VII
THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION
Two miles from the keep was a cave that Constans had discovered on oneof his hunting-trips, and which, boylike, he had proceeded to fit upwith some rude furniture for lodging and cooking, little dreaming thathe should ever stand in actual need of these necessities.
Thither he betook himself, impelled primarily by the mere instinct forrefuge and shelter. Fortunately, the larder had been replenished withinthe past week, there was an abundance of dry fuel stacked up in theinterior of the cavern, and the woods were full of game. But duringthose first two or three days it is doubtful if Constans would haveremarked either the presence or the absence of these creature comforts;he ate when he was hungry and went to sleep when it grew dark. The restof the time he sat motionless, thinking, thinking--living for the mostpart in that past that now seemed so infinitely far away.
Of course, the cavern had been the storehouse of his treasures. Here hekept a spare hunting-bow and a full stock of arrows, together with hisfishing lines and nets and a miscellaneous assortment of traps andtools. Here, too, was the secret depository of his cherishedspying-glasses and of another equally marvellous but unfortunatelyvalueless piece of mechanism--a revolver of large caliber. This latterhad belonged to his grandfather (for whom he had been named), and uponhis death Constans had claimed and taken possession of it. The weaponwas in perfect order, for its former owner had been careful to keep itwell cleaned and oiled; an absurd whim, of course, since without itsammunition it was useless. The boy used to puzzle mightily over it,setting the hammer and watching the cylinder as it revolved, thenpulling the trigger and listening to its fascinating click. But he nevergot any nearer to the secret.
Even more precious than the pistol and binoculars were his books, anoddly assorted library that included the child's pictorial historyalready mentioned, Dryden's translation of the _Iliad_, an imperfectcopy of _The Three Musketeers_, and _The Descent of Man_. These, indeed,made up the full list of books belonging to the keep, and Constans hadbeen permitted to appropriate them, nobody else caring to waste timeover their stained and worm-eaten pages.
With Constans, however, it had been different. In company with the otherchildren he had been set at the task of learning his letters, and atfirst he, too, had rebelled at the uncongenial labor. What possible usecould these ugly, crooked characters ever be to him? And then, suddenly,he found in them a magic key unlocking a door that opened upon anundiscovered country--that of the mighty past.
Naturally he experienced some difficulty in viewing this new old worldin anything like its proper proportions, and it was the literal baldnessof the child's school-book that first gave him anything like a trueperspective. Here was both the written story and the visible picture ofthe world as it once was, as it might be again. Studying these recordsand achievements of the ancient civilization, Constans found himselfpossessed of the knowledge of many things and consumed by the desire tolay hold of many more.
But all this lay in the past--ages ago, when as yet no Doomsman hadlanded at the Golden Cove, and the pine-tree banner still flew from thefighting platform of the Greenwood Keep. Now nothing mattered to the boysitting dull-eyed and inert in the darkest corner of his miserablerefuge, while outside it was raining in torrents. But on the third dayit cleared, and the rays of the morning sun, striking level with themouth of the cave, fell full upon the lad's face, rousing him in adouble sense. He sprang to his feet and drew in a deep breath of themorning air. How blue the sky! How golden the sun! As he sat eating hisfrugal breakfast of oat-cake and honey he rapidly reviewed his presentcondition and future prospects, coming at last to the decision that hewould go to Croye and see what his uncle Hugolin might be inclined to dofor him.
It was inspiriting, the mere fact that he had determined upon a courseof action, and Constans immediately began his preparations fordeparture. It did not take long to put together his worldly wealth--thefour books, the binoculars, the pistol, and the chief of his otherpossessions; now he had everything compactly stowed away in a shoulderpack and was ready for the journey.
The town of Croye was situated on the Greater river (formerly theHudson) and some ten miles north of the ancient city of New York. Itboasted a population of quite fifteen hundred souls, and this, with itsimportance as a trading centre, made it a notable municipality for theselatter days. Its appearance, however, does not call for any extendeddescription; assuredly, it was not imposing. A heterogeneous jumble oflow, half-timbered houses and mud-plastered hovels; dirty, unpavedstreets, a mean-looking market-place, where the shrill clamor ofhuckstering never seemed to cease; some pretentious-looking publicbuildings, with stuccoed fronts; outside of all, the inevitable earthrampart, topped by a palisade and pierced by sally-ports at the cardinalpoints--such was Croye, the principal city of this western hemisphere inthe year 2015, or ninety since the Great Change.
Constans frowned as he gazed upon this unlovely picture. Yet hedetermined that he would find something of good in it, and as thoughanswering his thought, the sun reappeared at that very moment frombehind a passing cloud, its rays lighting up the red tiling used asroofing in the houses of the better class--the one note of cheerfulcolor among these dingy browns and grays. It was an omen, and heaccepted it as such.
