Captain Marryat (continued 6)

The reader may recollect that Edward had proposed to Humphrey that he should ascertain whether what the robber had stated before his death, relative to his having concealed his ill-gotten wealth under the tree which was struck by lightning, was true. About ten days afterwards Humphrey set off on this expedition. He did not take Pablo with him, as, although he had a very good opinion of him, he agreed with Oswald that temptation should not be put in his way. Humphrey considered that it would be the best plan to go at once to Clara’s cottage, and from that proceed to find the oak-tree mentioned by the robber. When he arrived at the thicket which surrounded the cottage, it occurred to him that he would just go through it and see if it was in the state which they had left it in; for after the Intendant had been there he had given directions to his men to remain and bury the bodies, and then to lock up the doors and bring the keys to him, which had been done. Humphrey tied Billy and the cart to a tree, and walked through the thicket. As he approached he heard voices; so he took care to advance very cautiously, for he had not brought his gun with him. He crouched down as he came to the opening before the cottage. The doors and windows were open, and there were two men sitting outside, cleaning their guns; and in one of them Humphrey recognised the man Corbould, who had been discharged by the Intendant as soon as his wound had been cured, and who was supposed to have gone to London. Humphrey was too far off to hear what they said: he remained there some time, and three more men came out of the cottage. Satisfied with what he had seen, Humphrey cautiously retreated, and gaining the outside of the thicket, led away Billy and the cart over the turf, that the noise of the wheels might not be heard.

“This bodes no good,” thought Humphrey, as he went along, every now and then looking back to ascertain if the men had come out and seen him. “That Corbould, we know, has vowed vengeance against Edward and all of us, and has no doubt joined those robbers—for robbers they must be—that he may fulfil his vow. It is fortunate that I have made the discovery, and I will send over immediately to the Intendant.” As soon as a clump of trees had shut out the thicket, and he had no longer any fear of being seen by these people, Humphrey went in the direction which the robber had mentioned, and soon afterwards he perceived the oak scathed with lightning, which stood by itself on a green spot of about twenty acres. It had been a noble tree before it had been destroyed; now it spread its long naked arms, covering a large space of ground, but without the least sign of vegetation or life remaining. The trunk was many feet in diameter, and was apparently quite sound, although the tree was dead. Humphrey left Billy to feed on the herbage close by, and then, from the position of the sun in the heavens, ascertained the point at which he was to dig. First looking around him to see that he was not overlooked, he took his spade and pick-axe out of the cart and began his task. There was a spot not quite so green as the rest, which Humphrey thought likely to be the very place that he should dig at, as probably it was not green from the soil having been removed. He commenced at this spot, and after a few moment’s labour his pick-axe struck upon something hard, which, on clearing away the earth, he discovered to be the lid of a wooden box. Satisfied that he was right, Humphrey now worked hard, and in a few minutes he had cleared sufficient space to be able to lift out the box and place it on the turf. He was about to examine it, when he perceived, at about five hundred yards’ distance, three men coming towards him. “They have discovered me,” thought Humphrey; “and I must be off as soon as I can.” He ran to Billy, who was close to him, and bringing the cart to where the box lay, he lifted it in. As he was getting in himself, with the reins in his hands, he perceived that the three men were running towards him as fast as they could, and that they all had guns in their hands. They were not more than a hundred and fifty yards from him when Humphrey set off, putting Billy to a full trot.

The three men observing this, called out to Humphrey to stop, or they would fire; but Humphrey’s only reply was giving a lash to Billy, which set him off at a gallop. The men immediately fired, and the bullets whistled past Humphrey without doing any harm. Humphrey looked round, and finding that he had increased his distance, pulled up the pony, and went a more moderate pace. “You’ll not catch me,” thought Humphrey; “and your guns are not loaded, so I’ll tantalise you a little.” He made Billy walk, and turned round to see what the men were about; they had arrived at where he had dug out the box, and were standing round the hole, evidently aware that it was no use following him. “Now,” thought Humphrey, as he went along at a faster pace, “those fellows will wonder what I have been digging up. The villains little think that I know where to find them, and they have proved what they are by firing at me. Now, what must I do? They may follow me to the cottage, for I have no doubt that they know where we live, and that Edward is at the Intendant’s. They may come and attack us, and I dare not leave the cottage to-night, or send Pablo away, in case they should; but I will to-morrow morning.” Humphrey considered as he went along all the circumstances and probabilities, and decided that he would act as he at first proposed to himself. In an hour he was at the cottage; and as soon as Alice had given him his dinner—for he was later than the usual dinner-hour—he told her what had taken place.

“Where is Pablo?”

“He has been working in the garden with Edith all the day,” replied Alice.

“Well, dear, I hope they will not come to-night: to-morrow I will have them all in custody; but if they do come, we must do our best to beat them off. It is fortunate that Edward left the guns and pistols which he found in Clara’s cottage, so we shall have no want of firearms; and we can barricade the doors and windows, so that they cannot get in in a hurry; but I must have Pablo to help me, for there is no time to be lost.”

“But cannot I help you, Humphrey?” said Alice. “Surely I can do something?”

“We will see, Alice; but I think I can do without you. We have still plenty of daylight. I will take the box into your room.”

Humphrey, who had only taken the box out of the cart and carried it within the threshold of the door, now took it into his sisters’ bedroom, and then went out and called Pablo, who came running to him.

“Pablo,” said Humphrey, “we must bring to the cottage some of the large pieces we sawed out for rafters; for I should not be surprised if the cottage were attacked this night.” He then told Pablo what had taken place. “You see, Pablo, I dare not send to the Intendant to-night in case the robbers should come here.”

“No, not send to-night,” said Pablo; “stay here and fight them; first make door fast, then cut hole to fire through.”

“Yes, that was my idea. You don’t mind fighting them, Pablo?”

“No; fight hard for Missy Alice and Missy Edith,” said Pablo; “fight for you too, Massa Humphrey, and fight for myself,” added Pablo, laughing.

They then went for the pieces of squared timber, brought them from the saw-pit to the cottage, and very soon fitted them to the doors and windows, so as to prevent several men, with using all their strength, from forcing them open.

“That will do,” said Humphrey; “and now get me the small saw, Pablo, and I will cut a hole or two to fire through.”

It was dark before they had finished, and then they made all fast, and went to Pablo’s room for the arms, which they got ready for service, and loaded.

“Now, we are all ready, Alice, so let us have our supper,” said Humphrey. “We will make a fight for it, and they shall not get in so easily as they think.”

After they had had their supper, Humphrey said the prayers, and told his sisters to go to bed.

“Yes, Humphrey, we will go to bed, but we will not undress; for if they come, I must be up to help you. I can load a gun, you know, and Edith can take them to you as fast as I load them. Won’t you, Edith?”

“Yes, I will bring you the guns, Humphrey, and you shall shoot them,” replied Edith.

Humphrey kissed his sisters, and they went to their room. He then put a light in the chimney, that he might not have to get one in case the robbers came, and then desired Pablo to go and lie down on his bed, as he intended to do the same. Humphrey remained awake till past three o’clock in the morning; but no robbers came. Pablo was snoring loud, and at last Humphrey fell asleep himself and did not awake till broad daylight. He got up, and found Alice and Edith were already in the sitting-room, lighting the fire.

“I would not wake you, Humphrey, as you had been sitting up so long. The robbers have not made their appearance, that is clear; shall you unbar the door and window-shutters now?”

“Yes, I think we may. Here, Pablo!”

“Yes,” replied Pablo, coming out half asleep; “what the matter? Thief come?”

“No,” replied Edith, “thief not come, but sun shine; and lazy Pablo not get up.”

“Up now, Missy Edith.”

“Yes, but not awake yet.”

“Yes, Missy Edith, quite awake.”

“Well then, help me to undo the door, Pablo.”

They took down the barricades, and Humphrey opened the door cautiously, and looked out.

“They won’t come now, at all events, I should think,” observed Humphrey; “but there is no saying—they may be prowling about, and may think it easier to get in during daytime than at night. Go out, Pablo, and look about everywhere; take a pistol with you, and fire it off if there is any danger, and then come back as fast as you can.”

Pablo took the pistol, and then Humphrey went out of the door and looked well round in front of the cottage, but he would not leave the door till he was assured that no one was there. Pablo returned soon after, saying that he had looked round everywhere, and into the cow-house and yard, and there was nobody to be seen. This satisfied Humphrey, and they returned to the cottage.

“Now, Pablo, get your breakfast, while I write the letter to the Intendant,” said Humphrey; “and then you must saddle Billy and go over as fast as you can with the letter. You can tell him all I have not said in it. I shall expect you back at night, and some people with you.”

