CHAPTER XXI. MY FRIEND AURELIA AND HER UNCLE
It was a friendly letter, which relieved me a good deal from my
anxieties; but what I could not bear was the thought that the
Duke would think me a deserter. I made up my mind that I would
get away from that house at the first opportunity, so as to
rejoin the Duke, to whom I felt myself pledged. But in the
meantime, until I could get away, I resolved to make the best of
my imprisonment. I was nettled by Aurelia's tone of superiority.
I would show her, as I had shown her before, that my wits were
just as nimble as hers. A few minutes after the letter had been
read, she held a parley with me through the keyhole.
"Mr. Martin Hyde. Are you going to shoot me?"
"No, Miss Carew, though I think you deserve it."
"You won't try to get away if I open the door?"
"I mean to get away as soon as ever I get half a chance."
"I've got three men with me at the door here."
"Oh. Very well. But you just wait till I get a chance."
"Don't be so bloodthirsty, Mr. Martin Hyde. Now, I'm coming in to
talk with you. No pistols, mind. Not one."
"I've promised I won't shoot. You might believe a fellow. But I
mean to get away, remember. Just to show you."
She opened the door after that, a brown, merry Aurelia, behind
whom I could see three men, ready to stop any rush. They closed
the door behind her after she had entered.
"Well," she said, smiling. "Will you not shake hands with me,
Martin Hyde?"
"Yes," I said, "I will shake hands. But you played a very mean
trick, I think. There."
"You mustn't think me mean," she answered. "I don't like mean
people. Now promise me one thing. You say you are going to run
away from us. You won't run away from me when I am with you, will
you?"
"No," I said, after thinking this over, to see if it could be
twisted into any sort of trap, likely to stop my escape. "I will
not. Not while I am with you."
"That's right," she said. "We can go out together, then. Now
you've promised, suppose we go out into the garden."
We went into the garden together, talking of every subject under
the sun but the subject nearest to our hearts at the moment. I
would not speak of her capture of me; she would not speak of the
Duke's march towards Taunton. There was some constraint whenever
we came near those subjects. She was a very merry, charming
companion; but the effect of her talk that morning was to make me
angry at being trapped by her. I looked over the countryside for
guiding points in case I should be able to get away. Axminster
lay to the southeast, distant about six miles; so much I could
reckon from the course of our morning's ride. I could not see
Axminster for I was shut from it by rolling combes, pretty high,
which made a narrow valley for the river. To the west the combes
were very high, strung along towards Taunton in heaps. Due east,
as I suspected, quite near to us, was Chard, where by this time
the Duke must have been taking up his position. Taunton I judged
(from a mile-stone which we had passed) to be not much more than
a dozen miles from where I was. I have always had a pretty keen
sense of position. I do not get lost. Even in the lonely parts of
the world I have never been lost. I can figure out the way home
by a sort of instinct helped by a glimpse at the sun. When I go
over a hill I have a sort of picture-memory of what lies behind,
to help me home again, however tortuous my path is on the other
side. So the few glimpses which I could get of the surrounding
country were real helps to me. I made more use of them than
Aurelia suspected.
We were much together that day. Certainly she did her best to
make my imprisonment happy. In the evening she was kinder; we
were more at ease together; I was able to speak freely to her.
"Aurelia," I said, "you risked your life twice to warn me."
"That's not quite true, Martin," she said. "I am a government
spy, trusted with many people's lives. I had other work to do
than to warn a naughty boy who wanted to see what the ghosts
were." I was startled at her knowing so much about me; she
laughed.
"Well," she said, "I like you for it. I should have wanted to see
them myself. But the ghost-makers are scattered far enough now."
"All the same, Aurelia," I said, "I thank you for what you did
for me. I wish I could do something in return." She laughed.
"Well," she said, "you were very kind in the ship. You were a
good enemy to me then. Weren't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I beat you properly on the ship. I carried the
Duke's letters in my pistol cartridges, where you never suspected
them. The letters which were in the satchel I forged myself after
I got on board. If you'd not been a silly you'd have seen that
they were forged."
"So that was why," she said. "Those letters gave everybody more
anxious work than you've any notion of. Oh, Martin, though, I
helped to drug you to get those letters. It was terrible.
Terrible. Will you ever forgive me?"
