Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet

Volume Three – Chapter Seven

About an hour after the recapture of Henry Holtspur, two men might have been seen descending the long slope of Red Hill, in the direction of Uxbridge.

They were both men of large stature – one of them almost gigantic. They were on horseback: the younger of the two bestriding a good steed, while his older and more colossal companion was mounted upon as sorry a jade as ever set hoof upon a road.

The first, booted and spurred, with a plumed hat upon his head, and gauntlets upon his wrists, in the obscure light might have been mistaken for a cavalier. When the moon made its appearance from behind the clouds – which happened at intervals – a certain bizarrerie about his costume forbade the supposition; and the stalwart form and swarth visage of Gregory Garth were then too conspicuous to escape recognition, by any acquaintance he might have encountered upon the road.

The more rustic garb of his travelling companion – as well as the figure it enveloped – could with equal facility be identified as belonging to Dick Dancey, the deer-stealer.

The presence of these two worthies on horseback, and riding towards Uxbridge, was not without a purpose, presently to be explained.

The cuirassiers had been astray in conjecturing that the noises heard in Wapsey’s Wood proceeded from a gang of gipsies. It was nothing of the kind. What they heard was simply Gregory Garth engaged in the performance of that promise he had made in the morning. Although he did not carry out his threat to the exact letter, he executed it in the spirit; taking his departure from the bedside of Will Walford, only after every bone in the woodman’s body had been made to taste the quality of the cudgel expressly cut for the occasion.

It is possible that Will Walford’s punishment might have been still more severe, but that his castigator was pressed for time – so much so, that he left the wretch without releasing him, with a set of suffering bones, and a skin that exhibited all the colours of the rainbow.

After thus settling accounts with the “tree-tur,” as he called him, Garth had thrown away his holly stick, and hastened back to the road.

Under the supposition that Holtspur was by that time advanced some distance towards Beaconsfield, he hurried on to overtake him.

The moon was shining full upon the track; and in the dust, which the rain had recently converted into mud, the ex-footpad did not fail to perceive a number of footprints. In the exercise of his peculiar calling, he had been accustomed to note such signs, and had acquired a skill in their interpretation equal to that of a backwoods hunter.

Instantly he stopped, and commenced scrutinising the sign.

He was upon the spot where the capture had been accomplished. The footmarks of six or seven men – who had been springing violently from side to side – had left long slides and scratches in the damp dust. The tracks of the troopers were easily distinguished; and in their midst the more elegant imprint of a cavalier’s boot.

Garth needed no further evidence of the misfortune that had befallen. Beyond doubt his master had been once more made prisoner; and, cursing himself for being the cause, he mechanically traced the backward tracks – his despondent air proclaiming that he had but little hope of being able to effect a rescue.

Returning upon the traces of the cuirassier guards, he re-entered the park, and advanced towards the mansion – which the darkness enabled him to do with safety. There he had discovered Bet Dancey – a sorrowing penitent – prostrate upon the ground – where, in her distraction, she had thrown herself.

From the girl he had obtained confirmation of the recapture – though not the true cause either of that, or her own grief.

Her statement was simple. The guards had followed Master Holtspur; they had overtaken, overpowered, and brought him back; he was once more locked up within the store-room.

The hope, of again delivering him out of the hands of his enemies, might have appeared too slender to be entertained by any one; and for a time it did so – even to the unflinching spirit of his old retainer.

But the ex-footpad, when contemplating the chances of getting out of a prison, was not the man to remain the slave of despair – at least for any great length of time; and no sooner had he satisfied himself, that his master was once more encaged, than he set his wits freshly to work, to contrive some new scheme for his deliverance.

From the store-room, in which Holtspur was again confined, it would be no longer possible to extricate him. The trick, already tried, could not succeed a second time. Withers was the only one of the guards who might have been tempted; but after his affright, it was not likely that either the promise of kisses, or the proffer of gold pieces, would again seduce the sentry from the strict line of his duty.

But Garth did not contemplate any such repetition. An idea that promised a better chance of success had offered itself to his mind. To set free his master by strategy was henceforth plainly impracticable. Perhaps it might be done by strength?

Not in Bulstrode mansion – where the prisoner was surrounded by fourscore cuirassiers? No – clearly not. There could be no possibility of accomplishing a rescue there; nor did Gregory Garth give it a moment’s thought. His ideas became directed to the road that lay between the two prisons – the store-room and the Tower. He already knew that Holtspur was to be transferred from one to the other, and on the following day. During the transit, might there not be some chance of effecting a rescue?

Garth knew the London Road – every inch of it – and, in one way or other, was acquainted with most of the people who dwelt near it. Although upon an odd individual, here and there, he had practised his peculiar vocation, there were few with whom he was upon hostile terms. With many he held relations of friendship; and with a goodly number certain other relations, that should entitle him to an act of service at their hands.

