Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  “Take him away,” he said, straightening himself and carefully suppressing all signs of irritation. “Take him to the edge of yonder forest, corporal, and deal with him there. 'Tis a warning which some of our wood-cutting rascals stand somewhat peremptorily in need of.”

  “Clearly the fellow was either mad or drunk, and in either case to delay further to examine him were but to waste our time to no purpose,” he observed to his subordinate, as they sauntered back together towards one of the sheds. They paused for a minute before entering it, to glance at the group of soldiers, who were beginning to move in the direction of the forest, their prisoner in their midst, and their calivers gleaming suggestively. Turning suddenly with a confiding gesture to his companion and laying his hand lightly for an instant upon the younger man's shoulder, Fenwick said, with that charm which, when he chose to exert it, few could exert better, and very few had ever been known to resist:

  “Faith,. Davison, I can see that you — being new to this miserable country — regard our methods of justice as savouring just a little of the arbitrary! Nay, man, trouble not yourself to deny it,” he added with a smile. “I was reflecting how that 'tis often the better or at any rate the less brutish qualities of our enemies from which we draw our largest profit, and that 'twas a fair alms for us overtaxed commanders that these rascals possess, unlike our own churls, a singular sort of sensitiveness of body, which makes death to them a very much more terrible matter if only it comes in some new and unlooked-for guise. 'Twas Sir Nicholas who first perceived this truth and has in consequence given orders that all prisoners taken in his district within the next two months be shot and not hanged. He upholds that it is the noise and general blusterousness of the method which so scares them; not alone the man about to be shot himself, but — what is of far more profit — those of his own sort and breeding, who are forced to stand by and look on.”

  The corporal to whom this experiment in the art of punishment had been confided — no other than the famous grumbler, Tom Gallop, recently promoted to that rank — having loosed his prisoner's bonds, was meanwhile hurrying him along to the edge of the forest, which had now retreated nearly a mile from the line of wooden sheds. They had already crossed more than half the cleared space and were getting close to where the woodcutters were at work, when they were met by a troop of horsemen, advancing rapidly from the opposite direction. At their head rode a young man in the dress of an officer, who checked his horse for a moment and turned to look at the party of soldiers hurrying along, with the grey-headed prisoner in their midst.

  It was Hugh Gaynard, who was returning from an expedition in search of forage. With a vague feeling that the face of this young officer who had reined in his horse near him was somehow familiar, Maelcho looked up, blinking his eyes and trying to remember when or where he could ever have seen it. Suddenly, a flash of recognition flew across his mind, bringing back to his face for a moment the old, friendly look of the seanchaí. Then Hugh Gaynard recognised him, recognised the look, that is to say, for he would not in the least have recognised the man himself. He started and seemed to be upon the point of addressing him, but apparently changed his mind. Having beckoned over the corporal, spoke to him for a moment in a tone of authority, then, putting spurs to his horse, he rode hastily on in the direction of the camp.

  Corporal Gallop marched on again with an air of exasperation.

  “The Captain is as like to respite a condemned rebel as I am to spare my dinner, when it gets amongst my back teeth,” he muttered to the soldier nearest him.

  In spite of this grumbling, he was quite aware that he would have to do as he was told, for Hugh Gaynard's position was a very different one now from what it was when we last followed his fortunes. Every month since then had seen him rising steadily in his superior's favour; every month had seen him gaining standing and reputation as a capable, painstaking officer. His intimacy with Fenwick was as close as ever, with a good deal closer flavour of equality about it. With Fenwick at his back and Sir Nicholas Malby behind Fenwick again, there was very little fear but that his fortunes would rise quite as rapidly and to quite as imposing a height as his best friends could desire. So rapidly, in fact, had both young men been advancing of late, that it needs no very great courage to predict that, not alone would Sir Henry Fenwick, but in all probability Sir Hugh Gaynard also, would be serving the Queen before a great many more years had passed over their heads.

