CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CAMP IN THE COMB.
Our camping-place, when I awoke in the morning, I found to be nearthe head of a most beautiful comb or valley among the Black DownHills. I knew it not at the time, but it was not far from thatold Roman stronghold which we had passed on our way to Taunton,called Castle Ratch. The hills on the Somerset side are of a gentleor gradual slope, and the valley was not deep, but yet, where welay, so grown over with trees as to afford a complete shelter andhiding-place, while at our feet the brook took its rise in a greenquagmire and began to make its way downwards among ferns and bushes,and through a wild, uncultivated country, beyond which the farmsand fields began. The birds were singing, the sun was already high,and the air was warm, though there was a fresh breeze blowing. Thewarmth and sweetness filled my soul when I awoke, and I sat up withjoy, until suddenly I remembered why we were here, and who werehere with me. Then my heart sank like a lump of lead in water. Ilooked around. My father lay just as he had been lying all the daybefore, motionless, white of cheek, and as one dead, save for theslight motion of his chest and the twitching of his nostril. As Ilooked at him in the clear morning light, it was borne in upon mevery strongly that he was indeed dead, inasmuch as his soul seemedto have fled. He saw nothing, he felt nothing. If the flies crawledover his eyelids he made no sign of disturbance; yet he breathed,and from time to time he murmured--but as one that dreameth. Besidehim lay my mother sleeping, worn out by the fatigues of the night.Barnaby had spread his coat to cover her so that she should not takecold, and he had piled a little heap of dead leaves to make her apillow. He was lying at her feet, head on arm, sleeping heavily.What should be done, I wondered, when next he woke?
First I went down the comb a little way till the stream was deepenough, and there I bathed my feet, which were swollen and bruisedby the long walk up the comb. Though it was in the midst of somuch misery there was a pleasure of dabbling my feet in the coolwater and afterwards of walking about barefoot in the grass. Idisturbed an adder which was sleeping on a flat stone in the sun,and it lifted its venomous head and hissed, but did not spring uponme. Then I washed my face and hands and made my hair as smooth aswithout a comb it was possible. When I had done this I rememberedthat perhaps my father might be thirsty or at least able to drink,though he seemed no more to feel hunger or thirst. So I filledthe tin pannikin--it was Barnaby's--with water and tried to poura little into his mouth. He seemed to swallow it, and I gave hima little more until he would swallow no more. Observe that hetook no other nourishment than a little water, wine, or milk, ora few drops of broth until the end. So I covered his face with ahandkerchief to keep off the flies, and left him. Then I looked intothe basket. All that there was in it would not be more than enoughfor Barnaby's breakfast, unless his appetite should fail him byreason of fear; though, in truth, he had no fear being captured, orof anything else. There was in it a piece of bacon, a large loaf ofbread, a lump of cheese, a bottle of cider; nothing more. When theseprovisions were gone, what next? Could we venture into the nearestvillage and buy food, or to the first farm-house? Then we might fallstraight into the jaws of the enemy, who were probably running overthe whole country in search of the fugitives. Could we buy withoutmoney? Could we beg without arousing suspicions? If the people werewell-inclined to the Protestant cause we might trust them. But howcould we tell that? So in my mind I turned over everything exceptthe one thing which might have proved our salvation, and that youshall hear directly. Also, which was a very strange thing, I quiteforgot that I had upon me, tied by a string round my waist and wellconcealed, Barnaby's bag of gold--two hundred and fifty pieces.Thus there was money enough and to spare. I discovered, next, thatour pony had run away in the night. The cart was there, but no ponyto drag it. Well, it was not much; but it seemed an additionalburden to bear. I ventured a little way up the valley, following asheep-track which mounted higher and higher. I saw no sign anywhereof man's presence; that, I take it, is marked in woods by circles ofburnt cinders, by trees felled, by bundles of broom or fern tied up,or by shepherds' huts. Here there was nothing at all; you would havesaid that the place had never been visited by man. Presently I cameto a place where the woods ceased, the last of the trees being muchstunted and blown over from the west; and then the top of the hillbegan, not a sharp pico or point, but a great open plain, flat, orswelling out here and there with many of the little hillocks whichpeople say are ancient tombs. And no trees at all, but only bareturf, so that one could see a great way off. But there was no signof man anywhere: no smoke in the comb at my feet; no shepherd onthe hill. At this juncture of our fortunes any stranger might be anenemy; therefore I returned, but so far well pleased.
