by John Buchan
Alastair let him brag and asked him but the one question. “How long have I been here?”
“Nineteen days,” said the gypsy. “This is now the second day of December.”
The news would have put the young man into a fever had his wits been strong enough to grasp its full meaning. As it was, he only felt hazily that things had gone very ill with him, without any impulse to take the wheel from Destiny’s hand and turn it back.
All morning he drowsed. He was not uncomfortable, for he had a bed of bracken and rushes and sufficient blankets for the mild winter weather. An old woman, the wife of the butler, brought water and bathed his head daily, and the food, which was soup or stew of game, was good and sufficient. That day for the first time he felt his strength returning, and as the hours passed restlessness grew on him. It was increased by an incident which happened in the afternoon. He was awakened from a doze by the sound of steps and voices without. Two people were walking there, and since there were interstices between the logs of the wall it was possible to overhear their conversation.
Said one, a female voice, “He left Manchester two days ago?”
“Two days ago, St Andrew’s Day,” was the reply, “and therefore a day of happy omen for a Scot.”
“So in two days he will be in D-derby.”
That stammer he would have known in the babble of a thousand tongues. The other — who could he be but her husband, and the man they spoke of but the Prince?
A hand was laid on the latch and the door shook. Then a key was inserted and the lock turned. Alastair lay very quiet, but below his eyelids he saw the oblong of light blocked by a figure. That figure turned in profile the better to look at him, and he saw a sharp nose.
“He is asleep,” said the man to his companion without. “He has been sick, for there was a sharp scuffle before he was taken, but now he is mending. Better for him, poor devil, had he died!”
“Oh, Jack, what will they do with him?”
“That is for His Highness to decide. A traitor’s death, at any rate. He may get the benefit of his French commission and be shot, or he may swing like better men in hemp.”
The other voice was quivering and anxious. “I cannot credit it. Oh, Jack, I am convinced that there is error somewhere. He may yet clear himself.”
“Tut, the man was caught in open treason, intercepting messages from the West and handing them to the Government. His lies to you prove his guilt. He professed to be hastening to the Prince, and he is taken here crouching in a wood fifty miles from his road, but conveniently near General Ligonier and the Duke of Kingston.”
The door was shut and the key turned, but not before Alastair heard what he took for a sigh.
There was no sleep for him that night. His head had cleared, his blood ran easily again, the strength had come back to his limbs, and every nerve in him was strung to a passion of anger. His fury was so great that it kept him calm. Most desperately had things miscarried. The Prince was on the threshold of the English midlands, and all these weeks Kyd and Norreys had been at their rogueries unchecked. Where were the western levies now? What devil’s noose awaited the northern army, marching into snares laid by its own professed allies? Worse, if worse were possible, the blame would be laid on him; Norreys and Kyd had so arranged it that he would pass as traitor; doubtless they had their cooked evidence in waiting. And in the dear eyes of the lady he was guilty, her gentle heart wept for his shame. At the memory of her voice, as it had made its last protest, he could have beaten his head on the ground.
His bonds had always been light — a long chain with a padlock clasping his left ankle and fastened to a joist of the hut — for his captors trusted to the strength of the walls and his frail condition. During the night he worked at this and managed so to weaken one of the links that he thought he could break it at will. But the morning brought him a bitter disappointment. Some fresh orders must have been issued, for Gypsy Ben produced new fetters of a more formidable type, which bound Alastair to a narrow radius of movement. As a make-weight he did not lock the door, but left it ajar. “You’re like me, gentleman dear,” he said; “you like the sky over you and to hear birds talking round about. I can humour you in that, if you don’t mind a shorter tether.”
It was a fine morning, the third of December, with a loud frolicking wind and clouds that sailed in convoys. In black depression of heart Alastair watched the tiny half-moon of landscape vouchsafed to him, three yards of glade, a clump of hazels, the scarred grey bole of an ancient oak. He had toiled at his bonds till every muscle was wrung, and he had not moved a link or coupling one fraction of an inch. Breathless, furious, despairing, he watched a pert robin approaching the door in jerks, when the bird rose startled at someone’s approach. Alastair, lifting dreary eyes, saw the homely countenance of Edom.
