The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER I.

  THE MAKING OF A SOLDIER.

  Though more crests are blazoned nowadays than there are minutes inwhich the heralds may count them, yet old families still live, withroots deep down in rural England's soil, and nourish in quiet legendswhich, when they come to notice, are the fairest flowers in the gardenof English folk-lore.

  Such a tale the Tambows of Shropshire can tell. Once, it is dimlyunderstood, the narrative was written out, and even printed from typesin Caxton's own press. If this be true, the book has long been lost.But the story is worth keeping.

  Dickon looked at this time to be well on in his teens. He was so talland stout a lad that grown men spoke to him, now and again, as to oneof themselves. Just what his age might be, however, it lay beyondmortal power to discover. His mother was long since dead. His nativehamlet had been wiped by fire and sword from the face of the earth.

  His father could remember nothing more of Dickon's birth than that itwas either just before the Battle of Bloreheath in Stafford, or soonafter the fierce fight at Mortimer's Cross in Hereford. The one wouldmake him sixteen years old, the other scarcely more than fourteen.Whether it was sixteen or fourteen no living soul in England cared.

  There was as yet no other name for him than Dickon--that is to say, anysecurely fastened name. He had been called Smithson, and even Smith, byword of mouth among strangers. But the rough men close at hand commonlyhailed him with oaths, which pointed to no surname whatever. Indeed,surnames were matters strictly for his betters--for gentlefolk, or atthe least for thrifty yeomen with a dozen cows or fourscore sheep on awalk.

  There could never have been a thought, therefore, in Dickon's head asto what name was likest to stick to him, since of all unlabelled hindsin Salop surely he was the lowliest.

  Thought, in truth, is an over-fine word for aught that went forward inDickon's brain. He knew only some few things more clearly than did thehorses and dogs about him.

  He did know, first of all, that his grim master, who lived up in thecastle just above, was named Sir Watty Curdle, and that the castleitself was Egswith. That he was Sir Watty's man was by far the mostimportant thing there was for him to know; and that it might be keptalways fresh before his eyes and patent to all others, this lord'sdevice of two running hares, back to back, one turned upside down, wassewed upon the breast of Dickon's leather jerkin.

  Dickon had more reasons for holding his master to be a foul ruffian androbber than the dumb brutes in stable and kennel could have possessed,though doubtless they, too, were of the same opinion. He knew,furthermore, that the king was a tall and fine young man, because hehad seen him after Tewksbury. He knew that the Lady Curdle came fromCheshire, which was reputed to lie northward.

  He knew that all men-at-arms who wore three stags' heads on theirjackets were his natural enemies; and that it was thought better to bea soldier than the son of a smith. Sometimes he thought that it must bebetter to be dead than either.

  Dickon's belongings were all on his back. He owned a thick shirt ofrough woollen, which had been his share of the spoil of a Yorkistarcher, slain the year before in a fray on Craven highroad. Formerlythe lad had been harassed by dreams that the dead man, all shiveringand frosted over, had come back for his shirt, but these dreams werepast long since, and he wore the shirt now like a second skin, sowholly did it seem a part of him.

  Over this shirt was drawn his leather tunic, which was becoming tootight. Under this were fastened with cowhide thongs the points of hisold leathern hose, also strained now almost to bursting. His shoes wererude and worn contrivances of leather, bound on over ankle and instepwith cords. His neck and tangled shock of yellow hair were hidden undera caped hood of coarse brown cloth.

  In these garments he toiled miserably by day; in them he slept in hiscold corner of the smithy floor by night. By night and day the solitaryaspiration of his mind was for the time when he might escape hisfathers curses and beatings, and bear a spear among the men-at-arms.

  This chance came to him suddenly, on a December day, when the air overthe Marches was so thick and gray and cold that men desired to fight,if only to keep their blood from chilling within them. Out of thischance proceeded strange things, the legend of which has lived thesehundreds of years in Salop.

  Sir Watty Curdle did what he dared toward being a law to himself. Inthe fastness of the Welsh mountains, just back of his domain, therewere always whisperings of new Lancastrian plots and bold adventures.These drifted to Egswith Castle, on its steep, ugly crag, and made anatmosphere of treason there which hung over the Marches like a fog.

  That Sir Watty had a rushlight's choice between King Edward and QueenMargaret no one ever believed. If it had suited his ends he would aseasily have been the king's man. But since the hated Stanleys werecheek by jowl with the king, there could be nothing for Sir Watty butthe other side.

  Besides, he had grievances. That is to say, other gentlemen in thecountryside had houses and fair daughters and plate and fat cattle.These things rankled in Sir Watty's mind.

  Sir Watty rose on this December morning with his head clear from amonth's carouse, with his muscles itching for sharp work, and with theeager sniff of rapine in his nostrils.

  Word that sport was afoot ran presently about through the galleries andyards and clustering outer hovels within the high-perched walls ofEgswith. Rough, brawny men forthwith dragged out haubergeons andsallets, and leathern jackets stuffed with wool, and smiled grimly overthem and put them on.