Barnaby was now awake, and was inspecting the basket of provisions.
'Sister,' he said, 'we must go upon half rations for breakfast; butI hope, unless my skill fails, to bring you something better forsupper. The bread you shall have, and mother. The bacon may keeptill to-morrow. The cider you had better keep against such timesas you feel worn out and want a cordial, though a glass of Nantzwere better, if Nantz grew in the woods.' He looked around as if tosee whether a miracle would not provide him with a flask of strongdrink, but, seeing none, shook his head.
'As for me,' he went on, 'I am a sailor, and I understand how toforage. Therefore, yesterday, foreseeing that the provisions mightgive out, I dropped the shank of the ham into my pocket. Now youshall see.'
He produced this delicate morsel, and, sitting down, began to gnawand to bite into the bone with his strong teeth, exactly like a dog.This he continued, with every sign of satisfaction, for a quarter ofan hour or so, when he desisted, and replaced the bone in his pocket.
'We throw away the bones,' he said. 'The dogs gnaw them and devourthem. Think you that it is for their amusement? Not so; but for thejuices and the nourishment that are in and around the bone; for themarrow and for the meat that still will stick in odd corners.' Hewent down to the stream with the pannikin and drank a cup or two ofwater to finish what they called a horse's meal--namely, the foodfirst and the water afterwards.
'And now,' he added, 'I have breakfasted. It is true that I am stillhungry, but I have eaten enough to carry me on for a while. Many apoor lad cast away on a desert shore would find a shank of a ham ameal fit for a king; aye, and a meal or two after that. I shall makea dinner presently off this bone; and I shall still keep it againsta time when there may be no provision left.'
Then he looked about him, shading his eyes with his hand. 'Let usconsider,' he said. 'The troopers, I take it, are riding along theroads. Whether they will ride over these hills, I know not; but Ithink they will not, because their horses cannot well get up thesecombs. Certainly, if they do, it will not be by the way we came. Weare here, therefore, hidden away snug. Why should we budge? Nowhereis there a more deserted part of the country than Black Down, onwhose side we are. And I do not think, further, that we shouldfind anywhere a safer place to hide ourselves in than this comb,where, I dare to say, no one comes, unless it be the gipsies or thebroom-squires, all the year round. And now they are all laden withthe spoil of the army--for, after a battle, this gentry swoop downupon the field like the great birds which I have seen abroad uponthe carcases of drowned beasts, and plunder the dead. Next they mustgo into town in order to sell their booty; then they will be fain todrink about till all is spent; so they will leave us undisturbed.Therefore, we will stay here, Sister. First, I will go and try theold tricks by which I did often in the old time improve the fareat home. Next, I will devise some way of making a more comfortableresting-place. Thank the Lord for fine weather, so far.'
He was gone a couple of hours. During that time my mother awoke. Hermind was broken by the suddenness of this trouble, and she caredno more to speak, sitting still by the side of her husband, andwatching for any change in him. But I persuaded her to take a littlebread and a cup of cider.
When Barnaby came back, he brought with him a blackbird, a thrush,and two wood-pigeons. He had not forgotten the tricks of hi
sboyhood, when he would often bring home a rabbit, a hare, or abasket of trout. So that my chief terror, that we might be forcedto abandon our hiding-place through sheer hunger, was removed. ButBarnaby was full of all kinds of devices.
