Part 5
As we reached the hall, Martin appeared in the doorway of the long room; seeing him, yellow-skinned and malevolent, I detected still a resemblance in build and feature to the gipsy lad; and believed them kinsmen, though Martin aped the appearance of a gentleman, and the rustic was rough and ragged, and reeked of the stable. Martin gave me no greeting; I followed Mother Mag through the hall into a great kitchen, damp, close, and cheerless, but for the peat smouldering on the hearth. Rashers were frying in a pan; provision of bacon, smoked fish and ropes of onions hung from the sooty rafters.
“Would ye wash?” Mother Mag asked, leering at me.
“To be sure, I’d wash, thank ’ee,” said I.
She took down a coarse towel from a peg and flung it to me; she pointed to soap upon the bench, “You can wash at the pump,” she said. “Bart’ll go with you. Don’t ’ee go tryin’ to run, young master, now don’t ’ee. For you’ll never get to the wall; and you’ll never climb if you run so far—” and, unlocking the door, pointed, laughing, at the hound chained at the foot of the steps.
The hound, leaping up, bayed at me; Bart, clattering down the steps, struck at it with his cudgel; it leaped and bayed at him, plunging as though it would snap its chain. He uttered not a word, seeming to take delight in the torment of the savage brute, and beating it back at last into the kennel; though, when I descended, it sprang at me, and, but for my jumping aside, it would have borne me down. Mother Mag laughed shrilly from the door; Bart said not a word or yet a word while he mounted guard over me at the pump. I took it that the fellow was dumb, but, as I plied the towel, I said carelessly, to test him, “How long am I to be held in this ken, lad?” He answered nothing, only swung his cudgel, grinning at me. I took a hasty look about me; the stone wall was built high about the cobbled yard; away from the house were low stone out-buildings; beyond the wall I could see trees dimly through the thinning fog.
I said then, “You’re paid to keep me here. Whatever you’re paid, my friends will pay you more. D’ye understand me? If you’ll take a message to Mr. Bradbury, whom I think to be at Rogues’ Haven—”
With black and menacing look he gripped my arm, and pointed back to the house. So I must needs tramp back to my prison; though I was tempted to make a dash for freedom, when he loosed my arm, I was debarred by the sight of Martin standing, pistol in hand, by the steps. He, sweeping off his hat with a mocking bow, as I returned, my endurance left me. While the hound raved at me, I cried furiously to Martin, “I warn you all you’ll pay for this. I’ve other friends than Bradbury, who’ll never rest till they’ve found me. By the Lord, you’ll rue the day!”
“Brave words,” he sneered. “Blunt’ll make port this day or to-morrow. And you’ll lie snug enough, till you’re set aboard.”
I passed by him into the kitchen. Mother Mag had set bread and bacon and a mug of ale on the table for me. I sat down and ate hungrily, while the three watched me from the fireside, saying not a word to me, and the great hound bayed yet without the door.
_Chapter XII_. _Captain Ezra Blunt_
Now, the four days I passed at the Stone House I was like to die for weariness and suspense. The routine was unbroken. I ate my breakfast in the kitchen with the woman and the two men watching me; for an hour thence I was free to exercise myself in the courtyard; all the days the grey fog hung dank in the hollow, and the cobbles were wet and slippery. The silent Bart was always within reach of me; Martin watched me from the door, and the hound raved by the steps. Thence I was locked in my room for the remainder of the morning; again brought down for dinner, again to exercise in the courtyard; finally to be locked in my room for the night. At dark, Mother Mag brought me my supper of bread and water; ere midnight, Martin surveyed my room, to be assured that I was not attempting to break out. I saw nothing of Roger Galt all this while. I assumed that he had ridden away from the Stone House; through the parting in the floor I could hear of a night only the mumblings of Martin and Mother Mag; Bart never bore them company. From the certain likeness among the three, I came to believe them all of the one evil brood; the age of the hag, I thought, should make her their grandame, though Martin treated her and Bart with the sneering insolence which he displayed towards me. I knew that they expected daily the arrival of Captain Ezra Blunt, who, I gathered from Martin, was master of the brig, _Black Wasp_,—whether he was trader, smuggler, or pirate of the American coasts I did not learn, but rather assumed, and dreaded all the more the life awaiting me aboard.
