Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
perhaps), “there is nobody there now, captain; and lucky for the poor
devil that he keepeth workman's hours. Even his chopper is gone, I see.”
“No dog, no man, is the rule about here, when it comes to coppice work,”
continued young de Whichehalse; “there is not a man would dare work
there, without a dog to scare the pixies.”
“There is a big young fellow upon this farm,” Carver Doone muttered
sulkily, “with whom I have an account to settle, if ever I come across
him. He hath a cursed spite to us, because we shot his father. He was
going to bring the lumpers upon us, only he was afeared, last winter.
And he hath been in London lately, for some traitorous job, I doubt.”
“Oh, you mean that fool, John Ridd,” answered the young squire; “a very
simple clod-hopper. No treachery in him I warrant; he hath not the head
for it. All he cares about is wrestling. As strong as a bull, and with
no more brains.”
“A bullet for that bull,” said Carver; and I could see the grin on his
scornful face; “a bullet for ballast to his brain, the first time I come
across him.”
“Nonsense, captain! I won't have him shot, for he is my old
school-fellow, and hath a very pretty sister. But his cousin is of a
different mould, and ten times as dangerous.”
“We shall see, lads, we shall see,” grumbled the great black-bearded
man. “Ill bodes for the fool that would hinder me. But come, let us
onward. No lingering, or the viper will be in the bush from us. Body and
soul, if he give us the slip, both of you shall answer it.”
“No fear, captain, and no hurry,” Charlie answered gallantly, “would I
were as sure of living a twelvemonth as he is of dying within the hour!
Extreme unction for him in my bullet patch. Remember, I claim to be his
confessor, because he hath insulted me.”
“Thou art welcome to the job for me,” said Marwood, as they turned away,
and kept along the hedge-row; “I love to meet a man sword to sword; not
to pop at him from a foxhole.”
What answer was made I could not hear, for by this time the stout ashen
hedge was between us, and no other gap to be found in it, until at the
very bottom, where the corner of the copse was. Yet I was not quit of
danger now; for they might come through that second gap, and then would
be sure to see me, unless I crept into the uncut thicket, before they
could enter the clearing. But in spite of all my fear, I was not wise
enough to do that. And in truth the words of Carver Doone had filled me
with such anger, knowing what I did about him and his pretence to Lorna;
and the sight of Squire Marwood, in such outrageous company, had so
moved my curiosity, and their threats against some unknown person so
aroused my pity, that much of my prudence was forgotten, or at least the
better part of courage, which loves danger at long distance.
Therefore, holding fast my bill-hook, I dropped myself very quietly
into the bed of the runnel, being resolved to take my chance of their
entrance at the corner, where the water dived through the hedge-row. And
so I followed them down the fence, as gently as a rabbit goes, only I
was inside it, and they on the outside; but yet so near that I heard the
branches rustle as they pushed them.
Perhaps I had never loved ferns so much as when I came to the end of
that little gully, and stooped betwixt two patches of them, now my
chiefest shelter, for cattle had been through the gap just there, in
quest of fodder and coolness, and had left but a mound of trodden earth
between me and the outlaws. I mean at least on my left hand (upon which
side they were), for in front where the brook ran out of the copse was a
good stiff hedge of holly. And now I prayed Heaven to lead them straight
on; for if they once turned to their right, through the gap, the muzzles
of their guns would come almost against my forehead.
I heard them, for I durst not look; and could scarce keep still for
trembling--I heard them trampling outside the gap, uncertain which track
they should follow. And in that fearful moment, with my soul almost
looking out of my body, expecting notice to quit it, what do you think
I did? I counted the threads in a spider's web, and the flies he had
lately eaten, as their skeletons shook in the twilight.
“We shall see him better in there,” said Carver, in his horrible gruff
voice, like the creaking of the gallows chain; “sit there, behind holly
hedge, lads, while he cometh down yonder hill; and then our good-evening
to him; one at his body, and two at his head; and good aim, lest we
baulk the devil.”
“I tell you, captain, that will not do,” said Charlie, almost
whispering: “you are very proud of your skill, we know, and can hit a
lark if you see it: but he may not come until after dark, and we cannot
be too nigh to him. This holly hedge is too far away. He crosses down
here from Slocomslade, not from Tibbacot, I tell you; but along that
track to the left there, and so by the foreland to Glenthorne, where his
boat is in the cove. Do you think I have tracked him so many evenings,
without knowing his line to a hair? Will you fool away all my trouble?”
“Come then, lad, we will follow thy lead. Thy life for his, if we fail
of it.”
“After me then, right into the hollow; thy legs are growing stiff,
captain.”
“So shall thy body be, young man, if thou leadest me astray in this.”
I heard them stumbling down the hill, which was steep and rocky in that
part; and peering through the hedge, I saw them enter a covert, by the
side of the track which Master Stickles followed, almost every evening,
when he left our house upon business. And then I knew who it was they
were come on purpose to murder--a thing which I might have guessed long
before, but for terror and cold stupidity.
