Collected works of j s f.., p.46
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 46
“Why, man, what breach of the peace have we committed? We are in the right; ’tis they who are in the wrong, rebels and traitors that they are!”
“Yea, surely,” said Jack, “but they have might on their side, and might, they say, is right all the world over. However, what care I? When I elected to fight, I did not expect to fight with a branch of asphodel. Let us be as content as possible. If we had somewhat to sit upon, and a little food and drink, I could live till morning.”
Now, it appeared as if our captors were going to leave us in that dark and uncomfortable lodging all night, for what seemed to be a long space of time went by before we heard aught of any of them. But at last, when we had despaired of any succour, the noise of a bolt and chain greeted our ears, and suddenly a door, somewhat above our heads, was opened, and a light streamed in upon us, revealing the figures of the choleric magistrate who had captured us, and of two or three of his men. This small group looked down upon us with something of triumph in their faces.
“So, my fine birds,” quoth his worship, “so ye are caged at last, and are like to have your wings clipped. A pretty pass we are come to when such as ye incite honest citizens to war and bloodshed!”
“Sir,” said Philip Lisle, “I am an officer holding His Majesty’s commission, and—”
But at this he was interrupted by a burst of violent laughter.
“Yes, indeed?” said the old man. “Thou art a noted highwayman, robber, and thief, fellow. An officer, eh? Methinks the King would have done better to set apart some officer to see justice done upon thee at Tyburn. And you, Master Dale, a respectable yeoman, how can you associate yourself with folk like these? Fie on you, Master Dale!”
“Sir,” I said, “I know not what you mean, but I am very sure that I shall punish those who have placed me here. Let us go at once about· our liberty, sir. You have no right to detain us.”
“Nay,” quoth he, “if we have not right, we have power. We are for the Commonwealth in this town, lads, and will have no Star Chamber spies amongst us. Fie on you, Master Dale! And you, John Drumbleforth, fie on you! A parson’s son, and thus early led astray. But what can ye expect? These parsons are but wolves that rob the starved sheep, and their brood is no better.”
“Sir,” said Jack, “if you refer to my father, I make free to tell you that you are a liar. For my father is as good a shepherd as ever wore cassock and bands, though indeed he prayeth not at the street-corners, as I hear your worship is fond of doing.”
Now, it would appear that the worthy man was somewhat used to air his religion, so that Jack touching him in a tender spot, he presently withdrew in a great passion, bidding his men bolt and chain us up again until our proud stomachs were cooled. Which they with alacrity did, so that we were once more left to the damp and darkness of the cellar.
This sad fate seemed peculiarly hard to Jack and to myself, who had never known what it was to have key turned upon us in our lives, and who were, moreover, not accustomed to be treated in such summary-fashion. The sound of the bolting and chaining of our prison-door grated very harshly upon our ears, and when the sound had died away and all was silent, we each gave vent to a dismal sigh.
“Nay, lads,” said Philip Lisle, “you must not give way at a trifling matter like this. What! ’tis nothing to be shut up in a hole like this for an hour or two.”
“With submission, sir,” said Jack, “it seems to me a good deal, and your hour or two is like to be all night at least. Moreover, where are we going to find food and light? A comfortable night’s lodging we are like to have, upon my word!”
“Courage, Jack,” said I. “We shall manage to keep ourselves alive, I doubt not. I pray there be no rats in these cellars.”
“Rats!” said Jack. “Ah! I see how it is. We are to be eaten alive. These cellars, now — it seems to me, Will, that I remember something of them in our schooldays.”
“Why, of course, Jack. Do you not remember Samuel Penn, the stout lad, whose father kept the cooper’s shop over against the Cross? We played many a game of hide-and-seek with Sam under that shop. Five or six doors away from this it is, and I warrant these are similar cellars. If so, we might wander in here a good while ere we came at an end.”
