Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  “Are the gentlemen in earnest?”

  “Sirs, do you mean ever to fight again? Begin, begin.”

  But their enthusiasm waxed high after they had thoroughly comprehended Paddy and his hair.

  “You’re alight, sir; you’re alight!”

  “Water! Water!”

  “Farmer Pelton will have the officers at you an you go near his hay. Water!”

  Paddy understood that they were paying tribute to his importance, and he again went suddenly out of my control. He began to strut and caper and pose with the air of knowing that he was the finest gentleman in England.

  “Paddy, you baboon,” said I, “be quiet and don’t be making yourself a laughing-stock for the whole of them.”

  But I could give small heed to him, for I was greatly occupied in watching Lord Strepp and the Colonel. The Colonel was listening now to his friend for the simple reason that the loss of blood had made him too weak to fight again. Of a sudden he slumped gently down through Lord Strepp’s arms to the ground, and, as the young man knelt, he cast his eyes about him until they rested upon me in what I took to be mute appeal. I ran forward, and we quickly tore his fine ruffles to pieces and succeeded in quite stanching his wounds, none of which were serious. “’Tis only a little blood-letting,” said my Lord Strepp with something of a smile. “‘Twill cool him, perchance.”

  “None of them are deep,” I cried hastily. “I—”

  But Lord Strepp stopped me with a swift gesture. “Yes,” he said, “I knew. I could see. But—” He looked at me with troubled eyes. “It is an extraordinary situation. You have spared him, and — he will not wish to be spared, I feel sure. Most remarkable case.”

  “Well, I won’t kill him,” said I bluntly, having tired of this rubbish. “Damme if I will!”

  Lord Strepp laughed outright. “It is ridiculous,” he said. “Do you return, O’Ruddy, and leave me the care of this business. And,” added he, with embarrassed manner, “this mixture is full strange; but — I feel sure — any how, I salute you, sir.” And in his bow he paid a sensible tribute to my conduct.

  Afterward there was nought to do but gather in Paddy and return to the inn. I found my countryman swaggering to and fro before the crowd. Some ignoramus, or some wit, had dubbed him the King of Ireland, and he was playing to the part.

  “Paddy, you red-headed scandal,” said I, “come along now!”

  When he heard me, he came well enough; but I could not help but feel from his manner that he had made a great concession.

  “And so they would be taking me for the King of Ireland, and, sure, ’tis an advantage to be thought a king whatever, and if your honour would be easy ’tis you and me that would sleep in the finest beds in Bristol the night, and nothing to do but take the drink as it was handed and — I’ll say no more.”

  A rabble followed us on our way to the inn, but I turned on them so fiercely from time to time that ultimately they ran off. We made direct for my chamber, where I ordered food and drink immediately to be served. Once alone there with Paddy I allowed my joy to take hold on me. “Eh, Paddy, my boy,” said I, walking before him, “I have done grand. I am, indeed, one of the finest gentlemen in the world.”

  “Aye, that’s true,” he answered, “but there was a man at your back throughout who—”

  To his extreme astonishment I buffeted him heavily upon the cheek. “And we’ll have no more of that talk,” said I.

  CHAPTER III

  “Aye!” said Paddy, holding his jowl; “’tis what one gets for serving a gentleman. ’Tis the service of a good truthful blackguard I’d be looking for, and that’s true for me.”

  “Be quiet and mind what I tell you,” I cried to him. “I’m uplifted with my success in England, and I won’t be hearing anything from you while I am saying that I am one of the grandest gentlemen in all the world. I came over here with papers — papers!” said I; and then I bethought me that I would take the papers and wave them in my hand. I don’t know why people wish to wave important documents in their hands, but the impulse came to me. Above all things I wished to take these papers and wave them defiantly, exultantly, in the air. They were my inheritance and my land of promise; they were everything. I must wave them even to the chamber, empty save for Paddy.

  When I reached for them in the proper place in my luggage they were gone. I wheeled like a tiger upon Paddy.

  “Villain,” I roared, grasping him at the throat, “you have them!”

  He sank in full surrender to his knees.

