THE "BLEEDING HORSE"--HOLLANDS AND PIPES FOR TWO--EVERY BULLET HAS ITS
BILLET.
At the time in which the events that we have undertaken to record took
place, there stood at the southern extremity of the city, near the
point at which Camden Street now terminates, a small, old-fashioned
building, something between an ale-house and an inn. It occupied the
roadside by no means unpicturesquely; one gable jutted into the road,
with a projecting window, which stood out from the building like a
glass box held together by a massive frame of wood; and commanded by
this projecting gable, and a few yards in retreat, but facing the road,
was the inn door, over which hung a painted panel, representing a white
horse, out of whose neck there spouted a crimson cascade, and
underneath, in large letters, the traveller was informed that this was
the genuine old "Bleeding Horse." Old enough, in all conscience, it
appeared to be, for the tiled roof, except where the ivy clustered over
it, was crowded with weeds of many kinds, and the boughs of the huge
trees which embowered it had cracked and shattered one of the cumbrous
chimney-stacks, and in many places it was evident that but for the
timely interposition of the saw and the axe, the giant limbs of the old
timber would, in the gradual increase of years, have forced their way
through the roof and the masonry itself--a tendency sufficiently
indicated by sundry indentures and rude repairs in those parts of the
building most exposed to such casualties. Upon the night in which the
events that are recorded in the immediately preceding chapters
occurred, two horsemen rode up to this inn, and leisurely entering the
stable yard, dismounted, and gave their horses in charge to a ragged
boy who acted as hostler, directing him with a few very impressive
figures of rhetoric, on no account to loosen girth or bridle, or to
suffer the beasts to stir one yard from the spot where they stood. This
matter settled, they entered the house. Both were muffled; the one--a
large, shambling fellow--wore a capacious riding-coat; the other--a
small, wiry man--was wrapped in a cloak; both wore their hats pressed
down over their brows, and had drawn their mufflers up, so as to
conceal the lower part of the face. The lesser of the two men, leaving
his companion in the passage, opened a door, within which were a few
fellows drowsily toping, and one or two asleep. In a chair by the fire
sat Tony Bligh, the proprietor of the "Bleeding Horse," a middle-aged
man, rather corpulent, as pale as tallow, and with a sly, ugly squint.
The little man in the cloak merely introduced his head and shoulders,
and beckoned with his thumb. The signal, though scarcely observed by
one other of the occupants of the room, was instantly and in silence
obeyed by the landlord, who, casting one uneasy glance round, glided
across the floor, and was in the passage almost as soon as the
gentleman in the cloak.
"Here, Tony, boy," whispered the man, as the innkeeper approached,
"fetch us a pint of Hollands, a couple of pipes, and a glim; but first
turn the key in this door here, and come yourself, do ye mind?"
Tony squeezed the speaker's arm in token of acquiescence, and turning a
key gently in the lock, he noiselessly opened the door which Brimstone
Bill had indicated, and the two cavaliers strode into the dark and
vacant chamber. Brimstone walked to the window, pushed open the
casement, and leaned out. The beautiful moon was shining above the old
and tufted trees which lined the quiet road; he looked up and down the
shaded avenue, but nothing was moving upon it, save the varying shadows
as the night wind swung the branches to and fro. He listened, but no
sound reached his ears, excepting the rustling and moaning of the
boughs, through which the breeze was fitfully soughing.
Scarcely had he drawn back again into the room, when Tony returned with
the refreshments which the gentleman had ordered, and with a dark
lantern enclosing a lighted candle.
"Right, old cove," said Bill. "I see you hav'n't forgot the trick of
the trade. Who are your _pals_ inside?"
"Three of them sleep here to-night," replied Tony. "They're all quiet
coves enough, such as doesn't hear nor see any more than they ought."
The two fellows filled a pipe each, and lighted them at the lantern.
"What mischief are you after now, Bill?" inquired the host, with a
peculiar leer.
"Why should _I_ be after any mischief," replied Brimstone jocularly,
"any more than a sucking dove, eh? Do I look like mischief to-night,
old tickle-pitcher--do I?"
He accompanied the question with a peculiar grin, which mine host
answered by a prolonged wink of no less peculiar significance.
"Well, Tony boy," rejoined Bill, "maybe I _am_ and maybe I
_ain't_--that's the way: but mind, you did not see a stim of me, nor of
_him_, to-night (glancing at his comrade), nor ever, for that matter.
But you did see two ill-looking fellows not a bit like us; and I have a
notion that these two chaps will manage to get into a sort of shindy
before an hour's over, and then _mizzle_ at once; and if all goes well,
your hand shall be crossed with gold to-night."
