A BATTLE
Silent and motionless sat Blanchard, on the fringe of a bank at the
coppice edge. He watched the stars move onward and the shadows cast by
moonlight creep from west to north, from north to east. Hawthorn scented
the night and stood like masses of virgin silver under the moon; from
the Red House 'owl tree'--a pollarded elm, sacred to the wise bird--came
mewing of brown owls; and once a white one struck, swift as a streak of
feathered moonlight, on the copse edge, and passed so near to Blanchard
that he saw the wretched shrew-mouse in its talons. "'Tis for the young
birds somewheers," he thought; "an' so they'll thrive an' turn out
braave owlets come bimebye; but the li'l, squeakin', blind shrews,
what'll they do when no mother comes home-along to 'em?"
He mused drearily upon this theme, but suddenly started, for there came
the echo of slow steps in the underwood behind him. They sank into
silence and set Will wondering as to what they might mean. Then another
sound, that of a galloping horse and the crisp ring of wheels, reached
him, and, believing that John Grimbal was come, he strung himself to the
matter in hand. But the vehicle did not stop. A flash of yellow light
leapt through the distance as a mail-cart rattled past upon its way to
Moreton. This circumstance told Will the hour and he knew that his vigil
could not be much longer protracted.
Then death stalked abroad again, but this time in a form that awoke the
watcher's deep-rooted instincts, took him clean out of himself, and
angered him to passion, not in his own cause but another's. There came
the sudden scream of a trapped hare,--that sound where terror and agony
mingle in a cry half human,--and so still was the hour that Blanchard
heard the beast's struggles though it was fifty yards distant. A hare in
a trap at any season meant a poacher--a hated enemy of society in
Blanchard's mind; and his instant thought was to bring the rascal to
justice if he could. Now the recent footfall was explained and Will
doubted not that the cruel cry which had scattered his reveries would
quickly attract some hidden man responsible for it. The hare was caught
by a wire set in a run at the edge of the wood, and now Blanchard
crawled along on his stomach to within ten yards of the tragedy, and
there waited under the shadow of a white-thorn at the edge of the woods.
Within two minutes the bushes parted and, where the foliage of a young
silver birch showered above lesser brushwood, a man with a small head
and huge shoulders appeared. Seeing no danger he crept into the open,
lifted his head to the moon, and revealed the person and features of Sam
Bonus, the labourer with whom Will had quarrelled in times long past.
Here, then, right ahead of him, appeared such a battle as Blanchard had
desired, but with another foe than he anticipated. That accident
mattered nothing, however. Will only saw a poacher, and to settle the
business of such an one out of hand if possible was, in his judgment, a
definite duty to be undertaken by every true man at any moment when
opportunity offered.
He walked suddenly from shadow and stood within three yards of the
robber as Bonus raised the butt of his gun to kill the shrieking beast
at his feet.
"You! An' red-handed, by God! I knawed 't was no lies they told of 'e."
The other started and turned and saw who stood against him.
"Blanchard, is it? An' what be you doin' here? Come for same reason,
p'r'aps?"
"I'd make you pay, if 't was awnly for sayin' that! I'm a man to steal
others' fur out of season, ban't I? But I doan't have no words wi' the
likes o' you. I've took you fair an' square, anyways, an' will just ax
if you be comin' wi'out a fuss, or am I to make 'e?"
The other snarled.
"You--you come a yard nearer an' I'll blaw your damned head--"
But the threat was left unfinished, and its execution failed, for Will
had been taught to take an armed man in his early days on the river, and
had seen an old hand capture more than one desperate character. He knew
that instantaneous action might get him within the muzzle of the gun and
out of danger, and while Bonus spoke, he flew straight upon him with
such unexpected celerity that Sam had no time to accomplish his purpose.
He came down heavily with Blanchard on top of him, and his weapon fell
from his hand. But the poacher was not done with. As they lay
struggling, he found his foot clear and managed to kick Will twice on
the leg above the knee. Then Blanchard, hanging like a dog to his foe,
freed an arm, and hit hard more than once into Sam's face. A blow on the
nose brought red blood that spurted over both men black as ink under the
moonlight.
It was not long before they broke away and rose from their first
struggle on the ground, but Bonus finally got to his knees, then to his
feet, and Will, as he did the same, knew by a sudden twinge in his leg
that if the poacher made off it must now be beyond his power to follow.
"No odds," he gasped, answering his thought aloud, while they wrestled.
"If you've brawk me somewheers 't is no matter, for you 'm marked all
right, an' them squinting eyes of yourn'll be blacker 'n sloes come
marnin'."
