Oglethorpe's farm stood a mile or so to the south of Bridgewater on the
right bank of the river. It was a straggling Tudor building showing grey
above the ivy that clothed its lower parts. Approaching it now, through
the fragrant orchards amid which it seemed to drowse in Arcadian peace
beside the waters of the Parrett, sparkling in the morning sunlight,
Mr. Blood might have had a difficulty in believing it part of a world
tormented by strife and bloodshed.
On the bridge, as they had been riding out of Bridgewater, they had met
a vanguard of fugitives from the field of battle, weary, broken men,
many of them wounded, all of them terror-stricken, staggering in
speedless haste with the last remnants of their strength into the
shelter which it was their vain illusion the town would afford them.
Eyes glazed with lassitude and fear looked up piteously out of haggard
faces at Mr. Blood and his companion as they rode forth; hoarse voices
cried a warning that merciless pursuit was not far behind. Undeterred,
however, young Pitt rode amain along the dusty road by which these
poor fugitives from that swift rout on Sedgemoor came flocking in
ever-increasing numbers. Presently he swung aside, and quitting the road
took to a pathway that crossed the dewy meadowlands. Even here they
met odd groups of these human derelicts, who were scattering in all
directions, looking fearfully behind them as they came through the long
grass, expecting at every moment to see the red coats of the dragoons.
But as Pitt's direction was a southward one, bringing them ever nearer
to Feversham's headquarters, they were presently clear of that human
flotsam and jetsam of the battle, and riding through the peaceful
orchards heavy with the ripening fruit that was soon to make its annual
yield of cider.
At last they alighted on the kidney stones of the courtyard, and Baynes,
the master, of the homestead, grave of countenance and flustered of
manner, gave them welcome.
In the spacious, stone-flagged hall, the doctor found Lord
Gildoy--a very tall and dark young gentleman, prominent of chin and
nose--stretched on a cane day-bed under one of the tall mullioned
windows, in the care of Mrs. Baynes and her comely daughter. His cheeks
were leaden-hued, his eyes closed, and from his blue lips came with each
laboured breath a faint, moaning noise.
Mr. Blood stood for a moment silently considering his patient. He
deplored that a youth with such bright hopes in life as Lord Gildoy's
should have risked all, perhaps existence itself, to forward the
ambition of a worthless adventurer. Because he had liked and honoured
this brave lad he paid his case the tribute of a sigh. Then he knelt to
his task, ripped away doublet and underwear to lay bare his lordship's
mangled side, and called for water and linen and what else he needed for
his work.
He was still intent upon it a half-hour later when the dragoons invaded
the homestead. The clatter of hooves and hoarse shouts that heralded
their approach disturbed him not at all. For one thing, he was not
easily disturbed; for another, his task absorbed him. But his lordship,
who had now recovered consciousness, showed considerable alarm, and the
battle-stained Jeremy Pitt sped to cover in a clothes-press. Baynes was
uneasy, and his wife and daughter trembled. Mr. Blood reassured them.
“Why, what's to fear?” he said. “It's a Christian country, this, and
Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who
harbour them.” He still had, you see, illusions about Christians.
He held a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his
lordship's lips. “Give your mind peace, my lord. The worst is done.”
And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall--a
round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers
Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace
about the breast of his coat.
Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife
and daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the
day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.
The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt,
then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of
his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He announced his
authority to the yeoman.
“I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke's dragoons. What rebels do you
harbour?”
The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed itself
in his trembling voice.
“I... I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman....”
“I can see for myself.” The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed, and
scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.
“No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned
rebel, and that's enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons.
“Out with him, my lads.”
Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.
“In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is
England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be
moved without peril to his life.”
Captain Hobart was amused.
“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you
think it's to benefit his health we're taking him? There's gallows being
planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he'll serve
for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke'll learn these
nonconforming oafs something they'll not forget in generations.”
“You're hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it's mistaken I am.
We're in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”
The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from
the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted
the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of
authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The
Captain's eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.
“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.
“My name is Blood, sir--Peter Blood, at your service.”
“Aye--aye! Codso! That's the name. You were in French service once, were
you not?”
If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.
“I was.”
“Then I remember you--five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”
“That is so. I knew your colonel.”
“Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed
unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”
“This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”
“A doctor--you?” Scorn of that lie--as he conceived it--rang in the
heavy, hectoring voice.
“Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.
“Don't fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”
Mr. Blood's smile annoyed him.