But of Mr. Bradbury all this while? Was he dead? Or was he searching for me, and on that lawless coast finding officers of the law poor assistance to him? Would he yet come to the Stone House, and would he come in time?
Now, the grey afternoon of the fourth day, I was looking drearily out of my window, when I heard a voice calling from the gate. Mother Mag, hobbling from the house, admitted Roger Galt; he rode up, mounted on his great horse; by the flush of his reckless face and by his rolling in saddle, he had been drinking deeply. Spying me at the window, he essayed to flourish his hat, and almost fell from his horse in this endeavour. I heard him presently wrangling with Martin in the room below, the deep booming of his voice, the smash of a glass, as if he had failed to pour himself a dram, or had slung a goblet at Martin’s head. But I paid little heed to him, for my acute interest in the fellows whom Mother Mag admitted on Roger’s heels into the courtyard. Twenty or more,—sunburned seamen in loose breeches, rough jackets and red caps, a cutlass at every man’s belt; a few country folk, men and women, driving a train of laden pack-horses. Smugglers! I knew then the use of the Stone House, lonely and near the sea, and guessed how the silks and laces and brandies and what-not were secreted in its old cellars for distribution through the countryside. There rode with these folk a rakish red-faced fellow on a cob; his blue cloak, blown back in the wind, showed me his blue coat ornate with gold lace and buttons, his white breeches poked into high, mud-stained boots; he had a black hat thrust down upon his brows. All these folk, entering the yard with much sound and clatter, passed about the house, and out of view, Mother Mag following and calling for Bart. I heard from beyond the house, presently, the rolling of barrels over cobbles, the voices of the smugglers, and the baying of the hound. So Blunt was come, with his seamen and his smuggled goods; so I was soon to be handed over to him to be shipped overseas. Trembling, I waited by the window, till the grey afternoon gave place to dusk and dark, with a cold wind blowing, ever gaining strength and ever crying out around the house, as though to share in the ever-swelling tumult of the smugglers. For the quiet of the Stone House was at an end; it seemed that Captain Ezra Blunt—if the fellow with the copper-red face were Blunt—and his folk would spend a gay night ashore.
When the rolling of the barrels and the trampling of the horses ceased, I heard the company clatter into the kitchen,—Mother Mag’s voice was shrill as a fiddle-string over their laughter and the baying of the hound. Their leader left them soon to join Martin and Roger in the room below me; lying with my ear to the crack in the floor, I heard Martin address him as “Blunt.” It appeared that Galt was now lying drunk by the fire, for said Martin, “Our friend here’s been unloading an earlier cargo of yours, Mr. Blunt. Don’t mind him! Sit you down and taste a dram!”—and I heard the clink of glasses, and Blunt’s voice at first so low that I could not make out his words.
“Will you be making back to the _Black Wasp_ to-night?” Martin asked. “Mr. Craike would have a word with you at the Haven.”
I believed that Blunt answered that he had already met Mr. Craike. Martin proceeded, “Don’t let these men of yours get too drunk, then. You know what you’re to take away with you.”
“Ay, ay,” Blunt answered. “Young Craike.”
“Howe’s his name,” Martin asserted. “We’ve kept him safe for you. So don’t let your men get too drunk!”
“Oh, they’ll be sober enough by dawn,” Blunt answered easily. “If not, you and Bart can give me a hand down to the ship with him. Galt’s very drunk.”
“He’s always drunk nowadays,” said Martin. “Don’t trouble about him. But Mr. Craike surely gave you to understand that the lad was to be got aboard in the dark. He must have told you of the old fool Bradbury, and the hunt he’s making. Gavin Masters is backing him. There’s talk over at the Haven of runners down from London. We’ll be having ’em here, if Masters sets his wits to work. We’ll get the lad away now, if you’re wise and willing, Blunt.”
“I’m not willing,” Blunt answered angrily. “I’m weary to death. I’ll have supper and a bottle or more from old Mag’s cupboard, before I stir this night. Damn Craike! What’s Craike to me?”
“Your master,” Martin snarled; then, as though apprehensive of my listening, he lowered his voice; Blunt following suit, I heard them muttering together; and, drearily, I rose and sat down on the bed. I was to be taken out of the Stone House that night, and be set aboard Blunt’s ship, _Black Wasp_, and that under the very nose of Mr. Bradbury and his folk. Unless they came that night! I lifted my hands to heaven then, and prayed that they might come to the house in time, or intercept my captors on the way down to the sea. But I sat in the dark for hours, and none came nigh me; below, the carousal rose to tumult.
