MY CAREER AS A HIGHWAYMAN
I left the cottage from the rear and struck slantwise across the fields
to reach the shelter of the trees and undergrowth that covered the slope
down to the road. I ran hard so as to shake irresolution out of my mind,
for I found myself half wishing that Mistress Waynflete had pleaded with
me at first instead of trying to thrust me out of my plan. After all the
highwayman's was hardly my calling in life. So I ran hard, saying to
myself that it must be done, and the sooner it was over the better. Then I
laughed. With my rusty old birding-piece I was as ill-equipped for
highwaymanship as I was for farming with my Georgics. "Stand and deliver,"
quoth I to myself, "or I'll double your weight with swan-shot." Were the
unknown horseman a resolute man armed with a hair-trigger, I was as good
as done for.
Arrived in the shelter of the wood, I began picking my way through the
thick undergrowth towards the road. Fallen branchlets snapped beneath my
heedless feet and the sounds rang in my ears like pistol-shots. A saucy
robin cocked his care-free eye on me from the top of a crab-tree, and I
could have envied him as I stumbled by. It was perhaps fourscore yards
through, and half-way I stopped to listen. Yes, there came to my ear the
slow trot-ot-ot of hoofs on the hard road. I went on again until, through
the leafless tangle, I began to get glimpses of the highway. My fate was
dragging me on. In a month's time my shrivelling carcase might be swinging
in chains on the top of Wes'on Bank, an ensample to evil-doers. The
thought made me shiver, and I jerked out a broken prayer that my intended
victim might turn out some fat, unarmed farmer, as easy a prey as an
over-fed gander. Then I cursed myself for a fool. No man can mortgage past
piety for present sin. Who was I that I should be allowed to steal on good
security?
Trot-ot-ot. Trot-ot-ot. He was within easy shot now, and I stopped to
make sure of my rickety old weapon. A dragoon's musket would not have
needed such constant care. "Life turns on trifles," said Mistress
Waynflete.
In lifting my eyes from the priming to move on again, something in the
line of vision made me start. On my left, less than a dozen paces from me,
there lay on the ground, on a clean patch beneath a conspicuously-forked
hawthorn, a man's jacket and plumed hat.
A lion playing with a lamb would not have given me pause more abruptly. I
stole silently up to them. They were fine but somewhat faded garments,
modish and even foppish, and, so far as I could distinguish any
peculiarity, military in appearance, and evidently belonged to a person of
some quality. Nor had they been flung there in haste, for the coat was
neatly folded and the hat disposed carefully on top of it. How long had
they been there? I picked up the hat, and there was still the gloss of
recent sweat on its inside brim.
This, however, was no time for idle problems, a very urgent one being on
hand. Forward I crept to the side of the road, and, lying flat down on the
ground, pushed the stock of my gun on to the short grass, and peeped
cautiously to my right down the hill. I was about thirty or forty yards
from a bend in the road, and had intended to be much less, but my
discovery and my confused, half-conscious thinking about it, had deflected
me a little from my course.
Trot-ot-ot. He would be in sight in a few seconds. Trot-ot-ot, plainer
than ever, and there he was. The moment that he was in full view I made an
astonishing discovery, and saw an astonishing sight.
The discovery was that the solitary horseman, walking his powerful grey
with a slack rein, and lost in thought, was Master Freake.
The sight was the rush of three men from their lurking-places in the
brushwood. Two of them were soldiers, and Brocton's dragoons at that, a
sample of the town-sweepings Jack had complained of. One seized the reins,
the other held a carbine point-blank at the horseman's head.
These were plainly deserters or freebooters, acting after their kind, and
they had picked up a strange partner during their foray. He wore a yokel's
smock much too big for him, and yet not big enough to hide his bespurred
riding-boots. On his head he had a dirty tapster's bonnet, and his face
was completely hidden by a rudely-cut crape vizard. This singular person
was evidently the leader of the gang. He threatened Master Freake with a
glittering, long-barrelled pistol, and in gruff, curt tones ordered him to
dismount on pain of instant death.
Here was a strange overturn to be sure. Here again fate had rudely upset
my plans, and no fat purse would there be for me in this coil. However,
though I would have robbed Master Freake willingly enough, my blood being
up and he a manifest Hanoverian, I was not going to see Brocton's ruffians
rob him, much less kill him. The purse must wait, and when I took it--for
take it I must--God would perchance balance one thing against the other.