The man cried out, and stood staring.
“Guid sake, sir, is this the way of it? I heard that something ill had happened to ye, but I never jaloused this.”
Hungry eyes read the speaker’s face, and saw nothing there but honest perplexity.
“They have invented a lie,” Alastair said, “and call me a traitor. Do you believe it?”
“Havers,” said Edom cheerfully. “They never telled me that, or they’d have got the lee in their chafts. Whae said it? Yon lang wersh lad they ca’ Sir John?”
“Is your master here?”
“He’s comin’ the morn and I’m michty glad o’t. For three weeks I’ve been like a coo in an unco loan. But, Captain Maclean, sir, I’m wae for you, sittin’ sae gash and waefu’ in this auld bourock.”
Alastair’s eyes had never left Edom’s face, and suddenly his mind was made up. He resolved to trust everything to this man’s honesty.
“You can help me if you will. Can I count on you?”
“If it’s onything reasonably possible,” said the cautious Edom.
“I need friends. I want you to summon them.”
“I’ll be blithe to do that.”
“You know the country round and the inns?”
“I’ve traivelled the feck o’t on my twae feet and sampled the maist o’ the publics.”
“Then find a cross-roads which has broom on the signpost or an inn with an open eye painted under the sign. Whistle this air,” and he hummed Midwinter’s ditty.
Edom made a tolerable attempt at it. “I mind ye whustled that when we were huntit i’ the big wud. And after that?”
“Someone will come to you and ask your errand. Tell him of my plight and direct him or guide him here.”
Edom nodded, and without more ado turned and swung out for the river-bridge and the high road.
CHAPTER XIII. Journeyman John
The hours passed slowly, for Alastair was in a ferment of hope and fear, into which like lightning-flashes in a dark sky shot now and then a passion of fury, as he remembered Claudia Norreys. He had not seen her as she stood outside the hut, but he could picture the sad disillusionment of her eyes, and the quiver of her mouth as she protested against a damning truth which she yet needs must believe. Her gentle voice sounded maddeningly in his ears. He could not forecast what his fate might be, he could not think settled thoughts, he could not plan; his mind was in that helplessness in which man falls back upon prayer.
The afternoon drew to a quiet sunset. The door of the hut remained open, and through it he saw the leafless knotted limbs of the oaks, which had before been a grey tracery against the smoky brown of the scrub, fire with gold and russet. There was no sign of Edom or his friends, but that at the best he could hardly hope for till late, there was no sign of his gaoler or of any living thing — he was left alone with the open door before him, and the strict fetters on his limbs. The sun sank, the oaks grew grey again, a shiver went through the earth as the night cold descended. The open space in the door had turned to ebony dark before there was a sound of steps.
It was Ben the Gypsy, and he had two others with him, whom Alastair could not see clearly in the light of the single lantern.
The man seemed in high excitement.
“‘Tis time to be stirring, pretty gentleman,” he chirruped. “Hey for the high road and the hills in the dark o’ the moon, says I. No time for supper, neither, but there’ll be a long feast and a fine feast where you’re going. Up with him, Dick lad and Tony lad. I’m running no risks with the bonds of such a fiery fearless gentleman.”
Two stalwart followers swung him in their arms, and marched down one of the glades, the gypsy with the lanthorn dancing before, like a will-o’-the-wisp. At the foot of the slope were horses, and on one of them — a ragged shelty — they set him, undoing his leg bonds, and fastening them again under the animal’s belly. The seat was not uncomfortable, for he had his feet in stirrups of a sort, but it was impossible for him to escape. His hands they tied, and one of the party took the shelty’s bridle.
