The Yeoman Adventurer
time has said 'Knowledge is power.' I'm expanding that a little to fit
these modern days. That's all."
"How does the maxim run now, sir?"
"Knowledge is money and money is power," said he, with a dry smile.
Then, as to matters small in themselves but of more immediate concern to
me, he told me that his man, Dot Gibson, had reported that the spy, Weir,
had at an early hour ridden off towards Stafford, while the sergeant of
dragoons was still lurking at the "Black Swan." There had been long
consultations between them as if they were acting in concert.
This was likely to be the case. It was a noteworthy fact that the spy had
seen me, and had had an opportunity of denouncing me, before Master Freake
had bowled him over. There was, therefore, reason to suppose that he would
in any case have remained silent about me--the one man against whom his
evidence was overwhelming. The sergeant of dragoons would, of course, be
only too glad to see me out of action, dead for choice, but in jail as a
useful alternative, yet the opportunity of putting me there had been let
slip. I could not, try how I would, work out any reasonable explanation of
their conduct.
I bade good-bye to the Grange, going off with a pressing invitation in my
ears to return as soon as possible. Master Freake walked at my saddle till
we were out of earshot of the group in the open doorway.
"We meet again at Derby, Oliver," he said, holding out his hand.
"That's good news, sir. I shall be there by six o'clock to-night."
"Keep a good look out for the sergeant. He and his precious master mean
to have you if they can. They've a heavy score against you, lad."
"It will be heavier before the account's settled, sir."
"You shall have your tilt at 'em, Oliver. You'll enjoy it, and I've no
fear as to the result. But take care! Ride in the middle of the road, and
keep your eye on every bush. Brocton has half a regiment of thorough-paced
blackguards at his service and will compass hell itself to fetch you down.
What about money?"
"I've plenty and to spare," I answered, "thanks to your generous loan."
"No loan, lad, but my first contribution to the expenses of--what shall
we say for safety? Your tour. How will that do?"
"Nay, sir--"
"Yea. Oliver, and no more said. My favourite rate is ten per cent. You've
let me off with a paltry two."
"I do not like joking in money matters, sir."
"John Freake joking in money matters?" said he, smiling. "Tell it not
when you get to town, Oliver, or you'll be the ruin of a hard-won
reputation. I sent you sixty guineas odd."
"Yes, sir."
"Which is, to be precise, slightly less than two per cent of what you
saved me when you snatched me out of the dirty grip of Brocton's rascals.
I had a good thick slice of his lordship's patrimony in my pocket. Off you
go, lad! Sultan is impatient at my trifling. So ho! You beauty! Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, sir!" I cried heartily, swinging my new hat in a grand bow.
* * * * *
At three o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden hard and far without
bite or sup, I came out in a little hamlet huddled about the great London
road where it ran along the hem of a forest, and drew rein before the
"Seven Stars." I was to be in presence with my report at six o'clock, and,
as Derby was only fifteen miles off and the road one of the best, there
was ample time for Sultan and me to take the rest and refreshment we both
stood in need of.
I was, too, in need of quiet and leisure to get my report straightened
out in my mind ready for delivery. The largeness and looseness of my
commission left everything to my discretion, with the vexatious result
that I had discovered nothing. I had, indeed, carried out my orders. I had
been so far west of Derby that I had seen the famous spires of Lichfield
cutting into the sky like three lance-heads, and had learned on abundant
and trustworthy evidence that the Duke's forces there were leaving for the
south, under orders to march with all speed to their original camp at
Merriden Heath. This squared exactly with Master Freake's news, and was
all the stock of positive information I had got together.
Of the kind of news the Prince would best like to hear there was none. Of
preparations to join him, none. Of open well-wishers to his cause, none.
The time when the Stuart banner could rally a host around it had gone
beyond recall. There was no violent feeling the other way. People simply
did not care. The old watchwords were powerless. The old quarrel had been
revived in a world that had forgotten it, and would not be reminded of it.
It was Charles and his Highlanders against George and his regiments, and
as the latter were sure to win, nobody bothered. It is the strange but
exact truth that the only sign I discovered of the great event in
progress, was to come across a group of four respectable men of the middle
station in life bargaining with an innkeeper for the hire of a chaise, in
which they meant to drive to watch the Highlanders march by. They were
very keen to bate him a shilling, and as indifferent as four oysters to
the issues at stake.
Riding into the inn-yard, I shouted to the host to get me his best
dinner, and, while it was preparing, I overlooked the grooming and baiting
of Sultan. I left him comfortable and content, and strolled indoors to
look after my own needs.
Though on the London road, and only fifteen miles from the scene of
action, the inn was quiet. I learned from the host that a courier had
galloped through an hour before, spurring southwards, and cried out from
the saddle that the bare-legs were only five miles from Derby when he
left. Earlier in the day a cart had driven through loaded up with the
gowns of the town dignitaries, "going to Leicester to be done up,"
explained the host, delighted with his own shrewdness.
