HUNT, THE OWLER
(1696)
Something more than two centuries ago--and just two years after QueenMary's death--when William the Third had been eight years on the throne,and the pendulum of public sentiment, accelerated by the brusqueness ofhis manners and no longer retarded by his consort's good nature, wasswinging surely and steadily to the Stuart side, the discovery of aJacobite plot to assassinate the King on his return from hunting setback the balance with a shock which endured to the end of his reign.
It was the King's habit to go on Saturdays in his coach to RichmondPark, returning to Kensington in the evening; and the scheme, laid bare,was to fall upon him in a narrow lane leading from the river to TurnhamGreen, where the miry nature of the ground rendered his progress slow.For complicity in this plot nine persons, differing much in rank, fromSir John Fenwick, who had been Colonel of King Charles's Life Guards, toKeyes, a private in the Blues, suffered on the scaffold; and for a timeall England rang with it. The informers, Porter and Goodman, were viewedwith an abhorrence hardly less than that which the plot itself excitedin honest circles; and in this odium a man shared in some small degree,who, though he had not been a party to the plot, had stooped, under thestress of confinement and the fear of death, to give some evidence.
This was James Hunt, the Owler, or smuggler, a name forgotten now,famous then. For years his house, in a lonely situation in the dreariestpart of Romney Marsh, had been the favourite house of call for Jacobitesbound for St. Germains or returning thence. At regular intervals, ifwind and tide served, a packet-boat ran between it and the French coast,and between whiles the hiding-places in his rambling old house, whichhad been originally contrived to hold runlets of Nantz and bales ofLyons, lodged men whose faces were known in the Mall and St. James's,and whose titles were not less real because for the nonce they worethem, with their stars, in their pockets. Naturally, in the generalbreak-up consequent on the discovery of the Turnham Green plot, thesepractices came to light, the lonely house in the marshes was entered,and Hunt was himself seized and conveyed to London under a strong guard.There he lay in the Marshalsea until, by discovering the names ofcertain persons who had used his hiding-places, he was permitted toransom his life.
When all was told he was of no further use to the Government. He wasreleased, and one fine morning in September, '96, he walked out of hisprison a morose and lonely man. Resolute and daring by nature, butaccustomed to live in the open, with the sound of the lark in his ears,it was only in the solitude of his cell that he had fallen belowhimself. Now, under the open sky, he paid the penalty in a load of shameand remorse. His feet carried him to the Jacobite house of call inMaiden Lane, whither he had directed his nag to be sent; but on hisarrival at the inn his eye told him that the place was changed. Theostler, who had been his slave, looked askance at him, the landlord,once his obedient servant, turned his back. He was no longer Mr. Hunt,of Romney, but Hunt the Approver, Hunt the Evidence. Flinging down acrown and a curse he rode desperately out of the yard, and made haste toleave London behind him.
But in the country it was little better. At inns on the Dover road,where he had swaggered in old days the hero of a transparent mystery,and only less admired than the famous Mr. Birkenhead, the Jacobite post,whom even the Tower failed to confine--at these his reception was nowcold and formal; and presently the man's heart and hopes went forwardand settled hungrily on the two things left to him in this changedworld, his home in the marshes and his girl. His heart cried home! Theslighting looks of men who would have succumbed to a tithe of histemptations, would not reach him there; there--he had a reason forbelieving it--he would still read love and welcome in his child's eyes.
He was so far from having a turn for sentiment that the gibbet atDartford, though he had lain down and risen up for weeks under theshadow of the gallows, caused him no qualms as he passed under it; northe man who hung in chains upon it. But when he rode up to the tavern atthe last stage short of Romney and saw Trot Eubank, the Romneyapothecary, loitering before the house, he drove an oath through hisclosed teeth.
The man of drugs was too distant to hear it; nevertheless he smiled, andnot pleasantly. The apothecary had red cheeks and a black wig, and asplayed face that promised heartiness. His small fishy eyes, however,with a cast in them that was next door to a squint, belied the promise.He came up to Hunt's stirrup and gave him joy of his freedom veryloudly. "And you will find all well at home," he continued. "All welland hearty."
Hunt thanked him coldly, watered his horse, and drank a cup of ale withthe landlord; who looked at him pitifully, as at a man once admirableand now fallen. Then he climbed into his saddle again and startedbriskly. But he had not ridden a hundred paces before Eubank, on his oldwhite mare, was at his side. "My way is your way," said he.
Hunt grunted, and wondered how long that had been so; for New Romney,where the apothecary lived, lay to the right. But he said nothing.
"They have quartered three soldiers on you," Eubank continued, squintingout of the corner of one eye to mark the effect of his words, "and anofficer."
The smuggler checked his horse. "As if I had not done enough for them!"he cried bitterly.