“I see,” said Pablo, who immediately busied himself with some cold meat which Alice put before him. Pablo had finished his breakfast and brought Billy to the door before Humphrey had finished his letter. As soon as it was written and folded Pablo set off as fast as Billy could go to the other side of the forest.

Humphrey continued on the look-out during the whole day, with his gun on his arm, and his two dogs by his side; for he knew the dogs would give notice of the approach of any one, long before he might see them; but nothing occurred during the whole day; and when the evening closed in he barricaded the doors and windows, and remained on the watch with the dogs, waiting for the coming of the robbers, or for the coming of the party which he expected would be sent by the Intendant to take them. Just as it was dark Pablo returned with a note from Edward saying that he would be over by ten o’clock, with a large party.

Humphrey had said in his letter that it would be better that any force sent by the Intendant should not arrive till after dark, as the robbers might be near and perceive them, and then they might escape; he did not therefore expect them to come till some time after dark. Humphrey was reading a book—Pablo was dozing in the chimney-corner—the two girls had retired into their room and had lain down on the bed in their clothes—when the dogs both gave a low growl.

“Somebody come,” said Pablo, starting up.

Again the dogs growled, and Humphrey made a sign to Pablo to hold his tongue. A short time of anxious silence succeeded, for it was impossible to ascertain whether the parties were friends or enemies. The dogs now sprang up and barked furiously at the door, and as soon as Humphrey had silenced them, a voice was heard outside, begging for admission to a poor benighted traveller. This was sufficient: it could not be the party from the Intendant’s, but the robbers who wished to induce them to open the door. Pablo put a gun into Humphrey’s hand, and took another for himself; he then removed the light into the chimney, and on the application from outside being repeated, Humphrey answered—

“That he never opened the door at that hour of the night, and that it was useless their remaining.”

No answer or repetition of the request was made, but, as Humphrey retreated with Pablo into the fireplace, a gun was fired into the lock of the door, which was blown off into the room, and had it not been for the barricades the door must have flown open. The robbers appeared surprised at such not being the case, and one of them inserted his arm into the hole made in the door to ascertain what might be the further obstacle to open it, when Pablo slipped past Humphrey, and gaining the door, discharged his gun under the arm which had been thrust into the hole in the door. The person, whoever it might have been, gave a loud cry, and fell at the threshold outside.

“I think that will do,” said Humphrey; “we must not take more life than is necessary. I had rather that you had fired through his arm—it would have disabled him, and that would have sufficed.”

“Kill much better,” said Pablo. “Corbould shot through leg, come again to rob; suppose shot dead, never rob more.”

The dogs now flew to the back of the cottage, evidently pointing out that the robbers were attempting that side. Humphrey put his gun through the hole in the door, and discharged it.

“Why you do that, Massa Humphrey, nobody there!”

“I know that, Pablo; but if the people are coming from the Intendant’s they will see the flash and perhaps hear the report, and it will let them know what is going on.”

“There is another gun loaded, Humphrey,” said Alice, who with Edith had joined them without Humphrey observing it.

“Thanks, love; but you and Edith must not remain here: sit down on the hearth, and then you will be sheltered from any bullet which they may fire into the house. I have no fear of their getting in, and we shall have help directly, I have no doubt. Pablo, I shall fire through the back door; they must be there, for the dogs have their noses under it, and are so violent. Do you fire another gun, as a signal, through the hole in the front door.”

Humphrey stood within four feet of the back door, and fired just above where the dogs held their noses and barked. Pablo discharged his gun as directed, and then returned to reload the guns. The dogs were now more quiet, and it appeared as if the robbers had retreated from the back door. Pablo blew out the light, which had been put more in the centre of the room, when Alice and Edith took possession of the fireplace.

“No fear, Missy Edith, I know where find everything,” said Pablo, who now went and peered through the hole in the front door, to see if the robbers were coming to it again; but he could see and hear nothing for some time.

At last the attack was renewed; the dogs flew backwards and forwards, sometimes to one door and then to another, as if both were to be assailed: and at the same time a crash in Alice’s bed-chamber told them that the robbers had burst in the small window in that room, which Humphrey had not paid any attention to, as it was so small that a man could hardly introduce his body through it. Humphrey immediately called Holdfast and opened the door of the room; for he thought that a man forcing his way in would be driven back or held by the dog, and he and Pablo dared not leave the two doors. Watch, the other dog, followed Holdfast into the bedroom; and oaths and curses, mingled with the savage yells of the dogs, told them that a conflict was going on. Both doors were now battered with heavy pieces of timber at the same time, and Pablo said—

“Great many robbers here.”

A moment or more had passed, during which Pablo and Humphrey had both again fired their guns through the door, when, of a sudden, other sounds were heard—shots were fired outside, loud cries, and angry oaths and exclamations.

“The Intendant’s people are come,” said Humphrey, “I am sure of it.”

Shortly afterwards Humphrey heard his name called by Edward, and he replied, and went to the door and undid the barricades.

“Get a light, Alice, dear,” said Humphrey, “we are all safe now. I will open the door directly, Edward, but in the dark I cannot see the fastenings.”

“Are you all safe, Humphrey?”

“Yes, all safe, Edward. Wait till Alice brings a light.”

Alice soon brought one, and then the door was unfastened. Edward stepped over the body of a man which lay at the threshold, saying—

“You have settled somebody there, at all events,” and then caught Edith and Alice in his arms.

He was followed by Oswald and some other men, leading in the prisoners.

“Bind that fellow fast, Oswald,” said Edward. “Get another light, Pablo; let us see who it is that lies outside the door.”

“First see who is in my bedroom, Edward,” said Alice, “for the dogs are still there.”

“In your bedroom, dearest? Well, then, let us go there first.”

Edward went in with Humphrey, and found a man half in the window and half out, held by the throat and apparently suffocated by the two dogs. He took the dogs off; and desiring the men to secure the robber, and ascertain whether he was alive or not, he returned to the sitting-room, and then went to examine the body outside the door.

“Corbould, as I live!” cried Oswald.

“Yes,” replied Edward; “he has gone to his account. God forgive him!”

On inquiry they found that of all the robbers, to the number of ten, not one had escaped—eight they had made prisoners, Corbould, and the man whom the dogs had seized, and who was found to be quite dead, made up the number. The robbers were all bound and guarded; and then, leaving them under the charge of Oswald and five of his men, Edward and Humphrey set off with seven more to Clara’s cottage, to ascertain if there were any more to be found there. They arrived by two o’clock in the morning, and on knocking several times the door was opened and they seized another man, the only one who was found in it. They then went back to the cottage with their prisoner, and by the time that they had arrived it was daylight. As soon as the party sent by the Intendant had been supplied with breakfast, Edward bade farewell to Humphrey and his sisters, that he might return and deliver up his prisoners. Pablo went with him to bring back the cart which carried the two dead bodies. This capture cleared the forest of the robbers who had so long infested it, for they never had any more attempts made from that time.

Before Edward left, Humphrey and he examined the box which had been dug up from under the oak, and which had occasioned such danger to the inmates of the cottage; for one of the men stated to Edward that they suspected that the box which they had seen Humphrey dig out contained treasure, and that without they had seen him in possession of it, they never should have attacked the cottage, although Corbould had often persuaded them so to do; but as they knew that he was only seeking revenge—and they required money to stimulate them—they had refused, as they considered that there was nothing to be obtained in the cottage worth the risk, as they knew that the inmates had firearms and would defend themselves. On examination of its contents, they found in it a sum of forty pounds in gold, a bag of silver, and some other valuables in silver spoons, candlesticks, and ornaments for women. Edward took a list of the contents, and when he returned he stated to the Intendant all that had occurred, and requested to know what should be done with the money and other articles which Humphrey had found.

“I wish you had said nothing to me about it,” said the Intendant, “although I am pleased with your open and fair dealing. I cannot say anything, except that you had better let Humphrey keep it till it is claimed—which, of course, it never will be. But, Edward, Humphrey must come over here and make his deposition, as I must report the capture of these robbers and send them to trial. You had better go with the clerk and take the depositions of Pablo and your sisters, while Humphrey comes here. You can stay till his return. Their depositions are not of so much consequence as Humphrey’s, as they can only speak as to the attack, but Humphrey’s I must take down myself.”

When Patience and Clara heard that Edward was going over, they obtained leave to go with him to see Alice and Edith, and were to be escorted back by Humphrey. This the Intendant consented to, and they had a very merry party. Humphrey remained two days at the Intendant’s house, and then returned to the cottage, where Edward had taken his place during his absence.

Chapter Twenty One.