“I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.”
The Captain sneered. “Which you reached by way of Lyme Regis in the
following of your bastard Duke.”
It was Mr. Blood's turn to sneer. “If your wit were as big as your
voice, my dear, it's the great man you'd be by this.”
For a moment the dragoon was speechless. The colour deepened in his
face.
“You may find me great enough to hang you.”
“Faith, yes. Ye've the look and the manners of a hangman. But if you
practise your trade on my patient here, you may be putting a rope round
your own neck. He's not the kind you may string up and no questions
asked. He has the right to trial, and the right to trial by his peers.”
“By his peers?”
The Captain was taken aback by these three words, which Mr. Blood had
stressed.
“Sure, now, any but a fool or a savage would have asked his name before
ordering him to the gallows. The gentleman is my Lord Gildoy.”
And then his lordship spoke for himself, in a weak voice.
“I make no concealment of my association with the Duke of Monmouth.
I'll take the consequences. But, if you please, I'll take them after
trial--by my peers, as the doctor has said.”
The feeble voice ceased, and was followed by a moment's silence. As is
common in many blustering men, there was a deal of timidity deep down
in Hobart. The announcement of his lordship's rank had touched those
depths. A servile upstart, he stood in awe of titles. And he stood in
awe of his colonel. Percy Kirke was not lenient with blunderers.
By a gesture he checked his men. He must consider. Mr. Blood, observing
his pause, added further matter for his consideration.
“Ye'll be remembering, Captain, that Lord Gildoy will have friends and
relatives on the Tory side, who'll have something to say to Colonel
Kirke if his lordship should be handled like a common felon. You'll go
warily, Captain, or, as I've said, it's a halter for your neck ye'll be
weaving this morning.”
Captain Hobart swept the warning aside with a bluster of contempt, but
he acted upon it none the less. “Take up the day-bed,” said he, “and
convey him on that to Bridgewater. Lodge him in the gaol until I take
order about him.”
“He may not survive the journey,” Blood remonstrated. “He's in no case
to be moved.”
“So much the worse for him. My affair is to round up rebels.” He
confirmed his order by a gesture. Two of his men took up the day-bed,
and swung to depart with it.
Gildoy made a feeble effort to put forth a hand towards Mr. Blood.
“Sir,” he said, “you leave me in your debt. If I live I shall study how
to discharge it.”
Mr. Blood bowed for answer; then to the men: “Bear him steadily,” he
commanded. “His life depends on it.”
As his lordship was carried out, the Captain became brisk. He turned
upon the yeoman.
“What other cursed rebels do you harbour?”
“None other, sir. His lordship....”
“We've dealt with his lordship for the present. We'll deal with you in
a moment when we've searched your house. And, by God, if you've lied to
me....” He broke off, snarling, to give an order. Four of his dragoons
went out. In a moment they were heard moving noisily in the adjacent
room. Meanwhile, the Captain was questing about the hall, sounding the
wainscoting with the butt of a pistol.
Mr. Blood saw no profit to himself in lingering.
“By your leave, it's a very good day I'll be wishing you,” said he.
“By my leave, you'll remain awhile,” the Captain ordered him.
Mr. Blood shrugged, and sat down. “You're tiresome,” he said. “I wonder
your colonel hasn't discovered it yet.”
But the Captain did not heed him. He was stooping to pick up a soiled
and dusty hat in which there was pinned a little bunch of oak leaves. It
had been lying near the clothes-press in which the unfortunate Pitt had
taken refuge. The Captain smiled malevolently. His eyes raked the room,
resting first sardonically on the yeoman, then on the two women in the
background, and finally on Mr. Blood, who sat with one leg thrown over
the other in an attitude of indifference that was far from reflecting
his mind.
Then the Captain stepped to the press, and pulled open one of the wings
of its massive oaken door. He took the huddled inmate by the collar of
his doublet, and lugged him out into the open.
“And who the devil's this?” quoth he. “Another nobleman?”
Mr. Blood had a vision of those gallows of which Captain Hobart had
spoken, and of this unfortunate young shipmaster going to adorn one of
them, strung up without trial, in the place of the other victim of whom
the Captain had been cheated. On the spot he invented not only a title
but a whole family for the young rebel.
“Faith, ye've said it, Captain. This is Viscount Pitt, first cousin to
Sir Thomas Vernon, who's married to that slut Moll Kirke, sister to your
own colonel, and sometime lady in waiting upon King James's queen.”
