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Puck’s Of Pools Hill
By
Rudyard Kipling
Contents
THE
KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE
THE
KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE
The
children were at the Theatre, acting to Three Cows as much as they could
remember of Midsummer Night’s Drea=
m .
Their father had made them a small play out of the big Shakespeare one, and
they had rehearsed it with him and with their mother till they could say it=
by
heart. They began where Nick Bottom the weaver comes out of the bushes with=
a
donkey’s head on his shoulder, and finds Titania, Queen of the Fairies, asl=
eep.
Then they skipped to the part where Bottom asks three little fairies to scr=
atch
his head and bring him honey, and they ended where he falls asleep in Titan=
ia’s
arms. Dan was Puck and Nick Bottom, as well as all three Fairies. He wore a
pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck, and a paper donkey’s head out of a Christm=
as
cracker—but it tore if you were not careful—for Bottom. Una was Titania, wi=
th a
wreath of columbines and a foxglove wand.
The Theatre lay in a meadow called the Long Sl=
ip.
A little mill-stream, carrying water to a mill two or three fields away, be=
nt
round one corner of it, and in the middle of the bend lay a large old fairy
Ring of darkened grass, which was their stage. The mill-stream banks, overg=
rown
with willow, hazel, and guelder rose made convenient places to wait in till
your turn came; and a grown-up who had seen it said that Shakespeare himself
could not have imagined a more suitable setting for his play. They were not=
, of
course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night itself, but they went down after =
tea
on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows were growing, and they took their supper=
—hard-boiled
eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits, and salt in an envelope—with them. Three Cows h=
ad
been milked and were grazing steadily with a tearing noise that one could h=
ear
all down the meadow; and the noise of the mill at work sounded like bare fe=
et
running on hard ground. A cuckoo sat on a gatepost singing his broken June
tune, ‘cuckoo-cuk,’ while a busy kingfisher crossed from the mill-stream to=
the
brook which ran on the other side of the meadow. Everything else was a sort=
of
thick, sleepy stillness smelling of meadow-sweet and dry grass.
Their play went beautifully. Dan remembered all
his parts—Puck, Bottom, and the three Fairies—and Una never forgot a word of
Titania—not even the difficult piece where she tells the Fairies how to feed
Bottom with ‘apricocks, ripe figs, and dewberries,’ and all the lines end in
‘ies.’ They were both so pleased that they acted it three times over from b=
eginning
to end before they sat down in the unthistly centre of the Ring to eat eggs=
and
Bath Olivers. This was when they heard a whistle among the alders on the ba=
nk,
and they jumped.
The bushes parted. In the very spot where Dan =
had
stood as Puck they saw a small, brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person
with a snub nose, slanting blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his
freckled face. He shaded his forehead as though he were watching Quince, Sn=
out,
Bottom, and the others rehearsing =
Pyramus and
Thisbe , and, in a voice as deep as Three Cows asking to be milked, he bega=
n:
‘What
hempen homespuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of our fairy Queen?’=
He stopped, hollowed one hand round his ear, a=
nd,
with a wicked twinkle in his eye, went on:
‘Wha=
t a
play toward? I’ll be auditor, An =
actor
too, perhaps, if I see cause.’
The children looked and gasped. The small thin=
g—he
was no taller than Dan’s shoulder—stepped quietly into the Ring.
‘I’m rather out of practice,’ said he; ‘but th=
at’s
the way my part ought to be played.’
Still the children stared at him—from his dark
blue cap, like a big columbine flower, to his bare, hairy feet. At last he
laughed.
‘Please don’t look like that. It isn’t my fault. What else could you expect?’ he s=
aid.
‘We didn’t expect any one,’ Dan answered, slow=
ly.
‘This is our field.’
‘Is it?’ said their visitor, sitting down. ‘Th=
en
what on Human Earth made you act M=
idsummer
Night’s Dream three times over, on Midsummer Eve, in the
middle of a Ring, and under—right =
under one of my oldest hills in Old England? P=
ook’s
Hill—Puck’s Hill—Puck’s Hill—Pook’s Hill! It’s as plain as the nose on my
face.’
He pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of
Pook’s Hill that runs up from the far side of the mill-stream to a dark woo=
d.
Beyond that wood the ground rises and rises for five hundred feet, till at =
last
you climb out on the bare top of Beacon Hill, to look over the Pevensey Lev=
els
and the Channel and half the naked South Downs.
‘By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!’ he cried, still
laughing. ‘If this had happened a few hundred years ago you’d have had all =
the
People of the Hills out like bees in June!’
‘We didn’t know it was wrong,’ said Dan.
‘Wrong!’ The little fellow shook with laughter.
‘Indeed, it isn’t wrong. You’ve done something that Kings and Knights and
Scholars in old days would have given their crowns and spurs and books to f=
ind
out. If Merlin himself had helped you, you couldn’t have managed better! Yo=
u’ve
broken the Hills—you’ve broken the Hills! It hasn’t happened in a thousand =
years.’
‘We—we didn’t mean to,’ said Una.
‘Of course you didn’t! That’s just why you did=
it.
Unluckily the Hills are empty now, and all the People of the Hills are gone.
I’m the only one left. I’m Puck, the oldest Old Thing in England, very much=
at
your service if—if you care to have anything to do with me. If you don’t, of
course you’ve only to say so, and I’ll go.’
He looked at the children and the children loo=
ked
at him for quite half a minute. His eyes did not twinkle any more. They were
very kind, and there was the beginning of a good smile on his lips.
Una put out her hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘We
like you.’
‘Have a Bath Oliver,’ said Dan, and he passed =
over
the squashy envelope with the eggs.
‘By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!’ cried Puck, taking o=
ff
his blue cap, ‘I like you too. Sprinkle a little salt on the biscuit, Dan, =
and
I’ll eat it with you. That’ll show you the sort of person I am. Some of us’=
—he
went on, with his mouth full—‘couldn’t abide Salt, or Horseshoes over a doo=
r,
or Mountain-ash berries, or Running Water, or Cold Iron, or the sound of Ch=
urch
Bells. But I’m Puck!’
He brushed the crumbs carefully from his doubl=
et
and shook hands.
‘We always said, Dan and I,’ Una stammered, ‘t=
hat
if it ever happened we’d know ex-actly what to do; but—but now it seems all
different somehow.’
‘She means meeting a fairy,’ said Dan. ‘ I
‘I did,’ said Una. ‘At least, I sort of half
believed till we learned “Farewell Rewards.” Do you know “Farewell Rewards =
and
Fairies”?’
‘Do you mean this?’ said Puck. He threw his big
head back and began at the second line:—
‘G=
ood
housewives now may say, For now f=
oul
sluts in dairies Do fare as wel=
l as
they; For though they sweep their
hearths no less
(‘Join in, Una!’)
Th=
an
maids were wont to do, Yet who of=
late
for cleanliness Finds sixpence =
in her
shoe?’
The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow.<= o:p>
‘Of course I know it,’ he said.
‘And then there’s the verse about the Rings,’ =
said
Dan. ‘When I was little it always made me feel unhappy in my inside.’
‘“Witness those rings and roundelays,” do you
mean?’ boomed Puck, with a voice like a great church organ.
‘Of
theirs which yet remain, Were foo=
ted in
Queen Mary’s days On many a gra=
ssy
plain. But since of late Elizabet=
h, And later James came in, Are never seen on any heath As when the time hath been.
‘It’s some time since I heard that sung, but
there’s no good beating about the bush: it’s true. The People of the Hills =
have
all left. I saw them come into Old England and I saw them go. Giants, troll=
s,
kelpies, brownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water spirits; hea=
th-people,
hill-watchers, treasure-guards, good people, little people, pishogues,
leprechauns, night-riders, pixies, nixies, gnomes and the rest—gone, all go=
ne!
I came into England with Oak, Ash, and Thorn, and when Oak, Ash, and Thorn =
are
gone I shall go too.’
Dan looked round the meadow—at Una’s oak by the
lower gate, at the line of ash trees that overhang Otter Pool where the
mill-stream spills over when the mill does not need it, and at the gnarled =
old
white-thorn where Three Cows scratched their necks.
‘It’s all right,’ he said; and added, ‘I’m
planting a lot of acorns this autumn too.’
‘Then aren’t you most awfully old?’ said Una.<= o:p>
‘Not old—fairly long-lived, as folk say
hereabouts. Let me see—my friends used to set my dish of cream for me o’ ni=
ghts
when Stonehenge was new. Yes, before the Flint Men made the Dewpond under
Chanctonbury Ring.’
Una clasped her hands, cried ‘Oh!’ and nodded =
her
head.
‘She’s thought a plan,’ Dan explained. ‘She al=
ways
does like that when she thinks a plan.’
‘I was thinking—suppose we saved some of our
porridge and put it in the attic for you. They’d notice if we left it in the
nursery.’
‘Schoolroom,’ said Dan, quickly, and Una flush=
ed,
because they had made a solemn treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom
the nursery any more.
‘Bless your heart o’ gold!’ said Puck. ‘You’ll
make a fine considering wench some market-day. I really don’t want you to p=
ut
out a bowl for me; but if ever I need a bite, be sure I’ll tell you.’
He stretched himself at length on the dry gras=
s,
and the children stretched out beside him, their bare legs waving happily in
the air. They felt they could not be afraid of him any more than of their
particular friend old Hobden, the hedger. He did not bother them with grown=
-up questions,
or laugh at the donkey’s head, but lay and smiled to himself in the most
sensible way.
‘Have you a knife on you?’ he said at last.
Dan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor kni=
fe,
and Puck began to carve out a piece of turf from the centre of the Ring.
‘What’s that for—Magic?’ said Una, as he press=
ed
up the square of chocolate loam that cut like so much cheese.
‘One of my little Magics,’ he answered, and cut
another. ‘You see, I can’t let you into the Hills because the People of the
Hills have gone; but if you care to take seizin from me, I may be able to s=
how
you something out of the common here on Human Earth. You certainly deserve =
it.’
‘What’s taking seizin?’ said Dan, cautiously.<= o:p>
‘It’s an old custom the people had when they
bought and sold land. They used to cut out a clod and hand it over to the
buyer, and you weren’t lawfully seized of your land—it didn’t really belong=
to
you—till the other fellow had actually given you a piece of it—like this.’ =
He
held out the turves.
‘But it’s our own meadow,’ said Dan, drawing b=
ack.
‘Are you going to magic it away?’
Puck laughed. ‘I know it’s your meadow, but
there’s a great deal more in it than you or your father ever guessed. Try!’=
He turned his eyes on Una.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said. Dan followed her examp=
le
at once.
‘Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed=
of
all Old England,’ began Puck, in a sing-song voice. ‘By Right of Oak, Ash, =
and
Thorn are you free to come and go and look and know where I shall show or b=
est
you please. You shall see What you shall see and you shall hear What you sh=
all
hear, though It shall have happened three thousand year; and you shall know=
neither
Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold fast all I give you.’
The children shut their eyes, but nothing
happened.
‘Well?’ said Una, disappointedly opening them.=
‘I
thought there would be dragons.’
‘Though It shall have happened three thousand
year,’ said Puck, and counted on his fingers. ‘No; I’m afraid there were no
dragons three thousand years ago.’
‘But there hasn’t happened anything at all,’ s=
aid
Dan.
‘Wait awhile,’ said Puck. ‘You don’t grow an o=
ak
in a year—and Old England’s older than twenty oaks. Let’s sit down again and
think. I can do that for a century at a time.’
‘Ah, but you are a fairy,’ said Dan.
‘Have you ever heard me use that word yet?’ sa=
id
Puck, quickly.
‘No. You talk about “the People of the Hills,”=
but
you never say “fairies,”’ said Una. ‘I was wondering at that. Don’t you like
it?’
‘How would you like to be called “mortal” or
“human being” all the time?’ said Puck; ‘or “son of Adam” or “daughter of
Eve”?’
‘I shouldn’t like it at all,’ said Dan. ‘That’s
how the Djinns and Afrits talk in the Arabian
Nights .’
‘And that’s how I feel
about saying—that word that I don’t say. Besides, what you call them are made-up things the People of the Hil=
ls
have never heard of—little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze pettico=
ats,
and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a schoolteacher’s cane for p=
unishing
bad boys and rewarding good ones. =
I know ’em!’
‘We don’t mean that sort,’ said Dan. ‘We hate =
’em
too.’
‘Exactly,’ said Puck. ‘Can you wonder that the
People of the Hills don’t care to be confused with that painty-winged,
wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings,
indeed! I’ve seen Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off from Tinta=
gel
Castle for Hy-Brasil in the teeth of a sou’-westerly gale, with the spray
flying all over the castle, and the Horses of the Hill wild with fright. Ou=
t they’d
go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back they’d be driven five good mil=
es
inland before they could come head to wind again. Butterfly-wings! It was
Magic—Magic as black as Merlin could make it, and the whole sea was green f=
ire
and white foam with singing mermaids in it. And the Horses of the Hill pick=
ed
their way from one wave to another by the lightning flashes! That was how it was in the old days!’
‘Splendid,’ said Dan, but Una shuddered.
‘I’m glad they’re gone, then; but what made th=
e People
of the Hills go away?’ Una asked.
‘Different things. I’ll tell you one of them s=
ome
day—the thing that made the biggest flit of any,’ said Puck. ‘But they didn=
’t
all flit at once. They dropped off, one by one, through the centuries. Most=
of
them were foreigners who couldn’t stand our climate. They flitted early.’
‘How early?’ said Dan.
‘A couple of thousand years or more. The fact =
is
they began as Gods. The Phœnicians brought some over when they came to buy =
tin;
and the Gauls, and the Jutes, and the Danes, and the Frisians, and the Angl=
es
brought more when they landed. They were always landing in those days, or b=
eing
driven back to their ships, and they always brought their Gods with them.
England is a bad country for Gods. Now, <=
/span>I
began as I mean to go on. A bowl o=
f porridge,
a dish of milk, and a little quiet fun with the country folk in the lanes w=
as
enough for me then, as it is now. I belong here, you see, and I have been m=
ixed
up with people all my days. But most of the others insisted on being Gods, =
and
having temples, and altars, and priests, and sacrifices of their own.’
‘People burned in wicker baskets?’ said Dan. ‘=
Like
Miss Blake tells us about?’
‘All sorts of sacrifices,’ said Puck. ‘If it
wasn’t men, it was horses, or cattle, or pigs, or metheglin—that’s a sticky,
sweet sort of beer. I never liked it. They were a stiff-necked,
extravagant set of idols, the Old Things. But what was the result? Men don’t
like being sacrificed at the best of times; they don’t even like sacrificing
their farm-horses. After a while men simply left the Old Things alone, and =
the
roofs of their temples fell in, and the Old Things had to scuttle out and p=
ick
up a living as they could. Some of them took to hanging about trees, and hi=
ding
in graves and groaning o’ nights. If they groaned loud enough and long enou=
gh
they might frighten a poor countryman into sacrificing a hen, or leaving a
pound of butter for them. I remember one Goddess called Belisama. She becam=
e a
common wet water-spirit somewhere in Lancashire. And there were hundreds of
other friends of mine. First they were Gods. Then they were People of the
Hills, and then they flitted to other places because they couldn’t get on w=
ith
the English for one reason or another. There was only one Old Thing, I reme=
mber,
who honestly worked for his living after he came down in the world. He was
called Weland, and he was a smith to some Gods. I’ve forgotten their names,=
but
he used to make them swords and spears. I think he claimed kin with Thor of=
the
Scandinavians.’
‘ Heroes of Asgard Thor?’ said Una. She had been reading the
book.
‘Perhaps,’ answered Puck. ‘None the less, when=
bad
times came, he didn’t beg or steal. He worked; and I was lucky enough to be
able to do him a good turn.’
‘Tell us about it,’ said Dan. ‘I think I like
hearing of Old Things.’
They rearranged themselves comfortably, each
chewing a grass stem. Puck propped himself on one strong arm and went on:
‘Let’s think! I met Weland first on a November
afternoon in a sleet storm, on Pevensey Level——’
‘Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?’ Dan point=
ed
south.
‘Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, righ=
t up
to Horsebridge and Hydeneye. I was on Beacon Hill—they called it Brunanburgh
then—when I saw the pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down to
look. Some pirates—I think they must have been Peofn’s men—were burning a
village on the Levels, and Weland’s image—a big, black wooden thing with am=
ber
beads round its neck—lay in the bows of a black thirty-two-oar galley that =
they
had just beached. Bitter cold it was! There were icicles hanging from her d=
eck,
and the oars were glazed over with ice, and there was ice on Weland’s lips.
When he saw me he began a long chant in his own tongue, telling me how he w=
as
going to rule England, and how I should smell the smoke of his altars from
Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. I didn’t care! I’d seen too many Gods char=
ging
into Old England to be upset about it. I let him sing himself out while his=
men
were burning the village, and then I said (I don’t know what put it into my
head), “Smith of the Gods,” I said, “the time comes when I shall meet you
plying your trade for hire by the wayside.”’
‘What did Weland say?’ said Una. ‘Was he angry=
?’
‘He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I
went away to wake up the people inland. But the pirates conquered the count=
ry,
and for centuries Weland was a most important God. He had temples
everywhere—from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said—and his
sacrifices were simply scandalous. To do him justice, he preferred horses to
men; but men or horses, I knew that presently he’d have =
to
come down in the world—like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of time—I
gave him about a thousand years—and at the end of ’em I went into one of his
temples near Andover to see how he prospered. There was his altar, and there
was his image, and there were his priests, and there were the congregation,=
and
everybody seemed quite happy, except Weland and the priests. In the old days
the congregation were unhappy until the priests had chosen their sacrifices;
and so would you have been. When the service began a prie=
st rushed
out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended to hit him on the head with a
little gilt axe, and the man fell down and pretended to die. Then everybody=
shouted:
“A sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!”’
‘And the man wasn’t really dead?’ said Una.
‘Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls’
tea-party. Then they brought out a splendid white horse, and the priest cut
some hair from its mane and tail and burned it on the altar, shouting, “A
sacrifice!” That counted the same as if a man and a horse had been killed. I
saw poor Weland’s face through the smoke, and I couldn’t help laughing. He
looked so disgusted and so hungry, and all he had to satisfy himself was a
horrid smell of burning hair. Just a dolls’ tea-party!
‘I judged it better not to say anything then
(’twouldn’t have been fair), and the next time I came to Andover, a few hun=
dred
years later, Weland and his temple were gone, and there was a Christian bis=
hop
in a Church there. None of the People of the Hills could tell me anything a=
bout
him, and I supposed that he had left England.’ Puck turned; lay on the other
elbow, and thought for a long time.
‘Let’s see,’ he said at last. ‘It must have be=
en
some few years later—a year or two before the Conquest, I think—that I came
back to Pook’s Hill here, and one evening I heard old Hobden talking about
Weland’s Ford.’
‘If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he’s only
seventy-two. He told me so himself,’ said Dan. ‘He’s a intimate friend of
ours.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Puck replied. ‘I meant o=
ld
Hobden’s ninth great-grandfather. He was a free man and burned charcoal
hereabouts. I’ve known the family, father and son, so long that I get confu=
sed
sometimes. Hob of the Dene was my Hobden’s name, and he lived at the Forge
cottage. Of course, I pricked up my ears when I heard Weland mentioned, and=
I scuttled
through the woods to the Ford just beyond Bog Wood yonder.’ He jerked his h=
ead
westward, where the valley narrows between wooded hills and steep hop-field=
s.
‘Why, that’s Willingford Bridge,’ said Una. ‘W=
e go
there for walks often. There’s a kingfisher there.’
‘It was Weland’s Ford then, dear. A road led d=
own
to it from the Beacon on the top of the hill—a shocking bad road it was—and=
all
the hillside was thick, thick oak-forest, with deer in it. There was no tra=
ce
of Weland, but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding down from the Beacon
under the greenwood tree. His horse had cast a shoe in the clay, and when he
came to the Ford he dismounted, took a penny out of his purse, laid it on a
stone, tied the old horse to an oak, and called out: “Smith, Smith, here is
work for you!” Then he sat down and went to sleep. You can imagine how I felt when
I saw a white-bearded, bent old blacksmith in a leather apron creep out from
behind the oak and begin to shoe the horse. It was Weland himself. I was so
astonished that I jumped out and said: “What on Human Earth are you doing h=
ere,
Weland?”’
‘Poor Weland!’ sighed Una.
‘He pushed the long hair back from his forehead
(he didn’t recognise me at first). Then he said: “ You ought to know. You foretold it, Old Thin=
g. I’m
shoeing horses for hire. I’m not even Weland now,” he said. “They call me
Wayland-Smith.”’
‘Poor chap!’ said Dan. ‘What did you say?’
‘What could I say? He looked up, with the hors=
e’s
foot on his lap, and he said, smiling, “I remember the time when I wouldn’t
have accepted this old bag of bones as a sacrifice, and now I’m glad enough=
to
shoe him for a penny.”
‘“Isn’t there any way for you to get back to
Valhalla, or wherever you come from?” I said.
‘“I’m afraid not,” he said, rasping away at the
hoof. He had a wonderful touch with horses. The old beast was whinnying on =
his
shoulder. “You may remember that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Ti=
me
and my Power. I shall never be released till some human being truly wishes =
me
well.”
‘“Surely,” said I, “the farmer can’t do less t=
han
that. You’re shoeing the horse all round for him.”
‘“Yes,” said he, “and my nails will hold a shoe
from one full moon to the next. But farmers and Weald Clay,” said he, “are =
both
uncommon cold and sour.”
‘Would you believe it, that when that farmer w=
oke
and found his horse shod he rode away without one word of thanks? I was so
angry that I wheeled his horse right round and walked him back three miles =
to
the Beacon just to teach the old sinner politeness.’
‘Were you invisible?’ said Una. Puck nodded,
gravely.
‘The Beacon was always laid in those days read=
y to
light, in case the French landed at Pevensey; and I walked the horse about =
and
about it that lee-long summer night. The farmer thought he was bewitched—we=
ll,
he was , of course—and began to pr=
ay and
shout. I didn’t care! I was as good a Christian a=
s he
any fair-day in the County, and about four o’clock in the morning a young
novice came along from the monastery that used to stand on the top of Beacon
hill.’
‘What’s a novice?’ said Dan.
‘It really means a man who is beginning to be a
monk, but in those days people sent their sons to a monastery just the same=
as
a school. This young fellow had been to a monastery in France for a few mon=
ths
every year, and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close to his =
home
here. Hugh was his name, and he had got up to go fishing hereabouts. His pe=
ople
owned all this valley. Hugh heard the farmer shouting, and asked him what in
the world he meant. The old man spun him a wonderful tale about fairies and
goblins and witches; and I know he hadn’t seen a thing except rabbits an=
d red
deer all that night. (The People of the Hills are like otters—they don’t sh=
ow
except when they choose.) But the novice wasn’t a fool. He looked down at t=
he
horse’s feet, and saw the new shoes fastened as only Weland knew how to fas=
ten
’em. (Weland had a way of turning down the nails that folks called the Smit=
h’s
Clinch.)
‘“H’m!” said the novice. “Where did you get yo=
ur
horse shod?”
‘The farmer wouldn’t tell him at first, because
the priests never liked their people to have any dealings with the Old Thin=
gs.
At last he confessed that the Smith had done it. “What did you pay him?” sa=
id
the novice. “Penny,” said the farmer, very sulkily. “That’s less than a Chr=
istian
would have charged,” said the novice. “I hope you threw a ‘Thank you’ into =
the
bargain.” “No,” said the farmer; “Wayland-Smith’s a heathen.” “Heathen or no
heathen,” said the novice, “you took his help, and where you get help there=
you
must give thanks.” “What?” said the farmer—he was in a furious temper becau=
se I
was walking the old horse in circles all this time—“What, you young
jackanapes?” said he. “Then by your reasoning I ought to say ‘Thank you’ to
Satan if he helped me?” “Don’t roll about up there splitting reasons with m=
e,”
said the novice. “Come back to the Ford and thank the Smith, or you’ll be
sorry.”
‘Back the farmer had to go! I led the horse,
though no one saw me, and the novice walked beside us, his gown swishing
through the shiny dew and his fishing-rod across his shoulders spearwise. W=
hen
we reached the Ford again—it was five o’clock and misty still under the
oaks—the farmer simply wouldn’t say “Thank you.” He said he’d tell the Abbot
that the novice wanted him to worship heathen gods. Then Hugh the novice lo=
st
his temper. He just cried, “Out!” put his arm under the farmer’s fat leg, a=
nd
heaved him from his saddle on to the turf, and before he could rise he caug=
ht
him by the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till the farmer growle=
d, “Thank
you, Wayland-Smith.”’
‘Did Weland see all this?’ said Dan.
‘Oh, yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when = the farmer thudded on to the ground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak and said, “Ho! Smith of the Gods, I am ashamed of this rude farmer;= but for all you have done in kindness and charity to him and to others of our people, I thank you and wish you well.” Then he picked up his fishing-rod—it looked more like a tall spear than ever—and tramped off down your valley.’<= o:p>
‘And what did poor Weland do?’ said Una.
‘He laughed and cried with joy, because he had
been released at last, and could go away. But he was an honest Old Thing. He
had worked for his living and he paid his debts before he left. “I shall gi=
ve
that novice a gift,” said Weland. “A gift that shall do him good the wide w=
orld
over, and Old England after him. Blow up my fire, Old Thing, while I get th=
e iron
for my last task.” Then he made a sword—a dark grey, wavy-lined sword—and I
blew the fire while he hammered. By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, I tell you, Weland=
was
a Smith of the Gods! He cooled that sword in running water twice, and the t=
hird
time he cooled it in the evening dew, and he laid it out in the moonlight a=
nd
said Runes (that’s charms) over it, and he carved Runes of Prophecy on the
blade. “Old Thing,” he said to me, wiping his forehead, “this is the best b=
lade
that Weland ever made. Even the user will never know how good it is. Come to
the monastery.”
‘We went to the dormitory where the monks slep=
t.
We saw the novice fast asleep in his cot, and Weland put the sword into his
hand, and I remember the young fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland
strode as far as he dared into the Chapel and threw down all his
shoeing-tools—his hammer, and pincers, and rasps—to show that he had done w=
ith
them for ever. It sounded like suits of armour falling, and the sleepy monks
ran in, for they thought the monastery had been attacked by the French. The
novice came first of all, waving his new sword and shouting Saxon battle-cr=
ies.
When they saw the shoeing-tools they were very bewildered, till the novice =
asked
leave to speak, and told what he had done to the farmer, and what he had sa=
id
to Wayland-Smith, and how, though the dormitory light was burning, he had f=
ound
the wonderful rune-carved sword in his cot.
‘The Abbot shook his head at first, and then he
laughed and said to the novice: “Son Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen=
God
to show me that you will never be a monk. Take your sword, and keep your sw=
ord,
and go with your sword, and be as gentle as you are strong and courteous. We
will hang up the Smith’s tools before the Altar,” he said, “because, whatev=
er the
Smith of the Gods may have been in the old days, we know that he worked
honestly for his living and made gifts to Mother Church.” Then they went to=
bed
again, all except the novice, and he sat up in the garth playing with his
sword. Then Weland said to me by the stables: “Farewell, Old Thing; you had=
the
right of it. You saw me come to England, and you see me go. Farewell!”
‘With that he strode down the hill to the corn=
er
of the Great Woods—Woods Corner, you call it now—to the very place where he=
had
first landed—and I heard him moving through the thickets towards Horsebridge
for a little, and then he was gone. That was how it happened. I saw it.’
Both children drew a long breath.
‘But what happened to Hugh the novice?’ said U=
na.
‘And the sword?’ said Dan.
Puck looked down the meadow that lay all quiet=
and
cool in the shadow of Pook’s Hill. A corncrake jarred in a hay-field near b=
y,
and the small trouts of the brook began to jump. A big white moth flew unst=
eadily
from the alders and flapped round the children’s heads, and the least littl=
e haze
of water-mist rose from the brook.
‘Do you really want to know?’ Puck said.
‘We do,’ cried the children. ‘Awfully!’
‘Very good. I promised you that you shall see =
What
you shall see, and you shall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have
happened three thousand year; but just now it seems to me that, unless you =
go
back to the house, people will be looking for you. I’ll walk with you as fa=
r as
the gate.’
‘Will you be here when we come again?’ they as=
ked.
‘Surely, sure-ly,’ said Puck. ‘I’ve been here =
some
time already. One minute first, please.’
He gave them each three leaves—one of Oak, one=
of
Ash, and one of Thorn.
‘Bite these,’ said he. ‘Otherwise you might be
talking at home of what you’ve seen and heard, and—if I know human
beings—they’d send for the doctor. Bite!’
They bit hard, and found themselves walking si=
de
by side to the lower gate. Their father was leaning over it.
‘And how did your play go?’ he asked.
‘Oh, splendidly,’ said Dan. ‘Only afterwards, I
think, we went to sleep. It was very hot and quiet. Don’t you remember, Una=
?’
Una shook her head and said nothing.
‘I see,’ said her father.
‘Lat=
e—late
in the evening Kilmeny came home, For
Kilmeny had been she could not tell where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not
declare.
But why are you chewing leaves at your time of
life, daughter? For fun?’
‘No. It was for something, but I can’t azactly
remember,’ said Una.
And neither of them could till—
A TRE=
E SONG
Of all
the trees that grow so fair, Old
England to adorn, Greater
are none beneath the Sun, Than
Oak, and Ash, and Thorn. Sing
Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs (All
of a Midsummer morn)! Surely
we sing no little thing, In
Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Oak of the Clay lived many a day, Or ever Æneas began; Ash of the Loam was a lady at home, When Brut was an outlaw man; Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town (From which was London born); Witness hereby the ancientry Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Yew that is old in churchyard mould,
Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth Till every gust be laid, To drop a limb on the head of him, That anyway trusts her shade But whether a lad be sober or sad, Or mellow with ale from the horn, He will take no wrong when he lieth alon=
g ’Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Or he
would call it a sin; But—we
have been out in the woods all night A-conjuring
Summer in! And we
bring you news by word of mouth— <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Good
news for cattle and corn— Now is
the Sun come up from the South, With
Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs =
(All of a Midsummer morn)! England shall bide till Judgment Tide, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> By Oak, and Ash and Thorn!
They =
were
fishing, a few days later, in the bed of the brook that for centuries had c=
ut
deep into the soft valley soil. The trees closing overhead made long tunnels
through which the sunshine worked in blobs and patches. Down in the tunnels
were bars of sand and gravel, old roots and trunks covered with moss or pai=
nted
red by the irony water; foxgloves growing lean and pale towards the light;
clumps of fern and thirsty shy flowers who could not live away from moisture
and shade. In the pools you could see the wave thrown up by the trouts as t=
hey
charged hither and yon, and the pools were joined to each other—except in f=
lood
time, when all was one brown rush—by sheets of thin broken water that poured
themselves chuckling round the darkness of the next bend.
This was one of the children’s most secret
hunting-grounds, and their particular friend, old Hobden the hedger, had sh=
own
them how to use it. Except for the click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a
switch and tussle among the young ash-leaves as a line hung up for the minu=
te,
nobody in the hot pasture could have guessed what game was going on among t=
he
trouts below the banks.
‘We’s got half-a-dozen,’ said Dan, after a war=
m,
wet hour. ‘I vote we go up to Stone Bay and try Long Pool.’
Una nodded—most of her talk was by nods—and th=
ey
crept from the gloom of the tunnels towards the tiny weir that turns the br=
ook
into the mill-stream. Here the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the=
afternoon
sun on the Long Pool below the weir makes your eyes ache.
When they were in the open they nearly fell do=
wn
with astonishment. A huge grey horse, whose tail-hairs crinkled the glassy
water, was drinking in the pool, and the ripples about his muzzle flashed l=
ike
melted gold. On his back sat an old, white-haired man dressed in a loose
glimmery gown of chain-mail. He was bareheaded, and a nut-shaped iron helmet
hung at his saddle-bow. His reins were of red leather five or six inches de=
ep, scalloped
at the edges, and his high padded saddle with its red girths was held fore =
and
aft by a red leather breastband and crupper.
‘Look!’ said Una, as though Dan were not stari=
ng
his very eyes out. ‘It’s like the picture in your room—“Sir Isumbras at the
Ford.”’
The rider turned towards them, and his thin, l=
ong
face was just as sweet and gentle as that of the knight who carries the
children in that picture.
‘They should be here now, Sir Richard,’ said
Puck’s deep voice among the willow-herb.
‘They are here,’ the knight said, and he smile=
d at
Dan with the string of trouts in his hand. ‘There seems no great change in =
boys
since mine fished this water.’
‘If your horse has drunk, we shall be more at =
ease
in the Ring,’ said Puck; and he nodded to the children as though he had nev=
er
magicked away their memories the week before.
The great horse turned and hoisted himself into
the pasture with a kick and a scramble that tore the clods down rattling.
‘Your pardon!’ said Sir Richard to Dan. ‘When
these lands were mine, I never loved that mounted men should cross the brook
except by the paved ford. But my Swallow here was thirsty, and I wished to =
meet
you.’
‘We’re very glad you’ve come, sir,’ said Dan. =
‘It
doesn’t matter in the least about the banks.’
He trotted across the pasture on the sword-sid=
e of
the mighty horse, and it was a mighty iron-handled sword that swung from Sir
Richard’s belt. Una walked behind with Puck. She remembered everything now.=
‘I’m sorry about the Leaves,’ he said, ‘but it
would never have done if you had gone home and told, would it?’
‘I s’pose not,’ Una answered. ‘But you said th=
at
all the fair—People of the Hills had left England.’
‘So they have; but I told you that you should =
come
and go and look and know, didn’t I? The knight isn’t a fairy. He’s Sir Rich=
ard
Dalyngridge, a very old friend of mine. He came over with William the
Conqueror, and he wants to see you particularly.’
‘What for?’ said Una.
‘On account of your great wisdom and learning,’
Puck replied, without a twinkle.
‘Us?’ said Una. ‘Why, I don’t know my Nine
Times—not to say it dodging; and Dan makes the most awful mess of fractions. He can’t mean us !’
‘Una!’ Dan called back. ‘Sir Richard says he is
going to tell what happened to Weland’s sword. He’s got it. Isn’t it splend=
id?’
‘Nay—nay,’ said Sir Richard, dismounting as th=
ey
reached the Ring, in the bend of the mill-stream bank. ‘It is you that must
tell me, for I hear the youngest child in our England to-day is as wise as =
our
wisest clerk.’ He slipped the bit out of Swallow’s mouth, dropped the ruby-=
red
reins over his head, and the wise horse moved off to graze.
Sir Richard (they noticed he limped a little)
unslung his great sword.
‘That’s it,’ Dan whispered to Una.
‘This is the sword that Brother Hugh had from
Wayland-Smith,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Once he gave it to me, but I would not t=
ake
it; but at the last it became mine after such a fight as never christened m=
an
fought. See!’ He half drew it from its sheath and turned it before them. On
either side just below the handle, where the Runic letters shivered as thou=
gh
they were alive, were two deep gouges in the dull, deadly steel. ‘Now, what=
Thing
made those?’ said he. ‘I know not, but you, perhaps, can say.’
‘Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard,’ said Pu=
ck.
‘It concerns their land somewhat.’
‘Yes, from the very beginning,’ Una pleaded, f=
or
the knight’s good face and the smile on it more than ever reminded her of ‘=
Sir
Isumbras at the Ford.’
They settled down to listen, Sir Richard
bare-headed to the sunshine, dandling the sword in both hands, while the gr=
ey
horse cropped outside the Ring, and the helmet on the saddle-bow clinged so=
ftly
each time he jerked his head.
‘From the beginning, then,’ Sir Richard said,
‘since it concerns your land, I will tell the tale. When our Duke came out =
of
Normandy to take his England, great knights (have ye heard?) came and strove
hard to serve the Duke, because he promised them lands here, and small knig=
hts
followed the great ones. My folk in Normandy were poor; but a great knight,
Engerrard of the Eagle—Engenulf De Aquila—who was kin to my father, followed
the Earl of Mortain, who followed William the Duke, and I followed De Aquil=
a. Yes,
with thirty men-at-arms out of my father’s house and a new sword, I set out=
to
conquer England three days after I was made knight. I did not then know that
England would conquer me. We went up to Santlache with the rest—a very great
host of us.’
‘Does that mean the Battle of Hastings—Ten
Sixty-Six?’ Una whispered, and Puck nodded, so as not to interrupt.
‘At Santlache, over the hill yonder’—he pointed
south-eastward towards Fairlight—‘we found Harold’s men. We fought. At the
day’s end they ran. My men went with De Aquila’s to chase and plunder, and =
in
that chase Engerrard of the Eagle was slain, and his son Gilbert took his
banner and his men forward. This I did not know till after, for Swallow here
was cut in the flank, so I stayed to wash the wound at a brook by a thorn.