This obvious truth infuriated Bonus. He did not attempt to depart, but,
catching sight of his gun, made a tremendous effort to reach it. The
other saw this aim and exerted his strength in an opposite direction.
They fought in silence awhile--growled and cursed, sweated and swayed,
stamped and slipped and dripped blood under the dewy and
hawthorn-scented night. Bonus used all his strength to reach the gun;
Will sacrificed everything to his hold. He suffered the greater
punishment for a while, because Sam fought with all his limbs, like a
beast; but presently Blanchard threw the poacher heavily, and again they
came down together, this time almost on the wretched beast that still
struggled, held by the wire at hand. It had dragged the fur off its leg,
and white nerve fibres, torn bare, glimmered in the red flesh under the
moon.
Both fighters were now growing weaker, and each knew that a few minutes
more must decide the fortune of the battle. Bonus still fought for the
gun, and now his weight began to tell. Then, as he got within reach, and
stretched hand to grasp it, Blanchard, instead of dragging against him,
threw all his force in the same direction, and Sam was shot clean over
the gun. This time they twisted and Will fell underneath. Both
simultaneously thrust a hand for the weapon; both gripped it, and then
exerted their strength for possession. Will meant using it as a club if
fate was kind; the other man, rating his own life at nothing, and,
believing that he bore Blanchard the grudge of his own ruin, intended,
at that red-hot moment, to keep his word and blow the other's brains out
if he got a chance to do so.
Then, unheard by the combatants, a distant gate was thrown open, two
brilliant yellow discs of fire shone along the avenue below, and John
Grimbal returned to his home. Suddenly, seeing figures fighting
furiously on the edge of the hill not fifty yards away, he pulled up,
and a din of conflict sounded in his ears as the rattle of hoof and
wheel and harness ceased. Leaping down he ran to the scene of the
conflict as fast as possible, but it was ended before he arrived. A gun
suddenly exploded and flashed a red-hot tongue of flame across the
night. A hundred echoes caught the detonation and as the discharge
reverberated along the stony hills to Fingle Gorge, Will Blanchard
staggered backwards and fell in a heap, while the poacher reeled, then
steadied himself, and vanished under the woods.
"Bring a lamp," shouted Grimbal, and a moment later his groom obeyed;
but the fallen man was sitting up by the time John reached him, and the
gun that had exploded was at his feet.
"You 'm tu late by half a second," he gasped. "I fired myself when I
seed the muzzle clear. Poachin' he was, but the man 's marked all right.
Send p'liceman for Sam Bonus to-morrer, an' I lay you'll find a
picter."
"Blanchard!"
"Ess fay, an' no harm done 'cept a stiff leg. Best to knock thicky poor
twoad on the head. I heard the scream of un and comed along an' waited
an' catched my gen'leman in the act."
The groom held a light to the mangled hare.
"Scat it on the head," said Will, "then give me a hand."
He was helped to his feet; the servant went on before with the lamp, and
Blanchard, finding himself able to walk without difficulty, proceeded,
slowly supporting himself by the poacher's gun.
Grimbal waited for him to speak and presently he did so.
"Things falls out so different in this maze of a world from what man may
count on."
"How came it that you were here?"
"Blamed if I can tell 'e till I gather my wits together. 'Pears half a
century or so since I comed; yet ban't above two hour agone."
"You didn't come to see Sam Bonus, I suppose?"
"No fay! Never a man farther from my thought than him when I seed un
poke up his carrot head under the moon. I was 'pon my awn affairs an'
comed to see you. I wanted straight speech an' straight hitting; an' I
got 'em, for that matter. An' fightin' 's gude for the blood, I
reckon--anyway for my fashion blood."
"You came to fight me, then?"
"I did--if I could make 'e fight."
"With that gun?"
"With nought but a savage heart an' my two fistes. The gun belongs to
Sam Bonus. Leastways it did, but 't is mine now--or yours, as the party
most wronged."
"Come this way and drink a drop of brandy before you go home. Glad you
had some fighting as you wanted it so bad. I know what it feels like to
be that way, too. But there wouldn't have been blows between us. My mind
was made up. I wrote to Plymouth this afternoon. I wrote, and an hour
later decided not to post the letter. I've changed my intentions
altogether, because the point begins to appear in a new light. I'm sorry
for a good few things that have happened of late years."
Will breathed hard a moment; then he spoke slowly and not without more
emotion than his words indicated.
"That's straight speech--if you mean it. I never knawed how 't was that
a sportsman, same as you be, could keep rakin' awver a job an' drive a
plain chap o' the soil like me into hell for what I done ten year
agone."