"Why, yes, Aurelia," I said. "After all, it was done for your
King. Just as I mean to run away from here to serve mine. All is
fair in the King's service. Let us shake hands on that." We shook
hands heartily, looking into each other's eyes.
"By the way," I said, "where did you get to that day in Holland,
when I got the letters from you?"
"Ah," she answered, "you made me like a wildcat that day. I
nearly killed you, twice. You remember that low parapet on the
roof? I was behind that, waiting for you with a loaded pistol.
You were all very near your deaths that morning. In the King's
service, of course. For just a minute, I thought that you would
climb up to examine that parapet. What a crazy lot you all were
not to know at once that I was there! Where else could I have
been?"
"Well," I answered, "I beat you in the ride, didn't I? You
thought yourself awfully clever about that horse at the inn.
Well, I beat you there. I beat you in the race. I beat you with
my letters to the Dutchman. I beat you over those forgeries."
"Yes, indeed," she said. "I can beat all the men in your Duke's
service. Every one. Even clever Colonel Lane. Even Fletcher of
Saltoun. But a boy is so unexpected, there's no beating a boy,
except with a good birch rod. You beat me so often, Martin, that
I think you can afford to forgive me for tricking you once in
bringing you here."
"I shall beat you in that, too, Miss Carew," I said; "for I mean
to get away from you as soon as I can."
"So you say," she said. "But we have club men walking all round
this house all night, as well as sentries by day, guarding the
stock. Your gang of marauders will find a rough welcome if they
come for refreshments here."
Even as she spoke, there came a sudden crash of fire-arms from
the meadows outside the garden. About a dozen men came hurrying
out of the house with weapons in their hands, among them a big,
fierce-looking handsome man, who drew his sword as he ran.
"That is my uncle, Travers Carew," said Aurelia. "He owns this
property. He wants to meet you." There came another splutter of
fire-arms from the meadows. "Come," she said. "We'll see what it
is. It is the Duke's men come pillaging."
We ran through a gate in the wall into an apple-orchard, where
the Carew men were already dodging among the trees towards the
enemy. There was a good deal of shouting, but the tide of battle,
as they call it, the noise of shots, the trampling of horses, had
already set away to the left, where the enemy were retreating,
with news, as I heard later, that the militia held the Abbey in
force. The Carew men came back in a few minutes with a prisoner.
He had been captured while holding the horses of two friends, who
had dismounted to drive off some of the Carew cattle. He said
that the attack had been made by a party of twenty of the Duke's
horse, sent out to bring in food for the march. They had
scattered at the first discharge of fire-arms, which had
frightened them horribly, for they had not expected any
opposition. The frightened men never drew rein till they galloped
their exhausted horses into Chard camp, where they gave another
touch of dejection to the melancholy Duke. As for the prisoner,
he was sent off under guard to Honiton gaol; I don't know what
became of him. He was one of more than three thousand who came to
death or misery in that war. They said that he was a young
farmer, in a small way, from somewhere out beyond Chideock. The
war had been a kind of high-spirited frolic for him; he had
entered into it thoughtlessly, in the belief that it would be a
sort of pleasant ride to London, with his expenses paid. Now he
was ended. When he rode out with bound hands from the Carew house
that evening, between two armed riders, he rode out of life. He
never saw Chideock again, except in the grey light of dawn, after
a long ride upon a hurdle, going to be hanged outside his home.
Or perhaps he was bundled into one of the terrible convict ships
bound for Barbadoes, with other rebels, to die of small-pox on
the way, or under the whip in the plantations.
After this little brush, with its pitiful accompaniment, which
filled me full of a blind anger against the royal party, so much
stronger, yet with so much less right than ours, I was taken in
to see Sir Travers Carew. He had just sent off the prisoner to
Honkon, much as he would have brushed a fly from his hand. He had
that satisfaction with himself, that feeling of having supported
the right, which comes to all those who do cruel things in the
name of that code of unjust cruelty, the criminal law. He looked
at me with rather a grim smile, which made me squirm.
"So," he said, "this is the young rebel, is it? Do you know that
I could send you off to Honiton gaol with that poor fellow
there?" This made my heart die; but something prompted me to put
a good face on it.
"Sir," I said, "I have done what my father thought right. I don't
wish to be treated better than any other prisoner. Send me to
Honiton, sir."