"Umph!" said the apothecary, drily, and with meaning. "The truth, thewhole truth, and nothing but the truth! Eh, Mr. Hunt?"
He spoke below his breath, but Hunt caught the words and turned on him,his face blazing with rage. "You dirty tar-mixer!" he cried, flingingcaution to the winds. "What do you mean? And how dare you ride out tomeet me? If you have anything to say, say it, and begone."
"Softly, softly, Mr. Hunt," Eubank answered, his face a shade paler."You know what I mean. There was a name wanting in your evidence--inyour deposition. A name lacking, d'ye take me?"
"A name?"
"Ay, Mr. Fayle's. And Mr. Fayle is missing, too. But I don't think," theapothecary continued cunningly, his eyes gazing far apart, "that he isin France. I think that he is nearer Romney. And that is why they havequartered three soldiers on you."
"You villain!" Hunt cried, his voice shaking with passion. "This isyour work." And he raised his heavy riding-whip, and made as if he wouldride the other down. The two were alone on the marsh.
But quick as thought Eubank lugged a pistol from his holster andlevelled it.
"Softly, Mr. Hunt," he said. "Softly! I warn you, if anything happens tome, it is known who is with me. Besides, I mean you no harm."
"And no good," said the smuggler, between his teeth. "What do you want?"
"What I have always wanted," the other answered. "Is there any harm inwanting a wife?" he added, a whine in his voice.
"Yes, when she does not want you," Hunt retorted.
"She will want me--when the other is out of the way," the apothecaryanswered sullenly.
"Out of the way?"
"Ay; in France, or--there!"--and the apothecary nodded towards thegibbet on Dymchurch Flat, which they were just approaching. "It is forher to choose," he added softly. "This side or that!"
"How?"
"If she takes me, Fayle may go hang, or cross the water, or as youplease, so that he go far enough. But if she will have him----"
"Well?" Hunt said; for Eubank paused, squinting horribly.
"She will marry him there!" the apothecary answered, pointing to thegibbet.
"Ay?"
"I know that he is here," Eubank continued, his voice low, "and hecannot escape me. She has bubbled the soldiers; they do not know him.And for aught I know he goes out and in, and no one is the wiser. Andthe game may be played as long as you please. But from to-day I amthere."
"You!" Hunt cried.
"To be sure," Eubank answered, letting his ill-concealed triumph appear."At the farm. I am the officer. Ah, would you? Mr. Hunt, back! Back, orI fire."
The smuggler, on the impulse of the moment, had gone near to strikinghim down; in face of the pistol and common-sense he lowered his hand,cursed him, and bade him keep his distance for the cur he was; and sowith the width of the track between them the two rod
e on, like dogsill-coupled, Eubank keeping a squinting watch on Hunt's movements, Huntwith his face hard set, and a gleam of fear in his eyes.
A little later he spied his daughter waiting and watching for him, onthe dyke near the farm--a lissom, graceful figure, with wind-blown hairand skirts, visible half a mile away. Possibly he wished then that hehad struck hard and once while the man and he were alone on the Marsh.But it was too late. She was there, and in a moment the meeting so longand tenderly anticipated was over, and the girl, gently disengagingherself with wet cheeks from his arms, turned to his companion.
"You may go, Mr. Eubank," she said austerely. "We do not need you. Myfather is at home now."
But the apothecary, cringing and smiling, faltered that he was--that hewas coming to the house.
The words were barely audible, for his courage, not his malice, failedhim under her eyes. At any rate she did not understand. "To our house?"she said.
"Yes," he answered, mouthing nervously, and looking his meanest, in hisvain endeavour to appear at ease.
Still she did not comprehend, and she looked to her father for light."Mr. Eubank is quartered on us," he said grimly.
And then for certain he wished that he had closed with the man whilethey were alone; and had taken the chance of what might follow, pistolor no pistol. For he saw the healthy brown of sun and wind fade from hercheeks, and her grey eyes dilate with sudden terror; and he read inthese signs the perfect confirmation of the misgiving he had begun toentertain. He knew as certainly as if she had told him that Mr. Fayle,of Fawlcourt, was hidden at the farm. And what was worse, that Eubank,if he had eyes, could not fail to know it also.
It was a relief to all three when a soldier sauntered into sight,mooning up the path from the farm, and civilly greeting the owner, saidsomething about drinking his health. No further words passed thenbetween them, but all moved together towards the house, each avoidingthe other's eyes. The threshold reached, there was a momentary pause,the girl looking full at the intruder with a flame of passion in herface, as if she defied him to enter. But Eubank's eyes were lowered, hesaw nothing, and with a smirk, and a poor show of making apology, hewent in.