The winter set in very severe, and the falls of snow were very heavy and frequent. It was fortunate Humphrey had been so provident in making so large a quantity of hay, or the stock would have been starved. The flock of goats, in great part, subsisted themselves on the bark of trees and moss; at night they had some hay given to them, and they did very well. It was hardly possible for Edward to come over to see his brother and sisters, for the snow was so deep as to render such a long journey too fatiguing for a horse. Twice or thrice after the snow fell he contrived to get over, but after that they knew that it was impossible, and they did not expect him. Humphrey and Pablo had little to do except attending to the stock, and cutting firewood to keep up their supply, for they now burnt it very fast. The snow lay several feet high round the cottage, being driven against it by the wind. They had kept a passage clear to the yard, and had kept the yard as clear as possible: they could do no more. A sharp frost and clear weather succeeded to the snow-storms, and there appeared no chance of the snow melting away. The nights were dark and long, and their oil for their lamp was getting low. Humphrey was anxious to go to Lymington, as they required many things; but it was impossible to go anywhere except on foot, and walking was, from the depth of the snow, a most fatiguing exercise. There was one thing, however, that Humphrey had not forgotten, which was, that he had told Edward that he would try and capture some of the forest ponies; and during the whole of the time since the heavy fall of snow had taken place he had been making his arrangements. The depth of the snow prevented the animals from obtaining any grass, and they were almost starved, as they could find nothing to subsist upon except the twigs and branches of trees which they could reach. Humphrey went out with Pablo and found the herd, which was about five miles from the cottage, and near to Clara’s old home. He and Pablo brought with them as much hay as they could carry, and strewed it about, so as to draw the ponies nearer to them, and then Humphrey looked for a place which would answer his purpose. About three miles from the cottage he found what he thought would suit him; there was a sort of avenue between two thickets, about a hundred yards wide; and the wind blowing through this avenue, during the snow-storm, had drifted the snow at one end of it, and raised right across it a large mound several feet high. By strewing small bundles of hay he drew the herd of ponies into this avenue, and in it he left them a good quantity to feed upon every night for several nights, till at last the herd went there every morning.

“Now, Pablo, we must make a trial,” said Humphrey. “You must get your lassos ready, in case they should be required. We must go to the avenue before daylight with the two dogs, tie one upon one side of the avenue and the other on the other, that they may bark and prevent the ponies from attempting to escape through the thicket. Then we must get the ponies between us and the drift of snow which lies across the avenue, and try if we cannot draw them into the drift. If so, they will plunge in so deep that some of them will not be able to get out before we have thrown the ropes round their necks.”

“I see,” said Pablo; “very good—soon catch them.”

Before daylight they went with the dogs and a large bundle of hay, which they strewed nearer to the mound of drifted snow. They then tied the dogs up on each side, ordering them to lie down and be quiet. Then they walked through the thicket so as not to be perceived, until they considered that they were far enough from the snow-drift. About daylight the herd came to pick up the hay as usual, and after they had passed them Humphrey and Pablo followed in the thicket, not wishing to show themselves till the last moment. While the ponies were busy with the hay, they suddenly ran out into the avenue and separated, so as to prevent the ponies from attempting to gallop past them. Shouting as loud as they could, as they ran up to the ponies, and calling to the dogs, who immediately set up a barking on each side; the ponies, alarmed at the noise and the appearance of humphrey and Pablo, naturally set off in the only direction which appeared to them to be clear, and galloped away towards the mound of drifted snow, with their tails streaming, and snorting and plunging in the snow as they hurried along; but as soon as they arrived at the mound they plunged first up to their bellies, and afterwards, as they attempted to force their way where the snow was deeper, many of them stuck fast altogether, and struggled to clear themselves in vain. Humphrey and Pablo, who had followed them as fast as they could run, now came up with them and threw the lasso over the neck of one, and ropes with slip nooses over two more, which were floundering in the snow there together. The remainder of the herd, after great exertions, got clear off by turning round and galloping back—through the avenue. The three captured ponies made a furious struggle; but by drawing the ropes tight round their necks they were well-nigh choked, and soon unable to move. The lads then tied their fore-legs, and loosened the ropes round their necks that they might recover their breath.

“Got them now, Massa Humphrey,” said Pablo.

“Yes, but our work is not yet over, Pablo; we must get them home; how shall we manage that?”

“Suppose they no eat to-day and to-morrow, get very tame.”

“I believe that will be the best way; they cannot get loose again, do all they can.”

“No, sir; but get one home to-day. This very fine pony; suppose we try him.”

Pablo then put the halter on, and tied the end short to the fore-leg of the pony, so that it could not walk without keeping its head close to the ground—if it raised its head it was obliged to lift up its leg. Then he put the lasso round its neck to choke it if it was too unruly, and, having done that, he cast loose the ropes which had tied its fore-legs together.

“Now, Massa Humphrey, we get him home somehow. First I go loose the dogs; he ’fraid of the dogs, and run t’other way.”

The pony, which was an iron-grey and very handsome, plunged furiously and kicked behind; but it could not do so without falling down, which it did several times before Pablo returned with the dogs. Humphrey held one part of the lasso on one side, and Pablo on the other, keeping the pony between them; and with the dogs barking at it behind, they contrived, with a great deal of exertion and trouble, to get the pony to the cottage. The poor animal, driven in this way on three legs, and every now and then choked with the lasso, was covered with foam before they arrived. Billy was turned out of his stable to make room for the newcomer, who was fastened securely to the manger and then left without food, that he might become tame. It was too late then, and they were too tired themselves to go for the other two ponies, so they were left lying on the snow all night, and the next morning they found them much tamer than they were at first, and during the day, following the same plan, they were both brought to the stable and secured alongside of the other. One was a bay pony with black legs, and the other a brown one. The bay pony was a mare, and the other two horses. Alice and Edith were delighted with the new ponies, and Humphrey was not a little pleased that he had succeeded in capturing them, after what had passed between Edward and himself. After two days’ fasting, the poor animals were so tame that they ate out of Pablo’s hand and submitted to be stroked and caressed; and before they were a fortnight in the stable. Alice and Edith could go up to them without danger. They were soon broken in; for the yard being full of muck, Pablo took them into it and mounted them. They plunged and kicked at first, and tried all they could to get rid of him, but they sank so deep into the muck that they were soon tired out; and after a month they were all three tolerably quiet to ride.

The snow was so deep all over the country that there was little communication with the metropolis. The Intendant’s letter spoke of King Charles raising another army in Holland, and that his adherents in England were preparing to join him as soon as he marched southward.

“I think, Edward,” said the Intendant, “that the king’s affairs do now wear a more promising aspect, but there is plenty of time yet. I know your anxiety to serve your king, and I cannot blame it. I shall not prevent your going, although of course I must not be cognisant of your having so done. When the winter breaks up I shall send you to London. You will then be able better to judge of what is going on, and your absence will not create any suspicion; but you must be guided by me.”

“I certainly will, sir,” replied Edward. “I should indeed like to strike one blow for the king, come what will.”

“All depends upon whether they manage affairs well in Scotland; but there is so much jealousy and pride, and I fear treachery also, that it is hard to say how matters may end.”

It was soon after this conversation that a messenger arrived from London with letters, announcing that King Charles had been crowned in Scotland with great solemnity and magnificence.

“The plot thickens,” said the Intendant; “and by this letter from my correspondent Ashley Cooper, I find that the king’s army is well appointed, and that David Lesley is Lieutenant-General: Middleton commands the horse, and Wemyss the artillery. That Wemyss is certainly a good officer, but was not true to the late king:— may he behave better to the present! Now, Edward, I shall send you to London, and I will give you letters to those who will advise you how to proceed. You may take the black horse; he will bear you well. You will of course write to me, for Sampson will go with you, and you can send him back when you consider that you do not require or wish for his presence: there is no time to be lost, for, depend upon it, Cromwell, who is still at Edinburgh, will take the field as soon as he can. Are you ready to start to-morrow morning?”

“Yes, sir, quite ready.”

“I fear that you cannot go over to the cottage to bid farewell to your sisters, but perhaps it is better that you should not.”

“I think so too, sir,” replied Edward; “now that the snow has nearly disappeared I did think of going over, having been so long absent, but I must send Oswald over instead.”

“Well, then, leave me to write my letters, and do you prepare your saddle-bags. Patience and Clara will assist you. Tell Sampson to come to me.”

Edward went to Patience and Clara, and told them that he was to set off for London on the following morning, and was about to make his preparations.

“How long do you remain, Edward?” inquired Patience.

“I cannot tell; Sampson goes with me, and I must of course be guided by your father. Do you know where the saddle-bags are, Patience?”

“Yes, Phoebe shall bring them to your room.”

“And you and Clara must come and give me your assistance.”

“Certainly we will, if you require it; but I did not know that your wardrobe was so extensive.”

“You know that it is anything but extensive, Patience; but that is the reason why your assistance is more required. A small wardrobe ought at least to be in good order; and what I would require is, that you would look over the linen, and where it requires a little repair you will bestow upon it your charity.”