All that I had seen and thought took place in a mere fraction of time,
and even before Master Freake had pulled up, I was creeping like a ferret
from bush to bush to get nearer. Then, just as in his quiet, measured
tones he was asking what they wanted, I burst out into the wood, shouting,
"Forward, my men, here the villains are!" With the words, I fired my
handful of swan-shot clean into the group, and then charged at them
yelling, in boyish imitation of a knight of old, "Happy is he that
escapeth me."
The two dragoons instantly fled with yelps of pain and terror, and the
horse, squealing with fright, began to rear and plunge madly about the
road. Black Vizard turned on me, his pistol rang out, and the bullet
hissed by my ear. I sprang at him with clubbed gun, and struck hard for
his head, but caught him on the neck as he too turned to flee. He went
down, spinning and sprawling, in the road, right under the plunging horse.
With a squeal that curdled my blood, she rose in the air, kicking
viciously. Her hoofs came down with sickening thuds on the squirming man's
skull, cracking it like an egg-shell. His body twitched once or twice, and
then settled into the stillness of death.
I seized the horse's rein and soothed her. She let me pat her neck and
rub her nose, and soon stood quiet, her neck flecked with foam, her flanks
reeking with sweat. Master Freake, who had not spoken a word, dismounted,
and I led the mare into the wood and hitched her reins over a bough. Then
I returned to the man I had saved, and found him looking calmly down on
the man I had killed. The black vizard was now soaking in a horrid pool of
blood and brains. I stooped, and with trembling fingers moved it aside and
revealed the features of the dead man. It was the pimple-faced Major.
I turned to my intended victim, and found him looking calmly and
impassively at me.
"Master Wheatman of the Hanyards, unless I am mistaken," he said.
"Your servant, sir," said I, rather sourly. But for that dead rascal at
our feet I could beyond a doubt have plucked him like a chough, and here I
was, still penniless.
"Master Wheatman, I am not a man of many words, but what I say I stand
by. I am your very grateful debtor for a very fine and courageous action.
Three to one is long odds, but you won with your brains, sir, as much as
by your bravery. Your shout was an excellent device, happily thought on."
He held out his hand. I shook it heartily and then burst out laughing,
and laughed on till tears stood in my eyes. And this was the end of my
highwaymanship!
"Since the danger is, thanks to you, over, Master Wheatman," he said, "I
would e'en like to share your mirth--if I may."
"Sir," I replied, "I am laughing because I have saved you from robbers."
"But why laugh?"
"Because I set out ten minutes ago to rob you myself."
Master Freake gazed casually up and down the hill, and then, fixing his
quiet grey eyes on me, said whimsically, "I am a man of peace, and
unarmed; the road is of a truth very lonely, and I have considerable sums
of money on me."
"Yes, I'm quite vexed. This fire-faced scoundrel has upset my plans
finely. I may not get as good a chance for hours."
Now it was his turn to laugh. "Master Wheatman," he said, "you are not
the stuff highwaymen are made of. As you are in need of money, you need it
for some good purpose, and I shall--"
He stopped short. As we stood, he was facing the wood from which the
robbers had burst on him, while I had my back on it. As he stopped, his
strong, calm face changed, and his eyes were fixed on something in the
wood. Wonder, amazement, delight, awe--not one, but all of these emotions
were visible in his face. He looked as one who sees a blessed spirit. I
turned. It was Margaret, leaning, pale and spent and breathless, against
the trunk of a tree, looking and shuddering at the dread object in the
road.
I bounded up to her and touched her on the arm. "All's well, Mistress
Waynflete," said I. "I am as yet no gallows-bird."
"But--" Her eyes were still staring wide on the road, and she trembled
violently, so I stepped between her and the ghastly sight, and said,
"Courage, dear lady. The dead man is your father's worst enemy, Major
Tixall, and yon horse killed him, not I."
By this, Master Freake had come nearer to us, and I turned to greet him.
"Madam," said I, "this is my friend, Master Freake, whom I set out to
rob." To him I added, "This is Mistress Waynflete, whom I have the honour
to serve."
He bared his head and bowed. "And whom I hope to have the honour of
serving too."
I looked at him curiously. All other emotions had faded from his face
now, but it was clear that her peerless and now so helpless beauty had
appealed home to him.
"Sir," she said, recovering herself with a great effort, "I am pleased to
make your acquaintance. And now,"--speaking to me,--"since you have given
me a great fright and made me behave like a milkmaid rather than a
soldier's daughter, perhaps you will tell me what has happened, and how
it"--she looked over my shoulder--"comes to be lying there. I heard shots
and shrieks that turned me to stone. What has happened?"
