JOHN FRY'S ERRAND
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We kept up the dance very late that night, mother being in such
wonderful spirits, that she would not hear of our going to bed: while
she glanced from young Squire Marwood, very deep in his talk with our
Annie, to me and Ruth Huckaback who were beginning to be very pleasant
company. Alas, poor mother, so proud as she was, how little she dreamed
that her good schemes already were hopelessly going awry!
Being forced to be up before daylight next day, in order to begin right
early, I would not go to my bedroom that night for fear of disturbing my
mother, but determined to sleep in the tallat awhile, that place being
cool, and airy, and refreshing with the smell of sweet hay. Moreover,
after my dwelling in town, where I had felt like a horse on a lime-kiln,
I could not for a length of time have enough of country life. The mooing
of a calf was music, and the chuckle of a fowl was wit, and the snore of
the horses was news to me.
“Wult have thee own wai, I reckon,” said Betty, being cross with
sleepiness, for she had washed up everything; “slape in hog-pound, if
thee laikes, Jan.”
Letting her have the last word of it (as is the due of women) I stood in
the court, and wondered awhile at the glory of the harvest moon, and the
yellow world it shone upon. Then I saw, as sure as ever I was standing
there in the shadow of the stable, I saw a short wide figure glide
across the foot of the courtyard, between me and the six-barred gate.
Instead of running after it, as I should have done, I began to consider
who it could be, and what on earth was doing there, when all our people
were in bed, and the reapers gone home, or to the linhay close against
the wheatfield.
Having made up my mind at last, that it could be none of our
people--though not a dog was barking--and also that it must have been
either a girl or a woman, I ran down with all speed to learn what might
be the meaning of it. But I came too late to learn, through my own
hesitation, for this was the lower end of the courtyard, not the
approach from the parish highway, but the end of the sledd-way, across
the fields where the brook goes down to the Lynn stream, and where
Squire Faggus had saved the old drake. And of course the dry channel
of the brook, being scarcely any water now, afforded plenty of place to
hide, leading also to a little coppice, beyond our cabbage-garden, and
so further on to the parish highway.
I saw at once that it was vain to make any pursuit by moonlight; and
resolving to hold my own counsel about it (though puzzled not a
little) and to keep watch there another night, back I returned to the
tallatt-ladder, and slept without leaving off till morning.
Now many people may wish to know, as indeed I myself did very greatly,
what had brought Master Huckaback over from Dulverton, at that time of
year, when the clothing business was most active on account of harvest
wages, and when the new wheat was beginning to sample from the early
parts up the country (for he meddled as well in corn-dealing) and when
we could not attend to him properly by reason of our occupation. And
yet more surprising it seemed to me that he should have brought his
granddaughter also, instead of the troop of dragoons, without which
he had vowed he would never come here again. And how he had managed to
enter the house together with his granddaughter, and be sitting quite at
home in the parlour there, without any knowledge or even suspicion on
my part. That last question was easily solved, for mother herself had
admitted them by means of the little passage, during a chorus of the
harvest-song which might have drowned an earthquake: but as for his
meaning and motive, and apparent neglect of his business, none but
himself could interpret them; and as he did not see fit to do so, we
could not be rude enough to inquire.
He seemed in no hurry to take his departure, though his visit was so
inconvenient to us, as himself indeed must have noticed: and presently
Lizzie, who was the sharpest among us, said in my hearing that she
believed he had purposely timed his visit so that he might have liberty
to pursue his own object, whatsoever it were, without interruption
from us. Mother gazed hard upon Lizzie at this, having formed a very
different opinion; but Annie and myself agreed that it was worth looking
into.
Now how could we look into it, without watching Uncle Reuben, whenever
he went abroad, and trying to catch him in his speech, when he was
taking his ease at night. For, in spite of all the disgust with which
he had spoken of harvest wassailing, there was not a man coming into
our kitchen who liked it better than he did; only in a quiet way, and
without too many witnesses. Now to endeavour to get at the purpose of
any guest, even a treacherous one (which we had no right to think Uncle
Reuben) by means of observing him in his cups, is a thing which even the
lowest of people would regard with abhorrence. And to my mind it was not
clear whether it would be fair-play at all to follow a visitor even at a
distance from home and clear of our premises; except for the purpose of
fetching him back, and giving him more to go on with. Nevertheless we
could not but think, the times being wild and disjointed, that Uncle
Ben was not using fairly the part of a guest in our house, to make long
expeditions we knew not whither, and involve us in trouble we knew not
what.
