The Splendid Spur/Chapter 12

the pain of my hurt followed into my dreams. I woke with a start, and tried to sit up.

Within the kitchen all was quiet. The old savage was still stretch'd on the floor: the cat curled upon the hearth. The girl had not stirr'd: but looking toward the window-hole, I saw night outside, and a frosty star sparkling far down in the west.

“Joan, what's the hour?”

“Sun's been down these four hours.” She turned her face to look at me.

“I've no business lying here.”

“Chose to come, lad: none axed thee, that I knows by.”

“Where's the mare? Must set me across her back, Joan, and let me ride on.”

“Mare's in stable, wi' fetlocks swelled like puddens. Chose to come, lad; an' choose or no, must bide.”

“'Tis for the General Hopton, at Bodmin, I am bound, Joan; and wound or no, must win there this night.”

“And that's seven mile away: wi' a bullet in thy skull, and a peat quag thy burial. For they went south, and thy road lieth more south than west.”

“The troopers?”

“Aye, Jack: an' work I had this day wi' those same bloody warriors: but take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat-cake while I tell thee.”

And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was this:—

When I dropt forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback, thinking me dead. But (to quote her) “'no good,' said I, 'in cuddlin' a lad 'pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho' he have a-got curls like a wench: an' dead or 'live, no use to wait for others to make sure.'”

So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the “Jew's Kitchen;” and where that was, even with such bearings as I had, she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead the sorrel down to stable.

Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a Whoop! up the road; and there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down-hill toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on leading the mare down the slope.

In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out “Where's he to?”

“Who?” asks Joan, making out to be surprised.

“Why, the lad whose mare thou'rt leadin'?”

“Mile an' half away by now.”

“How's that?”

“Freshly horsed,” explains Joan.

The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore 'twas a lie; but luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge. They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun bellied sergeant call'd “Silence!” and asked the girl, “did she loan the fellow a horse?”

Here I will quote her again:—

“'Sir, to thee,' I answer'd, 'no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey Robin.'

“'That's a lie,' he says; 'an' I won't believe thee.'

“'Might so well,' says I; 'but go to stable, an' see for thysel' (Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that's his'n lookout.)”

They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching the tor and the moors below it. I learn'd too, that Joan had come in for some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buffcoat. And at length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at Braddock before night.

“Where is this Braddock?”

“Nigh to Lord Mohun's house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south, and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies.”

“Then go I must,” cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them. I told of the King's letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord Stamford's men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day's march between the two, and none but I to carry the warning. And “Oh, Joan!” I cried, “my comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels' hands. Alas! that I could neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have travelled two hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord Stamford come up, all's lost. Even now they be out-number'd. So lift me, Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I'll win to Bodmin yet.”

“Reckon, Jack, thou'd best hand me thy letter.”

Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply spoken; but stared at her like an owl.

“There's horse in stall, lad,” she went on, “tho' no Grey Robin. Tearaway's the name, and strawberry the color.”

“But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here 'tis, Joan, see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be known for the King's: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will bless you for't.”

“Hope so, I'm sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick-witted.”

So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.

“Shan't forgit, now,” she said, at length; “an' so hearken to me for a change. Bide still, nor fret thysel'. Here's pasty an' oat-cake, an' a keg o' water that I'll stow beside thee. Pay no heed to feyther, an' if he wills to get drunk an' fight wi' Jan Tergagle—that's the cat—why let'n. Drunk or sober, he's no 'count.”

She hid the letter in her bosom, and stepp'd to the door. On the threshold she turned—

“Jack—forgot to ax: what be all this bloodshed about?”

“For Church and King, Joan.”

“H'm: same knowledge ha' I o' both—an' that's naught. But I dearly loves fair play.”

She was gone. In a minute or so I heard the trampling of a horse: and then, with a scurry of hoofs, Joan was off on the King's errand, and riding into the darkness.

Little rest had I that night; but lay awake on my bracken bed and watched the burning peat-turves turn to grey, and drop, flake by flake, till only a glowing point remained. The door rattled now and then on the hinge: out on the moor the light winds kept a noise persistent as town dogs at midnight: and all the while my wound was stabbing, and the bracken pricking me till I groaned aloud.

As day began to break, the old man picked himself up, yawned and lounged out, returning after a time with fresh turves for the hearth. He noticed me no more than a stone, but when the fire was restack'd, drew up his chair to the warmth, and breakfasted on oat cake and a liberal deal of liquor. Observing him, the black cat uncoil'd, stretch'd himself, and climbing to his master's knee, sat there purring, and the best of friends. I also judged it time to breakfast: found my store: took a bite or two, and a pull at the keg, and lay back—this time to sleep.

When I woke, 'twas high noon. The door stood open, and outside on the wall the winter sunshine was lying, very bright and clear. Indoors, the old savage had been drinking steadily; and still sat before the fire, with the cat on one knee, and his keg on the other. I sat up and strain'd my ears. Surely, if Joan had not failed, the royal generals would march out and give battle at once: and surely, if they were fighting, not ten miles away, some sound of it would reach me. But beyond the purring of the cat, I heard nothing.

I crawl'd to my feet, rested a moment to stay the giddiness, and totter'd across to the door, where I lean'd, listening and gazing south. No strip of vapour lay on the moors that stretch'd—all bathed in the most wonderful bright colours—to the lip of the horizon. The air was like a sounding-board. I heard the bleat of an old wether, a mile off, upon the tors; and was turning away dejected, when, far down in the south, there ran a sound that set my heart leaping.

'Twas the crackling of musketry.