There a single Saxon cried out to me in French, and we fought together. I
should have known his voice, but we fought together. For a long time neither
had any advantage, till by pure ill-fortune his foot slipped and his sword =
flew
from his hand. Now I had but newly been made knight, and wished, above all,=
to
be courteous and fameworthy, so I forebore to strike and bade him get his s=
word
again. “A plague on my sword,” said he. “It has lost me my first fight. You
have spared my life. Take my sword.” He held it out to me, but as I stretch=
ed
my hand the sword groaned like a stricken man, and I leaped back crying,
“Sorcery!”
[The children looked at the sword as though it
might speak again.]
‘Suddenly a clump of Saxons ran out upon me an=
d,
seeing a Norman alone, would have killed me, but my Saxon cried out that I =
was
his prisoner, and beat them off. Thus, see you, he saved my life. He put me=
on
my horse and led me through the woods ten long miles to this valley.’
‘To here, d’you mean?’ said Una.
‘To this very valley. We came in by the Lower = Ford under the King’s Hill yonder’—he pointed eastward where the valley widens.<= o:p>
‘And was that Saxon Hugh the novice?’ Dan aske=
d.
‘Yes, and more than that. He had been for three
years at the monastery at Bec by Rouen, where’—Sir Richard chuckled—‘the Ab=
bot
Herluin would not suffer me to remain.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ said Dan.
‘Because I rode my horse into the refectory, w=
hen
the scholars were at meat, to show the Saxon boys we Normans were not afrai=
d of
an abbot. It was that very Saxon Hugh tempted me to do it, and we had not m=
et
since that day. I thought I knew his voice even inside my helmet, and, for =
all that
our Lords fought, we each rejoiced we had not slain the other. He walked by=
my
side, and he told me how a Heathen God, as he believed, had given him his
sword, but he said he had never heard it sing before. I remember I warned h=
im
to beware of sorcery and quick enchantments.’ Sir Richard smiled to himself=
. ‘I
was very young—very young!
‘When we came to his house here we had almost
forgotten that we had been at blows. It was near midnight, and the Great Ha=
ll
was full of men and women waiting news. There I first saw his sister, the L=
ady
Ælueva, of whom he had spoken to us in France. She cried out fiercely at me,
and would have had me hanged in that hour, but her brother said that I had
spared his life—he said not how he saved mine from his Saxons—and that our =
Duke
had won the day; and even while they wrangled over my poor body, of a sudde=
n he
fell down in a swoon from his wounds.
‘“This is =
span>thy
fault ,” said the Lady Ælueva to me, and she kneeled above him and called f=
or
wine and cloths.
‘“If I had known,” I answered, “he should have
ridden and I walked. But he set me on my horse; he made no complaint; he wa=
lked
beside me and spoke merrily throughout. I pray I have done him no harm.”
‘“Thou hast need to pray,” she said, catching =
up
her underlip. “If he dies, thou shalt hang!”
‘They bore off Hugh to his chamber; but three =
tall
men of the house bound me and set me under the beam of the Great Hall with a
rope round my neck. The end of the rope they flung over the beam, and they =
sat
them down by the fire to wait word whether Hugh lived or died. They cracked
nuts with their knife-hilts the while.’
‘And how did you feel?’ said Dan.
‘Very weary; but I did heartily pray for my
schoolmate Hugh his health. About noon I heard horses in the valley, and the
three men loosed my ropes and fled out, and De Aquila’s men rode up. Gilber=
t de
Aquila came with them, for it was his boast that, like his father, he forgo=
t no
man that served him. He was little, like his father, but terrible, with a n=
ose
like an eagle’s nose and yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall war-horses=
—roans,
which he bred himself—and he could never abide to be helped into the saddle=
. He
saw the rope hanging from the beam and laughed, and his men laughed, for I =
was
too stiff to rise.
‘“This is poor entertainment for a Norman knig=
ht,”
he said, “but, such as it is, let us be grateful. Show me, boy, to whom thou
owest most, and we will pay them out of hand.”’
‘What did he mean? To kill ’em?’ said Dan.
‘Assuredly. But I looked at the Lady Ælueva wh=
ere
she stood among her maids, and her brother beside her. De Aquila’s men had
driven them all into the Great Hall.’
‘Was she pretty?’ said Una.
‘In all my life I had never seen woman fit to
strew rushes before my Lady Ælueva,’ the knight replied, quite simply and
quietly. ‘As I looked at her I thought I might save her and her house by a
jest.
‘“Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and with=
out
warning,” said I to De Aquila, “I have no fault to find with the courtesy t=
hat
these Saxons have shown me.” But my voice shook. It is—it was not good to j=
est
with that little man.
‘All were silent awhile, till De Aquila laughe=
d.
“Look, men—a miracle!” said he. “The fight is scarce sped, my father is not=
yet
buried, and here we find our youngest knight already set down in his Manor,
while his Saxons—ye can see it in their fat faces—have paid him homage and =
service!
By the Saints,” he said, rubbing his nose, “I never thought England would b=
e so
easy won! Surely I can do no less than give the lad what he has taken. This
Manor shall be thine, boy,” he said, “till I come again, or till thou art
slain. Now, mount, men, and ride. We follow our Duke into Kent to make him =
King
of England.”
‘He drew me with him to the door while they
brought his horse—a lean roan, taller than my Swallow here, but not so well
girthed.
‘“Hark to me,” he said, fretting with his grea=
t war-gloves.
“I have given thee this Manor, which is a Saxon hornets’ nest, and I think =
thou
wilt be slain in a month—as my father was slain. Yet if thou canst keep the
roof on the hall, the thatch on the barn, and the plough in the furrow till=
I come
back, thou shalt hold the Manor from me; for the Duke has promised our Earl
Mortain all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain will give me of them what he
would have given my father. God knows if thou or I shall live till England =
is
won; but remember, boy, that here and now fighting is foolishness and”—he
reached for the reins—“craft and cunning is all.”
‘“Alas, I have no cunning,” said I.
‘“Not yet,” said he, hopping abroad, foot in
stirrup, and poking his horse in the belly with his toe. “Not yet, but I th=
ink
thou hast a good teacher. Farewell! Hold the Manor and live. Lose the Manor=
and
hang,” he said, and spurred out, his shield-straps squeaking behind him.
‘So, children, here was I, little more than a =
boy,
and Santlache fight not two days old, left alone with my thirty men-at-arms=
, in
a land I knew not, among a people whose tongue I could not speak, to hold d=
own
the land which I had taken from them.’
‘And that was here at home?’ said Una.
‘Yes, here. See! From the Upper Ford, Weland’s
Ford, to the Lower Ford, by the Belle Allée, west and east it ran half a
league. From the Beacon of Brunanburgh behind us here, south and north it r=
an a
full league—and all the woods were full of broken men from Santlache, Saxon
thieves, Norman plunderers, robbers, and deerstealers. A hornets’ nest inde=
ed!
‘When De Aquila had gone, Hugh would have than=
ked
me for saving their lives; but Lady Ælueva said that I had done it only for=
the
sake of receiving the Manor.
‘“How could I know that De Aquila would give it
me?” I said. “If I had told him I had spent my night in your halter he would
have burned the place twice over by now.”
‘“If any man had put my neck
in a rope,” she said, “I would have seen his house burned thrice over befor=
e I would
have made terms.”
‘“But it was a woman,” I said; and I laughed a=
nd
she wept and said that I mocked her in her captivity.
‘“Lady,” said I, “there is no captive in this
valley except one, and he is not a Saxon.”
‘At this she cried that I was a Norman thief, =
who
came with false, sweet words, having intended from the first to turn her ou=
t in
the fields to beg her bread. Into the fields! She had never seen the face of
war!
‘I was angry, and answered, “This much at leas=
t I
can disprove, for I swear”—and on my sword-hilt I swore it in that place—“I
swear I will never set foot in the Great Hall till the Lady Ælueva herself
shall summon me there.”
‘She went away, saying nothing, and I walked o=
ut,
and Hugh limped after me, whistling dolorously (that is a custom of the
English), and we came upon the three Saxons that had bound me. They were now
bound by my men-at-arms, and behind them stood some fifty stark and sullen
churls of the House and the Manor, waiting to see what should fall. We hear=
d De
Aquila’s trumpets blow thin through the woods Kentward.
‘“Shall we hang these?” said my men.
‘“Then my churls will fight,” said Hugh, benea=
th
his breath; but I bade him ask the three what mercy they hoped for.
‘“None,” said they all. “She bade us hang thee=
if
our master died. And we would have hanged thee. There is no more to it.”
‘As I stood doubting a woman ran down from the=
oak
wood above the King’s Hill yonder, and cried out that some Normans were dri=
ving
off the swine there.
‘“Norman or Saxon,” said I, “we must beat them
back, or they will rob us every day. Out at them with any arms ye have!” So=
I
loosed those three carles and we ran together, my men-at-arms and the Saxons
with bills and bows which they had hidden in the thatch of their huts, and =
Hugh
led them. Half-way up the King’s Hill we found a false fellow from Picardy—a
sutler that sold wine in the Duke’s camp—with a dead knight’s shield on his
arm, a stolen horse under him, and some ten or twelve wastrels at his tail,=
all
cutting and slashing at the pigs. We beat them off, and saved our pork. One
hundred and seventy pigs we saved in that great battle.’ Sir Richard laughe=
d.
‘That, then, was our first work together, and I
bade Hugh tell his folk that so would I deal with any man, knight or churl,
Norman or Saxon, who stole as much as one egg from our valley. Said he to m=
e,
riding home: “Thou hast gone far to conquer England this evening.” I answer=
ed:
“England must be thine and mine, then. Help me, Hugh, to deal aright with t=
his people.
Make them to know that if they slay me De Aquila will surely send to slay t=
hem,
and he will put a worse man in my place.” “That may well be true,” said he,=
and
gave me his hand. “Better the devil we know than the devil we know not, til=
l we
can pack you Normans home.” And so, too, said his Saxons; and they laughed =
as we
drove the pigs downhill. But I think some of them, even then, began not to =
hate
me.’
‘I like Brother Hugh,’ said Una, softly.
‘Beyond question he was the most perfect,
courteous, valiant, tender, and wise knight that ever drew breath,’ said
Richard, caressing the sword. ‘He hung up his sword—this sword—on the wall =
of
the Great Hall, because he said it was fairly mine, and never he took it do=
wn
till De Aquila returned, as I shall presently show. For three months his men
and mine guarded the valley, till all robbers and nightwalkers learned there
was nothing to get from us save hard tack and a hanging. Side by side we fo=
ught
against all who came—thrice a week sometimes we fought—against thieves and
landless knights looking for good manors. Then we were in some peace, and I
made shift by Hugh’s help to govern the valley—for all this valley of yours=
was
my Manor—as a knight should. I kept the roof on the hall and the thatch on =
the
barn, but.... The English are a bold people. His Saxons would laugh and jes=
t with
Hugh, and Hugh with them, and—this was marvellous to me—if even the meanest=
of
them said that such and such a thing was the Custom of the Manor, then
straightway would Hugh and such old men of the Manor as might be near forsa=
ke
everything else to debate the matter—I have seen them stop the mill with the
corn half ground—and if the custom or usage were proven to be as it was sai=
d,
why, that was the end of it, even though it were flat against Hugh, his wish
and command. Wonderful!’
‘Aye,’ said Puck, breaking in for the first ti=
me.
‘The Custom of Old England was here before your Norman knights came, and it
outlasted them, though they fought against it cruel.’
‘Not I,’ said Richard. ‘I let the Saxons go th=
eir
stubborn way, but when my own men-at-arms, Normans not six months in Englan=
d,
stood up and told me what was the custom of the country, then <=
/span>I
was angry. Ah, good days! Ah, wonderful people! And I loved them all.’
The knight lifted his arms as though he would =
hug
the whole dear valley, and Swallow, hearing the chink of his chain-mail, lo=
oked
up and whinnied softly.
‘At last,’ he went on, ‘after a year of strivi=
ng
and contriving and some little driving, De Aquila came to the valley, alone=
and
without warning. I saw him first at the Lower Ford, with a swine-herd’s bra=
t on
his saddle-bow.
‘“There is no need for thee to give any accoun=
t of
thy stewardship,” said he. “I have it all from the child here.” And he told=
me
how the young thing had stopped his tall horse at the Ford, by waving of a
branch, and crying that the way was barred. “And if one bold, bare babe be
enough to guard the Ford in these days, thou hast done well,” said he, and
puffed and wiped his head.
He pinched the child’s cheek, and looked at our
cattle in the flat by the brook.
‘“Both fat,” said he, rubbing his nose. “This =
is
craft and cunning such as I love. What did I tell thee when I rode away, bo=
y?”
‘“Hold the Manor or hang,” said I. I had never
forgotten it.
‘“True. And thou hast held.” He clambered from=
his
saddle and with sword’s point cut out a turf from the bank and gave it me w=
here
I kneeled.’
Dan looked at Una, and Una looked at Dan.
‘That’s seizin,’ said Puck, in a whisper.
‘“Now thou art lawfully seized of the Manor, S=
ir
Richard,” said he—’twas the first time he ever called me that—“thou and thy
heirs for ever. This must serve till the King’s clerks write out thy title =
on a
parchment. England is all ours—if we can hold it.”
‘“What service shall I pay?” I asked, and I
remember I was proud beyond words.
‘“Knight’s fee, boy, knight’s fee!” said he,
hopping round his horse on one foot. (Have I said he was little, and could =
not
endure to be helped to his saddle?) “Six mounted men or twelve archers thou
shalt send me whenever I call for them, and—where got you that corn?” said =
he,
for it was near harvest, and our corn stood well. “I have never seen such
bright straw. Send me three bags of the same seed yearly, and furthermore, =
in memory
of our last meeting—with the rope round thy neck—entertain me and my men for
two days of each year in the Great Hall of thy Manor.”
‘“Alas!” said I, “then my Manor is already
forfeit. I am under vow not to enter the Great Hall.” And I told him what I=
had
sworn to the Lady Ælueva.’
‘And hadn’t you ever been into the house since=
?’
said Una.
‘Never,’ Sir Richard answered smiling. ‘I had =
made
me a little hut of wood up the hill, and there I did justice and slept.... =
De
Aquila wheeled aside, and his shield shook on his back. “No matter, boy,” s=
aid
he. “I will remit the homage for a year.”’
‘He meant Sir Richard needn’t give him dinner
there the first year,’ Puck explained.
‘De Aquila stayed with me in the hut and Hugh,=
who
could read and write and cast accounts, showed him the roll of the Manor, in
which were written all the names of our fields and men, and he asked a thou=
sand
questions touching the land, the timber, the grazing, the mill, and the
fish-ponds, and the worth of every man in the valley. But never he named the
Lady Ælueva’s name, nor went he near the Great Hall. By night he drank with=
us in
the hut. Yes, he sat on the straw like an eagle ruffled in her feathers, his
yellow eyes rolling above the cup, and he pounced in his talk like an eagle,
swooping from one thing to another, but always binding fast. Yes; he would =
lie
still awhile, and then rustle in the straw, and speak sometimes as though he
were King William himself, and anon he would speak in parables and tales, a=
nd
if at once we saw not his meaning he would yerk us in the ribs with his
scabbarded sword.
‘“Look you, boys,” said he, “I am born out of =
my
due time. Five hundred years ago I would have made all England such an Engl=
and
as neither Dane, Saxon, nor Norman should have conquered. Five hundred years
hence I should have been such a councillor to Kings as the world hath never
dreamed of. ’Tis all here,” said he, tapping his big head, “but it hath no =
play
in this black age. Now Hugh here is a better man than thou art, Richard.” H=
e had
made his voice harsh and croaking, like a raven’s.
‘“Truth,” said I. “But for Hugh, his help and =
patience
and long-suffering, I could never have kept the Manor.”
‘“Nor thy life either,” said De Aquila. “Hugh =
has
saved thee not once, but a hundred times. Be still, Hugh!” he said. “Dost t=
hou
know, Richard, why Hugh slept, and why he still sleeps, among thy Norman
men-at-arms?”
‘“To be near me,” said I, for I thought this w=
as
truth.
‘“Fool!” said De Aquila. “It is because his Sa=
xons
have begged him to rise against thee, and to sweep every Norman out of the
valley. No matter how I know. It is truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself=
an
hostage for thy life, well knowing that if any harm befell thee from his Sa=
xons
thy Normans would slay him without remedy. And this his Saxons know. It is =
true,
Hugh?”
‘“In some sort,” said Hugh, shamefacedly; “at
least, it was true half a year ago. My Saxons would not harm Richard now. I
think they know him; but I judged it best to make sure.”
‘Look, children, what that man had done—and I =
had
never guessed it! Night after night had he lain down among my men-at-arms,
knowing that if one Saxon had lifted knife against me his life would have
answered for mine.
‘“Yes,” said De Aquila. “And he is a swordless
man.” He pointed to Hugh’s belt, for Hugh had put away his sword—did I tell
you?—the day after it flew from his hand at Santlache. He carried only the
short knife and the long-bow. “Swordless and landless art thou, Hugh; and t=
hey
call thee kin to Earl Godwin.” (Hugh was indeed of Godwin’s blood.) “The Ma=
nor
that was thine was given to this boy and to his children for ever. Sit up a=
nd
beg, for he can turn thee out like a dog, Hugh!”
‘Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth grin=
d,
and I bade De Aquila, my own overlord, hold his peace, or I would stuff his
words down his throat. Then De Aquila laughed till the tears ran down his f=
ace.
‘“I warned the King,” said he, “what would com=
e of
giving England to us Norman thieves. Here art thou, Richard, less than two =
days
confirmed in thy Manor, and already thou hast risen against thy overlord. W=
hat
shall we do to him, Sir Hugh?”
‘“I am a swordless man,” said Hugh. “Do not je=
st
with me,” and he laid his head on his knees and groaned.
‘“The greater fool thou,” said De Aquila, and =
all
his voice changed; “for I have given thee the Manor of Dallington up the hi=
ll
this half-hour since,” and he yerked at Hugh with his scabbard across the
straw.
‘“To me?” said Hugh. “I am a Saxon, and, except
that I love Richard here, I have not sworn fealty to any Norman.”
‘“In God’s good time, which because of my sins=
I
shall not live to see, there will be neither Saxon nor Norman in England,” =
said
De Aquila. “If I know men, thou art more faithful unsworn than a score of
Normans I could name. Take Dallington, and join Sir Richard to fight me
to-morrow, if it please thee!”
‘“Nay,” said Hugh. “I am no child. Where I tak=
e a
gift, there I render service”; and he put his hands between De Aquila’s, and
swore to be faithful, and, as I remember, I kissed him, and De Aquila kisse=
d us
both.
‘We sat afterwards outside the hut while the s=
un
rose, and De Aquila marked our churls going to their work in the fields, and
talked of holy things, and how we should govern our Manors in time to come,=
and
of hunting and of horse-breeding, and of the King’s wisdom and unwisdom; fo=
r he
spoke to us as though we were in all sorts now his brothers. Anon a churl s=
tole
up to me—he was one of the three I had not hanged a year ago—and he
bellowed—which is the Saxon for whispering—that the Lady Ælueva would speak=
to
me at the Great House. She walked abroad daily in the Manor, and it was her
custom to send me word whither she went, that I might set an archer or two
behind and in front to guard her. Very often I myself lay up in the woods a=
nd
watched on her also.
‘I went swiftly, and as I passed the great doo=
r it
opened from within, and there stood my Lady Ælueva, and she said to me: “Sir
Richard, will it please you enter your Great Hall?” Then she wept, but we w=
ere
alone.’
The knight was silent for a long time, his face
turned across the valley, smiling.
‘Oh, well done!’ said Una, and clapped her han=
ds
very softly. ‘She was sorry, and she said so.’
‘Aye, she was sorry, and she said so,’ said Sir
Richard, coming back with a little start. ‘Very soon—but he said
it was two full hours later—De Aquila rode to the door, with his shield new=
scoured
(Hugh had cleansed it), and demanded entertainment, and called me a false
knight, that would starve his overlord to death. Then Hugh cried out that no
man should work in the valley that day, and our Saxons blew horns, and set
about feasting and drinking, and running of races, and dancing and singing;=
and
De Aquila climbed upon a horse-block and spoke to them in what he swore was
good Saxon, but no man understood it. At night we feasted in the Great Hall=
, and
when the harpers and the singers were gone we four sat late at the high tab=
le.
As I remember, it was a warm night with a full moon, and De Aquila bade Hugh
take down his sword from the wall again, for the honour of the Manor of
Dallington, and Hugh took it gladly enough. Dust lay on the hilt, for I saw=
him
blow it off.
‘She and I sat talking a little apart, and at
first we thought the harpers had come back, for the Great Hall was filled w=
ith
a rushing noise of music. De Aquila leaped up; but there was only the moonl=
ight
fretty on the floor.
‘“Hearken!” said Hugh. “It is my sword,” and a=
s he
belted it on the music ceased.
‘“Over Gods, forbid that I should ever belt bl=
ade
like that,” said De Aquila. “What does it foretell?”
‘“The Gods that made it may know. Last time it
spoke was at Hastings, when I lost all my lands. Belike it sings now that I
have new lands and am a man again,” said Hugh.
‘He loosed the blade a little and drove it back
happily into the sheath, and the sword answered him low and crooningly, as—=
as a
woman would speak to a man, her head on his shoulder.
‘Now that was the second time in all my life I
heard this Sword sing.’...
‘Look!’ said Una. ‘There’s mother coming down =
the
Long Slip. What will she say to Sir Richard? She can’t help seeing him.’
‘And Puck can’t magic us this time,’ said Dan.=
‘Are you sure?’ said Puck; and he leaned forwa=
rd
and whispered to Sir Richard, who, smiling, bowed his head.
‘But what befell the sword and my brother Hugh=
I
will tell on another time,’ said he, rising. ‘Ohé, Swallow!’
The great horse cantered up from the far end of
the meadow, close to mother.
They heard mother say: ‘Children, Gleason’s old
horse has broken into the meadow again. Where did he get through?’
‘Just below Stone Bay,’ said Dan. ‘He tore down
simple flobs of the bank! We noticed it just now. And we’ve caught no end of
fish. We’ve been at it all the afternoon.’
And they honestly believed that they had. They
never noticed the Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves that Puck had slyly thrown into
their laps.
SIR
RICHARD’S SONG
I followed
my Duke ere I was a lover, To
take from England fief and fee; But
now this game is the other way over— But
now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner, And a boy’s heart, so whole and free; But now I sing in another manner— But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower, Asking news of my ship at sea; He will remember his own hour— Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower, That rules my Father so cunningly; She will remember a maiden’s power— Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen city, A nimble and naughty page is he; But he will come to suffer and pity—
As for my little Sister waiting In the pleasant orchards of Normandie; <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Tell her youth is the time for mating— <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Comrades in camp and highway, =
That lift their eyebrows scornfully;
Kings and Princes and Barons famed, Knights and Captains in your degree;
Howso great man’s strength be reckoned, =
There are two things he cannot flee;
What
is a woman that you forsake her, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And
the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go
with the old grey Widow-maker ?
She has no house to lay a guest in— But one chill bed for all to rest in, That the pale suns and the stray bergs n=
est
in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you=
, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold=
you Bound on the rocks where the tide has ro=
lled
you.
Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds
quicken, Yearly
you turn from our side, and sicken—
Sicken again for the shouts and the
slaughters, You
steal away to the lapping waters, =
And
look at your ship in her winter quarters.
You forget our mirth, and talk at the ta=
bles, The kine in the shed and the horse in the
stables— To
pitch her sides and go over her cables!
Then you drive out where the storm-clouds
swallow: And
the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow, Is all we have left through the months to
follow!
Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, =
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
It wa=
s too
hot to run about in the open, so Dan asked their friend, old Hobden, to take
their own dinghy from the pond and put her on the brook at the bottom of the
garden. Her painted name was the D=
aisy ,
but for exploring expeditions she was the Golden Hind or the =
Long
Serpent , or some such suitable name. Dan hiked and howked with a boat-hook
(the brook was too narrow for sculls), and Una punted with a piece of hop-p=
ole.
When they came to a very shallow place (the Golden Hind drew quite three inches of water) they
disembarked and scuffled her over the gravel by her tow-rope, and when they
reached the overgrown banks beyond the garden they pulled themselves up str=
eam
by the low branches.
That day they intended to discover the North C=
ape
like ‘Othere, the old sea-captain,’ in the book of verses which Una had bro=
ught
with her; but on account of the heat they changed it to a voyage up the Ama=
zon
and the sources of the Nile. Even on the shaded water the air was hot and h=
eavy
with drowsy scents, while outside, through breaks in the trees, the sunshine
burned the pasture like fire. The kingfisher was asleep on his watching-bra=
nch,
and the blackbirds scarcely took the trouble to dive into the next bush.
Dragon-flies wheeling and clashing were the only things at work, except the
moor-hens and a big Red Admiral who flapped down out of the sunshine for a
drink.
When they reached Otter Pool the Golden Hind grounded comfortably on a shallow, and t=
hey
lay beneath a roof of close green, watching the water trickle over the
floodgates down the mossy brick chute from the mill-stream to the brook. A =
big
trout—the children knew him well—rolled head and shoulders at some fly that
sailed round the bend, while once in just so often the brook rose a fractio=
n of
an inch against all the wet pebbles, and they watched the slow draw and shi=
ver
of a breath of air through the tree-tops. Then the little voices of the
slipping water began again.
‘It’s like the shadows talking, isn’t it?’ said
Una. She had given up trying to read. Dan lay over the bows, trailing his h=
ands
in the current. They heard feet on the gravel-bar that runs half across the
pool and saw Sir Richard Dalyngridge standing over them.
‘Was yours a dangerous voyage?’ he asked, smil=
ing.
‘She bumped a lot, sir,’ said Dan. ‘There’s ha=
rdly
any water this summer.’
‘Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when my
children played at Danish pirates. Are you pirate-folk?’
‘Oh, no. We gave up being pirates years ago,’
explained Una. ‘We’re nearly always explorers now. Sailing round the world,=
you
know.’
‘Round?’ said Sir Richard. He sat him in the comfortable crotch of the old ash-root on the bank. ‘How can it be round?’<= o:p>
‘Wasn’t it in your books?’ Dan suggested. He h=
ad
been doing geography at his last lesson.
‘I can neither write nor read,’ he replied. ‘C=
anst
thou read, child?’
‘Yes,’ said Dan, ‘barring the very long words.=
’
‘Wonderful! Read to me, that I may hear for
myself.’
Dan flushed, but opened the book and
began—gabbling a little—at ‘The Discoverer of the North Cape.’
‘Oth=
ere,
the old sea captain, Who dwelt in
Helgoland, To Alfred, lover of tr=
uth, Brought a snow-white walrus tooth, That he held in his right hand.’
‘But—but—this I know! This is an old song! Thi=
s I
have heard sung! This is a miracle,’ Sir Richard interrupted. ‘Nay, do not
stop!’ He leaned forward, and the shadows of the leaves slipped and slid up=
on
his chain-mail.
‘I
ploughed the land with horses, Bu=
t my
heart was ill at ease, For the old
sea-faring men Came to me now and=
then With their Sagas of the Seas.’
His hand fell on the hilt of the great sword.
‘This is truth,’ he cried, ‘for so did it happen to me,’ and he beat time
delightedly to the tramp of verse after verse.
‘“An=
d now
the land,” said Othere, “Bent sou=
thward
suddenly, And I followed the curv=
ing
shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea.”’
‘A nameless sea!’ he repeated. ‘So did I—so did
Hugh and I.’
‘Where did you go? Tell us,’ said Una.
‘Wait. Let me hear all first.’ So Dan read to =
the
poem’s very end.
‘Good,’ said the knight. ‘That is Othere’s
tale—even as I have heard the men in the Dane ships sing it. Not in those s=
ame
valiant words, but something like to them.’
‘Have you ever explored North?’ Dan shut the b=
ook.
‘Nay. My venture was South. Farther South than=
any
man has fared, Hugh and I went down with Witta and his heathen.’ He jerked =
the
tall sword forward, and leaned on it with both hands; but his eyes looked l=
ong
past them.
‘I thought you always lived here,’ said Una,
timidly.
‘Yes; while my Lady Ælueva lived. But she died.
She died. Then, my eldest son being a man, I asked De Aquila’s leave that he
should hold the Manor while I went on some journey or pilgrimage—to forget.=
De
Aquila, whom the Second William had made Warden of Pevensey in Earl Mortain=
’s
place, was very old then, but still he rode his tall, roan horses, and in t=
he
saddle he looked like a little white falcon. When Hugh, at Dallington over =
yonder,
heard what I did, he sent for my second son, whom being unmarried he had ev=
er
looked upon as his own child, and, by De Aquila’s leave, gave him the Manor=
of
Dallington to hold till he should return. Then Hugh came with me.’
‘When did this happen?’ said Dan.
‘That I can answer to the very day, for as we =
rode
with De Aquila by Pevensey—have I said that he was Lord of Pevensey and of =
the
Honour of the Eagle?—to the Bordeaux ship that fetched him his wines yearly=
out
of France, a Marsh man ran to us crying that he had seen a great black goat=
which
bore on his back the body of the King, and that the goat had spoken to him.=
On
that same day Red William our King, the Conqueror’s son, died of a secret a=
rrow
while he hunted in a forest. “This is a cross matter,” said De Aquila, “to =
meet
on the threshold of a journey. If Red William be dead I may have to fight f=
or
my lands. Wait a little.”
‘My Lady being dead, I cared nothing for signs=
and
omens, nor Hugh either. We took that wine-ship to go to Bordeaux; but the w=
ind
failed while we were yet in sight of Pevensey; a thick mist hid us, and we
drifted with the tide along the cliffs to the west. Our company was, for the
most part, merchants returning to France, and we were laden with wool and t=
here
were three couple of tall hunting-dogs chained to the rail. Their master wa=
s a knight
of Artois. His name I never learned, but his shield bore gold pieces on a r=
ed
ground, and he limped much as I do, from a wound which he had got in his yo=
uth
at Mantes siege. He served the Duke of Burgundy against the Moors in Spain,=
and
was returning to that war with his dogs. He sang us strange Moorish songs t=
hat
first night, and half persuaded us to go with him. I was on pilgrimage to f=
orget—which
is what no pilgrimage brings. I think I would have gone, but....
‘Look you how the life and fortune of man chan=
ges!
Towards morning a Dane ship, rowing silently, struck against us in the mist,
and while we rolled hither and yon Hugh, leaning over the rail, fell outboa=
rd.
I leaped after him, and we two tumbled aboard the Dane, and were caught and
bound ere we could rise. Our own ship was swallowed up in the mist. I judge=
the
Knight of the Gold Pieces muzzled his dogs with his cloak, lest they should
give tongue and betray the merchants, for I heard their baying suddenly sto=
p.
‘We lay bound among the benches till morning, =
when
the Danes dragged us to the high deck by the steering-place, and their
captain—Witta, he was called—turned us over with his foot. Bracelets of gold
from elbow to armpit he wore, and his red hair was long as a woman’s, and c=
ame
down in plaited locks on his shoulder. He was stout, with bowed legs and lo=
ng arms.
He spoiled us of all we had, but when he laid hand on Hugh’s sword and saw =
the
runes on the blade hastily he thrust it back. Yet his covetousness overcame=
him
and he tried again and again, and the third time the Sword sang loud and
angrily, so that the rowers leaned on their oars to listen. Here they all s=
poke
together, screaming like gulls, and a Yellow Man, such as I have never seen,
came to the high deck and cut our bonds. He was yellow—not from sickness, b=
ut
by nature. Yellow as honey, and his eyes stood endwise in his head.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Una, her chin on her h=
and.
‘Thus,’ said Sir Richard. He put a finger to t=
he
corner of each eye, and pushed it up till his eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Why, you look just like a Chinaman!’ cried Da=
n.
‘Was the man a Chinaman?’
‘I know not what that may be. Witta had found =
him half
dead among ice on the shores of Muscovy. We thought he was a devil. He crawled befor=
e us and
brought food in a silver dish which these sea-wolves had robbed from some r=
ich
abbey, and Witta with his own hands gave us wine. He spoke a little in Fren=
ch,
a little in South Saxon, and much in the Northman’s tongue. We asked him to=
set
us ashore, promising to pay him better ransom than he would get price if he
sold us to the Moors—as once befell a knight of my acquaintance sailing from
Flushing.
‘“Not by my father Guthrum’s head,” said he. “=
The
Gods sent ye into my ship for a luck-offering.”
‘At this I quaked, for I knew it was still the
Dane’s custom to sacrifice captives to their gods for fair weather.
‘“A plague on thy four long bones!” said Hugh.
“What profit canst thou make of poor old pilgrims that can neither work nor
fight?”
‘“Gods forbid I should fight against thee, poor
Pilgrim with the Singing Sword,” said he. “Come with us and be poor no more.
Thy teeth are far apart, which is a sure sign thou wilt travel and grow ric=
h.”
‘“What if we will not come?” said Hugh.
‘“Swim to England or France,” said Witta. “We =
are
midway between the two. Unless ye choose to drown yourselves no hair of your
head will be harmed here aboard. We think ye bring us luck, and I myself kn=
ow
the runes on that Sword are good.” He turned and bade them hoist sail.
‘Hereafter all made way for us as we walked ab=
out
the ship, and the ship was full of wonders.’
‘What was she like?’ said Dan.
‘Long, low, and narrow, bearing one mast with a
red sail, and rowed by fifteen oars a side,’ the knight answered. ‘At her b=
ows
was a deck under which men might lie, and at her stern another shut off by a
painted door from the rowers’ benches. Here Hugh and I slept, with Witta and
the Yellow Man, upon tapestries as soft as wool. I remember’—he laughed to =
himself—‘when
first we entered there a loud voice cried, “Out swords! Out swords! Kill,
kill!” Seeing us start Witta laughed, and showed us it was but a great-beak=
ed
grey bird with a red tail. He sat her on his shoulder, and she called for b=
read
and wine hoarsely, and prayed him to kiss her. Yet she was no more than a s=
illy
bird. But—ye knew this?’ He looked at their smiling faces.
‘We weren’t laughing at you,’ said Una. ‘That =
must
have been a parrot. It’s just what Pollies do.’
‘So we learned later. But here is another marv=
el.
The Yellow Man, whose name was Kitai, had with him a brown box. In the box =
was
a blue bowl with red marks upon the rim, and within the bowl, hanging from a
fine thread, was a piece of iron no thicker than that grass stem, and as lo=
ng,
maybe, as my spur, but straight. In this iron, said Witta, abode an Evil Sp=
irit
which Kitai, the Yellow Man, had brought by Art Magic out of his own country
that lay three years’ journey southward. The Evil Spirit strove day and nig=
ht
to return to his country, and therefore, look you, the iron needle pointed
continually to the South.’
‘South?’ said Dan, suddenly, and put his hand =
into
his pocket.
‘With my own eyes I saw it. Every day and all =
day
long, though the ship rolled, though the sun and the moon and the stars were
hid, this blind Spirit in the iron knew whither it would go, and strained to
the South. Witta called it the Wise Iron, because it showed him his way acr=
oss
the unknowable seas.’ Again Sir Richard looked keenly at the children. ‘How=
think
ye? Was it sorcery?’
‘Was it anything like this?’ Dan fished out his
old brass pocket-compass, that generally lived with his knife and key-ring.
‘The glass has got cracked, but the needle waggles all right, sir.’
The knight drew a long breath of wonder. ‘Yes,
yes. The Wise Iron shook and swung in just this fashion. Now it is still. N=
ow
it points to the South.’
‘North,’ said Dan.
‘Nay, South! There is the South,’ said Sir
Richard. Then they both laughed, for naturally when one end of a straight
compass-needle points to the North, the other must point to the South.
‘Té,’ said Sir Richard, clicking his tongue.
‘There can be no sorcery if a child carries it. Wherefore does it point
South—or North?’
‘Father says that nobody knows,’ said Una.
Sir Richard looked relieved. ‘Then it may stil=
l be
magic. It was magic to us . And so=
we
voyaged. When the wind served we hoisted sail, and lay all up along the
windward rail, our shields on our backs to break the spray. When it failed,
they rowed with long oars; the Yellow Man sat by the Wise Iron, and Witta
steered. At first I feared the great white-flowering waves, but as I saw how
wisely Witta led his ship among them I grew bolder. Hugh liked it well from=
the
first. My skill is not upon the water; and rocks, and whirlpools such as we=
saw
by the West Isles of France, where an oar caught on a rock and broke, are m=
uch
against my stomach. We sailed South across a stormy sea, where by moonlight,
between clouds, we saw a Flanders ship roll clean over and sink. Again, tho=
ugh
Hugh laboured with Witta all night, I lay under the deck with the Talking B=
ird,
and cared not whether I lived or died. There is a sickness of the sea which=
, for
three days, is pure death! When we next saw land Witta said it was Spain, a=
nd
we stood out to sea. That coast was full of ships busy in the Duke’s war
against the Moors, and we feared to be hanged by the Duke’s men or sold into
slavery by the Moors. So we put into a small harbour which Witta knew. At n=
ight
men came down with loaded mules, and Witta exchanged amber out of the North
against little wedges of iron and packets of beads in earthen pots. The pot=
s he
put under the decks, and the wedges of iron he laid on the bottom of the sh=
ip
after he had cast out the stones and shingle which till then had been our
ballast. Wine, too, he bought for lumps of sweet-smelling grey amber—a litt=
le
morsel no bigger than a thumbnail purchased a cask of wine. But I speak lik=
e a
merchant.’
