"Ah, and what then?" he mumbled, stroking his beard as though unable to
collect his thoughts. "Look you, friend, my orders are to keep the door
'gainst all intruders. Yet an your business be in truth with---- Ah,
by my soul, friend, yes--that's it--the password of the night; what is
it? Give it quickly, and pass on."
At first I felt inclined to turn and flee for it while yet there was a
chance, not knowing whom the drunken lout might bring about my ears; but
second thoughts constrained me to go boldly through with it, for verily
I was in that state which cares not what may happen. Therefore I said:
"I do not know the password of the night."
"What's that?" roared he. "Business with godly chaplain and don't know
password? Ho! ho! now, if that be not pretty!"
With that he put his arms akimbo and burst into a roaring laugh, so that
for a moment I had half a mind to knock him down and stride across his
barrel of a body. But cautiousness prevailed.
"Pretty enough, but true," said I. "For, look you, I have been away on
very urgent business of the chaplain's since yesternight, and have but
just returned here. Prithee, what is the password, friend?" I added
quickly.
Perhaps it was the very brazenness of such a question that threw the
muddled fellow off his guard; at any rate, he lurched towards me, and
whispered underneath his ale-soaked breath:
"'Tis Zion, friend--Zion--mark you, Zion. Make sure on't, for it may
serve thee well enough ere night be ended."
Little knowing how prophetic were those latter words, he drew aside;
then, as I would have passed him by, he plucked me by the sleeve, and,
with a knowing wink, said:
"A favour, friend, a favour. Speak well of one John Coram to his
reverence, for verily my zeal is most abounding. Hark!" he added,
raising a shaking hand as a great shout reached us from the street.
"Doth not the Lord's cause prosper mightily? Yea, I trow it doth
indeed. And what am I, John Coram, to be spoken well of to his
reverence? Friend, it might seem to thee that I am overfull of ale, but
'tis not so; nay, I vow I never touch the stuff. 'Tis burning zeal
which fills me, nothing else. Zeal, I say, zeal! zeal!"
Nodding heavily, he staggered over to a bench, and crashing down
thereon, sat staring in amazement at his jack boots.
But having got thus far I craved some information.
"Where is the Duke?" I asked.
The fellow waved his hand and said:
"He sits in yon great room receiving followers."
"And is the chaplain with him?"
"Aye, verily, why not? Our godly chaplain is the friend of kings, and
nigh as full of zeal as me, John Coram. Ho! ho! methinks that's good;
ah, passing good be that. Ho! ho!"
I waited till his roaring laugh had sunk into a rumble, then fired a
random shot.
"Did'st ever meet a man called Tubal Ammon?"
John Coram tapped his steel-cap, shook his head, and answered:
"Never heard that name; but say, what be he like?"
"A tall, thin, bony fellow; legs like broomsticks; face like parchment;
eyes like slits; and short-cropped hair that grows straight up like
grass. Moreover, he----"
"Stop!" broke in Coram, who had been following me with wondering eyes
and gaping mouth. "What did you call him?"
"Tubal Ammon."
"Ah, then, it cannot be the same, and yet 'tis very like the man I met
five years agone. His name was Israel Stark. 'Twas said that he had
been a preacher of the Word, though when I knew him he was more a
breaker of it, though, to be sure, he had some store of Latin ever ready
on his tongue. Yet, for all that, he was the swiftest runner that I
ever came across. Moreover, he could climb a tree like any squirrel.
Aye, right well I mind me how I once did see him go clean up a----"
"Stay," I put in eagerly, "'tis the same man sure enough, in spite of
names."
"What! hast thou met him too, then, friend?" asked Coram.
"Yes, I have met him too," I answered grimly.
"When?"
"Not many hours ago."
"And where?"
"Not very far from here."
John Coram rose up slowly from his seat, and so stood staring at me for
a moment in a hungry fashion; then said he:
"I would with all my heart it had been me instead of you, friend; for
with these hands of mine I would have wrung his wicked skinny neck."
"Ah, so you have a grudge against him, eh?" I asked, as carelessly as
wellnigh throttling eagerness would let me.