"No," he said, looking at me kindly. "I shall not send you to
Honiton. You are not in arms against the King's peace, nor did
you come over from Holland with the Duke. I can't send you to
Honiton. Besides, I knew your father, Martin. I was at college
with him. He was a good friend of mine, poor fellow. No, sir, I
shall keep you here till the Duke's crazy attempt is knocked on
the head. I think I can find something better for you to do than
that fussy old maid, your uncle, could. But, remember, sir. You
have a reputation for being a slippery young eel. I shall take
particular pains to keep you from slipping out of my hands. But I
do not wish to use force to your father's son. Will you give me
your word not to try to escape?"
"No," I answered, sullenly. "I won't. I mean to get away directly
I can."
"Come," he said kindly, "we tricked you rather nastily. But do
you suppose, Martin, that your father, if he were here, would
encourage your present resolutions? The Duke is coming (nearly
unprepared) to bring a lot of silly yokels into collision with
fully trained soldiers ten times more numerous. If the
countryside, the gentry, the educated, intelligent men, were
ready for the Duke, or believed in his cause, they would join
him. They do not join him. His only adherents are the idle,
ignorant, ill-conditioned rogues of this county, who will neither
fight nor obey, when it comes to the pinch. I do not love the
present King, Martin, but he is a better man than this Duke. The
Duke will never make a king. He may be very fit for court-life;
but there is not an ounce of king in him. If the Duke succeeds,
in a year or two he will show himself so foolish that we shall
have to send for the Prince of Orange, who is a man of real,
strong wisdom. We count on that same prince to deliver us from
James, when the time is ripe. It is not ripe, yet. I am telling
you bitter, stern truth, Martin. Now then. Let me have your
promise not to continue in the service of this doomed princeling,
your master. Eh? What shall it be?"
"No," I said, "that's desertion."
"Not at all," he answered. "It is a custom of war. Come now. As a
prisoner of war, give me your parole."
"You said just now that I was not a prisoner of war," I answered.
"Very well, then," he said. "I am a magistrate. I commit you add
suspected person. Hart! Hart!" (Here he called in a man-servant.)
"Just see that this young sprig keeps out of mischief. Think it
over, Mr. Martin. Think it over."
In a couple of minutes I was back in my prison cells, locked in
for the night, with neither lamp nor candle. A cot had been made
up for me in a corner of the room. Supper was laid for me on the
table, which had been brought back to its place. There was
nothing for it but to grope to bed in the twilight, wondering how
soon I could get away to what I still believed to be a righteous
cause in which my father wished me to fight. I slept soundly
after my day of adventure. I dreamed that I rode into London
behind the Duke, amid all the glory of victory, with the people
flinging flowers at us. But dreams go by contraries, the wise
women say.
I was a full fortnight, or a little more, a prisoner in that
house. They treated me very kindly. Aurelia was like an elder
sister. Old Sir Travers used to jest at my being a rebel. But I
was a prisoner, shut in, watched, kept close. The kindness jarred
upon me. It was treating me like a child, when I was no longer a
child. I had for some wild weeks been doing things which few men
have the chance of doing. Perhaps, if I had confided all that I
felt to Aurelia, she would have cleared away my troubles, made me
see that the Duke's cause was wrong, that my father would wish
his son well out of civil broils, however just, that I had better
give the promise that they asked from me. But I never confided
really fully in her. I moped a good deal, much worried in my
mind. I began to get a lot of unworthy fancies into my head,
silly fancies, which an honest talk would have scattered at once.
I began to think from their silence about the Duke's doings that
his affairs were prospering, that he was conquering, or had
conquered, that I was being held by this loyalist family as a
hostage. It was silly of me; but although in many ways I was
a skilled man of affairs, I had only the brain of a child, I
could not see the absurdity of what I came to believe. It worried
me so much that at the end of my imprisonment I became very
feverish; really ill from anxiety, as prisoners often are. I
refused food for the latter part of one day, hoping to frighten
my captors. They did not notice it, so I had my pains for
nothing.
I went to bed very early; but I could not sleep. I fidgeted about
till I was unusually wakeful. Then I got out of bed to try if
there was a way of escape by the old-fashioned chimney, barred
across as it was, at intervals, by strong old iron bars. I had
never thought the chimney possible, having examined it before,
when I first came to that house; but my fever made me think all
things possible; so up I got, hoping that I should have light
enough to work by.
