CHAPTER XX. THE SQUIRE'S HOUSE
"There," he said, not unkindly, "there's a nice little 'ome for
yer. Now you, tell me wot you were doing spying on me. First of
all, 'ave you any money?" He did not wait for me to answer, but
dug his hands into my pockets at once, taking every penny I had,
except a few shillings which were hidden in my belt. He did not
see my belt, as I had taken to wearing it next my skin, since I
began to follow the wars. I feared from the greed which showed in
all his movements that he vas going to strip me; but he did not
do so, thinking, no doubt, that none of my clothes would fit his
body.
"Well," he said, in his snarling beast voice, "wot's up 'ere,
with all these folk brought their beasts 'ere?"
I told him that the Duke had come co fight for the crown of
England, with the result, as I supposed, that the country people
dared not trust their live-stock at home, for fear of having them
pillaged. He seemed pleased at the news; but being an utter wild
beast, far less civilized than the lowest savage ever known to
me, he showed his pleasure by hoping that the rich (whom he
cursed fluently) might have their heads pulled off in the war,
while as for the poor (the farmers close by us) he hoped that
they might lose every beast they owned. "Do 'era good," he said.
"Now," he went on, "are you come spying 'ere along of the
farmers?"
"No," I said, "I am a servant of the Duke's, riding out to look
for the militia."
"Ah," he said. "Are yer, cocky? 'Ow'm I to know that?"
"Well," I said, "Look at my hands. Are they the hands of a
farmer?"
"No," he said. "No, Mister stuck-up flunkey, they ain't. I s'pose
yet proud of yet 'ands. I'll 'ave yer wait at table on me." He
seemed to like the notion: for he repeated it many times, while
he dug out hunks of cold ham with his file, from the meat which I
had felt as I crawled in
"'Ow proud I dig
A'unk a cold pig"
he sang, as he gulped the pieces down. It was partly a nightmare,
partly very funny. I was not sure if he was mad, probably he was
mad, but being down in the burrow there, in the half darkness,
hearing that song, made me feel that I was mad; it was all a very
terrible joke; perhaps madness affects people like that. At last
I spoke to him again.
"Sir," I said, "I've been up since two this morning. Give me a
hunk of cold pig, too. I'm half-starved."
"'Elp yourself, can't yer?" he snarled. "Oo'm I to wait on yer?"
Then, very cunningly, he put in, "'Ave you got a knife on yer?"
"No," I said cautiously, "I've got no knife," which was a lie; I
did not wish my knife to go the same way as the money. He gave me
some cold pig, very excellent ham it was, too, for which I was
very thankful. He watched my greediness with satisfaction. I ate
heartily when I saw that my confident way with him had made him
more tender towards me.
"Yes," he snorted. "Per'aps you ain't been lying to me after all.
Now 'ow long will these blokes be up the 'ill 'ere?" I did not
know that; but I supposed that they would go home directly the
Duke's army had got as far, say, as Taunton. "But," I added, "the
Duke may be beaten. If he's beaten, all this part will be full of
troops beating every bush for the rebels." He swore at this; but
his curses were only designed to hide his terror.
"Could a fellow get to sea," he said in a whining tone. "Could a
poor fellow in trouble slip away to sea, now, at one of these
seaport towns? Boy, I been livin' like a wild beast all the way
from Bristol, this two months. I didn't kill the feller; not
dead. The knife only went into 'im a very little way, not more'n
a inch. I was raised near 'ere at a farm. So I knowed of this
'ere burrow. I got 'ere two days ago, pretty near dead. Now I
been penned up from the sea by these farmers comin' 'ere, doin'
swottin' sentry-go all round me. I tell yer, I'll cut up sour, if
they pen me in, now I'm so near got away. I been with Avery. They
call Avery a pirate. They said I was a pirate. It's 'anging if.
they ketch me. Do yer think I could get away to Lyme or some
place, to get took into a ship?" I told him, no; because I knew
from what Lord Grey had told me, that the Channel was full of
men-of-war searching every ship which hove in sight; besides, he
did not look to me to be a very promising hand for a captain to
take aboard.
"All the same," he said, "I got to risk it. You say there may be
troops coming?"
"As for that," I answered, "the troops may be here at any moment
from Exeter or Honiton. They've arrested hundreds of people
everywhere around. You'd better stay in the burrow here." He did
not pay much attention to what I said. He cursed violently, as
though he were a bag-pipe full of foul words being slowly
squeezed by some player. At last he crawled to the passage,
foaming out incoherently that he would show them, he would, let
them just wait.
"You stay 'ere, he said. "If I find you follerin' me, I'll mash
your 'ed into that much slobber." He showed me a short piece of
rope which he had twisted, sailor fashion, so as to form a handle
for a jagged piece of flint, which, as I could see, had been used
on some one or something quite recently.
"Mogador Jack," he said, "'e don't like people follerin' 'im."
