by John Buchan
“Not a word. I’ll take my chance of finding her at home. Here’s something for you to quench your thirst with.”
Pitten pocketed a shilling with loud expressions of good-will, and Nanty continued his walk till he found a lane which enabled him to double back and reach the market-place. He entered the inn in a state of high excitement, to find Jock and Bob languidly playing cards with a dirty pack they had borrowed from the landlord. Nanty locked the door behind him.
“Wonders will never cease,” he cried. “The kingdom of Fife has decanted itself into the Fens. What do you think I met in the street but Pitten, Miss Evandale’s butler? Miss Evandale and her aunt are staying at a house only five miles off.”
Nanty had expected, and feared, that Jock’s face would fall, and that he would resume the part of the wounded and desperate lover. Instead he received the news with extreme composure.
“There’s nothing wonderful in that. Miss Georgie told us at Berwick, you remember, that they had a visit to pay before going to town.”
“I have other news, tremendous news. I have found the Merry Mouth.”
This brought Jock to his feet.
“It’s not a mile from the gates of Landbeach, the house where Miss Evandale is staying. About five miles from here.”
“The Lord be thanked!” Jock cried. “This makes me feel solemn. A word on the top of Cheviot — a name overheard from yon blackguard Purdey — and here without a false start we are hot on the scent. But the next step, Nanty Lammas? That’s the puzzler. Tell me your notion of the logic of it, my wise professor.”
“Here’s the logic of it. On Thursday, when every man, woman and child will be drawn to Fenny Horton and will be slow in returning, Cranmer has arranged his villainy. He has Winfortune and Sloan with him, and the man they call Aymer, and I do not know how many more of his London sewer-rats. Some of them are probably now hanging about the Merry Mouth, and Cranmer himself will arrive presently from Norfolk — Cranmer and his wife. It is a long road, and I do not think they will come before Thursday. That day, in the evening doubtless or the early night, Mr Perceval will appear, summoned by his ward. The stage is prettily set for a quiet murder, of which the lady will be permitted to bear the guilt. No doubt in her house of Overy, and in the Government’s pigeon-holes, there is ample damnifying evidence. That is the first proposition in the syllogism. The second is that we are here to prevent it, to save the life of the Prime Minister and to rescue the lady from an intolerable servitude.”
“So far the court is with you,” said Jock. “But the third proposition, Nanty lad? That’s the rub. How the deuce is it to be done?”
“Let us set out our assets. We are three against a multitude, so nothing is to be done by our frail strength. We are opposed to a subtle brain, so we are not likely to succeed by guile. There is no help to be got from the countryside, which that day will be an empty barrel. We cannot appeal to the authorities of the shire, even if we knew where to find them, for we have no credentials and would not be believed. . . . Ergo, we must add to our forces. In Norfolk, if God has been kind, there is now, or will presently be, the crew of the Merry Mouth — four men, two of whom are as resourceful as Ulysses. With their help we might do much, for Eben is a master of wiles, and Sir Turnour is as formidable as any man in England. But Overy is sixty miles distant by the shortest road, and we have sixty hours to spare — not more. Read me that riddle, Jock, and I’ll take off my hat to your wits. We’re confronted with the eternal categories of space and time that have always puzzled philosophers.
“It cannot be done,” was the doleful answer. “We’re like three pigeons purposing to attack a colony of eagles, and without a weapon among the lot of us.”
Bob put his hand through his tow-like locks.
“Wait on, sirs. Sir Turnour is a great man for horses, and if he kent where the Merry Mouth was he’d drive like Jehu. Norfolk is his ain countryside, and his word there gangs far. Now the way I look at the thing is this. If he gets to Overy while Cranmer is still there, there’ll be a bloody battle, and whatever comes o’t Cranmer’s ither plan will be knocked endways. If he finds at Overy that Cranmer has gone, he’ll follow him like a hound-dog — make your book for that. I ken the teuch breed o’ him. Keep in mind that Cranmer has nae suspicion o’ our whereabouts — doesna ken that he’s followed. Now my dread is that Cranmer will hae ower big a start, and may get here and work his will lang or Sir Turnour meets up wi’ him. From what I mind o’ this countryside there’s queer jinkin’ roads atween here and Norfolk. Our first job therefore is to get word to Sir Turnour about the Merry Mouth inn.”