Hunt thought of force, and weighed the odds in his mind. But fresh fromprison, under the ban of Government, and with a wholesome dread of theMarshalsea, he shrank from the attempt. And matters, once they were inthe house, went so quietly, that he began to fancy that he had beenmistaken. For one thing, the girl sought no private word with him, wasobtrusively public, and once gripped the nettle danger in a way thatstartled him. It was at the evening meal. Eubank, ill at ease andsuspicious, was stealing glances this way and that, his one eye on thesettle that screened the entrance, the other on the staircase door thatled to the upper floor. On a sudden she rose as if she must speak orchoke. "Mr. Eubank," she cried, "you are here to hunt down Mr. Fayle!You think that he is in my room! My room! I read it in your eyes, youcur! You traitor!"
"Hush!" Hunt said in warning. This was no open fight such as he haddared a score of times; and the malice in the man's face frightened him.
"But, I will speak!" she cried, fighting with her passion. "He thinksit, and he shall search! Go--go now I Leave your men here, sir, towatch, and do you see for yourself that he is not there! And then leavethe house!"
He was not at all for going to search, and cringed and muttered anapology; but she would have him, and as good as forced him. Then, whenhe had searched as much as he pleased--and it was little, with herburning eyes watching him from the doorway--she brought him down againand bade him go. "Go!" she cried.
"I never thought that he was there," he said slyly, smiling at thefloor. And of course he did not go, and she could not make him; and thedesperate attempt failed as hopelessly as her father could have told herit would.
The whole position was strange. The tall clock ticked in the corner ofthe great warm panelled kitchen; where the fire shone cosily on delftand pewter, and on the china dogs and Nankin idols that skippers,bringing cargoes of Hollands and Mechlin, had given to the Owler'sdaughter. Through the open window the belated bees could be heard amongthe hollyhocks, and a frugal swallow hawked to and fro for flies. Thequiet that falls on a farm in the evening lay on everything.
But within was a difference. There, to say nothing of the soldiers, who,irritated by Eubank's supervision, hung about the open windows listeningsullenly, the three never ceased to watch and observe one another, readyto spring, ready to fall back at a sign. Of all, perhaps, Hunt was mostmystified. He knew that in the search which had attended his arrest thepremises had been ransacked from roof to cellar; that every locker andhiding-place had been laid open and discovered; and that apart from thisEubank, who had played jackal in many of his adventures, was familiarwith all, even the most secret. Where, then, was Fayle?
He learned only too soon. When it came to closing time, "Your woman isnot in," said one of the soldiers; and he looked at the girl.
"Woman?" said Eubank, with meaning; "I have seen no woman."
"She was here at midday," the man answered, without suspicion.
Perhaps the girl had been expecting it, for she did not blench, thoughEubank's eyes were on her face. "Then leave the door on the latch," shesaid; and she added, with fine contempt, "If a wench has a lover youneed not tell the town!"
She went upstairs with that, and Hunt, who was tired and mystified andin a poor humour--things at home promising to turn out as ill as mattersabroad, went to his den off the kitchen and shut himself in to sulk. Forthe use of Eubank and the soldiers two pallets had been laid in a roomon the farther side of the kitchen if they chose to use them; but withthe door on the latch Hunt had a shrewd suspicion that they would sit upand watch. They soon fell silent, however, and though the remembrance ofthe events which had happened since he last lay there kept him longwaking, and in miserable mood, he heard neither voices nor movements.For himself he was sick at heart thinking of the girl and her lover, andfurious at the treachery of the hound who pursued her. Nevertheless,Nature would have its way, and he was in the act of sinking into slumberwhen a cry which pierced the night and was followed by a discord ofvoices, raised in sharp contention, brought him startled to his feet.
He had little doubt that Eubank and his men had seized Fayle in the actof entering the house; and enraged, yet bitterly aware of his impotence,he huddled on some clothes, and in a twinkling was out of his room. Butin the kitchen, of which the outer door stood wide open to the night,was only Eubank; who, without his wig, and with a pistol poised in hisuncertain hand, had entrenched himself in the angle between the settleand the hearth. The smuggler, seeing no one else, vented his wrath onhim.
"You dog!" he cried. "Are honest men to be kept awake by such as you?What does this mean?"
"It means that we have got your fine son-in-law!" the other retortedwith venom. "And we are going to keep him. So your distance, if youplease. I know you of old, and if you come within a yard of me I willput a ball into you. Now mark that!"
"You have got him?" said Hunt, restraining himself with difficulty."Where?"
"They are bringing him," Eubank answered. "You will see him soonenough." And then, as one of the soldiers appeared in the doorway, "Haveyou got him?" the apothecary cried eagerly.
"Ay, ay," the man said.
"But where is he?"
"Hughes and Lort are bringing him."
"Are they enough?" Eubank cried anxiously.