Both the Captain and his prisoner gasped. But whereas thereafter young
Pitt discreetly held his peace, the Captain rapped out a nasty oath. He
considered his prisoner again.
“He's lying, is he not?” he demanded, seizing the lad by the shoulder,
and glaring into his face. “He's rallying rue, by God!”
“If ye believe that,” said Blood, “hang him, and see what happens to
you.”
The dragoon glared at the doctor and then at his prisoner. “Pah!”
He thrust the lad into the hands of his men. “Fetch him along to
Bridgewater. And make fast that fellow also,” he pointed to Baynes.
“We'll show him what it means to harbour and comfort rebels.”
There was a moment of confusion. Baynes struggled in the grip of the
troopers, protesting vehemently. The terrified women screamed until
silenced by a greater terror. The Captain strode across to them. He took
the girl by the shoulders. She was a pretty, golden-headed creature,
with soft blue eyes that looked up entreatingly, piteously into the face
of the dragoon. He leered upon her, his eyes aglow, took her chin in his
hand, and set her shuddering by his brutal kiss.
“It's an earnest,” he said, smiling grimly. “Let that quiet you, little
rebel, till I've done with these rogues.”
And he swung away again, leaving her faint and trembling in the arms of
her anguished mother. His men stood, grinning, awaiting orders, the two
prisoners now fast pinioned.
“Take them away. Let Cornet Drake have charge of them.” His smouldering
eye again sought the cowering girl. “I'll stay awhile--to search out
this place. There may be other rebels hidden here.” As an afterthought,
he added: “And take this fellow with you.” He pointed to Mr. Blood.
“Bestir!”
Mr. Blood started out of his musings. He had been considering that in
his case of instruments there was a lancet with which he might perform
on Captain Hobart a beneficial operation. Beneficial, that is, to
humanity. In any case, the dragoon was obviously plethoric and would
be the better for a blood-letting. The difficulty lay in making the
opportunity. He was beginning to wonder if he could lure the Captain
aside with some tale of hidden treasure, when this untimely interruption
set a term to that interesting speculation.
He sought to temporize.
“Faith it will suit me very well,” said he. “For Bridgewater is my
destination, and but that ye detained me I'd have been on my way thither
now.”
“Your destination there will be the gaol.”
“Ah, bah! Ye're surely joking!”
“There's a gallows for you if you prefer it. It's merely a question of
now or later.”
Rude hands seized Mr. Blood, and that precious lancet was in the case on
the table out of reach. He twisted out of the grip of the dragoons, for
he was strong and agile, but they closed with him again immediately, and
bore him down. Pinning him to the ground, they tied his wrists behind
his back, then roughly pulled him to his feet again.
“Take him away,” said Hobart shortly, and turned to issue his orders to
the other waiting troopers. “Go search the house, from attic to cellar;
then report to me here.”
The soldiers trailed out by the door leading to the interior. Mr. Blood
was thrust by his guards into the courtyard, where Pitt and Baynes
already waited. From the threshold of the hall, he looked back at
Captain Hobart, and his sapphire eyes were blazing. On his lips trembled
a threat of what he would do to Hobart if he should happen to survive
this business. Betimes he remembered that to utter it were probably to
extinguish his chance of living to execute it. For to-day the King's men
were masters in the West, and the West was regarded as enemy country, to
be subjected to the worst horror of war by the victorious side. Here a
captain of horse was for the moment lord of life and death.
Under the apple-trees in the orchard Mr. Blood and his companions in
misfortune were made fast each to a trooper's stirrup leather. Then at
the sharp order of the cornet, the little troop started for Bridgewater.
As they set out there was the fullest confirmation of Mr. Blood's
hideous assumption that to the dragoons this was a conquered enemy
country. There were sounds of rending timbers, of furniture smashed and
overthrown, the shouts and laughter of brutal men, to announce that this
hunt for rebels was no more than a pretext for pillage and destruction.
Finally above all other sounds came the piercing screams of a woman in
acutest agony.
Baynes checked in his stride, and swung round writhing, his face ashen.
As a consequence he was jerked from his feet by the rope that attached
him to the stirrup leather, and he was dragged helplessly a yard or two
before the trooper reined in, cursing him foully, and striking him with
the flat of his sword.
It came to Mr. Blood, as he trudged forward under the laden apple-trees
on that fragrant, delicious July morning, that man--as he had long
suspected--was the vilest work of God, and that only a fool would set
himself up as a healer of a species that was best exterminated.