DISTURBERS OF THE NIGHT.
"I will have the wench."
"If you can get her."--_The Coxcomb._
The captain gave instructions, as he and his pupils strode forward. The
two boys with the lights were left behind to take shelter in a porch,
so that the peace-breakers might advance in the greater darkness. It
was enough for their purpose that they had the lanterns of the watch to
guide them.
The watchmen came trudging on in ranks of two. Presently there could
be heard, from somewhere among them, a voice of lamentation, protest,
and pleading, with a sound of one stumbling against sundry ill-set
paving-stones of the street.
"They have a prisoner," said the captain to his followers. "We'll
make a rescue of this. Remember, lads, no swords to be used on these
dotards; but do as I've told ye."
In another moment, and just when the watchmen seemed about to halt for
consideration, but before their leader had made up his mind to cry,
"Stand!" the captain shouted, "Now, boys, now; a rescue! a rescue!"
and the roysterers rushed forward with a chorus of whoops.
The watch, composed for the most part of old men, had scarce time
to huddle into a compact form when the gallants were upon them. The
assailants, keeping up their shouting, made to seize the watchmen's
bills, with which to belabour them about their heads and shoulders.
One or two were successful in this; but others found their intended
victims too quick, and were themselves the recipients of blows. These
unfortunate ones, bearing in mind the captain's directions, essayed to
snatch away lanterns, and to retaliate upon the watchmen's skulls; and
whoever failed in this, rushed to close quarters, grasped an opponent's
beard, and hung on with all weight and strength.
The captain's operations were directed against the pair who had
immediate charge of the prisoner. Possessing himself of the bill of
one, whom, by the same act, he caused to lose balance and topple
over, he obtained the other's voluntary retreat by a gentle poke in
the paunch. The prisoner himself proved to be a man of years, and
of port; he had a fat, innocent face, and he showed, by his dress
and every other sign that became visible when the captain held up
a lantern before him, to be a gentleman. What such a guileless,
well-fed old person could have done to fall afoul of the night-watch,
Captain Ravenshaw could not imagine. For the time, the old person's
astonishment and relief at being set free were too great to permit his
speaking.
Meanwhile, Master Holyday, having been the last to come up, found the
melée so suddenly precipitated, and so complete without his intrusion,
that he stood back looking for a convenient place and time for him to
plunge into it. But it seemed impossible for him to penetrate the edge
of the scuffle, or to connect himself with it in any effective way.
So he hung upon the skirts; until at last two of the watchmen, being
simultaneously minded for flight, bore down upon him from out of the
hurly-burly. He instinctively threw out his arms to stay their going;
whereupon he found himself grappled with on either side, and from that
instant he had so much to do himself that he lost all observation of
the main conflict. Nor had the other fighters any knowledge of this
side matter. But their own sport was over ere their wind was out;
the watchmen, being mainly of shorter breath and greater prudence
than their antagonists, soon followed the example of flight; and the
gallants, soberer by sundry aches, smarts, and bruises, were left
masters of the field. None of the watch was too much battered to be
able to scamper off toward the Poultry.
"A piece of good luck, sir," began Captain Ravenshaw, to the released
prisoner, around whom the gallants assembled while they compared knocks
and trophies. "You had been scurvily lodged this night, else."
"Sirs, I thank ye," replied the old gentleman, finding at last his
voice, though it was the mildest of voices at best. He was still shaky
from having been so recently in great fright; but he gathered force as
his gratitude grew with his clearer sense of escape.
"God wot, I am much beholden to ye. You know not what you have saved me
from."
"To say truth, a lousy hole behind an iron grating were no pleasant
place for one of your quality," said Ravenshaw.
"Oh, 'tis not that so much, though 'twere bad enough," said the
gentleman, with a shudder. "'Tis the lifetime of blame that would have
followed when my wife had heard of it. You must know, sirs, I am a
country gentleman, and I am not known to be in London; my detention
would be noised about, and when it reached my wife's ears--'sfoot,
sirs, I am for ever your debtor in thankfulness!" And he looked his
meaning most fervently.
