THE SCOUT.
As by degrees folk had come out of the daze into which Cope’s arrival
had thrown them, growls and murmurs had begun to be heard. A town’s
meeting had been held (none knew exactly by whom convened), in an upper
chamber of the Piece Hall, and their temper had begun to show then, for
half-a-dozen soldiers who claimed admittance “by order” had been bundled
out with little ceremony. Back o’ th’ Mooiners assembled in bands. At
one house a search had been resisted, and scuffling had taken place. The
soldiers no longer had the square to themselves, for groups buzzed
angrily among the Piece Hall pillars and the blinds of the houses had
been raised again. There had been stone-throwing up the Fullergate. A
deputation had waited on Cope at his house, and Cope had again been
incontrollably shaken with silent mirth.
There were four new stacks in Webster’s yard, and a three-quarters cut
old one. They were not thatched, but covered by wooden roofs that ran up
and down corner-posts on pulleys. Hundreds of people followed the
soldiers thither, and some of the Back o’ th’ Mooiners were talking
their jargon again. Webster watched sullenly from his door the soldiers
surround his premises; but the mob could not be kept out, and the yard
was packed. They knew now what or whom the officer in charge looked to
find there; word was passed that an orderly had ridden the previous
evening up the Fullergate for more troops, that were to advance to
Wadsworth and Back o’ th’ Mooin itself; and the crowd surged this way
and that, no man using force, but of formidable force in the mass. The
surrounding of the premises was futile; the officer in charge gave sharp
orders; and with bayonets fixed a double rank of men facing outwards
formed a lane from the gate to the stacks. The rest drew up in close
order out in the road.
Down the bayonet-guarded lane four men advanced with a ladder. It was
placed against the foremost stack, and a man went up it with a pistol in
his hand and crawled under the wooden roof. “He’ll ha’ little time to
use a pistol if Arthur gets a hand on him i’ yonder,” the watchers
muttered; and the next moment they had grown suddenly quiet. By and by
the man came out from under the roof again, and the ladder was set up
against the next stack. Soon they had searched the tops of the four
stacks and thrust rakes and bayonets beneath them.
“Throw the ricks down,” the officer ordered.
A storm of remonstrances, oaths, cries, broke forth. Throw down four
stacks o’ nicely-settled hay! Couldn’t they do their rummaging wi’out
ruining folk? Who was to set ’em up again? And did they think to take
Big Monjoy when all was done?--They were tingling for quarrel; the
stacks would serve as well for a pretext as anything else; the
disturbing of a sitting hen would have served; and the mob swayed like a
flood. A Back o’ th’ Mooiner had a cudgel; it crossed a bayonet
suddenly; there was a rush, and a breach appeared in the red-coated
line; and fifty men poured through it, taking the other rank in the
backs. The yard was a confusion of struggling men, with a redcoat or a
bayonet isolated here and there.
The officer had sprung half-way up the ladder, his back to a stack; he
called a cracking order. Down the rank of men in the road three rhythmic
movements passed like a wave, and there was a sharp clicking of
musket-locks. The tumult changed to a frantic backward pressure--they
fell back behind the stacks, against walls, anywhere from the row of
levelled muskets. The officer up the ladder called more orders, and
those who had formed the lane drew up at right-angles to the others,
enclosing two sides of the yard.
“Throw the ricks down,” said the officer; and the ropes of the poles
were cut, the heavy roofs hove down into the yard, and the demolition
begun.
A couple of hundred soldiers had followed Cope’s chaise to Horwick; down
the Fullergate that morning there marched from Ford Town thrice that
number. At their head rode the Captain Ritchie of whom Horwick had
heard. They formed in the market-place, and the captain cantered to
Cope’s house, and flung himself from his horse.
The two men were closeted for half an hour, and then the captain came
out again. He returned to the market-place; and as he gave the order to
stack arms he saw a fair-haired woman making great haste beyond the
Piece Hall.
Cicely had done the six miles to Wadsworth and back in less than two
hours. She found Matthew Moon striding up and down his dining-room with
his watch in his hand. He had flung the door open and cried, “Well?”
hearing the brushing of her skirts in the passage.
