It was a solemn party that returned to the Toft that day: three boats,
with the last propelled by Hickathrift, towing another behind. That
last punt was Dave Gittan's, and in it, later on, the man was taken to
his last resting-place.
At the inquiry it was found that Dave had been mortally wounded by a
bullet; and in this state he had managed to force his boat to his hut,
and when pursued, to his lurking-place in the farther part of the fen,
to lie down and die.
Who fired the shot which took his life? No one could say. Five bullets
were sent winging to stop his career on the night of his last insane
act, when pretty well everything which would burn upon the Toft was
destroyed; but whose was the hand which pulled the trigger, and whose
the eye which took the aim, was not divulged.
Dave had well kept his secret, and struggled hard to stay the advance of
progress, but fought in vain, and with his fall almost the last
opposition to the making of the great drain died out.
There were old fen-men who murmured and declared that the place was
being destroyed, but for the most part they lived to see that great
drain and others made, and the wild morass become dry land upon which
the plough turned up the black soil and the harrow smoothed, and great
waving crops of corn took the place of those of reed. Meadows, too,
spread out around the Toft, and Farmer Tallington's home at Grimsey--
meads upon which pastured fine cattle; while in that part of the wide
fen-land ague nearly died away.
It was one evening twenty years later that a couple of stalwart
well-dressed men, engineers engaged upon the cutting of another lode or
drain many miles to the north, strolled down from the Toft farm to have
a chat with the great grey-haired wheelwright, who carried on a large
business now that a village had sprung up in the fen.
His delight was extreme to see the visitors, and they had hard work to
extricate their ringers from his grip.
"Think of you two coming to see me now! It caps owt."
"Why, of course we've come to see you, Hicky," said the taller of the
two. "How well you look!"
"Well! Hearty, Mester Dick, bless you! and the missus too. Hearty as
the squire and his lady, bless 'em. But your father looks sadly, Mester
Tom, sir. He don't wear as I should like to see un. He's wankle."
[Sickly.]
"Rheumatism, Hicky; that's all. He'll be better soon. I say, what's
that--a summer-house?" said Tom, pointing.
"That, Mester Tom! Why, you know?"
"Why, it's the old punt!" cried Dick.
"Ay, it's the owd poont, Mester Dick. What games yow did hev in her
too, eh?"
"Yes, Hicky," said Dick with a sigh. "Ah! those were happy days."
"They weer, lad; they weer. Owd poont got dry and cracked, and of no
use bud to go on the dreern, and who wanted to go on a dreern as had
been used to the mere?"
"No one, of course," said Dick, gazing across the fields and meadows
where he had once propelled the punt.
"Ay, no one, o' course, so Jacob sawed her i' two one day, and we set
her oop theer i' the garden for a summer-hoose, and Jacob painted her
green. I say, Mester Dick, ony think," added Hickathrift, laughing
violently.
"Think what? Don't laugh like that, Hicky, or you'll shake your head
off."
"Nay, not I, my lad; but it do mak' me laugh."
"What does?"
"Jacob's married!"
"No!"
"He is, Mester Dick, and theer's a babby."
"Never!" said Dick, laughing, to humour the great fellow, who wiped his
eyes and became quite solemn now.
"Yes, that he hes, Mester Dick, and you'd nivver guess what he's ca'd
him."
"Jacob, of course."
"Nay, Mester Dick; he's ca'd him Dave."
Dick and Tom went down to the wheelwright's again next day to chat over
old times--fishing, shooting, the netting at the decoy, and the like;
and heard how John Warren had lately died, a venerable old man, who
confessed at last how he had helped Dave Gittan in some of the outrages
when the drain was made, because he hated it, and said it would ruin
honest men.
But it was not to see John Warren's nor Dave Gittan's grave that
Hickathrift led the young men to the one bit of waste land left, and
there pointed to a wooden tablet nailed against a willow tree.
"The squire give me leave, Mester Dick, and Jacob and me buried him
theer when he died. Jacob painted his name on it, rather rough, but the
best he could, and we'd hev put his age on it, as well as the date, if
we'd ha' known."
"How old was he, do you think, Hicky?" said Dick.
"Don't know, sir, but straange and old."
"But why did you take so much interest in him? You never liked the
donkey."
"Nay, bud you did, lad, and that was enough for me."
"Poor old Solomon!" said Dick, smiling at the recollections the rough
tablet evoked; "how he could kick!"
"And so you and young Tom--I beg pardon, sir," said Hicky, "Mester
Tallington--are going to help Mester Marston wi the big dreerning out in
Cambridgeshire, eh?"
"Yes, Hicky, ours is a busy life now; but we're beginning to find people
more sensible about such matters. Mr Marston was laughing over it the
other day, and saying that all the romance had gone out of our
profession now there was no chance of getting shot."
"Weer he, now?" said Hickathrift wonderingly. "Think of a man liking to
be shot at!"
"Oh, he does not like to be shot at, Hicky! By the way, though, who was
it shot Dave Gittan? Come, now, you know."
"Owd Dave Gittan's been buried twenty year, Mester Dick, so let him
rest."
"Rest! Of course; but come--you do know?"
"Yes, Mester Dick," said the wheelwright stolidly. "I do know, but I
sweered as I'd nivver tell, and I'll keep my word."
"Ah, well, I will not press you, Hicky! It was a sad time."
"Ay, my lads, a sad time when a man maks war like that again his
brothers wi' fire and sword, leastwise wi' goon. That theer fen was
like a battlefield in them days, while now it's as pleasant a place to
look upon as a man need wish to see."
"A lovely landscape, Hicky," said Dick, gazing across the verdant plain.
"Ay, lad, and once all bog and watter, and hardly a tree from end to
end."
"A great change, Hicky, showing what man can do."
"Ay, a great change, Mester Dick, but somehow theer are times when I get
longing for the black watter and the wild birds, and all as it used to
be."
"Yes, Hicky," said Dick almost sadly as he saw in memory's mirror the
days of his boyhood; "but this is a world of change, man; we must look
forward and not back."
"Ay, Mester, Dick, 'cause all's for the best."
"Yes, Hicky, keep to that--all's for the best! Come, Tom; it's time we
said good-bye to the old fen!"