"Why did the watch take you up?" inquired the captain.
"Why, for nothing but being abroad in the streets. The plaguey rascals
said I was a night-walker, and that I behaved suspiciously. I did
nothing but stand and wait at the Standard yonder, for one I had agreed
to meet; but when I saw the watch coming I stepped back, to be out
of their lantern-light. This stepping back, they said, proved I was
a rogue; and so they clapped hands on me, and fetched me along. But
now I bethink me, sirs: the person I was to meet--what will she do an
she find me not at the place?" The old gentleman showed a reawakened
distress, and, turning toward the direction whence the watch had
brought him, looked wistfully and yet reluctantly into the darkness.
"Oho! She!" quoth the captain. "No wonder your wife--"
"Nay, think no harm, I beg. Nay, nay, good sirs! Sure, 'tis an
evil-thinking world. Well, I must e'en bid ye good night, and leave
ye my best thanks. Would I might some day repay you this courtesy. My
name, sirs--but no, an ye'll pardon me, I durst not; the very stones
might hear it, and report I was in London. But if I might know--"
"Surely. We have no wives in the country, that we must keep our doings
from, have we, boys? And we are free of the streets of London, aren't
we, boys? My name, sir, is Ravenshaw--Captain Ravenshaw; and this
gentleman--"
He was about to introduce his companions by the names of great persons
of the court, when, casting his eyes over the group for the first time
since the link-boys had come up with their torches, he was suddenly
otherwise concerned.
"Why, where's Master Holyday? Where the devil's our scholar?"
The gallants looked from one to another, and then peered into the
surrounding darkness, but saw no one; nor came any answer to the
captain's shout, "What ho, Holyday! Hollo, hollo!"
"An't please you," spoke up one of the link-boys, "while we waited
yonder, the watchmen ran past us; and methought two of them dragged a
man along between them; but 'twas so dark, and they went so fast--"
"Marry, that's how the wind lies," cried the captain. "Gallants, here's
more business of a roaring nature. A rescue! Come, the hunt is up! To
the cage, boys! We may catch 'em on the way."
Without more ado, Ravenshaw led his followers, link-boys and all, on
a run toward the Poultry, leaving the grateful old gentleman in the
darkness and to his own devices.
They hastened to the night-watch prison, but overtook no one on the
way; it was clear that the watchmen had made themselves and their
prisoner safe behind doors. An attack on the prison would have been
a more serious business than the captain could see any profit in.
So, abandoning the luckless scholar to the course of the law, the
night-disturbers made their way back to Cheapside, wondering what
riotous business they might be about next.
"What asses are these!" thought the captain. "They have warm beds to
go to, yet they rather wear out their soles upon the streets in search
of trouble. Well, it helps me pass the night, and I am every way the
gainer by it; so if puppies must needs learn to play the lion, may they
have no worse teacher."
When they came to the Standard, that ancient stone structure rising
in the middle of the street, they walked around it to see if the old
gentleman was there; but the place was deserted.
"Here were a matter to wager upon, now," observed the captain: "Whether
he met his mistress after all and bore her away, or whether he found
her not and went wisely to bed."
A few steps farther brought the strollers opposite the mouth of
Bread Street. The sound of men's voices came from within this narrow
thoroughfare.
"Marry, here be other fellows abroad," quoth the captain. "How if we
should 'light upon occasion for a brawl? Then we should see if we could
put them down with big words. Come, lads."
They turned into the narrow street and proceeded toward a group whose
four or five dark figures were indistinctly marked in the flickering
glare of a single torch. This group appeared to be circled about a
closed doorway opposite All-hallows Church, at the farther corner of
Watling Street, in which doorway stood the object of its attention.
"Some drunken drab o' the streets, belike," said the captain, in a
low voice, to his followers. "We'll feign to know her, and we'll call
ourselves her friends; that will put us on brawling terms with those
gentlemen. They are gallants, sure, by their cloaks and feathers."
