The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER IV.

  UP IN THE WORLD.

  Save the crackling of flame, and the small sound of branches overheadthat were swayed a little by the draught from the fire on the forestfloor, Dickon heard nothing while he waited for Andreas to finish thematter of which he had been speaking.

  For the rude smithy-bred boy there was little meaning in the other'spromise to teach him learning. No more meaning was there for Dickon inthe young scholar's craving for types and a press to begin printinganew.

  But the promise that Andreas would not part from him lingered inDickon's ears, and uplifted his heart as he waited reverentially tohear again the gentle, convinced, and loving accents of the Germanyouth.

  At last Andreas spoke--as if he had not paused, and yet with a strangenew wailing weakness in his voice:--

  "And if the saints willed, thus might we win our way back to Augsburg.But that may never be, for I shall die here, here where I lie, and thouwilt turn to wild beast or robber when I am gone, and brave, goodlyAugsburg will press on, leading all men, with never a thought of poorlittle me, dead here in the forest."

  Dickon would have spoken in homely protest, but the change on hisfriend's face scared him to dumbness. Not even the flame-light couldmake it ruddy now. In the eyes there was a dimmed, far-away look whichchilled Dickon's blood.

  "Aye, when I lie forgotten here,"--the thin, saddened voice went on inincreasing slowness,--"there the old gray walls and tiled gables willbe, with the storks making their nests in the spring, and the conventboys singing at daybreak in the streets, and the good housewivesstopping in the market-place on their way home from mass, and the smellof new grass and blossoms in the air ... and when Christmas comes Ishall not know it ... these eyes shall not look again on theTannenbaum. Woe! woe!"

  "Is that the tree?" asked Dickon, some impulse to words and actionstirring vaguely in his frightened heart.

  "Aye," groaned Andreas, "the beautiful tree with candles blazing on itsbranches and shining gifts." He followed on in a weak murmuring offoreign words, seemingly without meaning.

  Dickon bent one intent, long glance upon this childish, waxen facebefore him. Then he plucked a burning bough from the fire, and withouta word pushed the bushes aside and plunged into the outer darkness ofthe forest.

  After some time he returned, bearing an armful of rushes. He warmedhimself for a moment, and then, seated so that Andreas might notobserve his work, began with his knife to cut these down into lengthsof a span, and to strip off all but a winding rim of their outer cover.

  Then he hacked with his knife into the frozen boar's carcass. Cuttingout portions of white, hard fat, he melted these a little at the fire,and then rolled them thinly between his palms about the trimmed rushes.This done, he flayed off a part of the boar's skin, scorched off thebristles, rubbed it all with ashes, and spreading it over his sallet,sliced it into a rude semblance of fine thongs.

  Then, still uttering no word, he was gone again, once more bearing withhim a lighted torch.

  In front of Andreas, but to one side, as he lay in half trance andutter faintness watching the smoke, there rose at two rods' distancethe dark outline of a fir tree, the lower parts of which were hidden byshrubs.

  Suddenly the sick boy's gaze was diverted to the dim black cone of thistree, where a reddish radiance seemed spreading upward from the tangleunderneath. Then a sparkling spot of white light made itself visiblehigh up among the dusky branches--then another--and another. At lastnearly a dozen there were, all brightly glowing like stars broughtnear.

  Andreas gazed in languid marvelling at the development of this strangething--as one quietly contemplates miracles in sleep. It seemed but anatural part of his dying vision of Augsburg--the Tannenbaum makingitself weirdly real before his fading sight.

  The rosy smoke parted to shape a frame for this mystic picture in itscentre, and Andreas saw it all--the twinkling lights, the deep-shadowedlines of boughs, the engirdling wreaths of fiery vapor--as a part ofthe dreamland whose threshold he stood upon. And his heart sang softlywithin him at the sight.

  Then all at once he awoke from the dream; for Dickon was standing overhim, flushed with a rude satisfaction in his work, and saying:--

  "Gifts had I none to hang, Andreas, save it were the bottle and what isleft of the cheese. Look your fill at it, for boar's fat never yet wastallow, and the rushes are short-lived."

  The dream mists cleared from the German boy's brain.

  "Oh, it is thine!" he faintly murmured, in reviving comprehension."Thou hast made it--for me!"

  Dickon glanced out to where, in his eyes, some sorry dips guttered fora brief space on a tree-top. More than one of the lights was alreadyflickering to collapse in the breeze.

  "You said you never would see one again," he urged triumphantly."Belike your speech about dying was no whit truer."

  Andreas had no further words, but lifted his hand weakly upward, andDickon knelt down and took it in his own hard palms.

  Thus the two boys kept silence for a period--silence which spoke manythings to both--and looked at the little rush-dips fluttering on theboughs against the curtain of black night.