‘No, no! Tell us what you had to eat,’ cried D=
an.
‘Meat dried in the sun, and dried fish and gro=
und
beans, Witta took in; and corded frails of a certain sweet, soft fruit, whi=
ch
the Moors use, which is like paste of figs, but with thin, long stones. Aha!
Dates is the name.
‘“Now,” said Witta, when the ship was loaded, =
“I
counsel you strangers, to pray to your gods, for from here on our road is No
Man’s road.” He and his men killed a black goat for sacrifice on the bows; =
and
the Yellow Man brought out a small, smiling image of dull-green glass and
burned incense before it. Hugh and I commended ourselves to God, and Saint
Bartholomew, and Our Lady of the Assumption, who was specially dear to my L=
ady.
We were not young, but I think no shame to say, when as we drove out of tha=
t secret
harbour at sunrise over a still sea, we two rejoiced and sang as did the
knights of old when they followed our great Duke to England. Yet was our le=
ader
an heathen pirate; all our proud fleet but one galley perilously overloaded;
for guidance we leaned on a pagan sorcerer; and our port was beyond the wor=
ld’s
end. Witta told us that his father Guthrum had once in his life rowed along=
the
shores of Africa to a land where naked men sold gold for iron and beads. Th=
ere
had he bought much gold, and no few elephants’ teeth, and thither by help of
the Wise Iron would Witta go. Witta feared nothing—except to be poor.
‘“My father told me,” said Witta, “that a great
Shoal runs three days’ sail out from that land, and south of the shoal lies=
a
Forest which grows in the sea. South and east of the Forest my father came =
to a
place where the men hid gold in their hair; but all that country, he said, =
was
full of Devils who lived in trees, and tore folk limb from limb. How think =
ye?”
‘“Gold or no gold,” said Hugh, fingering his
sword, “it is a joyous venture. Have at these devils of thine, Witta!”
‘“Venture!” said Witta, sourly. “I am only a p=
oor
sea-thief. I do not set my life adrift on a plank for joy, or the venture. =
Once
I beach ship again at Stavanger, and feel the wife’s arms round my neck, I’=
ll
seek no more ventures. A ship is heavier care than a wife or cattle.”
‘He leaped down among the rowers, chiding them=
for
their little strength and their great stomachs. Yet Witta was a wolf in fig=
ht,
and a very fox in cunning.
‘We were driven South by a storm, and for three
days and three nights he took the stern-oar and threddled the longship thro=
ugh
the sea. When it rose beyond measure he brake a pot of whale’s oil upon the
water, which wonderfully smoothed it, and in that anointed patch he turned =
her
head to the wind and threw out oars at the end of a rope, to make, he said,=
an anchor
at which we lay rolling sorely, but dry. This craft his father Guthrum had
shown him. He knew, too, all the Leech-Book of Bald, who was a wise doctor,=
and
he knew the Ship-Book of Hlaf the Woman, who robbed Egypt. He knew all the =
care
of a ship.
‘After the storm we saw a mountain whose top w=
as
covered with snow and pierced the clouds. The grasses under this mountain,
boiled and eaten, are a good cure for soreness of the gums and swelled ankl=
es.
We lay there eight days, till men in skins threw stones at us. When the heat
increased Witta spread a cloth on bent sticks above the rowers, for the wind
failed between the Island of the Mountain and the shore of Africa, which is
east of it. That shore is sandy, and we rowed along it within three bowshot=
s. Here
we saw whales, and fish in the shape of shields, but longer than our ship. =
Some
slept, some opened their mouths at us, and some danced on the hot waters. T=
he
water was hot to the hand, and the sky was hidden by hot, grey mists, out of
which blew a fine dust that whitened our hair and beards of a morning. Here,
too, were fish that flew in the air like birds. They would fall on the laps=
of
the rowers, and when we went ashore we would roast and eat them.’
The knight paused to see if the children doubt=
ed
him, but they only nodded and said, ‘Go on.’
‘The yellow land lay on our left, the grey sea=
on
our right. Knight though I was, I pulled my oar amongst the rowers. I caught
seaweed and dried it, and stuffed it between the pots of beads lest they sh=
ould
break. Knighthood is for the land. At sea, look you, a man is but a spurles=
s rider
on a bridleless horse. I learned to make strong knots in ropes—yes, and to =
join
two ropes end to end, so that even Witta could scarcely see where they had =
been
married. But Hugh had tenfold more sea-cunning than I. Witta gave him charg=
e of
the rowers of the left side. Thorkild of Borkum, a man with a broken nose, =
that
wore a Norman steel cap, had the rowers of the right, and each side rowed a=
nd
sang against the other. They saw that no man was idle. Truly, as Hugh said,=
and
Witta would laugh at him, a ship is all more care than a Manor.
‘How? Thus. There was water to fetch from the
shore when we could find it, as well as wild fruit and grasses, and sand for
scrubbing of the decks and benches to keep them sweet. Also we hauled the s=
hip
out on low islands and emptied all her gear, even to the iron wedges, and
burned off the weed, that had grown on her, with torches of rush, and smoked
below the decks with rushes dampened in salt water, as Hlaf the Woman order=
s in
her Ship-Book. Once when we were thus stripped, and the ship lay propped on=
her
keel, the bird cried, “Out swords!” as though she saw an enemy. Witta vowed=
he
would wring her neck.’
‘Poor Polly! Did he?’ said Una.
‘Nay. She was the ship’s bird. She could call =
all
the rowers by name.... Those were good days—for a wifeless man—with Witta a=
nd
his heathen—beyond the world’s end.... After many weeks we came on the Great
Shoal which stretched, as Witta’s father had said, far out to sea. We skirt=
ed
it till we were giddy with the sight and dizzy with the sound of bars and b=
reakers;
and when we reached land again we found a naked black people dwelling among
woods, who for one wedge of iron loaded us with fruits and grasses and eggs.
Witta scratched his head at them in sign he would buy gold. They had no gol=
d,
but they understood the sign (all the gold-traders hide their gold in their
thick hair), for they pointed along the coast. They beat, too, on their che=
sts
with their clenched hands, and that, if we had known it, was an evil sign.’=
‘What did it mean?’ said Dan.
‘Patience. Ye shall hear. We followed the coast
eastward sixteen days (counting time by sword-cuts on the helm-rail) till we
came to the Forest in the Sea. Trees grew out of mud, arched upon lean and =
high
roots, and many muddy water-ways ran allwhither into darkness under the tre=
es.
Here we lost the sun. We followed the winding channels between the trees, a=
nd where
we could not row we laid hold of the crusted roots and hauled ourselves alo=
ng.
The water was foul, and great glittering flies tormented us. Morning and
evening a blue mist covered the mud, which bred fevers. Four of our rowers
sickened, and were bound to their benches, lest they should leap overboard =
and
be eaten by the monsters of the mud. The Yellow Man lay sick beside the Wise
Iron, rolling his head and talking in his own tongue. Only the Bird throve.=
She
sat on Witta’s shoulder and screamed in that noisome, silent darkness. Yes;=
I
think it was the silence we feared.’
He paused to listen to the comfortable home no=
ises
of the brook.
‘When we had lost count of time among those bl=
ack
gullies and swashes, we heard, as it were, a drum beat far off, and followi=
ng
it we broke into a broad, brown river by a hut in a clearing among fields of
pumkins. We thanked God to see the sun again. The people of the village gave
the good welcome, and Witta scratched his head at them (for gold), and show=
ed
them our iron and beads. They ran to the bank—we were still in the ship—and=
pointed
to our swords and bows, for always when near shore we lay armed. Soon they
fetched store of gold in bars and in dust from their huts, and some great
blackened elephant teeth. These they piled on the bank, as though to tempt =
us,
and made signs of dealing blows in battle, and pointed up to the tree tops,=
and
to the forest behind. Their captain or chief sorcerer then beat on his ches=
t with
his fists, and gnashed his teeth.
‘Said Thorkild of Borkum: “Do they mean we must
fight for all this gear?” and he half drew his sword.
‘“Nay,” said Hugh. “I think they ask us to lea=
gue
against some enemy.”
‘“I like this not,” said Witta, of a sudden. “=
Back
into midstream.”
‘So we did, and sat still all, watching the bl=
ack
folk and the gold they piled on the bank. Again we heard drums beat in the
forest, and the people fled to their huts, leaving the gold unguarded.
‘Then Hugh, at the bows, pointed without speec=
h,
and we saw a great Devil come out of the forest. He shaded his brows with h=
is
hand, and moistened his pink tongue between his lips—thus.’
‘A Devil!’ said Dan, delightfully horrified.
‘Yea. Taller than a man; covered with reddish
hair. When he had well regarded our ship, he beat on his chest with his fis=
ts
till it sounded like rolling drums, and came to the bank swinging all his b=
ody
between his long arms, and gnashed his teeth at us. Hugh loosed arrow, and
pierced him through the throat. He fell roaring, and three other Devils ran=
out
of the forest and hauled him into a tall tree out of sight. Anon they cast =
down
the blood-stained arrow, and lamented together among the leaves. Witta saw =
the
gold on the bank; he was loath to leave it. “Sirs,” said he (no man had spo=
ken
till then), “yonder is that we have come so far and so painfully to find, l=
aid
out to our very hand. Let us row in while these Devils bewail themselves, a=
nd
at least bear off what we may.”
‘Bold as a wolf, cunning as a fox was Witta! He
set four archers on the foredeck to shoot the Devils if they should leap fr=
om
the tree, which was close to the bank. He manned ten oars a side, and bade =
them
watch his hand to row in or back out, and so coaxed he them toward the bank.
But none would set foot ashore, though the gold was within ten paces. No ma=
n is
hasty to his hanging. They whimpered at their oars like beaten hounds, and =
Witta
bit his fingers for rage.
‘Said Hugh of a sudden, “Hark!” At first we
thought it was the buzzing of the glittering flies on the water, but it grew
loud and fierce, so that all men heard.’
‘What?’ said Dan and Una.
‘It was the sword.’ Sir Richard patted the smo=
oth
hilt. ‘It sang as a Dane sings before battle. “I go,” said Hugh, and he lea=
ped
from the bows and fell among the gold. I was afraid to my four bones’ marro=
w,
but for shame’s sake I followed, and Thorkild of Borkum leaped after me. No=
ne other
came. “Blame me not,” cried Witta behind us, “I must abide by my ship.” We
three had no time to blame or praise. We stooped to the gold and threw it b=
ack
over our shoulders, one hand on our swords and one eye on the tree, which n=
igh
overhung us.
‘I know not how the Devils leaped down, or how=
the
fight began. I heard Hugh cry: “Out! out!” as though he were at Santlache
again; I saw Thorkild’s steel cap smitten off his head by a great hairy han=
d,
and I felt an arrow from the ship whistle past my ear. They say that till W=
itta
took his sword to the rowers he could not bring his ship in shore; and each=
one
of the four archers said afterwards that he alone had pierced the Devil that
fought me. I do not know. I went to it in my mail-shirt, which saved my ski=
n.
With long-sword and belt-dagger I fought for the life against a Devil whose
very feet were hands, and who whirled me back and forth like a dead branch.=
He
had me by the waist, my arms to my side, when an arrow from the ship pierced
him between the shoulders, and he loosened grip. I passed my sword twice
through him, and he crutched himself away between his long arms, coughing a=
nd
moaning. Next, as I remember, I saw Thorkild of Borkum bareheaded and smili=
ng,
leaping up and down before a Devil that leaped and gnashed his teeth. Then =
Hugh
passed, his sword shifted to his left hand, and I wondered why I had not kn=
own
that Hugh was a left-handed man; and thereafter I remembered nothing till I
felt spray on my face, and we were in sunshine on the open sea. That was tw=
enty
days after.’
‘What had happened? Did Hugh die?’ the children
asked.
‘Never was such a fight fought by christened m=
an,’
said Sir Richard. ‘An arrow from the ship had saved me from my Devil, and
Thorkild of Borkum had given back before his Devil, till the bowmen on the =
ship
could shoot it all full of arrows from near by; but Hugh’s Devil was cunnin=
g,
and had kept behind trees, where no arrow could reach. Body to body there, =
by stark
strength of sword and hand, had Hugh slain him, and, dying, the Thing had
clenched his teeth on the sword. Judge what teeth they were!’
Sir Richard turned the sword again that the
children might see the two great chiselled gouges on either side of the bla=
de.
‘Those same teeth met in Hugh’s right arm and
side,’ Sir Richard went on. ‘I? Oh, I had no more than a broken foot and a
fever. Thorkild’s ear was bitten, but Hugh’s arm and side clean withered aw=
ay.
I saw him where he lay along, sucking a fruit in his left hand. His flesh w=
as
wasted off his bones, his hair was patched with white, and his hand was
blue-veined like a woman’s. He put his left hand round my neck and whispere=
d, “Take
my sword. It has been thine since Hastings, O, my brother, but I can never =
hold
hilt again.” We lay there on the high deck talking of Santlache and, I thin=
k,
of every day since Santlache, and it came so that we both wept. I was weak,=
and
he little more than a shadow.
‘“Nay—nay,” said Witta, at the helm-rail. “Gol=
d is
a good right arm to any man. Look—look at the gold!” He bade Thorkild show =
us
the gold and the elephants’ teeth, as though we had been children. He had
brought away all the gold on the bank, and twice as much more, that the peo=
ple
of the village gave him for slaying the Devils. They worshipped us as gods,=
Thorkild
told me: it was one of their old women healed up Hugh’s poor arm.’
‘How much gold did you get?’ asked Dan.
‘How can I say? Where we came out with wedges =
of
iron under the rowers’ feet we returned with wedges of gold hidden beneath
planks. There was dust of gold in packages where we slept; and along the si=
de
and crosswise under the benches we lashed the blackened elephants’ teeth.
‘“I had sooner have my right arm,” said Hugh, =
when
he had seen all.
‘“Ahai! That was my fault,” said Witta. “I sho=
uld
have taken ransom and landed you in France when first you came aboard, ten
months ago.”
‘“It is over-late now,” said Hugh, laughing.
‘Witta plucked at his long shoulder-lock. “But
think!” said he. “If I had let ye go—which I swear I would never have done,=
for
I love ye more than brothers—if I had let ye go, by now ye might have been
horribly slain by some mere Moor in the Duke of Burgundy’s war, or ye might
have been murdered by land-thieves, or ye might have died of the plague at =
an
inn. Think of this and do not blame me overmuch, Hugh. See! I will only tak=
e a half
of the gold.”
‘“I blame thee not at all, Witta,” said Hugh. =
“It
was a joyous venture, and we thirty-five here have done what never men have
done. If I live till England, I will build me a stout keep over Dallington =
out
of my share.”
‘“I will buy cattle and amber and warm red clo=
th
for the wife,” said Witta, “and I will hold all the land at the head of
Stavanger Fiord. Many will fight for me now. But first we must turn North, =
and
with this honest treasure aboard I pray we meet no pirate ships.”
‘We did not laugh. We were careful. We were af=
raid
lest we should lose one grain of our gold for which we had fought Devils.
‘“Where is the Sorcerer?” said I, for Witta was
looking at the Wise Iron in the box, and I could not see the Yellow Man.
‘“He has gone to his own country,” said he. “He
rose up in the night while we were beating out of that forest in the mud, a=
nd
said that he could see it behind the trees. He leaped out on to the mud, and
did not answer when we called; so we called no more. He left the Wise Iron,
which is all that I care for—and see, the Spirit still points to the South!=
”
‘We were troubled for fear that the Wise Iron
should fail us now that its Yellow Man had gone, and when we saw the Spirit
still served us we grew afraid of too strong winds, and of shoals, and of
careless leaping fish, and of all the people on all the shores where we
landed.’
‘Why?’ said Dan.
‘Because of the gold—because of our gold. Gold
changes men altogether. Thorkild of Borkum did not change. He laughed at Wi=
tta
for his fears, and at us for our counselling Witta to furl sail when the sh=
ip pitched
at all.
‘“Better be drowned out of hand,” said Thorkil=
d of
Borkum, “than go tied to a deck-load of yellow dust.”
‘He was a landless man, and had been slave to =
some
King in the East. He would have beaten out the gold into deep bands to put
round the oars, and round the prow.
‘Yet, though he vexed himself for the gold, Wi=
tta
waited upon Hugh like a woman, lending him his shoulder when the ship rolle=
d,
and tying of ropes from side to side that Hugh might hold by them. But for
Hugh, he said—and so did all his men—they would never have won the gold. I
remember Witta made a little, thin gold ring for our Bird to swing in. Three
months we rowed and sailed and went ashore for fruits or to clean the ship.
When we saw wild horsemen, riding among sand-dunes, flourishing spears we k=
new
we were on the Moors’ coast, and stood over north to Spain; and a strong so=
uth-west
wind bore us in ten days to a coast of high red rocks, where we heard a
hunting-horn blow among the yellow gorse and knew it was England.
‘“Now find ye Pevensey yourselves,” said Witta=
. “I
love not these narrow ship-filled seas.”
‘He set the dried, salted head of the Devil, w=
hich
Hugh had killed, high on our prow, and all boats fled from us. Yet, for our
gold’s sake, we were more afraid than they. We crept along the coast by nig=
ht
till we came to the chalk cliffs, and so east to Pevensey. Witta would not =
come
ashore with us, though Hugh promised him wine at Dallington enough to swim =
in.
He was on fire to see his wife, and ran into the Marsh after sunset, and th=
ere
he left us and our share of gold, and backed out on the same tide. He made =
no
promise; he swore no oath; he looked for no thanks; but to Hugh, an armless
man, and to me, an old cripple whom he could have flung into the sea, he pa=
ssed
over wedge upon wedge, packet upon packet of gold and dust of gold, and only
ceased when we would take no more. As he stooped from the rail to bid us
farewell he stripped off his right-arm bracelets and put them all on Hugh’s
left, and he kissed Hugh on the cheek. I think when Thorkild of Borkum bade=
the
rowers give way we were near weeping. It is true that Witta was an heathen =
and
a pirate; true it is he held us by force many months in his ship, but I lov=
ed
that bow-legged, blue-eyed man for his great boldness, his cunning, his ski=
ll, and,
beyond all, for his simplicity.’
‘Did he get home all right?’ said Dan.
‘I never knew. We saw him hoist sail under the
moon-track and stand away. I have prayed that he found his wife and the
children.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘We waited on the Marsh till the day. Then I s=
at
by the gold, all tied in an old sail, while Hugh went to Pevensey, and De
Aquila sent us horses.’
Sir Richard crossed hands on his sword-hilt, a=
nd
stared down stream through the soft warm shadows.
‘A whole shipload of gold!’ said Una, looking =
at
the little Golden Hind . ‘But I’m =
glad I
didn’t see the Devils.’
‘I don’t believe they were Devils,’ Dan whispe=
red
back.
‘Eh?’ said Sir Richard. ‘Witta’s father warned=
him
they were unquestionable Devils. One must believe one’s father, and not one=
’s children.
What were my Devils, then?’
Dan flushed all over. ‘I—I only thought,’ he
stammered; ‘I’ve got a book called The
Gorilla Hunters —it’s a continuation of <=
/span>Coral
Island , sir—and it says there that the gorillas (they’re big monkeys, you
know) were always chewing iron up.’
‘Not always,’ said Una. ‘Only twice.’ They had
been reading The Gorilla Hunters <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> in the orchard.
‘Well, anyhow, they always drummed on their
chests, like Sir Richard’s did, before they went for people. And they built
houses in trees, too.’
‘Ha!’ Sir Richard opened his eyes. ‘Houses like
flat nests did our Devils make, where their imps lay and looked at us. I did
not see them (I was sick after the fight), but Witta told me and, lo, ye kn=
ow
it also? Wonderful! Were our Devils only nest-building apes? Is there no
sorcery left in the world?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Dan, uncomfortably. ‘=
I’ve
seen a man take rabbits out of a hat, and he told us we could see how he did
it, if we watched hard. And we did.’
‘But we didn’t,’ said Una sighing. ‘Oh! there’s
Puck!’
The little fellow, brown and smiling, peered
between two stems of an ash, nodded, and slid down the bank into the cool
beside them.
‘No sorcery, Sir Richard?’ he laughed, and ble=
w on
a full dandelion head he had picked.
‘They tell me that Witta’s Wise Iron was a toy.
The boy carries such an Iron with him. They tell me our Devils were apes,
called gorillas!’ said Sir Richard, indignantly.
‘That is the sorcery of books,’ said Puck. ‘I = warned thee they were wise children. All people can be wise by reading of books.’<= o:p>
‘But are the books true?’ Sir Richard frowned.=
‘I
like not all this reading and writing.’
‘Ye-es,’ said Puck, holding the naked dandelion
head at arm’s length. ‘But if we hang all fellows who write falsely, why di=
d De
Aquila not begin with Gilbert, the Clerk? He was
false enough.’
‘Poor false Gilbert. Yet in his fashion, he was
bold,’ said Sir Richard.
‘What did he do?’ said Dan.
‘He wrote,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Is the tale meet
for children, think you?’ He looked at Puck; but, ‘Tell us! Tell us!’ cried=
Dan
and Una together.
There
is no wind along these seas, Out oars for Stavanger! Forward all for Stavanger! So we
must wake the white-ash breeze, Let fall for Stavanger! A long pull for Stavanger!
Oh, hear the benches creak and strain! <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> (A
long pull for Stavanger!) She thinks she smells the Northland rain=
! (A
long pull for Stavanger!)
She thinks she smells the Northland snow=
, And she’s as glad as we to go!
She thinks she smells the Northland rime=
, And the dear dark nights of winter-time.=
Her very bolts are sick for shore, And we—we want it ten times more!
Hoe—all you Gods that love brave men, Send us a three-reef gale again!
Send us a gale, and watch us come, With close-cropped canvas slashing home!=
But—=
there’s
no wind in all these seas, A long pull for Stavanger! So we
must wake the white-ash breeze, A long pull for Stavanger!
‘It h=
as
nought to do with apes or devils,’ Sir Richard went on, in an undertone. ‘It
concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor craftier, nor more
hardy knight born. And, remember, he was an old, old man at that time.’
‘When?’ said Dan.
‘When we came back from sailing with Witta.’
‘What did you do with your gold?’ said Dan.
‘Have patience. Link by link is chain-mail mad=
e. I
will tell all in its place. We bore the gold to Pevensey on horseback—three
loads of it—and then up to the north chamber, above the Great Hall of Peven=
sey
Castle, where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a little whit=
e falcon,
turning his head swiftly from one to the other as we told our tale. Jehan t=
he
Crab, an old sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but De Aquila bade him
wait at the stair-foot, and let down both leather curtains over the door. It
was Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with the horses, and only Jehan had
loaded the gold. When our story was told, De Aquila gave us the news of
England, for we were as men waked from a year-long sleep. The Red King was
dead—slain (ye remember?) the day we set sail—and Henry, his younger brothe=
r,
had made himself King of England over the head of Robert of Normandy. This =
was
the very thing that the Red King had done to Robert when our Great William
died. Then Robert of Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of =
this
kingdom, had sent an army against England, which army had been well beaten =
back
to their ships at Portsmouth. A little earlier, and Witta’s ship would have
rowed through them.
‘“And now,” said De Aquila, “half the great Ba=
rons
of the north and west are out against the King between Salisbury and
Shrewsbury; and half the other half wait to see which way the game shall go.
They say Henry is overly English for their stomachs, because he hath marrie=
d an
English wife and she hath coaxed him to give back their old laws to our Sax=
ons.
(Better ride a horse on the bit he knows, I say.)
But that is only a cloak to their falsehood.” He cracked his finger on the
table where the wine was spilt, and thus he spoke:—
‘“William crammed us Norman barons full of good
English acres after Santlache. I <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> had my share too,” he said, and clapped =
Hugh
on the shoulder; “but I warned him—I warned him before Odo rebelled—that he=
should
have bidden the Barons give up their lands and lordships in Normandy if they
would be English lords. Now they are all but princes both in England and
Normandy—trencher-fed hounds, with a foot in one trough and both eyes on the
other! Robert of Normandy has sent them word that if they do not fight for =
him
in England he will sack and harry out their lands in Normandy. Therefore Cl=
are
has risen, Fitz Osborn has risen, Montgomery has risen—whom our First Willi=
am
made an English earl. Even D’Arcy is out with his men, whose father I remem=
ber
a little hedge-sparrow knight nearby Caen. If Henry wins, the Barons can st=
ill
flee to Normandy, where Robert will welcome them. If Henry loses, Robert, h=
e says,
will give them more lands in England. Oh, a pest—a pest on Normandy, for she
will be our England’s curse this many a long year!”
‘“Amen,” said Hugh. “But will the war come our
ways, think you?”
‘“Not from the North,” said De Aquila. “But the
sea is always open. If the Barons gain the upper hand Robert will send anot=
her
army into England for sure; and this time I think he will land here—where h=
is
father, the Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your pigs to a pretty market!
Half England alight, and gold enough on the ground”—he stamped on the bars =
beneath
the table—“to set every sword in Christendom fighting.”
‘“What is to do?” said Hugh. “I have no keep at
Dallington; and if we buried it, whom could we trust?”
‘“Me,” said De Aquila. “Pevensey walls are str=
ong.
No man but Jehan, who is my dog, knows what is between them.” He drew a cur=
tain
by the shot-window and showed us the shaft of a well in the thickness of th=
e wall.
‘“I made it for a drinking-well,” he said, “bu=
t we
found salt water, and it rises and falls with the tide. Hark!” We heard the
water whistle and blow at the bottom. “Will it serve?” said he.
‘“Needs must,” said Hugh. “Our lives are in thy
hands.” So we lowered all the gold down except one small chest of it by De
Aquila’s bed, which we kept as much for his delight in its weight and colou=
r as
for any our needs.
‘In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, he
said: “I do not say farewell; because ye will return and bide here. Not for
love nor for sorrow, but to be with the gold. Have a care,” he said, laughi=
ng,
“lest I use it to make myself Pope. Trust me not, but return!”’
Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly.
‘In seven days, then, we returned from our
Manors—from the Manors which had been ours.’
‘And were the children quite well?’ said Una.<= o:p>
‘My sons were young. Land and governance belon=
g by
right to young men.’ Sir Richard was talking to himself. ‘It would have bro=
ken
their hearts if we had taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome, b=
ut
we could see—Hugh and I could see—that our day was done. I was a cripple an=
d he
a one-armed man. No!’ He shook his head. ‘And therefore’—he raised his voic=
e—‘we
rode back to Pevensey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Una, for the knight seemed v=
ery
sorrowful.
‘Little maid, it all passed long ago. They were
young; we were old. We let them rule the Manors. “Aha!” cried De Aquila from
his shot-window, when we dismounted. “Back again to earth, old foxes?” but =
when
we were in his chamber above the hall he puts his arms about us and says,
“Welcome, ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!”... Thus it fell out that we were r=
ich beyond
belief, and lonely. And lonely!’
‘What did you do?’ said Dan.
‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,’ said the
knight. ‘De Aquila was like Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather=
we
would ride along between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the
other—sometimes with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both=
on
the Marsh and the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of
fleets from Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower,
frowning against the rain—peering here and pointing there. It always vexed =
him
to think how Witta’s ship had come and gone without his knowledge. When the=
wind
ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf’s edge he would go and, leaning on =
his
sword among the stinking fish, would call to the mariners for their news fr=
om
France. His other eye he kept landward for word of Henry’s war against the
Barons.
‘Many brought him news—jongleurs, harpers,
pedlars, sutlers, priests, and the like; and, though he was secret enough in
small things, yet, if their news misliked him, then, regarding neither time=
nor
place nor people, would he curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have
heard him cry aloud by the fishing-boats: “If I were King of England I woul=
d do
thus and thus”; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons were la=
id
and dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window: “Look to it, Rich=
ard!
Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own eyes and feel with thine=
own
hands.” I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And so we lived at Pevense=
y,
in the little chamber above the Hall.
‘One foul night came word that a messenger of =
the
King waited below. We were chilled after a long riding in the fog towards
Bexlei, which is an easy place for ships to land. De Aquila sent word the m=
an
might either eat with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan, at the
stair-head, cried that he had called for horse, and was gone. “Pest on him!”
said De Aquila. “I have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for eve=
ry
gadling the King sends. Left he no word?”
‘“None,” said Jehan, “except”—he had been with=
De
Aquila at Santlache—“except he said that if an old dog could not learn new
tricks it was time to sweep out the kennel.”
‘“Oho!” said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, “to =
whom
did he say that?”
‘“To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse=
’s
flank as he was girthing up. I followed him out,” said Jehan the Crab.
‘“What was his shield-mark?”
‘“Gold horseshoes on black,” said the Crab.
‘“That is one of Fulke’s men,” said De Aquila.=
’
Puck broke in very gently, ‘Gold horseshoes on
black is not the Fulkes’ shield. The Fulkes’ arms are=
——’
The knight waved one hand statelily.
‘Thou knowest that evil man’s true name,’ he
replied, ‘but I have chosen to call him Fulke because I promised him I would
not tell the story of his wickedness so that any man might guess it. I have
changed all the names in my tale. His children’s chi=
ldren
may be still alive.’
‘True—true,’ said Puck, smiling softly. ‘It is
knightly to keep faith—even after a thousand years.’
Sir Richard bowed a little and went on:—
‘“Gold horseshoes on black?” said De Aquila. “I
had heard Fulke had joined the Barons, but if this is true our King must be=
of
the upper hand. No matter, all Fulkes are faithful. Still, I would not have
sent the man away empty.”
‘“He fed,” said Jehan. “Gilbert the Clerk fetc=
hed
him meat and wine from the kitchens. He ate at Gilbert’s table.”
‘This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, w=
ho
kept the accounts of the Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, =
and
carried those new-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large
brown nuts or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his penner and inkhorn
they clashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There wa=
s his
table of accounts, and there he lay o’ nights. He feared the hounds in the =
Hall
that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes, and would slash=
at
them with his beads—like a woman. When De Aquila sat in Hall to do justice,
take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so write it in the Manor-roll. Bu=
t it
was none of his work to feed our guests, or to let them depart without his
lord’s knowledge.
‘Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the
stair: “Hugh, hast thou ever told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin
hand-of-write?”
‘“No,” said Hugh. “He is no friend to me, or to
Odo my hound either.” “No matter,” said De Aquila. “Let him never know thou
canst tell one letter from its fellow, and”—here he jerked us in the ribs w=
ith
his scabbard—“watch him both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have he=
ard,
but by the Saints there be greater devils in Pevensey!” And that was all he
would say.
‘It chanced, some small while afterwards, a No=
rman
man-at-arms would wed a Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watch=
ed
him well since De Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave.
Since De Aquila would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the
matter came up at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the wen=
ch’s
father spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the hall rang and th=
e hounds
bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. “Write her free,” he called to Gilbert =
by
the fireplace. “A’ God’s Name write her free, before she deafens me! Yes, y=
es,”
he said to the wench that was on her knees at him; “thou art Cerdic’s siste=
r,
and own cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In fifty years
there will be neither Norman nor Saxon, but all English,” said he, “and
‘Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearthstones, =
“I
saw this stone move under Gilbert’s foot when Odo snuffed at it. Look!” De
Aquila digged in the ashes with his sword; the stone tilted; beneath it lay=
a
parchment folden, and the writing atop was: “Words spoken against the King =
by
our Lord of Pevensey—the second part.”
‘Here was set out (Hugh read it us whispering)
every jest De Aquila had made to us touching the King; every time he had ca=
lled
out to me from the shot-window, and every time he had said what he would do=
if
he were King of England. Yes, day by day had his daily speech, which he nev=
er
stinted, been set down by Gilbert, tricked out and twisted from its true
meaning, yet withal so cunningly that none could deny who knew him that De
Aquila had in some sort spoken those words. Ye see?’
Dan and Una nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Una, gravely. ‘It isn’t what you s=
ay
so much. It’s what you mean when you say it. Like calling Dan a beast in fu=
n.
Only grown-ups don’t always understand.’
‘“He hath done this day by day before our very
face?” said De Aquila.
“Nay, hour by hour,” said Hugh. “When De Aquila
spoke even now, in the hall, of Saxons and Normans, I saw Gilbert write on a
parchment, which he kept beside the Manor-roll, that De Aquila said soon th=
ere
would be no Normans left in England if his men-at-arms did their work arigh=
t.”
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila. “What
avail is honour or a sword against a pen? Where did Gilbert hide that writi=
ng?
He shall eat it.”
‘“In his breast when he ran out,” said Hugh.
“Which made me look to see where he kept his finished stuff. When Odo scrat=
ched
at this stone here, I saw his face change. So I was sure.”
‘“He is bold,” said De Aquila. “Do him justice=
. In
his own fashion, my Gilbert is bold.”
‘“Overbold,” said Hugh. “Hearken here,” and he
read: “Upon the feast of St. Agatha, our Lord of Pevensey, lying in his upp=
er
chamber, being clothed in his second fur gown reversed with rabbit——”
‘“Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!” said =
De
Aquila, and Hugh and I laughed.
‘“Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over the
marshes, did wake Sir Richard Dalyngridge, his drunken cup-mate” (here they
laughed at me) “and said, ‘Peer out, old fox, for God is on the Duke of
Normandy’s side.’”
‘“So did I. It was a black fog. Robert could h=
ave
landed ten thousand men, and we none the wiser. Does he tell how we were out
all day riding the marsh, and how I near perished in a quicksand, and cough=
ed
like a sick ewe for ten days after?” cried De Aquila.
‘“No,” said Hugh. “But here is the prayer of
Gilbert himself to his master Fulke.”
‘“Ah,” said De Aquila. “Well I knew it was Ful=
ke.
What is the price of my blood?”
‘“Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of Pevens=
ey
is stripped of his lands on this evidence which Gilbert hath, with fear and
pains, collected——”
‘“Fear and pains is a true word,” said De Aqui=
la,
and sucked in his cheeks. “But how excellent a weapon is a pen! I must learn
it.”
‘“He prays that Fulke will advance him from his
present service to that honour in the Church which Fulke promised him. And =
lest
Fulke should forget, he has written below, ‘To be Sacristan of Battle.’”
‘At this De Aquila whistled. “A man who can pl=
ot
against one lord can plot against another. When I am stripped of my lands F=
ulke
will whip off my Gilbert’s foolish head. None the less Battle needs a new
Sacristan. They tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort of rule there.”
‘“Let the Abbot wait,” said Hugh. “It is our h=
eads
and our lands that are in danger. This parchment is the second part of the
tale. The first has gone to Fulke, and so to the King, who will hold us
traitors.”
‘“Assuredly,” said De Aquila. “Fulke’s man took
the first part that evening when Gilbert fed him, and our King is so beset =
by
his brother and his Barons (small blame, too!) that he is mad with mistrust.
Fulke has his ear, and pours poison into it. Presently the King gives him my
land and yours. This is old,” and he leaned back and yawned.
‘“And thou wilt surrender Pevensey without wor=
d or
blow?” said Hugh. “We Saxons will fight your King then. I will go warn my
nephew at Dallington. Give me a horse!”
‘“Give thee a toy and a rattle.” said De Aquil=
a.
“Put back the parchment, and rake over the ashes. If Fulke is given my Peve=
nsey
which is England’s gate, what will he do with it? He is Norman at heart, and
his heart is in Normandy, where he can kill peasants at his pleasure. He wi=
ll
open England’s gate to our sleepy Robert, as Odo and Mortain tried to do, a=
nd then
there will be another landing and another Santlache. Therefore I cannot giv=
e up
Pevensey.”
‘“Good,” said we two.
‘“Ah, but wait! If my King be made, on Gilbert=
’s
evidence, to mistrust me, he will send his men against me here, and, while =
we
fight, England’s gate is left unguarded. Who will be the first to come thro=
ugh
thereby? Even Robert of Normandy. Therefore I cannot fight my King.” He nur=
sed
his sword—thus.
‘“This is saying and unsaying like a Norman,” =
said
Hugh. “What of our Manors?”
‘“I do not think for myself,” said De Aquila, =
“nor
for our King, nor for your lands. I think for England, for whom neither King
nor Baron thinks. I am not Norman, Sir Richard, nor Saxon, Sir Hugh. Englis=
h am
I.”
‘“Saxon, Norman, or English,” said Hugh, “our
lives are thine, however the game goes. When do we hang Gilbert?”
‘“Never,” said De Aquila. “Who knows he may ye=
t be
Sacristan of Battle, for, to do him justice, he is a good writer. Dead men =
make
dumb witnesses. Wait.”
‘“But the King may give Pevensey to Fulke. And=
our
Manors go with it,” said I. “Shall we tell our sons?”