With that he left me alone in the burrow, wondering, now that it
was over, why he had not killed me. He left me quite stunned; his
sudden coming into my life had been so strange. It was unreal,
like a dream, to have been in an ancient Briton's burial-chamber
with a mad old pirate who had committed murder. But now that he
had gone, I was eager to go, too, if it could be managed. I would
not stay there till the brute came back, in spite of that flint
club. After waiting some little time, during which, I felt sure,
he was waiting for me at the door of the burrow, I took out my
pistol. I examined the charge to see that all was well; then very
cautiously, I began to crawl up the passage, with my pistol in my
hand.
I waited for some minutes near the door, trying to convince
myself by the lie of the shadows outside that he was crouched
there, ready for me. But it seemed safe. I could see no shadow at
all except the tremulous fern-shadows. At last I took off my coat
as a blind. I flung it through the doorway, with some force, to
see if it would draw him from his hiding. Nothing happened. The
ruffian did not pounce upon it. I took a few long breaths to
hearten me; it was now or never. I shut my eyes, praying that the
first two blows might miss my head, so that I should have time to
fire. Then, on my back, with my pistol raised over my head, I
forced myself out with every muscle in my body. I leaped to my
feet on the instant, quickly glancing round for the madman,
swinging my pistol about with my finger hard on the trigger. He
was not there, after all. I might have spared myself the trouble.
I was alone there in the fern, within earshot of a murmur of
voices, talking excitedly. I was not going to spy into any more
secrets. I was going to get out of that camp cost what it might.
I made one rush through the fern in the direction of the rampart,
shoving the stalks aside, as a bull knocks through jungle in
Campeachy. In thirty steps I was clear of the fern, charging slap
into a group of people who were giving brandy to the sentry, whom
I had passed but a little while before. He was bleeding from a
broken wound on his pretty hard Saxon skull. He was not badly
hurt, for he was swearing lustily; but he had been stunned just
long enough for my pirate man to strip him. He was dressed now in
a pair of leather gaiters, all the rest of his things had been
taken, the pistol with them, I saw all this at a glance, as I
charged in among them. I took it all in, guessing in one swift
gleam of comprehension, exactly what had happened there, as my
pirate made his rush for freedom. There was no time to ask if my
guess were right or not.
"Out of my way," I shouted, shoving my pistol towards the nearest
of the group. "Out of my way, or I shall fire." They made way for
me. I charged down hill by the way I had come. Some one cried
"Stop en." Another shouted "Shoot en, maister." There came a
great bang of a gun over my head. But I was going down hill like
a rabbit, into the gorse, into the bracken, into the close cover
of the heath. Glancing back, I saw a dozen excited people rushing
down the rampart after me. Some flung stones; some ran to catch
horses to chase me. But I had the start of them. I was down the
hill, over the hedge, in the lane, in no time. There, a hundred
yards away, I saw my friends the troopers leading my cob. I
shouted to them. They heard me. They came up to me at a gallop.
In ten seconds more we were sailing away together.
"You been getting into scrapes, master," said one of the
troopers. "You doan't want to meddle with the folk in these
parts."
"No," said the other, with a touch of insolence in his voice. "So
your master may find, one of these fine days." Being mindful of
the Duke's honour, I told the man to mind his own business, which
he said he meant to do, without asking my opinion. After that we
rode on together a little heated, till we were out of sight of
the combe, where I had had such a startling adventure.
After another hour of riding, we pulled up at the garden gate of
an old grey handsome house which stood at some distance from the
road. I asked one of the troopers who lived in this house. He
said that it was an old Abbey, which belonged to Squire; but that
we were to leave word there of the Duke's movements, "for Squire
be very 'tached to the Protestants; besides he'll give us a
breakfast. Sure to." We left our horses at the gate while we
walked up to the house. A pretty girl, who seemed to know one of
the men, told us to come in, while she got breakfast for us.
"Squire," she said, "would be glad to hear what was going on; for
he was that given up to the soldiers we couldn't hardly believe."
We were shown down a long flagged corridor to a little cool room
which looked as though it had once been the abbot's cell. It had
a window in it, looking out upon a garden in full flower, a
little rose garden, covered with those lovely bushes of old
English red single roses, the most beautiful flower in the world.
The window was large, but the space of it was broken up by stone
piers, so that no pane of glass was more than six inches wide. I
mention this now, because of what happened later. There was not
much furniture in the room; but what there was was very good.
There was an old Dutch pewter jug, full of sweet-williams, on the
table. On the wall' there was a picture of a Spanish gentleman on
a cream-coloured, fat handsome little horse. Together they looked
very like Don Quixote out for a ride with his squire. The two
troopers left me in this room, while they went off to the
kitchen. Presently the servant came in again, bringing me a noble
dish of breakfast, a pigeon pie, a ham, a jar of preserved
quince, a honeycomb, a great household loaf, newly baked, a big
quart jug full of small beer. I made a very honest meal. After
eating, I examined the room. There was tapestry over one part of
the wall. It concealed a little low door which led to what had
once been the abbot's fishpond, now a roofed-in bath-house, where
one could plunge into eight feet or so of (bitterly cold) spring
water. This bath-house was some steps lower than the little
dining room. It was lighted by a skylight directly over the bath.
It had no other window whatever. After examining the bath,
wishing that I had known of it before eating, I went back to the
dining room, where the servant was clearing away the food.