"Let the past go. Forget it; banish it for all time as far as you have
the power. Blame must be buried both sides. Here's the letter upon my
desk. I'll burn it, and I'll try to burn the memory often years with it.
Your road's clear for me."
"Thank you," said Blanchard, very slowly. "I lay I'll never hear no
better news than that on this airth. Now I'm free--free to do how I
please, free to do it undriven."
There was a long silence. Grimbal poured out half a tumbler of brandy,
added soda water, then handed the stimulant to Will; and Blauchard,
after drinking, sat in comfort a while, rubbed his swollen jaw, and
scraped the dried blood of Bonus off his hands.
"Why for did you chaange so sudden?" he asked, as Grimbal turned to his
desk.
"I could tell you, but it doesn't matter. A letter in the mind looks
different to one on paper; and duty often changes its appearance, too,
when a man is honest with himself. To be honest with yourself is the
hardest sort of honesty. I've had speech with others about this--my
brother more particularly."
"I wish to God us could have settled it without no help from outside."
Grimbal rang the bell, then answered.
"As to settling it, I know nothing about that. I've settled with my own
conscience--such as it is."
"I'd come for 'Yes' or 'No.'"
"Now you have a definite answer."
"An' thank you. Then what 's it to be between us, when I come back? May
I ax that? Them as ban't enemies no more might grow to be friends--eh?"
What response Grimbal would have made is doubtful. He did not reply, for
his servant, Lawrence Vallack, entered at the moment, and he turned
abruptly upon the old man.
"Where 's the letter I left upon my desk? It was directed to Plymouth."
"All right, sir, all right; don't worrit. I've eyes in my head for my
betters still, thank God. I seed un when I come to shut the shutters an'
sent Joe post-haste to the box. 'T was in plenty of time for the mail."
John emptied his lungs in a great respiration, half-sigh, half-groan. He
could not speak. Only his fingers closed and he half lifted his hand as
though to crush the smirking ancient. Then he dropped his arm and looked
at Blanchard, asking the question with his eyes that he could find no
words for.
"I heard the mail go just 'fore the hare squealed," said Will stolidly,
"an' the letter with it for certain."
Grimbal started up and rushed to the hall while the other limped after
him.
"Doan't 'e do nothin' fulish. I believe you never meant to post un. Ess,
I'll take your solemn word for that. An' if you didn't mean to send
letter, 't is as if you hadn't sent un. For my mind weer fixed, whatever
you might do."
"Don't jaw, now! There 's time to stop the mail yet. I can get to
Moreton as soon or sooner than that crawling cart if I ride. I won't be
fooled like this!"
He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the
horse that had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was
riding down the avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open
just in time. Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul
fixed upon his letter. He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost.
The white road streaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his
own rapid progress steadied him as he hastened on. Presently at a
hill-foot, he saw how to save a mile or more by short cuts over
meadow-land, so left the highway, rode through a hayfield, and dashed
from it by a gap into a second. Then he grunted and the sound was one of
satisfaction, for his tremendous rate of progress had served its object
and already, creeping on the main road far ahead, he saw the vehicle
which held the mail.
Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched John Grimbal's
furious departure.
"Pity," said Will. "No call to do it. I've took his word, an' the end 's
the same, letter or no letter. Now let me finish that theer brandy, then
I'll go home."
But Mr. Vallack heard nothing. He was gazing out into the night and
shaking with fear.
"High treason 'gainst the law of the land to lay a finger on the mail. A
letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken--out of our
keeping for all time. An' me to blame for it. I'm a ruined man along o'
taking tu much 'pon myself an' being tu eager for others. He'll fling me
out, sure 's death. 'T is all up wi' me."
"As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he 's
earned a pat," said Will; "that's life, that is. An' maybe theer's sore
hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, for a dog loves praise like a
woman. He won't sack 'e. You done what 'peared your duty."
Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue and
presently passed out on to the highroad. As he walked the pain of his
leg diminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very
leisurely towards home. Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by
aching bones and bruises. The reflection that he was reconciled to John
Grimbal crowded out lesser thoughts. He knew the other had spoken truth,
and accepted his headlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof
of it. Then he thought of the possibility of giving himself up before
Grimbal's letter should come to be read.
At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him. She had
brought up to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables
and a pint of beer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and
embraced him with thanksgivings. Upon Blanchard's mind the return to his
wife impressed various strange thoughts. He soothed her, comforted her,
and assured her of his safety. But to him it seemed that he spoke with a
stranger, for half a century of experience appeared to stretch between
the present and his departure from Monks Barton about three hours
before. His wife experienced similar sensations. That this cheerful,
battered, hungry man could be the same who had stormed from her into the
night a few short hours before, appeared impossible.