‘“No. The King will not wake up a hornet’s nes=
t in
the South till he has smoked out the bees in the North. He may hold me a
traitor; but at least he sees I am not fighting against him, and every day =
that
I lie still is so much gain to him while he fights the barons. If he were w=
ise
he would wait till that war were over before he made new enemies. But I thi=
nk
Fulke will play upon him to send for me, and if I do not obey the summons t=
hat will,
to Henry’s mind, be proof of my treason. But mere talk, such as Gilbert sen=
ds,
is no proof nowadays. We Barons follow the Church, and, like Anselm, we spe=
ak
what we please. Let us go about our day’s dealings, and say naught to Gilbe=
rt.”
‘“Then we do nothing?” said Hugh.
‘“We wait,” said De Aquila. “I am old, but sti=
ll I
find that the most grievous work I know.”
‘And so we found it, but in the end De Aquila =
was
right.
‘A little later in the year, armed men rode ov=
er
the hill, the Golden Horseshoes flying behind the King’s banner. Said De
Aquila, at the window of our chamber: “How did I tell you? Here comes Fulke
himself to spy out his new lands which our King hath promised him if he can
bring proof of my treason.”
‘“How dost thou know?” said Hugh.
‘“Because that is what I would do if I were Fu=
lke,
but I should have brought more men. My roan ho=
rse to
your old shoes,” said he, “Fulke brings me the King’s Summons to leave Peve=
nsey
and join the war.” He sucked in his cheeks and drummed on the edge of the
shaft, where the water sounded all hollow.
‘“Shall we go?” said I.
‘“Go! At this time of year? Stark madness,” sa=
id
he. “Take me from Pevensey to fisk and flyte through =
fern
and forest, and in three days Robert’s keels would be lying on Pevensey mud
with ten thousand men! Who would stop them—Fulke?”
‘The horns blew without, and anon Fulke cried =
the
King’s Summons at the great door that De Aquila with all men and horse shou=
ld
join the King’s camp at Salisbury.
‘“How did I tell you?” said De Aquila. “There =
are
twenty Barons ’twixt here and Salisbury could give King Henry good
land-service, but he has been worked upon by Fulke to send south and call m=
e— me!
—off the Gate of England, when his enemies stand about to batter it in. See
that Fulke’s men lie in the big south barn,” said he. “Give them drink, and
when Fulke has eaten we will drink in my chamber. The Great Hall is too cold
for old bones.”
‘As soon as he was off-horse Fulke went to the
chapel with Gilbert to give thanks for his safe coming, and when he had
eaten—he was a fat man, and rolled his eyes greedily at our good roast Suss=
ex
wheatears—we led him to the little upper chamber, whither Gilbert had alrea=
dy
gone with the Manor-roll. I remember when Fulke heard the tide blow and whi=
stle
in the shaft he leaped back, and his long down-turned stirrup-shoes caught =
in
the rushes and he stumbled, so that Jehan behind him found it easy to knock=
his
head against the wall.’
‘Did you know it was going to happen?’ said Da=
n.
‘Assuredly,’ said Sir Richard, with a sweet sm=
ile.
‘I put my foot on his sword and plucked away his dagger, but he knew not
whether it was day or night for a while. He lay rolling his eyes and bubbli=
ng
with his mouth, and Jehan roped him like a calf. He was cased all in that
new-fangled armour which we call lizard-mail. Not rings like my hauberk
here’—Sir Richard tapped his chest—‘but little pieces of dagger-proof steel=
overlapping
on stout leather. We stripped it off (no need to spoil good harness by wett=
ing
it), and in the neck-piece De Aquila found the same folden piece of parchme=
nt
which we had put back under the hearthstone.
‘At this Gilbert would have run out. I laid my
hand on his shoulder. It sufficed. He fell to trembling and praying on his
beads.
‘“Gilbert,” said De Aquila, “here be more nota=
ble
sayings and doings of our Lord of Pevensey for thee to write down. Take pen=
ner
and inkhorn, Gilbert. We cannot all be Sacristans of Battle.”
‘Said Fulke from the floor, “Ye have bound a
King’s messenger. Pevensey shall burn for this!”
‘“Maybe. I have seen it besieged once,” said De
Aquila, “but heart up, Fulke. I promise thee that thou shalt be hanged in t=
he
middle of the flames at the end of that siege, if I have to share my last l=
oaf
with thee; and that is more than Odo would have done when we starved out hi=
m and
Mortain.”
‘Then Fulke sat up and looked long and cunning=
ly
at De Aquila.
‘“By the Saints,” said he, “why didst thou not=
say
thou wast on the Duke’s side at the first?”
‘“Am I?” said De Aquila.
‘Fulke laughed and said, “No man who serves Ki=
ng
Henry dare do this much to his messenger. When didst thou come over to the
Duke? Let me up and we can smooth it out together.” And he smiled and becked
and winked.
‘“Yes, we will smooth it out,” said De Aquila.=
He
nodded to me, and Jehan and I heaved up Fulke—he was a heavy man—and lowered
him into the shaft by a rope, not so as to stand on our gold, but dangling =
by
his shoulders a little above. It was turn of ebb, and the water came to his
knees. He said nothing, but shivered somewhat.
‘Then Jehan of a sudden beat down Gilbert’s wr=
ist
with his sheathed dagger, “Stop!” he said. “He swallows his beads.”
‘“Poison, belike,” said De Aquila. “It is good=
for
men who know too much. I have carried it these thirty years. Give me!”
‘Then Gilbert wept and howled. De Aquila ran t=
he
beads through his fingers. The last one—I have said they were large nuts—op=
ened
in two halves on a pin, and there was a small folded parchment within. On it
was written: “ The Old Dog goes to Salisbury to be beaten. I have his Kenne=
l. Come
quickly. ”
‘“This is worse than poison,” said De Aquila, =
very
softly, and sucked in his cheeks. Then Gilbert grovelled in the rushes, and
told us all he knew. The letter, as we guessed, was from Fulke to the Duke =
(and
not the first that had passed between them); Fulke had given it to Gilbert =
in
the chapel, and Gilbert thought to have taken it by morning to a certain fi=
shing-boat
at the wharf, which trafficked between Pevensey and the French shore. Gilbe=
rt
was a false fellow, but he found time between his quakings and shakings to =
swear
that the master of the boat knew nothing of the matter.
‘“He hath called me shaved head,” said Gilbert,
“and he hath thrown haddock-guts at me; but for all that, he is no traitor.=
”
‘“I will have no clerk of mine mishandled or
miscalled,” said De Aquila. “That seaman shall be whipped at his own mast.
Write me first a letter, and thou shalt bear it, with the order for the
whipping, to-morrow to the boat.”
‘At this Gilbert would have kissed De Aquila’s
hand—he had not hoped to live until the morning—and when he trembled less he
wrote a letter as from Fulke to the Duke saying that the Kennel, which
signified Pevensey, was shut, and that the old Dog (which was De Aquila) sat
outside it, and, moreover, that all had been betrayed.
‘“Write to any man that all is betrayed,” said=
De
Aquila, “and even the Pope himself would sleep uneasily. Eh, Jehan? If one =
told
thee all was betrayed, what wouldst thou do?”
‘“I would run away,” said Jehan. “It might be
true.”
‘“Well said,” quoth De Aquila. “Write, Gilbert=
, that
Montgomery, the great Earl, hath made his peace with the King, and that lit=
tle
D’Arcy, whom I hate, hath been hanged by the heels. We will give Robert full
measure to chew upon. Write also that Fulke himself is sick to death of a
dropsy.”
‘“Nay?” cried Fulke, hanging in the well-shaft.
“Drown me out of hand, but do not make a jest of me.”
‘“Jest? I?” said De Aquila. “I am but fighting=
for
life and lands with a pen, as thou hast shown me, Fulke.”
‘Then Fulke groaned, for he was cold, and, “Le=
t me
confess,” said he.
‘“Now, this is right neighbourly,” said De Aqu=
ila,
leaning over the shaft. “Thou hast read my sayings and doings—or at least t=
he
first part of them—and thou art minded to repay me with thy own doings and
sayings. Take penner and inkhorn, Gilbert. Here is work that will not irk
thee.”
‘“Let my men go without hurt, and I will confe=
ss
my treason against the King,” said Fulke.
‘“Now, why has he grown so tender of his men o=
f a
sudden?” said Hugh to me; for Fulke had no name for mercy to his men. Plund=
er
he gave them, but pity, none.
‘“Té! Té!” said De Aquila. “Thy treason was all
confessed long ago by Gilbert. It would be enough to hang Montgomery himsel=
f.”
‘“Nay; but spare my men,” said Fulke; and we h=
eard
him splash like a fish in a pond, for the tide was rising.
‘“All in good time,” said De Aquila. “The nigh=
t is
young; the wine is old; and we need only the merry tale. Begin the story of=
thy
life since when thou wast a lad at Tours. Tell it nimbly!”
‘“Ye shame me to my soul,” said Fulke.
‘“Then I have done what neither King nor Duke
could do,” said De Aquila. “But begin, and forget nothing.”
‘“Send thy man away,” said Fulke.
‘“That much I can,” said De Aquila. “But,
remember, I am like the Danes’ King; I cannot turn the tide.”
‘“How long will it rise?” said Fulke, and spla=
shed
anew.
‘“For three hours,” said De Aquila. “Time to t=
ell
all thy good deeds. Begin, and Gilbert—I have heard thou art somewhat
careless—do not twist his words from their true meaning.”
‘So—fear of death in the dark being upon him—F=
ulke
began; and Gilbert, not knowing what his fate might be, wrote it word by wo=
rd.
I have heard many tales, but never heard I aught to match the tale of Fulke,
his black life, as Fulke told it hollowly, hanging in the shaft.’
‘Was it bad?’ said Dan, awestruck.
‘Beyond belief,’ Sir Richard answered. ‘None t=
he
less, there was that in it which forced even Gilbert to laugh. We three lau=
ghed
till we ached. At one place his teeth so chattered that we could not well h=
ear,
and we reached him down a cup of wine. Then he warmed to it, and smoothly s=
et
out all his shifts, malices, and treacheries, his extreme boldnesses (he wa=
s desperate
bold); his retreats, shufflings, and counterfeitings (he was also inconceiv=
ably
a coward); his lack of gear and honour; his despair at their loss; his
remedies, and well-coloured contrivances. Yes, he waved the filthy rags of =
his
life before us, as though they had been some proud banner. When he ceased, =
we
saw by torches that the tide stood at the corners of his mouth, and he brea=
thed
strongly through his nose.
‘We had him out, and rubbed him; we wrapped hi=
m in
a cloak, and gave him wine, and we leaned and looked upon him the while he
drank. He was shivering, but shameless.
‘Of a sudden we heard Jehan at the stairway wa=
ke,
but a boy pushed past him, and stood before us, the hall rushes in his hair,
all slubbered with sleep. “My father! My father! I dreamed of treachery,” he
cried, and babbled thickly.
‘“There is no treachery here,” said Fulke. “Go=
,”
and the boy turned, even then not fully awake, and Jehan led him by the han=
d to
the Great Hall.
‘“Thy only son!” said De Aquila, “Why didst th=
ou
bring the child here?”
‘“He is my heir. I dared not trust him to my
brother,” said Fulke, and now he was ashamed. De Aquila said nothing, but s=
at
weighing a wine cup in his two hands—thus. Anon, Fulke touched him on the k=
nee.
‘“Let the boy escape to Normandy,” said he, “a=
nd
do with me at thy pleasure. Yea, hang me to-morrow, with my letter to Robert
round my neck, but let the boy go.”
‘“Be still,” said De Aquila. “I think for
England.”
‘So we waited what our Lord of Pevensey should
devise; and the sweat ran down Fulke’s forehead.
‘At last said De Aquila: “I am too old to judg=
e,
or to trust any man. I do not covet thy lands, as thou hast coveted mine; a=
nd
whether thou art any better or any worse than any other black Angevin thief=
, it
is for thy King to find out. Therefore, go back to thy King, Fulke.”
‘“And thou wilt say nothing of what has passed=
?”
said Fulke.
‘“Why should I? Thy son will stay with me. If =
the
King calls me again to leave Pevensey, which I must guard against England’s
enemies; if the King sends his men against me for a traitor; or if I hear t=
hat
the King in his bed thinks any evil of me or my two knights, thy son will be
hanged from out this window, Fulke.”’
‘But it hadn’t anything to do with his son,’ c=
ried
Una, startled.
‘How could we have hanged Fulke?’ said Sir
Richard. ‘We needed him to make our peace with the King. He would have betr=
ayed
half England for the boy’s sake. Of that we were sure.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘But I think it
was simply awful.’
‘So did not Fulke. He was well pleased.’
‘What? Because his son was going to be killed?=
’
‘Nay. Because De Aquila had shown him how he m=
ight
save the boy’s life and his own lands and honours. “I will do it,” he said.=
“I
swear I will do it. I will tell the King thou art no traitor, but the most
excellent, valiant, and perfect of us all. Yes, I will save thee.”
‘De Aquila looked still into the bottom of the
cup, rolling the wine-dregs to and fro.
‘“Ay,” he said. “If I had a son, I would, I th=
ink,
save him. But do not by any means tell me how thou wilt go about it.”
‘“Nay, nay,” said Fulke, nodding his bald head
wisely. “That is my secret. But rest at ease, De Aquila, no hair of thy head
nor rood of thy land shall be forfeited,” and he smiled like one planning g=
reat
good deeds.
‘“And henceforward,” said De Aquila, “I counsel
thee to serve one master—not two.”
‘“What?” said Fulke. “Can I work no more honest
trading between the two sides these troublous times?”
‘“Serve Robert or the King—England or Normandy=
,”
said De Aquila. “I care not which it is, but make thy choice here and now.”=
‘“The King, then,” said Fulke, “for I see he is
better served than Robert. Shall I swear it?”
‘“No need,” said De Aquila, and he laid his ha=
nd
on the parchments which Gilbert had written. “It shall be some part of my
Gilbert’s penance to copy out the savoury tale of thy life, till we have ma=
de
ten, twenty, an hundred, maybe, copies. How many cattle, think you, would t=
he
Bishop of Tours give for that tale? Or thy brother? Or the Monks of Blois?
Minstrels will turn it into songs which thy own Saxon serfs shall sing behi=
nd
their plough-stilts, and men-at-arms riding through thy Norman towns. From =
here
to Rome, Fulke, men will make very merry over that tale, and how Fulke told=
it,
hanging in a well, like a drowned puppy. This shall be thy punishment, if e=
ver
I find thee double-dealing with thy King any more. Meantime, the parchments
stay here with thy son. Him I will return to thee when thou hast made my pe=
ace
with the King. The parchments never.”
‘Fulke hid his face and groaned.
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila, laughi=
ng.
“The pen cuts deep. I could never have fetched that grunt out of thee with =
any
sword.”
‘“But so long as I do not anger thee, my tale =
will
be secret?” said Fulke.
‘“Just so long. Does that comfort thee, Fulke?”
said De Aquila.
‘“What other comfort have ye left me?” he said,
and of a sudden he wept hopelessly like a child, dropping his face on his
knees.’
‘Poor Fulke,’ said Una.
‘I pitied him also,’ said Sir Richard.
‘“After the spur, corn,” said De Aquila, and he
threw Fulke three wedges of gold that he had taken from our little chest by=
the
bed-place.
‘“If I had known this,” said Fulke, catching h=
is
breath, “I would never have lifted hand against Pevensey. Only lack of this
yellow stuff has made me so unlucky in my dealings.”
‘It was dawn then, and they stirred in the Gre=
at
Hall below. We sent down Fulke’s mail to be scoured, and when he rode away =
at
noon under his own and the King’s banner very splendid and stately did he s=
how.
He smoothed his long beard, and called his son to his stirrup and kissed hi=
m.
De Aquila rode with him as far as the New Mill landward. We thought the nig=
ht had
been all a dream.’
‘But did he make it right with the King?’ Dan
asked. ‘About your not being traitors, I mean?’
Sir Richard smiled. ‘The King sent no second
summons to Pevensey, nor did he ask why De Aquila had not obeyed the first.
Yes, that was Fulke’s work. I know not how he did it, but it was well and
swiftly done.’
‘Then you didn’t do anything to his son?’ said
Una.
‘The boy? Oh, he was an imp. He turned the keep
doors out of dortoirs while we had him. He sang foul songs, learned in the
Barons’ camps—poor fool; he set the hounds fighting in hall; he lit the rus=
hes
to drive out, as he said, the fleas; he drew his dagger on Jehan, who threw=
him
down the stairway for it; and he rode his horse through crops and among she=
ep.
But when we had beaten him, and showed him wolf and deer, he followed us ol=
d men
like a young, eager hound, and called us “uncle.” His father came the summe=
r’s
end to take him away, but the boy had no lust to go, because of the
otter-hunting, and he stayed on till the fox-hunting. I gave him a bittern’s
claw to bring him good luck at shooting. An imp, if ever there was!’
‘And what happened to Gilbert?’ said Dan.
‘Not even a whipping. De Aquila said he would
sooner a clerk, however false, that knew the Manor-roll than a fool, however
true, that must be taught his work afresh. Moreover, after that night I thi=
nk
Gilbert loved as much as he feared De Aquila. At least he would not leave
us—not even when Vivian, the King’s Clerk, would have made him Sacristan of
Battle Abbey. A false fellow, but, in his fashion, bold.’
‘Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all?’ =
Dan
went on.
‘We guarded the coast too well while Henry was
fighting his Barons; and three or four years later, when England had peace,=
Henry
crossed to Normandy and showed his brother some work at Tenchebrai that cur=
ed
Robert of fighting. Many of Henry’s men sailed from Pevensey to that war. F=
ulke
came, I remember, and we all four lay in the little chamber once again, and
drank together. De Aquila was right. One should not judge men. Fulke was me=
rry.
Yes, always merry—with a catch in his breath.’
‘And what did you do afterwards?’ said Una.
‘We talked together of times past. That is all=
men
can do when they grow old, little maid.’
The bell for tea rang faintly across the meado=
ws.
Dan lay in the bows of the Golden =
Hind ;
Una in the stern, the book of verses open in her lap, was reading from ‘The
Slave’s Dream’:—
‘Aga=
in in
the mist and shadow of sleep He s=
aw his
native land.’
‘I don’t know when you began that,’ said Dan,
sleepily.
On the middle thwart of the boat, beside Una’s
sun-bonnet, lay an Oak leaf, an Ash leaf, and a Thorn leaf, that must have
dropped down from the trees above; and the brook giggled as though it had j=
ust
seen some joke.
THE R=
UNES
ON WELAND’S SWORD
A
Smith makes me To
betray my Man In my
first fight.
To gather Gold At the world’s end I am sent.
The Gold I gather Comes into England Out of deep Water.
Like a shining Fish Then it descends Into deep Water.
It is not given For goods or gear. But for The Thing
The Gold I gather A King covets For an ill use.
The Gold I gather Is drawn up Out of deep Water.
Like a shining Fish Then it descends Into deep Water.
It is not given For goods or gear But for The Thing.
Cities
and Thrones and Powers, Stand
in Time’s eye, Almost
as long as flowers, Which
daily die: But,
as new buds put forth, To
glad new men, Out of
the spent and unconsidered Earth, =
The
Cities rise again.
This season’s Daffodil, She never hears, What change, what chance, what chill, Cut down last year’s; But with bold countenance, And knowledge small, Esteems her seven days’ continuance To be perpetual.
So Time that is o’er-kind, To all that be, Ordains us e’en as blind, As bold as she: That in our very death, And burial sure, Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,=
‘See how our works endure!’
A CEN=
TURION
OF THE THIRTIETH
Dan h=
ad
come to grief over his Latin, and was kept in; so Una went alone to Far Woo=
d.
Dan’s big catapult and the lead bullets that Hobden had made for him were
hidden in an old hollow beech-stub on the west of the wood. They had named =
the
place out of the verse in Lays of
Ancient Rome .
From
lordly Volaterrae, Where scowls=
the
far-famed hold, Piled by the hand=
s of
giants For Godlike Kings of old=
.
They were the ‘Godlike Kings,’ and when old Ho=
bden
piled some comfortable brushwood between the big wooden knees of Volaterrae,
they called him ‘Hands of Giants.’
Una slipped through their private gap in the
fence, and sat still a while, scowling as scowlily and lordlily as she knew
how; for ‘Volaterrae’ is an important watch-tower that juts out of Far Wood
just as Far Wood juts out of the hillside. Pook’s Hill lay below her, and a=
ll
the turns of the brook as it wanders from out of the Willingford Woods, bet=
ween
hop-gardens, to old Hobden’s cottage at the Forge. The Sou’-West wind (ther=
e is
always a wind by ‘Volaterrae’) blew from the bare ridge where Cherry Clack
Windmill stands.
Now wind prowling through woods sounds like
exciting things going to happen, and that is why on ‘blowy days’ you stand =
up
in Volaterrae and shout bits of the Lays
to suit its noises.
Una took Dan’s catapult from its secret place,=
and
made ready to meet Lars Porsena’s army stealing through the wind-whitened
aspens by the brook. A gust boomed up the valley, and Una chanted sorrowful=
ly:
‘Ver=
benna
down to Ostia Hath wasted all t=
he
plain; Astur hath stormed Janicul=
um And the stout guards are slain.’
But the wind, not charging fair to the wood,
started aside and shook a single oak in Gleason’s pasture. Here it made its=
elf
all small and crouched among the grasses, waving the tips of them as a cat
waves the tip of her tail before she springs.
‘Now welcome—welcome Sextus,’ sang Una, loading
the catapult—
‘N=
ow
welcome to thy home, Why dost tho=
u turn
and run away? Here lies the rod=
of
Rome.’
She fired into the face of the lull, to wake up
the cowardly wind, and heard a grunt from behind a thorn in the pasture.
‘Oh, my Winkie!’ she said aloud, and that was
something she had picked up from Dan. ‘I believe I’ve tickled up a Gleason
cow.’
‘You little painted beast!’ a voice cried. ‘I’=
ll
teach you to sling your masters!’
She looked down most cautiously, and saw a you=
ng
man covered with hoopy bronze armour all glowing among the late broom. But =
what
Una admired beyond all was his great bronze helmet with its red horse-tail =
that
flicked in the wind. She could hear the long hairs rasp on his shimmery sho=
ulder-plates.
‘What does the Faun mean,’ he said, half aloud=
to
himself, ‘by telling me the Painted People have changed?’ He caught sight of
Una’s yellow head. ‘Have you seen a painted lead-slinger?’ he called.
‘No-o,’ said Una. ‘But if you’ve seen a bullet=
——’
‘Seen?’ cried the man. ‘It passed within a hai=
r’s
breadth of my ear.’
‘Well, that was me. I’m most awfully sorry.’
‘Didn’t the Faun tell you I was coming?’ He
smiled.
‘Not if you mean Puck. I thought you were a
Gleason cow. I—I didn’t know you were a—a——What are you?’
He laughed outright, showing a set of splendid
teeth. His face and eyes were dark, and his eyebrows met above his big nose=
in
one bushy black bar.
‘They call me Parnesius. I have been an office=
r of
the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth Legion—the Ulpia Victrix. Did you sling
that bullet?’
‘I did. I was using Dan’s catapult,’ said Una.=
‘Catapults!’ said he. ‘I ought to know somethi=
ng
about them. Show me!’
He leaped the rough fence with a rattle of spe=
ar,
shield, and armour, and hoisted himself into ‘Volaterrae’ as quickly as a
shadow.
‘A sling on a forked stick. I understand!’ he cried, and pulled at the=
elastic.
‘But what wonderful beast yields this stretching leather?’
‘It’s laccy—elastic. You put the bullet into t=
hat
loop, and then you pull hard.’
The man pulled, and hit himself square on his
thumb-nail.
‘Each to his own weapon,’ he said, gravely,
handing it back. ‘I am better with the bigger machine, little maiden. But i=
t’s
a pretty toy. A wolf would laugh at it. Aren’t you afraid of wolves?’
‘There aren’t any,’ said Una.
‘Never believe it! A wolf is like a Winged Hat=
. He
comes when he isn’t expected. Don’t they hunt wolves here?’
‘We don’t hunt,’ said Una, remembering what she
had heard from grown-ups. ‘We preserve—pheasants. Do you know them?’
‘I ought to,’ said the young man, smiling agai=
n,
and he imitated the cry of the cock-pheasant so perfectly that a bird answe=
red
out of the wood.
‘What a big painted clucking fool is a pheasan=
t,’
he said. ‘Just like some Romans!’
‘But you’re a Roman yourself, aren’t you?’ said
Una.
‘Ye-es and no. I’m one of a good few thousands=
who
have never seen Rome except in a picture. My people have lived at Vectis for
generations. Vectis! That island West yonder that you can see from so far in
clear weather.’
‘Do you mean the Isle of Wight? It lifts up ju=
st
before rain, and we see it from the Downs.’
‘Very likely. Our Villa’s on the South edge of=
the
Island, by the Broken Cliffs. Most of it is three hundred years old, but the
cow-stables, where our first ancestor lived, must be a hundred years older.=
Oh,
quite that, because the founder of our family had his land given him by
Agricola at the Settlement. It’s not a bad little place for its size. In
spring-time violets grow down to the very beach. I’ve gathered sea-weeds for
myself and violets for my Mother many a time with our old nurse.’
‘Was your nurse a—a Romaness too?’
‘No, a Numidian. Gods be good to her! A dear, =
fat,
brown thing with a tongue like a cowbell. She was a free woman. By the way,=
are
you free, maiden?’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Una. ‘At least, till tea-tim=
e;
and in summer our governess doesn’t say much if we’re late.’
The young man laughed again—a proper understan=
ding
laugh.
‘I see,’ said he. ‘That accounts for your bein=
g in
the wood. We hid among the cliffs.’
‘Did =
you have a governess, then?’
‘Did we not? A Greek, too. She had a way of
clutching her dress when she hunted us among the gorze-bushes that made us
laugh. Then she’d say she’d get us whipped. She never did, though, bless he=
r!
Aglaia was a thorough sportswoman, for all her learning.’
‘But what lessons did you do—when—when you were
little!’
‘Ancient history, the Classics, arithmetic, an=
d so
on,’ he answered. ‘My sister and I were thickheads, but my two brothers (I’m
the middle one) liked those things, and, of course, Mother was clever enough
for any six. She was nearly as tall as I am, and she looked like the new st=
atue
on the Western Road—the Demeter of the Baskets, you know. And funny! Roma D=
ea! How
Mother could make us laugh!’
‘What at?’
‘Little jokes and sayings that every family ha=
s.
Don’t you know?’
‘I know we have, but I didn’t know other people had=
them
too,’ said Una. ‘Tell me about all your family, please.’ ‘Good families are very much alike. Mother wou=
ld
sit spinning of evenings while Aglaia read in her corner, and Father did
accounts, and we four romped about the passages. When our noise grew too lo=
ud
the Pater would say, “Less tumult! Less tumult! Have you never heard of a
Father’s right over his children? He can slay them, my loves—slay them dead,
and the Gods highly approve of the action!” Then Mother would prim up her d=
ear
mouth over the wheel and answer: “H’m! I’m afraid there can’t be much of th=
e Roman
Father about you!” Then the Pater would roll up his accounts, and say, “I’ll
show you!” and then—then, he’d be worse than any of us!’ ‘Fathers can—if they like,’ said Una, her eyes
dancing. ‘Didn’t I say all good families are very much =
the
same?’ ‘What did you do in summer?’ said Una. ‘Play
about, like us?’ ‘Yes, and we visited our friends. There are no
wolves in Vectis. We had many friends, and as many ponies as we wished.’ ‘It must have been lovely,’ said Una. ‘I hope =
it
lasted for ever.’ ‘Not quite, little maid. When I was about sixt=
een
or seventeen, the Father felt gouty, and we all went to the Waters.’ ‘What waters?’ ‘At Aquae Solis. Every one goes there. You oug=
ht
to get your Father to take you some day.’ ‘But where? I don’t know,’ said Una. The young man looked astonished for a moment.
‘Aquae Solis,’ he repeated. ‘The best baths in Britain. Just as good, I’m t=
old,
as Rome. All the old gluttons sit in its hot water, and talk scandal and
politics. And the Generals come through the streets with their guards behind
them; and the magistrates come in their chairs with their stiff guards behi=
nd
them; and you meet fortune-tellers, and goldsmiths, and merchants, and
philosophers, and feather-sellers, and ultra-Roman Britons, and ultra-Briti=
sh
Romans, and tame tribesmen pretending to be civilised, and Jew lecturers,
and—oh, everybody interesting. We young people, of course, took no interest=
in politics.
We had not the gout: there were many of our age like us. We did not find li=
fe
sad. ‘But while we were enjoying ourselves without
thinking, my sister met the son of a magistrate in the West—and a year
afterwards she was married to him. My young brother, who was always interes=
ted
in plants and roots, met the First Doctor of a Legion from the City of the
Legions, and he decided that he would be an Army doctor. I do not think it =
is a
profession for a well-born man, but then—I’m not my brother. He went to Rom=
e to
study medicine, and now he’s First Doctor of a Legion in Egypt—at Antinoe, =
I think,
but I have not heard from him for some time. ‘My eldest brother came across a Greek philoso=
pher,
and told my Father that he intended to settle down on the estate as a farmer
and a philosopher. You see’—the young man’s eyes twinkled—‘his philosopher =
was
a long-haired one!’ ‘I thought philosophers were bald,’ said Una.<=
o:p> ‘Not all. She was very pretty. I don’t blame h=
im.
Nothing could have suited me better than my eldest brother’s doing this, fo=
r I
was only too keen to join the Army. I had always feared I should have to st=
ay
at home and look after the estate while my brother took this .’ He rapped on his great glistening shield that
never seemed to be in his way. ‘So we were well contented—we young people—and=
we
rode back to Clausentum along the Wood Road very quietly. But when we reach=
ed
home, Aglaia, our governess, saw what had come to us. I remember her at the
door, the torch over her head, watching us climb the cliff-path from the bo=
at.
“Aie! Aie!” she said. “Children you went away. Men and a woman you return!”
Then she kissed Mother, and Mother wept. Thus our visit to the Waters settl=
ed our
fates for each of us, Maiden.’ He rose to his feet and listened, leaning on t=
he
shield-rim. ‘I think that’s Dan—my brother,’ said Una. ‘Yes; and the Faun is with him,’ he replied, as
Dan with Puck stumbled through the copse. ‘We should have come sooner,’ Puck called, ‘but
the beauties of your native tongue, O Parnesius, have enthralled this young
citizen.’ Parnesius looked bewildered, even when Una
explained. ‘Dan said the plural of “dominus” was “dominoe=
s,”
and when Miss Blake said it wasn’t he said he supposed it was “backgammon,”=
and
so he had to write it out twice—for cheek, you know.’ Dan had climbed into Volaterrae, hot and panti=
ng. ‘I’ve run nearly all the way,’ he gasped, ‘and
then Puck met me. How do you do, Sir?’ ‘I am in good health,’ Parnesius answered. ‘Se=
e! I
have tried to bend the bow of Ulysses, but——’ He held up his thumb. ‘I’m sorry. You must have pulled off too soon,’
said Dan. ‘Puck said you were telling Una a story.’ ‘Continue, O Parnesius,’ said Puck, who had
perched himself on a dead branch above them. ‘I will be chorus. Has he puzz=
led
you much, Una?’ ‘Not a bit, except—I didn’t know where Ak—Ak
something was,’ she answered. ‘Oh, Aquae Solis. That’s Bath, where the buns =
come
from. Let the hero tell his own tale.’ Parnesius pretended to thrust his spear at Puc=
k’s
legs, but Puck reached down, caught at the horse-tail plume, and pulled off=
the
tall helmet. ‘Thanks, jester,’ said Parnesius, shaking his
curly dark head. ‘That is cooler. Now hang it up for me.... ‘I was telling your sister how I joined the Ar=
my,’
he said to Dan. ‘Did you have to pass an Exam?’ Dan asked,
eagerly. ‘No. I went to my Father, and said I should li=
ke
to enter the Dacian Horse (I had seen some at Aquae Solis); but he said I h=
ad
better begin service in a regular Legion from Rome. Now, like many of our
youngsters, I was not too fond of anything Roman. The Roman-born officers a=
nd
magistrates looked down on us British-born as though we were barbarians. I =
told
my Father so. ‘“I know they do,” he said; “but remember, aft=
er
all, we are the people of the Old Stock, and our duty is to the Empire.” ‘“To which Empire?’” I asked. “We split the Ea=
gle
before I was born.” ‘“What thieves’ talk is that?” said my Father.=
He
hated slang. ‘“Well, Sir,” I said, “we’ve one Emperor in Ro=
me,
and I don’t know how many Emperors the outlying Provinces have set up from =
time
to time. Which am I to follow?” ‘“Gratian,” said he. “At least he’s a sportsma=
n.” ‘“He’s all that,” I said. “Hasn’t he turned
himself into a raw-beef-eating Scythian?” ‘“Where did you hear of it?” said the Pater. ‘“At Aquae Solis,” I said. It was perfectly tr=
ue.
This precious Emperor Gratian of ours had a bodyguard of fur-cloaked Scythi=
ans,
and he was so crazy about them that he dressed like them. In Rome of all pl=
aces
in the world! It was as bad as if my own Father had painted himself blue! ‘“No matter for the clothes,” said the Pater.
“They are only the fringe of the trouble. It began before your time or mine.
Rome has forsaken her Gods, and must be punished. The great war with the
Painted People broke out in the very year the temples of our Gods were
destroyed. We beat the Painted People in the very year our temples were
rebuilt. Go back further still.”... He went back to the time of Diocletian;=
and
to listen to him you would have thought Eternal Rome herself was on the edg=
e of
destruction, just because a few people had become a little large-minded. ‘ I k=
new
nothing about it. Aglaia never taught us the history of our own country. She
was so full of her ancient Greeks. ‘“There is no hope for Rome,” said the Pater, =
at
last. “She has forsaken her Gods, but if the Gods forgive us here, we may save Britain. To do that, w=
e must
keep the Painted People back. Therefore, I tell you, Parnesius, as a Father,
that if your heart is set on service, your place is among men on the Wall—a=
nd
not with women among the cities.”’ ‘What Wall?’ asked Dan and Una at once. ‘Father meant the one we call Hadrian’s Wall. =
I’ll
tell you about it later. It was built long ago, across North Britain, to ke=
ep
out the Painted People—Picts you call them. Father had fought in the great =
Pict
War that lasted more than twenty years, and he knew what fighting meant. Th=
eodosius,
one of our great Generals, had chased the little beasts back far into the N=
orth
before I was born: down at Vectis, of course, we never troubled our heads a=
bout
them. But when my Father spoke as he did, I kissed his hand, and waited for
orders. We British-born Romans know what is due to our parents.’ ‘If I kissed my Father’s hand, he’d laugh,’ sa=
id
Dan. ‘Customs change; but if you do not obey your
father, the Gods remember it. You may be quite sure of that . ‘After our talk, seeing I was in earnest, the
Pater sent me over to Clausentum to learn my foot-drill in a barrack full of
foreign Auxiliaries—as unwashed and unshaved a mob of mixed barbarians as e=
ver scrubbed
a breast-plate. It was your stick in their stomachs and your shield in their
faces to push them into any sort of formation. When I had learned my work t=
he
Instructor gave me a handful—and they were a handful!—of Gauls and Iberians=
to
polish up till they were sent to their stations up-country. I did my best, =
and
one night a villa in the suburbs caught fire, and I had my handful out and =
at
work before any of the other troops. I noticed a quiet-looking man on the l=
awn,
leaning on a stick. He watched us passing buckets from the pond, and at las=
t he
said to me: “Who are you?” ‘“A probationer, waiting for a cohort,” I
answered. I didn’t know who he was from Deucalion! ‘“Born in Britain?” he said. ‘“Yes, if you were born in Spain,” I said, for=
he
neighed his words like an Iberian mule. ‘“And what might you call yourself when you ar=
e at
home?” he said laughing. ‘“That depends,” I answered; “sometimes one th=
ing
and sometimes another. But now I’m busy.” ‘He said no more till we had saved the family =
gods
(they were respectable householders), and then he grunted across the laurel=
s:
“Listen, young sometimes-one-thing-and-sometimes-another. In future call
yourself Centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth, the Ulpia Victri=
x.