Which was true enough, for the cellars under those ancient houses in the Marketplace at Pontefract are so extensive in size that you might easily mistake them for natural caverns. They are all hewn out of the solid rock, and have so many twistings and turnings and odd nooks and corners, that one might hide there with safety from a foe. Some of them, again, are connected by secret passages with various parts of the town, such as the Castle and the Priory of the White Friars, while others have secret staircases by which men could escape to the roof and leave no one the wiser. Designed for safety and protection they doubtless were in the ancient days, and being underground, they are still in the same condition as they were two hundred years ago.
Now, after we had remained some time in his worship’s cellar, we began to grow very weary, and would fain have reposed ourselves if there had been aught to sit upon.
“What scurvy dogs are these,” said Jack, “that will not give an honest enemy so much as a three-legged stool to sit upon! I never remember my legs aching so much before.”
“I am going to sit on the floor, lads,” said Philip, “and I advise you to follow my example. Take off your doublets and fold them into a cushion on which to sit. It will at least keep the damp away from you somewhat.”
“What!” said Jack. “So we are to sit upon our doublets all night, like a tailor on a table, without support for back or head. Fine work truly! However, we will lay it up against master magistrate, and charge him royally for it when paytime comes.”
Now, it seemed to me that we should be much more comfortable if we all sat back to back, so that each would lean against the other. Which plan I proposed and carried out, so that in a few minutes we were all sitting in a triangle on the cellar floor, with our knees drawn up to our chins. And after that the night seemed to pass on slowly indeed.
It might be about midnight, though indeed it seemed to me and my companions much later, when I became conscious — for I had dozed somewhat — of a very low voice whispering to us through the darkness —
“Hist! hist! hist!”
“Who calls?” I said in a low voice.
“Is it thee, Will?” whispered a familiar voice.
“Yes, and here is Jack and Master Lisle,” said I.
“’Tis I, Ben Tuckett,” said the low voice. “Are you watched at all, Will?”
“Nay,” I said, “there is naught to see us by here. Where are you, good Ben?”
“Hush!” said he. “I will show a light.” Presently there was a faint glimmer of light through a niche above the wall at our right-hand side. We rose from our cramped position and drew near to it.
“There is a door here,” whispered Ben through the crack, “if only I can find the spring. Ye see, lads, his worship’s shop is next to mine, so when I heard that he had thrown you into his cellar and meant to detain you there all night, I came down into my own cellar and began searching about for this door, of which I had heard. Beshrew me! ’tis mighty hard to push back this same spring in the wall. Ah! there it is — but come forth quietly, gentlemen, for I would not have them know how you got out for all I am worth.”
While he spoke he had found the spring and caused the stone to revolve, and we now passed out through a narrow slit in the wall and found ourselves in worthy Ben Tuckett’s cellar, and at liberty once more.
CHAPTER XVI.
OF OUR FLIGHT FROM THAT NEIGHBOURHOOD.
NOW, when he had brought us into a place of safety, and had seen us lodged in somewhat more comfortable fashion than that we had lately enjoyed, our deliverer sat himself down before us, and looked at us with a severe countenance. “Gentlemen,” said Ben, “you have truly brought misfortune upon yourselves, if not upon others. Did I not tell you that you would get sore heads if you strove to further the King’s cause in this place? Was I not right? For sore heads you have, if I mistake not; and as for me, here I am helping ye to sneak out of my neighbour’s cellar as if we were all thieves.”
“Peace, thou chattering knave!” said Jack. “Thieves, indeed! Why, Master Ben, what does this mean?”
“Like thieves, I said, Jack. Alas! you do not know what risks I am running, for the folk here are so bitter against Strafford and the Star Chamber that they would never buy of me again an it were known that I am a Royalist. For a Royalist I am, lads, if I am aught.”
“Dear lad,” said I, earnestly, “be whatever you please, Royalist or Roundhead, but at present, for the love of Heaven, give us something to eat and drink, for we are nigh famished. At least,” I added, “I am, whatever my companions are.”
“Famished am I,” said Jack. “Hast got by any chance, Ben, a meat-pie? A meat-pie — with eggs, hah? And ale, Ben — a large can of ale.”