He then set to work with his great knife, cutting down a quantity ofgreen branches, which he laid out side by side, with their leaveson, and then bound them together, cleverly interlacing the smallershoots and branches with each other, so that he made a long kind ofhurdle, about six feet high. This, which by reason of the leaveswas almost impervious to the wind, he disposed round the trunks ofthree young trees growing near each other. Thus he made a smallthree-cornered inclosure. Again, he cut other and thicker branches,and laid them over and across this hurdle, and cut turf which heplaced upon the branches, so that here was now a hut with a roof andwalls complete. Said I not that Barnaby was full of devices?
'There,' he said, when all was ready, 'is a house for you. It willhave to rain hard and long before the water begins to drop throughthe branches which make the roof and the slabs of turf. Well, 'tis ashelter. Not so comfortable as the old cottage, perhaps, but nearlyas commodious. If it is not a palace, it will serve us to keep offthe sun by day and the dew by night.'
Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves, andheather, and these he disposed within the hut, so that they made athick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at night they even formeda covering for the feet and prevented one from feeling cold. Whenall was done, he lifted my father gently and laid him with greattenderness upon this carpet within the rude shelter.
'This shall be a warmer night for thee than the last, Dad,' he said.'There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones. What, mother? We canlive here till the cold weather comes. The wind will perhaps blowa bit through the leaves to-night, but not much, and to-morrow Iwill see to that. Be easy in your mind about the provisions'--Alas!my poor mother was thinking of anything in the world except theprovisions--'There are rabbits and birds in plenty; we can catchthem and eat them; bread we must do without when what we have isgone, and as for strong drink and tobacco'--he sighed heavily--'theywill come again when better times are served out.'
In these labours I helped as much as I was able, and particularlyin twisting the branches together. And thus the whole day passed,not tediously, and without any alarms, the labour being cheered bythe hopefulness of Barnaby's honest face. No one, to look at thatface, could believe that he was flying for his life, and would behanged if he was caught. After sunset we lit a fire, but a small oneonly, and well hidden by the woods, so that its light might not beseen from below. Then Barnaby dexterously plucked and trussed thebirds and roasted them in the embers, so that had my heart been atrest I should have had a most delicious supper. And I confess thatI did begin to pluck up a little courage, and to hope that we mightyet escape, and that Robin might be living. After supper my motherprayed, and I could join with more of resignation and something offaith. Alas! in times of trial how easily doth the Christian fallfrom faith! The day before, prayer seemed to me a mockery; it was asif all prayer were addressed to a deaf God, or to one who will nothear; for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, and wewere suddenly answered with disaster and defeat.
After supper, Barnaby sat beside the embers and began to talk in alow voice.
''Twill be a sorrowful barley-mow song this year,' he said; 'a dozenbrave lads from Bradford alone will be dead.'
'Not all dead, Barnaby! Oh! not all!'
'I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some are runningaway.' Then he began to sing in a low voice,
'Here's a health to the barley-mow--
I remember, Sister, when I would run a mile to hear that song,though my father flogged me for it in the morning. 'Tis the bestsong ever written.' He went on singing in a kind of whisper--
'We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys--
Robin--poor Robin! he is dead!--was a famous hand at singing it; butHumphrey found the words too rustical. Humphrey--who is now dead,too!--was ever for fine words, like Mr. Boscorel.
'We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl--
'I think I see him now--poor Robin! Well; he is no more. He used tolaugh in all our faces while he sang it:--
'We'll drink it out o' the river, my boys. Here's a health to the barley-mow! The river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half- Hogshead, the anker, the half-anker, the gallon, the Pottle, the quart, the pint, the half-pint, the quarter- Pint, the nipperkin, the jolly brown bowl, my boys, Here's a health to the barley-mow!'
He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh! Barnaby, howdidst thou love good companionship with singing and drinking!
