The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Both pursued and pursuers now went along at a headlong pace. For some little time the Cavalier kept in the valley, and crossed the rough and ill-kept road leading to Lewes. At that time there was no direct road from the metropolis to Brightelmstone, and only the deep-rutted cart-road just mentioned between the latter place and Lewes. The whole district being perfectly open and unenclosed — not a hedge or fence existing, save in the neighbourhood of some sequestered homestead — there was nothing to check the progress either of the fugitive or those on his track.

  On — on they went — now traversing a winding valley, now mounting a hill — anon descending to another dell — crossing it, and making a new ascent. All this without in the slightest degree relaxing speed. The Cavalier seemed in no wise troubled about his pursuers, feeling confident, apparently, that he should leave them behind in the end. Hitherto not a single individual had been encountered. The downs seemed wholly deserted.

  The Cavalier had now gained the summit of the hill on which the ancient encampment called Hollingsbury Castle may be traced, and as his pursuers were not more than half way up the hill, he drew in the rein near the old earthwork, to breathe his panting steed for a moment. Seeing him pause thus, Stelfax and his men hurried on; but ere they could get within pistol-shot, he speeded off down the smooth turf of the declivity, as if making for the pretty little village of Preston, the church of which could be discerned in the valley, about half a mile off, embosomed in trees. But the fugitive, it soon became manifest, had no intention of entering the village. He soon struck off on the right, and keeping on the slopes of the hill until he had passed Patcham and its hanging wood, crossed the valley now traversed by the railway, and ascended the opposite hill. Probably, he had conjectured that the Ironsides, finding their efforts to come up with him fruitless, would desist from further pursuit — but in this supposition he was deceived. Stelfax was not the man to be baffled. As long as their horses could carry them, he and his troopers would follow — and though their steeds were not so swift as that of the Cavalier, they were stronger, and capable of greater endurance. So not many minutes elapsed ere they were on the top of the down and galloping after him.

  With the evident intention of disembarrassing himself of them, the fugitive now led them into all sorts of difficult places, and practised every possible manœuvre to shake them off. In vain. They still held on; while the stratagems essayed by the Cavalier had more than once well-nigh led to his capture.

  It was after a mischance of this kind, in which an attempt to double had been dexterously checked by Stelfax, that he suddenly changed his plan, and once more set off straight-a-head with great swiftness.

  They were now upon a chain of downs that terminates on the north in the lofty and steep escarpment closely adjoining the extraordinary trench popularly known as the Devil’s Dyke. It was towards the steepest part of this dangerous declivity that the Cavalier now rode. Perfectly acquainted with the country, as the result proved, he knew whither he was going, and was prepared for the hazardous feat he had to perform. Not so his pursuers. This precipitous escarpment, which stands like a great natural bulwark at the south of the broad Weald of Sussex — the whole of that immense and beautiful tract being discernible at one glance from it — slopes suddenly and abruptly down, without the slightest interruption to the valley, the perilous nature of the descent being materially increased by the slippery condition of the turf, which offers, at dry seasons especially, a very insecure footing. A single false step would send the luckless wight who made it sliding to the foot of the escarpment in double- quick time. On the brow of this lofty hill are the remains of an encampment, with a wide ditch and a rampart surrounding it of nearly a mile in circumference. Adjacent to this camp, and dividing it from the lower range of downs, is the Dyke.

  Skirting the brink of this remarkable chasm, the Cavalier rode on, and passing through a breach in the outworks of the camp, made for that portion of the rampart which overlooks the steepest part of the declivity. He paused not for a moment, but ere reaching the verge of the rampart, cast a glance of defiance at his pursuers. Stelfax, at that instant, was passing through the breach on the south side of the camp. Unaware of the perilous nature of the feat about to be attempted, he saw the Cavalier spring from the edge of the rampart, and plunge down the descent beyond it. Intending to follow him, the Roundhead officer rode on, but as he neared the brink of the declivity, and its precipitous and dangerous character became fully revealed to him, he recoiled, and drew in the rein with such force that he almost pulled back his steed upon his haunches. Just in time! In another instant he would have leaped the rampart, and must have rolled from top to bottom of the sharp descent. Cautiously approaching the edge of the declivity, to his infinite astonishment and vexation he beheld the bold horseman rapidly descending the steep escarpment, apparently with perfect ease and security. The rider seemed to trust himself entirely to his horse, not attempting to direct him, but leaving him to take his own way. All he did was to lean back as much as he could in the saddle to avoid sliding out of it on to the horse’s shoulder. In this way he had accomplished nearly half the descent.

  The sight stung Stelfax to the quick. His prey he now felt would escape him. If the fugitive should reach the bottom in safety, his escape was inevitable. Long before the valley could be gained by any secure descent, he would be far out of harm’s way, and Stelfax, fearless and venturesome as he was, did not like to essay this perilous descent, not deeming his horse sufficiently sure- footed to accomplish it. There was but one way of arresting the fugitive. Stelfax took a pistol from his holster, and fired. His mark had not been the Cavalier, but his steed. The ball lodged in the gallant animal’s brain. Instantly quitting the almost sliding posture he had assumed, he sprang with a slight bound in the air, and then dropped. The Cavalier had managed to disengage himself from the saddle, but fell in the attempt, and could not recover his footing. He and his slaughtered steed rolled together to the bottom of the declivity, where both lay motionless.