The gentlemen were, it seemed, too disdainful of harm to interrupt
their mirth by looking to see who came toward them. The heartless
amusement on their faces, the tormenting tone of the jesting words
they spoke, gave an impression somewhat like that of a pack of dogs
surrounding a helpless animal which they dare not attack, but which
they entertain themselves by teasing.
The captain stepped unchallenged into the little circle, and looked
at the person shrinking in the doorway, who was quite visible in the
torchlight.
"'Slight!" quoth the captain. "This is no trull; 'tis a young
gentlewoman."
His surprise was so great as to make him for the moment forget the plan
he had formed of precipitating a quarrel. The young gentlewoman looked
very young indeed, and very gentle, being of a slight figure, and
having a delicate face. She leaned close against the door, at which she
had, as it seemed, put herself at bay. Her face, still wet with tears,
retained something of the distortion of weeping, but was nevertheless
charming. Her eyes, yet moist, were like violets on which rain had
fallen. Her lips had not ceased to quiver with the emotion which had
started her tears. Her hair, which was of a light brown, was in some
disorder, partly from the wind; for the hood of the brown cloak she
wore had been pulled back. It might easily be guessed who had pulled
it, for the gentleman who stood nearest her, clad in velvet, and by
whose behaviour the others seemed to be guided, held in his hand a
little black mask, which he must have plucked from the girl's face.
This gentleman was tall, nobly formed, and of a magnificent appearance.
His features were ruddy, bold, and cut in straight lines. He wore
silken black moustaches, and a small black beard trimmed to two points.
At the captain's words, this gentleman looked around, took full note of
the speaker in a brief glance, and scarce dropping his smile,--a smile
careless and serene, of heartless humour,--said, calmly:
"Stand back, knave; she is not for your eyes."
The captain had already thought of the inequality between this fragile
damsel and her persecutors; despite his account against womankind, her
looks and attitude had struck within him a note of compassion; and now
her chief tormentor had called him a knave. He remembered the purpose
with which he had arrived upon the scene.
"Knave in your teeth, thou villain, thou grinning Lucifer,
thou--thou--!" The captain was at a loss for some word of revilement
that might be used against so fine a gentleman without seeming
ridiculously misapplied. "Thou beater of the streets for stray fawns,
thou frighter of delicate wenches!"
"Why, what motley is this?" replied the velvet gallant. "What mummer
that is whole-clad above the girdle, and rags below? what mongrel, what
patch, what filthy beggar in a stolen cloak? Avaunt, thing!"
The gentleman grasped the gilded hilt of his rapier, as if to enforce
his command if need be.
"Ay, draw, and come on!" roared the captain. "You'll find me your
teacher in that."
At the same moment a restraining clutch was put upon the gentleman's
sleeve by one of his companions, who now muttered some quick words of
prudence in his ear. Whether it was due to this, or to the captain's
excellent flourish in unsheathing, he of the double-pointed beard
paused in the very movement of drawing his weapon, and a moment later
slid the steel back into its velvet scabbard. In his desistance from
a violent course, there was evidently some consideration private to
himself and his friend, some secret motive for the avoidance of a brawl.
"Say you so?" quoth the gentleman, blandly, as if no untoward words
had passed. "Well, if you can be my teacher, you must be as good a
rapier-and-dagger man as any in the kingdom, and there's an end on't.
Are you that?"
"Sir, you might have tried me, and found out," said the captain,
considerably mollified at the other's unexpected politeness, and
putting up his sword.
"Why, marry, another time I may have occasion to see your skill--nay, I
mean not a challenge; I should enjoy to see you fight any man."
"But what of this gentlewoman, sir?" said the captain, interrogatively.
"Why, you will not dispute, it is my prize, by right of discovery. You
a swordman, and not know the laws of war? Faith, we men of the sea are
better learned."
"Nay, but is she of the breed to make a prize of? Methinks she looks it
not."
"Pish, man, a pretty thing or so; a citizen's filly, mayhap, that hath
early slipped the halter; she will not tell her name; but what we find
loose in the streets after curfew, we know what it is, whatsoever it
may look."
The girl now spoke for the first time since the captain had seen her.