I heard their voices roaring a chanty; I heard drunken laughter; once I heard the sounds of strife, smash of bottles, clash of steel, fierce cries; this uproar ceasing presently, the uproar and the singing continued far into the night. All the while the wind rolled about the Stone House; when I peered out, I saw the moon, now at the full, cloud-chased; the light alternated swiftly with dark in the room, as the wind blew the sacking to and fro. Ever the smugglers rioted within, and the wind was riotous without.
Other folk came to the house in the night; at every cry at the gate I would leap to my feet, hoping against hope that Mr. Bradbury and the searchers after me were there; peering out, I saw in the moonlight only seamen come, bringing still the smuggled cargo from the ship, and country folk with teams to carry it away for distribution; the sounds of discharge and loading from the courtyard were added to the sounds of carousal in the house itself.
Not till long after moonrise did Mother Mag bring me my supper; this night, she brought a mug of steaming spirits with bread and meat; when she had set it down, she giggled shrilly at me; caught at my sleeve with her skinny claw, and cried, “Eat and drink, young master,—drink while your grog’s hot! You’re to travel far this night, and it’s bitter cold. Drink!”
Her eagerness warned me, of course, against the grog. I answered, “I’m not thirsty. I’ll not drink. Leave it there!”
She mouthed at me, and shook her fist at me; but, going out, paused at the door to shriek at me, “Whether you drink or no, master, you’re going from here to-night. Going, and never coming back!” Dragging the door to with a crash, she descended the stair.
_Chapter XIII_. _Out of the Stone House_
As the night wore on, the clamour dulled; the roisterers were surely drunken or wearied; few seemed astir. I heard the mumble of voices still from the room below me; occasionally the shred of a chanty from the kitchen; at times, the clatter of shoes over the cobbles of the yard, and the outcry of the hound. But ever the wind blew through the night, seeming to cry to me concerning great waters storm-tossed, whereon I should be sailing after this night to the port of no return. Night drew toward the hour before dawn; the moon was long since lost in massing clouds packed high against the heaven by the wind. Lord, how the wind battered at the house, making new clamour when the clamour died below; always it cried to me of storm-tossed waters,—I had this sense upon me, even when my overwrought mind growing dull, I fell asleep upon the bed, and I had the sense still in my dreams. But suddenly I woke with a start and a cry, to understand that pebbles were pattering through the bars and falling into the room, and that a voice was muttering below the window, “Young Craike,—hey, young Craike!” I snatched the sacking back, and in the grey dawn saw a dark figure perched upon a ladder, his head a foot or so below the sill.
“Galt!” I whispered.
“Hist! They may have heard the stones. Lord, how you slept! D’ye hear them stirring?”
“No! No! Help me!”
“Can you slip through the bars?”
“No, they’re set too close and firm.”
He muttered, “Bart’s sleepin’ on the stair and Martin’s in the hall. The woman’s got the key. Can you reach the roof by the chimney?”
“Blocked with brick!”
“No other way?”
“A manhole in the ceiling. If I could only reach it.”
“If you can only break out of that room, I’ll take you out of this. My horse is saddled, waiting. I forgot those bars.”
I pressed my face down against the bars and whispered, “If you could raise the ladder, we could pass it through the bars. It’d get me to the trap-door. There’s sure a way out through the old roof. And a coil of rope, if there’s one at hand. Tie that to the ladder.”
Grunting he descended; presently I saw him setting a barrel below the window, and fixing a coil of rope to a rung of the ladder. He climbed on to the barrel, gripped the ladder, and raised its head towards the window. I caught the ladder, tilted it, and presently, rejoicing, had it in the room, with no more sound than the wind should hide from the drunken rogues below. Setting the ladder against the wall, and hitching the coil of rope about my arm, I climbed, and to my joy reached easily the trap-door above me. Exerting all my strength, I strove to force the trap-door upwards. Lord, the shower of dust that descended, as the door lifted, blinded me; broken slate or brick fell with the dust, and the crash on the floor seemed fit to wake the dead. But, blindly struggling upwards, and gripping a rafter, I pulled myself from the ladder, and squeezed under the half-opened trap into the loft above my room.