Bob took a pull at a mug of ale, for he was not accustomed to long speeches.
“It a’ depends on Eben. There’s one thing certain, that whatever road Cranmer rides and Sir Turnour follows, it will be through the burgh-town they ca’ King’s Lynn. Now we maun try and read Eben’s mind. I had word wi’ him afore we started and we made this plan. Sir Turnour will no delay at Overy, but tak the road as soon as he can get beasts. Eben will follow in the cutter, and if this wind holds — as there’s every sign it will — he’ll be at Lynn afore him. If we can get word to Eben there I’ll no say but what we’ll hae Cranmer beat.”
“But it’s forty miles to Lynn,” said Jock. “I asked the landlord. Four hours by the fastest coach.”
“We can spare four hours — maybe six — maybe ten,” said Bob. “Onyway, I’m for tryin’.”
“By water?”
“Water!” Bob cried. “Nae fears. If I were aside the sea it’s water I would try, for it’s the thing I ken. But here amang thae fen slodgers ye’d be a week working a wherry down the dykes, and there’s no open water till ye get to Lynn and the lamentable sea they ca’ the Wash. We o’ the Free Fishers have aye been guid friends wi’ the fenmen, and I’ve but to speak a certain word doun by ane o’ their watersides to get a’ the help I want. But there’s nought the fen camels — that’s the name we gie them, for they gang on stilts — there’s nought they can dae to help. They’re a douce folk, and a sure folk, but they’re no a speedy folk. Na, na, there’s just the one thing for us. We maun put our trust in horses, as the Bible says. We maun be off to Lynn afore the darkenin’, and tak our chance o’ findin’ Sir Turnour and Eben there.”
“I believe you’re right,” said Nanty. “We must get a chaise and the best beasts, and Jock must force the pace. No post-boys for us. . . . But wait a minute. We cannot all go. One of us must stay here to keep an eye on the Merry Mouth. We’re like soldiers in a campaign, and while some bring up the reserves others must hold the front.”
He sunk his head in his hands and brooded.
“I have it,” he said at last. “My meeting with Pitten was providential in more ways than one. Jock, what kind of a woman is Miss Christian Evandale? Is she one to ride the ford with?”
The boy’s face clouded. “Confound you, Nanty, why do you ask me? I’m done with her — I’m done with all women. Mars for me, and Venus can go hang.”
“But is this particular Venus a kind goddess? Will a sad tale move her? Has she bowels of compassion? Above all, has she a stout heart?”
“She is a cold-blooded hussy, but she has spunk enough. Ask the Fife Hunt.”
“That’s all I want to know. If she has courage she has likely enough got the softer virtues. Here is my plan. You two leave me behind, and tomorrow I pay a visit to Landbeach Manor and ask for Miss Kirsty. I’ll see the dragon Miss Georgie, too. I’ll tell them the truth — and maybe they’ll believe me. If they do, I have got me an advanced base — how I am acquiring the military talk! — a secret base, too, within a mile of the enemy. Off the two of you go to Lynn. We’ll have up that landlord that has a name like a minor poet.”
Jock looked glum.
“I don’t like it, Nanty. I see the sense of it, but it’s leaving you to the post of danger. You’ll go snowking round the Merry Mouth and get your throat cut.”
“Not I. I’m too much of a coward. It’s the game
Bob and I played longsyne bird-nesting in the Dunnikier woods, and Bob will tell you that I’m as cautious as other folk. My joints are as supple as they were in those days, and I’ve learned more wisdom. The worse risk I run is to fall in love with Miss Kirsty.”
It was the right word. “You’re welcome to her as far as I’m concerned,” said Jock, and made no more question.
To the landlord Nanty was high and mighty, a great man giving orders and not condescending to explanations. They had altered their plans, he said. The Fisher and his trainer would set out in the evening for a place where sparring practice had been arranged. A chaise and pair of the best must be provided, and he would pay a deposit of twenty pounds for its hire, since the time of its return would be uncertain. No coachman or postboy was needed, for, as the landlord would understand, there must needs be some secrecy about their movements. He himself would spend the night at the Roman Urn, but the following night he might lodge with the Countess of Horningsea at Landbeach. Mr Blanchflower bowed at the name, and promised exact compliance; he bowed again when Nanty counted him out twenty pounds from money destined by the University of St Andrews for a very different purpose, and was given a laboriously written receipt.
