Ned Bratts

'T was Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer's Day: A broiling blasting June, — was never its like, men say. Corn stood sheaf-ripe already, and trees looked yellow as that; Ponds drained dust-dry, the cattle lay foaming around each flat. Inside town, dogs went mad, and folk kept bibbing beer While the parsons prayed for rain. 'T was horrible, yes — but queer: Queer — for the sun laughed gay, yet nobody moved a hand To work one stroke at his trade: as given to understand That all was come to a stop, work and such worldly ways, And the world's old self about to end in a merry blaze. Midsummer's Day moreover was the first of Bedford Fair, With Bedford Town's tag-rag and bobtail a-bowsing there.

But the Court House, Quality crammed: through doors ope, windows wide, High on the Bench you saw sit Lordships side by side. There frowned Chief Justice Jukes, fumed learned Brother Small, And fretted their fellow Judge: like threshers, one and all, Of a reek with laying down the law in a furnace. Why? Because their lungs breathed flame — the regular crowd forbye — From gentry pouring in — quite a nosegay, to be sure! How else could they pass the time, six mortal hours endure Till night should extinguish day, when matters might haply mend? Meanwhile no bad resource was — watching begin and end Some trial for life and death, in a brisk five minutes' space, And betting which knave would 'scape, which hang, from his sort of face.

So, their Lordships toiled and moiled, and a deal of work was done (I warrant) to justify the mirth of the crazy sun As this and t' other lout, struck dumb at the sudden show Of red robes and white wigs, boggled nor answered "Boh!" When asked why he, Tom Styles, should not — because Jack Nokes Had stolen the horse — be hanged: for Judges must have their jokes, And louts must make allowance — let's say, for some blue fly Which punctured a dewy scalp where the frizzles stuck awry — Else Tom had fleered scot-free, so nearly over and done Was the main of the job. Full-measure, the gentles enjoyed their fun, As a twenty-five were tried, rank puritans caught at prayer In a cow-house and laid by the heels, — have at 'em, devil may care! — And ten were prescribed the whip, and ten a brand on the cheek, And five a slit of the nose — just leaving enough to tweak.

Well, things at jolly high-tide, amusement steeped in fire, While noon smote fierce the roof's red tiles to heart's desire, The Court a-simmer with smoke, one ferment of oozy flesh, One spirituous humming musk mount-mounting until its mesh Entoiled all heads in a fluster, and Serjeant Postlethwayte — Dashing the wig oblique as he mopped his oily pate — Cried "Silence, or I grow grease! No loophole lets in air? Jurymen, — Guilty, Death! Gainsay me if you dare!" — Things at this pitch, I say, — what hubbub without the doors? What laughs, shrieks, hoots and yells, what rudest of uproars?

Bounce through the barrier throng a bulk comes rolling vast! Thumps, kicks, — no manner of use! — spite of them rolls at last Into the midst a ball which, bursting, brings to view Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too: Both in a muck-sweat, both. . . were never such eyes uplift At the sight of yawning hell, such nostrils — snouts that sniffed Sulphur, such mouths a-gape ready to swallow flame! Horrified, hideous, frank fiend-faces! yet, all the same, Mixed with a certain. . . eh? how shall I dare style — mirth The desperate grin of the guess that, could they break from earth, Heaven was above, and hell might rage in impotence Below the saved, the saved!

"Confound you! (no offence!)   Out of our way, — push, wife! Yonder their Worships be!" Ned Bratts has reached the bar, and "Hey, my Lords," roars he, "A Jury of life and death, Judges the prime of the land, Constables, javelineers, — all met, if I understand, To decide so knotty a point as whether 't was Jack or Joan Robbed the henroost, pinched the pig, hit the King's Arms with a stone, Dropped the baby down the well, left the tithesman in the lurch . . . Or, three whole Sundays running, not once attended church! What a pother — do these deserve the parish-stocks or whip, More or less brow to brand, much or little nose to snip, —   When, in our Public, plain stand we — that's we stand here, I and my Tab, brass-bold, brick-built of beef and beer,  — Do not we, slut? Step forth and show your beauty, jade! Wife of my bosom — that's the word now! What a trade We drove! None said us nay: nobody loved his life So little as wag a tongue against us, — did they, wife? Yet they knew us all the while, in their hearts, for what we are  — Worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged — search near and far! Eh, Tab? The pedlar, now — o'er his noggin — who warned a mate To cut and run, nor risk his pack where its loss of weight Was the least to dread, — aha, how we two laughed a-good As, stealing round the midden, he came on where I stood With billet poised and raised, — you, ready with the rope, — Ah, but that's past, that's sin repented of, we hope! Men knew us for that same, yet safe and sound stood we! The lily-livered knaves knew too (I've baulked a d——— ) Our keeping the 'Pied Bull' was just a mere pretence: Too slow the pounds make food, drink, lodging, from out the pence! There's not a stoppage to travel has chanced, this ten long year, No break into hall or grange, no lifting of nag or steer, Not a single roguery, from the clipping of a purse To the cutting of a throat, but paid us toll. Od's curse! When Gipsy Smouch made bold to cheat us of our due, — Eh, Tab? the Squire's strong-box we helped the rascal to — I think he pulled a face, next Sessions' swinging-time! He danced the jig that needs no floor, — and, here's the prime, 'T was Scroggs that houghed the mare! Ay, those were busy days!