An instant I lay in the dust and litter, exhausted,—the rats went scurrying all about me; I heard the flapping of birds under the roof. Struggling to my shaking knees, I forced the trap back into its place, and without pausing to listen whether the fall of rubbish into the room had roused the house, I groped forward through the blackness, my hope being that I should find a trap opening on the roof itself, or that, with the rottenness of the slates and the timbers I might break through, and coiling my rope about a chimney, lower myself sufficiently to drop to the ground. But as yet all was dark about me; a thick litter of dust and feathers lay under my feet; groping still, I touched the slanting roof, but thrusting with my hand found it yet set firmly for all the decay of the years; I believed that I heard hoarse voices without the house, or the growling of the wind upon the roofs. Creeping forward still, I rejoiced to feel a cold draught of air blow upon me, and to see pale light through many chinks. Loose slates, rotten wood, surely a decaying patch in the roof, I dared to stand erect then, though fearing that the mouldering, worm-eaten rafters would give way beneath me, and I should crash into one of the upper rooms of the Stone House.
And as I lurched up, with a crash and splintering of slates, I broke through the rotten roof; I was nigh the chimney stack; I could see the leaden gutters below me,—birds flew out in a whirl. I could see Roger Galt standing by his horse away from the house; I could hear the outcry of the hound,—none of the folks save Roger seemed astir. I wriggled out from the hole in the roof, though at first the slates cracked like thin ice beneath me; and I began slowly to creep towards the chimney stack, finding my hold in the breaks of the slates and the thick growths of moss stuck closely to them. The roof held me; but, ere I reached the chimney, the light was strong; had anyone come out of the Stone House I must have been clear to view, though the sound of the wind hid the rasping of my body over the slates. And slowly, with the wind beating upon me as if to cast me down, I brought the rope about the chimney, and, securing it, let myself slide down gradually to the gutter; gripping rope and gutter, I lowered myself over the edge. On the instant, the hound broke into furious clamour; a cry sounded below me; Martin was roaring, “Bart! Blunt! Come here! Damn you—here!”
I was swinging now down the rope; at the end of the length I was little below the gutter. At the alarm I lost my grip, and fell—by some chance into a pile of bales of smuggled stuffs that they had left lying under the wall; though the breath was knocked out of my body, and I lay there gasping an instant, I was unhurt. I started up; dropped from the bales on to the cobbles, and was staggering off; but, coming in a rush from the house, the rogues were upon me. Martin and Bart had gripped me; struggling wildly, I was borne backwards; on the instant came Roger Galt, riding thunderously upon them. His riding-whip cracked upon Bart’s head; his horse nigh trod Martin down; Roger’s great hand gripped my collar, and swung me up before him.
Martin was screeching, “Galt! You’ll hang for this! Galt! Damn you! Stop!” His pistol cracked after us, as Roger, turning his horse, set him at full speed from the house. After us they came pell-mell,—Martin and Blunt and his crew; I heard shots and their roaring voices. The gate was barred against us; swinging back under the wall, Roger Galt suddenly put his horse to it, and with a shock that almost drove my senses from me, the horse brought us safely over.
We were away then at a gallop, and the clamour from the Stone House was dying on the wind.
_Chapter XIV_. _Modesty of Mr. Galt_
Roger Galt was laughing triumphantly. He roared in my ear, “So you’ll not go sailing overseas yet awhile, John Craike, to pleasure Uncle Charles. Blunt’ll never earn his guineas for your kidnapping.”
“Thanks to you! Will they come after us, do you think?”
“There’s not a man among ’em has a horse can match mine. Save Martin! And he’ll not dare. I vow by now Martin’s gallopin’ like the devil to Craike House with the bad news for Charles.”
“Yes, and you’re like to suffer for it at Craike’s hands.”
He answered lugubriously, “Ay, I’m like to suffer for it if I remain in this part of the country. But I’ll be riding elsewhere,—when I’ve set you down. I’m not so much afraid of Craike or aught that he may do, that I’ll dance to his fiddling always.”
“Why d’ye help me now?”
“For no more than knowin’ that you’re Dick Craike’s son.”
“He was your friend?”
“Ay, friend and master.”
“You said that he’d been put out of the way, as I’d be put out of the way. What did you mean by that?”
“He was shipped overseas, I’ve heard tell.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Whither do you take me now?”