That will help me to remember you. Your Father and a few other people call =
me Maximus.” ‘He tossed me the polished stick he was leaning
on, and went away. You might have knocked me down with it!’ ‘Who was he?’ said Dan. ‘Maximus himself, our great General! The General of Britain who had been Theodosi=
us’s
right hand in the Pict War! Not only had he given me my Centurion’s stick
direct, but three steps in a good Legion as well! A new man generally begin=
s in
the Tenth Cohort of his Legion, and works up.’ ‘And were you pleased?’ said Una. ‘Very. I thought Maximus had chosen me for my =
good
looks and fine style in marching, but, when I went home, the Pater told me =
he
had served under Maximus in the great Pict War, and had asked him to promote
me.’ ‘A child you were!’ said Puck, from above. ‘I was,’ said Parnesius. ‘Don’t begrudge it me,
Faun. Afterwards—the Gods know I put aside the games!’ And Puck nodded, bro=
wn
chin on brown hand, his big eyes still. ‘The night before I left we sacrificed to our
ancestors—the usual little Home Sacrifice—but I never prayed so earnestly to
all the Good Shades, and then I went with my Father by boat to Regnum, and
across the chalk eastwards to Anderida yonder.’ ‘Regnum? Anderida?’ The children turned their
faces to Puck. ‘Regnum’s Chichester,’ he said, pointing towar=
ds
Cherry Clack, and—he threw his arm South behind him—‘Anderida’s Pevensey.’<=
o:p> ‘Pevensey again!’ said Dan. ‘Where Weland land=
ed?’ ‘Weland and a few others,’ said Puck. ‘Pevensey
isn’t young—even compared to me!’ ‘The head-quarters of the Thirtieth lay at
Anderida in summer, but my own Cohort, the Seventh, was on the Wall up Nort=
h.
Maximus was inspecting Auxiliaries—the Abulci, I think—at Anderida, and we
stayed with him, for he and my Father were very old friends. I was only the=
re
ten days when I was ordered to go up with thirty men to my Cohort.’ He laug=
hed
merrily. ‘A man never forgets his first march. I was happier than any Emper=
or
when I led my handful through the North Gate of the Camp, and we saluted th=
e guard
and the Altar of Victory there.’ ‘How? How?’ said Dan and Una. Parnesius smiled, and stood up, flashing in his
armour. ‘So!’ said he; and he moved slowly through the
beautiful movements of the Roman Salute, that ends with a hollow clang of t=
he
shield coming into its place between the shoulders. ‘Hai!’ said Puck. ‘That sets one thinking!’ ‘We went out fully armed,’ said Parnesius, sit=
ting
down; ‘but as soon as the road entered the Great Forest, my men expected the
pack-horses to hang their shields on. “No!” I said; “you can dress like wom=
en
in Anderida, but while you’re with me you will carry your own weapons and
armour.” ‘“But it’s hot,” said one of them, “and we hav=
en’t
a doctor. Suppose we get sunstroke, or a fever?” ‘“Then die,” I said, “and a good riddance to R=
ome!
Up shield—up spears, and tighten your foot-wear!” ‘“Don’t think yourself Emperor of Britain
already,” a fellow shouted. I knocked him over with the butt of my spear, a=
nd
explained to these Roman-born Romans that, if there were any further troubl=
e,
we should go on with one man short. And, by the Light of the Sun, I meant it
too! My raw Gauls at Clausentum had never treated me so. ‘Then, quietly as a cloud, Maximus rode out of=
the
fern (my Father behind him), and reined up across the road. He wore the Pur=
ple,
as though he were already Emperor; his leggings were of white buckskin laced
with gold. ‘My men dropped like—like partridges. ‘He said nothing for some time, only looked, w=
ith
his eyes puckered. Then he crooked his forefinger, and my men walked—crawle=
d, I
mean—to one side. ‘“Stand in the sun, children,” he said, and th=
ey
formed up on the hard road. ‘“What would you have done?” he said to me, “I=
f I
had not been here?” ‘“I should have killed that man,” I answered.<=
o:p> ‘“Kill him now,” he said. “He will not move a
limb.” ‘“No,” I said. “You’ve taken my men out of my
command. I should only be your butcher if I killed him now.” Do you see wha=
t I
meant?’ Parnesius turned to Dan. ‘Yes,’ said Dan. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair,
somehow.’ ‘That was what I thought,’ said Parnesius. ‘But
Maximus frowned. “You’ll never be an Emperor,” he said. “Not even a General
will you be.” ‘I was silent, but my Father seemed pleased. ‘“I came here to see the last of you,” he said=
. ‘“You have seen it,” said Maximus. “I shall ne=
ver
need your son any more. He will live and he will die an officer of a Legion=
—and
he might have been Prefect of one of my Provinces. Now eat and drink with u=
s,”
he said. “Your men will wait till you have finished.” ‘My miserable thirty stood like wine-skins
glistening in the hot sun, and Maximus led us to where his people had set a
meal. Himself he mixed the wine. ‘“A year from now,” he said, “you will remember
that you have sat with the Emperor of Britain—and Gaul.” ‘“Yes,” said the Pater, “you can drive two
mules—Gaul and Britain.” ‘“Five years hence you will remember that you =
have
drunk”—he passed me the cup and there was blue borage in it—“with the Emper=
or
of Rome!” ‘“No; you can’t drive three mules; they will t=
ear
you in pieces,” said my Father. ‘“And you on the Wall, among the heather, will
weep because your notion of justice was more to you than the favour of the
Emperor of Rome.” ‘I sat quite still. One does not answer a Gene=
ral
who wears the Purple. ‘“I am not angry with you,” he went on; “I owe=
too
much to your Father——” ‘“You owe me nothing but advice that you never
took,” said the Pater. ‘“——to be unjust to any of your family. Indeed=
, I
say you will make a good officer, but, so far as I am concerned, on the Wall
you will live, and on the Wall you will die,” said Maximus. ‘“Very like,” said my Father. “But we shall ha=
ve
the Picts and their friends breaking through before lo=
ng.
You cannot move all troops out of Britain to make you Emperor, and expect t=
he
North to sit quiet.” ‘“I follow my destiny,” said Maximus. ‘“Follow it, then,” said my Father pulling up a
fern root; “and die as Theodosius died.” ‘“Ah!” said Maximus. “My old General was killed
because he served the Empire too well. =
span>I
may be killed, but not for that re=
ason,”
and he smiled a little pale grey smile that made my blood run cold. ‘“Then I had better follow my destiny,” I said,
“and take my men to the Wall.” ‘He looked at me a long time, and bowed his he=
ad
slanting like a Spaniard. “Follow it, boy,” he said. That was all. I was on=
ly
too glad to get away, though I had many messages for home. I found my men
standing as they had been put—they had not even shifted their feet in the
dust,—and off I marched, still feeling that terrific smile like an east win=
d up
my back. I never halted them till sunset, and’—he turned about and looked at
Pook’s Hill below him—‘then I halted yonder.’ He pointed to the broken, bra=
cken-covered
shoulder of the Forge Hill behind old Hobden’s cottage. ‘There? Why, that’s only the old Forge—where t=
hey
made iron once,’ said Dan. ‘Very good stuff it was too,’ said Parnesius,
calmly. ‘We mended three shoulder-straps here and had a spear-head riveted.=
The
forge was rented from the Government by a one-eyed smith from Carthage. I
remember we called him Cyclops. He sold me a beaver-skin rug for my sister’s
room.’ ‘But it couldn’t have been here,’ Dan insisted=
. ‘But it was! From the Altar of Victory at Ande=
rida
to the First Forge in the Forest here is twelve miles seven hundred paces. =
It
is all in the Road Book. A man doesn’t forget his first march. I think I co=
uld
tell you every station between this and——’ He leaned forward, but his eye w=
as
caught by the setting sun. It had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hi=
ll,
and the light poured in between the tree trunks so that you could see red a=
nd
gold and black deep into the heart of Far Wood; and Parnesius in his armour
shone as though he had been afire. ‘Wait,’ he said, lifting a hand, and the sunli=
ght
jinked on his glass bracelet. ‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’ He rose and stretched his arms westward, with
deep, splendid-sounding words. Then Puck began to sing too, in a voice like b=
ells
tolling, and as he sang he slipped from ‘Volaterrae’ to the ground, and
beckoned the children to follow. They obeyed; it seemed as though the voices
were pushing them along; and through the goldy-brown light on the beech lea=
ves
they walked, while Puck between them chanted something like this:— Cur =
mundus
militat sub vana gloria Cujus
prosperitas est transitoria? Tam =
cito
labitur ejus potentia Quam vasa f=
iguli
quæ sunt fragilia. They found themselves at the little locked gat=
es
of the wood. Quo =
Cæsar
abiit celsus imperio? Vel Dives splendidus totus in prandio? <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Dic ubi Tullius——
Still singing, he took Dan’s hand and wheeled =
him
round to face Una as she came out of the gate. It shut behind her, at the s=
ame
time as Puck threw the memory-magicking Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves over the=
ir
heads.
‘Well, you <=
/span>are
jolly late,’ said Una. ‘Couldn’t y=
ou get
away before?’
‘I did,’ said Dan. ‘I got away in lots of time,
but—but I didn’t know it was so late. Where’ve you been?’
‘In Volaterrae—waiting for you.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dan. ‘It was all that beastly
Latin.’
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
(A. D. 406)
My father’s father saw it not, And I, belike, shall never come, To look on that so-holy spot— The very Rome—
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,=
The equal work of Gods and Man— City beneath whose oldest height The Race began,—
Soon to send forth again a brood Unshakeable, we pray, that clings, To Rome’s thrice-hammered hardihood—
Strong heart with triple armour bound, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs, =
Age after Age, the Empire round— In us thy Sons,
Who, distant from the Seven Hills, Loving and serving much, require Thee, Thee to guard ’gainst home-born il=
ls, The Imperial Fire!
When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake By the Legions’ Road to Rimini, She vowed her heart was mine to take With me and my shield to Rimini— (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And I’ve tramped Britain and I’ve t=
ramped
Gaul And the Pontic shore whe=
re the
snow-flakes fall As white as th=
e neck
of Lalage— As cold as the heart=
of
Lalage! And I’ve lost Britain=
and
I’ve lost Gaul
(the voice seemed very cheerful about it),
=
And
I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all, I’ve lost Lalage!
They were standing by the gate to Far Wood when
they heard this song. Without a word they hurried to their private gap and
wriggled through the hedge almost atop of a jay that was feeding from Puck’s
hand.
‘Gently!’ said Puck. ‘What are you looking for=
?’
‘Parnesius, of course,’ Dan answered. ‘We’ve o=
nly
just remembered yesterday. It isn’t fair.’
Puck chuckled as he rose. ‘I’m sorry, but chil=
dren
who spend the afternoon with me and a Roman Centurion need a little settling
dose of Magic before they go to tea with their governess. Ohé, Parnesius!’ =
he
called.
‘Here, Faun!’ came the answer from ‘Volaterrae=
.’
They could see the shimmer of bronze armour in the beech crotch, and the
friendly flash of the great shield uplifted.
‘I have driven out the Britons.’ Parnesius lau=
ghed
like a boy. ‘I occupy their high forts. But Rome is merciful! You may come =
up.’
And up they three all scrambled.
‘What was the song you were singing just now?’
said Una, as soon as she had settled herself.
‘That? Oh, <=
/span>Rimini
. It’s one of the tunes that are always being born somewhere in the Empire.
They run like a pestilence for six months or a year, till another one pleas=
es
the Legions, and then they march to that
.’
‘Tell them about the marching, Parnesius. Few
people nowadays walk from end to end of this country,’ said Puck.
‘The greater their loss. I know nothing better
than the Long March when your feet are hardened. You begin after the mists =
have
risen, and you end, perhaps, an hour after sundown.’
‘And what do you have to eat?’ Dan asked,
promptly.
‘Fat bacon, beans, and bread, and whatever wine
happens to be in the rest-houses. But soldiers are born grumblers. Their ve=
ry
first day out, my men complained of our water-ground British corn. They sai=
d it
wasn’t so filling as the rough stuff that is ground in the Roman ox-mills.
However, they had to fetch and eat it.’
‘Fetch it? Where from?’ said Una.
‘From that newly-invented water-mill below the
Forge.’
‘That’s Forge Mill— our Mill!’ Una looked at Puck.
‘Yes; yours,’ Puck put in. ‘How old did you th=
ink
it was?’
‘I don’t know. Didn’t Sir Richard Dalyngridge =
talk
about it?’
‘He did, and it was old in his day,’ Puck answ=
ered.
‘Hundreds of years old.’
‘It was new in mine,’ said Parnesius. ‘My men
looked at the flour in their helmets as though it had been a nest of adders.
They did it to try my patience. But I—addressed them, and we became friends=
. To
tell the truth, they taught me the Roman Step. You see, I’d only served wit=
h quick-marching
Auxiliaries. A Legion’s pace is altogether different. It is a long, slow
stride, that never varies from sunrise to sunset. “Rome’s Race—Rome’s Pace,=
” as
the proverb says. Twenty-four miles in eight hours, neither more nor less. =
Head
and spear up, shield on your back, cuirass-collar open one hand’s breadth—a=
nd
that’s how you take the Eagles through Britain.’
‘And did you meet any adventures?’ said Dan.
‘There are no adventures South the Wall,’ said
Parnesius. ‘The worst thing that happened me was having to appear before a
magistrate up North, where a wandering philosopher had jeered at the Eagles=
. I
was able to show that the old man had deliberately blocked our road, and the
magistrate told him, out of his own Book, I believe, that, whatever his God
might be, he should pay proper respect to Cæsar.’
‘What did you do?’ said Dan.
‘Went on. Why should I care
for such things, my business being to reach my station? It took me twenty d=
ays.
‘Of course, the farther North you go the empti=
er
are the roads. At last you fetch clear of the forests and climb bare hills,
where wolves howl in the ruins of our cities that have been. No more pretty
girls; no more jolly magistrates who knew your Father when he was young, and
invite you to stay with them; no news at the temples and way-stations except
bad news of wild beasts. There’s where you meet hunters, and trappers for t=
he Circuses,
prodding along chained bears and muzzled wolves. Your pony shies at them, a=
nd
your men laugh.
‘The houses change from gardened villas to shut
forts with watch-towers of grey stone, and great stone-walled sheepfolds,
guarded by armed Britons of the North Shore. In the naked hills beyond the
naked houses, where the shadows of the clouds play like cavalry charging, y=
ou
see puffs of black smoke from the mines. The hard road goes on and on—and t=
he
wind sings through your helmet-plume—past altars to Legions and Generals
forgotten, and broken statues of Gods and Heroes, and thousands of graves w=
here
the mountain foxes and hares peep at you. Red-hot in summer, freezing in wi=
nter,
is that big, purple heather country of broken stone.
‘Just when you think you are at the world’s en=
d,
you see a smoke from East to West as far as the eye can turn, and then, und=
er
it, also as far as the eye can stretch, houses and temples, shops and theat=
res,
barracks, and granaries, trickling along like dice behind—always behind—one
long, low, rising and falling, and hiding and showing line of towers. And t=
hat
is the Wall!’
‘Ah!’ said the children, taking breath.
‘You may well,’ said Parnesius. ‘Old men who h=
ave
followed the Eagles since boyhood say nothing in the Empire is more wonderf=
ul
than first sight of the Wall!’
‘Is it just a Wall? Like the one round the
kitchen-garden?’ said Dan.
‘No, no! It is the Wall. Along the top are towers with
guard-houses, small towers, between. Even on the narrowest part of it three=
men
with shields can walk abreast from guard-house to guard-house. A little cur=
tain
wall, no higher than a man’s neck, runs along the top of the thick wall, so
that from a distance you see the helmets of the sentries sliding back and f=
orth
like beads. Thirty feet high is the Wall, and on the Picts’ side, the North=
, is
a ditch, strewn with blades of old swords and spear-heads set in wood, and
tyres of wheels joined by chains. The Little People come there to steal iron
for their arrow-heads.
‘But the Wall itself is not more wonderful than
the town behind it. Long ago there were great ramparts and ditches on the S=
outh
side, and no one was allowed to build there. Now the ramparts are partly pu=
lled
down and built over, from end to end of the Wall; making a thin town eighty
miles long. Think of it! One roaring, rioting, cockfighting, wolf-baiting, =
horse-racing
town, from Ituna on the West to Segedunum on the cold eastern beach! On one
side heather, woods and ruins where Picts hide, and on the other, a vast
town—long like a snake, and wicked like a snake. Yes, a snake basking besid=
e a
warm wall!
‘My Cohort, I was told, lay at Hunno, where the
Great North Road runs through the Wall into the Province of Valentia.’
Parnesius laughed scornfully. ‘The Province of Valentia! We followed the ro=
ad,
therefore, into Hunno town, and stood astonished. The place was a fair—a fa=
ir
of peoples from every corner of the Empire. Some were racing horses: some s=
at in
wine-shops: some watched dogs baiting bears, and many gathered in a ditch to
see cocks fight. A boy not much older than myself, but I could see he was an
Officer, reined up before me and asked what I wanted.
‘“My station,” I said, and showed him my shiel=
d.’
Parnesius held up his broad shield with its three X’s like letters on a
beer-cask.
‘“Lucky omen!” said he. “Your Cohort’s the next
tower to us, but they’re all at the cock-fight. This is a happy place. Come=
and
wet the Eagles.” He meant to offer me a drink.
‘“When I’ve handed over my men,” I said. I felt
angry and ashamed.
‘“Oh, you’ll soon outgrow that sort of nonsens=
e,”
he answered. “But don’t let me interfere with your hopes. Go on to the Stat=
ue
of Roma Dea. You can’t miss it. The main road into Valentia!” and he laughed
and rode off. I could see the Statue not a quarter of a mile away, and ther=
e I
went. At some time or other the Great North Road ran under it into Valentia;
but the far end had been blocked up because of the Picts, and on the plaste=
r a man
had scratched, “Finish!” It was like marching into a cave. We grounded spea=
rs
together, my little thirty, and it echoed in the barrel of the arch, but no=
ne
came. There was a door at one side painted with our number. We prowled in, =
and
I found a cook asleep, and ordered him to give us food. Then I climbed to t=
he
top of the Wall, and looked out over the Pict country, and I—thought,’ said
Parnesius. ‘The bricked-up arch with “Finish!” on the plaster was what shook
me, for I was not much more than a boy.’
‘What a shame!’ said Una. ‘But did you feel ha=
ppy
after you’d had a good——’ Dan stopped her with a nudge.
‘Happy?’ said Parnesius. ‘When the men of the =
Cohort
I was to command came back unhelmeted from the cock-fight, their birds under
their arms, and asked me who I was? No, I was not happy; but I made my new
Cohort unhappy too.... I wrote my Mother I was happy, but, oh, my friends’—=
he
stretched arms over bare knees—‘I would not wish my worst enemy to suffer a=
s I suffered
through my first months on the Wall. Remember this: among the officers was
scarcely one, except myself (and I thought I had lost the favour of Maximus=
, my
General), scarcely one who had not done something of wrong or folly. Either=
he
had killed a man, or taken money, or insulted the magistrates, or blasphemed
the Gods, and so had been sent to the Wall as a hiding-place from shame or
fear. And the men were as the officers. Remember, also, that the Wall was
manned by every breed and race in the Empire. No two towers spoke the same
tongue, or worshipped the same Gods. In one thing only we were all equal. No
matter what arms we had used before we came to the Wall, on the
Wall we were all archers, like the Scythians. The Pict cannot run away from=
the
arrow, or crawl under it. He is a bowman himself. He knows!’
‘I suppose you were fighting Picts all the tim=
e,’
said Dan.
‘Picts seldom fight. I never saw a fighting Pi=
ct
for half a year. The tame Picts told us they had all gone North.’
‘What is a tame Pict?’ said Dan.
‘A Pict—there were many such—who speaks a few
words of our tongue, and slips across the Wall to sell ponies and wolf-houn=
ds.
Without a horse and a dog, and
‘He means,’ said Puck, grinning, ‘that if you =
try
to make yourself a decent chap when you’re young, you’ll make rather decent
friends when you grow up. If you’re a beast, you’ll have beastly friends.
Listen to the Pious Parnesius on Friendship!’
‘I am not pious,’ Parnesius answered, ‘but I k=
now
what goodness means; and my friend, though he was without hope, was ten
thousand times better than I. Stop laughing, Faun!’
‘Oh Youth Eternal and All-believing,’ cried Pu=
ck,
as he rocked on the branch above. ‘Tell them about your Pertinax.’
‘He was that friend the Gods sent me—the boy w=
ho
spoke to me when I first came. Little older than myself, commanding the Aug=
usta
Victoria Cohort on the tower next to us and the Numidians. In virtue he was=
far
my superior.’
‘Then why was he on the Wall?’ Una asked, quic=
kly.
‘They’d all done something bad. You said so yourself.’
‘He was the nephew, his Father had died, of a
great rich man in Gaul who was not always kind to his Mother. When Pertinax
grew up, he discovered this, and so his uncle shipped him off, by trickery =
and
force, to the Wall. We came to know each other at a ceremony in our Temple—=
in
the dark. It was the Bull Killing,’ Parnesius explained to Puck.
‘ I s=
ee,’
said Puck, and turned to the children. ‘That’s something you wouldn’t quite
understand. Parnesius means he met Pertinax in church.’
‘Yes—in the Cave we first met, and we were both
raised to the Degree of Gryphons together.’ Parnesius lifted his hand towar=
ds
his neck for an instant. ‘He had been on the Wall two years, and knew the P=
icts
well. He taught me first how to take Heather.’
‘What’s that?’ said Dan.
‘Going out hunting in the Pict country with a =
tame
Pict. You are quite safe so long as you are his guest, and wear a sprig of
heather where it can be seen. If you went alone you would surely be killed,=
if
you were not smothered first in the bogs. Only the Picts know their way abo=
ut
those black and hidden bogs. Old Allo, the one-eyed, withered little Pict f=
rom whom
we bought our ponies, was our special friend. At first we went only to esca=
pe
from the terrible town, and to talk together about our homes. Then he showe=
d us
how to hunt wolves and those great red deer with horns like Jewish
candlesticks. The Roman-born officers rather looked down on us for doing th=
is,
but we preferred the heather to their amusements. Believe me,’ Parnesius tu=
rned
again to Dan, ‘a boy is safe from all things that really harm when he is
astride a pony or after a deer. Do you remember, O Faun,’ he turned to Puck,
‘the little altar I built to the Sylvan Pan by the pine-forest beyond the b=
rook?’
‘Which? The stone one with the line from
Xenophon?’ said Puck, in quite a new voice.
‘No. What do I know
of Xenophon? That was Pertinax—after he had shot his first mountain-hare wi=
th
an arrow—by chance! Mine I made of round pebbles in memory of my first bear=
. It
took me one happy day to build.’ Parnesius faced the children quickly.
‘And that was how we lived on the Wall for two
years—a little scuffling with the Picts, and a great deal of hunting with o=
ld
Allo in the Pict country. He called us his children sometimes, and we were =
fond
of him and his barbarians, though we never let them paint us Pict fashion. =
The
marks endure till you die.’
‘How’s it done?’ said Dan. ‘Anything like
tattooing?’
‘They prick the skin till the blood runs, and =
rub
in coloured juices. Allo was painted blue, green, and red from his forehead=
to
his ankles. He said it was part of his religion. He told us about his relig=
ion
(Pertinax was always interested in such things), and as we came to know him
well, he told us what was happening in Britain behind the Wall. Many things
took place behind us in those days. And, by the Light of the Sun,’ said Par=
nesius,
earnestly, ‘there was not much that those little people did not know! He to=
ld
me when Maximus crossed over to Gaul, after he had made himself Emperor of
Britain, and what troops and emigrants he had taken with him. We did
not get the news on the Wall till fifteen days later. He told me what troops
Maximus was taking out of Britain every month to help him to conquer Gaul; =
and
I always found the numbers as he said. Wonderful! And I tell another strange
thing!’
He jointed his hands across his knees, and lea=
ned
his head on the curve of the shield behind him.
‘Late in the summer, when the first frosts beg=
in
and the Picts kill their bees, we three rode out after wolf with some new
hounds. Rutilianus, our General, had given us ten days’ leave, and we had
pushed beyond the Second Wall—beyond the Province of Valentia—into the high=
er
hills, where there are not even any of Rome’s old ruins. We killed a she-wo=
lf
before noon, and while Allo was skinning her he looked up and said to me, “=
When
you are Captain of the Wall, my child, you won’t be able to do this any mor=
e!”
‘I might as well have been made Prefect of Low=
er
Gaul, so I laughed and said, “Wait till I am Captain.” “No, don’t wait,” sa=
id
Allo. “Take my advice and go home—both of you.” “We have no homes,” said
Pertinax. “You know that as well as we do. We’re finished men—thumbs down
against both of us. Only men without hope would risk their necks on your
ponies.” The old man laughed one of those short Pict laughs—like a fox bark=
ing
on a frosty night. “I’m fond of you two,” he said. “Besides, I’ve taught you
what little you know about hunting. Take my advice and go home.”
‘“We can’t,” I said. “I’m out of favour with my
General, for one thing; and for another, Pertinax has an uncle.”
‘“I don’t know about his uncle,” said Allo, “b= ut the trouble with you, Parnesius, is that your General thinks well of you.”<= o:p>
‘“Roma Dea!” said Pertinax, sitting up. “What =
can
you guess what Maximus thinks, you old horse-coper?”
‘Just then (you know how near the brutes creep
when one is eating?) a great dog-wolf jumped out behind us, and away our re=
sted
hounds tore after him, with us at their tails. He ran us far out of any cou=
ntry
we’d ever heard of, straight as an arrow till sunset, towards the sunset. We
came at last to long capes stretching into winding waters, and on a grey be=
ach below
us we saw ships drawn up. Forty-seven we counted—not Roman galleys but the
raven-winged ships from the North where Rome does not rule. Men moved in the
ships, and the sun flashed on their helmets—winged helmets of the red-haired
men from the North where Rome does not rule. We watched, and we counted, an=
d we
wondered; for though we had heard rumours concerning these Winged Hats, as =
the
Picts called them, never before had we looked upon them.
‘“Come away! Come away!” said Allo. “My Heather
won’t protect you here. We shall all be killed!” His legs trembled like his
voice. Back we went—back across the heather under the moon, till it was nea=
rly
morning, and our poor beasts stumbled on some ruins.
‘When we woke, very stiff and cold, Allo was
mixing the meal and water. One does not light fires in the Pict country exc=
ept
near a village. The little men are always signalling to each other with smo=
kes,
and a strange smoke brings them out buzzing like bees. They can sting, too!=
‘“What we saw last night was a trading-station=
,”
said Allo. “Nothing but a trading-station.”
‘“I do not like lies on an empty stomach,” said
Pertinax. “I suppose” (he had eyes like an eagle’s), “I suppose that <=
/span>is
a trading-station also?” He pointed to a smoke far off on a hill-top, ascen=
ding
in what we call the Pict’s Call:—Puff—double-puff: double-puff—puff! They m=
ake
it by raising and dropping a wet hide on a fire.
‘“No,” said Allo, pushing the platter back into
the bag. “That is for you and me. Your fate is fixed. Come.”
‘We came. When one takes Heather, one must obey
one’s Pict—but that wretched smoke was twenty miles distant, well over on t=
he
east coast, and the day was as hot as a bath.
‘“Whatever happens,” said Allo, while our poni=
es
grunted along, “I want you to remember me.”
‘“I shall not forget,” said Pertinax. “You have
cheated me out of my breakfast.”
‘“What is a handful of crushed oats to a Roman=
?”
he said. Then he laughed his laugh that was not a laugh. “What would you do=
if
you were a handful of oats being crushed between the upper and lower stones=
of
a mill?”
‘“I’m Pertinax, not a riddle-guesser,” said
Pertinax.
‘“You’re a fool,” said Allo. “Your Gods and my
Gods are threatened by strange Gods, and all you can do is to laugh.”
‘“Threatened men live long,” I said.
‘“I pray the Gods that may be true,” he said. =
“But
I ask you again not to forget me.”
‘We climbed the last hot hill and looked out on
the eastern sea, three or four miles off. There was a small sailing-galley =
of
the North Gaul pattern at anchor, her landing-plank down and her sail half =
up;
and below us, alone in a hollow, holding his pony, sat Maximus, Emperor of
Britain! He was dressed like a hunter, and he leaned on his little stick; b=
ut I
knew that back as far as I could see it, and I told Pertinax.
‘“You’re madder than Allo!” he said. “It must =
be
the sun!”
‘Maximus never stirred till we stood before hi=
m.
Then he looked me up and down, and said: “Hungry again? It seems to be my
destiny to feed you whenever we meet. I have food here. Allo shall cook it.=
”
‘“No,” said Allo. “A Prince in his own land do=
es
not wait on wandering Emperors. I feed my two children without asking your
leave.” He began to blow up the ashes.
‘“I was wrong,” said Pertinax. “We are all mad.
Speak up, O Madman called Emperor!”
‘Maximus smiled his terrible tight-lipped smil=
e,
but two years on the Wall do not make a man afraid of mere looks. So I was =
not
afraid.
‘“I meant you, Parnesius, to live and die an
Officer of the Wall,” said Maximus. “But it seems from these,” he fumbled in
his breast, “you can think as well as draw.” He pulled out a roll of letter=
s I
had written to my people, full of drawings of Picts, and bears, and men I h=
ad
met on the Wall. Mother and my sister always liked my pictures.
‘He handed me one that I had called “Maximus’s
Soldiers.” It showed a row of fat wine-skins, and our old Doctor of the Hun=
no
hospital snuffing at them. Each time that Maximus had taken troops out of
Britain to help him to conquer Gaul, he used to send the garrisons more win=
e—to
keep them quiet, I suppose. On the Wall, we always called a wine-skin a
“Maximus.” Oh, yes; and I had drawn them in Imperial helmets!
‘“Not long since,” he went on, “men’s names we=
re
sent up to Cæsar for smaller jokes than this.”
‘“True, Cæsar,” said Pertinax; “but you forget
that was before I, your friend’s friend, became such a good spear-thrower.”=
‘He did not actually point his hunting spear at
Maximus, but balanced it on his palm—so!
‘“I was speaking of time past,” said Maximus,
never fluttering an eyelid. “Nowadays one is only too pleased to find boys =
who
can think for themselves, and their friends.” He nodded at Pertinax. “=
Your
Father lent me the letters, Parnesius, so you run no risk from me.”
‘“None whatever,” said Pertinax, and rubbed the
spear-point on his sleeve.
‘“I have been forced to reduce the garrisons in
Britain, because I need troops in Gaul. Now I come to take troops from the =
Wall
itself,” said he.
‘“I wish you joy of us,” said Pertinax. “We’re=
the
last sweepings of the Empire—the men without hope. Myself, I’d sooner trust
condemned criminals.”
‘“You think so?” he said, quite seriously. “Bu=
t it
will only be till I win Gaul. One must always risk one’s life, or one’s sou=
l,
or one’s peace—or some little thing.”
‘Allo passed round the fire with the sizzling
deer’s meat. He served us two first.
‘“Ah!” said Maximus, waiting his turn. “I perc=
eive
you are in your own country. Well, you deserve it. They tell me you have qu=
ite
a following among the Picts, Parnesius.”
‘“I have hunted with them,” I said. “Maybe I h=
ave
a few friends among the Heather.”
‘“He is the only armoured man of you all who
understands us,” said Allo, and he began a long speech about our virtues, a=
nd
how we had saved one of his grandchildren from a wolf the year before.’
‘Had you?’ said Una.
‘Yes; but that was neither here nor there. The
little green man orated like a—like Cicero. He made us out to be magnificent
fellows. Maximus never took his eyes off our faces.
‘“Enough,” he said. “I have heard Allo on you.=
I
wish to hear you on the Picts.”
‘I told him as much as I knew, and Pertinax he=
lped
me out. There is never harm in a Pict if you but take the trouble to find o=
ut
what he wants. Their real grievance against us came from our burning their
heather. The whole garrison of the Wall moved out twice a year, and solemnly
burned the heather for ten miles North. Rutilianus, our General, called it
clearing the country. The Picts, of course, scampered away, and all we did =
was
to destroy their bee-bloom in the summer, and ruin their sheep-food in the =
spring.
‘“True, quite true,” said Allo. “How can we ma=
ke
our holy heather-wine, if you burn our bee-pasture?”
‘We talked long, Maximus asking keen questions
that showed he knew much and had thought more about the Picts. He said
presently to me: “If I gave you the old Province of Valentia to govern, cou=
ld
you keep the Picts contented till I won Gaul? Stand away, so that you do not
see Allo’s face; and speak your own thoughts.”
‘“No,” I said. “You cannot re-make that Provin=
ce.
The Picts have been free too long.”
‘“Leave them their village councils, and let t=
hem
furnish their own soldiers,” he said. “You, I am sure, would hold the reins
very lightly.”
‘“Even then, no,” I said. “At least not now. T=
hey
have been too oppressed by us to trust anything with a Roman name for years=
and
years.”
‘I heard old Allo behind me mutter: “Good chil=
d!”
‘“Then what do you recommend,” said Maximus, “=
to
keep the North quiet till I win Gaul?”
‘“Leave the Picts alone,” I said. “Stop the
heather-burning at once, and—they are improvident little animals—send them a
shipload or two of corn now and then.”
‘“Their own men must distribute it—not some
cheating Greek accountant,” said Pertinax.
‘“Yes, and allow them to come to our hospitals
when they are sick,” I said.
‘“Surely they would die first,” said Maximus.<= o:p>
‘“Not if Parnesius brought them in,” said Allo=
. “I
could show you twenty wolf-bitten, bear-clawed Picts within twenty miles of
here. But Parnesius must stay with them in Hospital, else they would go mad
with fear.”
‘“ I =
see,”
said Maximus. “Like everything else in the world, it is one man’s work. You=
, I
think, are that one man.”
‘“Pertinax and I are one,” I said.
‘“As you please, so long as you work. Now, All=
o,
you know that I mean your people no harm. Leave us to talk together,” said
Maximus.
‘“No need!” said Allo. “I am the corn between =
the
upper and lower millstones. I must know what the lower millstone means to d=
o.
These boys have spoken the truth as far as they know it. I, a Prince, will =
tell
you the rest. I am troubled about the Men of the North.” He squatted like a=
hare
in the heather, and looked over his shoulder.
‘“I also,” said Maximus, “or I should not be
here.”
‘“Listen,” said Allo. “Long and long ago the
Winged Hats”—he meant the Northmen—“came to our beaches and said, ‘Rome fal=
ls!
Push her down!’ We fought you. You sent men. We were beaten. After that we =
said
to the Winged Hats, ‘You are liars! Make our men alive that Rome killed, an=
d we
will believe you.’ They went away ashamed. Now they come back bold, and the=
y tell
the old tale, which we begin to believe—that Rome falls!”
‘“Give me three years’ peace on the Wall,” cri=
ed
Maximus, “and I will show you and all the ravens how they lie!”
‘“Ah, I wish it too! I wish to save what is le=
ft
of the corn from the millstones. But you shoot us Picts when we come to bor=
row
a little iron from the Iron Ditch; you burn our heather, which is all our c=
rop;
you trouble us with your great catapults. Then you hide behind the Wall, an=
d scorch
us with Greek fire. How can I keep my young men from listening to the Winged
Hats—in winter especially, when we are hungry? My young men will say, ‘Rome=
can
neither fight nor rule. She is taking her men out of Britain. The Winged Ha=
ts
will help us to push down the Wall. Let us show them the secret roads across
the bogs.’ Do I want that? No!” He spat like an adder. “=
I would keep the secrets of my people thou=
gh I
were burned alive. My two children here have spoken truth. Leave us Picts a=
lone.
Comfort us, and cherish us, and feed us from far off—with the hand behind y=
our
back. Parnesius understands us. Let him have rule on the Wall, and I will hold my
young men quiet for”—he ticked it off on his fingers—“one year easily: the =
next
year not so easily: the third year, perhaps! See, I give you three years. If
then you do not show us that Rome is strong in men and terrible in arms, the
Winged Hats, I tell you, will sweep down the Wall from either sea till they
meet in the middle, and you will go. I shall not grieve over that, but well I k=
now
tribe never helps tribe except for one price. We Picts will go too. The Win=
ged
Hats will grind us to this!” He tossed a handful of dust in the air.
‘“Oh, Roma Dea!” said Maximus, half aloud. “It=
is
always one man’s work—always and everywhere!”
‘“And one man’s life,” said Allo. “You are
Emperor, but not a God. You may die.”
‘“I have thought of that, too,” said he. “Very
good. If this wind holds, I shall be at the East end of the Wall by morning.
To-morrow, then, I shall see you two when I inspect; and I will make you
Captains of the Wall for this work.”
‘“One instant, Cæsar,” said Pertinax. “All men
have their price. I am not bought yet.”
‘“Do =
you also begin to bargain so early?” said Ma=
ximus.
“Well?”
‘“Give me justice against my uncle Icenus, the
Duumvir of Divio in Gaul,” he said.
‘“Only a life? I thought it would be money or =
an
office. Certainly you shall have him. Write his name on these tablets—on the
red side; the other is for the living!” And Maximus held out his tablets.
‘“He is of no use to me dead,” said Pertinax. = “My mother is a widow. I am far off. I am not sure he pays her all her dowry.”<= o:p>
‘“No matter. My arm is reasonably long. We will
look through your uncle’s accounts in due time. Now, farewell till to-morro=
w, O
Captains of the Wall!”
‘We saw him grow small across the heather as he
walked to the galley. There were Picts, scores, each side of him, hidden be=
hind
stones. He never looked left or right. He sailed away Southerly, full spread
before the evening breeze, and when we had watched him out to sea, we were
silent. We understood Earth bred few men like to this man.