“That we will do, Clara,” replied Patience; “so get your needles and thread, and let us send him to London with whole linen. We will come when we are ready, sir.”

“I don’t like his going to London at all,” said Clara; “we shall be so lonely when he has gone.”

Edward had left the room, and having obtained the saddle-bags from Phoebe, had gone up to his chamber. The first thing that he laid hold of was his father’s sword; he took it down, and having wiped it carefully, he kissed it, saying, “God grant that I may do credit to it, and prove as worthy to wield it as was my brave father!” He had uttered these words aloud; and again taking the sword, and laying it down on the bed, turned round, and perceived that Patience had, unknown to him, entered the room, and was standing close to him. Edward was not conscious that he had spoken aloud, and therefore merely said, “I was not aware of your presence, Patience. Your foot is so light.”

“Whose sword is that, Edward?”

“It is mine; I bought it at Lymington.”

“But what makes you have such an affection for that sword?”

“Affection for it?”

“Yes; as I came into the room you kissed it as fervently as—”

“As a lover would his mistress, I presume you would say,” replied Edward.

“Nay, I meant not to use such vain words. I was about to say as a Catholic would a relic. I ask you again, why so? A sword is but a sword. You are about to leave this on a mission of my father’s. You are not a soldier, about to engage in strife and war; if you were, why kiss your sword?”

“I will tell you. I do love this sword. I purchased it, as I told you, at Lymington, and they told me that it belonged to Colonel Beverley. It is for his sake that I love it. You know what obligations our family were under to him.”

“This sword was then wielded by Colonel Beverley, the celebrated Cavalier, was it?” said Patience, taking it from off the bed and examining it.

“Yes, it was; and here, you see, are his initials upon the hilt.”

“And why do you take it to London with you? Surely it is not the weapon which should be worn by a secretary, Edward: it is too large, and cumbrous, and out of character.”

“Recollect, that till these last few months I have been a forester, Patience, and not a secretary. Indeed I feel that I am more fit for active life than the situation which your father’s kindness has bestowed upon me. I was brought up, as you have heard, to follow to the wars, had my patron lived.”

Patience made no reply. Clara now joined them, and they commenced the task of examining the linen; and Edward left the room, as he wished to speak with Oswald. They did not meet again till dinner-time. Edward’s sudden departure had spread a gloom over them all,—even the Intendant was silent and thoughtful. In the evening he gave Edward the letters which he had written, and a considerable sum of money, telling him where he was to apply if he required more for his expenses. The Intendant cautioned him on his behaviour in many points, and also relative to his dress and carriage during his stay in the metropolis.

“If you should leave London there will be no occasion, nay, it would be dangerous to write to me. I shall take it for granted that you will retain Sampson till your departure, and when he returns here I shall presume that you have gone north. I will not detain you longer, Edward: may Heaven bless and protect you!”

So saying, the Intendant went away to his own room.

“Kind and generous man!” thought Edward; “how much did I mistake you when we first met!”

Taking up the letters and bag of money, which still remained on the table, Edward went to his room, and having placed the letters and money in the saddle-bag, he commended himself to the Divine Protector, and retired to rest.

Before daylight the sound of Sampson’s heavy travelling boots below roused up Edward, and he was soon dressed. Taking his saddle-bags on his arm, he walked softly downstairs, that he might not disturb any of the family; but when he was passing the sitting-room he perceived that there was a light in it, and on looking in, that Patience was up and dressed. Edward looked surprised, and was about to speak, when Patience said—

“I rose early, Edward, because, when I took leave of you last night, I forgot a little parcel that I wanted to give you before you went. It will not take much room, and may beguile a weary hour. It is a little book of meditations. Will you accept it, and promise me to read it when you have time?”

“I certainly will, my dear Patience—if I may venture on the expression—read it, and think of you.”

“Nay you must read it and think of what it contains,” replied Patience.

“I will, then. I shall not need the book to remind me of Patience Heatherstone, I assure you.”

“And now, Edward, I do not pretend to surmise the reason of your departure, nor would it be becoming in me to attempt to discover what my father thinks proper to be silent upon, but I must beg you to promise one thing.”

“Name it, dear Patience,” replied Edward; “my heart is so full at the thought of leaving you that I feel I can refuse you nothing.”

“It is this,—I have a presentiment, I know not why, that you are about to encounter danger. If so, be prudent,—be prudent for the sake of your dear sisters—be prudent for the sake of all your friends, who would regret you—promise me that.”

“I do promise you, most faithfully, Patience, that I will ever have my sisters and you in my thoughts, and will not be rash under any circumstances.”

“Thank you, Edward; may God bless you and preserve you!”

Edward first kissed Patience’s hand, that was held in his own; but perceiving the tears starting in her eyes, he kissed them off, without any remonstrance on her part, and then left the room. In a few moments more he was mounted on a fine powerful black horse, and followed by Sampson, on his road to London.

We will pass over the journey, which was accomplished without any event worthy of remark. Edward had, from the commencement, called Sampson to his side, that he might answer the questions he had to make upon all that he saw, and which the reader must be aware was quite new to one whose peregrinations had been confined to the New Forest and the town adjacent. Sampson was a very powerful man, of a cool and silent character, by no means deficient in intelligence, and trustworthy withal. He had long been a follower of the Intendant, and had served in the army. He was very devout; and generally, when not addressed, was singing hymns in a low voice.

On the evening of the second day they were close to the metropolis, and Sampson pointed out to Edward Saint Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, and other objects worthy of note.

“And where are we to lodge, Sampson?” inquired Edward.

“The best hotel that I know of for man and beast is the ‘Swan with Three Necks,’ in Holborn. It is not over frequented by roysterers, and you will there be quiet, and if your affairs demand it, unobserved.”

“That will suit me, Sampson: I wish to observe, and not be observed, during my stay in London.”

Before dark they had arrived at the hotel, and the horses were in the stable. Edward had procured an apartment to his satisfaction, and, feeling fatigued with his two days’ travelling, had gone to bed.

The following morning he examined the letters which had been given to him by the Intendant, and inquired of Sampson if he could direct him on his way. Sampson knew London well: and Edward set out to Spring Gardens to deliver a letter, which the intendant informed him was confidential, to a person of the name of Langton. Edward knocked and was ushered in, Sampson taking a seat in the hall while Edward was shown into a handsomely-furnished library, where he found himself in the presence of a tall spare man, dressed after the fashion of the Roundheads of the time. He presented the letter. Mr Langton bowed and requested Edward to sit down; and after Edward had taken a chair, he then seated himself and opened the letter.

“You are right welcome, Master Armitage,” said Mr Langton; “I find that, young as you appear to be, you are in the whole confidence of our mutual friend Mr Heatherstone. He hints at your being probably obliged to take a journey to the north, and that you will be glad to take charge of any letters which I may have to send in that direction. I will have them ready for you; and in case of need they will be such as will give a colouring to your proceeding, provided you may not choose to reveal your true object. How wears our good friend Heatherstone, and his daughter?”

“Quite well, sir.”

“And he told me in one of his former letters that he had the daughter of our poor friend Ratcliffe with him. Is it not so?”

“It is, Mr Langton; and as gentle and pretty a child as you could wish to see.”

“When did you arrive in London?”

“Yesterday evening, sir.”

“And do you propose any stay?”

“That I cannot answer, sir; I must be guided by your advice. I have nought to do here, unless it be to deliver some three or four letters, given me by Mr Heatherstone.”

“It is my opinion, Master Armitage, that the less you are seen in this city the better; there are hundreds employed to find out newcomers, and to discover from their people, or by other means, for what purpose they may have come; for you must be aware, Master Armitage, that the times are dangerous and people’s minds are various. In attempting to free ourselves from what we considered despotism, we have created for ourselves a worse despotism, and one that is less endurable. It is to be hoped that what has passed will make not only kings, but subjects, wiser than they have been. Now what do you propose—to leave this instantly?”

“Certainly, if you think it advisable.”

“My advice, then, is to leave London immediately. I will give you letters to some friends of mine in Lancashire and Yorkshire; in either county you can remain unnoticed, and make what preparations you think necessary. But do nothing in haste—consult well, and be guided by them, who will, if it is considered advisable and prudent, join with you in your project. I need say no more. Call upon me to-morrow morning an hour before noon, and I will have letters ready for you.”

Edward rose to depart, and thanked Mr Langton for his kindness.

“Farewell, Master Armitage,” said Langton; “to-morrow at the hour of eleven!”

Edward then quitted the house, and delivered the other letters of credence, the only one of importance at the moment was the one of credit; the others were to various members of the Parliament, desiring them to know Master Armitage as a confidential friend of the Intendant, and in case of need to exert their good offices in his behalf. The letter of credit was upon a Hamburgh merchant, who asked Edward if he required money. Edward replied that he did not at present, but that he had business to do for his employer in the north, and might require some when there, if it was possible to obtain it so far from London.