  “I have, your honour,” he wailed; “but, sure, I never thought your honour would care, since one of them is badly worn at the heel, and the other is no better than no boot at all.”

  I was cooled by the incontestable verity of this man. I sat heavily down in a chair by the fire.

  “Aye,” said I stupidly, “the boots! I did not mean the boots, although when you took them passes my sense of time. I mean some papers.”

  “Some papers!” cried he excitedly. “Your honour never thought it would be me that would steal papers? Nothing less than good cows would do my people, and a bit of turf now and then, but papers—”

  “Peace!” said I sombrely, and began to search my luggage thoroughly for my missing inheritance. But it was all to no purpose. The papers were not there. I could not have lost them. They had been stolen. I saw my always-flimsy inheritance melt away. I had been, I thought, on the edge of success, but I now had nothing but my name, a successful duel, and a few pieces of gold. I was buried in defeat.

  Of a sudden a name shot through my mind. The name of this black Forister was upon me violently and yet with perfect sureness. It was he who had stolen the papers. I knew it. I felt it in every bone. He had taken the papers.

  I have since been told that it is very common for people to be moved by these feelings of omen, which are invariably correct in their particulars; but at the time I thought it odd that I should be so certain that Forister had my papers. However, I had no time to waste in thinking. I grasped my pistols. “A black man — black as the devil,” cried I to Paddy. “Help me catch a little black man.”

  “Sure!” said Paddy, and we sallied forth.

  In a moment I was below and crying to the landlord in as fine a fury as any noble:

  “This villain Forister! And where be he?”

  The landlord looked at me with bulging eyes. “Master Forister,” he stammered. “Aye — aye — he’s been agone these many hours since your lordship kicked him. He took horse, he did, for Bath, he did.”

  “Horses!” I roared. “Horses for two gentlemen!” And the stableyard, very respectful since my duel, began to ring with cries. The landlord pleaded something about his bill, and in my impatience I hurled to him all of my gold save one piece. The horses came soon enough, and I leaped into the saddle and was away to Bath after Forister. As I galloped out of the inn yard I heard a tumult behind me, and, looking back, I saw three hostlers lifting hard at Paddy to raise him into the saddle. He gave a despairing cry when he perceived me leaving him at such speed, but my heart was hardened to my work. I must catch Forister.

  It was a dark and angry morning. The rain swept across my face, and the wind flourished my cloak. The road, glistening steel and brown, was no better than an Irish bog for hard riding. Once I passed a chaise with a flogging post-boy and steaming nags. Once I overtook a farmer jogging somewhere on a fat mare. Otherwise I saw no travellers.

  I was near my journey’s end when I came to a portion of the road which dipped down a steep hill. At the foot of this hill was an oak-tree, and under this tree was a man masked and mounted, and in his hand was a levelled pistol.

  “Stand!” he said. “Stand!”

  I knew his meaning, but when a man has lost a documentary fortune and given an innkeeper all but his last guinea, he is sure to be filled with fury at the appearance of a third and completing misfortune. With a loud shout I drew my pistol and rode like a demon at the highwayman. He fired, but his bullet struck nothing but the f
lying tails of my cloak. As my horse crashed into him I struck at his pate with my pistol. An instant later we both came a mighty downfall, and when I could get my eyes free of stars I arose and drew my sword. The highwayman sat before me on the ground, ruefully handling his skull. Our two horses were scampering away into the mist.

  I placed my point at the highwayman’s throat.

  “So, my fine fellow,” cried I grandly, “you rob well. You are the principal knight of the road of all England, I would dare say, by the way in which an empty pistol overcomes you.”

  He was still ruefully handling his skull.

  “Aye,” he muttered sadly, more to himself than to me, “a true knight of the road with seven ballads written of me in Bristol and three in Bath. Ill betide me for not minding my mother’s word and staying at home this day. ’Tis all the unhappy luck of Jem Bottles. I should have remained an honest sheep-stealer and never engaged in this dangerous and nefarious game of lifting purses.”

  The man’s genuine sorrow touched me. “Cheer up, Jem Bottles,” said I. “All may yet be well. ’Tis not one little bang on the crown that so disturbs you?”