‘Presently Allo brought the ponies and held th=
em
for us to mount—a thing he had never done before.
‘“Wait awhile,” said Pertinax, and he made a
little altar of cut turf, and strewed heather-bloom atop, and laid upon it a
letter from a girl in Gaul.
‘“What do you do, O my friend?” I said.
‘“I sacrifice to my dead youth,” he answered, =
and,
when the flames had consumed the letter, he ground them out with his heel. =
Then
we rode back to that Wall of which we were to be Captains.’
Parnesius stopped. The children sat still, not
even asking if that were all the tale. Puck beckoned, and pointed the way o=
ut
of the wood. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, ‘but you must go now.’
‘We haven’t made him angry, have we?’ said Una.
‘He looks so far off, and—and—thinky.’
‘Bless your heart, no. Wait till to-morrow. It
won’t be long. Remember, you’ve been playing “ Lays of Ancient Rome .”’
And as soon as they had scrambled through their
gap, where Oak, Ash and Thorn grow, that was all they remembered.
Mithras,
God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall! ‘Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art=
over
all!’ Now as
the names are answered and the guards are marched away, Mithras, also a soldier, give us strengt=
h for
the day!
Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather
swims in the heat, Our
helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our feet! Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink=
and
drowse, Mithras,
also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!
Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the W=
estern
main, Thou
descending immortal, immortal to rise again! Now when the watch is ended, now when th=
e wine
is drawn, Mithras,
also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!
Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where=
the
great bull lies, Look
on thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice! Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of t=
hem
lead to the Light, Mithras,
also a soldier, teach us to die aright!
The n=
ext
day happened to be what they called a Wild Afternoon. Father and Mother went
out to pay calls; Miss Blake went for a ride on her bicycle, and they were =
left
all alone till eight o’clock.
When they had seen their dear parents and their
dear preceptress politely off the premises they got a cabbage-leaf full of
raspberries from the gardener, and a Wild Tea from Ellen. They ate the
raspberries to prevent their squashing, and they meant to divide the
cabbage-leaf with Three Cows down at the Theatre, but they came across a de=
ad hedgehog
which they simply had to bury, and the leaf was too useful to =
waste.
Then they went on to the Forge and found old
Hobden the hedger at home with his son the Bee Boy who is not quite right in
his head, but who can pick up swarms of bees in his naked hands; and the Bee
Boy told them the rhyme about the slow-worm:—
‘If =
I had
eyes as I could see, No mortal man would trouble me.’
They all had tea together by the hives, and Ho=
bden
said the loaf-cake which Ellen had given them was almost as good as what his
wife used to make, and he showed them how to set a wire at the right height=
for
hares. They knew about rabbits already.
Then they climbed up Long Ditch into the lower=
end
of Far Wood. This is sadder and darker than the ‘Volaterrae’ end because of=
an
old marlpit full of black water, where weepy, hairy moss hangs round the st=
umps
of the willows and alders. But the birds come to perch on the dead branches,
and Hobden says that the bitter willow-water is a sort of medicine for sick=
animals.
They sat down on a felled oak-trunk in the sha=
dows
of the beech undergrowth, and were looping the wires Hobden had given them,
when they saw Parnesius.
‘How quietly you came!’ said Una, moving up to
make room. ‘Where’s Puck?’
‘The Faun and I have disputed whether it is be=
tter
that I should tell you all my tale, or leave it untold,’ he replied.
‘I only said that if he told it as it happened=
you
wouldn’t understand it,’ said Puck, jumping up like a squirrel from behind =
the
log.
‘I don’t understand all of it,’ said Una, ‘but=
I
like hearing about the little Picts.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Dan, ‘is how Max=
imus
knew all about the Picts when he was over in Gaul.’
‘He who makes himself Emperor anywhere must kn=
ow
everything, everywhere,’ said Parnesius. ‘We had this much from Maximus’ mo=
uth
after the Games.’
‘Games? What games?’ said Dan.
Parnesius stretched his arm out stiffly, thumb
pointed to the ground. ‘Gladiators! That
sort of game,’ he said. ‘There wer=
e two
days’ Games in his honour when he landed all unexpected at Segedunum on the
East end of the Wall. Yes, the day after we had met him we held two days’
games; but I think the greatest risk was run, not by the poor wretches on t=
he
sand, but by Maximus. In the old days the Legions kept silence before their
Emperor. So did not we! You could hear the solid roar run West along the Wa=
ll
as his chair was carried rocking through the crowds. The garrison beat roun=
d him—clamouring,
clowning, asking for pay, for change of quarters, for anything that came in=
to
their wild heads. That chair was like a little boat among waves, dipping and
falling, but always rising again after one had shut the eyes.’ Parnesius
shivered.
‘Were they angry with him?’ said Dan.
‘No more angry than wolves in a cage when their
trainer walks among them. If he had turned his back an instant, or for an
instant had ceased to hold their eyes, there would have been another Emperor
made on the Wall that hour. Was it not so, Faun?’
‘So it was. So it always will be,’ said Puck.<= o:p>
‘Late in the evening his messenger came for us,
and we followed to the Temple of Victory, where he lodged with Rutilianus, =
the
General of the Wall. I had hardly seen the General before, but he always ga=
ve
me leave when I wished to take Heather. He was a great glutton, and kept fi=
ve
Asian cooks, and he came of a family that believed in oracles. We could sme=
ll his
good dinner when we entered, but the tables were empty. He lay snorting on a
couch. Maximus sat apart among long rolls of accounts. Then the doors were
shut.
‘“These are your men,” said Maximus to the
General, who propped his eye-corners open with his gouty fingers, and stare=
d at
us like a fish.
‘“I shall know them again, Cæsar,” said
Rutilianus.
‘“Very good,” said Maximus. “Now hear! You are=
not
to move man or shield on the Wall except as these boys shall tell you. You =
will
do nothing, except eat, without their permission. They are the head and arm=
s.
You are the belly!”
‘“As Cæsar pleases,” the old man grunted. “If =
my
pay and profits are not cut, you may make my Ancestors’ Oracle my master. R=
ome
has been! Rome has been!” Then he turned on his side to sleep.
‘“He has it,” said Maximus. “We will get to wh=
at I need.”
‘He unrolled full copies of the number of men =
and
supplies on the Wall—down to the sick that very day in Hunno Hospital. Oh, =
but
I groaned when his pen marked off detachment after detachment of our best—of
our least worthless men! He took two towers of our Scythians, two of our No=
rth British
auxiliaries, two Numidian cohorts, the Dacians all, and half the Belgians. =
It
was like an eagle pecking a carcass.
‘“And now, how many catapults have you?” He tu=
rned
up a new list, but Pertinax laid his open hand there.
‘“No, Cæsar,” said he. “Do not tempt the Gods =
too
far. Take men, or engines, but not both; else we refuse.”’
‘Engines?’ said Una.
‘The catapults of the Wall—huge things forty f=
eet
high to the head—firing nets of raw stone or forged bolts. Nothing can stand
against them. He left us our catapults at last, but he took a Cæsar’s half =
of
our men without pity. We were a shell when he rolled up the lists!
‘“Hail, Cæsar! We, about to die, salute you!” =
said
Pertinax, laughing. “If any enemy even leans against the Wall now, it will
tumble.”
‘“Give me the three years Allo spoke of,” he
answered, “and you shall have twenty thousand men of your own choosing up h=
ere.
But now it is a gamble—a game played against the Gods, and the stakes are
Britain, Gaul, and perhaps, Rome. You play on my side?”
‘“We will play, Cæsar,” I said for I had never=
met
a man like this man.
‘“Good. To-morrow,” said he, “I proclaim you
Captains of the Wall before the troops.”
‘So we went into the moonlight, where they were
cleaning the ground after the Games. We saw great Roma Dea atop of the Wall,
the frost on her helmet, and her spear pointed towards the North Star. We s=
aw
the twinkle of night-fires all along the guard-towers, and the line of the
black catapults growing smaller and smaller in the distance. All these thin=
gs
we knew till we were weary; but that night they seemed very strange to us, =
because
the next day we knew we were to be their masters.
‘The men took the news well; but when Maximus =
went
away with half our strength, and we had to spread ourselves into the emptied
towers, and the townspeople complained that trade would be ruined, and the
Autumn gales blew—it was dark days for us two. Here Pertinax was more than =
my
right hand. Being born and bred among the great country-houses in Gaul, he =
knew
the proper words to address to all—from Roman-born Centurions to those dogs=
of
the Third—the Libyans. And he spoke to each as though that man were as
high-minded as himself. Now I saw so strongly what things were needed =
to be
done, that I forgot things are only accomplished by means of men. That was a
mistake.
‘I feared nothing from the Picts, at least for
that year, but Allo warned me that the Winged Hats would soon come in from =
the
sea at each end of the Wall to prove to the Picts how weak we were. So I ma=
de
ready in haste, and none too soon. I shifted our best men to the ends of the
Wall, and set up screened catapults by the beach. The Winged Hats would dri=
ve
in before the snow-squalls—ten or twenty boats at a time—on Segedunum or It=
una,
according as the wind blew.
‘Now a ship coming in to land men must furl her
sail. If you wait till you see her men gather up the sail’s foot, your
catapults can jerk a net of loose stones (bolts only cut through the cloth)
into the bag of it. Then she turns over, and the sea makes everything clean
again. A few men may come ashore, but very few.... It was not hard work, ex=
cept
the waiting on the beach in blowing sand and snow. And that was how we dealt
with the Winged Hats that winter.
‘Early in the Spring, when the East winds blow like skinning-knives, they gathered again off the East end with many ships. Allo told me they would never rest till they had taken a tower in open figh= t. Certainly they fought in the open. We dealt with them thoroughly through a = long day: and when all was finished, one man dived clear of the wreckage of his ship, and swam towards shore. I waited, and a wave tumbled him at my feet.<= o:p>
‘As I stooped, I saw he wore such a medal as I
wear.’ Parnesius raised his hand to his neck. ‘Therefore, when he could spe=
ak,
I addressed him a certain Question which can only be answered in a certain
manner. He answered with the necessary Word—the Word that belongs to the De=
gree
of Gryphons in the science of Mithras my God. I put my shield over him till=
he
could stand up. You see I am not short, but he was a head taller than I. He
said: “What now?” I said: “At your pleasure, my brother, to stay or go.”
‘He looked out across the surf. There remained=
one
ship unhurt, beyond range of our catapults. I checked the catapults and he
waved her in. She came as a hound comes to a master. When she was yet a hun=
dred
paces from the beach, he flung back his hair, and swam out. They hauled him=
in,
and went away. I knew that those who worship Mithras are many and of all ra=
ces,
so I did not think much more upon the matter.
‘A month later I saw Allo with his horses—by t=
he
Temple of Pan, O Faun!—and he gave me a great necklace of gold studded with
coral.
‘At first I thought it was a bribe from some
tradesman in the town—meant for old Rutilianus. “Nay,” said Allo. “This is a
gift from Amal, that Winged Hat whom you saved on the beach. He says you ar=
e a
Man.”
‘“He is a Man, too. Tell him I can wear his gi=
ft,”
I answered.
‘“Oh, Amal is a young fool; but, speaking as
sensible men, your Emperor is doing such great things in Gaul that the Wing=
ed
Hats are anxious to be his friends, or, better still, the friends of his
servants. They think you and Pertinax could lead them to victories.” Allo
looked at me like a one-eyed raven.
‘“Allo,” I said, “you are the corn between the=
two
millstones. Be content if they grind evenly, and don’t thrust your hand bet=
ween
them.”
‘“I?” said Allo. “I hate Rome and the Winged H=
ats
equally; but if the Winged Hats thought that some day you and Pertinax might
join them against Maximus, they would leave you in peace while you consider=
ed. Time
is what we need—you and I and Maximus. Let me carry a pleasant message back=
to
the Winged Hats—something for them to make a council over. We barbarians ar=
e all
alike. We sit up half the night to discuss anything a Roman says. Eh?”
‘“We have no men. We must fight with words,” s=
aid
Pertinax. “Leave it to Allo and me.”
‘So Allo carried word back to the Winged Hats =
that
we would not fight them if they did not fight us; and they (I think they we=
re a
little tired of losing men in the sea) agreed to a sort of truce. I believe
Allo, who being a horse-dealer loved lies, also told them we might some day
rise against Maximus as Maximus had risen against Rome.
‘Indeed, they permitted the corn-ships which I
sent to the Picts to pass North that season without harm. Therefore the Pic=
ts
were well fed that winter, and since they were in some sort my children, I =
was
glad of it. We had only two thousand men on the Wall, and I wrote many time=
s to
Maximus and begged—prayed—him to send me only one cohort of my old North Br=
itish
troops. He could not spare them. He needed them to win more victories in Ga=
ul.
‘Then came news that he had defeated and slain=
the
Emperor Gratian, and thinking he must now be secure, I wrote again for men.=
He
answered: “You will learn that I have at last settled accounts with the pup
Gratian. There was no need that he should have died, but he became confused=
and
lost his head, which is a bad thing to befall any Emperor. Tell your Father=
I
am content to drive two mules only; for unless my old General’s son thinks
himself destined to destroy me, I shall rest Emperor of Gaul and Britain, a=
nd
then you, my two children, will presently get all the men you need. Just no=
w I
can spare none.”’
‘What did he mean by his General’s son?’ said =
Dan.
‘He meant Theodosius Emperor of Rome, who was =
the
son of Theodosius the General under whom Maximus had fought in the old Pict
War. The two men never loved each other, and when Gratian made the younger
Theodosius Emperor of the East (at least, so I’ve heard), Maximus carried on
the war to the second generation. It was his fate, and it was his fall. But=
Theodosius
the Emperor is a good man. As I know.’ Parnesius was silent for a moment and
then continued.
‘I wrote back to Maximus that, though we had p=
eace
on the Wall, I should be happier with a few more men and some new catapults=
. He
answered: “You must live a little longer under the shadow of my victories, =
till
I can see what young Theodosius intends. He may welcome me as a
brother-Emperor, or he may be preparing an army. In either case I cannot sp=
are
men just now.”’
‘But he was always saying that,’ cried Una.
‘It was true. He did not make excuses; but tha=
nks,
as he said, to the news of his victories, we had no trouble on the Wall for=
a
long, long time. The Picts grew fat as their own sheep among the heather, a=
nd
as many of my men as lived were well exercised in their weapons. Yes, the W=
all
looked strong. For myself, I knew how weak we were. I knew that if even a f=
alse
rumour of any defeat to Maximus broke loose among the Winged Hats, they mig=
ht
come down in earnest, and then—the Wall must go! For the Picts I never care=
d,
but in those years I learned something of the strength of the Winged Hats. =
They
increased their strength every day, but I could not increase my men. Maximus
had emptied Britain behind us, and I felt myself to be a man with a rotten
stick standing before a broken fence to turn bulls.
‘Thus, my friends, we lived on the Wall,
waiting—waiting—waiting for the men that Maximus never sent!
‘Presently he wrote that he was preparing an a=
rmy
against Theodosius. He wrote—and Pertinax read it over my shoulder in our
quarters: “ Tell your Father that my destiny orders me to drive three mules=
or
be torn in pieces by them. I hope within a year to finish with Theodosius, =
son
of Theodosius, once and for all. Then you shall have Britain to rule, and P=
ertinax,
if he chooses, Gaul. To-day I wish strongly you were with me to beat my
Auxiliaries into shape. Do not, I pray you, believe any rumour of my sickne=
ss.
I have a little evil in my old body which I shall cure by riding swiftly in=
to
Rome. ”
‘Said Pertinax: “It is finished with Maximus! =
He
writes as a man without hope. I, a man without hope, can see this. What doe=
s he
add at the bottom of the roll? ‘ Tell =
span>Pertinax
I have met his late Uncle, the Duumvir of Divio, and that he accounted to me
quite truthfully for all his Mother’s monies. I have sent her with a fitting
escort, for she is the mother of a hero, to Nicæa, where the climate is war=
m. ’
‘“That is proof!” said Pertinax. “Nicæa is not=
far
by sea from Rome. A woman there could take ship and fly to Rome in time of =
war.
Yes, Maximus foresees his death, and is fulfilling his promises one by one.=
But
I am glad my Uncle met him.”
‘“You think blackly to-day?” I asked.
‘“I think truth. The Gods weary of the play we
have played against them. Theodosius will destroy Maximus. It is finished!”=
‘“Will you write him that?” I said.
‘“See what I shall write,” he answered, and he
took pen and wrote a letter cheerful as the light of day, tender as a woman=
’s
and full of jests. Even I, reading over his shoulder, took comfort from it
till—I saw his face!
‘“And now,” he said, sealing it, “we be two de=
ad
men, my brother. Let us go to the Temple.”
‘We prayed awhile to Mithras, where we had many
times prayed before. After that we lived day by day among evil rumours till
winter came again.
‘It happened one morning that we rode to the E=
ast
Shore, and found on the beach a fair-haired man, half frozen, bound to some
broken planks. Turning him over, we saw by his belt-buckle that he was a Go=
th
of an Eastern Legion. Suddenly he opened his eyes and cried loudly: “He is
dead! The letters were with me, but the Winged Hats sunk the ship.” So sayi=
ng,
he died between our hands.
‘We asked not who was dead. We knew! We raced
before the driving snow to Hunno, thinking perhaps Allo might be there. We
found him already at our stables, and he saw by our faces what we had heard=
.
‘“It was in a tent by the Sea,” he stammered. =
“He
was beheaded by Theodosius. He sent a letter to you, written while he waite=
d to
be slain. The Winged Hats met the ship and took it. The news is running thr=
ough
the heather like fire. Blame me not! I cannot hold back my young men any mo=
re.”
‘“I would we could say as much for our men,” s=
aid
Pertinax, laughing. “But, Gods be praised, they cannot run away.”
‘“What do you do?” said Allo. “I bring an orde=
r—a
message—from the Winged Hats that you join them with your men, and march So=
uth
to plunder Britain.”
‘“It grieves me,” said Pertinax, “but we are
stationed here to stop that thing.”
‘“If I carry back such an answer they will kill
me,” said Allo. “I always promised the Winged Hats that you would rise when
Maximus fell. I—I did not think he could fall.”
‘“Alas! my poor barbarian,” said Pertinax, sti=
ll
laughing. “Well, you have sold us too many good ponies to be thrown back to
your friends. We will make you a prisoner, although you are an ambassador.”=
‘“Yes, that will be best,” said Allo, holding =
out
a halter. We bound him lightly, for he was an old man.
‘“Presently the Winged Hats may come to look f=
or
you, and that will give us more time. See how the habit of playing for time
sticks to a man!” said Pertinax, as he tied the rope.
‘“No,” I said. “Time may help. If Maximus wrot=
e us
letters while he was a prisoner, Theodosius must have sent the ship that
brought it. If he can send ships, he can send men.”
‘“How will that profit us?” said Pertinax. “We
serve Maximus, not Theodosius. Even if by some miracle of the Gods Theodosi=
us
down South sent and saved the Wall, we could not expect more than the death
Maximus died.”
‘“It concerns us to defend the Wall, no matter
what Emperor dies, or makes die,” I said.
‘“That is worthy of your brother the philosoph=
er,”
said Pertinax. “Myself I am without hope, so I do not say solemn and stupid
things! Rouse the Wall!”
‘We armed the Wall from end to end; we told the
officers that there was a rumour of Maximus’s death which might bring down =
the
Winged Hats, but we were sure, even if it were true, that Theodosius, for t=
he
sake of Britain, would send us help. Therefore, we must stand fast.... My
friends, it is above all things strange to see how men bear ill news! Often=
the
strongest till then become the weakest, while the weakest, as it were, reac=
h up
and steal strength from the Gods. So it was with us. Yet my Pertinax by his=
jests
and his courtesy and his labours had put heart and training into our poor
numbers during the past years—more than I should have thought possible. Even
our Libyan Cohort—the Thirds—stood up in their padded cuirasses and did not
whimper.
‘In three days came seven chiefs and elders of=
the
Winged Hats. Among them was that tall young man, Amal, whom I had met on the
beach, and he smiled when he saw my necklace. We made them welcome, for they
were ambassadors. We showed them Allo, alive but bound. They thought we had
killed him, and I saw it would not have vexed them if we had. Allo saw it t=
oo,
and it vexed him. Then in our quarters at Hunno we came to Council.
‘They said that Rome was falling, and that we =
must
join them. They offered me all South Britain to govern after they had taken=
a
tribute out of it.
‘I answered, “Patience. This Wall is not weigh=
ed
off like plunder. Give me proof that my General is dead.”
‘“Nay,” said one elder, “prove to us that he
lives”; and another said, cunningly, “What will you give us if we read you =
his
last words?”
‘“We are not merchants to bargain,” cried Amal.
“Moreover, I owe this man my life. He shall have his proof.” He threw acros=
s to
me a letter (well I knew the seal) from Maximus.
‘“We took this out of the ship we sunk,” he cr=
ied.
“I cannot read, but I know one sign, at least, which makes me believe.” He
showed me a dark stain on the outer roll that my heavy heart perceived was =
the
valiant blood of Maximus.
‘“Read!” said Amal. “Read, and then let us hear
whose servants you are!”
‘Said Pertinax, very softly, after he had look=
ed
through it: “I will read it all. Listen, barbarians!” He read from that whi=
ch I
have carried next my heart ever since.’
Parnesius drew from his neck a folded and spot=
ted
piece of parchment, and began in a hushed voice:—
‘“ To Parnesius and Pertinax, the not unworthy
Captains of the Wall, from Maximus, once Emperor of Gaul and Britain, now
prisoner waiting death by the sea in the camp of Theodosius—Greeting and
Good-bye! ”
‘“Enough,” said young Amal; “there is your pro=
of!
You must join us now!”
‘Pertinax looked long and silently at him, till
that fair man blushed like a girl. Then read Pertinax:—
‘“ I have joyfully done much evil in my life to
those who have wished me evil, but if ever I did any evil to you two I repe=
nt,
and I ask your forgiveness. The three mules which I strove to drive have to=
rn
me in pieces as your Father prophesied. The naked swords wait at the tent d=
oor to
give me the death I gave to Gratian. Therefore I, your General and your Emp=
eror,
send you free and honourable dismissal from my service, which you entered, =
not
for money or office, but, as it m=
akes
me warm to believe, because you loved me! ”
‘“By the Light of the Sun,” Amal broke in. “Th=
is
was in some sort a Man! We may have been mistaken in his servants!”
‘And Pertinax read on: “ You gave me the time =
for
which I asked. If I have failed to use it, do not lament. We have gambled v=
ery
splendidly against the Gods, but they hold weighted dice, and I must pay the
forfeit. Remember, I have been; but Rome is; and Rome will be! Tell Pertinax
his Mother is in safety at Nicæa, and her monies are in charge of the Prefe=
ct at
Antipolis. Make my remembrances to your Father and to your Mother, whose
friendship was great gain to me. Give also to my little Picts and to the Wi=
nged
Hats such messages as their thick heads can understand. I would have sent y=
ou
three Legions this very day if all had gone aright. Do not forget me. We ha=
ve
worked together. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! ”
‘Now, that was my Emperor’s last letter.’ (The
children heard the parchment crackle as Parnesius returned it to its place.=
)
‘“I was mistaken,” said Amal. “The servants of
such a man will sell nothing except over the sword. I am glad of it.” He he=
ld
out his hand to me.
‘“But Maximus has given you your dismissal,” s=
aid
an elder. “You are certainly free to serve—or to rule—whom you please. Join=
—do
not follow—join us!”
‘“We thank you,” said Pertinax. “But Maximus t=
ells
us to give you such messages as—pardon me, but I use his words—your thick h=
eads
can understand.” He pointed through the door to the foot of a catapult woun=
d up.
‘“We understand,” said an elder. “The Wall mus=
t be
won at a price?”
‘“It grieves me,” said Pertinax, laughing, “bu=
t so
it must be won,” and he gave them of our best Southern wine.
‘They drank, and wiped their yellow beards in
silence till they rose to go.
‘Said Amal, stretching himself (for they were
barbarians), “We be a goodly company; I wonder what the ravens and the dogf=
ish
will make of some of us before this snow melts.”
‘“Think rather what Theodosius may send,” I
answered; and though they laughed, I saw that my chance shot troubled them.=
‘Only old Allo lingered behind a little.
‘“You see,” he said, winking and blinking, “I =
am
no more than their dog. When I have shown their men the secret short ways
across our bogs, they will kick me like one.”
‘“Then I should not be in haste to show them t=
hose
ways,” said Pertinax, “till I were sure that Rome could not save the Wall.”=
‘“You think so? Woe is me!” said the old man. =
“I
only wanted peace for my people,” and he went out stumbling through the snow
behind the tall Winged Hats.
‘In this fashion then, slowly, a day at a time,
which is very bad for doubting troops, the War came upon us. At first the
Winged Hats swept in from the sea as they had done before, and there we met
them as before—with the catapults; and they sickened of it. Yet for a long =
time
they would not trust their duck-legs on land, and I think when it came to
revealing the secrets of the tribe, the little Picts were afraid or ashamed=
to
show them all the roads across the heather. I had this from a Pict prisoner.
They were as much our spies as our enemies, for the Winged Hats oppressed t=
hem,
and took their winter stores. Ah, foolish Little People!
‘Then the Winged Hats began to roll us up from
each end of the Wall. I sent runners Southward to see what the news might b=
e in
Britain; but the wolves were very bold that winter among the deserted stati=
ons
where the troops had once been, and none came back. We had trouble too with=
the
forage for the ponies along the Wall. I kept ten, and so did Pertinax. We l=
ived
and slept in the saddle riding east or west, and we ate our worn-out ponies.
The people of the town also made us some trouble till I gathered them all in
one quarter behind Hunno. We broke down the Wall on either side of it to ma=
ke
as it were a citadel. Our men fought better in close order.
‘By the end of the second month we were deep in
the War as a man is deep in a snow-drift or in a dream. I think we fought in
our sleep. At least I know I have gone on the Wall and come off again,
remembering nothing between, though my throat was harsh with giving orders,=
and
my sword, I could see, had been used.
‘The Winged Hats fought like wolves—all in a p=
ack.
Where they had suffered most, there they charged in most hotly. This was ha=
rd
for the defender, but it held them from sweeping on into Britain.
‘In those days Pertinax and I wrote on the pla=
ster
of the bricked archway into Valentia the names of the towers, and the days =
on
which they fell one by one. We wished for some record.
‘And the fighting? The fight was always hottes=
t to
left and right of the great Statue of Roma Dea, near to Rutilianus’ house. =
By
the light of the Sun, that old fat man, whom we had not considered at all, =
grew
young again among the trumpets! I remember he said his sword was an oracle!
“Let us consult the Oracle,” he would say, and put the handle against his e=
ar,
and shake his head wisely. “And th=
is day is allowed Rutilianus to live,” he w=
ould
say, and, tucking up his cloak, he would puff and pant and fight well. Oh,
there were jests in plenty on the Wall to take the place of food!
‘We endured for two months and seventeen
days—always being pressed from three sides into a smaller space. Several ti=
mes
Allo sent in word that help was at hand. We did not believe it, but it chee=
red
our men.
‘The end came not with shoutings of joy, but, =
like
the rest, as in a dream. The Winged Hats suddenly left us in peace for one
night, and the next day; which is too long for spent men. We slept at first
lightly, expecting to be roused, and then like logs, each where he lay. May=
you
never need such sleep! When I waked our towers were full of strange, armed =
men,
who watched us snoring. I roused Pertinax, and we leaped up together.
‘“What?” said a young man in clean armour. “Do=
you
fight against Theodosius? Look!”
‘North we looked over the red snow. No Winged =
Hats
were there. South we looked over the white snow, and behold there were the
Eagles of two strong Legions encamped. East and west we saw flame and fight=
ing,
but by Hunno all was still.
‘“Trouble no more,” said the young man. “Rome’s
arm is long. Where are the Captains of the Wall?”
‘We said we were those men.
‘“But you are old and grey-haired,” he cried.
“Maximus said that they were boys.”
‘“Yes that was true some years ago,” said
Pertinax. “What is our fate to be, you fine and well-fed child?”
‘“I am called Ambrosius, a secretary of the
Emperor,” he answered. “Show me a certain letter which Maximus wrote from a
tent at Aquileia, and perhaps I will believe.”
‘I took it from my breast, and when he had rea=
d it
he saluted us, saying: “Your fate is in your own hands. If you choose to se=
rve
Theodosius, he will give you a Legion. If it suits you to go to your homes,=
we
will give you a Triumph.”
‘“I would like better a bath, wine, food, razo=
rs,
soaps, oils, and scents,” said Pertinax, laughing.
‘“Oh, I see you are a boy,” said Ambrosius. “A=
nd
you?” turning to me.
‘“We bear no ill-will against Theodosius, but =
in
War——” I began.
‘“In War it is as it is in Love,” said Pertina=
x.
“Whether she be good or bad, one gives one’s best once, to one only. That
given, there remains no second worth giving or taking.”
‘“That is true,” said Ambrosius. “I was with
Maximus before he died. He warned Theodosius that you would never serve him,
and frankly I say I am sorry for my Emperor.”
‘“He has Rome to console him,” said Pertinax. =
“I
ask you of your kindness to let us go to our homes and get this smell out of
our nostrils.”
‘None the less they gave us a Triumph!’
‘It was well earned,’ said Puck, throwing some
leaves into the still water of the marlpit. The black, oily circles spread
dizzily as the children watched them.
‘I want to know, oh, ever so many things,’ said
Dan, ‘What happened to old Allo? Did the Winged Hats ever come back? And wh=
at
did Amal do?’
‘And what happened to the fat old General with=
the
five cooks?’ said Una. ‘And what did your Mother say when you came home?’..=
.
‘She’d say you’re settin’ too long over this o=
ld
pit, so late as ’tis already,’ said old Hobden’s voice behind them. ‘Hst!’ =
he
whispered.
He stood still, for not twenty paces away a
magnificent dog-fox sat on his haunches and looked at the children as thoug=
h he
were an old friend of theirs.
‘Oh, Mus’ Reynolds, Mus’ Reynolds!’ said Hobde=
n,
under his breath. ‘If I knowed all was inside your head, I’d know something
wuth knowin’. Mus’ Dan an’ Miss Una, come along o’ me while I lock up my li=
ddle
hen-house.’
A PIC=
T SONG
Rome
never looks where she treads, Always
her heavy hooves fall, On our
stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And
Rome never heeds when we bawl.
We are the Little Folk—we! Too little to love or to hate. Leave us alone and you’ll see How we can drag down the Great! We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root! We are the germ in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak— Rats gnawing cables in two— Moths making holes in a cloak— How they must love what they do! Yes,—and we Little Folk too, We are as busy as they— Working our works out of view— Watch, and you’ll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are. Yes, and we’ll guide them along, To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves; But you—you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves! =
We are the Little Folk, we! etc.
Prophets
have honour all over the Earth, Except
in the village where they were born; Where
such as knew them boys from birth, Nature-ally
hold ’em in scorn.
When Prophets are naughty and young and =
vain, They make a won’erful grievance of it; <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> (You can see by their writings how they =
complain), But O, ’tis won’erful good for the Proph=
et!
There’s nothing Nineveh Town can give, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> (Nor being swallowed by whales between),=
Makes up for the place where a man’s folk
live, That
don’t care nothing what he has been. He
might ha’ been that, or he might ha’ been this, But they love and they hate him for what=
he
is!
HAL O’ THE DRAFT
A rai=
ny
afternoon drove Dan and Una over to play pirates in the Little Mill. If you
don’t mind rats on the rafters and oats in your shoes, the mill-attic, with=
its
trap-doors and inscriptions on beams about floods and sweethearts, is a
splendid place. It is lighted by a foot-square window, called Duck Window, =
that
looks across to Little Lindens Farm, and the spot where Jack Cade was kille=
d.
When they had climbed the attic ladder (they
called it the ‘mainmast tree’ out of the ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, and D=
an
‘swarved it with might and main,’ as the ballad says) they saw a man sittin=
g on
Duck window-sill. He was dressed in a plum-coloured doublet and tight
plum-coloured hose, and he drew busily in a red-edged book.
‘Sit ye! Sit ye!’ Puck cried from a rafter
overhead. ‘See what it is to be beautiful! Sir Harry Dawe—pardon, Hal—says =
I am
the very image of a head for a gargoyle.’
The man laughed and raised his dark velvet cap=
to
the children, and his grizzled hair bristled out in a stormy fringe. He was
old—forty at least—but his eyes were young, with funny little wrinkles all
round them. A satchel of embroidered leather hung from his broad belt, which
looked interesting.
‘May we see?’ said Una, coming forward.
‘Surely—sure-ly!’ he said, moving up on the
window-seat, and returned to his work with a silver-pointed pencil. Puck sa=
t as
though the grin were fixed for ever on his broad face, while they watched t=
he
quick, certain fingers that copied it. Presently the man took a reed pen fr=
om
his satchel, and trimmed it with a little ivory knife, carved in the sembla=
nce of
a fish.
‘Oh, what a beauty!’ cried Dan.
‘’Ware fingers! That blade is perilous sharp. I
made it myself of the best Low Country cross-bow steel. And so, too, this f=
ish.
When his back-fin travels to his tail—so—he swallows up the blade, even as =
the
whale swallowed Gaffer Jonah.... Yes, and that’s my ink-horn. I made the fo=
ur silver
saints round it. Press Barnabas’s head. It opens, and then——’ He dipped the
trimmed pen, and with careful boldness began to put in the essential lines =
of
Puck’s rugged face, that had been but faintly revealed by the silver-point.=
The children gasped, for it fairly leaped from=
the
page.
As he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, =
he
talked—now clearly, now muttering, now breaking off to frown or smile at his
work. He told them he was born at Little Lindens Farms, and his father used=
to
beat him for drawing things instead of doing things, till an old priest cal=
led
Father Roger, who drew illuminated letters in rich people’s books, coaxed t=
he parents
to let him take the boy as a sort of painter’s apprentice. Then he went with
Father Roger to Oxford, where he cleaned plates and carried cloaks and shoes
for the scholars of a College called Merton.
‘Didn’t you hate that?’ said Dan after a great
many other questions.
‘I never thought on’t. Half Oxford was building
new colleges or beautifying the old, and she had called to her aid the
master-craftsmen of all Christendie—kings in their trade and honoured of Ki=
ngs.
I knew them. I worked for them: that was enough. No wonder——’ He stopped and
laughed.
‘You became a great man,’ said Puck.
‘They said so, Robin. Even Bramante said so.’<= o:p>
‘Why? What did you do?’ Dan asked.
The artist looked at him queerly. ‘Things in s=
tone
and such, up and down England. You would not have heard of ’em. To come nea=
rer
home, I re-builded this little St. Bartholomew’s church of ours. It cost me
more trouble and sorrow than aught I’ve touched in my life. But ’twas a sou=
nd lesson.’
‘Um,’ said Dan. ‘We had lessons this morning.’=
‘I’ll not afflict ye, lad,’ said Hal, while Pu=
ck
roared. ‘Only ’tis strange to think how that little church was re-built,
re-roofed, and made glorious, thanks to some few godly Sussex iron-masters,=
a
Bristol sailor lad, a proud ass called Hal o’ the Draft because, d’you see,=
he
was always drawing and drafting; and’—he dragged the words slowly—‘ and
‘Pirate?’ said Dan. He wriggled like a hooked
fish.
‘Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on
the stair just now.’ He dipped again in the ink-well, and held his breath o=
ver
a sweeping line, as though he had forgotten everything else.
‘Pirates don’t build churches, do they?’ said =
Dan.
‘Or do they?’
‘They help mightily,’ Hal laughed. ‘But you we=
re
at your lessons this morn, Jack Scholar?’
‘Oh, pirates aren’t lessons. It was only Bruce=
and
his silly old spider,’ said Una. ‘Why did Sir Andrew Barton help you?’
‘I question if he ever knew it,’ said Hal,
twinkling. ‘Robin, how a-mischief’s name am I to tell these innocents what =
comes
of sinful pride?’
‘Oh, we know all about that ,’ said Una pertly. ‘If you get too=
beany—that’s
cheeky—you get sat upon, of course.’
Hal considered a moment, pen in air, and Puck =
said
some long words.
‘Aha! That was my case too,’ he cried. ‘Beany—=
you
say—but certainly I did not conduct myself well. I was proud of—of such thi=
ngs
as porches—a Galilee porch at Lincoln for choice—proud of one Torrigiano’s =
arm
on my shoulder, proud of my knighthood when I made the gilt scroll-work for=
The Sovereign —our King’s ship. But Fath=
er
Roger sitting in Merton Library, he did not forget me. At the top of my pri=
de,
when I and no other should have builded the porch at Lincoln, he laid it on=
me
with a terrible forefinger to go back to my Sussex clays and re-build, at my
own charges, my own church, where we Dawes have been buried for six
generations. “Out! Son of my Art!” said he. “Fight the Devil at home ere you
call yourself a man and a craftsman.” And I quaked, and I went.... How’s yo=
n,
Robin?’ He flourished the finished sketch before Puck.