"A grudge!" growled Coram. "Aye, friend, that doth not name the tithe
of it. I would account it heaven itself to kill the fellow; for,
verily, there's not a blacker villain on God's earth than Israel Stark,
and well I know it."
"Ah, and how so?"
"Why, hearken. He came to me in sore distress--half-starved--a thing of
skin and bones. He told me tales of savages and shipwrecks. I listened
to those tales, had pity on him, took him in, fed, clothed him. And in
the end he robbed me vilely; moreover, would have murdered me had not a
friend come in the nick of time and saved my life. That friend he slew,
and so escaped."
"Ah, then, we are one," said I.
"What mean you?" asked John Coram wonderingly. "Hath he injured thee as
well, then?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"No matter. We are one, I say, and this our meeting may be fortunate
for both of us. Listen! I would give you five gold pieces if you could
find this Stark or Ammon for me so that I might kill him."
"What!" gasped Coram. "Five--gold--pieces--to do that which I would
gladly do for nothing! But say, friend, if you met this fellow but a
few hours back, hast now no sort of knowledge where he is?"
"No, none."
"Nor is that any cause for marvel," rejoined Coram; "for verily the
fellow is a thing of darkness, passing like a shadow--well I know 'tis
so. But count on me, friend, count on me; for if this mischief-worker
still be in these parts, and catchable, he shall be caught. But stay,
how shall I let thee know? Where shall I find thee, friend, in case of
news?"
I paused a moment, looking fixedly at Coram. Could I trust the fellow?
Yes, methought I could. "You will find me at The Havering," I said, "a
house out yonder on the Uplime road. 'Tis a well-known place, and
anyone will guide you thither."
"The Havering, The Havering," murmured Coram slowly, like one who conned
a lesson. "Yes, methinks I've got that. And now for thy name, friend?"
Again I paused to scan his face; for verily the whole thing struck me as
a most uncanny echo of that fateful meeting by the roadside less than a
week before. But now, for all his bloodshot eyes and ale-marked face,
it seemed as though I stood before a lusty, honest fellow. Moreover,
when I came to think on it, a risk the more or less was of but small
account, for who could suffer now except myself? Therefore:
"Fane--Michael Fane," I answered.
"Fane!" muttered Coram, with a thoughtful stroking of his beard. "Fane!
That sounds familiar. Where did I hear it, now? Ah, I have it! 'Twas
yesternight, as I kept guard in yonder street, I heard two fellows
muttering round a corner. Their voices were so low that I could make
little of the conversation, but more than once I caught the words 'Black
Box' and 'Fane'. I tried to creep a little closer, but they heard me,
and, coming out, slunk off."
"Ha! so? And could you see them? Didst make out who they were?" I
asked, scarce able to prevent my hands from clutching him.
"Nay, for the moon was hid, the night full dark, and they passed by upon
the other side. But they were friends--not foes--of that I am assured,
for when I challenged them they gave the password of the night."
"You could make nothing of them, then?"
"Nay, naught; save that both were tall, and one--him nearest to me--wore
a long black cloak."
"And did you mark which road they went?"
"Aye, verily, I followed them a little way, and saw them hurrying off
towards the sea. But, say, why show you so much interest in this
matter? Truly, they used thy name, but that doth count for little,
being friends. Stay, though," he added quickly, "hast lost anything--a
box, for instance?"
"No," I answered slowly. "I have lost my father."
John Coram eyed me for a moment in a startled fashion.
"Not killed?" said he at last.
"No; but lost no less for that," I answered.
"Aye, lad, I see--I know--I understand, for I, too, lost mine when I was
young like thee. Yea, 'tis a grievous thing, indeed, to lose a father."
The bloodshot eyes that gazed into my own were sad; the voice, though
rough and thick, yet rang with kindness. The things about me seemed to
fade away, and I saw nothing save that waxen, upturned face at home.
John Coram's voice recalled me. "Say, friend," said he, laying a hand
upon my arm, "what secret lies behind this matter? Go you in fear of
anyone?"