  “’Tis not one — no,” he answered gloomily; “’tis two. The traveller riding to the east before you dealt me a similar blow — may hell catch the little black devil.”

  “Black!” cried I. “Forister, for my life!”

  “He took no moment to tell me his name,” responded the sullen and wounded highwayman. “He beat me out of the saddle and rode away as brisk as a bird. I know not what my mother will say. She be for ever telling me of the danger in this trade, and here come two gentlemen in one day and unhorse me without the profit of a sixpence to my store. When I became a highwayman I thought me I had profited me from the low estate of a sheep-stealer, but now I see that happiness in this life does not altogether depend upon—”

  “Enough,” I shouted in my impatience. “Tell me of the black man! The black man, worm!” I pricked his throat with my sword very carefully.

  “He was black, and he rode like a demon, and he handled his weapons finely,” said Jem Bottles. “And since I have told you all I know, please, good sir, move the point from my throat. This will be ill news for my mother.”

  I took thought with myself. I must on to Bath; but the two horses had long since scampered out of sight, and my pursuit of the papers would make small way afoot.

  “Come, Jem Bottles,” I cried, “help me to a horse in a comrade’s way and for the sake of your mother. In another case I will leave you here a bloody corse. Come; there’s a good fellow!”

  He seemed moved to help me. “Now, if there comes a well-mounted traveller,” he said, brightening, “I will gain his horse for you if I die for it.”

  “And if there comes no well-mounted traveller?”

  “I know not, sir. But — perhaps he will come.”

  “’Tis a cheap rogue who has but one horse,” I observed contemptuously. “You are only a footpad, a simple-minded marquis of the bludgeon.”

  Now, as I had hoped, this deeply cut his pride.

  “Did I not speak of the ballads, sir?” he demanded with considerable spirit. “Horses? Aye, and have I not three good nags hid behind my mother’s cottage, which is less than a mile from this spot?”

  “Monsieur Jem Bottles,” said I, not forgetting the French manners which my father had taught me, “unless you instantly show me the way to these horses I shall cut off your hands, your feet, and your head; and, ripping out your bowels, shall sprinkle them on the road for the first post-horses to mash and trample. Do you understand my intention, Monsieur Jem Bottles?”

  “Sir,” he begged, “think of my mother!”

  “I think of the horses,” I answered grimly. “’Tis for you to think of your mother. How could I think of your mother when I wouldn’t know her from the Head of Kinsale, if it didn’t happen that I know the Head of Kinsale too well to mistake it for anybody’s mother?”

  “You speak like a man from foreign parts, sir,” he rejoined in a meek voice; “but I am able to see that your meaning is serious.”

  “’Tis so serious,” said I, rapping him gently on the head with the butt of my pistol, “that if you don’t instantly display a greedy activity you will display a perfect inability to move.”

  “The speeching is obscure,” said he, “but the rap on the head is clear to me. Still, it was not kind of you to hit me on the same spot twice.”

  He now arose from his mournful seat on the ground, and, still rubbing his pate, he asked me to follow him. We moved from the highway into a very narrow lane, and for some time proceeded in silence.

  “’Tis a regular dog’s life,” spoke Jem Bottles after a period of reflection.

  By this time I had grown a strong sympathy for my scoundrel.

  “Come, cheer yourself, Jem Bottles,” said I. “I have known a lesser ruffian who was hanged until he was dry, whereas you march along the lane with nought to your discouragement but three cracks in your crown.”

  “’Tis not the cracks in the crown,” he answered moodily. “’Tis what my mother will say.”

  “I had no thought that highwaymen had mothers,” said I. I had resolved now to take care of his pride, for I saw that he was bound to be considered a great highwayman, and I did not wish to disturb his feelings until I gained possession of one of the horses. But now he grew as indignant as he dared.

  “Mother? Mother, sir? Do you think me an illegitimate child? I say to you flat in your face, even if you kill me the next instant, that I have a mother. Perchance I am not of the lofty gentry who go about beating honest highwaymen to the earth, but I repulse with scorn any man’s suggestion that I am illegitimate. In a quarter of an hour you shall see my mother for yourself.”

