The O'Ruddy: A Romance

by Stephen Crane

  CHAPTER III

  "Aye!" said Paddy, holding his jowl; "'tis what one gets for serving agentleman. 'Tis the service of a good truthful blackguard I'd belooking for, and that's true for me."

  "Be quiet and mind what I tell you," I cried to him. "I'm upliftedwith my success in England, and I won't be hearing anything from youwhile I am saying that I am one of the grandest gentlemen in all theworld. I came over here with papers--papers!" said I; and then Ibethought me that I would take the papers and wave them in my hand. Idon'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 thesepapers and wave them defiantly, exultantly, in the air. They were myinheritance and my land of promise; they were everything. I must wavethem even to the chamber, empty save for Paddy.

  When I reached for them in the proper place in my luggage they weregone. 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 yourhonour would care, since one of them is badly worn at the heel, andthe other is no better than no boot at all."

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

  "Aye," said I stupidly, "the boots! I did not mean the boots, althoughwhen you took them passes my sense of time. I mean some papers."

  "Some papers!" cried he excitedly. "Your honour never thought it wouldbe me that would steal papers? Nothing less than good cows would do mypeople, and a bit of turf now and then, but papers--"

  "Peace!" said I sombrely, and began to search my luggage thoroughlyfor my missing inheritance. But it was all to no purpose. The paperswere not there. I could not have lost them. They had been stolen. Isaw my always-flimsy inheritance melt away. I had been, I thought, onthe edge of success, but I now had nothing but my name, a successfulduel, and a few pieces of gold. I was buried in defeat.

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

  I have since been told that it is very common for people to be movedby these feelings of omen, which are invariably correct in theirparticulars; but at the time I thought it odd that I should be socertain that Forister had my papers. However, I had no time to wastein 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 furyas any noble:

  "This villain Forister! And where be he?"

  The landlord looked at me with bulging eyes. "Master Forister," hestammered. "Aye--aye--he's been agone these many hours since yourlordship 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 landlordpleaded something about his bill, and in my impatience I hurled to himall of my gold save one piece. The horses came soon enough, and Ileaped into the saddle and was away to Bath after Forister. As Igalloped out of the inn yard I heard a tumult behind me, and, lookingback, I saw three hostlers lifting hard at Paddy to raise him into thesaddle. He gave a despairing cry when he perceived me leaving him atsuch speed, but my heart was hardened to my work. I must catchForister.

  It was a dark and angry morning. The rain swept across my face, andthe wind flourished my cloak. The road, glistening steel and brown,was no better than an Irish bog for hard riding. Once I passed achaise with a flogging post-boy and steaming nags. Once I overtook afarmer 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 whichdipped 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 wasa levelled pistol.

  "Stand!" he said. "Stand!"

  I knew his meaning, but when a man has lost a documentary fortune andgiven an innkeeper all but his last guinea, he is sure to be filledwith fury at the appearance of a third and completing misfortune. Witha loud shout I drew my pistol and rode like a demon at the highwayman.He fired, but his bullet struck nothing but the flying tails of mycloak. As my horse crashed into him I struck at his pate with mypistol. An instant later we both came a mighty downfall, and when Icould get my eyes free of stars I arose and drew my sword. Thehighwayman 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 theprincipal knight of the road of all England, I would dare say, by theway 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 knightof the road with seven ballads written of me in Bristol and three inBath. Ill betide me for not minding my mother's word and staying athome this day. 'Tis all the unhappy luck of Jem Bottles. I should haveremained an honest sheep-stealer and never engaged in this dangerousand 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 sodisturbs you?"

  "'Tis not one--no," he answered gloomily; "'tis two. The travellerriding to the east before you dealt me a similar blow--may hell catchthe little black devil."

  "Black!" cried I. "Forister, for my life!"

  "He took no moment to tell me his name," responded the sullen andwounded highwayman. "He beat me out of the saddle and rode away asbrisk as a bird. I know not what my mother will say. She be for evertelling me of the danger in this trade, and here come two gentlemen inone 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 lowestate of a sheep-stealer, but now I see that happiness in this lifedoes not altogether depend upon--"

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

  "He was black, and he rode like a demon, and he handled his weaponsfinely," 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 newsfor my mother."

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

  "Come, Jem Bottles," I cried, "help me to a horse in a comrade's wayand for the sake of your mother. In another case I will leave you herea bloody corse. Come; there's a good fellow!"

  He seemed moved to help me. "Now, if there comes a well-mountedtraveller," he said, brightening, "I will gain his horse for you if Idie 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 considerablespirit. "Horses? Aye, and have I not three good nags hid behind mymother's cottage, which is less than a mile from this spot?"

  "Monsieur Jem Bottles," said I, not forgetting the French mannerswhich my father had taught me, "unless you instantly show me the wayto 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 thefirst 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 ofy
our mother. How could I think of your mother when I wouldn't know herfrom the Head of Kinsale, if it didn't happen that I know the Head ofKinsale too well to mistake it for anybody's mother?"

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

  "'Tis so serious," said I, rapping him gently on the head with thebutt of my pistol, "that if you don't instantly display a greedyactivity you will display a perfect inability to move."

  "The speeching is obscure," said he, "but the rap on the head isclear to me. Still, it was not kind of you to hit me on the same spottwice."

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

  "'Tis a regular dog's life," spoke Jem Bottles after a period ofreflection.

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

  "Come, cheer yourself, Jem Bottles," said I. "I have known a lesserruffian who was hanged until he was dry, whereas you march along thelane with nought to your discouragement but three cracks in yourcrown."