''Twill be lonely for thee, Sister, at Bradford when thou dostreturn; Sir Christopher, I take it, will not long hold up his head,and Madam will pine away for the loss of Robin, and mother looks asif she would follow after, so white and wan is she. If she wouldspeak or complain or cry it would comfort her, poor soul! 'Twas asad day for her when she married the poor old Dad. Poverty and hardwork, and now a cruel end--poor mother!'
'Barnaby, you tear my heart!'
'Nay, Child, 'tis better to talk than to keep silence. Better haveyour heart torn than be choked with your pain. Thou art like unto aman who hath a wounded leg, and if he doth not consent to have itcut off, though the anguish be sharp, he will presently bleed todeath. Say to thyself therefore, plain and clear, "Robin is dead; Ihave lost my sweetheart."'
'No--no--Barnaby--I cannot say those cruel words! Oh! I cannot saythem; I cannot feel that Robin is truly dead!'
'Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a prisoner orhe is in hiding. If a prisoner, he is as good as dead; because theDuke's officers and the gentlemen who joined him, they will neverforgive--that is quite certain. If I were a prisoner I should feelmy neck already tightened. If he is not a prisoner, where is he tohide?--whither betake himself? I can get sailors' duds and go abroadbefore the mast; and ten to one nobody will find me out, because,d'ye see, I can talk the sailors' language, and I know their mannersand customs. But Robin--what is Robin to do, if he is alive? Andthis, I say, is doubtful. Best say to thyself, "I have lost mysweetheart." So wilt thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness.'
'Barnaby, you know not what you say! Alas! if my Robin is dead--ifmy boy is truly dead--then I ask for nothing more than swiftdeath--speedy death--to join him and be with him!'
'If he escape he will make for Bradford Orcas and hide in the Cortonwoods. That is quite certain. They always make for home. I wouldthat we were in that friendly place, so that you could go live inthe cottage and bring provisions, with tobacco and drink, to usunsuspected and unseen. When we have rested here a while we willpush across the hills and try to get there by night; but it isa weary way to drag that wounded man. However'--he broke off andsaid earnestly--'make up thy mind, Child, to the worst. 'Tis as ifa shipwrecked man should hope that enough of the ship would floatto carry him home withal. Make up thy mind. We are all ruined andlost--all--all--all. Thy father is dying--thy lover is dead--thouart thyself in great danger by reason of that affair at Taunton.Everything being gone, turn round therefore and make thyself ascomfortable as possible. What will happen we know not. Thereforecount every day of safety for gain, and every meal for a respite.'
He was silent for a while, leaving me to think over what he hadsaid. Here, indeed, was a philosopher. Things being all lost, andour affairs in a desperate condition, we were to turn round andmake ourselves as comfortable as we could! This, I suppose, is whatsailors are wont to do; certainly they are a folk more exposed tomisfortune than others, and therefore, perhaps, more ready to makethe best of whatever happens.
'Barnaby,' I said presently, 'how can I turn round and make myselfcomfortable?'
'The evening is still,' he said, without replying. 'See, there is abat, and there another. If it were not for the trouble in there'--hepointed to the hut--'I should be easy in my mind and contented. Icould willingly live
here a twelvemonth. Why, compared with the lotof the poor devils who must now be in prison, what is ours? Theyget the foul and stinking clink, with bad food, in the midst ofwounded men whose hurts are putrefying, with jail fever, and withthe whipping-post or the gallows to come. We breathe sweet air, wefind sufficient food--to-morrow, if I know any of the signs, thoushalt taste a roasted hedgehog, dish fit for a king! I found atthe bottom of the comb a pot left by some gipsies: thou shalt haveboiled sorrel and mushrooms to thy supper. If we stay here longenough there will be nuts and blackberries and whortleberries. Pity,a thousand pities, there is not a drop of drink! I dream of punchand hipsy. Think upon what remains, even if thou canst not bear tothink of what is lost. Hast ever seen a tall ship founder in thewaves? They close over her as she sinks, and, in an instant, it isas if that tall ship with all her crew had never been in existenceat all. The army of Monmouth is scattered and ruined. Well; it is,with us, amidst these woods, just as if there had been no army. Ithas been a dream perhaps. Who can tell? Sometimes all the past seemsto have been a dream. It is all a dream--past and future. There isno past and there is no future; all is a dream. But the present wehave. Let us be content therewith.'