“Come to think of it now,” he answered, laughing, “I hadn’t thought of it before. Not to Rogues’ Haven.”
“Do you know Mr. Bradbury?”
“I’ve heard tell of him.”
“He’s with old Gavin Masters—whoever he may be. Will you take me to him, or set me down on the way to Masters’ house?”
He answered uneasily, “I’ll set you down near his house. I’ll not wait on old Sir Gavin, I’m that modest, Mr. Craike. He’s a gentleman. He’s a justice—as Charles Craike’s a justice.” His laughter sounded out on the wind. “Ay, I’ll take you near enough. Get on, old horse! Get on!”
We were out then from the green cup in which the Stone House lay. Looking back from the ridge, ere the trees took us into their company, I saw the old house stand grey to the morning; I saw a confusion of figures all about it; I saw a rider dashing from the gate and galloping of apace.
“Martin!” growled Roger. “He’s riding of for Rogues’ Haven to give Craike word. I’ve a mind to cut him off.”
“Who is Martin? Bart and he are brothers, aren’t they?”
“Martin and Bart Baynes, ay, they’re brothers, both rogues, spawn of old Mag Baynes’s son Adam,—he that was transported and died some year back. Ay, transported he was, but died. Craike’s men, Mart and Bart—rogues both!”
“Where does Rogues’ Haven lie?”
“That way”—with a sweep of his hand towards the rocky uplands. “Away, with the wood all about it.”
“Why the name?”
“Didn’t you see and hear enough, young sir, in Mag’s house?”
“Smugglers—ay, and worse—is that why?”
“Ay, ay; and there’s odd tales of old Edward, how his money come—” but he broke of—“I’m not forgettin’ you’re the old man’s grandson.”
“Forget that I am, and tell me.”
“There’s odd tales. Maybe he made his fortune in the East, like any India merchant. He came as honest by it as many another, I’ve no doubt.”
“You mean dishonestly. What was my grandfather?”
He answered, laughing, “A gentleman of fortune, folk say”—and galloped on through the trees and out upon the open moorlands.
Seated before him in saddle, with nigh as much discomfort to me as when he had borne me on to Mag’s farm in the night, I fell to pondering over the mystery of old Edward Craike. How had he come by his money? Mr. Bradbury would never tell me, fencing me delicately; Roger Galt would not, but “gentleman of fortune”—it might mean buccaneer, freebooter, pirate, as Henry Morgan or many another. Ever my mother’s words recurred to me, “the doomed house”—“ill-gotten wealth”—the thought of her hate of Charles and terror of Rogues’ Haven. And the name and the company old Edward kept? Howbeit, I should know soon. When once I was safe with Mr. Bradbury, and the justice Sir Gavin Masters, and the thief-catchers from London. And how would my uncle take all this, and what should be his punishment, after his plot against me-defeated by this gentleman of the road whom he had vowed to hang, if he should play him false, as Roger Galt had played him!
But my thoughts were yet all awhirl, even as my body was jolted and jarred before Roger Galt on his great black horse, as now putting his mount to its full speed he galloped over the moors. He descended at last on to a rough and broken road, striking back, as nearly as I might guess, for the highway on which Mr. Bradbury and I had been intercepted. And, suddenly, rounding a bend in the road, we came face to face with four riders, at the sight of whom Roger pulled up abruptly—to snatch a pistol from his holster, loosing his hold upon me, and muttering, “Jump down! Quick! I’ll not stay!”
They came onward riding swiftly, as I dropped stiffly to my feet. Roger Galt, with a wave of his hand and a cry, “Good day to ye, lad,” turned his horse and was off at a gallop, ere I understood who came and why he fled. And standing in the road, I swung round to meet the riders. I saw Mr. Bradbury come riding swiftly through the morning; beside him a stout gentleman in a scarlet coat as flushed as his jovial face; after them two hard-looking fellows, who, by their grim visages and rigs, I took for the runners whom Mr. Bradbury had called down from London.
Mr. Bradbury, with an exclamation, pulled up beside me; but the red-coated gentleman, roaring, “After him! After him! There’s Galt! There’s our man!” set spurs to his mount and galloped apace down the track, with the two fellows clattering after.
Mr. Bradbury dismounted stiffly; hands outstretched, he came to me, crying in that shrill voice of his, “Why, Mr. Craike—my dear sir! My dear sir!”