“When do you set out? And to what town do you go?”

“That I cannot well tell till to-morrow.”

“Call before you leave this, and I will find some means of providing for you as you wish.”

Edward then returned to the hotel. Before he went to bed he told Sampson that he found that he had to leave London on Mr Heatherstone’s affairs, and might be absent some time; he concluded by observing that he did not consider it necessary to take him with him, as he could dispense with his services, and Mr Heatherstone would be glad to have him back.

“As you wish, sir,” replied Sampson. “When am I to go back?”

“You may leave to-morrow as soon as you please. I have no letter to send. You may tell them that I am well, and will write as soon as I have anything positive to communicate.”

Edward then made Sampson a present, and wished him a pleasant journey.

At the hour appointed on the following day Edward repaired to Mr Langton, who received him very cordially.

“I am all ready for you, Master Armitage: there is a letter to two Catholic ladies in Lancashire, who will take great care of you; and here is one to a friend of mine in Yorkshire. The ladies live about four miles from the town of Bolton, and my Yorkshire friend in the city of York. You may trust to either of them. And now, farewell; and, if possible, leave London before nightfall—the sooner the better. Where is your servant?”

“He has returned to Mr Heatherstone this morning.”

“You have done right. Lose no time in leaving London; and don’t be in a hurry in your future plans. You understand me. If any one accosts you on the road put no trust in any professions. You of course are going down to your relations in the north. Have you pistols?”

“Yes, sir; I have a pair which belonged to the unfortunate Mr Ratcliffe.”

“Then they are good ones, I’ll answer for it: no man was more particular about his weapons, or knew how to use them better. Farewell, Master Armitage, and may success attend you.”

Mr Langton held out his hand to Edward, who respectfully took his leave.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Edward was certain that Mr Langton would not have advised him to leave London if he had not considered that it was dangerous to remain. He therefore first called upon the Hamburgh merchant, who, upon his explanation, gave him a letter of credit to a friend who resided in the city of York; and then returned to the hotel, packed up his saddle-bags, paid his reckoning, and, mounting his horse, set off on the northern road. As it was late in the afternoon before he was clear of the metropolis, he did not proceed farther than Barnet, where he pulled up at the inn. As soon as he had seen his horse attended to, Edward, with his saddle-bags on his arm, went into the room in the inn where all the travellers congregated. Having procured a bed and given his saddle-bags into the charge of the hostess, he sat down by the fire, which, although it was warm weather, was nevertheless kept alight.

Edward had made no alteration in the dress which he had worn since he had been received in the house of Mr Heatherstone. It was plain, although of good materials. He wore a high-crowned hat, and altogether would, from his attire, have been taken for one of the Roundhead party. His sword and shoulder-belt were indeed of more gay appearance than those usually worn by the Roundheads; but this was the only difference.

When Edward first entered the room there were three persons in it, whose appearance was not very prepossessing. They were dressed in what had once been very gay attire, but which now exhibited tarnished lace, stains of wine, and dust from travelling. They eyed him as he entered with his saddle-bags, and one of them said—“That’s a fine horse you were riding, sir. Has he much speed?”

“He has,” replied Edward, as he turned away, and went into the bar to speak with the hostess, and give his property into her care.

“Going north, sir?” inquired the same person when Edward returned.

“Not exactly,” replied Edward, walking to the window to avoid further conversation.

“The Roundhead is on the stilts,” observed another of the party.

“Yes,” replied the first; “it is easy to see that he has not been accustomed to be addressed by gentlemen; for half a pin I would slit his ears.”

Edward did not choose to reply; he folded his arms and looked at the man with contempt.

The hostess, who had overheard the conversation, now called for her husband, and desired him to go into the room and prevent any further insults to the young gentleman who had just come in. The host, who knew the parties, entered the room, and said—

“Now you’ll clear out of this as fast as you can; be off with you, and go to the stables, or I’ll send for somebody whom you will not like.”

The three men rose and swaggered, but obeyed the host’s orders, and left the room.

“I am sorry, young Master, that these roysterers should have affronted you, as my wife tells me that they have. I did not know that they were in the house. We cannot well refuse to take in their horses; but we know well who they are, and, if you are travelling far, you had better ride in company.”

“Thank you for your caution, my good host,” replied Edward; “I thought that they were highwaymen, or something of that sort.”

“You have made a good guess, sir; but nothing has yet been proved against them, or they would not be here. In these times we have strange customers, and hardly know who we take in. You have a good sword there, sir, I have no doubt; but I trust that you have other arms.”

“I have,” replied Edward, opening his doublet and showing his pistols.

“That’s right, sir. Will you take anything before you go to bed?”

“Indeed I will, for I am hungry; anything will do, with a pint of wine.”

As soon as he had supped Edward asked the hostess for his saddle-bags, and went up to his bed.

Early the next morning he rose and went to the stable to see his horse fed. The three men were in the stables, but they did not say anything to him. Edward returned to the inn, called for breakfast, and, as soon as he had finished, took out his pistols to renew the priming. While so occupied he happened to look up, and perceived one of the men with his face against the window, watching him. “Well, now you see what you have to expect, if you try your trade with me,” thought Edward, “I am very glad that you have been spying.” Having replaced his pistols, Edward paid his reckoning, and went to the stable desiring the ostler to saddle his horse and fix on his saddle-bags. As soon as this was done he mounted and rode off. Before he was well clear of the town the highwaymen cantered past him on three well-bred active horses. “I presume we shall meet again,” thought Edward, who for some time cantered at a gentle rate, and then, as his horse was very fresh, he put him to a faster pace, intending to do a long day’s work. He had ridden about fifteen miles, when he came to a heath, and, as he continued at a fast trot, he perceived the three highwaymen about a quarter of a mile in advance of him; they were descending a hill which was between them, and he soon lost sight of them again. Edward now pulled up his horse to let him recover his wind, and walked him gently up the hill. He had nearly gained the summit when he heard the report of firearms, and soon afterwards a man on horse back, in full speed, galloped over the hill towards him. He had a pistol in his hand, and his head turned back. The reason for this was soon evident, as immediately after him appeared the three highwaymen in pursuit. One fired his pistol at the man who fled, and missed him. The man then fired in return, and with true aim, as one of the highwaymen fell. All this was so sudden that Edward had hardly time to draw his pistol and put spurs to his horse before the parties were upon him, and were passing him. Edward levelled at the second highwayman as he passed him, and the man fell. The third highwayman, perceiving this, turned his horse to the side of the road, cleared a ditch, and galloped away across the heath. The man who had been attacked had pulled up his horse when Edward came to his assistance, and now rode up to him, saying—“I have to thank you, sir, for your timely aid; for these rascals were too many for me.”

“You are not hurt, I trust, sir?” replied Edward.

“No, not the least; the fellow singed my curls though, as you may perceive. They attacked me but half a mile from here. I was proceeding north when I heard the clatter of hoofs behind me; I looked round, and saw at once what they were, and I sprung my horse out of the road to a thicket close to it, that they might not surround me. One of the three rode forward to stop my passage, and the other two rode round to the back of the thicket to get behind me. I then saw that I had separated them, and could gain a start upon them by riding back again, which I did as fast as I could, and they immediately gave chase. The result you saw. Between us we have broken up the gang; for both these fellows seem dead, or nearly so.”

“What shall we do with them?”

“Leave them where they are,” replied the stranger. “I am in a hurry to get on. I have important business at the city of York, and cannot waste my time in depositions, and such nonsense. It is only two scoundrels less in the world, and there’s an end of the matter.”

As Edward was equally anxious to proceed, he agreed with the stranger that it was best to do as he proposed.

“I am also going north,” replied Edward, “and am anxious to get there as soon as I can.”

“With your permission we will ride together,” said the stranger. “I shall be the gainer, as I shall feel that I have one with me who is to be trusted to in case of any further attacks during our journey.”

There was such a gentlemanlike, frank, and courteous air about the stranger, that Edward immediately assented to his proposal of their riding in company for mutual protection. He was a powerful, well-made man, of apparently about one or two and twenty, remarkably handsome in person, dressed richly, but not gaudily, in the cavalier fashion, and wore a hat with a feather. As they proceeded, they entered into conversation on indifferent matters for some time, neither party attempting by any question to discover who his companion might be. Edward had more than once, when the conversation flagged for a minute, considered what reply he should give in case his companion should ask him the cause of his journey, and at last had made up his mind what to say.

