The Yeoman Adventurer

by George W. Gough

  The Yeoman Adventurer

  By George Gough

  To

  A. D. Steel-Maitland, M.P.

  In Gratitude and Admiration

  CONTENTS

  I. THE GREAT JACK

  II. THE SERGEANT OF DRAGOONS

  III. MISTRESS MARGARET WAYNFLETE

  IV. OUR JOURNEY COMMENCES

  V. THE ANCIENT HIGH HOUSE

  VI. MY LORD BROCTON

  VII. THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL

  VIII. THE CONJURER'S CAP

  IX. MY CAREER AS A HIGHWAYMAN

  X. SULTAN

  XI. IN WHICH I SLIP

  XII. THE GUEST-ROOM OF THE "RISING SUN"

  XIII. PHARAOH'S KINE

  XIV. "WAR HAS ITS RISKS"

  XV. IN THE MOORLANDS

  XVI. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE

  XVII. MY NEW HAT

  XVIII. THE DOUBLE SIX

  XIX. WHAT CAME OF FOPPERY

  XX. THE COUNCIL AT DERBY

  XXI. MASTER FREAKE KNOWS AT LAST

  XXII. A BROTHER OF THE LAMP

  XXIII. DONALD

  XXIV. MY LORD BROCTON PILES UP HIS ACCOUNT

  XXV. I SETTLE MY ACCOUNT WITH MY LORD BROCTON

  XXVI. THE WAY OF A MAID WITH A MAN

  EPILOGUE: THE LITTLE JACK

  CHAPTER I

  THE GREAT JACK

  Our Kate, Joe Braggs, and I all had a hand in the beginning, and as greatresults grew in the end out of the small events of that December morning,I will set them down in order.

  It began by my refusing point-blank to take Kate to the vicar's to watchthe soldiers march by. I loved the vicar, the grave, sweet, childless oldman who had been a second father to me since the sad day which made mymother a widow, and but for the soldiers nothing would have been moreagreeable than to spend the afternoon with the old man and his books. Butmy heart would surely have broken had I gone. A caged linnet is a sorryenough sight in a withdrawing-room, but hang the cage on a tree in asunlit garden, with free birds twittering and flitting about it, and youturn dull pain into shattering agony. The vicar's little study, with therows of books he had made me know and love with some small measure of hisown learning and passion, was the perch and seed-bowl of my cage, thethings in it, after my sweet mother and saucy Kate, that made lifepossible, but still part of the cage, and it would have maddened me to hopand twitter there in sight of free men with arms in their hands andcareers in front of them. Jack Dobson would march by, the sweetness oflife for Kate--little dreamed she that I knew it--but for me thebitterness of death. Jack Dobson! I liked Jack, but not clinquant incrimson and gold, with spurs and sword clanking on the hard, frost-bittenroad. I laughed at the idea; Jack Dobson, whom I had fought time and timeagain at school until I could lick him as easily as I could look at him;Jack Dobson, a jolly enough lad, who fought cheerily even when he knew asound thrashing was in store for him, but all his brains were good for wasto stumble through _Arma virumque cano_, and then whisper, "Noll, youcan fire a gun and shoot a man, but how can you sing 'em?" And because histhin, shadowy, grasping father was a man of much outward substance andburgess for the ancient borough, Jack was cornet in my Lord Brocton'snewly raised regiment of dragoons, this day marching with other of theDuke of Cumberland's troops from Lichfield to Stafford. And for me, thepride of old Bloggs for Latin and of all the lads for fighting, the moststirring deed of arms available was shooting rabbits. So, consuminginwardly with thoughts of my hard fate, I refused to go to the vicar's.Mother should go. For her it would be a real treat, and Kate would be thebetter under her quiet, seeing eyes.

  "Well then," said Kate, "grump at home over your beastly Virgil." Mother,who understood as only mothers can, said nothing, and prepared myfavourite dishes for dinner.

  The meal over, and the house-place 'tidied,' which seldom meant more thanthe harassing of a few stray specks of dust, Kate in her best fripperiesand mother in her churchgoing gown started for the vicar's. I stood in theporch and watched them across the cobbled yard and along the road tillthey dropped out of sight beyond the bridge.

  Then Kate's share of these introductory events became manifest. Searchhigh, search low, there was no sign of my dear, dumpy Virgil, in yellowingparchment with red edges. I found Kate's cookery-book, and would haveflung it through the window, but my eye caught the quaint inscription onthe fly-leaf, in her big, pot-hooky handwriting:

  "KATHERINE WHEATMAN, her book, God give her grease to larn to cook.

  At the Hanyards. Jul. 1739."