For his mode was directly after breakfast to pray to the Lord a little
(which used not to be his practice), and then to go forth upon Dolly,
the which was our Annie's pony, very quiet and respectful, with a bag of
good victuals hung behind him, and two great cavalry pistols in front.
And he always wore his meanest clothes as if expecting to be robbed,
or to disarm the temptation thereto; and he never took his golden
chronometer neither his bag of money. So much the girls found out and
told me (for I was never at home myself by day); and they very craftily
spurred me on, having less noble ideas perhaps, to hit upon Uncle
Reuben's track, and follow, and see what became of him. For he never
returned until dark or more, just in time to be in before us, who were
coming home from the harvest. And then Dolly always seemed very weary,
and stained with a muck from beyond our parish.
But I refused to follow him, not only for the loss of a day's work to
myself, and at least half a day to the other men, but chiefly because I
could not think that it would be upright and manly. It was all very
well to creep warily into the valley of the Doones, and heed everything
around me, both because they were public enemies, and also because I
risked my life at every step I took there. But as to tracking a feeble
old man (however subtle he might be), a guest moreover of our own, and
a relative through my mother.--“Once for all,” I said, “it is below me,
and I won't do it.”
Thereupon, the girls, knowing my way, ceased to torment me about it: but
what was my astonishment the very next day to perceive that instead of
fourteen reapers, we were only thirteen left, directly our breakfast
was done with--or mowers rather I should say, for we were gone into the
barley now.
“Who has been and left his scythe?” I asked; “and here's a tin cup never
been handled!”
“Whoy, dudn't ee knaw, Maister Jan,” said Bill Dadds, looking at me
queerly, “as Jan Vry wur gane avore braxvass.”
“Oh, very well,” I answered, “John knows what he is doing.” For John
Fry was a kind of foreman now, and it would not do to say anything that
might lessen his authority. However, I made up my mind to rope him, when
I should catch him by himself, without peril to his dignity.
But when I came home in the evening, late and almost weary, there was no
Annie cooking my supper, nor Lizzie by the fire reading, nor even little
Ruth Huckaback watching the shadows and pondering. Upon this, I went to
the girls' room, not in the very best of tempers, and there I found all
three of them in the little place set apart for Annie, eagerly listening
to John Fry, who was telling some great adventure. John had a great jug
of ale beside him, and a horn well drained; and he clearly looked upon
himself as a hero, and the maids seemed to be of the same opinion.
“Well done, John,” my sister was saying, “capitally done, John Fry. How
very brave you have been, John. Now quick, let us hear the rest of it.”
“What does all this nonsense mean?” I said, in a voice which frightened
them, as I could see by the light of our own mutton candles: “John Fry,
you be off to your wife at once, or you shall have what I owe you now,
instead of to-morrow morning.”
John made no answer, but scratched his head, and looked at the maidens
to take his part.
“It is you that must be off, I think,” said Lizzie, looking straight at
me with all the impudence in the world; “what right have you to come in
here to the young ladies' room, without an invitation even?”
“Very well, Miss Lizzie, I suppose mother has some right here.” And with
that, I was going away to fetch her, knowing that she always took my
side, and never would allow the house to be turned upside down in that
manner. But Annie caught hold of me by the arm, and little Ruth stood in
the doorway; and Lizzie said, “Don't be a fool, John. We know things of
you, you know; a great deal more than you dream of.”
Upon this I glanced at Annie, to learn whether she had been telling,
but her pure true face reassured me at once, and then she said very
gently,--
“Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No one knows anything of our John
which he need be ashamed of; and working as he does from light to dusk,
and earning the living of all of us, he is entitled to choose his own
good time for going out and for coming in, without consulting a little
girl five years younger than himself. Now, John, sit down, and you shall
know all that we have done, though I doubt whether you will approve of
it.”