"Master Wheatman," said our new acquaintance, taking my words out of my
mouth, "is hardly likely to give you a reasonably correct account. Allow
me to be the historian of his fine conduct." He told the story with
overmuch kindness to me, and as he told it the colour came back to her
face, and she was herself again. While he was telling it, I noticed for
the first time, or rather for the first time gathered its meaning, that
she had run out after me without the domino, and in the biting air she
might easily catch a chill. So while Master Freake was making a fine
sprose about me, much more applicable to Achilles or the Chevalier Bayard,
I slipped off and fetched the hat and coat. He was just concluding his
story on my return, and without interrupting him, I clumsily thrust the
hat on her head and flung the coat over her shoulders.
"Master Freake," she said, in her sweetest bantering tones, "my servant,
as he absurdly calls himself, is really an artist in helping people. I
told him this morning that his native shire was his conjurer's hat, when
he fetched ham and eggs out of it for poor hungry me. Now he observes that
I am coatless and a-cold, and lo, a hat is on my head and a coat on my
shoulders. It is marvellous and nothing short of it. Nay, I shall shun him
as one in league with the powers of darkness if there's much more of it.
If I be saved, you remember Master Slender,"--this in a sly aside to
me,--"I'll be saved by them that have the fear of God."
"Ingrate!" I cried, half angry and yet wholly delighted; "what of marvel
or devilment is there in picking up a hat and coat one has found lying
under a tree?"
"Major Tixall's," said Master Freake.
"Ass that I am, of course they are. Steady, Mistress Margaret, while I go
through the pockets. The odds are we shall find something useful in
checkmating my Lord Brocton."
In this I was wrong, for there was not a single scrap of writing in any
of them. I did, however, fish out two small but heavy packets, wrapped in
paper. They were easily examined, and each contained a roll of ten guineas.
"The hire of the two rascals," explained Master Freake.
"Really, Mistress Margaret," said I, "there's something in what you said
just now. I do have his nether highness's own luck. I came out for
guineas, prepared to rob for them, and here's twenty of the darlings lying
ready for me to pick up. Now we can go ahead in comfort."
Through all this talk I was turning over in my mind what account, if any,
we were to give Master Freake of our being here. If I had had only myself
to consider I should have trusted him without hesitation. He was the sort
of man that inspires confidence, his grave, serene, intelligent face
having strength and steadfastness written in every line of it. But I had
Mistress Waynflete to consider, and if any appeal was to be made for his
assistance, she must make it. I'm afraid that I hoped she wouldn't, since
I was jealous of any interference in my temporary responsibility for her
welfare.
"Master Freake," I said, "some account will, I suppose, have to be given
of yon ruffian's death. The two runaways are scarcely likely to appear as
witnesses, so, for Mistress Waynflete's sake, I must ask you, should an
explanation become necessary, to conceal my share in the matter."
"The manner of his death is fortunately quite obvious, and if it were
not, any account I choose to give of it will pass unquestioned."
"Then it will be easy for you, I hope, to forget me when giving it. And
now, madam, I think we must be moving."
"Before you go," said Master Freake, "let me say again that if I can help
you, you have only to ask. You, Master Wheatman, because your twofold
signal service is something it would shame me for ever not to be allowed
to return, and you, madam, because," he paused, and the curious rapt
expression came over his face again, "because you are very beautiful and
need help. Your father's politics will make no difficulty, so far as I am
concerned."
"You know my father?" she asked, surprised.
"Know of him. My Lord Brocton was boasting last night of his capture--and
of other things," he lamely concluded.
"Is he boasting this morning?" I asked.
"I have not seen him," he said, "but Mistress Dobson told me she thought
he'd been rooks'-nesting and had fallen off the poplar."
"I met him again," said I, "and did not like his conversation."
"Master Wheatman means," explained Mistress Waynflete, "that he saved me
from my Lord Brocton's clutches at the imminent risk of his own life." She
stretched out her hands and touched the holes in my coat with her white,
slender fingers. "My lord's rapier made these," she said.
"An inch to the left, my friend," quoth Master Freake, "and you'd have
been as dead as mutton. His lordship, it seems, is busily piling up a big
account with both of us. Well, in my own way, I'll make the rascal pay as
dearly as you have in yours. If you will be pleased to accept my help,
madam, I will do all I can for you. There are, fortunately, other means
than carnal weapons of influencing such persons as Lord Brocton."