"Well, there we flourished brave, like scripture-trees called bays, Faring high, drinking hard, in money up to head — Not to say, boots and shoes, when . . . Zounds, I nearly said —    Lord, to unlearn one's language! How shall we labour, wife? Have you, fast hold, the Book? Grasp, grip it, for your life! See, sirs, here's life, salvation! Here's — hold but out my breath — When did I speak so long without once swearing? 'Sdeath, No, nor unhelped by ale since man and boy! And yet All yesterday I had to keep my whistle wet While reading Tab this Book: book? don't say 'book' — they're plays, Songs, ballads and the like: here's no such strawy blaze, But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare! Tab, help and tell! I'm hoarse. A mug! or — no, a prayer!    Dip for one out of the Book! Who wrote it in the Jail  — He plied his pen unhelped by beer, sirs, I'll be bail!

"I've got my second wind. In trundles she — that's Tab. 'Why, Gammer, what's come now, that — bobbing like a crab On Yule-tide bowl — your head's a-work and both your eyes Break loose? Afeard, you fool? As if the dead can rise! Say — Bagman Dick was found last May with fuddling-cap Stuffed in his mouth: to choke's a natural mishap!' 'Gaffer, be — blessed,' cries she, 'and Bagman Dick as well! I, you, and he are damned: this Public is our hell:   We live in fire: live coals don't feel! — once quenched, they learn — Cinders do, to what dust they moulder while they burn!'

" 'If you don't speak straight out,' says I — belike I swore — 'A knobstick, well you know the taste of, shall, once more, Teach you to talk, my maid!' She ups with such a face, Heart sunk inside me. 'Well, pad on, my prate-apace!'

" 'I've been about those laces we need for . . . never mind! If henceforth they tie hands, 't is mine they'll have to bind. You know who makes them best — the Tinker in our cage, Pulled-up for gospelling, twelve years ago: no age   To try another trade, — yet, so he scorned to take Money he did not earn, he taught himself the make Of laces, tagged and tough — Dick Bagman found them so! Good customers were we! Well, last week, you must know His girl, — the blind young chit, who hawks about his wares, — She takes it in her head to come no more — such airs These hussies have! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace, — "I'll to the jail-bird father, abuse her to his face!" So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then, Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den —    Patmore — they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch — Both arms a-kimbo, in bounce with a good round oath Ready for rapping out:, no "Lawks" nor "By my troth!"

" 'There sat my man, the father. He looked up: what one feels When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels! He raised his hand . . . Hast seen, when drinking out the night. And in, the day, earth grow another something quite Under the sun's first stare? I stood a very stone.

" ' "Woman!" (a fiery tear he put in every tone),   "How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport, Violence — trade? Too true! I trust no vague report. Her angel's hands, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear. What has she heard! — which, heard shall never be again. Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the — wain Or reign or train — of Charles!" (His language was not ours: 'T is my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers.) "Bread, only bread they bring — my laces: if we broke Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf's first crumb would choke!"

" 'Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he: His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see: Up went his hands: "Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul! So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole, Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound With dreriment about, within may life be found, A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before, Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core, Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found? Who says 'How save it?' — nor 'Why cumbers it the ground?' Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf, Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf! Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof! And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof, Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by, Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die! What then? 'Look unto me and be ye saved!' saith God: 'I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod! Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, — although As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!' "

" 'There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand Is — that, if I reached home, 't was through the guiding hand Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets And out of town and up to door again. What greets First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon? A book — this Book she gave at parting. "Father's boon — The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself: He cannot preach in bonds, so, — take it down from shelf When you want counsel, — think you hear his very voice!"

" 'Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice! Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more, Be saved like me, bald trunk! There's greenness yet at core. Sap under slough! Read, read!'

"Let me take breath, my lords! I'd like to know, are these — hers, mine, or Bunyan's words? I'm 'wildered — scarce with drink, — nowise with drink alone! You'll say, with heat: but heat's no stuff to split a stone Like this black boulder — this flint heart of mine: the Book — That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here's the fist that shook   His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear! You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back, Good Master Christmas? Nay, — yours was that Joseph's sack,  — Or whose it was, — which held the cup, — compared with mine! Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine, Adultery . . . nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung! One word, I'll up with fist . . . No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue!