A little before noon they pulled up to bait their horses at a small village,—the stranger observing that he avoided Saint Alban’s, and all other large towns, as he did not wish to satisfy the curiosity of people, or to have his motions watched; and therefore, if Edward had no objection, he knew the country so well that he could save time by allowing him to direct their path. Edward was, as may be supposed, very agreeable to this, and during their whole journey they never entered a town, except they rode through it after dark; and put up at humble inns on the roadside, where, if not quite so well attended to, at all events they were free from observation.

It was, however, impossible that this reserve could continue long, as they became more and more intimate every day. At last the stranger said—“Master Armitage, we have travelled together for some time, interchanging thoughts and feelings, but with due reserve as respects ourselves and our own plans. Is this to continue? If so, of course you have but to say so; but if you feel inclined to trust me, I have the same feeling towards you. By your dress I should imagine that you belonged to a party to which I am opposed; but your language and manners do not agree with your attire; and I think a hat and feathers would grace that head better than the steeple-crowned affair which now covers it. It may be that the dress is only assumed as a disguise: you know best. However, as I say, I feel confidence in you, to whatever party you may belong, and I give you credit for your prudence and reserve in these troubled times. I am a little older than you, and may advise you; and I am indebted to you, and cannot therefore betray you—at least I trust you believe so.”

“I do believe it,” replied Edward; “and I will so far answer you, Master Chaloner, that this attire of mine is not the one which I would wear if I had my choice.”

“I believe that,” replied Chaloner; “and I cannot help thinking you are bound north on the same business as myself, which is, I confess to you honestly, to strike a blow for the king. If you are on the same errand, I have two old relations in Lancashire who are stanch to the cause; and I am going to their house to remain until I can join the army. If you wish it, you shall come with me, and I will promise you kind treatment and safety while under their roof.”

“And the names of these relatives of yours, Master Chaloner?” said Edward.

“Nay, you shall have them; for when I trust, I trust wholly. Their name is Conynghame.”

Edward took his letters from out of his side-pocket, and handed one of them to his fellow-traveller. The address was, “To the worthy Mistress Conynghame, of Portlake, near Bolton, county of Lancaster.”

“It is to that address that I am going myself,” said Edward, smiling. “Whether it is the party you refer to you best know.”

Chaloner burst out with a loud laugh.

“This is excellent! Two people meet, both bound on the same business, both going to the same rendezvous, and for three days do not venture to trust each other.”

“The times require caution,” replied Edward, as he replaced his letter.

“You are right,” answered Chaloner, “and you are of my opinion. I know now that you have both prudence and courage. The first quality has been scarcer with us Cavaliers than the last; however, now all reserve is over, at least on my part.”

“And on mine also,” replied Edward.

Chaloner then talked about the chances of the war. He stated that King Charles’s army was in a good state of discipline, and well found in everything; that there were hundreds in England who would join it, as soon as it had advanced far enough into England; and that everything wore a promising appearance.

“My father fell at the battle of Naseby, at the head of his retainers,” said Chaloner, after a pause; “and they have contrived to fine the property, so that it has dwindled from thousands down to hundreds. Indeed, were it not for my good old aunts, who will leave me their estates, and who now supply me liberally, I should be but a poor gentleman.”

“Your father fell at Naseby?” said Edward. “Were you there?”

“I was,” replied Chaloner.

“My father also fell at Naseby,” said Edward.

“Your father did?” replied Chaloner, “I do not recollect the name—Armitage—he was not in command there, was he?” continued Chaloner.

“Yes, he was,” replied Edward.

“There was none of that name among the officers that I can recollect, young sir,” replied Chaloner, with an air of distrust. “Surely you have been misinformed.”

“I have spoken the truth,” replied Edward; “and have now said so much that I must, to remove your suspicion, say more than perhaps I should have done. My name is not Armitage, although I have been so called for some time. You have set me the example of confidence, and I will follow it. My father was Colonel Beverley, of Prince Rupert’s troop.”

Chaloner started with astonishment.

“I’m sure that what you say is true,” at last said he; “for I was thinking who it was that you reminded me of. You are the very picture of your father. Although a boy at the time, I knew him well, Master Beverley; a more gallant Cavalier never drew sword. Come, we must be sworn friends in life and death, Beverley,” continued Chaloner, extending his hand, which was eagerly grasped by Edward, who then confided to Chaloner the history of his life. When he had concluded, Chaloner said—“We all heard of the firing of Arnwood, and it is at this moment believed that all the children perished. It is one of the tales of woe that our nurses repeat to the children, and many a child has wept at your supposed deaths. But tell me, now, had you not fallen in with me, was it your intention to have joined the army under your assumed name of Armitage?”

“I hardly know what I intended to do. I wanted a friend to advise me.”

“And you have found one, Beverley. I owe my life to you, and I will repay the debt as far as is in my power. You must not conceal your name to your sovereign; the very name of Beverley is a passport; but the son of Colonel Beverley will be indeed welcomed. Why, the very name will be considered as a harbinger of good fortune. Your father was the best and truest soldier that ever drew sword; and his memory stands unrivalled for loyalty and devotion. We are near to the end of our journey; yonder is the steeple of Bolton church. The old ladies will be out of their wits when they find that they have a Beverley under their roof.”

Edward was much delighted at this tribute paid to his father’s memory, and the tears more than once started into his eyes as Chaloner renewed his praise.

Late in the evening they arrived at Portlake, a grand old mansion, situated in a park crowded with fine old timber. Chaloner was recognised as they rode up the avenue by one of the keepers, who hastened forward to announce his arrival; and the domestics had opened the door for them before they arrived at it. In the hall they were met by the old ladies, who expressed their delight at seeing their nephew, as they had had great fear that something had happened to him.

“And something did very nearly happen to me,” replied Chaloner, “had it not been for the timely assistance of my friend here, who, notwithstanding his Puritan attire, I hardly need tell you is a Cavalier devoted to the good cause, when I state that he is the son of Colonel Beverley, who fell at Naseby with my good father.”

“No one can be more welcome, then,” replied the old ladies, who extended their hands to Edward. They then went into a sitting-room, and supper was ordered to be sent up immediately.

“Our horses will be well attended to, Edward,” said Chaloner; “we need not any longer look after them ourselves. And now, good aunts, have you no letters for me?”

“Yes, there are several; but you had better eat first.”

“Not so; let me have the letters; we can read them before supper, and talk them over when at table.”

One of the ladies produced the letters, which Chaloner, as he read them, handed over to Edward for his perusal. They were from General Middleton, and some other friends of Chaloner’s who were with the army, giving him information as to what was going on, and what their prospects were supposed to be.

“You see that they have marched already,” said Chaloner, “and I think the plan is a good one, and it has put General Cromwell in an awkward position. Our army is now between his and London, with three days march in advance. And we shall now be able to pick up our English adherents, who can join us without risk, as we go along. It has been a bold step, but a good one; and if they only continue as well as they have begun we shall succeed. The Parliamentary army is not equal to ours in numbers, as it is; and we shall add to ours daily. The king has sent to the Isle of Man for the Earl of Derby, who is expected to join to-morrow.”

“And where is the army at this moment?” inquired Edward.

“They will be but a few miles from us to-night, their march is so rapid; to-morrow we will join if it pleases.”

“Most willingly,” replied Edward.

After an hour’s more conversation, they were shown into their rooms, and retired for the night.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The next morning, before they had quitted their beds, a messenger arrived with letters from General Middleton, and from him they found that the king’s army had encamped on the evening before not six miles from Portlake. As they hastily dressed themselves, Chaloner proposed to Edward that a little alteration in his dress would be necessary; and taking him to a wardrobe in which had been put aside some suits of his own, worn when he was a younger and slighter-made man than he now was, he requested Edward to make use of them. Edward, who was aware that Chaloner was right in his proposal, selected two suits of colours which pleased him most; and dressing in one, and changing his hat for one more befitting his new attire, was transformed into a handsome Cavalier. As soon as they had broken their fast they took leave of the old ladies, and, mounting their horses, set off for the camp. An hour’s ride brought them to the outposts; and communicating with the officer on duty, they were conducted by an orderly to the tent of General Middleton, who received Chaloner with great warmth as an old friend, and was very courteous to Edward as soon as he heard that he was the son of Colonel Beverley.

“I have wanted you, Chaloner,” said Middleton; “we are raising a troop of horse; the Duke of Buckingham commands it, but Massey will be the real leader of it; you have influence in this county, and will, I have no doubt, bring us many good hands.”

“Where is the Earl of Derby?”

“Joined us this morning; we have marched so quick that we have not had time to pick our adherents up.”

“And General Lesley?”

“Is by no means in good spirits: why I know not. We have too many ministers with his army, that is certain, and they do harm; but we cannot help ourselves. His majesty must be visible by this time; if you are ready I will introduce you; and when that is done we will talk matters over.”