"Bill, Bill," said the landlord, with a smile of exquisite relish, and
drawing his hand coaxingly over the man's forehead, so as to smooth the
curls of his periwig nearly into his eyes, "you're just the same old
dodger--you are the devil's own bird--you have not cast a feather."
It is hard to say how long this tender scene might have continued, had
not the other ruffian knocked his knuckles sharply on the table, and
cried--
"Hist! brother--_chise_ it--enough fooling--I hear a horse-shoe on the
road."
All held their breath, and remained motionless for a time. The fellow
was, however, mistaken. Bill again advanced to the window, and gazed
intently through the long vista of trees.
"There's not a bat stirring," said he, returning to the table, and
filling out successively two glasses of spirits, he emptied them both.
"Meanwhile, Tony," continued he, "get back to your company. Some of the
fellows may be poking their noses into this place. If you don't hear
_from_ me, at all events you'll hear of me before an hour. Hop the
twig, boy, and keep all hard in for a bit--skip."
With a roguish grin and a shake of the fist, honest Tony, not caring to
dispute the commands of his friend, of whose temper he happened to know
something, stealthily withdrew from the room, where we, too, shall for
a time leave these worthy gentlemen of the road vigilantly awaiting the
approach of their victim.
Larry Toole had no sooner recovered his senses--which was in less than
a minute--than he at once betook himself to the "Cock and Anchor,"
resolved, as the last resource, to inform O'Connor of the fact that an
attack was meditated. Accordingly, he hastened with very little
ceremony into the presence of his master, told him that young Ashwoode
was to be waylaid upon the road, near the "Bleeding Horse," and
implored him, without the loss of a moment, to ride in that direction,
with a view, if indeed it might not already be too late, to intercept
his passage, and forewarn him of the danger which awaited him.
Without waiting to ask one useless question, O'Connor, before five
minutes were passed, was mounted on his trusty horse, and riding at a
hard pace through the dark streets towards the point of danger.
Meanwhile, young Ashwoode, followed by his mounted attendant, proceeded
at a brisk trot in the direction of the manor; his brain filled with a
thousand busy thoughts and schemes, among which, not the least
important, were sundry floating calculations as to the probable and
possible amount of Lady Stukely's jointure, as well as some conjectures
respecting the _maximum_ duration of her ladyship's life. Involved in
these pleasing ruminations, sometimes crossed by no less agreeable
recollections, in which the triumphs of vanity and the successes of the
gaming-table had their share, he had now reached that shadowy and
silent part of the road at which stood the little inn, embowered in the
great old trees, and peeping forth with a sort of humble and friendly
aspect, but ill-according with the dangerous designs it served to
shelter.
Here the servant, falling somewhat further behind, brought his horse
close under the projecting window of the inn as he passed, and with a
sharp cut of his whip gave the concerted signal. Before sixty seconds
had elapsed, two well-mounted cavaliers were riding at a hard gallop in
their wake. At this headlong pace, the foremost of the two horsemen had
passed Ashwoode by some dozen yards, when, checking his horse so
suddenly as to throw him back upon his haunches, he wheeled him round,
and plunging the spurs deep into his flanks, with two headlong springs,
he dashed him madly upon the young man's steed, hurling the beast and
his rider to the earth. Tremendous as was the fall, young Ashwoode,
remarkable alike for personal courage and activity, was in a moment
upon his feet, with his sword drawn, ready to receive the assault of
the ruffian.
"Let go your skiver--drop it, you greenhorn," cried the fellow,
hoarsely, as he wheeled round his plunging horse, and drew a pistol
from the holster, "or, by the eternal ----, I'll blow your head into
dust!"
Young Ashwoode attempted to seize the reins of the fellow's horse, and
made a desperate pass at the rider.
"Take it, then," cried the fellow, thrusting the muzzle of the pistol
into Ashwoode's face and drawing the trigger. Fortunately for Ashwoode,
the pistol missed fire, and almost at the same moment the rapid clang
of a horse's hoofs, accompanied by the loud shout of menace, broke
startlingly upon his ear. Happy was this interruption for Henry
Ashwoode, for, stunned and dizzy from the shock, he at that moment
tottered, and in the next was prostrate upon the ground. "Blowed, by
----!" cried the villain, furiously, as the unwelcome sounds reached
his ears, and dashing the spurs into his horse, he rode at a furious
gallop down the road towards the country. This scene occupied scarce
six seconds in the acting. Brimstone Bill, who had but a moment before
come up to the succour of his comrade, also heard the rapid approach of
the galloping hoofs upon the road; he knew that before he could count
fifty seconds the new comer would have arrived. A few moments, however,
he thought he could spare--important moments they turned out to be to
one of the party. Bill kept his eye steadily fixed upon the point some
three or four hundred yards distant at which he knew the horseman whose
approach was announced must first appear.