Her voice, though disturbed by her feelings, was not shrill like a
child's, but had the fulness of blossoming womanhood, and went with the
smoothness common to well-bred voices.
"I was never in the streets at night before," she said, sobbingly.
"There was one I was to meet, who was waiting for me at the Standard in
Cheapside."
"Eh!" quoth the captain, with a suddenly increased interest.
"Some gallant 'prentice, belike," said the gentleman in velvet, with
his singular smile of gaiety and cruelty. "Some brave cavalier of the
flat cap, whom we frighted off."
"'Twas not so!" cried the girl. "He was not frighted off. I was going
to him, and was near the place, but I could not see him yet, 'twas so
dark. And then the watch came, with their lanterns, and I stood still,
so they might not observe me. But I saw them go to the Standard, and
take my--my friend that waited for me. I knew not what to do, and so I
stayed where I was, all dismayed. And then, but not till the watch had
gone away with him, came you cruel gentlemen and found me. So he was
not frighted by you. Alas, if he had but seen me, and come to meet me!"
"But he was soon free of the watch," said the captain, wondering what
such a damsel should have to do in surreptitiously meeting such a
worshipful old married gentleman. "Came he not back to the place? 'Tis
a good while since."
"How know you about him?" queried the girl, with wonder.
"'Tis no matter," said the captain, forgetting for the nonce to brag of
an exploit. "He ought to have come back to the place to seek you; he
was no true man, else."
"Belike he did, then," said the girl, quickly, with hope suddenly
revived.
"Nay, 'tis certain he waits not at the Standard; we came from there but
now. Doubtless his taking up by the watch gave him his fill of waiting
there. He seemed a man with no stomach for night risks."
"Then," said the girl, mournfully, "he must have come back after I had
run from these gentlemen. Then he would think I could not meet him;
'twas past the time we had set. Oh, villains, that I should run from
you, and miss my friend, and yet be caught at last! He would give all
up, and go to his inn, and back to the country at daybreak. All's over
with me! Oh, ye have much to answer for!"
"How prettily it cries!" quoth the handsome gentleman.
"Faith, sir," said the captain, good-humouredly, "let's see an 'twill
laugh as prettily. How if we led this dainty weeper to her friend's
inn, and roused him out? Perchance then we shall have smiles for these
showers. Where does he lie, little mistress?"
"Alas, I know not. 'Twould be near the river, I think."
"Oho, that he might take boat quicker," said the gentleman. "And now
will he fly without thee at daybreak, say'st thou? Never sorrow,
sweetheart; I'll boat thee to Brentford myself to-morrow."
"There be scores of inns near the river," said the captain to the girl.
"But we might make trial at some of them, an we knew by what name to
call for your friend."
"Nay, that I'll never tell! I know not if he would give his true name
at the inn. Alas, what shall I do?"
"Why, come to the tavern and make merry," said Velvet Suit, "as we have
been inviting you this half-hour."
"I'll freeze in the streets sooner!"
"Is there need of that, then?" asked the captain. "Hast no place in
London to go to? Came you not from some place to meet your friend?"
"From my father's house, of course."
"Then why not go back to it? What's to fear? 'Twas late when you came
forth, was it not? I'll wager thy people were abed. Did they know you
meant to play the runaway?"
"'Tis not like they know it yet," she replied, a little relieved from
complete dismay, but still downhearted.
"And sure the way you came by must be open still," went on the captain.
"I locked the door behind me; but I left the key where I can find it,
if you gentlemen will let me go. You will, sirs; I'll thank ye so much!
I am undone every way, else."
"Of course we'll let you go," said the captain, decisively, with
an oblique eye upon the velvet gallant. "We'll be thy body-guard,
forsooth; we'll attend thee to thy door."
"Nay, let me go alone, I beg!"
"Why, would you risk more dangers?"
"I have not far to go. Pray, pray, follow me not! Pray, let me be
unknown to ye, good sirs! Think, if my mishap this night were noised
about, and my name known--think, if my father were to hear it!"
