For Faith and Freedom

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  IN HIDING.

  Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we sat in theshade of the linney all the morning. Outside, the blackbird warbledin the wood and the lark sang in the sky. But we sat in silence,not daring so much as to ask each other if those things were realor if we were dreaming a dreadful dream. Still and motionless laymy father's body, as if the body of a dead man. He felt no pain--ofthat I am assured; it makes me sick even to think that he might havesuffered pain from his wound; he had no sense at all of what wasgoing on. Yet once or twice, during the long trance or paralysisinto which he had fallen, he opened his lips as if to speak. And hebreathed gently--so that he was not dead. Barnaby, for his part,threw himself upon his face, and, laying his head upon his arm,fell asleep instantly. The place was very quiet; at the end of themeadow was a brook, and there was a wood upon the other side; wecould hear the prattling of the water over the pebbles; outside thelinney, a great elm-tree stretched out its branches; presently I sawa squirrel sitting upon one and peering curiously at us, not at allafraid, so still and motionless we were. I remember that I enviedthe squirrel. He took no thought even for his daily bread. He wentnot forth to fight. And the hedge-sparrows, no more afraid thanif the linney was empty, hopped into the place and began pickingabout among the straw. And so the hours slowly passed away, and bydegrees I began to understand a little better what had happened tous, for at the first shock one could not perceive the extent of thedisaster, and we were as in a dream when we followed Barnaby out ofthe town. The great and splendid army was destroyed; that gallanthero, the Duke, was in flight; those of the soldiers who were notkilled or taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying toescape; my father was wounded, stricken to death, as it seemed, anddeprived of power to move, to feel, or to think. While I consideredthis, I remembered again how he had turned his eyes from gazing intothe sky, and asked me what it mattered even if the end would bedeath to him and ruin unto all of us. And I do firmly believe thatat that moment he had an actual vision of the end, and really sawbefore his eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and thathe knew all along what the end would be. Yet he had delivered hissoul--why, then he had obtained his prayer--and by daily exhortationhad doubtless done much to keep up the spirit of those in the armywho were sober and godly men. Did he also, like Sir Christopher,have another vision which should console and encourage him? Did hesee the time to follow when a greater than the Duke should come andbring with him the deliverance of the country? There are certaingracious words with which that vision closes (the last which hedid expound to us), the vision, I mean, of the Basket of SummerFruit. Did those words ring in his mind and comfort him even in theprospect of his own end? Then my thoughts, which were swift and yetbeyond my control, left him and considered the case of Barnaby. Hehad been a Captain in the Green Regiment; he would be hanged, forcertain, if he were caught. My sweetheart, my Robin, had also been aCaptain in the Duke's army. All the Duke's officers would be hangedif they were caught. But perhaps Robin was already dead--dead onthe battlefield--his face white, his hands stiff, blood upon himsomewhere, and a cruel wound upon his dear body! Oh, Robin! Yet Ished no tears. Humphrey, who had been one of the Duke's chyrurgeons,he would also be surely hanged if he were caught. Why--since allwould be hanged--why not hang mother and me as well, and so an end!

  About noon Barnaby began to stir; then he grunted and went to sleepagain: presently he moved once more, then he rolled over on hisbroad back and went to sleep again. It was not until the sun wasquite low that he awoke, sitting up suddenly, and looking about himwith quick suspicion, as one who hath been sleeping in the countryof an enemy, or where wild beasts are found.

  Then he sprang to his feet and shook himself like a dog.

  'Sister,' he said, 'thou shouldst have awakened me earlier. I haveslept all the day. Well, we are safe, so far.' Here he lookedcautiously out of the linney towards the wood and the road. 'Sofar, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not wait untilto-morrow, but budge to-night. For not only will the troopers scourthe country, but they will offer rewards; and the gipsies--ay, andeven the country-folk--will hasten to give information out of theirgreedy hearts. We must budge this very night.'

  'Whither shall we go, Barnaby?'

  He went on as if he had not heard my question.

  'We shall certainly be safe here for to-night; but for to-morrow Idoubt. Best not run the chance. For to-day their hands are full:they will be hanging the prisoners. Some they will hang first andtry afterwards, some they will try first and hang afterwards. Whatodds if they are to be hanged in the end? The cider orchards neverhad such fruit as they will show this autumn, if the King proverevengeful--as, to judge by his sour face, he will be.'

  Here he cursed the King, his sour face, his works and ways, hispast, his present, and his future, in round language, which I hopehis wounded father did not hear.

  'We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere, until the unluckyMonmouth men will be suffered to return home in peace. Ay! 'twill bea month and more, I take it, before the country will be left quiet.A month and more--and Dad not able to crawl!'

  'Where shall we lie snug, Barnaby?'

  'That, Sister, is what I am trying to find out. How to lie snug witha couple of women and a wounded man who cannot move? 'Twas madnessof the poor old Dad to bring thee to the camp, Child. For now wecannot--any of us--part company, and if we stay together 'twillmaybe bring our necks to the halter.'

  'Leave us, Barnaby,' I said. 'Oh! leave us to do what we can for thepoor sufferer, and save thyself.'

  'Ta, ta, ta, Sister--knowest not what thou sayest. Let me consider.There may be some way of safety. As for provisions, now: we have thebasket full--enough for two days say--what the plague did Dad, thepoor old man, want with women when fighting was on hand? When thefighting is done, I grant you, women, with the tobacco and punch,are much in place. Those are pretty songs, now, that I used to singabout women and drink.'

  'Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as drink andsinging?'

  'All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not fitting.Wherefore, Sis, I say no more.'

  'Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Robin? Or of Humphrey?'

  'I know nothing. They may be dead; they may be wounded andprisoners; much I fear, knowing the spirit of the lads, that bothare killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before the fight, and he spoke tome----'

  'What did Humphrey say?'

  'I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum, seeing that wewere at last going forth to meet the King's army. This I saidbecause I knew Humphrey to be a lad of mettle, though his arm isthin and his body is crooked. "I go heavy, Barnaby," he said,speaking low lest others should hear, "because I see plainly that,unless some signal success come to us, this our business will endbadly." Then he began to talk about the thousands who were to havebeen raised all over the country; how he himself had brought tothe Duke promises of support gathered all the way from London toBradford Orcas, and how his friends in Holland even promised bothmen and arms; but none of these promises had been kept; how Dadhad brought promises of support from all the Nonconformists of theWest, but hardly any, save at Taunton, had come forward; and howthe army was melting away, and no more recruits coming in. And thenhe said that he had been the means of bringing so many to the Dukethat if they died their deaths would lie upon his conscience. Andhe spoke lovingly of Robin and of thee, Sister. And so we parted,and I saw him no more. As for what he said, I minded it not a straw.Many a croaker turns out in the long run to be brave in the fight.Doubtless he is dead; and Robin, too. Both are dead. I take it,Sis, thou hast lost thy sweetheart. Cry a little, my dear,' he addedkindly; ''twill ease the pain at thy heart. 'Tis natural for a womanto cry.'

  'I cannot cry, Barnaby: I wish I could. The tears rise to my eyes,but my throat is dry.'

  'Try a prayer or two, Sister. 'Twas wont to comfort the heart of mymother when she was in trouble.'

  'A prayer? Brother, I have done nothing but p
ray since thisunfortunate rebellion began. A prayer? Oh, I cannot pray! If I wereto pray now it would be as if my words were echoed back from a wallof solid rock. We were praying all yesterday; we made the Sabbathinto a day of prayer without ceasing; and this morning, when youopened the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy ofthe great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time the poor bravemen----'

  'They were brave enough to the end,' said Barnaby.

  'The poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field (among them,maybe, Robin!), and the prisoners huddled together somewhere, andmen hanging already upon the gibbets. We were praising God--and myfather lying on the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive,and all of us ruined! Prayer? How could I pray from such a pit ofwoe?'

  'Child'--my mother lifted her pale face--'in the darkest hour praywithout ceasing. Even if there happen a darker hour than this, ineverything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let yourrequests be made known--with thanksgiving, my daughter.'

  Alas! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too much for me.So we fell into silence. When the sun had quite gone down Barnabywent forth cautiously. Presently he came back.

  'There is no one on the road,' he said. 'We may now go on our way.The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It breeds swift and fataldiseases. I have now resolved what to do. I will lift my father uponthe cart again and put in the pony. Four or five miles sou'-west orthereabouts is Black Down, which is a No-Man's-Land. Thither willwe go and hide in the combs, where no one ever comes, except thegipsies.'

  'How shall we live Barnaby?'

  'That,' he said, 'we shall find out when we come to look about us.There is provision for two days. The nights are warm. We shallfind cover or make it with branches. There is water in the brooksand dry wood to burn. There we may, perhaps, be safe. When thecountry is quiet, we will make our way across the hills to BradfordOrcas, where no one will molest you, and I can go off to Bristolor Lyme, or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors areshipwrecked, they do not begin by asking what they shall do on dryland: they ask only to feel the stones beneath their feet. We mustthink of nothing now but of a place of safety.'

  'Barnaby, are the open hills a proper place for a wounded man?'

  'Why, Child, for a choice between the hills and what else may happenif we stay here, give me the hills, even for a wounded man. But,indeed'--he whispered, so that my mother should not hear him--'hewill die. Death is written on his face. I know not how long he willlive. But he must die. Never did any man recover from such evilplight.'

  He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more than acouple of planks laid side by side, and laid father upon them, justas he had brought him from Taunton. My mother made a kind of pillowfor him, with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we hoped that hewould not feel the jogging of the cart.

  'The stream,' said Barnaby, 'comes down from the hills. Let usfollow its course upwards.'

  It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most part flat andpebbly, and on either side of the stream lay a strip of soft turf,broad enough for the cart to run upon. So that, as long as thatlasted, we had very easy going, my mother and I walking one on eachside, so as to steady the pillow and keep the poor head upon it frompain. But whether we went easy, or whether we went rough, that headmade no sign of feeling aught, and lay, just as in the linney, as ifdead.

  I cannot tell how long we went on beside that stream. 'Twas in awild, uncultivated country; the ground ascended; the stream becamenarrower and swifter; presently the friendly strip of turf failedaltogether, and then we had trouble to keep the cart from upsetting.I went to the pony's head, and Barnaby, going behind the cart,lifted it over the rough places, and sometimes carried his end ofit. The night was chilly; my feet were wet with splashing in thebrook, and I was growing faint with hunger, when Barnaby called ahalt.

  'We are now,' he said, 'at the head of the stream. In half an hour,or thereabouts, it will be break of day. Let us rest. Mother, youmust eat something. Come, sister, 'tis late for supper, and fullearly for breakfast. Take some meat and bread and half a cup ofcider.'

  It is all I remember of that night.