  Of a sudden, the stillness which had tenderly enwrapped them wasroughly broken. If there had been warning sounds, the lads had missedthem--for their hearts almost stopped beating with the shock that nowbefell.

  A violent crushing of the bushes, a chance clank of metal--and twofierce-faced bowmen in half-armor stood in the firelight before theirfrightened gaze.

  "Stir not--on your lives!" cried one of these strange intruders, withthe cold menace of a pole-axe in his mailed hand. "What mummery isthis?"

  Somehow it dawned upon Dickon's consciousness that these warlike men,for all their terrifying mien, were as much frightened in their way ashe was. This perception came doubtless from the lessons of a life spentwith bold soldiers who yet trembled at sight of a will o' the wisp. Hekept his jaw from knocking together with an effort, and asked as if athis ease:

  "What mean you, good sir? No mummery is here."

  "There! there!" shouted the other man-at-arms, pointing with his spearto where the rush-lights--or what remained of them--twinkled fitfullyin the tree.

  "Oh, that," said Dickon, with nonchalance. "It is a trick of foreignparts, made by me to gladden the heart of this poor lad, my master, wholies here sore stricken with sickness. Wist you not it is Christmas?This is our Tonnybow, meet for such a time."

  The two men looked sharply at the boys, and then, after a murmuredconsultation, one turned on his heel and disappeared. The other,espying the leathern bottle, grew friendlier, and lifted it to his lipsby an undivided motion from the ground. Then he said, drawing nearer tothe blaze and heaving a long, comforted breath:--

  "Whose man art thou?"

  "This is my master," replied Dickon, with his thumb toward Andreas,"who was most foully beset by robbers, and is like now to die if he winnot help and shelter."

  "That shall be as my lord duke willeth," said the soldier.

  As he spoke, the sound of more clanking armor fell upon the air. In amoment a half-dozen mailed men stood at the entrance to the copse,gazing in with curious glances.

  Behind them were men with flaring torches, and in their front was thestately figure of a young knight, tall and proudly poised. A red cloakand fur tippet were cast over his shining corselet.

  This young man had a broad brow under his hanging hair, and grave,piercing eyes, which passed over Dickon as mere clay, and fastened ashrewd gaze on the lad in velvet.

  "It is the German gift-tree," he said to those behind him, whom Dickonsaw now to be gentles and no common soldiers. "I have heard oft ofthis, but looked not to see it first in Shropshire. What do you here?"he asked at Dickon, rather than of him, and with such a flash of sharp,commanding eyes that the lad's tongue thickened, and he could make noanswer.

  Andreas it was who spoke, when words failed Dickon, in a voice firmerthan before, and lifting himself on his elbow.

  "He saved my life, my
lord," he said. "And I am dying, I think, andthis tree the good fellow tricked out to please my sick fancy. And Ipray you, for a dead lad's sake, have a care for him when I am gone."

  The knight, with the promise of a smile on his straight lips, lookedfrom eager, fragile Andreas to burly, hang-dog Dickon, and back again.

  "Art from the German countries?" he asked. "And how here, of all spotsunder the sky?"

  "I am Andreas Mayer, from Augsburg," said the lad, "driven hence byrobbers from the house of Sir John Camber, who was slain along with mygood master, Geraldus Hansenius."

  The young knight took a hasty step forward, and peered down upon thelad.

  "Geraldus of the types and press--the printer?" he asked hurriedly."And thou art skilled in his craft?"

  "This is even more my handiwork than his," replied Andreas, with aboy's pride, reaching out for the casket containing his beloved"Troilus."

  Dickon undid the cover, and handed out the volume to the young noble,who took it with a swift gesture, and turned over here and there apage, bending the book to the firelight and uttering exclamations ofdelight. Suddenly he closed the book, and gave it back to Dickon toreplace in the casket.

  "I thank thee, Sir Francis," he said to one of those behind him. "Butfor thy wonder at the lights in yon tree, we had passed this treasureby. Ho there, Poynter! Fashion me a litter on the moment, and we willbear this lad onward to the abbey as we go. Let some one ride on to sayI am belated; hasten the others."

  Then he took the precious volume from its casket once more, and musedupon its pages again, and spoke of them to the gentlemen closest behindhim. Again and again he put pointed questions to young Andreas upon themethod of their making.

  "Thou hast heard of Master Caxton?" he asked the German boy.

  "Aye, he of Bruges, and I have seen his work. Geraldus did as fair."

  "Thou shalt help Caxton, then, to do fairer still. He is of Bruges nolonger, saints be praised, but practises his good craft in his ownnative England now this two months syne at my own house in Westminster;and he will fall upon thy neck in joy when I do bring thee to him."