“Why,” said Ben, scratching his left ear as if the matter perplexed him, “I dare say I could find something of that sort, but, lads, how shall I hide your presence from my household? There are two ‘prentices upstairs that might perhaps keep the thing secret, but the housekeeper — alack, she would noise it abroad in a moment, and then where should we all be?”
“Show me the way to the pantry,” said Jack. “Let me fend for myself.”
“Why,” said Ben, still scratching his ear, “if you could put up without forks and plates, and could all drink out of one horn—”
“Good Ben,” said Jack, “only produce the food and drink, and we will show thee what we can do without. Man, ’tis twelve hours since bite or sup passed these lips.”
Thus adjured, Ben went softly away to visit his larder, and ere long returned bearing a huge pasty of meat and a great jack full of ale, at sight of which Jack’s eyes glistened exceedingly, as no doubt did my own also. And after that there was silence for a space, during which our jaws made up for what our tongues lacked. As for myself, I was as hungry as a hunter, and felt greatly relieved when I had eaten and drunk. Then, too, I felt my spirits revive, and longed to meet the mob once more by whose overpowering numbers we had been beaten down and forced into the magistrate’s cellar.
“Ah!” said Jack, having swallowed the last mouthful of ale from the can, “I am myself once more. After all, there is naught like food and drink for setting a man up again. Master Lisle, how is it with you?”
“My head rings, Jack, my head rings yet. There is a lump the size of a hen’s egg on the back of it. However, let us be thankful. We have escaped, thanks to worthy Master Tuckett here.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ben, “I want no thanks. ’Twas well for you I knew the little secret. But now, lads, what are you going to do?”
“Do! Ride home at once,” said I.
“Ride home? But they have placed your horses under lock and key.”
Now, we had never thought of what might become of our horses, and when Ben gave us this news we looked at each other in amazement. Philip Lisle, indeed, jumped to his feet as if he would at once go forth to release his own animal.
“Perdition seize them!” said he. “I am naught without my horse, old as he is. He and I have had many a narrow shave, and have escaped all dangers. Where have they stowed our horses, Master Tuckett?”
“Nay,” said Ben, “they are where you left them — at the Peck of Malt, but master landlord has had orders to give them to nobody save a magistrate’s man. Under lock and key they are at this moment.”
“Oh!” said Philip Lisle, “an that be all, we shall not have much trouble in releasing them. If you, Will, can show me the ins and outs of the place, I will engage to have them under us in half an hour.”
“And where will you go then?” asked Ben.
“To Dale’s Field,” said I.
“Better not at present,” said he. “For I heard to-night that they have sent there to search for papers, and it might go ill with you to present yourselves there. They have some mighty grievance against you, Master Lisle, and indeed I heard certain persons swear that you should hang ere two days went by, which God forfend, for ’tis a poor death.”
“Bah!” said Philip Lisle. “The rope is not spun, good Ben, that will hang me. However, Will, what Ben says is good. Let us absent ourselves for a while from this part of the country and return later on. What say you; and you, Jack, what have you to say?”
“I am good for anything,” said Jack. “It matters not to me whether we are here or there.”
“But what shall we do about those at home?” I inquired. “How can we leave them? Who knows, indeed, what may have happened already?”
“Nay, man, let them search for what papers they will. They will find naught at Dale’s Field, either of yours or mine. And I will not believe that Englishmen will cause trouble to innocent women. When they find naught they will go away and leave the house in peace.”
“But they will not leave you in peace,” said Ben, “for I heard that they were determined, being strong Parliamentarians, to put a stop to your recruiting tactics, Master Lisle. So therefore I say — take yourselves to some safe place for a season.”
“To the King’s camp!” said Philip.
“Agreed,” said Jack. “Come, Will, in for a penny, in for a pound. Let us with Master Lisle to the King and see what we can do there. You can return soon if you think it well.”