"Ay, true," said the captain. "Go alone, but on condition, if you see
harm ahead, you turn back to us; you must cry for help, too. And so we
give our words of honour not to--"
"Softly, softly, Master Meddler," broke in the handsome gentleman. "Be
not so free with your betters' words of honour. I know not what hath
allowed you to live so long after thrusting in upon this company--"
But again he was checked by the man at his elbow. This was a
broad-breasted man of medium height, who seemed, as well as his
plain dark cloak would show, to be of solid, heavy build; as for his
face, its lower part was so covered by a thick, spade-shaped beard,
and the upper part so concealed by the brim of a great Spanish hat,
purposely pulled down over the eyes, that one could not have obtained
a sufficient glimpse for future recognition. He spoke to his gay
companion in a brief whisper, but his words had instant weight.
"Tush! 'tis not worth bloodshed," said the gay gentleman, having
heard him. "Let the wench go; what is one fawn among so many? But on
condition. I crave more of your acquaintance, Sir Swordman; we may come
to a fight yet, with better reason; so my friends and I will let the
girl go hang, an you and your party come drink with us."
"We are your men there," replied the captain, warming up within, at
such a happy issue; "but the taverns are barricaded at this hour."
"I know where the proper knock will open doors to us. 'Tis agreed,
then. Wench, go your ways; good night!"
He moved aside to let her pass, and the girl, stepping from the
doorway, with a single look of thanks to the captain, ran swiftly
toward Cheapside. She was out of the range of the torchlight in a
moment. As soon as her figure was invisible in the night, the gentleman
in velvet left his companion, and, taking the captain fraternally by
the arm, started toward Knightrider Street.
Ravenshaw, yielding in spite of an inclination to stay and listen for
any distant sign of alarm from the girl, strode mechanically along;
he heard his own followers and the gentleman's friends coming close
behind, and starting up conversations. Lighted by the two link-boys and
the other torch-bearer, the party at length stopped before a tavern
door in Thames Street.
The handsome gallant knocked a certain number of times, and, while he
waited for answer, the party huddled into a close group before the
door. Every face was now in the torchlight, and the captain cast a
glance over the little company. Suddenly a strange look came into his
face.
"What's this?" he said to the gentleman, quickly. "Where's your other
friend--he with the hat pulled over his eyes?"
For answer, the gentleman gave a curious smile, showing white teeth;
and his eyes sparkled mockingly.
"Death and hell! Gods and devils!" cried the captain, roaring in
earnest, and whipping out his sword. "He slunk back and followed
the maid, did he? Ye'd trick me, would ye? Now, by the belly of St.
George--" At this point, though the velvet gallant had swiftly drawn
in turn, the group having opened a clear space at the captain's first
exclamation, Ravenshaw broke off to another thought. "Nay, we'll go
after that hound first; the scent's warm yet; and then we'll look to
you. Come, lads of mine!"
He dashed through the group, and headed for Cheapside; his four pupils
and the two link-boys tarried not from following him. The other
gentlemen looked to their leader for direction; whereupon he, as the
tavern door opened, put up his sword and, laughing quietly, led them
into the house.
"They'll be rare dogs an they catch Jerningham," quoth he. "The fools!
their noise would warn him even if they should chance upon his track."
The captain and his companions found Bread Street and Cheapside black,
silent of human sounds, and, wherever they carried their lights, empty
of human forms. They traversed two or three of the side streets, and
listened at the corners of others, but without result. Where, in this
night-wrapped London, did the two objects of their search now draw
breath?
If the girl had indeed not had far to go, she was probably safe; and if
she were safe the man's doings mattered little. So, and as the gallants
were beginning to show signs of weariness, the inspiriting effect of
their last wine having died out, the captain piloted them back to the
tavern at whose door he had left his quarrel scarce begun.
He found the tavern door barred; and no amount of knocking and
shouting sufficed to open it. The tired gallants were yawning, leaning
against one another (they dared not lean against the tavern, lest
something might be dropped upon them from an upper window), and talking
of bed. Therefore the captain drew off to a safe distance from the
tavern, and thus addressed his following:
"Ye have had but a poor lesson in swaggering to-night, masters.