  “We have Abijam now — dead or alive,” cried Stelfax to his men, who by this time had come up. “Mattathias and Enoch go ye down to the valley by yon safe though circuitous route on the left, while Nathan Guestling and I will find our way down on the right. Lose no time — though there is little fear that our prey will escape us now. He hath not stirred since he fell, and I fear me is killed outright.”

  CHAPTER III.

  Of The Guests At The Poynings’ Arms

  ON reaching the valley, Stelfax, closely followed by Nathan Guestling, rode towards the spot where the luckless Cavalier was lying. Hitherto, he had not moved; but when the Roundheads drew near, he began to exhibit some symptoms of animation, and made an effort to regain his feet. The exertion, however, was too much for him, and he sank back with a groan.

  Flinging himself from his horse, and giving the bridle to Guestling, Stelfax bent over the prostrate Cavalier, and carefully studied his features. The result of this examination was by no means satisfactory. The person under his scrutiny was some ten years older than Charles Stuart, though his slight figure and swarthy complexion, fine black eyes, and long dark locks, had given him a general resemblance to the youthful monarch. On closer inspection, however, the likeness vanished, and the stranger’s lineaments were found to be different in many points from those of the king. Stelfax gave vent to his disappointment in a loud and angry exclamation, and called out to the two other troopers, who rode up at the moment, that it was not Abijam after all. Hearing what passed, the prostrate Cavalier raised himself upon his elbow, and cried, “So you took me for the king — ha! No wonder you gave me so hot a chase. Learn to your confusion that his Majesty is safe from pursuit, and never likely to fall into rebellious hands.”

  “So your friend, Lord Wilmot, affirmed, Sir,” rejoined Stelfax; “but I attached little credit to his assertion, and I attach no more to yours. You are my prisoner. Under what name and title do you surrender?”

  “It is my pleasure to guard my i
ncognito as long as I can,” the Cavalier replied. “I must therefore decline to furnish you with my name. As to title, I have none.”

  “You are too modest, methinks, sir,” Stelfax cried. “Remain unknown, if you will, for the present. If you are not treated with the consideration due to your rank, you have only yourself to blame.”

  “I have no rank whatever, I repeat,” the Cavalier replied. “I am but a simple gentleman — and a very poor gentleman into the bargain — thanks to the fines and confiscations of your State Council. Will one of your men lend a hand to lift me up?”

  “I will do as much for you myself, sir,” Stelfax replied, helping him to his feet. “I hope you are not much hurt?”

  “No bones are broken, I think,” said the other; “but I am a good deal shaken. You gave me rather an awkward tumble down the hill — but I should not heed that if my horse had been spared,” glancing, as the words were uttered, with great commiseration at the body of the poor animal lying stark beside him. “He was a gallant steed! I shall never get such another.”

  “A brave horse, in sooth!” exclaimed Stelfax. “I felt sorry to despatch him — but I must have shot him or you. You may, however, console yourself for the loss by reflecting that you will never more, in all likelihood, require his services.”

  “That is but cold comfort,” the other rejoined. “However, we Cavaliers are not accustomed to despair, even at the foot of the scaffold. I hope to give you another run as good as the one you, have just enjoyed — with this difference only, that on the next occasion you may be left in the lurch.”

  “Many a fox-chase has been less exciting, no doubt,” said Stelfax, entering into the jest. “But you must now submit to be searched by my men, sir. I regret that the measure cannot be dispensed with — but my orders are strict. All letters and papers must be sent to head-quarters — and perhaps I may learn at the same time whom I have the honour of addressing.”

  Due precautions against a contingency like the present must have been taken by the Cavalier, since only a few unimportant articles were found upon him, and nothing whatever to afford a clue to his identity. Seeing the prisoner look very faint, and scarcely able to stand, though he uttered no complaint, Stelfax caused him to be lifted on to the croup of Nathan Guestling’s horse, and secured by a broad belt passed round his own waist and that of the stalwart trooper in front. He then directed Mattathias and Enoch to ride one on either side of the captive, to prevent the possibility of escape, and set off for a hamlet, close at hand, where he made sure of obtaining restoratives for the luckless Royalist. The place for which the Roundhead captain was bound was Poynings, one of the prettiest and most picturesque villages amidst the South Downs, and then remarkable for its fine old manor-house appertaining to the baronial family that took its name from the place, as well as for its antique church, which latter still exists.

  Night was now coming on apace, but the sky was clear, and the light of the heavenly bodies dispelled the darkness. The hour of eight was tolled out as the little troop entered Poynings. The trampling of the horses quickly roused the villagers, and brought them to the doors of their cottages to see the soldiers pass, and great anxiety was evinced to obtain a glimpse of the malignant prisoner. But no near approach to him was permitted by the guard, and the curiosity of the spectators remained unsatisfied.

