Furbo. They feed, like Pluto’s palfreys, under ground.
Our pistols, swords, and other furniture,
Are safely locked up at our rendezvous.
— Prince of Prigs’ Revels.
THE hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before incidentally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, was a low, lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and oozy Don, at the eastern extremity of that extensive moor. Ostensibly its owner fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that part of the river; but as the road which skirted his tenement was little frequented, his craft was, for the most part, allowed to sleep undisturbed in her moorings.
In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of smugglers who infested the neighboring coast; his cabin was their rendezvous; and not unfrequently, it was said, the depository of their contraband goods. Conkey Jem — so was he called by his associates, on account of the Slawkenbergian promontory which decorated his countenance — had been an old hand at the same trade; but having returned from a seven years’ leave of absence from his own country, procured by his lawless life, now managed matters with more circumspection and prudence, and had never since been detected in his former illicit traffic; nor, though so marvellously gifted in that particular himself, was he ever known to nose upon any of his accomplices; or, in other words, to betray them. On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all fugitives from justice; and although the sanctity of his walls would, in all probability, have been little regarded, had any one been, detected within them, yet, strange to say, even if a robber had been tracked — as it often chanced — to Jem’s immediate neighborhood, all traces of him were sure to be lost at the ferryman’s hut; and further search was useless.
Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be expected, from its owner’s pursuits and its own unpromising exterior. Consisting of little more than a couple of rooms, the rude whitewashed walls exhibited, in lieu of prints of more pretension, a gallery of choicely-illustrated ballads, celebrating the exploits of various highwaymen, renowned in song, amongst which our friend Dick Turpin figured conspicuously upon his sable steed, Bess being represented by a huge rampant black patch, and Dick, with a pistol considerably longer than the arm that sustained it. Next to this curious collection was a drum-net, a fishing-rod, a landing-net, an eel-spear, and other piscatorial apparatus, with a couple of sculls and a boat-hook, indicative of Jem’s ferryman’s office, suspended by various hooks; the whole blackened and begrimed by peat-smoke, there being no legitimate means of exit permitted to the vapor generated by the turf-covered hearthstone. The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to the front; the back apartment, which served Jem for dormitory, had no aperture whatever for the admission of light, except such as was afforded through the door of communication between the rooms. A few broken rush-bottomed chairs, with a couple of dirty tables, formed the sum total of the ferryman’s furniture.
Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggerated nasal organ, Jem’s aspect was at once savage and repulsive; his lank black hair hung about his inflamed visage in wild elf locks, the animal predominating throughout; his eyes were small, red, and wolfish, and glared suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted eyebrows; while certain of his teeth projected, like the tusks of a boar, from out his coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Dwarfish in stature, and deformed in person, Jem was built for strength; and what with his width of shoulder and shortness of neck, his figure looked as square and as solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute chest, constantly exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing tan, while his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with fur, like a bear’s hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers, presented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of which few would have desired to encounter in action.
It was now on the stroke of midnight; and Jem, who had been lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly aroused by that warning impulse which never fails to awaken one of his calling at the exact moment when they require to be upon the alert, now set about fanning into flame the expiring fuel upon his hearth. Having succeeded in igniting further portions of the turf, Jem proceeded to examine the security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock and bolt were shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he kindled a light at his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. But it was not to retire for the night that the ferryman entered his dormitory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter of empty bottles and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. The latter he rolled aside, and pressing his foot upon the plank beneath it, the board gave way, and a trap-door opening, discovered a ladder, conducting, apparently, into the bowels of the earth. Jem leaned over the abyss, and called in hoarse accents to some one below.
An answer was immediately returned, and a light became soon afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures next ascended; the first who set foot within the ferryman’s chamber was Alan Rookwood: the other, as the reader may perhaps conjecture, was his grandson.
“Is it the hour?” asked Luke, as he sprang from out the trap-door.
“Ay,” replied Jem, with a coarse laugh, “or I had not disturbed myself to call you. But, maybe,” added he, softening his manner a little, “you’ll like some refreshments before you start? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for the job, ha, ha!”
“Not I,” replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his companion’s familiarity.
“Give me to drink,” said Alan, walking feebly towards the fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. “I am chilled by the damps of that swampy cave — the natural heat within me is nigh extinguished.”
“Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones,” returned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy; “never stint it. I’ll be sworn you’ll be the better on’t, for you look desperate queer, man, about the mazard.”
Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the last few days had wrought a fearful change. His countenance was almost exanimate; and when, with shaking hand and trembling lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the dregs, a terrible grimace was excited upon his features, such as is produced upon the corpse by the action of the galvanic machine. Even Jem regarded him with a sort of apprehension. After he had taken breath for a moment, Alan broke out into a fit of wild and immoderate laughter.
“Why, ay,” said he, “this is indeed to grow young again, and to feel fresh fire within one’s veins. Who would have thought so much of life and energy could reside in this little vessel? I am myself once more, and not the same soulless, pulseless lump of clay I was a moment or two back. The damps of that den had destroyed me — and the solitude — the waking dreams I’ve had — the visions! horrible! I will not think of them. I am better now — ready to execute my plans — your plans I should say, grandson Luke. Are our horses in readiness? Why do we tarry? The hour is arrived, and I would not that my new-blown courage should evaporate ere the great work for which I live be accomplished. That done, I ask no further stimulant. Let us away.”
“We tarry but for Turpin,” said Luke; “I am as impatient as yourself. I fear some mischance must have befallen him, or he would have been true to his appointment. Do you not think so?” he added, addressing the ferryman.
“Why,” replied Jem, reluctantly, “since you put it home to me, and I can’t conceal it no longer, I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth about it. Dick Turpin can do nothing for you — he’s grabb’d.”
“Turpin apprehended!” ejaculated Luke.
“Ay,” returned Jem. “I learnt from a farmer who crossed the ferry at nightfall, that he were grabb’d this morning at York, after having ridden his famous cherry-colored prad to death — that’s what hurts me more not all the rest; though I fear Dick will scarce cheat the nubbing cheat this go. His time’s up, I calculate.”
“Will you supply his place and accompany us?” asked Luke of the ferryman.
“No, no,” replied Jem, shaking his head; “there
’s too much risk, and too little profit, in the business for me — it won’t pay.”
“And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise?” asked Alan.
“More than you have to offer, Master Peter,” replied Jem, who had not been enlightened upon the subject of Alan’s real name or condition.
“How know you that?” demanded Alan. “Name your demand.”
“Well, then, I’ll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had it, might bribe me — —”
“To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not,” said Luke, fiercely stamping the ground. “Let us be gone. We need not his mercenary aid. We will do without him.”
“Stay,” said Alan, “you shall have the hundred, provided you will assure us of your services.”
“Cut no more blarneyfied whids, Master Sexton,” replied Jem, in a gruff tone. “If I’m to go, I must have the chink down, and that’s more nor either of you can do, I’m thinking.”
“Give me your purse,” whispered Alan to his grandson. “Pshaw,” continued he, “do you hesitate? This man can do much for us. Think upon Eleanor, and be prudent. You cannot accomplish your task unaided.” Taking the amount from the purse, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, “If we succeed, the sum shall be doubled; and now let us set out.”
During Alan’s speech, Jem’s sharp eyes had been fastened upon the purse, while he mechanically clutched the bank-notes which were given to him. He could not remove his gaze, but continued staring at the treasure before him, as if he would willingly, by force, have made it all his own.
Alan saw the error he had committed in exposing the contents of the purse to the avaricious ferryman, and was about to restore it to Luke, when the bag was suddenly snatched from his grasp, and himself levelled by a blow upon the floor. Conkey Jem found the temptation irresistible. Knowing himself to be a match for both his companions, and imagining he was secure from interruption, he conceived the idea of making away with them, and possessing himself of their wealth. No sooner had he disposed of Alan, than he assailed Luke, who met his charge half way. With the vigor and alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted, but he was no match for the herculean strength of the double-jointed ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so much resembled, thus furiously attacked him. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, he was not disposed to yield up his life tamely. He saw at once the villain’s murderous intentions, and, well aware of his prodigious power, would not have risked a close struggle could he have avoided it. Snatching the eel-spear from the wall, he had hurled it at the head of his adversary, but without effect. In the next instant he was locked in a clasp terrible as that of a Polar bear. In spite of all his struggles, Luke was speedily hurled to the ground: and Jem, who had thrown himself upon him, was apparently searching about for some weapon to put a bloody termination to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was heard at the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the other, and a call resounded from a whistle.
“Damnation!” ejaculated Jem, gruffly, “interrupted!” And he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on Luke’s body.
The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all probability, saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferryman’s grasp, regained his feet, and, what was of more importance, the weapon he had thrown away.