Now, my blood was somewhat heated by the exciting adventure of the day, and I felt mightily inclined to fall in with Philip Lisle’s counsel. I knew that Ben Tuckett would see to the safety of my mother and sister and of Rose Lisle, and as to the farm, my mother and Jacob Trusty would manage that. However I did not anticipate any trouble in our neighbourhood, for I felt sure that matters would soon settle themselves, seeing that we were not fond of war and liked trading and money-making mightily better.
“Well,” said I, “then I will go with you, but I shall hold myself free to return homewards whenever I please. But now, gentlemen, there are our horses to consider. Are we to leave them where they are, and if so, how are we to get away on foot?”
But it was out of the question that we should leave the horses. Philip Lisle, indeed, would not have left Cæsar for all the gold of Peru, and as the other two beasts were mine — one of them my own mount and the other lent to Jack — I did not feel inclined to surrender them to people who had no right to their custody. So we immediately set to work making some plan whereby we could rescue the three animals from the stable where they were secured.
“I am not fond of fighting,” said Ben Tuckett, “but I am a rare hand at a plot. Gentlemen, harken to me. Jack, you know the house that lies amongst the trees, ‘twixt here and Carleton, at the corner of the lane leading from Baghill?”
“Truly,” said Jack; “old Master Hull lives there.”
“That he doth not, because he is dead this three weeks, wherefore the house is shut up and desolate. Now, Jack, I will let thee out through my garden here at the back, and you must take Master Lisle across the fields beneath Friars’ Wood and lie by that house until Will and I bring the horses to you, which I promise you we will not be long in doing. And now, friends, you shall have another mouthful of ale and then away.”
Now, our task in getting easily away from Ben Tuckett’s house was a light one, for those ancient houses in the market-place have long outbuildings and gardens in their rear, and at the foot of them is Southgate, and beyond that there lies a stretch of open country, dipping down into a valley and then rising again until it reaches the village of Carleton a mile away. Across the garden and fields it would be easy enough to steal unobserved, and thereafter we should have no difficulty in riding away. To secure our cattle, however, was a difficult matter, for they were lodged at an inn which stood right in the heart of the town and were, therefore, hard to come at. Nevertheless we were determined not to leave them without a struggle.
Presently, then, Ben conducted Jack Drumbleforth and Philip Lisle out through his rear premises and set them across the fields to the house lately occupied by Master Hull. A fairly dark night it was by good chance, and therefore gave us all the better prospect of escape. It was past midnight when Ben came back from letting them out at the rear gate, and everything was quiet as the grave.
“Now, Will,” said he, “we will go out by the same way, for it will not do for me to unbar my front door at this time o’ night. Let us pass round the town to Church Lane and there see how the land lies.”
So we stole forth, climbing more than one garden wall in our desire to keep concealed from the sight of any who might be about at that hour, and presently we got round to the north side of the Market-place and went quietly up the narrow lane that leads by St. Giles’ Church. In this lane were the stables which held our beasts, and as the lane itself was paved with rough boulders it was quite impossible to bring them out by that way.
Arrived in front of the stables we held a council of war. There was evidently no one on guard; they had contented themselves with locking the horses in a separate stable. Our work, then, was to find some means of picking the lock and afterwards getting the animals out without awakening the people of the inn.
“This is the stable,” said Ben, whispering with his lips close to my ear. “I sent one of my ‘prentices round when I heard they had seized your horses, and bade him find out which they were confined in. This it is — the door next to the great water-butt.”
“But how shall we pick the lock, Ben?”
“I have the necessary implements under my cloak.”
“But once inside how can we bring out the horses without noise? Their feet will raise a clatter on these cobbles.”
“I am not sure,” said Ben, “but I have an idea that from this stable there is a door into a fold beyond. If it be so we can get away easily, Will. But if not — why, we must chance cobble-stones and everything and ride for it?”
While Ben spoke he had pulled out a great chisel, with which he forced out the staple to which the padlock was attached in the stable door, so that we entered very easily, and presently stood by the horses, who were quiet and peaceful, as though they knew themselves to be in prison.