  "'Tis not the cracks in the crown," he answered moodily. "'Tis what mymother will say."

  "I had no thought that highwaymen had mothers," said I. I had resolvednow to take care of his pride, for I saw that he was bound to beconsidered a great highwayman, and I did not wish to disturb hisfeelings until I gained possession of one of the horses. But now hegrew as indignant as he dared.

  "Mother? Mother, sir? Do you think me an illegitimate child? I say toyou flat in your face, even if you kill me the next instant, that Ihave a mother. Perchance I am not of the lofty gentry who go aboutbeating honest highwaymen to the earth, but I repulse with scorn anyman's suggestion that I am illegitimate. In a quarter of an hour youshall see my mother for yourself."

  "Peace, Jem Bottles," said I soothingly. "I took no thought of such athing. I would be thinking only of the ballads, and how honourable itis that a gallant and dashing life should be celebrated in song. I,for certain, have never done anything to make a pothouse ring with myname, and I liken you to the knights of olden days who tilted in allsimple fair bravery without being able to wager a brass farthing as towho was right and who was wrong. Admirable Jem Bottles," I criedenthusiastically, "tell me, if you will, of your glories; tell me withyour own tongue, so that when I hear the ballads waxing furious withpraise of you, I shall recall the time I marched with your historicperson."

  "My beginning was without pretence," said the highwayman. "LittleSusan, daughter of Farmer Hants, was crossing the fields with a basketof eggs. I, a masked figure, sprang out at her from a thicket. Iseized the basket. She screamed. There was a frightful tumult. But inthe end I bore away this basket of eight eggs, creeping stealthilythrough the wood. The next day Farmer Hants met me. He had a longwhip. There was a frightful tumult. But he little knew that he waslaying with his whip the foundation of a career so illustrious. For atime 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 Iresolved 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. Hearingsongs 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 thedarkness, and a moment later Jem Bottles was knocking at the door. Itwas immediately opened, and he stalked in with his blood-marks stillupon his face. There was a great outcry in a feminine voice, and alarge woman rushed forward and flung her arms about the highwayman.

  "Oh, Jemmie, my son, my son!" she screamed, "whatever have they doneto ye this time?"

  "Silence, mother dear," said Bottles. "'Tis nought but a wind-brokenbough fallen on my head. Have you no manners? Do you not see thegentleman waiting to enter and warm himself?"

  The woman turned upon me, alarmed, but fiery and defiant. After amoment's scrutiny she demanded:

  "Oh, ho, and the gentleman had nought to do of course with my Jem'sbroken head?"

  "'Tis a priest but newly arrived from his native island of Asia," saidBottles piously; "and it ill beseems you, mother dear, to be hagglingwhen you might be getting the holy man and I some supper."

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

  "I can truthfully say that I do not, Dame Bottles," said I, with oneof my father's French bows. She was immensely pleased. Any woman mayfall a victim to a limber, manly, and courteous bow.

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

  "You may think it strange, sir," said Dame Bottles with somehousewifely embarrassment, "that a highwayman of such distinction thathe 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 itstrange, sir, that a highwayman of such distinction that he has hadwritten of him in Bristol seven ballads, and in Bath three, is yetobliged to sit down to a supper of plum-stew and bread."

  "Where is the rest of that cheese I took on last Michaelmas?" demandedBottles suddenly.

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

  "So I did, mother dear," assented the highwayman, "and I regret nowthat I let no less than three cheeses pass me on the highway because Ithought we had plenty at home."

  "If you let anything pass on the road because you do not lack it atthe moment, you will ultimately die of starvation, Jemmie dear," quoththe mother. "How often have I told you?"

  "Aye," he answered somewhat irritably, "you also often have told me totake snuff-boxes."

  "And was I at fault," she retorted, "because the cheating avarice ofthe merchants led them to make sinful, paltry snuff-boxes that weremere pictures of the good old gold and silver? Was it my mischief? Orwas it the mischief of the plotting swineherds who now find it totheir interest to deal in base and imitative metals?"

  "Peace, my mother," said the highwayman. "The gentleman here has notthe same interest in snuff-boxes which moves us to loud speech."

  "True," said Dame Bottles, "and I readily wish that my Jemmie had noreason to care if snuff-boxes were made from cabbage-leaves."

  I had been turning a scheme in my mind, and here I thought I saw myopportunity to introduce it. "Dame Bottles," said I, "your words fitwell with the plan which has brought me here to your house. Know you,then, that I am a nobleman--"

  "Alack, poor Jemmie!" cried the woman, raising her hands.

  "No," said I, "I am not a nobleman rampant. I am a nobleman introuble, and I need the services of your son, for which I will rewardhim with such richness that he will not care if they make snuff-boxesout of water or wind. I am in pursuit of a man--"

  "The little black man," cried the alert Bottles.

  "And I want your son to ride with me to catch this thief. He neednever pass through the shadow of the creeping, clanking tree. He willbe on an honest hunt to recover a great property. Give him to me. Givehim fourteen guineas from his store, and bid us mount his horses andaway. Save your son!"

  The old woman burst into tears. "Sir," she answered, "I know little ofyou, but, as near as I can see in the light of this one candle, youare a hangel. Take my boy! Treat him as you would your own stepson,a
nd if snuff-boxes ever get better I will let you both hear of it."

  Less than an hour later Jem Bottles and I were off for Bath, ridingtwo very good horses.