  A decent hostelry was soon found near the church, and here Stelfax alighted, and caused his prisoner, who was unable to dismount without assistance, to be lifted from the trooper’s horse and carried inside. This service was rendered by the landlord, who announced himself to the Roundhead leader as Simon Piddinghoe, of the Poynings’ Arms, at the honourable captain’s service. The Cavalier was supported by the assiduous host into a large, comfortable-looking house-place, with a wood fire blazing upon the hearth — deep inglenooks on either side of the chimney — and a couple of cozy benches with high backs calculated to keep off all draught advancing far into the room, with a long and strong oak table between them. On these high-backed benches some nine or ten guests were seated, smoking and quaffing the stout amber ale, the mulled sack, and other liquors for which the Poynings’ Arms was famed.

  The company consisted, as it turned out, of the village schoolmaster, Master Cisbury Oldfirle, who was accounted a man of parts and erudition, and who, at all events, considered himself such — two or three other inhabitants of the village of the better class — and a brace of sturdy farmers from the neighbourhood, who were discussing their evening pint, or quart, as it might be, before going home to their dames. Besides these, there were some other guests — nondescript individuals, whose precise position in society Simon Piddinghoe himself would have found it difficult to assign, and who might be disbanded Royalist soldiers, gentlemen out-at-elbows from drink or play, bankrupt tradesmen from London, or what you please. Shabby roysterers like these often took up their quarters in country hostels at the time — carefully selecting houses where good liquor and a good bowling-green were to be found; and notwithstanding their tarnished lace cloaks, threadbare doublets, and slouched Spanish hats, they were heartily welcomed by mine host — so long as they had wherewithal to pay the shot. To these personages the arrival of the Ironsides seemed to afford anything but satisfaction, though they endeavoured to put a good face upon their vexation, and rose with the rest of the company to salute the Roundhead captain on his entrance. All arose but one — a fierce, swashbuckling fellow, with a long rapier at his side, who was afterwards addressed by the host as Captain Goldspur. With a muttered oath, this personage pulled his slouched hat over his beetle-brows, shifted himself in his seat, and turned his back upon Stelfax. As the captive Cavalier was brought into the room, and the light of the fire illumined his features, Simon Piddinghoe gave a slight start of recognition; but a pressure of his arm by the prisoner cautioned him to hold his tongue.

  By Stelfax’s directions the luckless gentleman was accommodated with an easy- chair near the fire, and a glass of strong water being administered to him by the host, he speedily began to revive.

  Meantime, the company had resumed their seats, though the questionable individuals we have described were evidently ill at ease, and Captain Goldspur, who puffed away furiously at his pipe, looked askance at Stelfax from beneath his heavy brows. But if he or his companions meditated any attack upon the Roundhead leader, the formidable appearance of the latter served to restrain them. Neither was Stelfax unsupported. His three men had entered the room and seated themselves at the further end of the benches, ready to obey their captain’s slightest behest.

  However conversation might have gone on before the arrival of the Ironsides, it flagged now — the only person who maintained his character for loquacity being Cisbury Oldfirle. He talked on with his wonted volubility. Undismayed by Stelfax’s stern looks, he entered into conversation with him, and gave him many particulars concerning the ancient family of Poynings, to which the other listened with some degree of attention, and then inquired whether the worshipful captain had heard the legend of the Devil’s Dyke, and finding — as might be expected — that he had not, volunteered to relate it to him — premising that he could not entirely vouch for its authenticity. Having been supplied by the assiduous host with a bottle of admirably brewed sack, Stelfax felt disposed to accord the talkative pedagogue his attention, and listened with more patience than might have been expected to the weird, and somewhat extravagant, legend which will be found narrated — almost in Master Oldfirle’s own language — in the next chapter.

  CHAPTER IV.

  The Legend Of The Devil’s Dyke. As Related By Master Cisbury Oldfirle, Schoolmaster, Of Poynings

  THE wondrous event I am about to detail happened in the time of the good Saint Cuthman of Steyning, in this county — a holy man, who from his extraordinary piety and austerity was believed to be endowed with supernatural power. Many miracles are attributed to him, some of which occurred long before his canonization. While yet a boy, and employed in tending his father’s sheep on the downs, i
n order to pursue his devotional exercises undisturbed, he was wont to trace a large circle round the flock with his crook, beyond which none of them could stray, neither could any enemy approach them. Moreover, the good saint could punish the scoffer, as well as bless and sustain the lowly and the well-doer. Derided by certain blasphemous haymakers for carrying his palsied mother in a barrow — no better means of conveyance being at hand at the time — he brought down a heavy shower upon their heads, rendering their labour of no account; and thenceforward, whenever grass was cut and dried within that meadow, rain would fall upon it, and turn it to litter. Such was holy Cuthman — a man, you will perceive, whom it was necessary to treat with the respect due to his exalted virtues.