  “Peace, Jem Bottles,” said I soothingly. “I took no thought of such a thing. I would be thinking only of the ballads, and how honourable it is that a gallant and dashing life should be celebrated in song. I, for certain, have never done anything to make a pothouse ring with my name, and I liken you to the knights of olden days who tilted in all simple fair bravery without being able to wager a brass farthing as to who was right and who was wrong. Admirable Jem Bottles,” I cried enthusiastically, “tell me, if you will, of your glories; tell me with your own tongue, so that when I hear the ballads waxing furious with praise of you, I shall recall the time I marched with your historic person.”

  “My beginning was without pretence,” said the highwayman. “Little Susan, daughter of Farmer Hants, was crossing the fields with a basket of eggs. I, a masked figure, sprang out at her from a thicket. I seized the basket. She screamed. There was a frightful tumult. But in the end I bore away this basket of eight eggs, creeping stealthily through the wood. The next day Farmer Hants met me. He had a long whip. There was a frightful tumult. But he little knew that he was laying with his whip the foundation of a career so illustrious. For a time I stole his sheep, but soon grew weary of this business. Once, after they had chased me almost to Bristol, I was so weary that I resolved to forego the thing entirely. Then I became a highwayman, whom you see before you. One of the ballads begins thus:

  “What ho! the merry Jem! Not a pint he gives for them. All his—”

  “Stop,” said I, “we’ll have it at Dame Bottles’s fireside. Hearing songs in the night air always makes me hoarse the next morning.”

  “As you will,” he answered without heat. “We’re a’most there.”

  Soon a lighted window of the highwayman’s humble home shone out in the darkness, and a moment later Jem Bottles was knocking at the door. It was immediately opened, and he stalked in with his blood-marks still upon his face. There was a great outcry in a feminine voice, and a large woman rushed forward and flung her arms about the highwayman.

  “Oh, Jemmie, my son, my son!” she screamed, “whatever have they done to ye this time?”

  “Silence, mother dear,” said Bottles. “’Tis nought but a wind-broken bough fallen on my head. Have you no manners? Do you not
see the gentleman waiting to enter and warm himself?”

  The woman turned upon me, alarmed, but fiery and defiant. After a moment’s scrutiny she demanded:

  “Oh, ho, and the gentleman had nought to do of course with my Jem’s broken head?”

  “’Tis a priest but newly arrived from his native island of Asia,” said Bottles piously; “and it ill beseems you, mother dear, to be haggling when you might be getting the holy man and I some supper.”

  “True, Jemmie, my own,” responded Dame Bottles. “But there are so many rogues abroad that you must forgive your old mother if she grow often affrighted that her good Jemmie has been misled.” She turned to me. “Pardon, my good gentleman,” she said almost in tears. “Ye little know what it is to be the mother of a high-spirited boy.”

  “I can truthfully say that I do not, Dame Bottles,” said I, with one of my father’s French bows. She was immensely pleased. Any woman may fall a victim to a limber, manly, and courteous bow.

  Presently we sat down to a supper of plum-stew and bread. Bottles had washed the blood from his face and now resembled an honest man.

  “You may think it strange, sir,” said Dame Bottles with some housewifely embarrassment, “that a highwayman of such distinction that he has had written of him in Bristol six ballads—”

  “Seven,” said the highwayman.

  “Seven in Bristol and in Bath two.”

  “Three,” said the highwayman.

  “And three in Bath,” continued the old woman. “You may think it strange, sir, that a highwayman of such distinction that he has had written of him in Bristol seven ballads, and in Bath three, is yet obliged to sit down to a supper of plum-stew and bread.”

  “Where is the rest of that cheese I took on last Michaelmas?” demanded Bottles suddenly.

  “Jemmie,” answered his mother with reproach, “you know you gave the last of it to the crippled shepherd over on the big hill.”

  “So I did, mother dear,” assented the highwayman, “and I regret now that I let no less than three cheeses pass me on the highway because I thought we had plenty at home.”