  Two troopers in sleeveless coats of plate mail, and heavy greaves andboots, came clanking down the jagged hill-path. They routed with loudhalloos the threescore people who dwelt in the foul and toppling hutshuddled at the foot of the crag, under the shadow of gray Egswith.

  "Ho! Ho-o!" they bawled. "Out with you--out! out! Your lord ridesto-day!"

  A bustling crowd arose on the instant. Strong men swarmed in the open.Some were sent into the fields with horns to summon yokels who weregrubbing among the roots. Others haled forth armor and saddle-gear, andbows and spears, and shouted joyous quips from group to group.

  Dull-browed women, with backs bent like beasts of burden, brought foodand hoods and such tackle at command, in sulky silence. Half-cladchildren hung about the doorways, gazing wonderingly. From the castlegates some horses were being led out; and about the high walls rang theshrill blare of trumpet-calls.

  The two troopers, after setting all in motion outside, clanked theirway into the smithy, and the black one, Morgan, he with a brutish face,seamed and gashed with red scars,--where only one eye remained to glarein rude arrogance,--kicked the door open, and cried out as he did so:

  "Are you dead here, then? What are your ears for, fools? And no fire!"

  Dickon crossed the floor of the smithy, and stood before the intruders.

  "The old man will light fires no more," he said, with doggedindifference, pointing a sidelong thumb to the bundle of straw at thetail of the forge, beneath the bellows.

  There, flat on his back, lay the smith, with wide-open, staring eyes,and a face of greenish-brazen hue; his huge grizzled beard spreadstiffly outward like the bristling collar of some unclean giantvulture.

  "He was ever a surly swine," Morgan growled. "Even as we need him most,he fails us thus!"

  Dickon offered no opinion upon this. "It fell on him in the night," hesaid.

  Morgan leant over as far as his iron casings permitted, to note whatshare of breath remained in the smith's body. Then he rose, and lookedthe lad from top to toe with his sullen single eye.

  "Get you into his foot-gear, then, and follow on," he snarled curtly.

  Then for the first time the other man-at-arms spoke. He was a huge,reddish warrior, with the shoulders of an ox, and a face which flamedforth from out the casings of his head-piece like a setting winter sun.

  "Were it not better to leave him?" this Rawly asked. "If he chance toget his head broken, how will Sir Watty make shift for a smith?"

  Morgan sneered this down. "The lout hath not the w
it for the tenth partof a smith," he said. "Between this and Bromfield there are a dozen ofthe craft to be had at the bare mention of a halter."

  Thus it was that a soldier's life opened before Dickon.

  He made haste to don his father's sleeveless chain coat and sallet.Then, choosing a crossbow and sheaf of quarrels for himself, hegathered such other weapons as the smithy held, and carried them outinto the open. Now the troop was forming, and the start close at hand.

  The lad had seen many of these rallies for a raid; but this one,wherein he was to have part, had a new glory in his eyes. He rubbedshoulders with the men who were making ready against the ride. With theboldness of an equal he bore a hand to help them fit the armor to theirbacks. There was none to make him afraid. When a knavish hobler offeredto force his cross-bow from him in exchange for a rusty pole-axe,Dickon smote him on the head with a full man's might and heart, andkept his weapon.

  "SIR WATTY CAME STALKING DOWN."]

  At last Sir Watty came stalking down the broken, winding path, with hischestnut stallion led prancing from rock to rock at his heels. Behindhim came a score of men-at-arms, and then still other horses at halter.

  The knight stopped on the boulder at the foot of the hill, that two menmight lift him to the saddle. As he moved forward there arose a great,joyful shout and clanking bustle of men mounting to follow. Dickon wasof the sorrier sort who must run on their own legs; but no man onarmored steed was prouder than he.

  Sir Watty sat with alert, poised lightness in his stirrups, as if thebrigandines which cased him from nape to ankle had been of lineninstead of close-set, burnished metal plates overlapping one the otherlike a fish's scales and planned with cunning joints. Gilt nailsstudded the angles of this glittering suit, and the body of it wascovered with green velvet, with the two hares of Curdle wrought in goldupon the breast.

  Unlike the lesser riders, he wore bascinet and gorget on head and neck,with light pauldrons, velvet-clad and shaped like eagles' talons,running out to his shoulders over the scaled mail.

  There were unnumbered tales as to how Sir Watty had come by thisprincely harness, all of a likeness in that they imputed its possessionto plunder. One might well credit this on looking at the man's face ashe rode with lifted visor--the curved, bony, beak-like nose, thestone-gray eyes, the thin, brief line of lips twisted tighttogether--all as relentless and shrewd and cruel as something born ofsnake or hawk.