‘Me! Me past peradventure,’ said Puck, smirking
like a man at a mirror. ‘Ah, see! The rain has took off! I hate housen in
daylight.’
‘Whoop! Holiday!’ cried Hal, leaping up. ‘Who’s
for my Little Lindens? We can talk there.’
They tumbled downstairs, and turned past the
dripping willows by the sunny mill dam.
‘Body o’ me,’ said Hal, staring at the hop-gar=
den,
where the hops were just ready to blossom. ‘What are these vines? No, not
vines, and they twine the wrong way to beans.’ He began to draw in his ready
book.
‘Hops. New since your day,’ said Puck. ‘They’r=
e an
herb of Mars, and their flowers dried flavour ale. We say:—
‘“Tu=
rkeys,
Heresy, Hops, and Beer Came into
England all in one year.”’
‘Heresy I know. I’ve seen Hops—God be praised =
for
their beauty! What is your Turkis?’
The children laughed. They knew the Lindens
turkeys, and as soon as they reached Lindens’ orchard on the hill the flock
charged at them.
Out came Hal’s book at once. ‘Hoity-toity!’ he
cried. ‘Here’s Pride in purple feathers! Here’s wrathy contempt and the Pom=
ps
of the Flesh! How d’you call them =
?’
‘Turkeys! Turkeys!’ the children shouted, as t=
he
old gobbler raved and flamed against Hal’s plum-coloured hose.
‘Save Your Magnificence!’ he said. ‘I’ve draft=
ed
two good new things to-day.’ And he doffed his cap to the bubbling bird.
Then they walked through the grass to the knoll
where Little Lindens stands. The old farm-house, weather-tiled to the groun=
d,
took almost the colour of a blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons
pecked at the mortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had lived under t=
he
tiles since it was built filled the hot August air with their booming; and =
the smell
of the box-tree by the dairy-window mixed with the smell of earth after rai=
n,
bread after baking, and a tickle of wood-smoke.
The farmer’s wife came to the door, baby on ar=
m,
shaded her brows against the sun, stooped to pluck a sprig of rosemary, and
turned down the orchard. The old spaniel in his barrel barked once or twice=
to
show he was in charge of the empty house. Puck clicked back the garden-gate=
.
‘D’you marvel that I love it?’ said Hal, in a
whisper. ‘What can town folk know of the nature of housen—or land?’
They perched themselves arow on the old hacked= oak bench in Lindens’ garden, looking across the valley of the brook at the fern-covered dimples and hollows of the Forge behind Hobden’s cottage. The = old man was cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. It was quite a second after his chopper fell that the chump of the blow reached their lazy ears.<= o:p>
‘Eh—yeh!’ said Hal. ‘I mind when where that old
gaffer stands was Nether Forge—Master John Collins’s foundry. Many a night =
has
his big trip-hammer shook me in my bed here. Boom-bitty! Boom-bitty! If the wind was east, I could hear Maste=
r Tom
Collins’s forge at Stockens answering his brother, Boom-oop! Boom-oop! and midway between, Sir John Pelham’s
sledge-hammers at Brightling would strike in like a pack o’scholars, and “ =
Hic-haec-hoc
” they’d say, “ Hic-haec-hoc ,” till I fell asleep. Yes. The valley was as =
full
o’ forges and fineries as a May shaw o’ cuckoos. All gone to grass now!’
‘What did they make?’ said Dan.
‘Guns for the King’s ships—and for others.
Serpentines and cannon mostly. When the guns were cast, down would come the
King’s Officers, and take our plough-oxen to haul them to the coast. Look!
Here’s one of the first and finest craftsmen of the Sea!’
He fluttered back a page of his book, and show=
ed
them a young man’s head. Underneath was written: ‘Sebastianus.’
‘He came down with a King’s Order on Master Jo=
hn
Collins for twenty serpentines (wicked little cannon they be!) to furnish a
venture of ships. I drafted him thus sitting by our fire telling Mother of =
the
new lands he’d find the far side the world. And he found them, too! There’s=
a
nose to cleave through unknown seas! Cabot was his name—a Bristol lad—half =
a foreigner.
I set a heap by him. He helped me to my church-building.’
‘I thought that was Sir Andrew Barton,’ said D=
an.
‘Ay, but foundations before roofs,’ Hal answer=
ed.
‘Sebastian first put me in the way of it. I had come down here, not to serve
God as a craftsman should, but to show my people how great a craftsman I wa=
s.
They cared not, and it served me right, one split straw for my craft or my
greatness. What a murrain call had I, they said, to mell with old St.
Barnabas’s? Ruinous the church had been since the Black Death, and ruinous =
she
should remain; and I could hang myself in my new scaffold-ropes! Gentle and
simple, high and low—the Hayes, the Fowles, the Fanners, the Collinses—they
were all in a tale against me. Only Sir John Pelham up yonder to Brightling
bade me heart-up and go on. Yet how could I? Did I ask Master Collins for h=
is timber-tug
to haul beams? The oxen had gone to Lewes after lime. Did he promise me a s=
et
of iron cramps or ties for the roof? They never came to hand, or else they =
were
spaulty or cracked. So with everything. Nothing said, but naught done excep=
t I
stood by them, and then done amiss. I thought the countryside was fair
bewitched.’
‘It was, sure-ly,’ said Puck, knees under chin.
‘Did you never suspect any one?’
‘Not till Sebastian came for his guns, and John
Collins played him the same dog’s tricks as he’d played me with my ironwork.
Week in, week out, two of three serpentines would be flawed in the casting,=
and
only fit, they said, to be remelted. Then John Collins would shake his head,
and vow he could pass no cannon for the King’s service that were not perfec=
t. Saints!
How Sebastian stormed! I know, for we sat on this bench sharing o=
ur
sorrows inter-common.
‘When Sebastian had fumed away six weeks at
Lindens and gotten just six serpentines, Dirk Brenzett, Master of the Cygnet hoy, sends me word that the block of sto=
ne he
was fetching me from France for our new font he’d hove overboard to lighten=
his
ship, chased by Andrew Barton up to Rye Port.’
‘Ah! The pirate!’ said Dan.
‘Yes. And while I am tearing my hair over this,
Ticehurst Will, my best mason, comes to me shaking, and vowing that the Dev=
il,
horned, tailed, and chained, has run out on him from the church-tower, and =
the
men would work there no more. So I took ’em off the foundations, which we w=
ere strengthening,
and went into the Bell Tavern for a cup of ale. Says Master John Collins: “=
Have
it your own way, lad; but if I was you, I’d take the sinnification o’ the s=
ign,
and leave old Barnabas’s Church alone!” And they all wagged their sinful he=
ads,
and agreed. Less afraid of the Devil than of me—as I saw later.
‘When I brought my sweet news to Lindens,
Sebastian was limewashing the kitchen-beams for Mother. He loved her like a
son.
‘“Cheer up, lad,” he says. “God’s where He was.
Only you and I chance to be pure pute asses! We’ve been tricked, Hal, and m=
ore
shame to me, a sailor, that I did not guess it before! You must leave your
belfry alone, forsooth, because the Devil is adrift there; and I cannot get=
my serpentines
because John Collins cannot cast them aright. Meantime Andrew Barton hawks =
off
the Port of Rye. And why? To take those very serpentines which poor Cabot m=
ust
whistle for; the said serpentines, I’ll wager my share of new Continents, b=
eing
now hid away in St. Barnabas church tower. Clear as the Irish coast at
noonday!”
‘“They’d sure never dare to do it,” I said; “a=
nd
for another thing, selling cannon to the King’s enemies is black
treason—hanging and fine.”
‘“It is sure large profit. Men’ll dare any gal=
lows
for that. I have been a trader myself,” says he. “We must be upsides with ’=
em
for the honour of Bristol.”
‘Then he hatched a plot, sitting on the lime-w=
ash
bucket. We gave out to ride o’ Tuesday to London and made a show of making
farewells of our friends—especially of Master John Collins. But at Wadhurst
Woods we turned; rode by night to the watermeadows; hid our horses in a
willow-tot at the foot of the glebe, and stole a-tiptoe up hill to Barnabas=
’s
church again. A thick mist, and a moon coming through.
‘I had no sooner locked the tower-door behind =
us
than over goes Sebastian full length in the dark.
‘“Pest!” he says. “Step high and feel low, Hal.
I’ve stumbled over guns before.”
‘I groped, and one by one—the tower was pitchy
dark—I counted the lither barrels of twenty serpentines laid out on
pease-straw. No conceal at all!
‘“There’s two demi-cannon my end,” says Sebast=
ian,
slapping metal. “They’ll be for Andrew Barton’s lower deck. Honest—honest J=
ohn
Collins! So this is his warehouse, his arsenal, his armoury! Now, see you w=
hy
your pokings and pryings have raised the Devil in Sussex? You’ve hindered J=
ohn’s
lawful trade for months,” and he laughed where he lay.
‘A clay-cold tower is no fireside at midnight,=
so
we climbed the belfry stairs, and there Sebastian trips over a cow-hide with
its horns and tail.
‘“Aha! Your Devil has left his doublet! Does it
become me, Hal?” He draws it on and capers in the slits of
window-moonlight—won’erful devilish-like. Then he sits on the stair, rapping
with his tail on a board, and his back-aspect was dreader than his front; a=
nd a
howlet lit in, and screeched at the horns of him.
‘“If you’d keep out the Devil, shut the door,”=
he
whispered. “And that’s another false proverb, Hal, for I can hear your
tower-door opening.”
‘“I locked it. Who a-plague has another key,
then?” I said.
‘“All the congregation, to judge by their feet=
,”
he says, and peers into the blackness. “Still! Still, Hal! Hear ’em grunt!
That’s more o’ my serpentines, I’ll be bound. One—two—three—four they bear =
in!
Faith, Andrew equips himself like an admiral! Twenty-four serpentines in al=
l!”
‘As if it had been an echo, we heard John
Collins’s voice come up all hollow: “Twenty-four serpentines and two
demi-cannon. That’s the full tally for Sir Andrew Barton.”
‘“Courtesy costs naught,” whispers Sebastian.
“Shall I drop my dagger on his head?”
‘“They go over to Rye o’ Thursday in the wool-=
wains,
hid under the wool packs. Dirk Brenzett meets them at Udimore, as before,” =
says
John.
‘“Lord! What a worn, handsmooth trade it is!” =
says
Sebastian. “I lay we are the sole two babes in the village that have not our
lawful share in the venture.”
‘There was a full score folk below, talking li=
ke
all Robertsbridge Market. We counted them by voice.
‘Master John Collins pipes: “The guns for the
French carrack must lie here next month. Will, when does your young fool (m=
e,
so please you!) come back from Lunnon?”
‘“No odds,” I heard Ticehurst Will answer. “Lay
’em just where you’ve a mind, Mus’ Collins. We’re all too afraid o’ the Dev=
il
to mell with the tower now.” And the long knave laughed.
‘“Ah! ’tis easy enow for you to raise the Devi=
l,
Will,” says another—Ralph Hobden from the Forge.
‘“Aaa-men!” roars Sebastian, and ere I could h=
old
him, he leaps down the stairs—won’erful devilish-like—howling no bounds. He=
had
scarce time to lay out for the nearest than they ran. Saints, how they ran!=
We
heard them pound on the door of the Bell Tavern, and then we ran too.
‘“What’s next?” says Sebastian, looping up his
cow-tail as he leaped the briars. “I’ve broke honest John’s face.”
‘“Ride to Sir John Pelham’s,” I said. “He is t=
he
only one that ever stood by me.”
‘We rode to Brightling, and past Sir John’s
lodges, where the keepers would have shot at us for deer-stealers, and we h=
ad
Sir John down into his Justice’s chair, and when we had told him our tale a=
nd
showed him the cow-hide which Sebastian wore still girt about him, he laugh=
ed
till the tears ran.
‘“Wel-a-well!” he says. “I’ll see justice done
before daylight. What’s your complaint? Master Collins is my old friend.”
‘“He’s none of mine,” I cried. “When I think h=
ow
he and his likes have baulked and dozened and cozened me at every turn over=
the
church”——and I choked at the thought.
‘“Ah, but ye see now they needed it for another
use,” says he, smoothly.
‘“So they did my serpentines,” Sebastian cries=
. “I
should be half across the Western Ocean by this if my guns had been ready. =
But
they’re sold to a Scotch pirate by your old friend.”
‘“Where’s your proof?” says Sir John, stroking=
his
beard.
‘“I broke my shins over them not an hour since,
and I heard John give order where they were to be taken,” says Sebastian.
‘“Words! Words only,” says Sir John. “Master
Collins is somewhat of a liar at best.”
‘He carried it so gravely, that for the moment=
, I
thought he was dipped in this secret traffick too, and that there was not an
honest ironmaster in Sussex.
‘“Name o’ Reason!” says Sebastian, and raps wi=
th
his cow-tail on the table, “Whose guns are they, then?”
‘“Yours, manifestly,” says Sir John. “You come
with the King’s Order for ’em, and Master Collins casts them in his foundry=
. If
he chooses to bring them up from Nether Forge and lay ’em out in the church
tower, why they are e’en so much the nearer to the main road and you are sa=
ved
a day’s hauling. What a coil to make of a mere act of neighbourly kindness,
lad!”
‘“I fear I have requited him very scurvily,” s=
ays
Sebastian, looking at his knuckles. “But what of the demi-cannon? I could do
with ’em well, but they are not in the King’s Order.”
‘“Kindness—loving-kindness,” says Sir John.
“Questionless, in his zeal for the King and his love for you, John adds tho=
se
two cannon as a gift. ’Tis plain as this coming daylight, ye stockfish!”
‘“So it is,” says Sebastian. “Oh, Sir John, Sir
John, why did you never use the sea? You are lost ashore.” And he looked on=
him
with great love.
‘“I do my best in my station.” Sir John strokes
his beard again and rolls forth his deep drumming Justice’s voice
thus:—“But—suffer me!—you two lads, on some midnight frolic into which I pr=
obe
not, roystering around the taverns, surprise Master Collins at his”—he thin=
ks a
moment—“at his good deeds done by stealth. Ye surprise him, I say, cruelly.=
”
‘“Truth, Sir John. If you had seen him run!” s=
ays
Sebastian.
‘“On this you ride breakneck to me with a tale=
of
pirates, and wool-wains, and cow-hides, which, though it hath moved my mirt=
h as
a man, offendeth my reason as a magistrate. So I will e’en accompany you ba=
ck
to the tower with, perhaps, some few of my own people, and three to four
wagons, and I’ll be your warrant that Master John Collins will freely give =
you
your guns and your demi-cannon, Master Sebastian.” He breaks into his prope=
r voice—“I
warned the old tod and his neighbours long ago that they’d come to trouble =
with
their side-sellings and bye-dealings; but we cannot have half Sussex hanged=
for
a little gun-running. Are ye content, lads?”
‘“I’d commit any treason for two demi-cannon,”
said Sebastian, and rubs his hands.
‘“Ye have just compounded with rank treason-fe=
lony
for the same bribe,” says Sir John. “Wherefore to horse, and get the guns.”=
’
‘But Master Collins meant the guns for Sir And=
rew
Barton all along, didn’t he?’ said Dan.
‘Questionless, that he did,’ said Hal. ‘But he
lost them. We poured into the village on the red edge of dawn, Sir John hor=
sed,
in half-armour, his pennon flying; behind him thirty stout Brightling knave=
s,
five abreast; behind them four wool-wains, and behind them four trumpets to
triumph over the jest, blowing: Ou=
r King
went forth to Normandie . When we halted and rolled the ringing guns out of=
the
tower, ’twas for all the world like Friar Roger’s picture of the French sie=
ge
in the Queen’s Missal-book.’
‘And what did we—I mean, what did our village =
do?’
said Dan.
‘Oh! Bore it nobly—nobly,’ cried Hal. ‘Though =
they
had tricked me, I was proud of us. They came out of their housen, looked at
that little army as though it had been a post, and went their shut-mouthed =
way.
Never a sign! Never a word! They’d ha’ perished sooner than let Brightling
overcrow us. Even that villain, Ticehurst Will, coming out of the Bell for =
his
morning ale, he all but ran under Sir John’s horse.
‘“Ware, Sirrah Devil!” cries Sir John, reining
back.
‘“Oh!” says Will. “Market day, is it? And all =
the
bullocks from Brightling here?”
‘I spared him his belting for that—the brazen
knave!
‘But John Collins was our masterpiece! He happ=
ened
along-street (his jaw tied up where Sebastian had clouted him) when we were
trundling the first demi-cannon through the lych-gate.
‘“I reckon you’ll find her middlin’ heavy,” he
says. “If you’ve a mind to pay, I’ll loan ye my timber-tug. She won’t lie e=
asy
on ary wool-wain.”
‘That was the one time I ever saw Sebastian ta=
ken
flat aback. He opened and shut his mouth, fishy-like.
‘“No offence,” says Master John. “You’ve got h=
er
reasonable good cheap. I thought ye might not grudge me a groat if I help m=
ove
her.” Ah, he was a masterpiece! They say that morning’s work cost our John =
two
hundred pounds, and he never winked an eyelid, not even when he saw the guns
all carted off to Lewes.’
‘Neither then nor later?’ said Puck.
‘Once. ’Twas after he gave St. Barnabas the new
chime of bells. (Oh, there was nothing the Collinses, or the Hayes, or the
Fowles, or the Fanners would not do for the church then! “Ask and have” was
their song.) We had rung ’em in, and he was in the tower with Black Nick Fo=
wle,
that gave us our rood-screen. The old man pinches the bell-rope one hand and
scratches his neck with t’other. “Sooner she was pulling yon clapper than my
neck,” he says. That was all! That was Sussex—seely Sussex for everlastin’!=
’
‘And what happened after?’ said Una.
‘I went back into England,’ said Hal, slowly. =
‘I’d
had my lesson against pride. But they tell me I left St. Barnabas’s a
jewel—just about a jewel! Wel-a-well! ’Twas done for and among my own peopl=
e,
and—Father Roger was right—I never knew such trouble or such triumph since.
That’s the nature o’ things. A dear—dear land.’ He dropped his chin on his
chest.
‘There’s your Father at the Forge. What’s he
talking to old Hobden about?’ said Puck, opening his hand with three leaves=
in
it.
Dan looked towards the cottage.
‘Oh, I know. It’s that old oak lying across the
brook. Pater always wants it grubbed.’
In the still valley they could hear old Hobden=
’s
deep tones.
‘Have it as
you’ve a mind to,’ he was saying. =
‘But
the vivers of her roots they hold the bank together. If you grub her out, t=
he
bank she’ll all come tearin’ down, an’ next floods the brook’ll swarve up. =
But
have it as you’ve a mind. The mistuss she sets a he=
ap by
the ferns on her trunk.’
‘Oh! I’ll think it over,’ said the Pater.
Una laughed a little bubbling chuckle.
‘What Devil’s in that belfry?’ said Hal, with a lazy laugh. ‘T=
hat
should be Hobden by his voice.’
‘Why, the oak is the regular bridge for all the
rabbits between the Three Acre and our meadow. The best place for wires on =
the
farm, Hobden says. He’s got two there now,’ Una answered. ‘ He won’t ever let it be grubbed!’
‘Ah, Sussex! Silly Sussex for everlastin’,’
murmured Hal; and the next moment their Father’s voice calling across to Li=
ttle
Lindens broke the spell as St. Barnabas’s clock struck five.
SMUGG=
LERS’
SONG
If you
wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet, Don’t go drawing back the blind, or look=
ing in
the street, Them
that asks no questions isn’t told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the
Gentlemen go by!
=
Five and twenty ponies <=
/span> Trotting through the dark; <=
/span> Brandy for the Parson, <=
/span> ’Baccy for the Clerk <=
/span> Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the
Gentlemen go by!
Running round the woodlump if you chance=
to
find Little
barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandywined; Don’t you shout to come and look, nor ta=
ke ’em
for your play; Put
the brishwood back again,—and they’ll be gone next day! If you see the stableyard setting open w=
ide; If you see a tied horse lying down insid=
e; If your mother mends a coat cut about and
tore; If the
lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more! If you meet King George’s men, dressed i=
n blue
and red, You be
careful what you say, and mindful what is said. If they call you ’pretty maid,’ and chuc=
k you
’neath the chin, Don’t
you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been! Knocks and footsteps round the house—whi=
stles
after dark— You’ve
no call for running out till the house-dogs bark. Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie— They don’t fret to follow when the Gentl=
emen
go by! If you do as you’ve been told, likely th=
ere’s
a chance, You’ll
be give a dainty doll, all the way from France, With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet=
hood—
=
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ b=
eing
good! =
Five and twenty ponies, <=
/span> Trotting through the Park— <=
/span> Brandy for the Parson, <=
/span> ’Baccy for the Clerk. Them that asks no questions isn’t told a=
lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the
Gentlemen go by!
Bees! Bees! Hark to the Bees! ‘Hide from your neighbours as much as y=
ou
please, But all that has happened=
to us you
must tell! Or else we will give y=
ou no
honey to sell.’
A maiden in her glory, <=
/span> Upon her wedding-day, Must tell her Bees the story, <=
/span> Or else they’ll fly away. =
Fly away—die away— Dwindle down and leave you! =
But if you don’t deceive your Bees, Your Bees will not deceive you!—
Marriage, birth or buryin’, <=
/span> News across the seas, All you’re sad or merry in, <=
/span> You must tell the Bees. =
Tell ’em coming in an’ out, Where the Fanners fan, =
’Cause the Bees are justabout As curious as a man! Don’t you wait where trees are, <=
/span> When the lightnings play; Nor don’t you hate where Bees are, <=
/span> Or else they’ll pine away. =
Pine away—dwine away— Anything to leave you! =
But if you never grieve your Bees, Your Bees’ll never grieve you.
Just =
at
dusk, a soft September rain began to fall on the hop-pickers. The mothers
wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins were put away, =
and
tally-books made up. The young couples strolled home, two to each umbrella,=
and
the single men walked behind them laughing. Dan and Una, who had been picki=
ng
after their lessons, marched off to roast potatoes at the oast-house, where=
old
Hobden, with Blue-eyed Bess, his lurcher-dog, lived all the month through,
drying the hops.
They settled themselves, as usual, on the sack=
-strewn
cot in front of the fires, and, when Hobden drew up the shutter, stared, as
usual, at the flameless bed of coals spouting its heat up the dark well of =
the old-fashioned
roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh pieces of coal, packed them, with
fingers that never flinched, exactly where they would do most good; slowly =
he
reached behind him till Dan tilted the potatoes into his iron scoop of a ha=
nd;
carefully he arranged them round the fire, and then stood for a moment, bla=
ck
against the glare. As he closed the shutter, the oast-house seemed dark bef=
ore
the day’s end, and he lit the candle in the lanthorn. The children liked all
these things because they knew them so well.
The Bee Boy, Hobden’s son, who is not quite ri=
ght
in his head, though he can do anything with bees, slipped in like a shadow.
They only guessed it when Bess’s stump-tail wagged against them.
A big voice began singing outside in the drizz=
le:—
‘Old
Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead, She heard the hops were doing well, and=
then
popped up her head.’
‘There can’t be two people made to holler like
that!’ cried old Hobden, wheeling round.
‘For=
, says
she, “The boys I’ve picked with when I was young and fair, They’re bound to be at hoppin’, and I’m=
——”’
A man showed at the doorway.
‘Well, well! They do say hoppin’ll draw the ve=
ry
deadest; and now I belieft ’em. You, Tom? Tom Shoesmith!’ Hobden lowered his
lanthorn.
‘You’re a hem of a time makin’ your mind to it,
Ralph!’ The stranger strode in—three full inches taller than Hobden, a
grey-whiskered, brown-faced giant with clear blue eyes. They shook hands, a=
nd
the children could hear the hard palms rasp together.
‘You ain’t lost none o’ your grip,’ said Hobde=
n.
‘Was it thirty or forty year back you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?’
‘Only thirty, an’ no odds ’tween us regardin’
heads, neither. You had it back at me with a hop-pole. How did we get home =
that
night? Swimmin’?’
‘Same way the pheasant come into Gubbs’s pocke=
t—by
a little luck an’ a deal o’ conjurin’.’ Old Hobden laughed in his deep ches=
t.
‘I see you’ve not forgot your way about the wo=
ods.
D’ye do any o’ this still?’ The stranger pretended to look a=
long a
gun.
Hobden answered with a quick movement of the h=
and
as though he were pegging down a rabbit-wire.
‘No. =
That’s
all that’s left me now. Age she mu=
st as
Age she can. An’ what’s your news since all these years?’
‘Oh,=
I’ve
bin to Plymouth, I’ve bin to Dover— I’ve bin ramblin’, boys, the wide world
over,’
the man answered cheerily. ‘I reckon I know as
much of Old England as most.’ He turned towards the children and winked bol=
dly.
‘I lay they told you a sight o’ lies, then. I’=
ve
been into England fur as Wiltsheer once. I was cheated proper over a pair of
hedging-gloves,’ said Hobden.
‘There’s fancy-talkin’ everywhere. You’ve cleaved to your own parts pretty middlin’
close, Ralph.’
‘Can’t shift an old tree ’thout it dyin’,’ Hob=
den
chuckled. ‘An’ I be no more anxious to die than you look to be to help me w=
ith
my hops to-night.’
The great man leaned against the brickwork of =
the
roundel, and swung his arms abroad. ‘Hire me!’ was all he said, and they
stumped upstairs laughing.
The children heard their shovels rasp on the c=
loth
where the yellow hops lie drying above the fires, and all the oast-house fi=
lled
with the sweet, sleepy smell as they were turned.
‘Who is it?’ Una whispered to the Bee Boy.
‘Dunno, no more’n you—if you dunno,’ said he, and smiled.
The voices on the drying-floor talked and chuc=
kled
together, and the heavy footsteps went back and forth. Presently a hop-pock=
et
dropped through the press-hole overhead, and stiffened and fattened as they
shovelled it full. ‘Clank!’ went the press, and rammed the loose stuff into
tight cake.
‘Gently!’ they heard Hobden cry. ‘You’ll bust =
her
crop if you lay on so. You be as careless as Gleason’s bull, Tom. Come an’ =
sit
by the fires. She’ll do now.’
They came down, and as Hobden opened the shutt=
er
to see if the potatoes were done Tom Shoesmith said to the children, ‘Put a
plenty salt on ’em. That’ll show you the sort o’ man I be.’
Again he winked, and again the Bee Boy laughed and Una stared at Dan.
‘ I k=
now
what sort o’ man you be,’ old Hobden grunted, groping for the potatoes round
the fire.
‘Do ye?’ Tom went on behind his back. ‘Some of=
us
can’t abide Horseshoes, or Church Bells, or Running Water; an’, talkin’ o’
runnin’ water’—he turned to Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel—‘d’y=
ou
mind the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the miller’s man was drowned in
the street?’
‘Middlin’ well.’ Old Hobden let himself down on
the coals by the fire door. ‘I was courtin’ my woman on the Marsh that year.
Carter to Mus’ Plum I was—gettin’ ten shillin’s week. Mine was a Marsh woma=
n.’
‘Won’erful odd-gates place—Romney Marsh,’ said=
Tom
Shoesmith. ‘I’ve heard say the world’s divided like into Europe, Ashy, Afri=
ky,
Ameriky, Australy, an’ Romney Marsh.’
‘The Marsh folk think so,’ said Hobden. ‘I had=
a
hem o’ trouble to get my woman to leave it.’
‘Where did she come out of? I’ve forgot, Ralph=
.’
‘Dymchurch under the Wall,’ Hobden answered, a
potato in his hand.
‘Then she’d be a Pett—or a Whitgift, would she=
?’
‘Whitgift.’ Hobden broke open the potato and a=
te
it with the curious neatness of men who make most of their meals in the blo=
wy
open. ‘She growed to be quite reasonable-like after livin’ in the Weald awh=
ile,
but our first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned, no bounds. And she =
was a
won’erful hand with bees.’ He cut away a little piece of potato and threw it
out to the door.
‘Ah! I’ve heard say the Whitgifts could see
further through a millstone than most,’ said Shoesmith. ‘Did she, now?’
‘She was honest-innocent, of any nigromancin’,’
said Hobden. ‘Only she’d read signs and sinnifications out o’ birds flyin’,
stars fallin’, bees hivin’, and such. An’ she’d lie awake—listenin’ for cal=
ls,
she said.’
‘That don’t prove naught,’ said Tom. ‘All Marsh
folk has been smugglers since time everlastin’. ’Twould be in her blood to
listen out o’ nights.’
‘Nature-ally,’ old Hobden replied, smiling. ‘I=
mind
when there was smugglin’ a sight nearer us than the Marsh be. But that wasn=
’t
my woman’s trouble. ’Twas a passel o’ no-sense talk,’ he dropped his voice,
‘about Pharisees.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard Marsh men beleft in ’em.’ Tom
looked straight at the wide-eyed children beside Bess.
‘Pharisees,’ cried Una. ‘Fairies? Oh, I see!’<= o:p>
‘People o’ the Hills,’ said the Bee Boy, throw=
ing
half of his potato towards the door.
‘There you be!’ said Hobden, pointing at him. =
‘My
boy, he has her eyes and her out-gate senses. That’s what she called ’em!’
‘And what did you think of it all?’
‘Um—um,’ Hobden rumbled. ‘A man that uses fiel=
ds
an’ shaws after dark as much as I’ve done, he don’t go out of his road exce=
p’
for keepers.’
‘But settin’ that aside?’ said Tom, coaxingly.=
‘I
saw ye throw the Good Piece out-at doors just now. Do ye believe or— do
‘There was a great black eye to that tater,’ s=
aid
Hobden, indignantly.
‘My liddle eye didn’t see un, then. It looked =
as
if you meant it for—for Any One that might need it. But settin’ that aside.
D’ye believe or— do ye?’
‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, because I’ve heard
naught, an’ I’ve seen naught. But if you was to say there was more things a=
fter
dark in the shaws than men, or fur, or feather, or fin, I dunno as I’d go f=
arabout
to call you a liar. Now turn again, Tom. What’s your say?’
‘I’m like you. I say nothin’. But I’ll tell yo=
u a
tale, an’ you can fit it as how you please.’
‘Passel o’ no-sense stuff,’ growled Hobden, bu=
t he
filled his pipe.
‘The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit,’ T=
om
went on slowly. ‘Hap you’ve heard it?’
‘My woman she’ve told it me scores o’ times. D=
unno
as I didn’t end by belieft in’ it—sometimes.’
Hobden crossed over as he spoke, and sucked wi=
th
his pipe at the yellow lanthorn-flame. Tom rested one great elbow on one gr=
eat
knee, where he sat among the coal.
‘Have you ever bin in the Marsh?’ he said to D=
an.
‘Only as far as Rye, once,’ Dan answered.
‘Ah, that’s but the edge. Back behind of her
there’s steeples settin’ beside churches, an’ wise women settin’ beside the=
ir
doors, an’ the sea settin’ above the land, an’ ducks herdin’ wild in the di=
ks’
(he meant ditches). ‘The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an’ sluices, =
an’ tide-gates
an’ water-lets. You can hear em’ bubblin’ an’ grummelin’ when the tide work=
s in
em’, an’ then you hear the sea rangin’ left and right-handed all up along t=
he
Wall. You’ve seen how flat she is—the Marsh? You’d think nothin’ easier tha=
n to
walk eend-on acrost her? Ah, but the diks an’ the water-lets, they twists t=
he
roads about as ravelly as witch-yarn on the spindles. So ye get all turned
round in broad daylight.’
‘That’s because they’ve dreened the waters into
the diks,’ said Hobden. ‘When I courted my woman the rushes was green—Eh me!
the rushes was green—an’ the Bailiff o’ the Marshes, he rode up and down as
free as the fog.’
‘Who was he?’ said Dan.
‘Why, the Marsh fever an’ ague. He’ve clapped =
me
on the shoulder once or twice till I shook proper. But now the dreenin’ off=
of
the waters have done away with the fevers; so they make a joke, like, that =
the
Bailiff o’ the Marshes broke his neck in a dik. A won’erful place for bees =
an’
ducks ’tis too.’
‘An’ old!’ Tom went on. ‘Flesh an’ Blood have =
been
there since Time Everlastin’ Beyond. Well, now, speakin’ among themselves, =
the
Marshmen say that from Time Everlastin’ Beyond the Pharisees favoured the M=
arsh
above the rest of Old England. I lay the Marshmen ought to know. They’ve be=
en out
after dark, father an’ son, smugglin’ some one thing or t’other, since ever=
wool
grew to sheep’s backs. They say there was always a middlin’ few Pharisees t=
o be
seen on the Marsh. Impident as rabbits, they was. They’d dance on the nakid
roads in the nakid daytime; they’d flash their liddle green lights along the
diks, comin’ an’ goin’, like honest smugglers. Yes, an’ times they’d lock t=
he
church doors against parson an’ clerk of Sundays!’
‘That ’ud be smugglers layin’ in the lace or t=
he
brandy till they could run it out o’ the Marsh. I’ve told my woman so,’ said
Hobden.
‘I’ll lay she didn’t beleft it, then—not if she
was a Whitgift. A won’erful choice place for Pharisees, the Marsh, by all
accounts, till Queen Bess’s father he come in with his Reformatories.’
‘Would that be a Act o’ Parliament like?’ Hobd=
en
asked.
‘Sure-ly! ’Can’t do nothing in Old England wit=
hout
Act, Warrant, an’ Summons. He got his Act allowed him, an’, they say, Queen
Bess’s father he used the parish churches something shameful. Justabout tore
the gizzards out of I dunnamany. Some folk in England they held with ’en; b=
ut
some they saw it different, an’ it eended in ’em takin’ sides an’ burnin’ e=
ach
other no bounds, accordin’ which side was top, time bein’. That tarrified t=
he Pharisees:
for Goodwill among Flesh an’ Blood is meat an’ drink to ’em, an’ ill-will i=
s poison.’
‘Same as bees,’ said the Bee Boy. ‘Bees won’t =
stay
by a house where there’s hating.’
‘True,’ said Tom. ‘This Reformations tarrified=
the
Pharisees same as the reaper goin’ round a last stand o’ wheat tarrifies
rabbits. They packed into the Marsh from all parts, and they says, “Fair or
foul, we must flit out o’ this, for Merry England’s done with, an’ we’re
reckoned among the Images.”’
‘Did they =
span>all
see it that way?’ said Hobden.
‘All but one that was called Robin—if you’ve h=
eard
of him. What are you laughing at?’ Tom turned to Dan. ‘The Pharisees’s trou=
ble
didn’t tech Robin, because he’d cleaved middlin’ close to people like. No m=
ore
he never meant to go out of Old England—not he; so he was sent messagin’ fo=
r help
among Flesh an’ Blood. But Flesh an’ Blood must always think of their own
concerns, an’ Robin couldn’t get t=
hrough
at ’em, ye see. They thought it was
tide-echoes off the Marsh.’
‘What did you—what did the fai—Pharisees want?’
Una asked.
‘A boat to be sure. Their liddle wings could no
more cross Channel than so many tired butterflies. A boat an’ a crew they
desired to sail ’em over to France, where yet awhile folks hadn’t tore down=
the
Images. They couldn’t abide cruel Canterbury Bells ringin’ to Bulverhithe f=
or
more pore men an’ women to be burnded, nor the King’s proud messenger ridin’
through the land givin’ orders to tear down the Images. They couldn’t abide=
it
no shape. Nor yet they couldn’t get their boat an’ crew to flit by without =
Leave
an’ Good-will from Flesh an’ Blood; an’ Flesh an’ Blood came an’ went about=
its
own business the while the Marsh was swarvin’ up, an’ swarvin’ up with
Pharisees from all England over, striving all means to get through at Flesh an’ Blood to tell ’en their sore
need.... I don’t know as you’ve ever heard say Pharisees are like chickens?=
’
‘My woman used to say that too,’ said Hobden,
folding his brown arms.
‘They be. You run too many chickens together, =
an’
the ground sickens like, an’ you get a squat, an’ your chickens die. ’Same =
way,
you crowd Pharisees all in one place— they don’t die, but Flesh an’ Blood walkin’ a=
mong
’em is apt to sick up an’ pine off. They
don’t mean it, an’ Flesh an’ Blood=
don’t
know it, but that’s the truth—as I’ve heard. The Pharisees through bein’ all
stenched up an’ frighted, an’ tryin’ to come through with their supplications, they nature-al=
ly
changed the thin airs and humours in Flesh an’ Blood. It lay on the Marsh l=
ike
thunder. Men saw their churches ablaze with the wildfire in the windows aft=
er
dark; they saw their cattle scatterin’ and no man scarin’; their sheep floc=
kin’
and no man drivin’; their horses latherin’ an’ no man leadin’; they saw the
liddle low green lights more than ever in the dik-sides; they heard the lid=
dle
feet patterin’ more than ever round the houses; an’ night an’ day, day an’ =
night,
’twas all as though they were bein’ creeped up on, and hinted at by some On=
e or
Other that couldn’t rightly shape their trouble. Oh, I lay they sweated! Man
an’ maid, woman an’ child, their Nature done ’em no service all the weeks w=
hile
the Marsh was swarvin’ up with Pharisees. But they was Flesh an’ Blood, an’
Marsh men before all. They reckoned the signs sinnified trouble for the Mar=
sh.