General Middleton then walked with them to the house in which the king had taken up his quarters for the night; and after a few minutes’ waiting in the anteroom they were admitted into his presence.

“Allow me, your majesty,” said General Middleton, after the first salutations, “to present to you Major Chaloner, whose father’s name is not unknown to you.”

“On the contrary, well-known to us,” replied the king, “as a loyal and faithful subject, whose loss we must deplore. I have no doubt that his son inherits his courage and his fidelity.”

The king held out his hand, and Chaloner bent his knee and kissed it.

“And now, your majesty will be surprised that I should present to you one of a house supposed to be extinct—the eldest son of Colonel Beverley.”

“Indeed!” replied his majesty; “I heard that all his family perished at the ruthless burning of Arnwood. I hold myself fortunate, as a king, that even one son of so loyal and brave a gentleman as Colonel Beverley has escaped. You are welcome, young sir—most welcome to us; you must be near us; the very name of Beverley will be pleasing to our ears by night or day.”

Edward knelt down and kissed his majesty’s hand, and the king said—

“What can we do for a Beverley? Let us know, that we may show our feelings towards his father’s memory?”

“All I request is, that your majesty will allow me to be near you in the hour of danger,” replied Edward.

“A right Beverley reply,” said the king, “and so we shall see to it, Middleton.”

After a few more courteous words from his majesty they withdrew; but General Middleton was recalled by the king for a minute or two to receive his commands. When he rejoined Edward and Chaloner, he said to Edward—

“I have orders to send in for his majesty’s signature your commission as captain of horse, and attached to the king’s personal staff; it is a high compliment to the memory of your father, sir, and, I may add, your own personal appearance. Chaloner will see to your uniforms and accoutrements; you are well mounted, I believe you have no time to lose, as we march to-morrow for Warrington, in Cheshire.”

“Has anything been heard of the Parliamentary army?”

“Yes; they are on the march towards London by the Yorkshire road, intending to cut us off if they can. And now, gentlemen, farewell; for I have no idle time, I assure you.”

Edward was soon equipped, and now attended upon the king. When they arrived at Warrington they found a body of horse drawn up to oppose their passage onwards. These were charged, and fled with a trifling loss; and as they were known to be commanded by Lambert, one of Cromwell’s best generals, there was great exultation in the king’s army; but the fact was that Lambert had acted upon Cromwell’s orders, which were, to harass and delay the march of the king as much as possible, but not to risk with his small force anything like an engagement. After this skirmish it was considered advisable to send back the Earl of Derby and many other officers of importance into Lancashire, that they might collect the king’s adherents in that quarter and in Cheshire. Accordingly the earl, with about two hundred officers and gentlemen, left the army with that intention. It was then considered that it would be advisable to march the army direct to London; but the men were so fatigued with the rapidity of the march up to the present time, and the weather was so warm, that it was decided in the negative; and as Worcester was a town well affected to the king, and the country abounded with provisions, it was resolved that the army should march there, and wait for English reinforcements. This was done; the city opened the gates with every mark of satisfaction, and supplied the army with all that it required. The first bad news which reached them was the dispersion and defeat of the whole of the Earl of Derby’s party by a regiment of militia, which had surprised them at Wigan during the night, when they were all asleep, and had no idea that any enemy was near to them. Although attacked at such a disadvantage, they defended themselves till a large portion of them were killed, and the remainder were taken prisoners, and most of them brutally put to death. The Earl of Derby was made a prisoner, but not put to death with the others.

“This is bad news, Chaloner,” said Edward.

“Yes; it is more than bad,” replied the latter; “we have lost our best officers, who never should have left the army; and now, the consequences of the defeat will be that we shall not have any people coming forward to join us. The winning side is the right side in this world; and there is more evil than that: the Duke of Buckingham has claimed the command of the army, which the king has refused; so that we are beginning to fight among ourselves. General Lesley is evidently dispirited, and thinks bad of the cause. Middleton is the only man who does his duty. Depend upon it we shall have Cromwell upon us before we are aware of it; and we are in a state of sad confusion—officers quarrelling, men disobedient, much talking, and little doing. Here we have been five days, and the works, which have been proposed to be thrown up as defences, not yet begun.”

“I cannot but admire the patience of the king, with so much to harass and annoy him.”

“He must be patient, perforce,” replied Chaloner; “he plays for a crown, and it is a high stake; but he cannot command the minds of men, although he may the persons. I am no croaker, Beverley; but this I do say, that if we succeed with this army, as it is at present disorganised, we shall perform a miracle.”

“We must hope for the best,” replied Edward; “common danger may cement those who would otherwise be asunder; and when they have the army of Cromwell before them, they may be induced to forget their private quarrels and jealousies and unite in the good cause.”

“I wish I could be of your opinion, Beverley,” replied Chaloner; “but I have mixed with the world longer than you have, and I think otherwise.”

Several more days passed, during which no defences were thrown up, and the confusion and quarrelling in the army continued to increase, until at last news arrived that Cromwell was within half a day’s march of them, and that he had collected all the militia on his route, and was now in numbers nearly double to those in the king’s army. All was amazement and confusion—nothing had been done—no arrangements had been made—and Chaloner told Edward that all was lost if immediate steps were not taken.

On the 3rd of October the army of Cromwell appeared in sight. Edward had been on horseback, attending the king, for the best part of the night; the disposition of the troops had been made as well as it could; and it was concluded, as Cromwell’s army remained quiet, that no attempt would be made on that day. About noon the king returned to his lodging, to take some refreshment after his fatigue. Edward was with him; but before an hour had passed the alarm came that the armies were engaged. The king mounted his horse, which was ready saddled at the door; but before he could ride out of the city he was met and nearly beaten back by the whole body almost of his own cavalry, who came running on with such force that he could not stop them. His majesty called to several of the officers by name, but they paid no attention; and so great was the panic, that both the king, and his staff who attended him, were nearly overthrown and trampled under foot.

Cromwell had passed a large portion of his troops over the river without the knowledge of his opponents, and when the attack was made in so unexpected a quarter a panic ensued. Where General Middleton and the Duke of Hamilton commanded, a very brave resistance was made; but Middleton being wounded, and the Duke of Hamilton having had his leg taken off by a round shot, and many gentlemen having fallen, the troops, deserted by the remainder of the army, at last gave way, and the rout was general, the foot throwing away their muskets before they were discharged.

His majesty rode back into the town and found a body of horse, who had been persuaded by Chaloner to make a stand. “Follow me,” said his majesty, “we will see what the enemy are about. I do not think they pursue, and if so, we may yet rally from this foolish panic.”

His majesty, followed by Edward, Chaloner, and several of his personal staff, then galloped out to reconnoitre; but to his mortification he found that the troops had not followed him, but gone out of the town by the other gate, and that the enemy’s cavalry in pursuit were actually in the town. Under such circumstances, by the advice of Chaloner and Edward, his majesty withdrew, and turning his horse’s head he made all haste to leave Worcester. After several hours’ riding, the king found himself in company of about 4000 of the cavalry who had so disgracefully fled; but they were still so panic-struck that he could put no confidence in them, and having advised with those about him he resolved to quit them. This he did without mentioning his intentions to any of his staff, not even Chaloner or Edward, leaving at night with two of his servants, whom he dismissed as soon as it was daylight, considering that his chance of escape would be greater if he was quite alone.

It was not till next morning that the troops discovered that the king had left them, and then they determined to separate, and as the major portion were from Scotland to make what haste they could back to that country. And now Chaloner and Edward consulted as to their plans.

“It appears to me,” said Edward, laughing, “that the danger of this campaign of ours will consist in getting back again to our own homes; for I can most safely assert that I have not as yet struck a blow for the king.”

“That is true enough, Beverley. When do you purpose going back to the New Forest? I think, if you will permit me, I will accompany you,” said Chaloner. “All the pursuit will be to the northward to intercept and overtake the retreat into Scotland. I cannot therefore go to Lancashire; and indeed, as they know that I am out, they will be looking for me everywhere.”

“Then come with me,” said Edward; “I will find you protection till you can decide what to do. Let us ride on away from this, and we will talk over the matter as we go; but depend upon it, the farther south we get the safer we shall be; but still not safe, unless we can change our costume. There will be a strict search for the king to the south, as they will presume that he will try to get safe to France. Hark! What is that? I heard the report of arms. Let us ride up this hill and see what is going on.”

They did so, and perceived that there was a skirmish between a party of Cavaliers and some of the Parliamentary cavalry at about a quarter of a mile distant.

“Come, Chaloner, let us at all events have one blow,” said Edward.

“Agreed,” replied Chaloner, spurring his horse; and down they went at full speed, and in a minute were in the mêlée, coming on the rear of the Parliamentary troops.