He spoke slowly and with measured accents as one enchanted.Sometimes Barnaby was but a rough and rude sailor. At other times,as these, he betrayed signs of his early education and spoke as onewho thought.
'It is ten years and more since last I breathed the air of thehills. I knew not that I loved so much the woods and valleys and thestreams. Some day, if I survive this adventure, I will build me ahut and live here alone in the woods. Why, if I were alone I shouldhave an easy heart. If I were driven out of one place I could findanother. I am in no hurry to get down among men and towns. Let usall stay here and be happy. But there is Dad--who lives not, yet isnot dead. Sister, be thankful for thy safety in the woods, and thinknot too much upon the dead.'
We lived in this manner, the weather being for the most partfine and warm, but with showers now and then, for a fortnight orthereabouts, no one coming up the comb and there being still no signof man's presence in the hills. Our daily fare consisted of thewild birds snared by Barnaby, such creatures as rabbits, hedgehogs,and the like, which he caught by ingenious ways, and trout from thebrook which he caught with a twisted pin or by tickling them withhis hand. There were also mushrooms and edible leaves, such as thenettle, wild sorrel, and the like of which he knew. These we boiledand ate. He also plucked the half-ripe blackberries and boiled themto make a sour drink, and one which, like the cider loved by ourpeople, would grip his throat because he could not endure plaincold water. And he made out of the bones of the birds a kind ofthin broth for my father, of which he daily swallowed a teaspoonfulor so. So that we fared well, if not sumptuously. The bread, to besure, which Barnaby left for mother and me, was coming to the lastcrust, and I know not how we should have got more without venturinginto the nearest village.
Now, as I talked every night with my brother, I found out what abrave and simple soul it was--always cheerful and hopeful, talkingalways as if we were the most fortunate people in the world, insteadof the most miserable, and yet by keeping the truth before me,preventing me from getting into another Fool's Paradise as to oursafety and Robin's escape, such as that into which I had fallenafter the army marched out of Taunton. I understand now, that hewas always thinking how to smooth and soften things for us, so thatwe might not go distracted with anxiety and grief; finding work forme, talking about other things--in short, the most thoughtful andaffectionate brother in all the world. As for my mother, he coulddo nothing to move her. She still sat beside her wounded husband,watching all day long for any sign of consciousness or change.
Seeing that Barnaby was so good and gentle a creature, I could notunderstand how it was that in the old days he used to get a floggingmost days for some offence or other, so that I had grown up tobelieve him a very wicked boy indeed. I put this question to him onenight.
He put it aside for a while, replying in his own fashion.
'I remember Dad,' he said, 'before thou canst, Sister. He was alwaysthin and tall, and he always stooped as he walked. But his hair,which now is white, was brown, and fell in curls which he could notstraighten. He was always mighty grave; no one, I am sure, ever sawhim laugh; I have never seen him so much as smile, except sometimeswhen he dandled thee upon his knee, and thou wouldst amuse him withinnocent prattle. All his life he hath spent in finding out the wayto Heaven. He did find the way--I suppose he hath truly discoveredit--and a mighty thorny and difficult way it is, so that I know nothow any can succeed in reaching port by such navigation. The devilof it is that he believes there is no other way; and he seemed neverso happy as when he had found another trap or pitfall to catch theunwary, and send them straight to hell.