"I'm hasting to the end. The Book, sirs — take and read! You have my history in a nutshell, — ay, indeed!   It must off, my burden! See, — slack straps and into pit, Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there — a plague on it! For a mountain's sure to fall and bury Bedford Town, 'Destruction' — that's the name, and fire shall burn it down! O 'scape the wrath in time! Time's now, if not too late. How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate? Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful — But it's late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago Town, wife, and children dear . . . Well, Christmas did, you know! —    Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel's strength On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length! Have at his horns, thwick — thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof — Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love's sake, keep aloof Angels! I'm man and match, — this cudgel for my flail, — To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat's wing and serpent's tail! A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding Into the deafest ear except — hope, hope's the thing? Too late i' the day for me to thrid the windings: but There's still a way to win the race by death's short cut! Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts? No, straight to Vanity Fair, — a fair, by all accounts, Such as is held outside, — lords, ladies, grand and gay, — Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say. And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out To die in the market-place — St. Peter's Green's about The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives, Pricked him with swords, — I'll swear, he'd full a cat's nine lives, — So to his end at last came Faithful, — ha, ha, he! Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see, Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all: He's in, he's off, he's up, through clouds, at trumpet-call, Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate! Odds my life — Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife? Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab — do the same by her! O Master Worldly-Wiseman. . . that's Master Interpreter, Take the will, not the deed! Our gibbet's handy close: Forestall Last Judgment-Day! Be kindly, not morose! There wants no earthly judge-and-jurying: here we stand — Sentence our guilty selves: so, hang us out of hand! Make haste for pity's sake! A single moment's loss Means — Satan's lord once more: his whisper shoots across All singing in my heart, all praying in my brain, 'It comes of heat and beer!' — hark how he guffaws plain! 'To-morrow you'll wake bright, and, in a safe skin, hug Your sound selves, Tab and you, over a foaming jug! You've had such qualms before, time out of mind!' He's right! Did not we kick and cuff and curse away, that night When home we blindly reeled, and left poor humpback Joe I' the lurch to pay for what. . . somebody did, you know! Both of us maundered then 'Lame humpback, — never more Will he come limping, drain his tankard at our door! He'll swing, while — somebody. . .' Says Tab, 'No, for I'll peach!' 'I'm for you, Tab,' cries I, 'there's rope enough for each!' So blubbered we, and bussed, and went to bed upon The grace of Tab's good thought: by morning, all was gone! We laughed — 'What's life to him, a cripple of no account?' Oh, waves increase around — I feel them mount and mount! Hang us! To-morrow brings Tom Bearward with his bears: One new black-muzzled brute beats Sackerson, he swears: (Sackerson, for my money!) And, baiting o'er, the Brawl They lead on Turner's Patch, — lads, lasses, up tails all, — I'm i' the thick o' the throng! That means the Iron Cage, — Means the Lost Man inside! Where's hope for such as wage War against light? Light's left, light's here, I hold light still. So does Tab — make but haste to hang us both! You will?"

I promise, when he stopped you might have heard a mouse Squeak, such a death-like hush sealed up the old Mote House. But when the mass of man sank meek upon his knees, While Tab, alongside, wheezed a hoarse "Do hang us, please!" Why, then the waters rose, no eye but ran with tears, Hearts heaved, heads thumped, until, paying all past arrears Of pity and sorrow, at last a regular scream outbroke Of triumph, joy and praise.

My Lord Chief Justice spoke, First mopping brow and cheek, where still, for one that budged, Another bead broke fresh: "What Judge, that ever judged Since first the world began, judged such a case as this? Why, Master Bratts, long since, folk smelt you out, I wis! I had my doubts, i' faith, each time you played the fox Convicting geese of crime in yonder witness-box —   Yea, much did I misdoubt, the thief that stole her eggs Was hardly goosey's self at Reynard's game, i' feggs! Yet thus much was to praise — you spoke to point, direct — Swore you heard, saw the theft: no jury could suspect — Dared to suspect, — I'll say, — a spot in white so clear: Goosey was throttled, true: but thereof godly fear Came of example set, much as our laws intend; And, though a fox confessed, you proved the Judge's friend. What if I had my doubts? Suppose I gave them breath, Brought you to bar: what work to do, ere 'Guilty, Death,' —    Had paid our pains! What heaps of witnesses to drag From holes and corners, paid from out the County's bag! Trial three dog-days long! Amicus Curiæ — that's Your title, no dispute — truth-telling Master Bratts! Thank you, too, Mistress Tab! Why doubt one word you say? Hanging you both deserve, hanged both shall be this day! The tinker needs must be a proper man. I've heard He lies in Jail long since: if Quality's good word Warrants me letting loose, — some householder, I mean — Freeholder, better still, — I don't say but — between Now and next Sessions. . . Well! Consider of his case, I promise to, at least: we owe him so much grace. Not that — no, God forbid! — I lean to think, as you, The grace that such repent is any jail-bird's due: I rather see the fruit of twelve years' pious reign — Astræa Redux, Charles restored his rights again! — Of which, another time! I somehow feel a peace Stealing across the world. May deeds like this increase! So, Master Sheriff, stay that sentence I pronounced On those two dozen odd: deserving to be trounced Soundly, and yet. . . well, well, at all events despatch This pair of — shall I say, sinner-saints? — ere we catch Their jail-distemper too. Stop tears, or I'll indite All weeping Bedfordshire for turning Bunyanite!"

So, forms were galloped through. If Justice, on the spur, Proved somewhat expeditious, would Quality demur? And happily hanged were they, — why lengthen out my tale? — Where Bunyan's Statue stands facing where stood his Jail.