“I’ve been--let me sit down----” she panted.
“Where have ye found?”
“Oh, I saw all manner o’ folk; I went----”
Matthew Moon stamped angrily. “Where have ye found?”
“Oh!... the parson’s....”
He was surprised; but, “When?” he demanded.
“Yes--yes--anytime----”
Already the merchant had sprung towards the door and disappeared.
Presently he returned, mopping his brow, and sat down opposite Cicely.
He gave a long “Ah!” of relief.
“Ye see, Cicely,” he explained more quietly, “they’ve been at Webster’s
two hours and more now--they must be doing it thoroughly. Now ye can
tell me about it.”
“Oh, first--where is he?”
“Never mind. Nowhere near the stackyard. Tell me about the parson.”
Wadsworth, it appeared from Cicely’s tale, was in as great a turmoil as
Horwick. Her father had bidden her good-bye, given her an address in
Liverpool, and was ready for flight. Many would have been glad to have
Arthur, but what was the use? Arthur was safer in Horwick than in
Wadsworth. Then, as she had stood distraught in the square, she had seen
the parson coming out of the church, and had flown to him and well-nigh
dragged him back into the building. There, on her knees, she had
supplicated him (“Easy, lass,” said Matthew Moon, soothingly)--all was
different now--oh! if the parson could but know!--Back o’ th’ Mooin,
too, was against him ... she did not remember all she had said. At last
the parson had consented to take him in for a night, during which he
would pray for guidance; but it must be understood that after that all
must be as God should direct.
“Humph!” said the merchant. “And yourself; when can ye join him?”
“Me?” exclaimed Cicely, “Oh, Matthew, I promised Sally I’d not leave
her, and I can’t take that word back now----”
“He’ll not clear out without ye.”
“Oh, he must, he must!”
“I don’t think Arthur right knows what that means,” Matthew observed
drily.
“Then he must trust i’ God and wait somewhere while I can meet him. It
were the last word I passed Sally afore she went off. I’d see to Jimmy,
too, I promised----”
“Sally wouldn’t hold ye to it if she knew how it is; let Dooina see to
her.”
“No, no, I can’t; he must do the best he can while I can join him. It
must come to pass as it will.”
“Heigho!... Very well. Is aught heard o’ Ellah yet?”
“No,” she answered distractedly.
The merchant had not smoked during that day; he now rose for tobacco.
Slowly he filled and lighted his pipe, and puffed thoughtfully for a
time.
“Well, we’ll manage somehow, no doubt,” he said composedly at last.
“They’ll be here for me soon.”
“You too!” Cicely moaned; and he made a slight gesture of impatience.
“The devil take the women!... Yes, for me; but they’ve got a prickly
piece when they’ve got me. I’ve made myself safe, as I’ve made all safe
this many a year; they’d ha’ been badly to seek this last day or two
wi’out Matthew. Now listen. Arthur ’ll have to chance it for himself
now. ‘The parson’s, Wadsworth, to-night,’ was all I said in the note.
I’m not going to tell ye where he is, and if ye love him keep away from
the parson’s--keep out o’ Wadsworth. The parson’s! Nay, that caps me;
who’d ha’ thought--hark!... Ay, I told ye; they’re here. Off wi’ ye,
quick. Ye can go out o’ the front door now; good-bye for a bit.... Nay,
don’t blubber all ower my hands!... off wi’ ye, and keep as far away
from Wadsworth as ye can till all’s ready----”
He closed the door behind her and sat down to his pipe again. He had not
finished the pipe before he was put under close arrest, with a sentry on
either side of his dining-room door.