Upon this I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; and John Fry looked a deal
more comfortable, but Lizzie only made a face at us. Then Annie began as
follows:--
“You must know, dear John, that we have been extremely curious, ever
since Uncle Reuben came, to know what he was come for, especially at
this time of year, when he is at his busiest. He never vouchsafed any
explanation, neither gave any reason, true or false, which shows his
entire ignorance of all feminine nature. If Ruth had known, and refused
to tell us, we should have been much easier, because we must have got it
out of Ruth before two or three days were over. But darling Ruth knew no
more than we did, and indeed I must do her the justice to say that she
has been quite as inquisitive. Well, we might have put up with it, if it
had not been for his taking Dolly, my own pet Dolly, away every morning,
quite as if she belonged to him, and keeping her out until close upon
dark, and then bringing her home in a frightful condition. And he even
had the impudence, when I told him that Dolly was my pony, to say that
we owed him a pony, ever since you took from him that little horse upon
which you found him strapped so snugly; and he means to take Dolly to
Dulverton with him, to run in his little cart. If there is law in the
land he shall not. Surely, John, you will not let him?”
“That I won't,” said I, “except upon the conditions which I offered him
once before. If we owe him the pony, we owe him the straps.”
Sweet Annie laughed, like a bell, at this, and then she went on with her
story.
“Well, John, we were perfectly miserable. You cannot understand it, of
course; but I used to go every evening, and hug poor Dolly, and kiss
her, and beg her to tell me where she had been, and what she had seen,
that day. But never having belonged to Balaam, darling Dolly was quite
unsuccessful, though often she strove to tell me, with her ears down,
and both eyes rolling. Then I made John Fry tie her tail in a knot, with
a piece of white ribbon, as if for adornment, that I might trace her
among the hills, at any rate for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too
deep for that; he cut off the ribbon before he started, saying he
would have no Doones after him. And then, in despair, I applied to you,
knowing how quick of foot you are, and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me,
but you answered us very shortly; and a very poor supper you had that
night, according to your deserts.
“But though we were dashed to the ground for a time, we were not wholly
discomfited. Our determination to know all about it seemed to increase
with the difficulty. And Uncle Ben's manner last night was so dry,
when we tried to romp and to lead him out, that it was much worse than
Jamaica ginger grated into a poor sprayed finger. So we sent him to
bed at the earliest moment, and held a small council upon him. If
you remember you, John, having now taken to smoke (which is a hateful
practice), had gone forth grumbling about your bad supper and not taking
it as a good lesson.”
“Why, Annie,” I cried, in amazement at this, “I will never trust you
again for a supper. I thought you were so sorry.”
“And so I was, dear; very sorry. But still we must do our duty. And when
we came to consider it, Ruth was the cleverest of us all; for she said
that surely we must have some man we could trust about the farm to go
on a little errand; and then I remembered that old John Fry would do
anything for money.”
“Not for money, plaize, miss,” said John Fry, taking a pull at the beer;
“but for the love of your swate face.”
“To be sure, John; with the King's behind it. And so Lizzie ran for John
Fry at once, and we gave him full directions, how he was to slip out of
the barley in the confusion of the breakfast, so that none might miss
him; and to run back to the black combe bottom, and there he would find
the very same pony which Uncle Ben had been tied upon, and there is no
faster upon the farm. And then, without waiting for any breakfast unless
he could eat it either running or trotting, he was to travel all up the
black combe, by the track Uncle Reuben had taken, and up at the top to
look forward carefully, and so to trace him without being seen.”
“Ay; and raight wull a doo'd un,” John cried, with his mouth in the
bullock's horn.
“Well, and what did you see, John?” I asked, with great anxiety; though
I meant to have shown no interest.
“John was just at the very point of it,” Lizzie answered me sharply,
“when you chose to come in and stop him.”
“Then let him begin again,” said I; “things being gone so far, it is now
my duty to know everything, for the sake of you girls and mother.”
“Hem!” cried Lizzie, in a nasty way; but I took no notice of her, for
she was always bad to deal with. Therefore John Fry began again, being
heartily glad to do so, that his story might get out of the tumble which
all our talk had made in it. But as he could not tell a tale in
the manner of my Lorna (although he told it very well for those who
understood him) I will take it from his mouth altogether, and state in
brief what happened.
When John, upon his forest pony, which he had much ado to hold (its
mouth being like a bucket), was come to the top of the long black combe,
two miles or more from Plover's Barrows, and winding to the southward,
he stopped his little nag short of the crest, and got off and looked
ahead of him, from behind a tump of whortles. It was a long flat sweep
of moorland over which he was gazing, with a few bogs here and there,
and brushy places round them. Of course, John Fry, from his shepherd
life and reclaiming of strayed cattle, knew as well as need be where he
was, and the spread of the hills before him, although it was beyond our
beat, or, rather, I should say, beside it. Not but what we might have
grazed there had it been our pleasure, but that it was not worth our
while, and scarcely worth Jasper Kebby's even; all the land being
cropped (as one might say) with desolation. And nearly all our knowledge
of it sprang from the unaccountable tricks of cows who have young calves
with them; at which time they have wild desire to get away from the
sight of man, and keep calf and milk for one another, although it be
in a barren land. At least, our cows have gotten this trick, and I have
heard other people complain of it.