"Like Master Wheatman, sir, you are too good to a poor girl." She said it
gratefully and humbly, and indeed so she felt, but no man could listen to
her meek words without pride.
"I'm glad I turned footpad, in spite of you," said I to my dear mistress.
"I can never thank you enough," was the simple reply. "It was wicked in
me to accept the sacrifice, but in God's good providence it was not made
in vain."
"Then I come into the firm," said Master Freake smilingly, and when,
catching the meaning of his metaphor, she smiled brightly back at him, and
held out her hand, he bowed over it formally, but very kindly, and kissed
it. She blushed prettily, and then, after a moment's hesitation,
stretching it out to me, said, "But I must not forget the original
partner." I took the splendid prize in my rough, red, farmer's hand, and
kissed it reverently. The touch of my lips on her sweet, smooth flesh made
me tremble, and I knew the madness was creeping over me, but I gritted my
teeth, and our eyes met again. The blush had gone, but not the smile. It
was not now, however, the smile of a frank maiden but of an inscrutable
and dominating woman. I knew the difference, for instinct is more than
experience, and I chilled into the yokel again and wondered.
"In one sense, at any rate," said Master Freake, "I am the senior
partner, and as such may, without presumption, speak first. I must go on
to Stone, but that will, I think, be best for our purpose. As I view the
situation, two things are requisite, first that you, Master Wheatman,
should get Mistress Waynflete in advance of all the royal troops, and so
out of danger, and secondly that we should learn precisely what has become
of Colonel Waynflete."
"Exactly," I agreed. "The action of Lord Brocton in sending the Colonel
north instead of south, or at least of lodging him in jail at Stafford, is
inexplicable. True, his plan separates father and daughter, which is what
he wants, but either of the other methods would have served equally well
for that."
Of course I said nothing of the other idea that was haunting my thoughts,
the idea that Brocton was scheming to get rid of the Colonel altogether.
In his lust and anger he might not stick at that, and any kind of
encounter with the enemy would serve his turn. The rascals under him were
worthy of their commander, a fact of which we had already ample proof.
"It looks crooked, I confess," was his reply, "but there is this to be
said for it, that the Duke is following north along with the bulk of his
army, and, I hear, intends to make Stone his head-quarters."
"That seems absurd," said I, "but of course he knows best."
"The movements of the Prince's army are uncertain. The plan of their
leaders is never to say where the next halt will be. They will be to-day,
I know, in or near Macclesfield, and I learn that it is possible they may
turn off for Wales, where they believe they will find many recruits. The
farther north the Duke can safely go, the better placed he will be for
checking them if they do that, and his advance guard is posted at
Newcastle. The question is, how are you to get there first and without
being taken?"
"By travelling the by-roads," said I. "We'll go through Eccleshall."
"How long will it take you to get there?" he asked.
"About three hours," said I, "if Mistress Waynflete can stand the pace."
"Very good," he replied. "I will join you there, and do my best to get
horses for you in the meantime, and bring them along with me."
"That's splendid," said I, "but I'd rather we met outside the village.
Not more than a mile and a half beyond it on the Newcastle road there's a
little wayside ale-house called the 'Ring of Bells,' at the foot of a
steep hill, with a large pool ringed with pines, known as Cop Mere, in
front of it. It's a lonely place and will serve better. Small place as
Eccleshall is, I shall skirt round it, and so get to the 'Ring of Bells.'
You cannot miss it if you ride through the village on the Newcastle road.
Whoever's there first will await the other."
"Then in about three hours we'll meet at the 'Ring of Bells,' and I hope
I shall bring good news of the Colonel. Believe me, dear lady, short of
foul play on Brocton's part, and we have no reason to suspect that, your
father will be all right. Plain John Freake is not without influence. As
for the ruffian lying dead in the road, think no more of him."
So saying he unhitched his horse, led her into the road, and mounted. He
bowed and smiled, said cheerily, "A pleasant walk to the 'Ring of Bells,'"
and cantered off.
I stepped between madam and the dead man. "We've found a good friend
there, Mistress Waynflete. Now we'll put the hat and coat as we found
them, save for the guineas, and go back to the cottage for your domino."
She gave them to me, and stepped out briskly towards the cottage. I
folded up the coat, put the hat on it, looked again at the still, stiff
horror in the road, soaking in its own blood, and silently followed her.