A hunger-bitten traveller with a good dinner in front of him commonly
pays no attention for the time being to anything else. I found two men in
the guest-room, and, after a civil greeting, which made one of them open
his eyes and mouth very uncivilly, I sat down to eat, very content with
the fare set before me.
As my hunger steadily abated before a steady attack on a cold roast
sirloin of most commendable quality, I began to take more interest in the
two men. In fact, more interest in them was forced on me by the beginnings
of a pretty quarrel between them, and by the time I had got to the cheese,
they, utterly regardless of my presence, were at it hammer and tongs. The
row was about a horse-deal lately passed between them, and there are few
things men can quarrel about more easily or more vigorously. The yokel who
had gaped at me, had been cheated by his companion, and was accordingly
resentful.
Two men more at odds in outward appearance could not easily have been
found. The gaper was plain country, a big, bulky man, with a paunch that,
as he sat, sagged nearly to his knees, a triple chin, and a nose with a
knobly end, in shape and colour like an overripe strawberry. His companion
was a little fellow, lean and sharp-cut, with a head like a ferret's. We
country-siders know your Londoner. Many an hour I had sat under the clump
of elms at the lane-end and watched the travellers. Hence, doubtless, my
taste in fashionable head-gear, like this of mine, lately belonging to
Swift Nicks, now disposed carefully on the table at my side. I would have
wagered it against Joe Braggs' frowsy old milking-cap that the little man
was a Londoner.
Little as he was, his cold, calculating anger overbore his antagonist,
who was no great hand at stating his case, good as it was.
"The landlord knows me and knows the gelding," said the little man. "You
know less about horses than a Mile End tapster. Fetch him in, and let him
decide. I suppose you rode him!"
"What a God's name, d'ye think I bought him for, Mr. Wicks? To look at?"
"By the look of you I should think you bought him as a present for a
baby. Sixteen stone six if you're an ounce, and riding a two-year-old!
Damme, no wonder he throws out curbs! Fetch the landlord, I tell ye!"
Out burst the fat man in a great fury, and in a minute or two came back
with the landlord and an ostler. Then the wrangle became hotter and more
amusing than ever.
Finally, the little man, losing all patience, drew a pistol, whereon the
big man ran backwards, shrieking "Murder!" Not heeding where he was going,
he tumbled up against my table, and jammed it hard against my midriff.
I attempted to rise but was too late. The fat man seized my wrists, the
landlord and the ostler ran round, and pinned me to the chair, and the
little man held the barrel of the pistol to my forehead.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Swift Nicks!" said he.
I dare say my liver was turning the colour of chalk, but, though I'm too
easily frightened, I'm always too proud to show it, which has unjustly got
me the character of being a brave man.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Too-swift Wicks!" I retorted.
"What d'ye mean?" he asked, plainly disconcerted.
"I mean," said I, "that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up."
"What the hell does he mean?" he asked, appealing to the company.
"Damn my bones if I know," answered the host. "I've 'eerd parson say
sommat like it in church a Sundays. He's one of these 'ere silly
scholards."
"They do say as how Swift Nicks is a scholard," put in the ostler wisely.
"There's no time for chattering," said I. "Take me at once before a
justice. That's the law, and you know it. I warn you that any delay will
be dangerous. My cocksure friend here is already in for actions for
assault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the Lord knows what. My
gad, sir, I'll give you a roasting at the assizes. Take me off at once to
the nearest magistrate. I'll have the law on you before another hour's
out."
My energy flustered the Londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril
of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on.
"He's Swift Nicks right enough, Master Wicks," he said. "Pocket full of
pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd;
hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme,
I saw Swift Nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's
Swift Nicks' hat or I'm a Dutchman; I know'd it again the minute he walked
into the room."
"Damn the hat!" cried I heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at
this telling piece of evidence against me.
The little man snatched it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a
thing I had never done, being wrapped up in its outside.
"There y'are!" he cried triumphantly. "'S. N. His hat.' What more d'ye
want?"
"I want the nearest magistrate," cried I.
"Well, Mr. Wicks," said the fat man, "he can easily have what he wants.
It's only a matter o' two mile to the Squire's."
"Squire'll welly go off 'is yed," remarked the host. "He's that sot on
seeing Swift Nicks swing."
"Then he'll very likely go bail for Mr. Wicks," said I.
"Will he?" said Mr. Wicks sourly.
"If he don't," I retorted, "you'll spend the night in Leicester jail."
"They do say as 'ow Swift Nicks is a rare plucked 'un," said the ostler.
"Then they're liars," said I.
I was handcuffed and put on Sultan, with my feet roped together under his
belly. Then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in
peace with the Highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and
joyously to see Swift Nicks. The landlord left his guests, and the ostler
his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly
women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. Once or twice we met a man
who cried, "What's up?" and at the response, "Swift Nicks," he added
himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an