Monjoy had heard the marching of fresh troops down the Fullergate, and,
at intervals during the afternoon, distant confused roars. Of Webster’s
stackyard he knew nothing. Moon’s message came; he was mortally weary of
that dingy garret, and he waited impatiently till nightfall. Ten o’clock
came, and he still waited, hearing movements out in the town; and then
the Piece Hall bell struck eleven. All was quiet, and he opened the
crane doors. He flung his rope over the crane-arm, and as he did so saw
why Matthew had sent one so long; he could descend by it doubled and
take it away instead of leaving it dangling. He stood on the narrow
sill, closed the doors behind him, and slipped to earth. The night was
moonless and dark. Quickly he crossed yards and gardens and crofts, and
now and then poultry stirred or a dog barked. He had so mapped out his
way that he had only two deserted streets to cross. Down the first of
them a soldier marched, making noise enough for ten, and Monjoy waited
till his tramp sounded in the distance and crossed swiftly and
noiselessly. He continued over walls and across more gardens. One light
only burned, and he passed it within a hundred yards; it was the window
of the chamber where Cicely watched Sally. He stopped for a minute and
regarded it; then he passed on again to the fields above the Shelf road.
At one o’clock in the morning he knocked at the parson’s door and was
admitted. He was led to a room on the ground floor without light; a
couch was indicated to him, and he was left without a word.
Of the morning’s interview with the parson a word or two must be said.
It occurred at eight o’clock, in the same room--a little back study on
the ground floor. Of the two breakfasts that the parson had laid with
his own hands, one--his own--was untouched. The study was but four
strides long, and the parson walked and turned, and walked again. His
big guest leaned forward in a chair, watching him, and flipping the
fingers of his right hand against the knuckles of his left. There were
signs that the parson had not slept.
Suddenly he stopped in his walk, and smiled faintly.
“No, I am not one whit nearer to it, Monjoy,” he said.
Monjoy hoisted his shoulders; it was not for him to speak.
“And for what your wife said,” the parson continued, “you will
understand that I hardly feel at liberty to repeat the whole of it.”
“No, no; Cis would be wrought up; leave her out, poor lass.”
“That, of course,” said the parson with a nod; “but I was thinking more
particularly of what she said of you, not of herself. Hm!... You’ll
observe that during our talk I’ve made no attempt to--let us say,
improve the occasion.”
This time Monjoy nodded.
“I mustn’t say it’s more than I should have expected, for I know so few
of your calling,” he replied. “And I don’t know what Cicely said
neither. But I myself can say this, that with hands and heart a little
less clean I could have been safe away in Liverpool by this. Yes, since
last Thursday, too. Don’t think I’m careless or swaggering; I know just
what danger I’m in, and from both sides; let me tell you.”
Briefly and honestly he told the parson of the lot-drawing in the
loom-loft and of his own share therein.
“And that’s the whole of it,” he concluded, “except that if I hadn’t
stayed behind to tidy Moon’s garret up a bit he’d have been worse off
than I.”
The parson, with a very grave face, drew a chair up opposite Monjoy, and
they continued to talk low and earnestly.
* * * * *
At a little after eleven that morning there appeared in Wadsworth an
object the like of which had never before entered the hamlet. It was a
single-horse, yellow chaise, with an extra horse for tracing, and it was
followed up the steep street by an officer leading his horse and a
company of redcoats. In the chaise Cope sat nursing one foot.
There was no smile on his face now. He had (so it was afterwards said)
stumped raging about his room throughout the night, cursing, gnawing his
nails, and spitting like a cat when any approached him. It seemed he had
calculated confidently on the stackyard. He now sat in the yellow chaise
like some ugly nodding idol, biting the edge of his forefinger
unceasingly, and nesting his foot. The procession reached the square.
The redcoats did not pile arms; they formed up four deep in front of the
“Gooise,” and detachments were told off by Captain Ritchie to begin the
searching immediately. Another party was sent off to reconnoitre the
mountainous Scout; and the yellow chaise, with the supervisor in it,
remained drawn up before the inn door. When Jeremy Cope took command in
person matters were to be expedited.
At a little after one o’clock Pim o’ Cuddy, who for the last two hours
had hidden and rehidden and hidden again his brass kettle down the spout
of which sixpences would go (the verger seemed now to think the very
possession of money a crime), was taken in the guilty act of putting
back the kettle into its original hiding-place. He was haled before
Cope, and there he fell and grovelled on the ground before the
redoubtable dwarf.
“What’s this?” Cope snapped, tearing at his finger with his teeth.
The soldier displayed the kettle.
