If any misanthropic subject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George
II. had wished to withdraw himself from the bustle of public life and
turn recluse in real good earnest, he could scarcely have chosen a
district more likely to suit his retiring taste than the country in the
vicinity of Saxonford. Scarcely aspiring to the dignity of a village,
the place so named was merely a cluster of cottages formed upon the
edge of a rough highway leading apparently to nowhere. In ancient
times this spot had been of somewhat more importance, for it was here
that a religious house of no inconsiderable size had flourished. But
those days had long passed away; and in 1745 the only remnant of the
monastery which survived the depredations committed by man and the
all-effacing hand of Time was a gray skeleton tower, a silent witness
to its departed conventual magnificence. Being erected, as was usually
the case with fen settlements, upon a rise of comparatively high land,
the remains commanded a view of an almost unbroken horizon. Standing
at some distance from the hamlet which had arisen round the monastic
ruin was a quaint dilapidated structure, known to the scattered natives
of those parts as the _Saxonford Arms_. Whatever might have been the
causes that induced the architect to build such an inn—for it was
by no means a small one—in so lonely a part, must remain a matter
of conjecture. A visitor was almost unknown at the old inn. There
it stood, weather-beaten and time-worn as the gray old tower which
overlooked it, and much more likely to tumble down, if the truth be
told.
At the time we speak of, the scene appeared unusually calm and
beautiful, for the day was drawing to an end, and it was close upon
sunset, a period which is seldom seen to so much advantage as in the
low-lying districts of the fens. The weather had been unusually hot,
and the sinking sun shed a warm glow over a tract of well-browned
country, making its rich hues seem richer still. In the glassy water of
the river, the vivid sky was reflected as in a mirror, while the tall
tops of the sedge-rushes that bordered it were scarcely stirred by a
breath of air. A rotten timber bridge, which might have been erected in
the time of Hereward, spanned the stream at a short distance from the
old inn; crossing this, the road dipped down and led the way between
patches of black peat, cultivated land, and unreclaimed watery morass,
straight towards the south.
A small party of strong sunburnt fen labourers were seated on the rough
benches in front of mine host’s ancient house of entertainment, some of
them swarthy, black-bearded men, others with light tawny hair and blue
eyes. True types of the hardy race were they; their strong, uncovered
brown arms, which had all day long been working under a baking sun,
upon a shadeless flat, telling a tale of sinewy power that came not a
jot under the renowned strength of their mighty ancestors. Mine host
himself, a ruddy-faced man of middle age, was there too, smoking a long
well-coloured pipe, and gazing in a thoughtful way across the long
stretch of fen, over which the shades of night were steadily creeping.
‘What be ye gaping at, master?’ quoth one of the brawny labourers, as
the landlord shaded his eyes with his hand and endeavoured to make out
some indistinct object.
‘What’re ye looking after, Hobb?’ asked another one in a bantering
tone. ‘Can’t ye believe your own eyes, man?’
‘Nay, Swenson, I can’t,’ returned mine host, lowering his hand and
turning to the person who addressed him. ‘I want a good pair sadly.’
‘You’re like to get ’em staring over the fen in that way, my boy!’
remarked Swenson with a hoarse laugh.
‘Lend me your eyes here, Harold,’ went on the innkeeper. ‘Take a squint
across that bank and tell me what you see.’
‘What be the good o’ askin’ me?’ returned the man. ‘I can’t tell a
barn-door from a peat-stack at fifty yards’ distance.’
‘I’ll tell ye, Dipping,’ cried a young sunburnt giant, starting up from
the bench on which he had been sitting. ‘Where is’t?’
‘You see yon tall willow?’
‘Him as sticks up there by the dike?’
‘Ay. Look out there to the left o’ it, across the fen, and tell me what
ye see.’
The fellow’s blue eyes were directed with an earnest gaze towards the
distant spot which the landlord pointed out; and then he turned sharply
round and exclaimed: ‘It be two horsemen.’
‘Are ye sure?’ asked mine host, as he bent his brows and vainly tried
to make out the far-off speck.
‘Quite sure,’ was the reply. ‘They’re coming up the road by the old
North Lode.—There; now they’re passing One Man’s Mill.’
‘I see ’em!’ exclaimed Swenson, pointing towards a solitary windmill,
the jagged sails of which formed a slight break in the long line of
misty flatness.
‘Perchance they be travellers, and will want beds for the night,’ said
mine host, roused to action by the mere possibility of such an event
occurring. ‘I will see that the place is got ready for them.’
‘Hobb Dipping is soon counting his chickens,’ remarked one of the
uncouth fenmen, laughing, as the landlord of the _Saxonford Arms_
disappeared.
‘Ay, it’s like him all over,’ rejoined Swenson, while he gathered up
some implements and prepared to go.—‘Are ye coming with me, Harold?’