For a moment I was tempted to trust the fellow and tell everything, but
wisdom pointed otherwise.
"In fear of anyone!" I echoed with a mocking laugh. "Nay, save me that,
I pray you. 'Twas but an idle fancy, nothing else. I only wondered
(foolishly enough) if Stark could have been one of them."
"Stark!" cried Coram, springing back. "Now, by my life, how came you to
think that?"
"An idle fancy, as I said before, and nothing else. These fellows gave
the password of the night, and so were friends. They used my name; and,
pray, why not, when it is free to all? Enough, let's say no more about
it." I stopped and looked at him, then put a last, most daring
question, saying: "I wonder if our godly chaplain knows Israel Stark or
Tubal Ammon (to give him both his names). Think you he does?"
On hearing this, John Coram drew away, and stared at me as though I had
gone daft; then, throwing back his head, laughed loud and long.
"Ho! ho! if that be not a merry jest, then show me one," cried he.
"Doth Master Ferguson know Israel Stark? Oh, by my life, 'tis
good--'tis passing good. But, look you, friend, I'll answer it by asking
thee a question. Doth Satan mix with angels?"
"It seems to me it may be so," I answered darkly.
John Coram started back, and cast a swift, uneasy glance at me.
"What mean you by such words as those?" he asked.
"Naught," I answered quickly; "nor must I tarry longer. Remember, five
gold pieces if you bring me certain news of Tubal Ammon's whereabouts;
and here, by way of token, is a crown-piece on account."
"Thou art a rare good fellow, friend," he murmured, staring at the coin;
"strange, indeed, but passing good. Nor will I fail thee. True, there
is much mystery in the matter, yet I ask no questions. We both want
Israel Stark--that's quite enough for me. Yea, 'tis a handsome bargain,
friend, and I, John Coram, will stick unto it like glue."
He held a big rough hand out, and I grasped it tightly, for,
notwithstanding too much ale and a rather muddled pate, I looked upon
him as a kind of brother.
"Yes," said I, "'tis true there is some mystery in this affair; but, as
we have one end in view, that matters nothing. Let us not fail each
other, that is all."
"Aye, true," said he; "but, look you, friend, 'tis said the Duke rides
out of Lyme within a day or two from now. What then?"
"Ah! what then?"
"Well, go you with us?"
"I know not where I go," I answered, turning with my hand upon the
door-latch; "but much may happen ere the Duke rides forth. In the
meantime I will not lose sight of you; rely on that."
With that I would have gone, but Coram stopped me.
"Stay! one moment, friend," said he, raising his blinking eyes no higher
than my waist-belt. "That small affair about thy horse last night. Is
it forgiven me?"
"Forgiven and forgotten," I replied.
He heaved a mighty sigh; and I went forth to seek the "godly chaplain".
*CHAPTER XII*
*How I was Saved from Rashness*
Turning down a stone-flagged passage, I made for a small, snug parlour,
where I had oft held private converse with the landlord and his daughter
Miriam, especially the latter. I found the door wide open and the room
deserted, but that did not prevent my entering, for indeed the house had
ever been a sort of second home to me; and, as things were just then, I
did not crave for any company, and silence seemed a blessed thing.
So, standing with my hands behind me, and back towards the empty
fire-place, I took swift thought, if thought it could be called--for
what a medley filled my brain! John Coram's words had let in such a
blinding light upon the question nearest to my heart that I was fairly
dazzled and bewildered by it. Thus, there was the mischief-working
demon with two names; his meeting on the previous night with Ferguson,
not a stone-throw from the spot where I was standing; their slinking by
the very man who was as zealous to kill Ammon as I was myself; and,
finally, the mocking thought that, in his ignorance, John Coram looked
on the murderous chaplain as a thing of spotless righteousness--fit
company for angels.
A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the
ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all
I knew about his saintly reverence.
This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look
on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was
with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be
constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon
me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that
I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon
would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I
doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon's
wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a
wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of
doing that which lay still nearer to my heart's desire. Again, my
father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest
without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.