  The boy's eyes sparkled with elation. Forgetting his weakness, he satupright.

  "I would not be over-bold," he said, "but with these mine hands have Iheld proofs for the Emperor to read from, and there is none of higherstate in this thy island of a surety. Art thou the duke of theseparts?"

  "Rather a duke who fain would be of all parts," the young knightanswered, and then smiled to note that the quip was lost upon theforeign lad. He made a little movement of his hand to signify that hewould be no longer unknown, and one of the others informed thequestioner.

  "It is his Grace of Gloster--our good King's brother--who honors youwith his princely favor."

  Some archers bore in a bed of boughs at this, over which the Prince,still smiling, spread his own red cloak, jewelled collar and all. Toanother he gave the casket with the book.

  "I keep my Christmas at the house of holy St. Bernard, down thevalley," he said, as the men lifted Andreas gently into the litter, andfolded the royal robe about his slender form. "Sobeit thou gaineststrength there, in warm bed and cheerful care, shalt ride to Londonwith me."

  So, as he turned upon his heel, the torch-bearers spread themselvesforth to light his way; and after him, with much rattling of iron, armsand armor, the knights and the men with the litter pushed their way.

  Dickon stood by the declining fire, awed and struck dumb with what hadcome to pass. The brother of the King! They were bearing Andreas away,and he was left under the black winter sky with his crossbow and frozenboar and empty bottle, desolate and alone.

  He stared stupidly at the dancing torch-lights on the armor of thepassing group, with a dull ache in his breast.

  Then suddenly he heard the shrill voice of Andreas crying, "Dickon! MyDickon!"

  Dickon ran headlong forward, and stood boldly beside the litter, whichfor the moment was halted in its progress. When the Prince turned tolook back, the smith's son faced even this mighty glance upright, andwith his chin in the air. If the wrath of kings' brothers killed, thenhe would at least die beside Andreas.

  "What to-do is this?" Richard of Gloster asked, with a bending of hisbrows upon the peasant lad.

  The Prince had stopped, and with him all his cortege. Above himflickered in its final stage the last of the rush-lights on the tree.Now that he stood cloakless, one of his shoulders was revealed higherthan the other.

  "He saved my poor life, your Highness," spoke Andreas swiftly from hiscouch. "He came to Camber Dane along with the robber band, but in thepillage he bore no part, and with his own hands slew he two villainswho would have run me down, and bore me through the forest here, andgot food and drink and fire for me, and guarded my 'Troilus' there fromloss and----"

  "Whose man art thou, boy?" the Prince broke in.

  "I was Sir Watty Curdle's man," Dickon made answer, with a stumblingtongue, but bold enough mien. "But that I will be no more, but ratherdie here first."

  "Why, Sir Watty hath outstripped thee in _that_ race. I set his head upon a pole in Craven market-place this morning, and Egswith hath theKing's men in it to keep for once an honest Christmas," said thePrince, smiling grimly. "What name hast thou?"

  "No other name save Dickon."

  "Why, then, for all this doughty strife and brave work shalt haveanother atop of it," the Prince said, his shrewd, shapely young facemelting into a kindly softness. "Art a good lad to be thus sued for."

  He cast his swift glance about in instant search for some fit surname,and his eye caught the struggling taper-light upon the bough above him.

  "Thou shalt be Dickon of the Tannenbaum," he called out, so that eachmight hear, "and wear my boar's head in exchange for that other thoudidst slay, and hold thyself my man."

  Then the torches moved on again, and behind them, in their dancingshadows through the wintry wood, the Prince and knights and litterpassed; and Dickon followed to the highroad, where horses andfive-score men-at-arms were waiting, and so to the abbey before evermidnight struck.

  Seven years afterward, on bloody Bosworth field, when King Richardhewed his despairing way through the ring of steel which engirdled thepretender Richmond, and fell there dead, another Richard rode hotly athis heels, and like him was stricken to the earth.

  But life was left in this second, and for the madness of his bravery itwas spared. After he had lain a time in Leicester Abbey, to be cured ofhis wounds, he went to London, where Henry now was king instead. It wasour Dickon.

  The aged Master Caxton and Andreas Mayer, his right hand now, stoodDickon's friends at court, and it came in time to pass that he died SirRichard Tannibow, for so the English tongue framed the strange foreignword Tannenbaum. Of the properties he left behind the chief was thedomain of Egswith, where once he had been the lowliest of hinds.

  In after ages the name of the family still further changed to Tambow;but it is not likely to undergo any further shortening. Though they donot hold Egswith now, and wear no title in these later times, theTambows still bear upon their shield the fir tree and the candles, andrightfully hold their heads as high as any in all Shropshire.

  WHERE AVON INTO SEVERN FLOWS.