After a meal, which Bob ate heartily and at which Nanty only pecked, the two set out in the early twilight. Bob, wearing a big overcoat and a mighty comforter, was again an object of interest to the crowd, who would have been more inquisitive but for Nanty’s severe face on the doorstep. For Nanty had suddenly swelled into a formidable dignity. All the consequence of professor and questor and university ambassador was now in his carriage, and something, too, of Lord Mannour’s envoy, the confidant and friend of great men. He gave his orders in a firm voice, and his eye was magisterial, so that stablemen and maids and the landlord himself ran to serve him. . . . But within he felt hollow, and his magnificence was only bravado, designed to cover a fluttering heart.
He confessed to himself that he was black afraid. He had always been — ever since he had felt the oppression of Hungrygrain, and had seen Meek’s evil squint, and had had Cranmer’s picture drawn for him. A pale face, with the heavy dark brows bent and the thin lips parted in mockery, was ever before his eyes. It ousted another face, a woman’s, on which he would have loved to muse. He had made his plan in a sudden moment of clear vision, and the making of it had given him a boyish exaltation. But now he realised that it had sent his two comrades from him and left him alone. His solitariness weighed on him like a mountain of lead. Horrid little tremors shot up his spine, and took the strength from his knees. He was alone in a very queer place, and on the morrow, still alone, he must make acquaintance with a queerer. His thoughts recoiled with a spasm of terror from the dark inn among the willows.
He sat in his room while the darkness crept in striving to bring the powers of philosophy and religion to his aid. He thought himself into a kind of resolution, but his body still played him false, for his imagination had got the better of his logic. Then he forced himself to action. This would never do. He must stir his legs and drink the air of heaven, for his trouble now was of the shrinking flesh, and lethargy would only heighten it.
The streets were more crowded than in daytime, and it seemed that many of the citizens and incomers of Fenny Horton had looked too kindly upon the bowl. Quarrelsome little groups crowded the causeway. A company of strolling acrobats had arrived, and in a corner of the market-place were performing under flaring lanterns. Nanty sought the quieter streets, and presently found himself above a pool of water where one of the fen canals opened into a basin. In the clear spring dark he could see wherries and barges drawn up by the quayside, and farther out stumpy masts. There was no sign of life except a stray dog, but in the semicircle of low-roofed houses beside the quay a bright light and a hanging sign revealed an inn. He longed for the proximity of his fellows, something to swing his thoughts from their dismal orbit. The place, judging by the sounds that came from it, was crowded, and in the then condition of the town his presence would cause no remark. He entered the taproom, and found a seat on a bench near the door.
The room was lit by two smoking lamps and a bright fire. It was crowded, and, so far as Nanty could judge, most of the occupants were of the heavy-built, sallow, fenland breed. One or two were clearly strangers — gamesters, and jockeys out of engagements, the riff-raff drawn hither by the coming fight. Beer in mugs and spirits in thick, footless glasses circulated freely by means of two slatternly maids with hair in elf-locks. It appeared that the company had drunk well, but were not drunken, for they were singing. A man would give a verse of a familiar song, and all would join in the chorus. Even the raggle-taggle sportsmen shaped their lips to some kind of noise.
Most of the songs were unfamiliar to Nanty, slow drawling ballads of the fens and the cornlands which reminded him how far he was from home. Their words he did not understand, and the tunes had none of the brisk lilt of his own land. They were heavy, earthy, placid as the fen waters. As he sipped his ale his eye roved round the company, and he remarked one man, near the fire and very clear in its light, who was different from the rest. He was tall, with a horseman’s stoop in the shoulders; he wore a frieze coat and corduroy breeches, but, plain as his clothes were, he seemed to be of a slightly higher social grade than the others; his face was lean and long, his jaw slightly underhung, and when his thin lips opened they revealed a gap in his upper teeth. Clearly he was regarded as a person of some consequence, for he had the best armchair. He sat with his head a little turned away from the company, sucking a churchwarden pipe, and staring at the fire.