  Chapter XLXII.

  From this point the forest was still a forest and went sweeping joyously away, in one great unbroken billow of greenery. Blue smoke curled against the yellowing trees; the steady “chip, chop, chip” of the axes rose in an even rhythm; the bare limbs and multitudinous rags of the woodcutters bending over their work; the soldiers in their stained red and blue uniforms, strutting about or collected in knots over the ground; the cleared space in front; the still unconquered kingdom of trees stretching away behind. The little boy, the “Dicky Dimmock”, was at that moment playing about in the middle of a great heap of chips and looking remarkably at his ease in an extraordinary little garment, all blue at the back and red in the front, made up of stray scraps of military cloth, which Gregory Gibbs' own clumsy fingers had contrived to sew together for him.

  Seeing this new body of soldiers arrive with their prisoner, he deserted the wood-chips and went a little nearer, in order to see what they were going to do with him. Hugh Gaynard having given directions that the culprit was not to be executed at once, Corporal Gallop had him secured upon his arrival to one of the fallen trees, multitudes of which were lying about over the ground. There were so many soldiers present, and the prisoner himself seemed so little disposed to try to escape, that it did not seem worth while to tie him up very tightly again. He was merely secured with a rope about his waist and another round his neck, the ends of which were attached to the fallen tree, and he was left by himself, while the soldiers strolled away to join their fellows.

  Maelcho sat upon his log, looking vaguely about him, his fingers straying backwards and forwards over the little bosses and unevenness of the bark upon which they rested. That strange clearness and sense of unwonted intelligence, which the prick of the bill had produced upon his mind, had by this time faded away, but he still felt light and happy, free of all that weight of gloom and of those black thronging shadows, which for years had so haunted him. An odd mixture of buoyancy and drowsiness seemed to have taken possession of his frame. He felt tired and a good deal older than he had ever done before, yet at the same time quite comfortable and even elated, as though he were in some unusually happy dream. By moments, he remembered quite clearly all that had lately taken place; then these newer scenes and impressions would melt away, and other and older ones come in their room. Little incidents of the past two years kept appearing for a moment before his eyes, and then vanishing again. A violent snowstorm which had assailed him and others in the wood of Kilquegg rose for a moment vividly. He recognised the drowned look of the forest, with its tufts of prickly gorse and other undergrowths, all roofed over with snow, and the crowd of shivering creatures trying to shelter amongst them. His eyes seemed actually able to follow the descent of the white feathery particles, circling, circling down from above, so soft looking and so cruel. Suddenly, this picture was crossed by another picture, that of a rush of armed men sweeping back into camp, from some deed of prowess. The next moment, the snow and the crowd of shivering figures, and the armed men had all alike disappeared and he was back again upon the fallen log, with the mild autumn sunshine filling the space in front of him, across which a crowd of gnats were weaving an elaborate zigzag pattern. A bee came bustling by, and this set him thinking for a moment of Brother Michael Galbraith. He watched it, examining carefully every bit of a belated spray of harebell, bell by bell with the utmost regularity, until, happening to blunder against one of his own ropes, it suddenly rose in the air and went off with an indignant buzz.

  Meanwhile, the “Dicky Dimmock” had been drawing gradually nea
rer, peeping out at the prisoner, first from behind one tree stump, and then another, until now he was quite close to where he sat. Here he remained for some minutes, one small pink foot curled over the other, peering at him, with his head on one side, and his eyes cocked, in the attitude of a contemplative robin redbreast. He began to sidle along the fallen tree, a little nearer, and a little nearer yet, till he was within touching distance of him.

  Gregory Gibbs — his legs still very far apart and his hands upon the stock of his gun — stood watching these proceedings, with a slightly jealous expression upon his face. Presently he saw that the “Dicky Dimmock,” not content with patting and stroking the prisoner, had actually clambered up on to his knees and, leaning against his shoulder, was talking rapidly to him in his own tongue; doubtless retailing the various incidents that had befallen him since he came under his present illustrious protectorship.