It was to one of these red-topped mansions that Constans finally foundhis way, after experiencing several rebuffs from churlish citizens ofwhom he had ventured to inquire for the whereabouts of his uncle. Now,as he laid his hand upon the knocker, he was conscious that the feelingof despondency had again fallen upon him; he recalled the old story ofMesser Hugolin's bitter opposition to the marriage of his sister Rayneand Gavan of the keep, of how he had refused to attend the wedding andhad sent no gift. Since then there had been no real intimacy between thefamilies, although the breach had been outwardly healed and formalcivilities infrequently passed. A poor prospect, it would seem, for thesuccess of Constans's appeal. But blood is blood, and there wasliterally no one else to whom he could turn in this his extremity. Helet the knocker fall.
Messer Hugolin, a stout man, with crafty lines creased in his broadface, received his nephew with nominal cordiality and listenedattentively to his story. But he was not over-prompt with either adviceor offer of assistance, and Constans, with a sore heart, finally rose togo.
"Don't be in a hurry," said his uncle, coolly. "Let me think this overagain. After all, we are of the same stock, although your father alwaysflouted me for a mean-spirited churl. Poor Gavan, we may forgive himnow."
After another period of cogitation and incidental homilies upon thesinfulness of pride and free living, Messer Hugolin came to the point;he offered to take Constans into his employ as an apprentice in thetannery. Of course, Constans would have no wages until his indenture wasout, but he would, at least, be assured of lodging, food, and clothes,the bare necessities of existence. Not an especially attractiveproposition, but Constans, after a short consideration, concluded toaccept it. He had a purpose in remaining here in Croye, almost withinsight of Doom the Forbidden; he had not forgotten that therein dwelt oneQuinton Edge.
And now a new life began for the boy, and a hard one. Lodged in a cornerof the garret, clad in the meanest garments, fed on the coarsest fare,his lot was little better than that of the actual serf, and in somerespects inferior to it, for it was good policy to treat the slave withsome decency and so secure a full life's work from the human machine.Constans, on the other hand, was bound for four years only, and it waspolicy to drive him at full speed.
Messer Hugolin's business was of a general nature. He bought and soldeverything in the way of raw product and finished goods, but cloth andleather formed the staple of his trade. The latter he manufacturedhimself, and his tannery was the largest in Croye. It occupied extensiveyards along the river-front, and Constans entered upon the agreeableoccupation of unloading stinking hides from the barges which came downfrom the upper river twice in the week, a routine varied only by longhours of pounding at interminable lengths of white-oak bark,
preparingit for use in the tan-pits. Hard, dirty, malodorous work it was, but hekept at it steadily, his purpose always in view.
Little by little his plans had been taking shape, and now at last he hadarrived at something definite. A secret, of course, and fortunatelyopportunity had been given him in which to develop his idea. To explainmore particularly:
On ordinary days the working-hours were from dawn to dark, but Sundaywas his own, save for the hour immediately following sunrise and thatpreceding sunset, when everybody was required to attend upon publicworship.
Every Sunday, then, Constans made his way through the town barriersimmediately upon their unclosing, and betook himself to a woodedriver-cove about a mile south of the town. For three months he had beenworking on a canoe, shaping it with fire and adze from a poplar log, andnow, after infinite difficulty, the task approached completion. Could hehave had a confidant, a helper, the work might have been done in a thirdof the time, for Constans was not much of a mechanic. But there was noone among his fellow-workmen whom he dared trust, and so he toiled onalone.
The canoe had been launched, and, to Constans's delight, she was butslightly lopsided. A few stones brought her to trim, and she paddledbeautifully.
He had fixed upon the third Sunday in August for the great trial, forthe Monday following was a civic holiday, the anniversary of thefounding of the city. The double event would give him abundant time inwhich to make a reconnoissance of his enemy's position and then returnto Croye to resume his position in Messer Hugolin's tanyard. For hisfoothold there must not be endangered; if he returned at all, he wouldfind it more necessary than ever.
Permission to absent himself from Saturday night to Tuesday morning hadto be obtained from the city authorities. They objected at first, butfinally accorded their consent. With his uncle, the matter was quicklysettled. Messer Hugolin did not approve of holidays for apprentices, buthe dared not controvert the law, and Constans was already in possessionof the blue ticket which would enable him to pass the city barriersafter sunset on Saturday. So Messer Hugolin contented himself withblack looks and an acid jibe at the vanity of his civic associates, whomultiplied holidays that they might have opportunity to displaythemselves in their gold chains and red robes of office.
"And harkee, boy!" he concluded, harshly. "Let me see you at roll-callTuesday morning or not at all. With flour at ten tokens the quarter,there is no bread of idleness to be eaten in my house." And thereuponthey parted without further speaking.
It was a warm August evening when he finally pushed out from shore andlaid his course down-stream. He had not ventured upon the experiment of asail, but the tide was beginning to run out, and that, with the current,should carry him to his destination without the dipping of an oar. Buthe reflected that the moon would rise at nine o'clock, and as it wasbarely past the full the light might betray him to watching eyes. Hecould take no risks, and so must reach the city under cover of darkness.Accordingly, he bent to his paddle, taking it easy at first, and thenlengthening out the stroke as he gained confidence in this hithertountried art.