“Well, and what o’ that?” yelped Cope. “Curse your clumsy limbs, find
the red man! His jade of a wife was here yesterday--it’s odds she’s not
playing the same trick twice--skip, ye hamfaced fool! Set your heel on
that worm first--skip!”
The Scout shimmered in the heat, and spots of red straggled here and
there among the bracken and birches and teazels. Besides these, many
dark figures moved and clustered, Wadsworth men, Horwick men, men from
Booth and Brotherton and Back o’ th’ Mooin. Down in the village the
search-parties slowly ascended the street and began in the square and
the houses that stood back; and Cope still gnawed at his finger in the
yellow chaise, now and then striking the wood with his fist in his
mortification.
At two o’clock Captain Ritchie approached him.
“When what is in progress is concluded, there only remains the
Parsonage,” he announced.
“Then search it, can’t ye?” cried Cope, with an oath. “What d’ye think
you’re here for--to talk?”
The officer drew himself up.
“I would remind you, Mr. Cope, that you’re not addressing a trooper,” he
said stiffly; and Cope spluttered and spat.
“O--my--dear--God!... Is this a time for your airs and dignities? Will
you make dainty with your seminary manners when--aaaah!”
The left-hand lamp-glass of the yellow chaise was shattered by a bullet.
The candle leaped out, cut in two. Echoes were following the report, and
a puff of smoke drifted slowly along the edge of the Scout. Captain
Ritchie sprang aside.
“Fire as you are!” he ordered; “mind the others----”; and, save for a
figure that was seen running far along the skyline, every man on the
face of the Scout had dropped for cover. The muskets came up as if for
birds; quick dropping shots rang out; and sharp cracks from the soldiers
up the Scout seemed to answer them like echoes.
“Draw this chaise to one side,” said Cope, biting at his finger again.
Captain Ritchie strode up the lane to the parson’s house and knocked
loudly at the door. The parson himself answered the knock.
“You know whom it is we seek?” the officer said curtly.
The parson inclined his head.
“We must be assured of your house also. It is my desire to respect your
cloth----”
The parson returned his steady look.
“I take that to mean that, on my word, you are willing to forego a
search?”
“Yes.”
The parson lied like a layman, without a quiver. “I pass it you,” he
said; and immediately the officer retired.
By half-past two the searching of Wadsworth was completed.
It was much that a chaise had got as far as Wadsworth; legs alone could
clear the Scout. A man was despatched with a couple of horses to strike
the Causeway lower down the valley and then to wait on the heights, and
Cope descended from the chaise with the broken lamp-glass. At that, out
stepped the parson from his house, and earnestly besought him to remain
behind.
“Look!” he cried, pointing up the Scout, that seemed to crawl with
ascending figures, “and not a man among them but bears you the worst
will in the world! If not for your own safety, yet to save these from a
deadly sin----”
Cope struck at the air with his hand.
The captain added his entreaties. His presence was unnecessary; with so
much depending on him he had no right to accept the risk; he should be
informed of every movement where he was. Cope, in a paroxysm of anger,
shouted for him to be silent.
“You, too, mock my infirmity!” he cried tremulously. “Nay!--that’s all
past, d’ye hear? That’s past months ago; this is _my_ hour of mocking.
What d’ye think I’ve endured, smiling and bowing and soft, waiting for
this day? I’m going up yonder to laugh now, d’ye hear me?--to laugh in
my turn! I’m going to click triggers instead o’ clogs, hear you?--to
make ’em march to their own tune of Johnny Cope, mark well! If I’d but a
trumpeter to play it! Raikes I hold in my finger, Moon’s locked inside
his own doors, and a dozen I’ve marked over yonder shall be in this
square in a quarter of a day from now; remains the big man.... Their
furnaces? I’ll make their furnaces such a place o’ dread with swinging
bodies....” He became inarticulate, and soon, suddenly dropping his
voice a little, he cried, “Up! Why are we talking here? Up!”
On the fourteenth day of August, of the year 1779, at half-past three in
the afternoon, they hoisted and pushed and carried Jeremy Cope up
Wadsworth Scout to where the horses waited on the Causeway.