Or that the sea ’ud rear up against Dymchurch Wall an’ they’d be drownded l=
ike
Old Winchelsea; or that the Plague was comin’. So they looked for the meani=
n’
in the sea or in the clouds—far an’ high up. They never thought to look near
an’ knee-high, where they could see naught.
‘Now there was a poor widow at Dymchurch under=
the
Wall, which, lacking man or property, she had the more time for feeling; and
she come to feel there was a Trouble outside her doorstep bigger an’ heavier
than aught she’d ever carried over it. She had two sons—one born blind, and
t’other struck dumb through fallin’ off the Wall when he was liddle. They w=
as
men grown, but not wage-earnin’, an’ she worked for ’em, keepin’ bees and a=
nswerin’
Questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’ said Dan.
‘Like where lost things might be found, an’ wh=
at
to put about a crooked baby’s neck, an’ how to join parted sweethearts. She
felt the Trouble on the Marsh same as eels feel thunder. She was a wise wom=
an.’
‘My woman was won’erful weather-tender, too,’ =
said
Hobden. ‘I’ve seen her brish sparks like off an anvil out of her hair in
thunderstorms. But she never laid out to answer Questions.’
‘This woman was a Seeker like, an’ Seekers they
sometimes find. One night, while she lay abed, hot an’ aching, there come a
Dream an’ tapped at her window, and “Widow Whitgift,” it said, “Widow
Whitgift!”
‘First, by the wings an’ the whistling, she
thought it was peewits, but last she arose an’ dressed herself, an’ opened =
her
door to the Marsh, an’ she felt the Trouble an’ the Groaning all about her,
strong as fever an’ ague, an’ she calls: “What is it? Oh, what is it?”
‘Then ’twas all like the frogs in the diks
peeping: then ’twas all like the reeds in the diks clipclapping; an’ then t=
he
great Tide-wave rummelled along the Wall, an’ she couldn’t hear proper.
‘Three times she called, an’ three times the
Tide-wave did her down. But she catched the quiet between, an’ she cries ou=
t,
“What is the Trouble on the Marsh that’s been lying down with my heart an’
arising with my body this month gone?” She felt a liddle hand lay hold on h=
er
gown-hem, an’ she stooped to the pull o’ that liddle hand.’
Tom Shoesmith spread his huge fist before the =
fire
and smiled at it.
‘“Will the sea drown the Marsh?” she says. She=
was
a Marsh-woman first an’ foremost.
‘“No,” says the liddle voice. “Sleep sound for=
all
o’ that.”
‘“Is the Plague comin’ to the Marsh?” she says.
Them was all the ills she knowed.
‘“No. Sleep sound for all o’ that,” says Robin=
.
‘She turned about, half mindful to go in, but =
the
liddle voices grieved that shrill an’ sorrowful she turns back, an’ she cri=
es:
“If it is not a Trouble of Flesh an’ Blood, what can I do?”
‘The Pharisees cried out upon her from all rou=
nd
to fetch them a boat to sail to France, an’ come back no more.
‘“There’s a boat on the Wall,” she says, “but I
can’t push it down to the sea, nor sail it when ’tis there.”
‘“Lend us your sons,” says all the Pharisees.
“Give ’em Leave an’ Good-will to sail it for us, Mother—O Mother!”
‘“One’s dumb, an’ t’other’s blind,” she says. =
“But
all the dearer me for that; and you’ll lose them in the big sea.” The voices
justabout pierced through her. An’ there was children’s voices too. She sto=
od
out all she could, but she couldn’t rightly stand against that . So she says: “If you can draw my =
sons
for your job, I’ll not hinder ’em. You can’t ask no more of a Mother.”
‘She saw them liddle green lights dance an’ cr=
oss
till she was dizzy; she heard them liddle feet patterin’ by the thousand; s=
he
heard cruel Canterbury Bells ringing to Bulverhithe, an’ she heard the great
Tide-wave ranging along the Wall. That was while the Pharisees was workin’ a
Dream to wake her two sons asleep: an’ while she bit on her fingers she saw
them two she’d bore come out an’ pass her with never a word. She followed ’=
em, cryin’
pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, an’ that they took an’ runned down to=
the
Sea.
‘When they’d stepped mast an’ sail the blind s=
on
speaks up: “Mother, we’re waitin’ your Leave an’ Good-will to take Them ove=
r.”’
Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut
his eyes.
‘Eh, me!’ he said. ‘She was a fine, valiant wo=
man,
the Widow Whitgift. She stood twistin’ the ends of her long hair over her
fingers, an’ she shook like a poplar, makin’ up her mind. The Pharisees all
about they hushed their children from cryin’ an’ they waited dumb-still. Sh=
e was
all their dependence. ’Thout her Leave an’ Goodwill they could not pass; for
she was the Mother. So she shook like a asp-tree makin’ up her mind. ’Last =
she drives
the word past her teeth, an’ “Go!” she says. “Go with my Leave an’ Goodwill=
.”
‘Then I saw—then, they say, she had to brace b=
ack
same as if she was wadin’ in tide-water; for the Pharisees justabout flowed
past her—down the beach to the boat, I dunnamany of ’em—with their wives an’ ch=
ildren
an’ valooables, all escapin’ out of cruel Old England. Silver you could hea=
r clinkin’,
an’ liddle bundles hove down dunt on the bottom-boards, an’ passels o’ lidd=
le
swords an’ shield’s raklin’, an’ liddle fingers an’ toes scratchin’ on the
boatside to board her when the two sons pushed her off. That boat she sunk
lower an’ lower, but all the Widow could see in it was her boys movin’
hampered-like to get at the tackle. Up sail they did, an’ away they went, d=
eep
as a Rye barge, away into the off-shore mistes, an’ the Widow Whitgift she =
sat
down and eased her grief till mornin’ light.’
‘I never heard she was all alone,’ said Hobden.
‘I remember now. The one called Robin he stayed with her, they tell. She was all too grievious to listen to his promises.’<= o:p>
‘Ah! She should ha’ made her bargain beforehan=
d. I
allus told my woman so!’ Hobden cried.
‘No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan,
bein’ as she sensed the Trouble on the Marshes, an’ was simple good-willing=
to
ease it.’ Tom laughed softly. ‘She done that. Yes, she done that! From Hith=
e to
Bulverthithe, fretty man an’ petty maid, ailin’ woman an’ wailin’ child, th=
ey
took the advantage of the change in the thin airs just about as soon
as the Pharisees flitted. Folks come out fresh an’ shining all over the Mar=
sh
like snails after wet. An’ that while the Widow Whitgift sat grievin’ on the
Wall. She might have beleft us—she might have trusted her sons would be sent
back! She fussed, no bounds, when their boat come in after three days.’
‘And, of course, the sons were both quite cure=
d?’
said Una.
‘No-o. That would have been out o’ Nature. She=
got
’em back as she sent ’em. The blind man he hadn’t se=
en
naught of anything, an’ the dumb man nature-ally, he couldn’t say aught of =
what
he’d seen. I reckon that was why the Pharisees pitched on ’em for the ferry=
ing job.’
‘But what did you—what did Robin promise the
Widow?’ said Dan.
‘What did he promise, now?’ Tom pretended to think.
‘Wasn’t your woman a Whitgift, Ralph? Didn’t she say?’
‘She told me a passel o’ no-sense stuff when he
was born.’ Hobden pointed at his son. ‘There was always to be one of ’em th=
at
could see further into a millstone than most.’
‘Me! That’s me!’ said the Bee Boy so suddenly =
that
they all laughed.
‘I’ve got it now!’ cried Tom, slapping his kne=
e.
‘So long as Whitgift blood lasted, Robin promised there would allers be one=
o’
her stock that—that no Trouble ’ud lie on, no Maid ’ud sigh on, no Night co=
uld frighten,
no Fright could harm, no Harm could make sin, an’ no Woman could make a foo=
l.’
‘Well, ain’t that just me?’ said the Bee Boy, =
where
he sat in the silver square of the great September moon that was staring in=
to
the oast-house door.
‘They was the exact words she told me when we
first found he wasn’t like others. But it beats me how you known ’em,’ said
Hobden.
‘Aha! There’s more under my hat besides hair!’=
Tom
laughed and stretched himself. ‘When I’ve seen these two young folk home, w=
e’ll
make a night of old days, Ralph, with passin’ old tales—eh? An’ where might=
you
live?’ he said, gravely, to Dan. ‘An’ do you think your Pa ’ud give me a dr=
ink
for takin’ you there, Missy?’
They giggled so at this that they had to run o=
ut.
Tom picked them both up, set one on each broad shoulder, and tramped across=
the
ferny pasture where the cows puffed milky puffs at them in the moonlight.
‘Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right from when=
you
talked about the salt. How could you ever do it?’ Una cried, swinging along
delighted.
‘Do what?’ he said, and climbed the stile by t=
he
pollard oak.
‘Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,’ said Dan, and t=
hey
ducked to avoid the two little ashes that grow by the bridge over the brook.
Tom was almost running.
‘Yes. That’s my name, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, hurr=
ying
over the silent shining lawn, where a rabbit sat by the big white-thorn near
the croquet ground. ‘Here you be.’ He strode into the old kitchen yard, and
slid them down as Ellen came to ask questions.
‘I’m helping in Mus’ Spray’s oast-house,’ he s=
aid
to her. ‘No, I’m no foreigner. I knowed this country ’fore your Mother was
born; an’—yes it’s dry work oasting, Miss. Thank you.’
Ellen went to get a jug, and the children went
in—magicked once more by Oak, Ash, and Thorn!
I’m
just in love with all these three, The
Weald and the Marsh and the Down countrie; Nor I don’t know which I love the most, =
The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk
coast!
I’ve buried my heart in a ferny hill, Twix’ a liddle low Shaw an’ a great high=
Gill.
=
Oh hop-vine yaller and woodsmoke blue, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I reckon you’ll keep her middling true! =
I’ve loosed my mind for to out and run, =
On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun=
; Oh Romney Level and Brenzett reeds, I reckon you know what my mind needs!
I’ve given my soul to the Southdown gras=
s, And sheep-bells tinkled where you pass. =
Oh Firle an’ Ditchling an’ sails at sea,=
I reckon you’ll keep my soul or me!
When
first by Eden Tree, The
Four Great Rivers ran, To
each was appointed a Man Her
Prince and Ruler to be.
But after this was ordained, (The ancient legends tell), There came dark Israel, For whom no River remained.
Then He That is Wholly Just, Said to him: ‘Fling on the ground A handful of yellow dust, And a Fifth Great River shall run, Mightier than these Four, In secret the Earth around; And Her secret evermore, Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.’
So it was said and done. And, deep in the veins of Earth, And, fed by a thousand springs That comfort the market-place, Or sap the power of Kings, The Fifth Great River had birth, Even as it was foretold— The Secret River of Gold!
And Israel laid down His sceptre and his crown, To brood on that River bank, Where the waters flashed and sank, And burrowed in earth and fell, And bided a season below; For reason that none might know, Save only Israel.
He is Lord of the Last— The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood. He hears her thunder past And Her Song is in his blood. He can foresay: ‘She will fall,’ For he knows which fountain dries, Behind which desert belt A thousand leagues to the South. He can foresay: ‘She will rise.’ He knows what far snows melt; Along what mountain wall A thousand leagues to the North. He snuffs the coming drouth As he snuffs the coming rain, He knows what each will bring forth And turns it to his gain.
A Prince without a Sword, A Ruler without a Throne; Israel follows his quest:— In every land a guest. Of many lands the lord. In no land King is he. But the Fifth Great River keeps The secret of her deeps For Israel alone, As it was ordered to be.
Now i=
t was
the third week in November, and the woods rang with the noise of
pheasant-shooting. No one hunted that steep, cramped country except the vil=
lage
beagles, who, as often as not, escaped from their kennels and made a day of
their own. Dan and Una found a couple of them towling round the kitchen-gar=
den
after the laundry cat. The little brutes were only too pleased to go rabbit=
ing,
so the children ran them all along the brook pastures and into Little Linde=
ns
farm-yard, where the old sow vanquished them—and up to the quarry-hole, whe=
re
they started a fox. He headed for Far Wood, and there they frightened out a=
ll
the pheasants who were sheltering from a big beat across the valley. Then t=
he
cruel guns began again, and they grabbed the beagles lest they should stray=
and
get hurt.
‘I wouldn’t be a pheasant—in November—for a lo=
t,’
Dan panted, as he caught Folly
‘I didn’t,’ said Una, sitting on Flora , the fat lady-dog. ‘Oh, look! The=
silly
birds are going back to their own woods instead of ours, where they would be
safe.’
‘Safe till it pleased you to kill them.’ An old
man, so tall he was almost a giant, stepped from behind the clump of hollie=
s by
‘Volaterrae.’ The children jumped, and the dogs dropped like setters. He wo=
re a
sweeping gown of dark thick stuff, lined and edged with yellowish fur, and =
he
bowed a bent-down bow that made them feel both proud and ashamed. Then he
looked at them steadily, and they stared back without doubt or fear.
‘You are not afraid?’ he said, running his han=
ds
through his splendid grey beard. ‘Not afraid that those men yonder’—he jerk=
ed
his head towards the incessant pop-pop of the guns from the lower woods—‘wi=
ll
do you hurt?’
‘We-ell’—Dan liked to be accurate, especially =
when
he was shy—‘old Hobd—a friend of mine told me that one of the beaters got
peppered last week—hit in the leg, I mean. You see, Mr. Meyer will fire at rabbits. But he gave Waxy Garnet=
t a
quid—sovereign, I mean—and Waxy told Hobden he’d have stood both barrels for
half the money.’
‘He doesn’t understand,’ Una cried, watching t=
he
pale, troubled face. ‘Oh, I wish——’
She had scarcely said it when Puck rustled out=
of
the hollies and spoke to the man quickly in foreign words. Puck wore a long
cloak too—the afternoon was just frosting down—and it changed his appearance
altogether.
‘Nay, nay!’ he said at last. ‘You did not
understand the boy. A freeman was a little hurt, by pure mischance, at the
hunting.’
‘I know that mischance! What did his Lord do?
Laugh and ride over him?’ the old man sneered.
‘It was one of your own people did the hurt,
Kadmiel.’ Puck’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘So he gave the freeman a piece=
of
gold, and no more was said.’
‘A Jew drew blood from a Christian and no more=
was
said?’ Kadmiel cried. ‘Never! When did they torture him?’
‘No man may be bound, or fined, or slain till =
he
has been judged by his peers,’ Puck insisted. ‘There is but one Law in Old
England for Jew or Christian—the Law that was signed at Runnymede.’
‘Why, that’s Magna Charta!’ Dan whispered. It =
was
one of the few history dates that he could remember. Kadmiel turned on him =
with
a sweep and a whirr of his spicy-scented gown.
‘Dost thou know of that, babe?’ he cried, and lifte=
d his
hands in wonder.
‘Yes,’ said Dan, firmly.
‘Mag=
na
Charta was signed by John, That H=
enry
the Third put his heel upon.
And old Hobden says that if it hadn’t been for=
her
(he calls everything “her,” you know), the keepers would have him clapped in
Lewes Gaol all the year round.’
Again Puck translated to Kadmiel in the strang=
e,
solemn-sounding language, and at last Kadmiel laughed.
‘Out of the mouths of babes do we learn,’ said=
he.
‘But tell me now, and I will not call you a babe but a Rabbi, why =
span>did
the King sign the roll of the New Law at Runnymede? For he was a King.’
Dan looked sideways at his sister. It was her
turn.
‘Because he jolly well had to,’ said Una, soft=
ly.
‘The Barons made him.’
‘Nay,’ Kadmiel answered, shaking his head. ‘You
Christians always forget that gold does more than the sword. Our good King
signed because he could not borrow more money from us bad Jews.’ He curved =
his
shoulders as he spoke. ‘A King without gold is a snake with a broken back,
and’—his nose sneered up and his eyebrows frowned down—‘it is a good deed to
break a snake’s back. That was my =
work,’ he cried, triumphantly, to Puck. =
‘Spirit
of Earth, bear witness that that was my work!’ He shot up to his full tower=
ing
height, and his words rang like a trumpet. He had a voice that changed its =
tone
almost as an opal changes colour—sometimes deep and thundery, sometimes thin
and waily, but always it made you listen.
‘Many people can bear witness to that,’ Puck
answered. ‘Tell these babes how it was done. Remember, Master, they do not =
know
Doubt or Fear.’
‘So I saw in their faces when we met,’ said
Kadmiel. ‘Yet surely, surely they are taught to spit upon Jews?’
‘Are they?’ said Dan, much interested. ‘Where =
at?’
Puck fell back a pace, laughing. ‘Kadmiel is
thinking of King John’s reign,’ he explained. ‘His people were badly treated
then.’
‘Oh, we know that ,’ they answered, and (it was very =
rude
of them, but they could not help it) they stared straight at Kadmiel’s mout=
h to
see if his teeth were all there. It stuck in their lesson-memory that King =
John
used to pull out Jews’ teeth to make them lend him money.
Kadmiel understood the look and smiled bitterl=
y.
‘No. Your King never drew my teeth: I think,
perhaps, I drew his. Listen! I was not born among Christians, but among
Moors—in Spain—in a little white town under the mountains. Yes, the Moors a=
re
cruel, but at least their learned men dare to think. It was prophesied of m=
e at
my birth that I should be a Lawgiver to a People of a strange speech and a =
hard
language. We Jews are always looking for the Prince and the Lawgiver to com=
e.
Why not? My people in the town (we were very few) set me apart as a child of
the prophecy—the Chosen of the Chosen. We Jews dream so many dreams. You wo=
uld
never guess it to see us slink about the rubbish-heaps in our quarter; but =
at
the day’s end—doors shut, candles lit—aha! then <=
/span>we
become the Chosen again.’
He paced back and forth through the wood as he
talked. The rattle of the shot-guns never ceased, and the dogs whimpered a
little and lay flat on the leaves.
‘I was a Prince. Yes! Think of a little Prince=
who
had never known rough words in his own house handed over to shouting, beard=
ed
Rabbis, who pulled his ears and filliped his nose, all that he might
learn—learn—learn to be King when his time came. Hé! Such a little Prince it
was! One eye he kept on the stone-throwing Moorish boys, and the other it r=
oved
about the streets looking for his Kingdom. Yes, and he learned to cry softly
when he was hunted up and down those streets. He learned to do all things
without noise. He played beneath his father’s table when the Great Candle w=
as
lit, and he listened as children listen to the talk of his father’s friends=
above
the table. They came across the mountains, from out of all the world; for my
Prince’s father was their councillor. They came from behind the armies of
Sala-ud-Din: from Rome: from Venice: from England. They stole down our alle=
y,
they tapped secretly at our door, they took off their rags, they arrayed
themselves, and they talked to my father at the wine. All over the world the
heathen fought each other. They brought news of these wars, and while he pl=
ayed
beneath the table, my Prince heard these meanly-dressed ones decide between
themselves how, and when, and for how long King should draw sword against K=
ing,
and People rise up against People. Why not? There can be no war without gol=
d,
and we Jews know how the earth’s gold moves with the seasons, and the crops,
and the winds; circling and looping and rising and sinking away like a rive=
r—a
wonderful underground river. How should the foolish Kings know that while they fight and steal and kill?’
The children’s faces showed that they knew not=
hing
at all as, with open eyes, they trotted and turned beside the long-striding=
old
man. He twitched his gown over his shoulders, and a square plate of gold,
studded with jewels, gleamed for an instant through the fur, like a star
through flying snow.
‘No matter,’ he said. ‘But, credit me, my Prin=
ce
saw peace or war decided not once, but many times, by the fall of a coin sp=
un
between a Jew from Bury and a Jewess from Alexandria, in his father’s house,
when the Great Candle was lit. Such power had we Jews among the Gentiles. A=
h,
my little Prince! Do you wonder that he learned quickly? Why not?’ He mutte=
red
to himself and went on:—
‘My trade was that of a physician. When I had
learned it in Spain I went to the East to find my Kingdom. Why not? A Jew i=
s as
free as a sparrow—or a dog. He goes where he is hunted. In the East I found
libraries where men dared to think—schools of medicine where they dared to
learn. I was diligent in my business. Therefore I stood before Kings. I have
been a brother to Princes and a companion to beggars, and I have walked bet=
ween
the living and the dead. There was no profit in it. I did not find my Kingd=
om.
So, in the tenth year of my travels, when I had reached the Uttermost Easte=
rn
Sea, I returned to my father’s house. God had wonderfully preserved my peop=
le.
None had been slain, none even wounded, and only a few scourged. I became o=
nce
more a son in my father’s house. Again the Great Candle was lit; again the
meanly-apparelled ones tapped on our door after dusk; and again I heard them
weigh out peace and war, as they weighed out the gold on the table. But I w=
as
not rich—not very rich. Therefore, when those that had power and knowledge =
and
wealth talked together, I sat in the shadow. Why not?
‘Yet all my wanderings had shown me one sure
thing, which is, that a King without money is like a spear without a head. =
He
cannot do much harm. I said, therefore, to Elias of Bury, a great one among=
our
people: “Why do our people lend any more to the Kings that oppress us?”
“Because,” said Elias, “if we refuse they stir up their people against us, =
and
the People are tenfold more cruel than Kings. If thou doubtest, come with m=
e to
Bury in England and live as I live.”
‘I saw my mother’s face across the candle-flam=
e,
and I said, “I will come with thee to Bury. Maybe my Kingdom shall be there=
.”
‘So I sailed with Elias to the darkness and the
cruelty of Bury in England, where there are no learned men. How can a man be
wise if he hate? At Bury I kept his accounts for Elias, and I saw men kill =
Jews
there by the tower. No—none laid hands on Elias. He lent money to the King,=
and
the King’s favour was about him. A King will not take the life so long as t=
here
is any gold. This King—yes, John—oppressed his people bitterly because they
would not give him money. Yet his land was a good land. If he had only give=
n it
rest he might have cropped it as a Christian crops his beard. But even that <=
/span>little
he did not know; for God had deprived him of all understanding, and had
multiplied pestilence, and famine, and despair upon the people. Therefore h=
is
people turned against us Jews, who are all people’s dogs. Why not? Lastly t=
he
Barons and the people rose together against the King because of his cruelti=
es.
Nay—nay—the Barons did not love the people, but they saw that if the King e=
at
up and destroyed the common people, he would presently destroy the Barons. =
They
joined then, as cats and pigs will join to slay a snake. I kept the account=
s,
and I watched all these things, for I remembered the Prophecy.
‘A great gathering of Barons (to most of whom =
we
had lent money) came to Bury, and there, after much talk and a thousand
runnings-about, they made a roll of the New Laws that they would force on t=
he
King. If he swore to keep those Laws, they would allow him a little money. =
That
was the King’s God—Money—to waste. They showed us the roll of the New Laws.=
Why
not? We had lent them money. We knew all their counsels—we Jews shivering
behind our doors in Bury.’ He threw out his hands suddenly. ‘We did not see=
k to
be paid all in money. We sought Power—Power—Power! T=
hat is
our God in our captivity. Power to use!
‘I said to Elias: “These New Laws are good. Le=
nd no
more money to the King: so long as he has money he will lie and slay the
people.”
‘“Nay,” said Elias. “I know this people. They =
are
madly cruel. Better one King than a thousand butchers. I have lent a little
money to the Barons, or they would torture us, but my most I will lend to t=
he
King. He hath promised me a place near him at Court, where my wife and I sh=
all
be safe.”
‘“But if the King be made to keep these New La=
ws,”
I said, “the land will have peace, and our trade will grow. If we lend he w=
ill
fight again.”
‘“Who made thee a Lawgiver in England?” said Elias. “I know this people. Let the dogs tear one another! I will lend the = King ten thousand pieces of gold, and he can fight the Barons at his pleasure.”<= o:p>
‘“There are not two thousand pieces of gold in= all England this summer,” I said, for I kept the accounts, and I knew how the earth’s gold moved—that wonderful underground river! Elias barred home the windows, and, his hands about his mouth, he told me how, when he was trading with small wares in a French ship, he had come to the Castle of Pevensey.’<= o:p>
‘Oh!’ said Dan. ‘Pevensey again!’ and looked at
Una, who nodded and skipped.
‘There, after they had scattered his pack up a=
nd
down the Great Hall, some young knights carried him to an upper room, and d=
ropped
him into a well in a wall, that rose and fell with the tide. They called him
Joseph, and threw torches at his wet head. Why not?’
‘Why, of course,’ cried Dan. ‘Didn’t you know =
it
was——’ Puck held up his hand to stop him, and Kadmiel, who never noticed, w=
ent
on.
‘When the tide dropped he thought he stood on =
old
armour, but feeling with his toes, he raked up bar on bar of soft gold. Some
wicked treasure of the old days put away, and the secret cut off by the swo=
rd.
I have heard the like before.’
‘So have we,’ Una whispered. ‘But it wasn’t wi=
cked
a bit.’
‘Elias took a morsel of the stuff with him, and
thrice yearly he would return to Pevensey as a chapman, selling at no price=
or
profit, till they suffered him to sleep in the empty room, where he would p=
lumb
and grope, and steal away a few bars. The great store of it still remained,=
and
by long brooding he had come to look on it as his own. Yet when we thought =
how
we should lift and convey it, we saw no way. This was before the Word of the
Lord had come to me. A walled fortress possessed by Normans; in the midst a
forty-foot tide-well out of which to remove secretly many horse-loads of go=
ld!
Hopeless! So Elias wept. Adah, his wife, wept too. She had hoped to stand
beside the Queen’s Christian tiring-maids at Court, when the King should gi=
ve
them that place at Court which he had promised. Why not? She was born in
England—an odious woman.
‘The present evil to us was that Elias, out of=
his
strong folly, had, as it were, promised the King that he would arm him with
more gold. Wherefore the King in his camp stopped his ears against the Baro=
ns
and the people. Wherefore men died daily. Adah so desired her place at Cour=
t,
she besought Elias to tell the King where the treasure lay, that the King m=
ight
take it by force, and—they would trust in his gratitude. Why not? This Elia=
s refused
to do, for he looked on the gold as his own. They quarrelled, and they wept=
at
the evening meal, and late in the night came one Langton—a priest, almost
learned—to borrow more money for the Barons. Elias and Adah went to their
chamber.’
Kadmiel laughed scornfully in his beard. The s=
hots
across the valley stopped as the shooting-party changed their ground for the
last beat.
‘So it was I, not Elias,’ he went on, quietly,
‘that made terms with Langton touching the fortieth of the New Laws.’
‘What terms?’ said Puck, quickly. ‘The Fortiet=
h of
the Great Charter say: “To none will we sell, refuse, or deny right or
justice.”’
‘True, but the Barons had written first: To no free man. It cost me two hundred broad pieces of g=
old to
change those narrow words. Langton, the priest, understood. “Jew though thou
art,” said he, “the change is just, and if ever Christian and Jew come to be
equal in England thy people may thank thee.” Then he went out stealthily, as
men do who deal with Israel by night. I think he spent my gift upon his alt=
ar.
Why not? I have spoken with Langton. He was such a man as I might have been
if—if we Jews had been a people. But yet, in many things, a child.
‘I heard Elias and Adah abovestairs quarrel, a=
nd,
knowing the woman was the stronger, I saw that Elias would tell the King of=
the
gold and that the King would continue in his stubbornness. Therefore I saw =
that
the gold must be put away from the reach of any man. Of a sudden, the Word =
of
the Lord came to me saying, “The Morning is come, O thou that dwellest in t=
he land.”’
Kadmiel halted, all black against the pale gre=
en
sky beyond the wood—a huge robed figure, like the Moses in the picture-Bibl=
e.
‘I rose. I went out, and as I shut the door on
that House of Foolishness, the woman looked from the window and whispered, =
“I
have prevailed on my husband to tell the King!” I answered, “There is no ne=
ed.
The Lord is with me.”
‘In that hour the Lord gave me full understand=
ing
of all that I must do; and His Hand covered me in my ways. First I went to
London, to a physician of our people, who sold me certain drugs that I need=
ed.
You shall see why. Thence I went swiftly to Pevensey. Men fought all around=
me,
for there were neither rulers nor judges in the abominable land. Yet when I
walked by them they cried out that I was one Ahasuerus, a Jew, condemned, as
they believe, to live for ever, and they fled from me everyways. Thus the L=
ord saved
me for my work, and at Pevensey I bought me a little boat and moored it on =
the
mud beneath the Marsh-gate of the Castle. That also God showed me.’
He was as calm as though he were speaking of s=
ome
stranger, and his voice filled the little bare wood with rolling music.
‘I cast’—his hand went to his breast, and again
the strange jewel gleamed—‘I cast the drugs which I had prepared into the
common well of the Castle. Nay, I did no harm. The more we physicians know,=
the
less do we do. Only the fool says: “I dare.” I caused a blotched and itching
rash to break out upon their skins, but I knew it would fade in fifteen day=
s. I
did not stretch out my hand against their life. They in the Castle thought =
it
was the Plague, and they ran forth, taking with them their very dogs.
‘A Christian physician, seeing that I was a Jew
and a stranger, vowed that I had brought the sickness from London. This is =
the
one time I have ever heard a Christian leech speak truth of any disease.
Thereupon the people beat me, but a merciful woman said: “Do not kill him n=
ow.
Push him into our Castle with his plague, and if, as he says, it will abate=
on
the fifteenth day, we can kill him then.” Why not? They drove me across the=
drawbridge
of the Castle, and fled back to their booths. Thus I came to be alone with =
the
treasure.’
‘But did you know this was all going to happen
just right?’ said Una.
‘My Prophecy was that I should be a Lawgiver t=
o a
People of a strange land and a hard speech. I knew I should not die. I wash=
ed
my cuts. I found the tide-well in the wall, and from Sabbath to Sabbath I d=
ove
and dug there in that empty, Christian-smelling fortress. Hé! I spoiled the
Egyptians! Hé! If they had only known! I drew up many good loads of gold, w=
hich
I loaded by night into my boat. There had been gold-dust too, but that had =
been
washed away by the tides.’
‘Didn’t you ever wonder who had put it there?’
said Dan, stealing a glance at Puck’s calm, dark face under the hood of his
gown. Puck shook his head and pursed his lips.
‘Often; for the gold was new to me,’ Kadmiel
replied. ‘I know the Golds. I can judge them in the dark; but this was heav=
ier
and redder than any we deal in. Perhaps it was the very gold of Parvaim. Eh,
why not? It went to my heart to heave it on to the mud, but I saw well that=
if
the evil thing remained, or if even the hope of finding it remained, the Ki=
ng
would not sign the New Laws, and the land would perish.’
‘Oh, Marvel!’ said Puck, beneath his breath,
rustling in the dead leaves.
‘When the boat was loaded I washed my hands se=
ven
times, and pared beneath my nails, for I would not keep one grain. I went o=
ut
by the little gate where the Castle’s refuse is thrown. I dared not hoist s=
ail
lest men should see me; but the Lord commanded the tide to bear me carefull=
y,
and I was far from land before the morning.’
‘Weren’t you afraid?’ said Una.
‘Why? There were no Christians in the boat. At
sunrise I made my prayer, and cast the gold—all—all that gold into the deep
sea! A King’s ransom—no, the ransom of a People! When I had loosed hold of =
the
last bars, the Lord commanded the tide to return me to a haven at the mouth=
of
a river, and thence I walked across a wilderness to Lewes, where I have
brethren. They opened the door to me, and they say—I had not eaten for two
days—they say that I fell across the threshold, crying, “I have sunk an army
with horsemen in the sea!”’
‘But you hadn’t,’ said Una. ‘Oh, yes! I see! Y=
ou
meant that King John might have spent it on that?’
‘Even so,’ said Kadmiel.
The firing broke out again close behind them. =
The
pheasants poured over the top of a belt of tall firs. They could see young =
Mr.
Meyer, in his new yellow gaiters, very busy and excited at the end of the l=
ine,
and they could hear the thud of the falling birds.
‘But what did Elias of Bury do?’ Puck demanded.
‘He had promised money to the King.’
Kadmiel smiled grimly. ‘I sent him word from
London that the Lord was on my side. When he heard that the Plague had brok=
en
out in Pevensey, and that a Jew had been thrust into the Castle to cure it,=
he
understood my word was true. He and Adah hurried to Lewes and asked me for =
an accounting.
He still looked on the gold as his own. I told them where I had laid it, an=
d I
gave them full leave to pick it up.... Eh, well! The curses of a fool and t=
he
dust of a journey are two things no wise man can escape.... But I pitied El=
ias!
The King was wroth at him because he could not lend; the Barons were wroth =
at
him because they heard that he would have lent to the King; and Adah was wr=
oth
at him because she was an odious woman. They took ship from Lewes to Spain.
That was wise!’
‘And you? Did you see the signing of the Law at
Runnymede?’ said Puck, as Kadmiel laughed noiselessly.
‘Nay. Who am I to meddle with things too high =
for
me? I returned to Bury, and lent money on the autumn crops. Why not?’
There was a crackle overhead. A cock-pheasant =
that
had sheered aside after being hit spattered down almost on top of them, dri=
ving
up the dry leaves like a shell. Fl=
ora and =
span>Folly
threw themselves at it; the childr=
en rushed
forward, and when they had beaten them off and smoothed down the plumage
Kadmiel had disappeared.
‘Well,’ said Puck, calmly, ‘what did you think=
of
it? Weland gave the Sword. The Sword gave the Treasure, and the Treasure ga=
ve
the Law. It’s as natural as an oak growing.’
‘I don’t understand. Didn’t he know it was Sir
Richard’s old treasure?’ said Dan. ‘And why did Sir Richard and Brother Hugh
leave it lying about? And—and——’
‘Never mind,’ said Una, politely. ‘He’ll let us
come and go, and look, and know another time. Won’t you, Puck?’
‘Another time maybe,’ Puck answered. ‘Brr! It’s
cold—and late. I’ll race you towards home!’
They hurried down into the sheltered valley. T=
he
sun had almost sunk behind Cherry Clack, the trodden ground by the cattle-g=
ates
was freezing at the edges, and the new-waked north wind blew the night on t=
hem
from over the hills. They picked up their feet and flew across the browned =
pastures,
and when they halted, panting in the steam of their own breath, the dead le=
aves
whirled up behind them. There was Oak and Ash and Thorn enough in that year=
-end
shower to magic away a thousand memories.
So they trotted to the brook at the bottom of =
the
lawn, wondering why Flora and =
span>Folly
had missed the quarry-hole fox.
Old Hobden was just finishing some hedge-work.
They saw his white smock glimmer in the twilight where he faggoted the rubb=
ish.
‘Winter, he’s come, I rackon, Mus’ Dan,’ he
called. ‘Hard times now till Heffle Cuckoo Fair. Yes, we’ll all be glad to =
see
the Old Woman let the Cuckoo out o’ the basket for to start lawful Spring in
England.’ They heard a crash, and a stamp and a splash of water as though a
heavy old cow were crossing almost under their noses.
Hobden ran forward angrily to the ford.
‘Gleason’s bull again, playin’ Robin all over =
the
Farm! Oh, look, Mus’ Dan—his great footmark as big as a trencher. No bounds=
to
his impidence! He might count himself to be a man—or Somebody.’
A voice the other side of the brook boomed:
‘I m=
arvel
who his cloak would turn When Puc=
k had
led him round Or where those walk=
ing
fires would burn——’
Then the children went in singing “Farewell
Rewards and Fairies” at the tops of their voices. They had forgotten that t=
hey
had not even said good-night to Puck.
Land
of our Birth, we pledge to thee Our
love and toil in the years to be, =
When
we are grown and take our place, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As men
and women with our race.
Fath=
er in
Heaven who lovest all, Oh help Thy
children when they call; That the=
y may
build from age to age, An undefil=
ed
heritage!
Teac=
h us
to bear the yoke in youth, With
steadfastness and careful truth; =
That,
in our time, Thy Grace may give T=
he
Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teac=
h us
to rule ourselves alway, Controll=
ed and
cleanly night and day; That we may
bring, if need arise, No maimed or
worthless sacrifice.
Teac=
h us
to look in all our ends, On Thee =
for
judge, and not our friends; That =
we,
with Thee, may walk uncowed By fe=
ar or
favour of the crowd.
Teac=
h us
the Strength that cannot seek, By=
deed
or thought, to hurt the weak; Tha=
t,
under Thee, we may possess Man’s
strength to comfort man’s distress.
Teac=
h us
Delight in simple things, And Mir=
th
that has no bitter springs; Forgi=
veness
free of evil done, And Love to al=
l men
’neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our Faith our Pride, =
For whose dear sake our fathers died; O Motherland, we pledge to thee, Head, heart, and hand through the years =
to be!