John Fry, as I said, knew the place well enough, but he liked it none
the more for that, neither did any of our people; and, indeed, all
the neighbourhood of Thomshill and Larksborough, and most of all Black
Barrow Down lay under grave imputation of having been enchanted with a
very evil spell. Moreover, it was known, though folk were loath to speak
of it, even on a summer morning, that Squire Thom, who had been murdered
there, a century ago or more, had been seen by several shepherds, even
in the middle day, walking with his severed head carried in his left
hand, and his right arm lifted towards the sun.
Therefore it was very bold in John (as I acknowledged) to venture across
that moor alone, even with a fast pony under him, and some whisky by
his side. And he would never have done so (of that I am quite certain),
either for the sake of Annie's sweet face, or of the golden guinea,
which the three maidens had subscribed to reward his skill and valour.
But the truth was that he could not resist his own great curiosity. For,
carefully spying across the moor, from behind the tuft of whortles, at
first he could discover nothing having life and motion, except three or
four wild cattle roving in vain search for nourishment, and a diseased
sheep banished hither, and some carrion crows keeping watch on her. But
when John was taking his very last look, being only too glad to go
home again, and acknowledge himself baffled, he thought he saw a figure
moving in the farthest distance upon Black Barrow Down, scarcely a thing
to be sure of yet, on account of the want of colour. But as he watched,
the figure passed between him and a naked cliff, and appeared to be a
man on horseback, making his way very carefully, in fear of bogs and
serpents. For all about there it is adders' ground, and large black
serpents dwell in the marshes, and can swim as well as crawl.
John knew that the man who was riding there could be none but Uncle
Reuben, for none of the Doones ever passed that way, and the shepherds
were afraid of it. And now it seemed an unkind place for an unarmed man
to venture through, especially after an armed one who might not like
to be spied upon, and must have some dark object in visiting such drear
solitudes. Nevertheless John Fry so ached with unbearable curiosity to
know what an old man, and a stranger, and a rich man, and a peaceable
could possibly be after in that mysterious manner. Moreover, John so
throbbed with hope to find some wealthy secret, that come what would of
it he resolved to go to the end of the matter.
Therefore he only waited awhile for fear of being discovered, till
Master Huckaback turned to the left and entered a little gully, whence
he could not survey the moor. Then John remounted and crossed the rough
land and the stony places, and picked his way among the morasses as fast
as ever he dared to go; until, in about half an hour, he drew nigh the
entrance of the gully. And now it behoved him to be most wary; for Uncle
Ben might have stopped in there, either to rest his horse or having
reached the end of his journey. And in either case, John had little
doubt that he himself would be pistolled, and nothing more ever heard
of him. Therefore he made his pony come to the mouth of it sideways,
and leaned over and peered in around the rocky corner, while the little
horse cropped at the briars.
But he soon perceived that the gully was empty, so far at least as its
course was straight; and with that he hastened into it, though his heart
was not working easily. When he had traced the winding hollow for half
a mile or more, he saw that it forked, and one part led to the left up
a steep red bank, and the other to the right, being narrow and slightly
tending downwards. Some yellow sand lay here and there between the
starving grasses, and this he examined narrowly for a trace of Master
Huckaback.
At last he saw that, beyond all doubt, the man he was pursuing had taken
the course which led down hill; and down the hill he must follow him.
And this John did with deep misgivings, and a hearty wish that he had
never started upon so perilous an errand. For now he knew not where he
was, and scarcely dared to ask himself, having heard of a horrible hole,
somewhere in this neighbourhood, called the Wizard's Slough. Therefore
John rode down the slope, with sorrow, and great caution. And these grew
more as he went onward, and his pony reared against him, being scared,
although a native of the roughest moorland. And John had just made up
his mind that God meant this for a warning, as the passage seemed darker
and deeper, when suddenly he turned a corner, and saw a scene which
stopped him.