  To these confidences the grey-headed culprit listened silently, looking at the child from time to time with a friendly, but rather a puzzled expression, and then over his head, as though he were trying to see something that was a long way off. Gregory Gibbs felt rather drawn himself towards this big elderly-looking man, who seemed he thought harmless enough, and would have liked to have shown him some little signs of friendliness. He had a feeling however that it would be improper to do so, and that it was unsoldierly and even disloyal to take any notice of rebels and suchlike enemies of the Queen. Accordingly, he remained where he was, stretching out first one long leg and then another; clearing his throat at intervals and bringing the butt of his gun down with a clanking noise upon the ground, by way of proving to himself that he really was doing something.

  An hour passed thus. The sun was beginning to get low. Dull violet shadows were mingling with the pink veil, across which the gnats still fluttered in a gauzy dance. Some wood-pigeons passed overhead; a company of rooks, disturbed by the latest clearance, were circling noisily about over the tree tops, while from far away, somewhere to the south-east, came the thin, long-drawn whistle of a curlew.

  The soldiers who had come with Corporal Gallop were getting thoroughly put out by this long delay. The woodcutting was over for the day, and the woodcutters were beginning to disperse, so that the example, for the benefit of which the prisoner had been brought so far, would be lost. The other soldiers, who had been on guard since the morning, were now free and were beginning to collect their weapons and preparing to march back to camp, jeering at those who were forced to remain behind. It was all the more vexatious because there happened to be a reason, a very particular reason, why everybody wanted to be back in camp in exceptionally good time that day.

  Corporal Gallop swore ugly oaths under his breath, glancing ferociously at the prisoner, as though he were responsible for the delay. All the soldiers fidgeted and grumbled; the only perfectly placid person present being the condemned man himself. He remained sitting as before, upon his fallen tree, with the small boy perched upon his knees; sometimes listening to his prattle, sometimes looking over his head at the trees or examining the long line of stumps, which stretched away between him and the camp he had been brought from. He was still looking about him in this dreamy fashion, when another soldier came hastily towards them from the same direction and went up to the Corporal, who thereupon sprang up at once, with an air of alacrity.

  “Ha! ha! What said I? So much for Master Meddler! Pall to, men, and get the job done. Bustle, I say!”

  The soldiers did as they were told, but not with any special signs of alacrity, despite their avowed eagerness to get quickly back to camp. They collected their weapons and, having advanced to the log, made the prisoner get up and marched him before them to the nearest of the still uncut trees, which happened to stand a little apart from the rest. Here a consultation arose as to whether it was necessary to tie him up to it, but as he continued to be perfectly passive in their hands and appeared ready to remain in any position they chose to put him into, it was decided that it was not worth while. Having placed him with his back against the trunk, they walked away about a dozen yards, in order to take up their own position. Just as they were reaching it, the small boy — who had been staring for some minutes at these proceedings, with eyes which seemed to be getting rounder and rounder — suddenly uttered a loud yelp of dismay and, taking to his heels, shot away like a scared rabbit, fast as his legs could carry him, in the direction of the camp.

  With the same dreamy air of acquiescence, which had made him all along seem more like a rather uninterested spectator than the principal actor in the drama, Maelcho had got up, had moved forward and now stood leaning against the trunk, exactly in the position in which the soldiers had placed him. When the small boy uttered that yelp of dismay and fled away, he looked after him for a moment and then back at them, as if to ask what it was that had so frightened him. Then, when he had quite disappeared, he looked up at the tree, against the trunk of which he had been placed, with much the same sort of friendly, but rather perplexed expression upon his face.