This sudden attack from behind decided the affair. The Parliamentary troopers, thinking that there were wore than two coming upon them, made off after another minute’s combat, leaving five or six of their men on the ground.

“Thanks, Chaloner thanks, Beverley!” said a voice, which they immediately recognised. It was that of one of the king’s pages. “These fellows with me were just about to run if you had not come to our aid. I will remain with them no longer, but join you if you will permit me.”

“At all events remain here till they go away—I will send them off.”

“My lads, you must all separate, or there will be no chance of escape. No more than two should ride together. Depend upon it we shall have more of the troops here directly.”

The men, about fifteen in number, who had been in company with Grenville, considered that Chaloner’s advice was good, and without ceremony set off with their horses’ heads to the northward, leaving Chaloner, Edward, and Grenville together on the field of the affray. A dozen men were lying on the ground, either dead or severely wounded; seven of them were of the king’s party, and the other five of the Parliamentary troops.

“Now what I propose,” said Edward, “is this,—let us do what we can for those who are wounded, and then strip off the dresses and accoutrements of those Parliamentary dragoons who are dead, and dress ourselves in them, accoutrements and all. We can then pass through the country in safety, as we shall be supposed to be one of the parties looking for the king.”

“That is a good idea,” replied Chaloner, “and the sooner it is done the better.”

“Well,” said Edward, wiping his sword, which he still held drawn, and then sheathing it, “I will take the spoils of this fellow nearest to me: he fell by my hand, and I am entitled to them by all the laws of war and chivalry; but first let us dismount and look to the wounded.”

They tied their horses to a tree, and having given what assistance they could to the wounded men, they proceeded to strip three of the Parliamentary troopers; and then, laying aside their own habiliments, they dressed themselves in the uniform of the enemy, and mounting their horses made all haste from the place. Having gained about twelve miles, they pulled up and rode at a more leisurely pace. It was now eight o’clock in the evening, but still not very dark; they therefore rode on another five miles, till they came to a small village, where they dismounted at an ale-house, and put their horses into the stable.

“We must be insolent and brutal in our manners, or we shall be suspected.”

“Very true,” said Grenville, giving the ostler a kick and telling him to bestir himself if he did not want his ears cropped.

They entered the ale-house, and soon found out they were held in great terror. They ordered everything of the best to be produced, and threatened to set fire to the house if it was not; they turned the man and his wife out of their bed, and all three went to sleep in it; and, in short, they behaved in such an arbitrary manner that nobody doubted that they were Cromwell’s men. In the morning they set off again, by Chaloner’s advice paying for nothing that they had ordered, although they had all of them plenty of money. They now rode fast, inquiring at the places which they passed through whether any fugitives had been seen, and if they came to a town, inquiring, before they entered, whether there were any Parliamentary troops. So well did they manage, that after four days they had gained the skirts of the New Forest, and concealed themselves in a thicket till night-time, when Edward proposed that he should conduct his fellow-travellers to the cottage, where he would leave them till his plans were arranged.

Edward had already arranged his plans. His great object was to ward off any suspicion of where he had been, and of course any idea that the Intendant had been a party to his acts; and the fortunate change of his dress enabled him now to do so with success. He had decided to conduct his two friends to the cottage that night, and the next morning to ride over in his Parliamentary costume to the Intendant’s house, and bring the first news of the success of Cromwell and the defeat at Worcester; by which stratagem it would appear as if he had been with the Parliamentary, and not with the Royalist army.

As they had travelled along, they found that the news of Cromwell’s success had not yet arrived: in those times there was not the rapidity of communication that we now have, and Edward thought it very probable that he would be the first to communicate the intelligence to the Intendant and those who resided near him.

As soon as it was dusk the three travellers left their retreat, and, guided by Edward, soon arrived at the cottage. Their appearance at first created no little consternation, for Humphrey and Pablo happened to be in the yard when they heard the clattering of the swords and accoutrements, and through the gloom observed, as they advanced, that the party were troopers. At first Humphrey was for running on and barring the door, but, on a second reflection, he felt that he could not do a more imprudent thing, if there was danger; and he therefore contented himself with hastily imparting the intelligence to his sisters, and then remaining at the threshold to meet the coming of the parties. The voice of Edward calling him by name dissipated all alarm, and in another minute he was in the arms of his brother and sisters.

“First let us take our horses to the stable, Humphrey,” said Edward, after the first greeting was over, “and then we will come and partake of anything that Alice can prepare for us, for we have not fared over well for the last three days.”

Accompanied by Humphrey and Pablo, they all went to the stables, and turned out the ponies to make room for the horses; and as soon as they were all fed and littered down they returned to the cottage, and Chaloner and Grenville were introduced. Supper was soon on the table, and they were too hungry to talk while they were eating, so but little information was gleaned from them that night. However, previous to Alice and Edith leaving the room to prepare beds for the newcomers, Humphrey ascertained that all was lost, and that they had escaped from the field. When the beds were ready, Chaloner and Grenville retired, and then Edward remained half an hour with Humphrey, to communicate to him what had passed. Of course he could not enter into detail; but told him that he would get information from their new guests after he had left, which he must do early in the morning.

“And now, Humphrey, my advice is this: My two friends cannot remain in this cottage, for many reasons; but we have the key of Clara’s cottage, and they can take up their lodging there, and we can supply them with all they want until they find means of going abroad, which is their intention. I must be off to the Intendant’s to-morrow, and the day after I will come over to you. In the meantime our guests can remain here, while you and Pablo prepare the cottage for them; and when I return everything shall be settled, and we will conduct them to it. I do not think there is much danger of their being discovered while they remain there, certainly not so much as if they were here; for we must expect parties of troops in every direction now, as they were when the king’s father made his escape from Hampton Court. And now to bed, my good brother; and call me early, for I much fear that I shall not wake up, if you do not.”

The brothers then parted for the night.

The next morning, long before their guests were awake, Edward had been called by Humphrey, and found Pablo at the door with his horse. Edward, who had put on his Parliamentary accoutrements, bade a hasty farewell to them, and set off across the forest to the house of the Intendant, where he arrived before they had left their bedrooms. The first person he encountered was, very fortunately, Oswald, who was at his cottage-door. Edward beckoned to him, being then about one hundred yards off; but Oswald did not recognise him at first, and advanced towards him in a very leisurely manner, to ascertain what the trooper might wish to inquire. But Edward called him Oswald, and that was sufficient. In few words Edward told him how all was lost, and how he had escaped by changing clothes with one of the enemy.

“I am now come to bring the news to the Intendant, Oswald. You understand me, of course?”

“Of course I do, Master Edward, and will take care that it is well-known that you have been fighting by the side of Cromwell all this time. I should recommend you to show yourself in this dress for the remainder of the day, and then every one will be satisfied. Shall I go to the Intendant’s before you?”

“No, no, Oswald; the Intendant does not require me to be introduced to him, of course. I must now gallop up to his house and announce myself. Farewell for the present—I shall see you during the day.”

Edward put spurs to his horse, and arrived at the Intendant’s at full speed, making no small clattering in the yard below as he went in, much to the surprise of Sampson, who came out to ascertain what was the cause, and who was not a little surprised at perceiving Edward, who threw himself off the horse, and desiring Sampson to take it to the stable, entered the kitchen, and disturbed Phoebe, who was preparing breakfast. Without speaking to her, Edward passed on to the Intendant’s room, and knocked.

“Who is there?” said the Intendant.

“Edward Armitage,” was the reply, and the door was opened. The Intendant started back at the sight of Edward in the trooper’s costume.

“My dear Edward, I am glad to see you in any dress; but this requires explanation. Sit down and tell me all.”

“All is soon told, sir,” replied Edward, taking off his iron skull-cap, and allowing his hair to fall down on his shoulders.

He then, in few words, stated what had happened, and by what means he had escaped, and the reason why he had kept on the trooper’s accoutrements and made his appearance in them.

“You have done very prudently,” replied the Intendant, “and you have probably saved me; at all events you have warded off all suspicion, and those who are spies upon me will now have nothing to report except to my favour. Your absence has been commented upon, and made known at high quarters, and suspicion has arisen in consequence. Your return as one of the Parliamentary forces will now put an end to all ill-natured remarks. My dear Edward, you have done me a service. As my secretary, and having been known to have been a follower of the Beverleys, your absence was considered strange, and it was intimated at high quarters that you had gone to join the king’s forces, and that with my knowledge and consent. This I have from Langton; and it has in consequence injured me not a little: but now your appearance will make all right again. Now we will first to prayers, and then to breakfast; and after that we will have a more detailed account of what has taken place since your departure. Patience and Clara will not be sorry to recover their companion; but how they will like you in that dress I cannot pretend to say. However, I thank God that you have returned safe to us; and I shall be most happy to see you once more attend in the more peaceful garb of a secretary.”