The road ran up-hill, first through woods and then in a waste of bracken and heather and scree. Black despair was Alastair’s portion. His enemies had triumphed, for even if Edom discovered some of Midwinter’s folk, they would find the hut empty, and how could they trace him by night over such trackless country? His body as well as his heart was broken, for the sudden change from the inertia of the hut made every limb ache and set his head swimming. Soon he was so weary that he lost all count of the way. Dimly he was conscious that they descended into glens and climbed again to ridges, but the growing chill and greater force of the wind told him that they were steadily rising. Presently the wrack was blown off the face of the sky, the winter regiment of stars shone out, and in their faint radiance he saw all about him the dark fields of the hills. Often he thought himself fainting. Repeatedly he would have fallen, but for the belly girth, and more than once he bowed over his horse’s neck in deep weariness. Ben the Gypsy spoke to him, but as he did not answer rode ahead, with his lantern bobbing like a ship’s riding light in a gusty harbour.
Then Alastair fell asleep, and was tortured by nightmares. Indeed all the latter part of the journey was a nightmare, sleeping and waking, for it was a steady anguish, half muffled by a sense of crazy unreality. When the party stopped at last, he came back from caverns of confused misery, and when the belly-girth was cut fell leadenly to the ground. The ride in an unnatural position had given him a violent cramp in his right leg, and the sharp pain woke him to clear consciousness. He was picked up and carried inside some building, and as he crossed the threshold had a vision of steep walls of cliff all about him.
After that he must have slept, for when he next remembered he was lying on a settle before a fire of peat and heather-roots, and, watching him through the smoke, sat Gypsy Ben, whittling a stick with a long, fine shagreen-handled knife.
“Feeling happier now?” the gypsy asked. “Soon it will be supper time and after that the soft bed and the long sleep, my darling dear. Ben’s are the kind hands.”
Something in the voice made Alastair shake off his torpor. The gypsy, as he first remembered him, had been a mischievous sneering fellow, and he had longed to wring his neck when he rode off grinning that day at the Flambury Hunt. In the hut he had been almost friendly, protesting that he bore no malice but only obeyed orders. But now — there was something bright and mad about those dark dancing eyes, something ghoulish in the soft gloating voice. Had his orders been changed? What plan of his foes was served by bringing him thus into this no-man’s-land of the hills?
“Why am I here?” he asked, and his tongue so stumbled between his dry lips that the gypsy passed him a jug of ale that was being kept warm by the fire.
“Orders, kind precious sir. Them that I obeys has changed their mind about you, and thinks you are too dear and good for this wicked, wicked world. Therefore they hands you over to Gypsy Ben, who brings you the straight way to Journeyman John.”
The other looked puzzled, and the gypsy rose and, dancing to a far end of the room, opened a large rough door like a partition in a cowshed. Instantly a great gust swept the place, driving clouds of fine dust from the hearth. A noise came from that darkness beyond the door, a steady rumbling and grinding which had been a mere undercurrent of sound when the door was shut, but now dominated the place — a sound like mill-stones working under a full press of water, joined with a curious shuddering like wind in an old garret. The gypsy stood entranced, one hand to his ear, his eyes glittering.
“That’s him we call Journeyman John. Hark to him grinding his old teeth! Ah, John, hungry again! But cheer up, there’s a fine supper a-coming.”
He shut the door as a showman shuts a cage. The light died out of his eyes, leaving only smouldering fires.
“That’s the deepest pot-hole in all the land,” he said, “and John like a scaly serpent lies coiled at the foot of it. Nothing that goes in there comes out — leastways only in threads and buttons by way of Eldingill, and that long after. There’s your bed made for you, master, and it’s Ben’s duty to tuck you in. Oh, Ben’s a kind mammy.”
The young man’s brain had been slow to grasp the fate prepared for him, but the crazy leer which accompanied the last words brought a hideous illumination, and at the same time the faintest ray of hope. The man was clearly a madman, and therefore incalculable. With a great effort Alastair steeled his heart and composed his voice.
“What of supper?” he asked. “That comes before bed in a hospitable house.”