To be true roaring boys, we should have forced a brawl on those
gallants--rather for the brawl's sake than for the girl's. To help the
helpless hath nought to do with true swaggering, save where it may be
a pretext. But this lambkin looked so tender, I forgot myself, and
behaved discreetly, seeing her cause was best served that way. The
essence of roaring is not in concern for the cause, but in putting down
the enemy. If you be in the wrong, so much the greater your credit as a
bully. And now, if we wait for those cozeners to come forth--"
"Oh, let 'em come forth and be damned," said Master Clarington,
sleepily. "I'm for bed. Light me to my lodging, boy. Who'll keep me
company to Coleman Street?"
As the three other young gentlemen had, at the time, their city
lodgings in that direction, they were quite ready to avail themselves
of Master Clarington's initiative in yielding to the claims of
fatigue. The captain was not such a fool as to risk their favour by
opposing their decision, seeing how their zest for adventure had oozed
out of them. He therefore accompanied them northward through Bow Lane
with outward cheerfulness. On the way, he considered within himself
whether or not to fish for an invitation to a night's lodging, or for
the loan of money to pay for a bed himself. He bethought him that
man was fickle, particularly in the case of would-be daredevils who
soon grew sleepy on their wine; if he would retain the patronage of
these four, he must not go too far upon it at first. He had too much
experience to sacrifice to-morrow's pound for to-night's shilling. So,
when he came to Cheapside, where his companions should turn eastward,
he stopped, and said:
"I must wish ye good night here, gentlemen. You will be at the Windmill
again to-morrow, mayhap?"
"What?" said Master Maylands, carelessly. "Go you no farther our way?
Where lodge you, then?"
"Oh, I lodge out Newgate way," replied the captain, vaguely. "A good
night to ye all! Ye'll find me at the Windmill after dinner. Merry
dreams, lads! Faith, I shall be glad to get under cover; the wind is
higher, methinks."
A chorus of good nights answered him drowsily, and he was left in
darkness, the link-boys going with the four gentlemen, who hung upon
one another's arms as they plodded unsteadily along.
The captain trudged westward in Cheapside, in mechanical obedience to
the suggestion pertaining to his lie.
"I should better have got myself taken up of the watch," he mused, as
he gathered his new cloak about him, and made himself small against
the wind. "Then I should have lain warm in the Counter. That scholar
is a lucky fellow. But that would have lost me the opinion of my four
sparks. Well, it shall go hard but they continue bountiful. Cloak,
doublet, and bonnet already--a good night's booty. 'Tis well I found
'em in the right degree of drink. As for that wench--I was an ass,
I should have let those roysterers have their way of her; 'twould
have served my grudge against the sex. But such a child--! Hey! What
fellow comes here with the lantern and the wide breeches? An it be a
constable, I'll vilify him, and be lodged in the Counter yet. How now,
rascal!--what, Moll, is it thou, up to thy vixen tricks again?"
The newcomer, who now faced Ravenshaw and held up a lantern to see him
the better, wore a man's doublet and hose, and a sword; but a careful
scrutiny of the bold features would have revealed to any one that they
were those of a sturdy young woman, of the lower class. The daughter
of Frith, the shoemaker of Aldersgate, had yet to immortalise herself
as Moll Cutpurse, but she had some time since run away from domestic
service and taken to wearing men's clothes.
"Good even, Bully Ravenshaw," quoth she, in a hoarse, vigorous voice.
"Why do you walk the night, old roaring boy?"
"For want of a lodging, young roaring girl."
"Is it so? Look ye, then; I'm abroad for the night, on matters of mine
own. Here's my key; 'tis to the back yard gate of the empty house in
Foster Lane, where the spirit walks. Dost fear ghosts?"
"Fear ghosts? Girl, I make 'em!"
"Then you'll find in that yard a penthouse, wherein is a feather-bed
upon boards. 'Tis a good bed--I stole it from a brewer's widow."
And so the captain lodged that night in a coal-house, thankfully.