  The simple words stung me like angry hornets. Our red-headed Kate was noscholar, but at any rate her reading was more useful in our little worldthan mine; for this was where she learned the artistry of the dainties anddevices Jack Dobson and I were so fond of. And if I did not soon learn todo something well, even were it only how to farm my five hundred acres toa profit, Kate's cooking would really require the miraculous aid suggestedin her unintentional and, to me, biting epigram. I put the book down, andgave over the hunt for my Virgil. It would probably be useless in anycase, since Kate had a cunning all her own, and had surely bestowed it farbeyond any searching of mine. I contented myself with a fair reprisal,stowing a stray ribbon of hers in my breeches' pocket, and sat down tosmoke. My pipe would not draw, and I smashed it in trying to make it.

  The tall oak clock tick-tocked on in the house-place, and Jane sang on ather churning in the dairy across the yard. I sat gazing at the fire, whereI could see nothing but Jack Dobson in his martial grandeur, and I hatedhim for his greatness, and despised myself for my pettiness. All the sameit was unendurable, and it was a relief to see Joe Braggs tiptoeingcarefully across the yard dairywards. The rascal should have been patchinga gap in the hedge of Ten-acres, and here he was, foraging for a jug ofale. He could wheedle Jane as easily as he could snare a rabbit, but Iwould scarify him out of his five senses, the hulk.

  The singing stopped, and then the churning, and five minutes later Icrept up to the kitchen door, which was ajar. There was my lord Joe, a jugof ale in hand, his free arm round Jane's neck. How endurable these twofound life at the Hanyards! I caught a fragment of their gossip.

  "Be there such things as rale quanes, Jin?"

  "Of course," she replied. "There's pictures of 'em in one of MasterNoll's books. Crowns on their yeds, too."

  "There's one on 'em down 'tour house, Jin, but she ain't got no crown.But bless thee, wench, I'd sooner kiss thee than look at fifty quanes."

  Jane yelped as I murdered an incipient kiss by knocking the jug out ofhis hand across the kitchen, but in kicking him out of doors I trippedover a bucket of water, and about half a score fine dace flopped miserablyon the wet floor.

  "Dunna carry on a' that'n, Master Noll," said Joe. "I only com' up t'ouseto bring you them daceys."

  "And what the devil do I want with them?" said I angrily.

  Joe knew me. He said, "There's a jack as big as a gate-post in that 'olebetween the reeds along th' 'igh bonk."

  He saw the cock of my eye, and went on: "I saw 'im this mornin', an''eard 'im. 'E made a splosh like a sack o' taters droppin' off the bridge.So I just copped 'e a few daceys, thinkin' as you'd be sure to go after'im."

  "Put them in some fresh water, Joe, and you, Jane, fill him another jug.I'll own up to Mistress Kate for smashing the other."

  I fetched my rod and tackle, picked up the bucket of dace, and set offacross the fields to the river. The bank nearer the house, and about threehundred yards from it, stood from two to six feet above the water, beinglowest where a brick bridge carried the road to the village. The oppositebank was very low, and was fringed in summer with great masses of reedsand bulrushes, now withered down nearly to nothing, but still showing thepocket of deep water where the jack had "sploshed like a s
ack o' taters."It was opposite the highest part of our bank--the Hanyards was bounded bythe river in this direction--and the bridge was about one hundred yardsdown-stream to my left. In a few minutes a fine dace was swimming in thegap as merrily as the tackle would let him.

  For an hour or more I took short turns up and down the bank, just farenough from the edge to keep my cork in view. If the jack was there, hemade no sign, and at length my sportsman's eagerness began to flag, and myeye roamed across the meadows to the church spire, under the shadow ofwhich life as I could never know it was lilting merrily northwards. Here Iwas and here I should remain, like a cabbage, till Death pulled me up bythe roots.

  Worthy Master Walton says that angling is the contemplative man'srecreation, and, having had in these later years much to con over in mymind, I know that he is right. But it is no occupation for a fuming man,and as I marched up and down I forgot all about my cork, till, with ashort laugh that had the tail of a curse in it, I noted that a real gaffwas a silly weapon with which to cut down an imaginary Highlander, andturned again to my angling.

  And at that very moment a thing happened the like of which I had neverseen before, and have not since seen in another ten years of fishing. Myrod was jerked clean off the bank, and careered away down-stream so fastthat I had to run hard to get level with it. Here was work indeed, and atthat joyous moment I would not have changed places with Jack Dobson.Without ado, I jumped into the river, waded out, recovered the butt of myrod, and struck.

  "As big as a gate-post." Joe was right. As I struck, the jack came to thesurface. The great stretch of yellow belly and the monstrous length ofvicious snout made my heart leap for joy. I would rather land him thancommand a regiment. My rod bent to a sickle as I fought him, giving himline and pulling in, again, again, and again. A dozen times I saw theblack bars on his shimmering back as he came at me, evil in his red-rimmedeyes and danger in his cruel teeth, but the stout tackle stood it out.Sweat poured off my forehead though I was up to the waist in ice-coldwater. Inch by inch I fought my way to the bank, and then fought on againto get close to the bridge, where I could scramble out.

  Probably I was half an hour in getting him there, but at last, by givinghim suddenly a dozen yards of loose line to go at, I was able to climb onto the bank and check him before he got across to the stumps of the reeds.But here I met with disaster, for in climbing up I jerked the hook of mygaff out of my collar, where I had put it for safety, and it fell into thestream.