'For my part,' Barnaby went on slowly, 'I could never love sucha life. Let others, if they will, find out rough and craggy waysthat lead to heaven. For my part, I am content to jog along theplain and smooth high road with the rest of mankind, though itbrings us in the end to a lower place, inhabited by the baser sort.Well, I dare say I shall find mates there, and we will certainlymake ourselves as comfortable as the place allows. Let my father,therefore, find out what awaits him in the other world; let me takewhat comes in this. Some of it is sweet and some is bitter; someof it makes us laugh and sing and dance; and some makes us curseand swear and bellow out, as when one is lashed to the hatchesand the cat falls on his naked back. Sometimes, Sister, I thinkthe naked negroes of the Guiney Coast the happiest people in theworld. Do they trouble their heads about the way to heaven? Notthey. What comes they take, and they ask no more. Has it made Dadthe happier to find out how few are those who will sit beside himwhen he hath his harp and crown? Not so. He would have been happierif he had been a jolly ploughboy whistling to his team, or a jollysailor singing over his pannikin of drink of a Saturday night. Hetried to make me follow in his footsteps; he flogged me daily inthe hope of making me take, like himself, to the trade of provingout of the Holy Bible that most people are surely damned. The morehe flogged, the less I yearned after that trade; till at last Iresolved that, come what would, I would never thump a pulpit likehim in conventicle or church. Then, if you will believe me, Sister,I grew tired of flogging, which, when it comes every day, wearies aboy at fourteen or fifteen more than you would think. Now, one day,while I was dancing to the pipe and tabor with some of the villagegirls, as bad luck would have it, Dad came by. "Child of Satan!"he roared, seizing me by the ear, which I verily thought he wouldhave pulled off. Then to the girls, "Your laughter shall be turnedinto mourning," and so lugged me home and sent me supperless to bed,with the promise of such a flogging in the morning as should makeall previous floggings seem mere fleabites or joyous ticklings incomparison. This decided me. So in the dead of night I crept softlydown the stairs, cut myself a great hunch of bread and cheese, andran away and went to sea.'
'Barnaby, was it well done--to run away?'
'Well, Sister, 'tis done; and if it was ill done, 'tis by this time,no doubt, forgotten. Now, remember, I blame not my father. Beforeall things he would save my soul alive. That was why he floggedme. He knew but one way, and along that way he would drive me. Sohe flogged me the harder. I blame him not. Yet had I remained hewould doubtless be flogging me still. Now, remember again, that eversince I understood anything I have always been enraged to think uponthe monstrous oppression which silenced him and brought us all topoverty, and made my mother, a gentlewoman born, work her fingers tothe bone, and caused me to choose between being a beggarly scholar,driven to teach brats and endure flouts and poverty, or to put on anapron and learn a trade. Wherefore when I found that Monmouth wasgoing to hoist his flag, I came with him in order to strike a blow,and I hoped a good blow, too, at the oppressors.'
'You have struck that blow, Barnaby, and where are we?'
He laughed.
'We are in hiding. Some of the King's troopers did I make to bitethe dust. They may hang me for it, if they will. They will not bri
ngthose troopers back to life. Well----Sister, I am sleepy. Goodnight!'
We might have continued this kind of life I know not how muchlonger. Certainly, till the cold nights came. The weather continuedfine and warm; the hut kept off dews at night; we lay warm amongthe heather and the ferns; Barnaby found a sufficiency of food; myfather grew no worse, to outward seeming; and we seemed in safety.
Then an ill chance and my own foolishness marred all.
One day, in the afternoon, Barnaby being away looking after hissnares and gins, I heard, lower down the comb, voices as ofboys talking. This affrighted me terribly. The voices seemed tobe drawing nearer. Now if the children came up as high as ourencampment, they could not fail to see the signs of habitation.There was the hut among the trees and the iron pot standing amongthe grey embers of last night's fire. The cart stood on one side.We could not possibly remain hidden. If they should come up so farand find us, they would certainly carry the report of us down to thevillage.
I considered, therefore, what to do, and then ran quickly down thecomb, keeping among the trees so as not to be seen.
