The Splendid Spur/Chapter 13

had, indeed, been brave work on Braddock Down that 19th of January. For Sir Ralph Hopton with the Cornish grandees had made short business of Ruthen's army—driving it headlong back on Liskeard at the first charge, chasing it through that town, and taking 1,200 prisoners (including Sir Shilston Calmady), together with many colours, all the rebel ordnance and ammunition, and most of their arms. At Liskeard, after refreshing their men, and holding next day a solemn thanksgiving to God, they divided—the Lord Mohun with Sir Ralph Hopton and Colonel Godolphin marching with the greater part of the army upon Saltash, whither Ruthen had fled and was entrenching himself; while Sir John Berkeley and Colonel Ashburnham, with a small party of horse and dragoons and the voluntary regiments of Sir Bevill Grenville, Sir Nich. Slanning, and Colonel Trevanion, turned to the northeast, toward Launceston and Tavistock, to see what account they might render of the Earl of Stamford's army; that, however, had no stomach to await them, but posted out of the county into Plymouth and Exeter.

'Twas on this expedition that two or three of the captains I have mentioned halted for an hour or more at Temple, as well to recognise Joan's extreme meritorious service, as to thank me for the part I had in bringing news of the Earl of Stamford's advance. For 'twas this, they own'd, had saved them—the King's message being but an exhortation and an advertisement upon some lesser matters, the most of which were already taken out of human hands by the turn of events.

But though, as I learn'd, these gentlemen were full of compliments and professions of esteem, I neither saw nor heard them, being by this time delirious of a high fever that followed my wound. And not till three good weeks after, was I recover'd enough to leave my bed, nor, for many more, did my full strength return to me. No mother could have made a tenderer nurse than was Joan throughout this time. 'Tis to her I owe it that I am alive to write these words: and if the tears scald my eyes as I do so, you will pardon them, I promise, before the end of my tale is reach'd.

In the first days of my recovery, news came to us (I forget how) that a solemn sacrament had been taken between the parties in Devon and Cornwall, and the country was a peace. Little I cared, at the time: but was content—now spring was come—to loiter about the tors, and while watching Joan at her work, to think upon Delia. For, albeit I had little hope to see her again, my late pretty comrade held my thoughts the day long. I shared them with nobody: for tho' 'tis probable I had let some words fall in my delirium, Joan never hinted at this, and I never found out.

To Joan's company I was left: for her father, after saving my life that afternoon, took no further notice of me by word or deed; and the cat, Jan Tergagle (nam'd after a spirit that was said to haunt the moors hereabouts), was as indifferent. So with Joan I passed the days idly, tending the sheep, or waiting on her as she plough'd, or lying full length on the hill-side and talking with her of war and battles. 'Twas the one topic on which she was curious (scoffing at me when I offered to teach her to read print), and for hours she would listen to stories of Alexander and Hannibal, Cæsar and Joan of Arc, and other great commanders whose history I remember'd.

One evening—'twas early in May—we had climb'd to the top of the grey tor above Temple, whence we could spy the white sails of the two Channels moving, and, stretch'd upon the short turf there, I was telling my usual tale. Joan lay beside me, her chin propp'd on one earth-stain'd hand, her great solemn eyes wide open as she listened. Till that moment I had regarded her rather as a man-comrade than a girl, but now some feminine trick of gesture awoke me perhaps, for my fancy began to contrast her with Delia, and I broke off my story and sigh'd.

“Art longing to be hence?” she asked.

I felt ashamed to be thus caught, and was silent. She look'd at me and went on—

“Speak out, lad.”

“Loth would I be to leave you, Joan.”

“And why?”

“Why, we are good friends, I hope: and I am grateful.”

“Oh, aye—wish thee'd learn to speak the truth, Jack. Art longing to be hence, and shalt—soon.”

“Why, Joan, you would not have me dwell here always?”

She made no answer for a while, and then with a change of tone—

“Shalt ride wi' me to Bodmin Fair to-morrow for a treat, an' see the Great Turk and the Fat 'Ooman and hocus-pocus. So tell me more 'bout Joan the Frenchwoman.”