In that brief moment, the cool-headed villain had rapidly calculated
the danger of the groom's committing his accomplices through want of
coolness and presence of mind, should he himself, as was not unlikely,
become suspected. The groom's pistols were still loaded, and he had
taken no part in the conflict. Brimstone Bill fixed a stern glance upon
his companion while all these and other thoughts flashed like lightning
across his brain.
"Darby," said he, hurriedly, to the man who sat half-stupefied in the
saddle close beside him, "blaze off the lead towels--crack them off, I
say."
Bill impatiently leaned forward, and himself drew the pistols from the
groom's saddle-bow; he fired one of them in the air--he cocked the
other. "This dolt will play the devil with us all," thought he, looking
with a peculiar expression at the bewildered servant. With one hand he
grasped him by the collar to steady his aim, and with the other,
suddenly thrusting the pistol to his ear, and drawing the trigger, he
blew the wretched man's head into fragments like a potsherd; and
wheeling his horse's head about, he followed his comrade pell-mell,
beating the sparks in showers from the stony road at every plunge.
All this occurred in fewer moments than it has taken us lines to
describe it; and before our friend Brimstone Bill had secured the odds
which his safety required, O'Connor was thundering at a furious gallop
within less than a hundred yards of him. Bill saw that his pursuer was
better mounted than he--to escape, therefore, by a fair race was out of
the question. His resolution was quickly taken. By a sudden and
powerful effort he reined in his horse at a single pull, and, with one
rearing wheel, brought him round upon his antagonist; at the same time,
drawing one of the large pistols from the saddle-bow, he rested it
deliberately upon his bridle-arm, and fired at his pursuer, now within
twenty yards of him. The ball passed so close to O'Connor's head that
his ear rang shrilly with the sound of it for hours after. They had now
closed; the highwayman drew his second pistol from the holster, and
each fired at the same instant. O'Connor's shot was well directed--it
struck his opponent in the bridle-arm, a little below the shoulder,
shattering the bone to splinters. With a hoarse shriek of agony, the
fellow, scarce knowing what he did, forced the spurs into his horse's
sides; and the animal reared, wheeled, and bore its rider at a reckless
speed in the direction which his companion had followed.
It was well for him that the shot, which at the same moment he had
discharged, had not been altogether misdirected. O'Connor, indeed,
escaped unscathed, but the ball struck his horse between the eyes, and
piercing the brain, the poor beast reared upright and fell dead upon
the road. Extricating himself from the saddle, O'Connor returned to the
spot where young Ashwoode and the servant still lay. Stunned and dizzy
with the fall which he had had, the excitement of actual conflict was
no sooner over, than Ashwoode sank back into a state of insensibility.
In this condition O'Connor found him, pale as death, and apparently
lifeless. Raising him against the grassy bank at the roadside, and
having cast some water from a pool close by into his face, he saw him
speedily recover.
"Mr. O'Connor," said Ashwoode, as soon as he was sufficiently restored,
"you have saved my life--how can I thank you?"
"Spare your thanks, sir," replied O'Connor, haughtily; "for any man I
would have done as much--for anyone bearing your name I would do much
more. Are you hurt, sir?"
"O'Connor, I have done you much injustice," said the young man,
betrayed for the moment into something like genuine feeling. "You must
forget and forgive it--I know your feelings respecting others of my
family--henceforward I will be your friend--do not refuse my hand."
"Henry Ashwoode," replied O'Connor, "I take your hand--gladly
forgetting all past causes of resentment--but I want no vows of
friendship, which to-morrow you may regret. Act with regard to me
henceforward as if this night had not been--for I tell you truly again,
that I would have done as much for the meanest peasant breathing as I
have done to-night for you; and once more I pray you tell me, are you
much hurt?"
"Nothing, nothing," replied Ashwoode--"merely a fall such as I have had
a thousand times after the hounds. It has made my head swim
confoundedly; but I'll soon be steady. What, in the meantime, has
become of honest Darby? If I mistake not, I see his horse browsing
there by the roadside."
A few steps showed them what seemed a bundle of clothes lying heaped
upon the road; they approached it--it was the body of the servant.
"Get up, Darby--get up, man," cried Ashwoode, at the same time pressing
the prostrate figure with his boot. It had been lying with the back
uppermost, and in a half-kneeling attitude; it now, however, rolled
round, and disclosed, in the bright moonlight, the hideous aspect of
the murdered man--the head a mere mass of ragged flesh and bone,
shapeless and blackened, and hollow as a shell. Horror-struck at the
sight, they turned in silence away, and having secured the two horses,
they both mounted and rode together back to the little inn, where,
having procured assistance, the body of the wretched servant was
deposited. Young Ashwoode and O'Connor then parted, each on his
respective way.