After a little I discovered, a little way off, a couple of boysabout nine years of age. They were common village boys, rosyfaced and wholesome: they carried a basket, and they were slowlymaking their way up the stream, stopping now to throw a stone at asquirrel, and now to dam the running water, and now to find a nut orfilbert ripe enough to be eaten. By the basket which they carriedI knew that they were come in search of whortleberries, for whichpurpose they would have to get quite to the end of the comb and thetop of the hill.
Therefore, I stepped out of the wood and asked them whence they cameand whither they were going.
They told me in plain Somersetshire (the language which I love,and would willingly have written this book in it, but for theunfortunate people who cannot understand it) that they were sent bytheir parents to get whortleberries, and that they came from thelittle village of Corfe, two miles down the valley. This was allthey had to say, and they stared at me as shyly as if they had neverbefore encountered a stranger. I clearly perceive now that I oughtto have engaged them in conversation and drawn them gently down thevalley in the direction of their village until we reached the firstappearance of a road, when I could have bidden them farewell or sentthem up the hill by another comb. But I was so anxious that theyshould not come up any higher that I committed a great mistake, andwarned them against going on.
'Boys,' I said, 'beware! If you go higher up the comb you willcertainly meet wild men, who always rob and beat boys;' here theytrembled, though they had not a penny in the world. 'Ay, boys! andsometimes have been known to murder them. Turn back--turn back--andcome no farther.'
The boys were very much frightened, partly at the apparition of astranger where they expected to find no one, and partly at the newsof wild and murderous men in a place where they had never met withanyone at all, unless it might have been a gipsy camp. After gazingat me stupidly for a little while they turned and ran away, as fastas their legs could carry them, down the comb.
I watched them running, and when they were out of sight I went backagain, still disquieted, because they might return.
When I told Barnaby in the evening, he, too, was uneasy. For, hesaid, the boys would spread abroad the report that there were peoplein the valley. What people could there be but fugitives?
'Sister,' he said, 'to-morrow morning must we change our quarters.On the other side of the hills looking south, or to the eastin Neroche Forest, we may make another camp, and be still moresecluded. For to-night I think we are in safety.'
What happened was exactly as Barnaby thought. For the lads ran homeand told everybody that up in the comb there were wild men whorobbed and murdered people: that a lady had come out of the woodand warned them to go no farther, lest they should be robbed andmurdered. They were certain it was a lady, and not a country-woman;nor was it a witch; nor a fairy or elf, of whom there are many onBlack Down. No; it was a lady.
This strange circumstance set the villagers a-talking; they talkedabout it at the inn, whither they nightly repaired.
'_"Boys," I said, "beware; if you go up higher youwill certainly meet wild men."_']
In ordinary times they might have talked about it to their heart'scontent, and no harm done; but in these times talk was dangerous.In every little village there are one or two whose wits are sharperthan the rest, and, therefore, they do instigate whatever mischiefis done in that village. At Corfe, the cobbler it was who didthe mischief. For he sat thinking while the others talked, and hepresently began to understand that there was more in this than hisfellows imagined. He knew the hills; there were no wild men uponthem who would rob and murder two simple village boys. Gipsies therewere, and broom-squires sometimes, and hedge-tearers: but murderersof boys--none. And who was this gentlewoman? Then he guessed thewhole truth: there were people lying hidden in the comb; if peoplehidden, they were Monmouth's rebels. A reward would be given fortheir capture. Fired with this thought he grasped his cudgel andwalked off to the village of Orchard Portman, where, as he hadheard, there was lying a company of Grenadiers sent out to scourthe country. He laid his information, and received the promise ofreward. He got that reward, in short; but nothing prospered withhim afterwards. His neighbours, who were all for Monmouth, learnedwhat he had done, and shunned him. He grew moody; he fell intopoverty, who had been a thriving tradesman; and he died in a ditch.The judgments of the Lord are sometimes swift and sometimes slow,yet they are always sure. Who can forget the dreadful end of TomBoilman, as he was called, the only wretch who could be found tocut up the limbs of the hanged men and dip them in the cauldrons ofpitch? For he was struck dead by lightning--an awful instance of thewrath of God!