On the morrow, about nine in the morning, we set off—Joan on the strawberry, balanced easily on an old sack, which was all her saddle; and I on Molly, that now was sound again and chafing to be so idle. As we set out, Joan's father for the first time took some notice of me, standing at the door to see us off and shouting after us to bring home some account of the wrestling. Looking back at a quarter mile's distance I saw him still fram'd in the doorway, with the cat perch'd on his shoulder.

Bodmin town is naught but a narrow street, near on a mile long, and widening toward the western end. It lies mainly along the south side of a steep vale, and this May morning as Joan and I left the moors and rode down to it from northward, already we could hear trumpets blowing, the big drum sounding, and all the bawling voices and hubbub of the fair. Descending, we found the long street lin'd with booths and shows, and nigh blocked with the crowd: for the revel began early and was now in full swing. And the crew of gipsies, whifflers, mountebanks, fortune-tellers, cut-purses and quacks, mix'd up with honest country faces, beat even the rabble I had seen at Wantage.

Now my own first business was with a tailor: for the clothes I wore when I rode into Temple, four months back, had been so sadly messed with blood, and afterwards cut, to free them from my wound, that now all the tunic I wore was of sackcloth, contrived and stitch'd together by Joan. So I made at once for a decent shop, where luckily I found a suit to fit me, one taken (the tailor said) off a very promising young gentleman that had the misfortune to be kill'd on Braddock Down. Arrayed in this, I felt myself again, and offered to take Joan to see the Fat Woman.

We saw her, and the Æthiop, and the Rhinoceros (which put me in mind of poor Anthony Killigrew), and the Pig-fac'd Baby, and the Cudgel play; and presently halted before a Cheap Jack, that was crying his wares in a prodigious loud voice, near the town wall.

'Twas a meagre, sharp-visag'd fellow with a grey chin-beard like a billy-goat's; and (as fortune would have it) spying our approach, he picked out a mirror from his stock and holding it aloft, addressed us straight—

“What have we here,” cries he, “but a pair o' lovers coming? and what i' my hand but a lover's hourglass? Sure the stars of heav'n must have a hand in this conjuncture—and only thirteen-pence, my pretty fellow, for a glass that will tell the weather i' your sweetheart's face, and help make it fine.”

There were many country fellows with their maids in the crowd, that turned their heads at this address; and as usual the women began.

“Tis Joan o' the Tor!”

“Joan's picked up wi' a sweetheart—tee-hee!—an' us reckoned her'd forsworn mankind!”

“Who is he?”

“Some furriner, sure: that likes garlick.”

“He's bought her no ribbons yet.”

“How should he, poor lad; that can find no garments upon her to fasten 'em to?”

And so on, with a deal of spiteful laughter. Some of these sayings were half-truth, no doubt: but the truthfullest word may be infelix. So noting a dark flush on Joan's cheek, I thought to end the scene by taking the Cheap-Jack's mirror on the spot, to stop his tongue, and then drawing her away.

But in this I was a moment too late; for just as I reached up my hand with the thirteen-pence, and the grinning fellow on the platform bent forward with his mirror, I heard a coarser jest, a rush in the crowd, and two heads go crack! together like eggs. 'Twas two of Joan's tormentors she had taken by the hair and served so: and dropping them the next instant had caught the Cheap-Jack's beard, as you might a bell-rope, and wrench'd him head-foremost off his stand, my thirteen-pence flying far and wide. Plump he fell into the crowd, that scatter'd on all hands as Joan pummelled him: and whack, whack! fell the blows on the poor idiot's face, who scream'd for mercy, as though Judgment Day were come.

No one, for the minute, dared to step between them: and presently Joan looking up, with arm raised for another buffet, spied a poor Astrologer close by, in a red and yellow gown, that had been reading fortunes in a tub of black water beside him, but was now broken off, dismayed at the hubbub. To this tub she dragged the Cheap-Jack and sent him into it with a round souse. The black water splashed right and left over the crowd. Then, her wrath sated, Joan faced the rest, with hands on hips, and waited for them to come on.

