The Doomsman
X
THE MESSAGE
Three years had passed since that first memorable visit to Doom theForbidden--years of work and of growth. The simple out-door life and thephysical toil had been good discipline for Constans, and he was now awell-built young fellow of two-and-twenty, nearly six feet tall and withmuscles like steel wire.
The nights, too, had afforded compensation for the labors of the day,for then he could read and study. The two big volumes of the scientificcyclopaedia had been his school-masters, and he had striven faithfully tolearn of them. What a wonderful lesson it had been, for while there wasmuch in this teaching that he could not understand at all, there wasmuch again that, with the aid of the illustrations and diagrams, hecould make really his own. And so, little by little, he had been able toreconstruct, in imagination, at least, the lost civilization of theancient world; how men had tamed the lightning and bade it speak theirwill and work their pleasure; how the same vapor that issued from thepot bubbling on Martina's fire could be harnessed and made to draw ahundred wagons at once upon the old-time steel-railed highways; how achild's hand on the crank of a machine-gun might hurl invisible deathamong a regiment of men and put even an army to flight. Steam andgunpowder and electricity, what wonderful ideas were connoted in thewords! The very names thrilled him with a sense of infinite power.
A wonderfully fascinating study, and yet at times it left himunspeakably weary and depressed, for what did all this knowledge availwithout the practical means to apply it? The great machines that theancients had built, what were they now but masses of red rust, uselessalike to the fool who laughed at them and to the visionary who couldonly dream of their magnificent potentialities.
A dream, for, in truth, a lion was in the way. So long as the Doomsmenheld sway in the land, so long must the wheels of progress stay locked.Unable to use themselves the treasures of knowledge stored under theirhands, they were unwilling that another should even touch them. Whatcould he or any other one man do?
Once, indeed, during the three years, Constans had found briefopportunity to revisit the scenes of his old home in the valley of theSwiftwater. In this general district of the West Inch were to be foundnearly all of the larger estates, a fitting cradling-place, it wouldseem, for the new liberty, the awakening era.
But time was not yet come, as Constans soon saw clearly. He had beenhospitably enough received, for the country-side had not forgotten thestory of the Greenwood Keep, and it was plain to see that thisclear-eyed, well-set-up lad was of the true Stockader breed. One of hisfather's bond-friends, Piers Major, of the River Barony, had evenoffered Constans a home under his roof-tree in exchange forsword-service. But this he declined, with becoming gratitude indeed,but none the less firmly. He had no fancy to spend the rest of his lifein a trooper's saddle riding down naked savages--an agreeableoccupation, whose only variation was an afternoon at pig-sticking or achance crack at some Doomsman's head. Better to endure the drudgery ofthe tan-pits than to part with all purpose in life.
And so the crusade, which Constans had hoped to father, died at itsbirth. The kinsmen and friends of his family were sincere enough intheir sympathy, but they could not be expected to risk their own skinsin the furtherance of his private quarrels, and, so far as it was aquestion of political economy or of patriotism, these easy-goinggentlemen troubled themselves not one whit. For the most part theDoomsmen kept their distance from a Stockader's threshold, and_laissez-faire_ was a good motto for both sides to adopt.
Constans returned to Croye and to Messer Hugolin's attic neitherovermuch surprised nor discouraged by the results of his mission. Afterall, his ultimate object was a personal one--his revenge--and only hisown hand could discharge that debt in full. Did the time seem over-long,the way unendurably lonely and toilsome? He had only to close his eyesto remember--to remember. And so the years had passed.
* * * * *
It was the noon spell on a day in late October, and Constans sat on theriver end of the long wooden pier at the tanyard eating his luncheon ofbread and bacon scraps. The tide was running up slowly, as could benoted from the bubbles and drift-wood that circled past the piling ofthe wharf, and Constans, happening to glance down into the swirl, sawsomething that brought him to his feet. Nothing more remarkable than abottle of thick, greenish glass, but bottles of any kind had becomevaluable now that the art of glass blowing was so little practised, andsuch flotsam was not to be despised.
Having strung a length of noosed cord to a light pole, Constans threwhimself flat along the string-piece of the pier and began angling forthe prize. A failure or two and then he had it snared securely; now itwas in his hand.
The bottle was foul with slime and fungous growth, showing that it hadbeen in the water for a long period. Possibly it had been out to sea andback many times before this particular flood-tide had brought it toMesser Hugolin's tannery and under the eyes of one who would have thewit to distinguish it from a rotten stick. At all events it had found aport at last.
The bottle had been corked and then sealed with pitch, and Constans hadto use some care in getting at its contents, a slender cylinder oftightly rolled paper. Finally he succeeded in drawing it out uninjured,and saw that it was superscribed to his uncle Hugolin.