Someone was mulling ale on the hearth, and the man held out his mug to be filled.
“A tune for your drink, friend,” said the muller. “Give us a catch out of the north. We’ve got Fisher Jemmy down for the championship, and there’s many as fancies him. I’ve a crown on him myself, for they tell me he has a drive like a smith’s hammer. Pipe up a tune of the Fisher’s country.”
“I’ll give you a tune of my own country,” was the answer. “I’m no lousy Scot. Here’s to the bonny hillsides and the green howms o’ Northumberland.”
He raised his mug, and broke into a brisk song with the quick-step of dancing feet in it. It was about a Lentron Fair to which all the dales gathered, a gross and merry ballad, given in a rich tenor and accompanied by the beating of time on the chair arms. The man scarcely opened his mouth as he sang, and the words must have been meaningless to the company, but the lilt of it caught their fancy and all joined lustily in the chorus.
“O the laughin’ and the daffin’ and the quaffin’” went the refrain, and Nanty, as he listened, and watched the lean weathered face, had a sudden conviction. This was one of Cranmer’s men. It must be the chief of them, Winfortune himself, for had not Tam Nickson described him as “lang and blackavised and broken-chaftit”?
“Another,” was the cry as he finished, for the quick-step had stirred the muddy company to a new vivacity. Even the slow fenmen hammered their applause.
“I’ll give you another, and then I must take the road,” said the dark man, and, looking into the fire, he hummed a little to himself and then broke into a song which was very different from his first. It had a slow sad rhythm, which died away now and then into an infinite regret.
“It’s up and farewell unto you, Spanish ladies,
It’s up and farewell to you, ladies of Spain,
For we are a-sailing beyond the bar of Cadiz,
And never, no never, we’ll come back to you again.”
The man who sang had changed his character with the song. He was no longer the rustic gloating over coarse jollities, but an old man and a sorrowful man, who had seen the glories of the world and found them ashes. He was the eternal wanderer, outside all class and rank, free of all bonds of honour and duty, but with a shrunken heart within him. As Nanty watched his passionless face and listened to the tragic passion of the voice, he wondered in what strange doings, in what strange corners of the globe, this man had
amassed this melancholy burden for his soul.
The song finished in silence. With a curt good night Winfortune pushed through the crowd and left the room. In passing his coat brushed Nanty’s cheek, and from it came the unmistakable odour of peat-smoke. Nanty paid his modest lawing and followed a minute later, and it was with squared shoulders and a brisk step that he walked back to his inn. For the chanty, which to Winfortune was the confession of his heart’s bitterness, was to him the trumpet-call of youth. The larger world called him; he was on the high-road now, far away from his dusty class-room; and if the high-road brought peril it also brought shining rewards. He had stopped thinking about Cranmer. The face that now filled the eye of his mind was a woman’s.
CHAPTER XV. How a Philosopher Laid Aside His Philosophy
Nanty wandered down a road which ran from the main highway to the little fenland boroughs of the north. He had read the names on the first milestone out of Fenny Horton — Ely, Downham, King’s Lynn; that was the road Bob and Jock had travelled the night before, and now by the grace of God they should have reached their journey’s end. He had the day before him with only one duty to fulfil, and he deliberately sauntered to quiet his nerves.
He remembered that it was the last day of April. Spring was almost past, and in this soft southern land summer had already begun. The reedy watercourses were ablaze with marsh marigolds, the wayside banks were white with marguerites, the fat pastures between the dykes were gay with daisies and buttercups—”enamelled” was the word that rose to his mind — he remembered it from Dunbar and the old Makars. At the turn of the road the sails of a huge old windmill were slowly turning, and he heard the chack-chack of the pump. Beyond like a pale green cloud lay what must be the woods of Landbeach, and somewhere on the left, where the tall trees declined to sallows and brushwood, must be the ominous inn. Larks were singing high up in the blue, and wailing lapwings skimmed the fallows. There were two hawks in the air, and the russet gleam as they turned told him that they were kites. Only once before had he seen a kite, and the sight brought back to him the bird-nesting of his childhood.