No, my life, barren and blighted though it was, must not be risked that
night, too much depended on it. For a time, at least, I must restrain
myself, meet craftiness with craft and guile with guile.
These thoughts, which were so strange a mixture of cold reckoning and
burning hate, left me where I had been. A hot and overmastering desire
was on me to watch Ferguson, gloat over him, and see how one who had so
vilely bargained for my father's death could play the part of holiness
before Duke Monmouth and his followers. The very words with which he
had thus bartered life for gold rang in my ears; and once again the
vision of my father's white set face rose up before me. And then I
muttered something, loosed my sword within its sheath, and cast a
hungering glance down at the pistols in my belt.
From close at hand there came the heavy tramp of those who went to join
the "Cause", while from the street beyond the cries of "Liberty and pure
religion!" rose and fell unceasingly.
With curling lip I listened for a space to what, for me, was now a
bitter mockery, by reason of one Ferguson the Plotter; then with
tight-clenched teeth I strode across the room, bent on I scarce know
what, though if ever man had thought of murder in his heart that had I
just then. But ere I reached the door there came the rustle of a dress,
and Miriam, the landlord's daughter, stood before me.
It may have been the altered look upon my face, or simply great surprise
at seeing me, which was the cause of it, I know not; but with a little
cry she clasped her hands and started back, while I stood dumb as
Lucifer before an angel.
I tried to murmur something, but I could not; nor was there any need;
for now she came to me, took both my hands in hers, and looking up with
big sad eyes, said softly:
"Oh, Michael, I am very, very sorry for thee."
Her sweet voice trembled, and her pretty head was bowed.
Those were the gentlest, truest words that I had heard throughout that
awful day, and so there is no shame in saying that I could not answer
her. Instead I drew her close, and for a moment there was silence in
that little room. The setting sun shone in upon us; and, for a time at
least, I knew what power a woman has to save man from himself.
This is no tale of love, nor, if it were, would this be any place in
which to prate of it; but yet I should be something of a thankless
coward were I not to state that Miriam Hope was very dear to me. We had
been friends from childhood, and looking backward through the long, long
years I know how much I owe to her. And speaking of that night, she
saved me from I know not what mad act.
"And how came you here?" she asked, when we had talked a while of other
things.
"By the side door yonder," I replied.
"Ah, verily," sighed she, "the front is crowded like a fair. The
fearful din hath made my head ache sorely. How, think you, Michael, will
this sorry business end?"
"I fear in hanging for the most part, Miriam," was my answer.
"Ah, that is what my father says. 'Tis terrible to think of."
"And so the Duke is in the Great Room yonder?"
"Yes, and a very gracious, kindly gentleman he seems. His smile is very
sweet. Aye, 'tis a thousand pities that he ever landed on so wild a
business."
"Yes, ten thousand pities," I agreed, though not because I thought of
Monmouth's peril.
"My father says he cannot win."
"No; there is little chance of that, methinks."
"And what if he be beaten, Michael?"
"Why, then 'twill be a case of hunt and hunted. But say, Miriam, are
many of the gentry coming in to join him?"
"Nay, very few, if any. They are nearly all rough country men, more
used to scythes than swords. I pity them, for verily they look like
stupid boys let loose from school."
"Yes, yes," I murmured, for my mind was set on other things just then.
"Is Ferguson the chaplain with the Duke?"
"Yes; but him I like not," answered Miriam with a little frown. "He may
be great and clever as they say, but I go by faces, Michael, and never
saw I such an ugly, evil one as his. His little eyes glint out beneath
his old torn wig like those of rats, and when he walks he shuffles like
a camel. Why the Duke makes so much of him, and trusts him so, 'tis
past me to imagine, for verily I would not trust him with my shoes."
"Ah, then he must be bad," said I; then fearing lest my face might tell
a tale, I added quickly: "Now for the Great Room, Miriam; I would go
there."
She started back from me, glanced fearfully about her, then with a
searching look said:
"You would not join these rebels, surely, Michael?"
"Nay, I would only see the fun," I answered carelessly.
"But even that might well be dangerous," said she. "Remember there be
wicked, desperate men abroad just now."