The old man looked up with a frown as Constans presented himself at thedoor of the counting-room. The rest hour was over and Constans's placewas at the tan-pit. How was the work to get done if everybody shirkedtheir part of the common task? A message in a bottle. What foolery wasthis? Nevertheless, Messer Hugolin extended his hand to receive theroll, and, removing the waxed string that bound it, knit his brows overthe enclosure--half a dozen sheets of writing. Constans was about toretire discreetly, but Messer Hugolin raised his hand.
"The writing is too fine for my eyes," he grumbled. "Read it for me,nephew; but, harkee! you will keep your mouth shut whatever its import."Then, in a sudden gust of passion: "A thousand plagues on that fool ofan up-river factor who broke for me my reading-glass! Not another one tobe had in Croye for good-will or gold, and I compelled to borrowanother's eyes, to live at the mercy of my meanest clerk. Come, boy, youmust have the sense of it by this time!"
"Shall I read it aloud?" asked Constans, and then, in compliance withhis uncle's nod, he began:
"'Dated at Doom, in the year 90 after the Great Change.
"'It is a score of years my brother, since that moonless August night when the Doomsmen came to Croye and I went back with them, tied to Mad Scarlett's saddle-bow. Twenty years of silence in the City of Silence, and I but a slim, brown-faced maid who might be found one day playing at polo and lamenting her lack of mustachios, and on the very next, mooning over a love charm. It was only through the look in my cousin Philip's eyes, as he died under the weight of the Doomsmen battle-axes, that I knew myself a woman, that I finally entered upon my sex's heritage of sorrow.
"'Does this seem an old and hardly remembered tale to you, Anthony Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, and a rich man, if one may judge from the yearly tax rate that stands opposite your name in Dom Gillian's head list? Withal, you are still my brother, and you must listen to what I have now to say, the first and the last word from me to you.
"'I must be just and acknowledge that he truly loved me, the man who plucked me like an apple from the bough; later on he made what amends he could by proclaiming me his wife under the Doomsman law. Yet it was a tiger-cat rather than a woman whom he had taken to his bosom, and I wonder now that I did not a thousand times overpass the limits of his forbearance. Assuredly, in that first agony, I tried my hardest to stretch his patience to the breaking-point, in the hope that a knife-thrust might open for me the doors of the prison-house. You see, I was very young, and I could not forget my cousin Philip's eyes.
"'A woman's heart is like a cup; it holds but one fixed quantity of life's essential liquor, be the latter sweet or bitter. A
n infinity of little sips or one deep draught, what does it matter? The vessel is empty in either case. Yet, as time went on, I grew to endure existence; afterwards, when my Esmay was born, I valued it again for her sake. Moreover, she was his daughter as well as mine, and so I came finally to endure and even to welcome the touch of my master's hand. In all these years it had never been aught but gentle, for all that they called him Mad Scarlett, and the children were taught to believe that he always wore gloves, because he had a bloody palm whose stain no water would wash away. Yes, and I wept, as any wife and mother might do, on that gray November day when I knelt beside his bier.
"'But this concerns only myself, and it is of Esmay, my daughter, that I would speak. In a year she will be seventeen, and before that time, if at all, the way must be opened for her to go to her mother's people. I am helpless, except for this one opportunity of committing a message to the hands of Chance, one slender line dropped into the ocean of uncertainty. Yet nothing remains to me but to make the cast, for in six months' time I shall be dead; I can count the downward steps of my disease as clearly as though they formed part of the actual stairway under my feet.
"'And this also I know--that the message will reach you, my brother; so far, at least, my eyes are permitted to explore the advancing darkness. You will assuredly receive this letter, but with what disposition of heart? That, alas! I may not know. Nor can I give aught of service in either counsel or means; I must trust to your love and good-will for everything. I can only say that the girl is known to all in Doom as Mad Scarlett's daughter. She has her father's tawny hair and red-brown eyes, and her name, as I have already told you, is Esmay.
"'To-morrow night I shall make my opportunity to reach the river edge unobserved. I shall then commit to the current the bottle containing this message, a precious freight, for it is my darling's life and happiness.
"'To you, my brother, the gift and the grace of God, according as you deal with me and mine. ELENA.
* * * * *
"'Watch him whom they call Quinton Edge.'"
"The date is a year ago, lacking a month," added Constans, as he handedthe roll to his uncle.
Messer Hugolin tied up the document with a piece of tape, labelled itwith the date of receipt, and laid it away in a pigeon-hole.
"Well?" said Constans, interrogatively.