The gypsy laughed like a magpie, high and harsh. “Supper be it!” he cried, “and a good one, for John is a generous host. Hey, Bobadilla!”
An old woman answered his cry and proceeded to lay on the table plates and glasses, a platter of bread and the end of a cheese. Presently she came back with a great dish of frizzling eggs and fried ham. The gypsy lifted the jug of ale from the fireside, and drew in a chair to the board.
“Mammy will feed her pretty chick,” he said, “for the chick’s claws are too dangerous to loose.”
Alastair’s heart had ceased fluttering, and an immense composure had settled upon him. He had even an appetite, and was able to swallow the portion of eggs and ham which the gypsy conveyed to his mouth on the end of his knife. The ale was most welcome, for his thirst was fierce, and the warmth and the spice of it recalled his bodily strength. By now he was recovering a manlier resolution. He was a soldier and had faced death often, though never in so gruesome a form. If it were the end, so let it be, but he would not abandon hope while breath was in his body. He even forced himself to a laugh.
“Tell me of this Journeyman John,” he asked. “What house is this that he lurks behind?”
“A poor farm called Pennycross, with no neighbour nearer than six miles. Goody Lugg is the farmer, a worthy widow who looks after a cow and a dozen wethers and leaves the care of John to Ben and his friends. Mighty convenient fellow is John to keep in a neighbourhood. If a girl would be quit of a love-child or a wife of a stepson they come to Ben to do their business. Ay, pretty sir, and John has had dainty meat. Listen,” and he thrust his face close to Alastair. “I have done a job or two for Lord Dash and Lord Mash — naming no names, as being against my sworn oath — when they were in trouble with petticoats no longer wanted. And before my time there was the young heir of Crokover — you’ve heard that tale. Ay, ay, the Journeyman does his work swift and clean and lasting and keeps mum!”
“Who paid you to bring me here?”
The gypsy grinned cunningly. “Since I swore no oaths and you’ll never live to peach, you shall hear. Down in Brightwell live two grey she-corbies. ‘Twas them gave Ben the office.”
“No other?”
“No other except a red-faced Scot that rides the roads like a packman. Him I have not seen for weeks, but the corbies in Brightwell work to his bidding. All three love the bright yellow gold.”
“Sir John Norreys had a part in it?”
“Nay, nay, pretty sir. Sir John, brave gentleman, was privy to your capture and imprisonment, but he knows nothing of this night’s work. He is too young and raw for so rare a thing as my John.”
“You are paid well, I fan
cy. What if I were to pay you better to let me go?”
“What you have is already mine,” said the gypsy.
“A large sum will be brought you in twelve hours if you will let me send a message, and as proof of good faith I will remain here in your power till it is paid.”
The gypsy’s eye glittered with what was not greed.
“Though you filled my hat with guineas, my darling, I would not let you go. John is hungry, for it is long since he tasted proper meat, and I have promised him that to-night he shall sup. I have whispered it in his great ear, and he has purred happily like a cat. Think you I would disappoint John? Do not fear, pretty sir. It is midwinter and the world is cold, and full of hard folks and wan cheeks and pinched bellies. But down with John there is deep sleep and it is sunny and warm, for the fires of Hell burn next door. Nay, nay, John is not the Devil, but only a cousin on the spindle side.”
In spite of his resolution Alastair felt his blood chilling as the gypsy babbled. Hope had grown very faint, for what could he do, manacled as he was, in a struggle against a lithe and powerful madman, who could call in the other companions of the night to help him? The undercurrent of sound seemed to be growing louder, and the wooden partition shook a little with the reverberation. How many minutes would pass before he was falling into that pit of echoing darkness!
“When does John sup?” he asked.
“When he calls for supper,” was the answer. “At a certain hour each night the noise of his grinding becomes louder. Hark, it is beginning now. In less than half an hour he will speak. . . . You have a ring on your finger, a pretty ring — give it to Ben that it may remind him of a happy night and a sweet gentleman.”