There was no mistaking it. The noise ran like wildfire along the hills: before echo could overtake it, a low rumbling followed, and then the brisker crackling again. I caught at the door post and cried, faint with the sudden joy—

“Thou angel, Joan!—thou angel!”

And then, as something took me by the throat—“Joan, Joan—to see what thou seest!”

A long time I leant by the door-post there, drinking in the sound that now was renewed at quicker intervals. Yet, for as far as I could see, 'twas the peacefullest scene, though dreary—quiet sunshine on the hills, and the sheep dotted here and there, cropping. But down yonder, over the edge of the moors, men were fighting and murdering each other: and I yearn'd to see how the day went.

Being both weak and loth to miss a sound of it, I sank down on the threshold, and there lay, with my eyes turned southward, through a gap in the stone fence. In a while the musketry died away, and I wondered: but thought I could still at times mark a low sound as of men shouting, and this, as I learnt after, was the true battle.

It must have been an hour or more before I saw a number of black specks coming over the ridge of hills, and swarming down into the plain toward me: and then a denser body following. 'Twas a company of horse, moving at a great pace: and I guessed that the battle was done, and these were the first fugitives of the beaten army.

On they came, in great disorder, scattering as they advanced: and now, in parts, the hill behind was black with footmen, running. 'Twas a rout, sure enough. Once or twice, on the heights, I beard a bugle blown, as if to rally the crowd: but saw nothing come of it, and presently the notes ceased, or I forgot to listen.

The foremost company of horse was heading rather to the eastward of me, to gain the high-road; and the gross pass'd me by at half-a-mile's distance. But some came nearer, and to my extreme joy, I learnt from their arms and shouting, what till now I had been eagerly hoping, that 'twas the rebel army thus running in rout: and tho' now without strength to kneel, I had enough left to thank God heartily.

'Twas so curious to see the plain thus suddenly fill'd with rabble, all running from the south, and the silly startled sheep rushing helter-skelter, and huddling together on the tors above, that I forgot my own likely danger if any of this revengeful crew should come upon me lying there: and was satisfied to watch them as they straggled over the moors toward the road. Some pass'd close to the cottage; but none seem'd anxious to pause there. 'Twas a glad and a sorry sight. I saw a troop of dragoons with a standard in their midst; and a drummer running behind, too far distracted even to cast his drum away, so that it dangled against his back, with a great rent where the music had been; and then two troopers running together; and one that was wounded lay down for a while within a stone's throw of me, and would not go further, till at last his comrade persuaded him; and after them a larger company, in midst of whom was a man crying, “We are sold, I tell ye, and I can point to the man!” and so passed by. There were some, too, that were galloping three stout horses in a carriage, and upon it a brass twelve-pounder. But the carriage stuck fast in a quag, and so they cut the traces and left it there, where, two days after, Sir John Berkeley's dragoons found and pulled it out. And this was the fourth, I had heard, that the King's troops took in that victory.

Yet there were not above five or six hundred in all that I saw; and I guessed (as was the case) that this must be but an off-shoot, so to say, of the bigger rout that pass'd eastward through Liskeard. I was thinking of this when I heard footsteps near, and a man came panting through a gap in the wall, into the yard.

He was a big, bare-headed fellow, exceedingly flusht with running, but unhurt, as far as I could see. Indeed, he might easily have kill'd me, and for a moment I thought sure he would. But catching sight of me, he nodded very friendly, and sitting on a heap of stones a yard or two away, began to draw off his boot, and search for a prickle, that it seem'd had got into it.

“'Tis a mess of it, yonder,” said he, quietly, and jerk'd his thumb over his shoulder.

By the look of me, he could tell I was on the other side; but this did not appear to concern him.

“How has it gone?” asked I.

“Well,” says he, with his nose in the boot; “we had a pretty rising ground, and the Cornishmen march'd up and whipt us out—that's all—and took a mort o' prisoners.” He found the prickle, drew on his boot again, and asked—

“T'other side?”

I nodded.

“That's the laughing side, this day. Good evening.”

And with that he went off as fast as he came.

'Twas, may be, an hour after, that another came in through the same gap: this time a lean, hawk-eyed man, with a pinch'd face and two ugly gashes—one across the brow from left eye to the roots of his hair, the other in his leg below the knee, that had sliced through boot and flesh like a scythe-cut. His face was smear'd with blood, and he carried a musket.

“Water!” he bark'd out as he came trailing into the yard. “Give me water—I'm a dead man!”

He was stepping over me to enter the kitchen, when he halted and said—

“Art a malignant, for certain!”

And before I had a chance to reply, his musket was swung up, and I felt my time was come to die.

But now the old savage, that had been sitting all day before his fire, without so much as a sign to show if he noticed aught that was passing, jump'd up with a yell and leapt toward us. He and the cat were on the poor wretch together, tearing and clawing. I can hear their hellish outcries to this day: but at the moment they turn'd me faint. And the next thing I recall is being dragged inside by the old man, who shut the door after me and slipp'd the bolt, leaving the wounded trooper on the other side. He beat against it for some time, sobbing piteously for water: and then I heard him groaning at intervals, till he died. At least, the groans ceased; and next day he was found with his back against the cottage wall, stark and dead.

Having pulled me inside, Joan's father must have thought he had done enough: for on the floor I lay for hours, and passed from one swoon into another. He and the cat had gone back to the fire again, and long before evening both were sound asleep.

So there I lay helpless, till, at nightfall, there came the trampling of a horse outside, and then a rap on the door. The old man started up and opened it: and in rushed Joan, her eyes lit up, her breast heaving, and in her hand a naked sword.

“Church and King, Jack!” she cried, and flung the blade with a clang on to the table. “Church and King! O brave day's work, lad—O bloody work this day!”

And I swooned again.