"Plenty," the soldier answered with some scorn. "He made no fight."
"I'll lay you caught him under her window?" Eubank returned, licking hislips.
The man nodded; then stood twiddling his cap, and looking ashamed ofhimself. For Kate Hunt had just appeared at the open staircase door,and thence, raised a step above the floor, with a hand on each post, wastaking in the scene.
Eubank--who did not see her--chuckled. "I thought so," he said, with anevil grin; and between his bald head and his vile triumph he looked asugly as sin itself. "I knew he would be there. She did not deceive me,with h
er door on the latch!"
Pistol, or no pistol, Hunt nearly fell upon him. The owler onlyrefrained because he became aware of his daughter's presence, and to hisgreat bewilderment read in her face not horror or misery, but a strangepassionate relief. He turned from her--they were bringing in theprisoner. It was no surprise to him when Eubank, with a howl ofconsternation, stepped back almost into the fire. "You fools!" theapothecary cried, all his malignity appearing in his face, "that is notthe man! That is not----"
"Mr. Fayle?" said the prisoner coolly. "No, it is not. And yet, Mr.Eubank, I think you know me. Or, you should know me. You have seen meoften enough."
The apothecary stared, started, drew a deep breath of relief, and washimself again. "Yes, I know you--Mr. Birkenhead," he said. "I have lostFayle, but I have won a thousand guineas. Lads!" he continued, raisinghis voice almost to a scream, "we have shot at the pigeon and killedthe crow! We have killed the crow! It is Birkenhead, the Post--theJacobite Post! And there is a thousand guineas on his head!"
Hunt gathered himself together. "Mr. Birkenhead," he said, "we are twoto four, but say the word, and----"
"I'll say a word for you presently," the Jacobite answered with a quicklook of acknowledgment, "where we are going. But first, to show Mr.Eubank that he is more lucky than he thinks, and has caught his pigeonas well as his crow. Fayle," he continued, raising his voice, "come in!"
A gawky, long-limbed woman stalked in, smiling grimly at Eubank, butwith the tail of his eye on the girl in the doorway. Eubank drew back,and the colour faded from his cheeks. He breathed hard, and the pistolin his hand wavered. "Look here," he began. "Let us talk about this."
But the Jacobite raised his hand for silence. "Dewhurst!" he cried.
A tall, swarthy seaman, with a scarred cheek and a knitted nightcap,stepped briskly in, a cutlass in his hand.
"Fawcus!"
Another entered, who but for the scar might have been his twin.
"Bonaventure! And Mr. Eubank," Birkenhead continued, lowering his voiceand speaking with treacherous civility, "let me warn you not to be toofree with that pistol, for these good fellows will assuredly put you onthe fire if any one is hurt. Is Bonaventure there? Yes. Moyreau? Yes.Valentin? I am sure that you understand me, Mr. Eubank. You will becareful."
But the warning was needless. As man after man filed in and formed upbefore him--all armed to the teeth, and all wild, reckless fellows insea-boots, nightcaps, and tarry jerkins--Eubank's craven heart meltedwithin him. Setting his pistol down on the settle, he stood speechless,sallow, shaking with fear, such fear as almost stays the heart, yetleaves the brain working--leaves the man created in God's image to bedragged out to his death, writhing and shrieking--a sight to haunt bravemen's memories.
He was spared that, yet came near to it. "Mr. Eubank," said Birkenheadsternly, "you will come with me. I have a sloop at the oldlanding-place, and before daylight we shall be in Calais roads. There isa cell in the Bastille waiting for you, and I shall see you in it. I'llhold you a hostage for Bernardi."
The wretch shrieked and fell on his knees and grovelled, crying formercy; but Birkenhead only answered, "Get up, man, get up; or must mymen prick you?" And then to the others, "Mr. Hunt," he continued, "youtoo must come with us. But have no fear. Believe me you will be betterthere than here, and shall be well reported. Mr. Fayle and your daughterwill come, of course. Tie the others and leave them. And hurry, men,hurry. Bring your money, Mr. Hunt; King James has none too much of that.I can give you ten minutes to pack, and then we must be moving lest theytake the alarm in Romney."
As a fact they took no alarm in Romney. But a shepherd, belated thatnight with a sick ewe, saw a long line of lanthorns go bobbing acrossthe marsh to the sea, and went home and told his neighbours that Huntwas at his old tricks again. One of them, knowing that the soldiers werethere, laughed in his face and went to see, and learning the truthcarried the story into Romney, whence it spread to London and broughtdown a mob of horse and foot and messengers, and from one end of Englandto the other the descent and the audacity of it were a nine days'wonder. However, by that time the nest was cold and the birds longflown, and Birkenhead, with one more plume in his crest, was preeninghis feathers at St. Germains.
In Kings' Byways Page 6