‘No, my boy; I’m agoing to stop and see who yon horsemen may be. News
are scarce in these parts. If you’re off now, why, good-night to ye.’
Swenson nods, bids the man good-night, and then strides off in the
direction of the old gray tower. The major part of the loiterers go
with him; but three or four still linger, looking along the misty road,
and waiting as if in expectation of something.
A light up in one of the windows of the inn tells that Hobb Dipping
is preparing his best room for the reception of the approaching
travellers, in case it should be needed; and a savoury smell of hot
meat which issues forth through the open doorway of the hostel makes
the few hungry watchers that remain feel inclined to seek their own
supper-tables. At length mine host has finished his task, and the most
presentable apartment that the house contains is ready for instant
occupation if necessary. Honest Hobb Dipping gazes wistfully out of a
rickety diamond-paned window, and thinks that his labour must have been
in vain. The moon is rising from the shadow of a thick bank of vapour,
its dim red outline as yet but faintly seen through the misty cloud.
It is getting late; the travellers must have passed by the bridge, and
ridden along the flood-bank. ‘If they know not the way well,’ mutters
Dipping to himself, ‘they’ll lose themselves in the fen for certain. An
awkward path that be, specially binight, with a damp fog rising.’
At this moment, a clatter of horses’ hoofs breaks the silence, and
two horsemen canter over the shaky timber bridge and draw up in front
of the old inn. Mine host bustles about shouting a number of confused
directions; the one youthful domestic which the place boasts of running
helplessly to and fro and doing nothing. The foremost rider, suddenly
leaping from his horse, strides into the inn, and flings himself into a
chair, ordering a private room and supper to be made ready at once.
Honest Dipping hurries about, unused to strangers of distinction,
bringing in liquor and glasses, meat, platters and knives, besides a
quantity of other things that are not wanted, the stranger meanwhile
having taken possession of the room up-stairs which had been hurriedly
prepared for him.
Presently follows the gentleman’s servant, a short muscular fellow,
with a sullen, lowering countenance; and a short conversation takes
place between the man and his master.
‘Are the horses put up, Derrick?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the pistols?’
‘Here they are, Sir Carnaby.’
‘Loaded, of course?’
‘Ay, sir, both of them.’
‘Right! Now, what think you of this part? Is it not quiet enough for
us? I never was in such a dead-alive wilderness before; and taking that
into consideration, I fancy it is possible to last out a few days even
in this ghastly shanty. After that, I shall ride to Lynn and take ship,
for, as I live, the country is getting too hot to hold me.’
Derrick gave vent to a sound resembling a grunt, and muttered a few
words containing seemingly some disparaging reference to the ‘king over
the water.’
‘Hush, you fool!’ exclaimed his master in a low whisper; ‘you should
know better than to speak of what does not concern you. Be wise, and
hold your tongue.’
‘Your pardon, Sir Carnaby,’ replied Derrick; ‘it shall not be spoken of
again.’
‘And mind, Derrick, in case we should be inquired after, let the rustic
boors know that I am Mr Morton, a landowner from somewhere or other.
You, Derrick, are John Jones; so mind and answer to your name. D’ye
hear?’
The attendant’s face relaxed into a sly grin as he answered: ‘I hear,
sir.’
The truth is, Mr Morton—or to call him by his proper name, Sir
Carnaby Vincent—was a young baronet of good family, and reputed to
be enormously rich. In consequence of his being mixed up in some
disturbances occasioned by the Jacobite party, he had found it
necessary, at a previous period, to avoid the cognisance of the
authorities. But a certain nobleman having interested himself in
the youthful plotter’s behalf, the affair was hushed up, and Sir
Carnaby returned to society once more. Having a relish for all kinds
of intrigue, besides being of too excitable a temperament to exist
long in a state of quiet, the madcap young fellow again entered heart
and soul into the intrigues of Prince Charles’ followers, and this
time succeeded only too well in attracting notice. A warrant was
issued for his apprehension; and Sir Carnaby once more had to seek
safety in flight, taking with him a quantity of valuable papers, and
the blessings of all his companions engaged in the perilous cause.
He was accompanied by only one person, his servant Derrick, a rough
but doggedly faithful retainer, who had followed the fortunes of his
house for nearly thirty years. Derrick himself cared not a jot for the
Jacobite party to which Sir Carnaby was so attached; his first thought
was to follow his master, and share the dangers which he might have
to encounter. Their retreat from the metropolis was safely effected,
much to the satisfaction of the baronet, who was really seriously
alarmed at this second unlucky discovery. From London they journeyed
through Cambridgeshire, Sir Carnaby’s plan being to lie quiet for a
few days in the heart of the fens, then afterwards proceeding to some
obscure seaport on the borders of the Wash, to take sail for a foreign
land, where he could best forward the fortunes both of himself and his
hapless Prince.