  Evidently, like the other trees around, it was doomed, and would probably be cut down the first thing in the morning, for a couple of rough notches had been chopped in the bark, a little above the spot against which the prisoner's head rested. It was an unusually large beech, over-swept with a wealth of satiny foliage, which the breeze was at that moment rustling, as it had doubtless rustled it every evening, for the last hundred years at least. The prisoner's thoughts wandered away to other beeches, which had befriended him in times past. Then he looked back at the soldiers, who were blowing upon their matches and otherwise getting their weapons — which were not at all weapons of precision — into order.

  Perhaps it was owing to the long delay; perhaps to the exceptional docility and mildness of the culprit himself — perhaps merely to the softening influences of that mildest of autumn evenings: an unwonted reluctance was legible upon most of the faces opposite, the men's expression betokening a gravity and even a faint touch of awe, not certainly often awakened by such necessarily rough and ready executions.

  Upon Gregory Gibbs' boyish face this expression was especially strongly marked. His cheeks were at one minute red as fire, and the next became oddly spotted and mottled with white, as if rough fingers had been pinching them. After the other soldiers were quite ready, he kept on fidgeting at his weapon; now pulling his match to pieces, now blowing energetically along the barrel; noises which became irritatingly audible in the sort of curious hush and suspense, which overhung the whole proceeding, a hush in which the very forest itself — just then a culprit under sentence of death — seemed to be consciously partaking.

  Suddenly, that hush was broken in upon by a loud ejaculation.

  “Tha bl-a-a-sted saand has got into ma gon! Aa canna blow't oot! No, doom it, aa canna!” Gregory Gibbs exclaimed, shaking his weapon and looking at it with an air of the most praiseworthy indignation.

  “Fall out then; fall out, Gregory Gibbs, and a murrain on you!” exclaimed the Corporal angrily. “Close up, men; close up! One, two, three!”

  A sudden feeling of hurry, a sudden feeling of excitement seemed to take possession of everyone present. Even the passive prisoner appeared to share in this excitement, for he looked up suddenly and, changing from his easy, leaning attitude against the trunk, stood erect and opened his lips, as though he were about to speak. If this were indeed the case, his words remained unspoken or at any rate unheard. A roar from all the calivers opposite broke simultaneously upon the silence. Immediately, a shower of leaves began to fall from the lower branches, fluttering here and thither like a flight of green moths through the air. A veil of smoke filled the space about the base of the tree, so that for several seconds nothing could be seen distinctly. When it had cleared away, the prisoner was seen to be still erect, with his back still against the trunk. Gradually however he began to sink, his arms outstretched before him. There was a momentary quiver of the rounded shoulders, and he suddenly fell forward, his grey head pillowing itself aga
inst the roots of the beech. Two of the bullets had penetrated to his heart.

  “Wheel! March!” Corporal Gallop shouted harshly. The men obeyed and marched rapidly away, two by two, towards the camp, Gregory Gibbs, with a very white face, running after them and taking his place once more within the ranks. For some distance they tramped along thus, two by two; steadily, sulkily. Not a word was spoken; not a man looked at his neighbour or turned his head aside by ever so little to glance at what lay behind him. An air of extreme and unnatural tension seemed to pervade the whole party, as if everybody was thinking of something, of which no one spoke. Gradually, this sort of tension and air of constraint began to wear away, as they got further and further from the scene of their late proceedings; their own rapid movements helping to disperse it. About a quarter of an hour before they reached the camp, a loud burst of shouting, accompanied with cheers and clapping of hands, was heard proceeding from one of the nearest of the wooden sheds. At that sound, the downcast faces all brightened perceptibly, and a look of alacrity came into every soldier's eye. This was the reason they had all been in such a desperate hurry to get back early that afternoon. “The Green Dragon of London,” which had been expected for more than a month back, had arrived in Waterford harbour three days before, with fresh supplies of all sorts, and some of its contents had been forwarded to the camp that very day. For the present therefore, and for some little time to come, there would be “meath and dring” enough for everybody, and to spare.

  Part 2

  “The Charming of Estercel” by Grace Little Rhys