  "Stick to the fish," said some one behind me, "and leave the hook to me."

  "Thanks," said I briefly, for I was scant of breath, and continued thestruggle.

  A woman knelt on the bank, pulled the gaff in with a riding whip, plungeddown a shapely hand and recovered it. Then she stood behind me, watchingthe fight. The jack, big and strong as he was, began to tire, and soon Ihad him making short, sharp spurts in the shallow water at our feet.

  My new ally stood quietly on the bank, holding the gaff ready for theright moment. It came: a deft movement, a good pull together, and thegreat jack curled and bounced on the bank.

  "Over thirty pounds if he's an ounce!" I cried gleefully.

  "Well done, fisherman!" she said. "It was a splendid sight. I've watchedyou all along. When you jumped into the river, I thought you were going todrown yourself. You had been walking up and down in a most desperate anddejected fashion."

  The raillery gave me courage to look into her eyes. I wondered if theywere black, but decided that they were not, since her hair was the colourof wheat when it is ripening for the sickle and the summer sun falls on itat eve. And I, who am six feet in my socks, had hardly to lower my eyes tolook into hers. Her face was beautiful beyond all imagining of mine. I hadconjured up visions of Dido enthralled of Aeneas, of Cleopatra bendingAntony to her whim. But the conscious art of my day-dreams had wrought nosuch marvel as here I saw in very flesh before me. I felt as one whodrinks deep of some rich and rare vintage, and wonders why the gods haveblessed him so. And further, as small things jostle big things in themind, I knew that this was the real queen that had dazzled Joe Braggs.

  "What do you call it?" she said, looking down at the fish.

  "A jack, or pike, madam."

  "'The tyrant of the watery plains,' as Mr. Pope calls him. You've heardof Mr. Pope, the poet?" She spoke as if 'No' was the inevitable answer.

  "Strictly speaking, no, madam," said I gravely, "but I have read hisso-called poems." She frowned. "Horace calls the jack," I continued,"_lupus_, the wolf-fish, as one may say, and a very good name too.Doubtless madam has heard of Horace."

  My quip brought a glint into her eyes and a richer colour to her cheek."Yes, heard of him," she said, with a trace of chagrin in her voice. "Andnow, O Nimrod of the watery plains, how far is it to the village smithy?"

  "Just under a mile, madam."

  "And how long does it take to shoe a horse?"

  "How many shoes, madam?"

  Again the glint in her eyes, and this time I saw some of the blue inthem. "One, sir," she said shortly.

  "Ten to fifteen minutes, madam."

  "He's a very long time," she said under her breath.

  "The smith is probably very busy to-day."

  "Busy! Why so?"

  "The dragoons may have found him much work," said I, merely my way ofexplaining the delay. But the words stabbed her. She laid a hand on my armand cried gaspingly, "Dragoons! What do you mean? Quick!"

  "The Duke of Cumberland is marching north from Lichfield against theStuart, and Lord Brocton's dragoons are in the village."

  "Brocton! O God! Brocton! My father is taken! And by Brocton!" She spokealoud in her agitation, and I saw that she was cut to the quick. And Irejoiced, so strange is the human heart, that it was Lord Brocton's namethat came in anguish off her tongue. Oh for one blow at the man whosefather had harried mine into an untimely grave!

  In sharp, frosty air sound travels far across the meadows of theHanyards. The hills that hem the valley to the west perhaps act as asounding board. Anyhow, further inquiry as to her trouble was stopped bythe rattle of distant hoofs. We were standing now less than a dozen pacesfrom the bridge. A straggling hedge, on a low bank, crossed flush up tothe bridge by a stile, cut the field off from the road. I rushed to thestile, and cautiously pushed my head through near the ground. Half a mileof level road stretched to my right towards the village, and along it, andnow less than six hundred yards away, a squad of dragoons was gallopingtowards us. The hedge was thin and leafless, and there was not coverenough for a rabbit. I ran back. "Dragoons," said I.

  "After me," she replied carelessly, and I saw that danger for herselfleft her cold.

  I kicked the great jack motionless, flung him to the foot of the bankunder the hedge, and the rod after him, hurried her up to the stile,leaped into the water, took her in my arms, and carried her under thebridge. In less than a minute after I stopped wading, the dragoonsclattered overhead.

  Not an hour ago I had been aching for life and adventures, and here Iwas, up to the loins in water, with a goddess in my arms. Her right armwas round my neck, and her cheek so near that I felt her sweet, warmbreath fanning my own. As the sounds died away, I turned and looked at herface, and I had my reward. Her eyes told me that she thanked and trustedme.

  "Well done, fisherman!" she said for the second time.

  "You're heavier than the jack," replied I, hitching her as far from thewater as possible before wading back. A minute later I put her down on thebank with tumbled, yellow hair and face flaming red. I examined hercritically, and cried triumphantly, "Not a stitch wet!"