Not a word had she spoken, from first to last: but stood now with hot cheeks and bosom heaving. Then, finding none to take up her challenge, she strode out through the folk, and I after her, with the mirror in my hand; while the Cheap-Jack picked himself out of the tub, whining, and the Astrologer wip'd his long white beard and soil'd robe.

Outside the throng was a carriage, stopp'd for a minute by this tumult, and a servant at the horses' heads. By the look of it, 'twas the coach of some person of quality; and glancing at it I saw inside an old gentleman with a grave venerable face, seated. For the moment it flash'd on me I had seen him before, somewhere: and cudgell'd my wits to think where it had been. But a second and longer gaze assured me I was mistaken, and I went on down the street after Joan.

She was walking fast and angry; nor when I caught her up and tried to soothe, would she answer me but in the shortest words. Woman's justice, as I had just learn'd, has this small defect—it goes straight enough, but mainly for the wrong object. Which now I proved in my own case.

“Where are you going, Joan?”

“To 'Fifteen Balls'' stable, for my horse.”

“Art not leaving the fair yet, surely!”

“That I be, tho'. Have had fairing enow—wi' a man!”

Nor for a great part of the way home would she speak to me. But meeting, by Pound Scawens (a hamlet close to the road), with some friends going to the fair, she stopp'd for a while to chat with them, whilst I rode forward: and when she overtook me, her brow was clear again.

“Am a hot headed fool, Jack, and have spoil'd thy day for thee.”

“Nay, that you have not,” said I, heartily glad to see her humble, for the first time in our acquaintance: “but if you have forgiven me that which I could not help, you shall take this that I bought for you, in proof.”

And pulling out the mirror, I lean'd over and handed it to her.

“What i' the world be this?” she ask'd, taking and looking at it doubtfully.

“Why, a mirror.”

“What's that?”

“A glass to see your face in,” I explained.

“Be this my face?” She rode forward, holding up the glass in front of her. “Why, what a handsome-looking gal I be, to be sure! Jack, art certain 'tis my very own face?”

“To be sure,” said I amazed.

“Well!” There was silence for a full minute, save for our horses' tread on the high road. And then—

“Jack, I be powerful dirty!”

This was true enough, and it made me laugh. She looked up solemnly at my mirth (having no sense of a joke, then or ever) and bent forward to the glass again.

“By the way,” said I, “did you mark a carriage just outside the crowd, by the Cheap-Jack's booth?—with a white-hair'd gentleman seated inside?”

Joan nodded. “Master Hannibal Tingcomb: steward o' Gleys.”

“What!”

I jumped in my saddle, and with a pull at the bridle brought Molly to a stand-still.

“Of Gleys?” I cried. “Steward of Sir Deakin Killigrew that was?”

“Right, lad, except the last word. 'That is,' should'st rather say.”

“Then you are wrong, Joan: for he's dead and buried, these five months. Where is this house of Gleys? for to-morrow I must ride there.”

“'Tis easy found, then: for it stands on the south coast yonder, and no house near it: five mile from anywhere, and sixteen from Temple, due south. Shall want thee afore thou startest, Jack. Dear, now! who'd ha' thought I was so dirty?”

The cottage door stood open as we rode into the yard, and from it a faint smoke came curling, with a smell of peat. Within I found the smould'ring turves scattered about as on the day of my first arrival, and among them Joan's father stretch'd, flat on his face: only this time the eat was curl'd up quietly, and lying between the old man's shoulder-blades.

“Drunk again,” said Joan shortly.

But looking more narrowly, I marked a purplish stain on the ground by the old man's mouth, and turned him softly over.

“Joan,” said I, “he's not drunk—he's dead!”

She stood above us and looked down, first at the corpse, then at me, without speaking for a time: at last—

“Then I reckon he may so well be buried.”

“Girl,” I call'd out, being shocked at this callousness, “'tis your father—and he is dead!”

“Why that's so, lad. An he were alive, shouldn't trouble thee to bury 'n.”

And so, before night, we carried him up to the bleak tor-side, and dug his grave there; the black cat following us to look. Five feet deep we laid him, having dug down to solid rock; and having covered him over, went silently back to the hovel. Joan had not shed a single tear.