“Oh that God,” I thought for a moment, waiting for my blood to flow; “Oh
that God had given me brains, to meet such cruel dastards according to
their villainy! The power to lie, and the love of it; the stealth to
spy, and the glory in it; above all, the quiet relish for blood, and joy
in the death of an enemy--these are what any man must have, to contend
with the Doones upon even terms. And yet, I thank God that I have not
any of these.”
It was no time to dwell upon that, only to try, if might be, to prevent
the crime they were bound upon. To follow the armed men down the hill
would have been certain death to me, because there was no covert there,
and the last light hung upon it. It seemed to me that my only chance to
stop the mischief pending was to compass the round of the hill, as fast
as feet could be laid to ground; only keeping out of sight from the
valley, and then down the rocks, and across the brook, to the track from
Slocombslade: so as to stop the King's messenger from travelling any
farther, if only I could catch him there.
And this was exactly what I did; and a terrible run I had for it,
fearing at every step to hear the echo of shots in the valley, and
dropping down the scrubby rocks with tearing and violent scratching.
Then I crossed Bagworthy stream, not far below Doone-valley, and
breasted the hill towards Slocombslade, with my heart very heavily
panting. Why Jeremy chose to ride this way, instead of the more direct
one (which would have been over Oare-hill), was more than I could account
for: but I had nothing to do with that; all I wanted was to save his
life.
And this I did by about a minute; and (which was the hardest thing of
all) with a great horse-pistol at my head as I seized upon his bridle.
“Jeremy, Jerry,” was all I could say, being so fearfully short of
breath; for I had crossed the ground quicker than any horse could.
“Spoken just in time, John Ridd!” cried Master Stickles, still however
pointing the pistol at me: “I might have known thee by thy size, John.
What art doing here?”
“Come to save your life. For God's sake, go no farther. Three men in the
covert there, with long guns, waiting for thee.”
“Ha! I have been watched of late. That is why I pointed at thee, John.
Back round this corner, and get thy breath, and tell me all about it. I
never saw a man so hurried. I could beat thee now, John.”
Jeremy Stickles was a man of courage, and presence of mind, and much
resource: otherwise he would not have been appointed for this business;
nevertheless he trembled greatly when he heard what I had to tell
him. But I took good care to keep back the name of young Marwood de
Whichehalse; neither did I show my knowledge of the other men; for
reasons of my own not very hard to conjecture.
“We will let them cool their heels, John Ridd,” said Jeremy, after
thinking a little. “I cannot fetch my musketeers either from Glenthorne
or Lynmouth, in time to seize the fellows. And three desperate Doones,
well-armed, are too many for you and me. One result this attempt will
have, it will make us attack them sooner than we had intended. And one
more it will have, good John, it will make me thy friend for ever. Shake
hands my lad, and forgive me freely for having been so cold to thee.
Mayhap, in the troubles coming, it will help thee not a little to have
done me this good turn.”
Upon this he shook me by the hand, with a pressure such as we feel not
often; and having learned from me how to pass quite beyond view of his
enemies, he rode on to his duty, whatever it might be. For my part I was
inclined to stay, and watch how long the three fusiliers would have the
patience to lie in wait; but seeing less and less use in that, as I
grew more and more hungry, I swung my coat about me, and went home to
Plover's Barrows.
CHAPTER XXXIX
A TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE
Stickles took me aside the next day, and opened all his business to me,
whether I would or not. But I gave him clearly to understand that he was
not to be vexed with me, neither to regard me as in any way dishonest,
if I should use for my own purpose, or for the benefit of my friends,
any part of the knowledge and privity thus enforced upon me. To this he
agreed quite readily; but upon the express provision that I should
do nothing to thwart his schemes, neither unfold them to any one; but
otherwise be allowed to act according to my own conscience, and as
consisted with the honour of a loyal gentleman--for so he was pleased to
term me. Now what he said lay in no great compass and may be summed in
smaller still; especially as people know the chief part of it already.
Disaffection to the King, or rather dislike to his brother James, and
fear of Roman ascendancy, had existed now for several years, and of late
were spreading rapidly; partly through the downright arrogance of
the Tory faction, the cruelty and austerity of the Duke of York, the
corruption of justice, and confiscation of ancient rights and charters;
partly through jealousy of the French king, and his potent voice in our
affairs; and partly (or perhaps one might even say, mainly) through that
natural tide in all political channels, which verily moves as if it had
the moon itself for its mistress. No sooner is a thing done and fixed,
being set far in advance perhaps of all that was done before (like a new
mole in the sea), but immediately the waters retire, lest they should
undo it; and every one says how fine it is, but leaves other people to
walk on it. Then after awhile, the vague endless ocean, having retired
and lain still without a breeze or murmur, frets and heaves again with
impulse, or with lashes laid on it, and in one great surge advances over
every rampart.
And so there was at the time I speak of, a great surge in England, not
rolling yet, but seething; and one which a thousand Chief Justices,
and a million Jeremy Stickles, should never be able to stop or turn,
by stringing up men in front of it; any more than a rope of onions can