"I hope you enjoyed your breakfast, sir," she said.
"Yes, thank you, very much indeed," I answered.
"Squire will be down d'reckly, sir," she said. "If you will
please to make yourself at home." I made myself at home, as she
desired, while she, after a few minutes, took away the soiled
plates, leaving all the other things on the side-board, ready for
dinner. I noticed that she smiled in a rather strange way as she
drew to the door behind her.
I loitered away about half an hour, waiting for the squire to
come. As he did not come, I turned over the books on the shelves,
mostly volumes of plays, the Spanish Tragedy, the Laws of Candy,
Love Lies a Bleeding, etc., four plays to a volume in buckram
covers. I was just getting tired of All for Love, when I heard a
footstep in the passage outside. I thought that I would ask the
passenger, whoever it might be, for how much longer the squire
would keep me waiting. I was anxious about getting back to the
army. It was dangerous to straggle too far from the Duke's camps
when unbeaten armies followed on both his wings. So I went to the
door to learn my fate at once. To my great surprise I found that
I could not open it. It was locked on the outside. The great
heavy iron lock had been turned upon me. I was a prisoner in the
room there. Thinking that it had been done carelessly, I beat
upon the door to attract the man who passed down the passage,
calling to him to turn the key for me so that I might get out.
The footsteps did not pause. They passed on, down the corridor,
as though the man were deaf. After that a fury came upon me. I
beat upon the door for five minutes on end, till the house must
have rung with the clatter; but no one paid any attention to me,
only, far away, I heard a woman giggling, in an interval when I
had paused for breath. The door was a heavy, thick oak door,
bound with iron. The lock was a bar of steel at least two inches
thick; there was no chance of getting it open. Even firing into
the lock with my little pistol would not have helped me; it would
only have jammed the tongue of steel in its bed. I soon saw the
folly of trying to get out by the door; so I turned to the
window, which was more difficult still, or, if not more
difficult, more tantalizing, since it showed me the free garden
into which one little jump would suffice to carry me. But the
closely placed piers of stone made it impossible for me to get
through the window. It was no use trying to do so. I should only
have stuck fast, midway. I began at once to pick out the mortar
of the pier stones with my knife point. It was hopeless work,
though, for the old monks had used some cement a good deal harder
than the stones which it bound together. I could only dig away a
little dust from its surface. That way also was barred to me.
Then I went down to the bathing-chamber, hoping that there
would be some way of escape for me there. I hoped that the escape
pipe of the bath might be a great stone conduit leading to a
fish-pond in the garden. It was nothing of the sort. It was a
little miserable leaden pipe. I beat all round the walls, praying
for some secret door, but there was nothing of any use to me,
only a little iron ventilator high up, big enough to take my
head, but nothing more. As for the skylight over the bath, it was
beyond my reach, high up. For the moment I could see no means of
getting to it. I went back to the dining room to give another
useless pounding to the door. My head was full of miserable
forebodings; but as yet I suspected merely that I had been caught
by some sudden advance of militia. Or perhaps the squire had laid
plans to get information from one who knew the Duke. Perhaps I
had been lured away specially by one hungry for the King's good
opinion. Or could it be Aurelia? Whatever it was, I was trapped,
that was the terrible thing. I was shut up there till my enemy,
whoever it was, chose to deal with me. I was in arms against the
ruling King of England; everybody's hand would be against me,
unless my own hands helped me before my enemies came. My first
thought was to get the table down the steps, to make a bridge
across the bath, from which I could reach the skylight. This I
could not do at first; for being much flustered, I did not put
the table-leaves down. Until I knocked them down in my hurry they
kept me from dragging the table from the dining room. When I got
it at last into the bath-room, I found that it would not stretch
across the water: the legs were too close together, as I might
have seen had I kept my wits about me. I could think of no other
way of getting out.
I went back disheartened to the dining room, dragging my coat
behind me. The first thing which I saw was a letter addressed to
me in a hand already known to me. The letter lay on the floor on
the space once covered by the table. As it had not been there
when I dragged the table downstairs, someone must have entered
the room while I was away. I opened the letter in a good deal of
flurry. It ran as follows:
"Dear Martin Hyde:--As you will not take a sincere friend's
advice, you have to make the best of a sincere adviser's
friendship. You did me a great service. Let me do you one. I hope
to keep you an amused prisoner until your captain is a beaten
man. By about three weeks from this 26th of June we shall hope to
have made you so much our friend that you will not think of
leaving us. May I make a compact with you? Please do not shoot me
with that pistol of yours when I bring you some supper tonight.
That is one part of it. The other is this. Let us be friends. We
know all about you. I have even talked to Ephraim about you. So
let us make it up. We have been two little spit fires. At any
rate you have. Let us be friends. What sorts of books do you like
to read? I shall bring you some story-books about ghosts, or
about red Indians. Which do you like best? I like red Indians
myself. I suppose you, being a man, like ghosts best. Your
sincere friend Aurelia Carew. Who by the by thinks it best to
warn you that you had not better try to get up the chimney, as it
is barred across. She hopes that the table did not fall into the
bath."