“Villain!” cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his force into his enemy’s side, “you shall — —”
The whistle was again heard without.
“Don’t you hear that?” cried Jem: “’Tis Turpin’s call.”
“Turpin!” echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. “Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him.”
“Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke,” said Jem, fawningly; “I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take back the lowre. He should not have shown it me — it was that as did all the mischief.”
“Unbar the door, and parley not,” said Luke contemptuously.
Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, casting suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut.
“Well, I am here,” said he, with a hollow laugh. “I’ve kept my word — ha, ha! I’ve been damnably put to it; but here I am, ha, ha!” And he sank upon one of the stools.
“We heard you were apprehended,” said Luke. “I am glad to find the information was false,” added he, glancing angrily at the ferryman.
“Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke,” replied Dick; “but what are you scowling at, old Charon? — and you, Sir Luke? Why do you glower at each other? Make fast the door — bolt it, Cerberus — right! Now give me a glass of brandy, and then I’ll talk — a bumper — so — another. What’s that I see — a dead man? Old Peter — Alan I mean — has anything happened to him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?”
“Nothing, I trust,” said Luke, stooping to raise up his grandsire. “The blow has stunned him.”
“The blow?” repeated Turpin. “What! there has been a quarrel then? I thought as much from your amiable looks at each other. Come, come, we must have no differences. Give the old earthworm a taste of this — I’ll engage it will bring him to fast enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if you’d rather; but it’s a better remedy down the gullet — the natural course; and hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have any grub within it, and any more bub in the cellar: I’m as hungry as a hunter, and as thirsty as a camel.”
CHAPTER II. — MAJOR MOWBRAY
Mephistopheles. Out with your toasting iron! Thrust away!
— Hayward’s Translation of Faust.
CONKEY JEM went in search of such provisions as his hovel afforded. Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the revival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts, united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the highwayman had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to quit the hut as speedily as possible.
“That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow,” said Dick. “But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would perceive, without difficulty, the propriety of supping before you started. Here comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting. In my present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the sty.” Whereupon he applied himself to the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch upon the hissing embers.
Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol within his breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon the ferryman’s fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his meal with steady voracity, worthy of a half-famished soldier; but the highwayman returned no answer to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the incessant clatter of his masticating jaws, during the progress of his, apparently, interminable repast.
“Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke,” said Dick; “all right now — capital ale, Charon — strong as Styx — ha, ha! — one other rasher, and I’ve done. Sorry to keep you — can’t conceive how cleverly I put the winkers upon ’em at York, in the dress of a countryman; all owing to old Balty, the patrico, an old pal — ha, ha! My old pals never nose upon me — eh, Nosey — always help one out of the water — always staunch. Here’s health to you, old crony.”
Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on the table, which was speedily discussed.
“Poor Bess!” muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final glass of ale. “Poor lass! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the trees — deep — deep. Her remains shall never be disturbed. Alas! alas!
my bonny Black Bess! But no matter, her name is yet alive — her deeds will survive her — the trial is over. And now,” continued he, rising from his seat, “I’m with you. Where are the tits?”
“In the stable, under ground,” growled Jem.
Alan Rookwood, in the mean time, had joined his grandson, and they conversed an instant or two apart.
“My strength will not bear me through the night,” said he. “That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must go without me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret passage. You know the entrance. I will await you in the tomb.”
“The tomb!” echoed Luke.
“Ay, our family vault,” returned Alan, with a ghastly grin— “it is the only place of security for me now. Let me see her there. Let me know that my vengeance is complete, that I triumph in my death over him, the accursed brother, through you, my grandson. You have a rival brother — a successful one; you know now what hatred is.”
“I do,” returned Luke, fiercely.
“But not such hate as mine, which, through a life, a long life, hath endured, intense as when ’twas first engendered in my bosom; which from one hath spread o’er all my race — o’er all save you — and which even now, when death stares me in the face — when the spirit pants to fly from its prison-house, burns fiercely as ever. You cannot know what hate like that may be. You must have wrongs — such wrongs as mine first.”
“My hate to Ranulph is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald.”
“Name him not,” shrieked Alan. “But, oh! to think upon the bride he robbed me of — the young — the beautiful! — whom I loved to madness; whose memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling keen as ever at my heart. God of Justice! how is it that I have thus long survived? But some men die by inches. My dying lips shall name him once again, and then ‘twill be but to blend his name with curses.”
“I speak of him no more,” said Luke. “I will meet you in the vault.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 60