Early next morning, about five of the clock, I sat before the hutin the shade. Barnaby was up and had gone to look at his snares.Suddenly I heard steps below, and the sound as of weapons clashingagainst each other. Then a man came into sight--a fellow he was witha leathern apron, who stood gazing about him. There was no time forme to hide, because he immediately saw me and shouted to them behindto come on quickly. Then a dozen soldiers, all armed, ran out of thewood and made for the hut.
'Gentlemen,' I cried, running to meet them, 'whom seek you?'
'Who are you?' asked one, who seemed to be a Sergeant over them.'Why are you in hiding?'
Then a thought struck me. I know not if I was wise or foolish.
'Sir,' I replied, 'my father, it is true, was with the Duke ofMonmouth. But he was wounded, and now lies dead in this hut. Youwill suffer us to bury our dead in peace.'
'Dead is he? That will we soon see.'
So saying, he entered the hut and looked at the prostrate form. Helifted one hand and let it drop. It fell like the hand of one whois recently dead. He bent over the body and laid his hand upon theforehead. It was cold as death. The lips were pale as wax, and thecheeks were white. He opened an eye: there was no expression oflight in it.
'Humph!' he said; 'he seems dead. How did he come here?'
'My mother and I drove him here for safety in yonder cart. The ponyhath run away.'
'That may be so; that may be so. He is dressed in a cassock: what ishis name?'
'He was Dr. Comfort Eykin, an ejected minister and preacher in theDuke's army.'
'A prize, if he had been alive!' Then a sudden suspicion seized him.He had in his hand a drawn sword. He pointed it at the breast of thedead man. 'If he be truly dead,' he said, 'another wound will do himno harm. Wherefore'--he made as if he would drive the sword throughmy father's breast, and my mother shrieked and threw herself acrossthe body.
'So!' he said, with a horrid grin, 'I find that he is not dead, butonly wounded. My lads, here is one of Monmouth's preachers; but heis sore wounded.'
'Oh!' I cried, 'for the love of God suffer him to die in peace!'
'Ay, ay, he shall die in peace, I promise you so much. Meanwhile,Madam, we will take better care of him in Ilminster Jail than youcan do here. The air is raw upon thes
e hills.' The fellow had a glibtongue and a mocking manner. 'You have none of the comforts which awounded man requires. They are all to be found in Ilminster prison,whither we shall carry him. There will he have nothing to thinkabout, with everything found for him. Madam, your father will bewell bestowed with us.'
At that moment I heard the footsteps of Barnaby crunching among thebrushwood.
'Fly! Barnaby, fly!' I shrieked. 'The enemy is upon us!'
He did not fly. He came running. He rushed upon the soldiers, andhurled this man one way and that man another, swinging his long armslike a pair of cudgels. Had he had a cudgel I believe he would havesent them all flying. But he had nothing except his arms and hisfists; and in a minute or two the soldiers had surrounded him, eachwith a bayonet pointed, and such a look in every man's eye as meantmurder had Barnaby moved.
'Surrender!' said the Sergeant.
Barnaby looked around leisurely.
'Well,' he said, 'I suppose I must. As for my name, it is BarnabyEykin; and, for my rank, I was Captain in the Green Regiment of theDuke's valiant army.'
'Stop!' said the Sergeant, drawing a paper from his pocket.'"Captain Eykin,"' he began to read, '"has been a sailor. Rolls inhis walk; height, about five foot five; very broad in the shoulders;long in the arms; of great strength."'
'That is so,' said Barnaby, complacently.
'"Legs short and figure stumpy."'
'What?' cried Barnaby, 'stumpy?'
'"Legs short and figure stumpy,"' repeated the Sergeant reading.
'That is so set down is it? Then,' said Barnaby, looking down at hislimbs, ''twas a pity that, with such legs as these, I did not denymy name. Call these short, brother?'