"Do you want me to put myself within reach of the Gray Wolf's paws?"retorted Messer Hugolin, shrewdly. "I was flayed badly enough the lasttime the _Black Swan_ cast anchor before Croye, and I am not payingbetween rent-days."
"The year is almost up," urged Constans, insistently.
"I have lived my life," returned the old man, with sombre fixity ofresolve, "and these things do not interest me. I have other use for myhands than to keep them stretched out idly in the dark."
"But that letter--a mother pleading for her child. You have but to givethe word--there are men who will go, and gladly."
"I doubt it not, for there are always drones a-plenty around a beehive.But why should I spend my good, red gold to make a beggar's holiday?"
Constans felt his cheeks burn. "Their blood is redder than your gold,"he said. "And if they are not afraid to risk----"
"What has cost them nothing and for whose loss there is quick repair ina few square inches of sticking-plaster. Tush! boy, you speak of thesethings as one who dreams visions at noonday. While I--what I know, Iknow. There is but one thing precious in the world, and that is what aman holds safely in his strong-box. Why should I spend myself fornaught?"
"The girl is your niece--your flesh and blood."
"No more so than yourself, nephew. And tell me, have I ever beenover-tender with you on that account? Can you call to mind when andwhere I have spared you because you were of my kin? At least, I make avirtue of my honesty."
Messer Hugolin smiled. He saw from Constans's face that he need not plotout the thought in plainer words, and so they parted without furtherspeaking, although the blood throbbed in Constans's temples as he madeobeisance and walked away. He was conscious that he must keep himself inhand; the stocks and the whipping-post were ever ready for therebellious apprentice, and a single hasty act might imperil his wholefuture. But as he lay awake that night in his attic bedchamber heresolved that this should be his last week's work in Messer Hugolin'stan-pits. The time had come for him to make a second visit to Doom theForbidden, and to remain there for an indefinite period--until his workhad been accomplished.
It would have been impossible for Constans to have embarked upon thisnew adventure were it not for the two small gold coins that he had foundand carried away from Doom on the occasion of his former visit. It wasagainst the common law of the land for a bound apprentice to possess anymoney, even a handful of copper pence. He had to be careful,therefore, with whom he dealt, and he expected to be cheated in makinghis bargain for a boat and a supply of provisions. As it was, he wasskilfully skinned by the rascal with whom he finally ventured to opennegotiations, and Constans thought himself lucky to exchange it for aleaky, flat-bottomed tub and fifty pounds weight of absolutenecessaries, chiefly sun-dried strips of beef and parched grain.
"THEY PARTED WITHOUT FURTHER SPEAKING"]
His personal belongings were not burdensome to transfer--the books, halfa dozen in all, his revolver and field-glass, and a good ash bow withtwelve dozen arrows, each bearing his private mark of a scarlet feather.These last he had been at work upon through many a long evening in thelast two months, and he was sure that they would serve him well shouldneed arise. Clothing and blankets he did not trouble about, even withthe cold weather close at hand, for he could reckon certainly on findingabundant supplies of this nature in the city itself.
On the fourth night after the finding of the bottle Constans swunglightly out of his garret window. He cast one farewell glance at theshuttered windows of Messer Hugolin's office. Through a chink struggleda feeble beam of pale, yellow light, but his uncle was poring,doubtless, over his ledgers and had heard no sound. The wolf-hound Gripwagged his tail as Constans passed, and he patted his head, the onesingle creature in his uncle's household who might regret his absence onthe morrow. Now the way was clear; he stole off into the darkness,finding no difficulty in scaling the wall, and so was free.
The night was misty and starless and the tide on a strong ebb. Thevoyage down-stream was without incident, and by midnight he had landedwithin the city lines, but much farther up-town than upon the occasionof his first adventure. His plan was to seek some uninhabited housewithin convenient distance of the library building and make that histemporary headquarters. He found what he wanted in the block immediatelyto the westward of the library, and in three or four trips he hadtransported thither his stock of food and other impedimenta. The boathad leaked badly on the way down the river, and was plainly unseaworthy.There was no place in which to hide the craft, and to allow her toremain moored at the pier would be tantamount to announcing his arrivalto the first sharp-eyed Doomsman who might chance to pass that way. So,pushing her out into the current with a vigorous shove from his foot,Constans watched the little hull disappear in the darkness. Henceforthhe must depend entirely upon his own resources, inadequate as they werefor the task before him. But upon this phase of the situation he wouldnot allow himself to dwell. Such unprofitable meditation could breednaught but irresolution and be unnerving to both body and mind; if hewere to play the coward now he but invited the fate he feared. Courage,then, and forward!