  Clustering at his back rode thirty men-at-arms, no other knight amongthem. There were unfrocked monks, loose, wandering troopers, murderers,revolted townsmen and mere generic ruffians from anywhere on the faceof the earth, all gathered to Egswith by the magnet of its lawlessfame, and all risking life and facing punishment here and hereafterwith Sir Watty because they knew him for a master knave and robber.

  These wore ill-assorted armor, the random product of years ofraiding--some nearly covered with iron, others with no more than arusted haubergeon and battered sallet. Of weapons, too, there was asmongrel a show. Some bore hagbuts, or hand-guns, to be fired withpowder, and had leather bags full of stone bullets hanging at theirsaddles. Among the others were crossbows with wyndacs and without,lances, bills, long and short pole-axes, and even spiked clubs of iron.

  Dickon joined the score of footmen who turned into the road as thecavalcade filed by.

  For a little these all trudged behind the horses, bearing their lightercuirasses and caps and their long or cross-bows with easy spirits. Itwas a morning made for walking, with black frost holding the ground sostiff that it rang like stone under the clattering hoofs ahead. A sharpair tweaked nostrils and ears, and made the blood glow even in churlishveins.

  It was to the footmen nothing short of delight to stride onward thus,with a captain in front who feared naught, and on one's shoulder aweapon of death.

  Later in the day, when their course lay over a rough moorland stretchwhere bleak winds whistled, and hunger began to gnaw upon fatigue, theadventure became less joyful. Still Dickon pressed forward upon thefreshest hoof-marks, gay of heart. Others, who carried more years and astaler fancy, began to lag. Then an interesting thing happened.

  At a word from Morgan, huge Rawly and a dozen others wheeled out fromthe troop and, halting at the side of the highway in waiting till thefootmen had passed, drew close in behind them.

  To make the meaning of this more clear, some of these horsemenpleasantly pricked their spear-points into the weariest of thosewalking before them. Thereafter the whole body moved on more swiftly.

  None of the peasants knew whither the expedition was proceeding. Forthe first few leagues, journeying down the valley of the little streamwhich rose back of Egswith, they had seen at a distance more than onefrowning castle. But they had come near to no human habitation. Thenhad ensued the arduous march across the moor, with no sign of castle orroof-tree.

  But now, some hours after high noon, they were advancing upon abetter-ordered country, with smooth roads and farm-lands. The mountainson the right were farther away now, and hung pale blue upon theconfines of the gray sky. There were farm-houses in view, and thesewere of a larger and more prosperous aspect than Dickon had seenbefore. The husbandmen seemed to have small appetite for fighting, too,for they could be discerned presently fleeing with their women,children, and cattle across their fields to woodland shelter.

  The spectacle of people making their escape before his approach was newto Dickon. He swelled out his chest to a greater girth because of it,and forgot the heated aching of his feet.

  Sir Watty permitted the men to enter and ransack one of thesefarm-places. No living soul was to be discovered, but of food there wasplenty. Some of the older and wiser troopers knew where to look forgear of less transient moment. But the spoil was not of importance.

  Soon they were all pressing on again, along the highroad traversingthis peaceful and fertile plain. By and by an old archer who trudged byDickon's side halted in surprise, and as he stepped forward againgrowled out in perplexed disquiet:--

  "Nay--aught but that, Sir Waddy, aught but that!"

  Dickon, looking ahead, noted that his lord, after a moment's parley,had turned his course to the left, and was leading the party into anarrow lane.

  Some of the hoblers, mounted on their light nags, were sent flying offacross fields still more to the left, and Morgan came galloping back tothe rear of the column. When he had muttered some charge to Rawly andthen set back again to join his chief, it became known that Rawly withhis handful of horse and all the footmen were to continue on thehighroad.

  The lad would never have thought out what this division of forcessignified, but the old archer, little by little, and more to hear hisown voice than from kindness to the boy, informed his mind. The companyhad been split in twain because the quarry was near at hand, and mustneeds be surrounded.

  This was good soldiery, but in the present case it would be useless.Sir Watty and every mother's son with him would be slain--the footmenas well as the rest. Of this there could be no tittle of doubt, thearcher cheeringly insisted. He was a native of these parts, and knewthe evil repute of the stronghold they were about to attack. Not aman-jack of them would ever find himself back upon this blessedhighroad again! Of that he made certain.

  Dickon listened to these astounding tidings without any very near senseof fear. To look Death in the eye seemed not an unnatural thing, nowthat he was a soldier and wore an iron jacket. But his blood chilledwithin him when he heard the answer to his idle query.

  "Is it bigger then than Egswith?" he had asked.

  The gray old archer, stealing an apprehensive glance about him, andwhispering sidelong, replied:--

  "There are no walls--that eye can see. But inside is a sorcerer whofights with magic fires, and can on the instant raise up battlements ofpoisoned adders and scorpions, and blow upon us with a wind so deadlythat at its touch our flesh will melt from our bones. If yon men wistwhither Sir Waddy led them, they would fall upon him first and tear himlimb from limb."