as prisoners often are. I refused food for the latter
part of one day, hoping to frighten my captors. They did not notice it,
so I had my pains for nothing.
I went to bed very early; but I could not sleep. I fidgeted about till
I was unusually wakeful. Then I got out of bed to try if there was a
way of escape by the old-fashioned chimney, barred across as it was,
at intervals, by strong old iron bars. I had never thought the chimney
possible, having examined it before, when I first came to that house;
but my fever made me think all things possible; so up I got, hoping that
I should have light enough to work by.