For there was the Wizard's Slough itself, as black as death, and
bubbling, with a few scant yellow reeds in a ring around it. Outside
these, bright water-grass of the liveliest green was creeping, tempting
any unwary foot to step, and plunge, and founder. And on the marge
were blue campanula, sundew, and forget-me-not, such as no child could
resist. On either side, the hill fell back, and the ground was
broken with tufts of rush, and flag, and mares-tail, and a few rough
alder-trees overclogged with water. And not a bird was seen or heard,
neither rail nor water-hen, wag-tail nor reed-warbler.
Of this horrible quagmire, the worst upon all Exmoor, John had heard
from his grandfather, and even from his mother, when they wanted to keep
him quiet; but his father had feared to speak of it to him, being a man
of piety, and up to the tricks of the evil one. This made John the more
desirous to have a good look at it now, only with his girths well up,
to turn away and flee at speed, if anything should happen. And now
he proved how well it is to be wary and wide-awake, even in lonesome
places. For at the other side of the Slough, and a few land-yards beyond
it, where the ground was less noisome, he had observed a felled tree
lying over a great hole in the earth, with staves of wood, and slabs of
stone, and some yellow gravel around it. But the flags of reeds around
the morass partly screened it from his eyes, and he could not make
out the meaning of it, except that it meant no good, and probably was
witchcraft. Yet Dolly seemed not to be harmed by it, for there she was
as large as life, tied to a stump not far beyond, and flipping the flies
away with her tail.
While John was trembling within himself, lest Dolly should get scent of
his pony, and neigh and reveal their presence, although she could not
see them, suddenly to his great amazement something white arose out of
the hole, under the brown trunk of the tree. Seeing this his blood went
back within him, yet he was not able to turn and flee, but rooted his
face in among the loose stones, and kept his quivering shoulders back,
and prayed to God to protect him. However, the white thing itself was
not so very awful, being nothing more than a long-coned night-cap with a
tassel on the top, such as criminals wear at hanging-time. But when John
saw a man's face under it, and a man's neck and shoulders slowly rising
out of the pit, he could not doubt that this was the place where the
murderers come to life again, according to the Exmoor story. He knew
that a man had been hanged last week, and that this was the ninth day
after it.
Therefore he could bear no more, thoroughly brave as he had been,
neither did he wait to see what became of the gallows-man; but climbed
on his horse with what speed he might, and rode away at full gallop.
Neither did he dare go back by the way he came, fearing to face Black
Barrow Down! therefore he struck up the other track leading away towards
Cloven Rocks, and after riding hard for an hour and drinking all
his whisky, he luckily fell in with a shepherd, who led him on to a
public-house somewhere near Exeford. And here he was so unmanned, the
excitement being over, that nothing less than a gallon of ale and half
a gammon of bacon, brought him to his right mind again. And he took good
care to be home before dark, having followed a well-known sheep track.
When John Fry finished his story at last, after many exclamations from
Annie, and from Lizzie, and much praise of his gallantry, yet some
little disappointment that he had not stayed there a little longer,
while he was about it, so as to be able to tell us more, I said to him
very sternly,--
“Now, John, you have dreamed half this, my man. I firmly believe that
you fell asleep at the top of the black combe, after drinking all your
whisky, and never went on the moor at all. You know what a liar you are,
John.”
The girls were exceedingly angry at this, and laid their hands before
my mouth; but I waited for John to answer, with my eyes fixed upon him
steadfastly.
“Bain't for me to denai,” said John, looking at me very honestly, “but
what a maight tull a lai, now and awhiles, zame as other men doth, and
most of arl them as spaks again it; but this here be no lai, Maister
Jan. I wush to God it wor, boy: a maight slape this naight the better.”
“I believe you speak the truth, John; and I ask your pardon. Now not a
word to any one, about this strange affair. There is mischief brewing, I
can see; and it is my place to attend to it. Several things come across
me now--only I will not tell you.”
They were not at all contented with this; but I would give them no
better; except to say, when they plagued me greatly, and vowed to sleep
at my door all night,--
“Now, my dears, this is foolish of you. Too much of this matter is known
already. It is for your own dear sakes that I am bound to be cautious.
I have an opinion of my own; but it may be a very wrong one; I will not
ask you to share it with me; neither will I make you inquisitive.”
Annie pouted, and Lizzie frowned, and Ruth looked at me with her eyes
wide open, but no other mark of regarding me. And I saw that if any one
of the three (for John Fry was gone home with the trembles) could be
trusted to keep a secret, that one was Ruth Huckaback.
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