With a plan – but still only half developed – he had once more hurried back along the Hedgerley Road, towards the rendezvous, where Dancey and the Indian had already arrived with the horses.

He found them waiting, and apprehensive; – almost expecting the sad tidings he had to communicate – the failure of their enterprise.

As Garth, during the backward tramp, had more definitely arranged his programme of action, there was no time wasted in consultation. Dancey readily consented to the proposal, to become his confederate in the scheme he had so promptly conceived.

Oriole having been directed to return to Stone Dean, the ex-footpad sprang upon his stolen steed; and, followed by the deer-stealer on his scraggy cob, at once started off along upon a bridle path, which winding around the southern boundary of Bulstrode Park, would bring them to the king’s highway, where the latter crossed over the elevated plain of Jarret’s Heath.

It is in pursuance of the scheme conceived by Garth, that he and his companion were descending Red Hill at that early hour of the morning.

Whithersoever bent, they were evidently in haste to reach their destination – more especially Garth, who was constantly urging his companion to keep up with him. The quadruped bestridden by the deer-stealer was the chief obstruction to their speed; and despite the frequent application of a stout stick, which his rider carried in hand, and the pricking of a rusty spur fastened upon his heel, the sorry hack could not be urged beyond a slow shuffling trot – discontinued the instant the stimulus of stick and spur were suspended.

“The devil burn your beest, Dancey!” cried the ex-footpad, losing all patience at the slow pace of the animal. “We’ll not ha’ nigh time enough to see them all. From what your daughter learnt yesterday, the sogers ’ll bring their prisoner down the road, the first thing in the mornin’. They’ll do that, so’s to make the journey to Lonnon afore night. No doubt about their gettin’ to Uxbridge by ten o’ the clock; an’ just see what we’ve got to do afore then. Stick the spur into him – up to the shank, Dancey! The lazy brute! I’d make ’im go, if I war astride o’ him.”

“The poor creetur!” compassionately rejoined Dancey, by way of an apology for his nag, “he han’t had a bite o’ any thin’ to eat for a week – ’ceptin’ what he ha’ grubbed off o’ the roadside. No wonder he bean’t much for a fast journey.”

“Lucky it isn’t a longish one. If we had Lonnon afore us we’d niver get there! As it is – ha! now I think on’t, I’ve got a idea as’ll save time. There be no use for us to keep thegither. You go round Denham way, an’ warn your friends there. You can cross the Colne higher up, an’ scud on to the Harefield fellows. I’ll take Uxbridge an’ Hillindon, and along in the Drayton direction. That’ll be our best plan. We can meet at the Rose and Crown, as soon as we’ve got through. I’ll go there first, so as to gi’e old Brownie a hint ’bout gettin’ his tap ready. Lucky I ha’ been able to borrow some money upon a watch I chanced upon – a tydish bit – else we mightn’t find these patriots so free to lend us a hand. I shall spend it all – every stiver o’t – for the rescue o’ Master Henry.”

“I han’t got nothin’ to spend, or I’d do the same for him,” returned the deer-stealer. “He be the best an’ liberallest gentleman ever coom about these parts – that be he.”

“You’re not far wrong about that, Master Dancey. Too good a gentleman to have his head chopped off for speakin’ no more than’s the truth; an’ we must do our best to help ’im keep it on his shoulders. There’s your road to Denham. Stick the spur into your blessed beast, an’ make him do his damnest. Be sure you meet me at the bridge – afore ten.”

And with these injunctions the ex-footpad separated from the deer-stealer – the latter turning off upon the lane which led to the village of Denham; while the former continued along the direct road towards the town of Uxbridge.

Volume Three – Chapter Eight

At that early hour all the world appeared to be asleep – silence and slumber having been seemingly restored to the lately disturbed inmates of Bulstrode mansion; though not all of these had been disturbed, by the occurrences we have described.

Happy in the thought of having humiliated his rival, and the hope of eventually crushing him altogether, Captain Scarthe had slept soundly throughout the whole night – little suspecting the series of incidents that were transpiring, some scarce a score of yards from his couch, and all within a mile’s circuit of the mansion.

Even after awaking, he was not informed of the various love interviews, hairbreadth escapes, and captures, that, during the after-hours of that eventful night had been following each other in such quick succession. The whole affair had been managed so silently that, beyond the six men comprising the guard, with the corporal himself, not another cuirassier knew of what had happened. Withers had taken care that the tongues of his comrades should be tied – a purpose he might not have succeeded in effecting, but for those golden pieces which the lady had so profusely poured into his palm, and of which he was now compelled to make a generous, though somewhat reluctant disbursement.

The result was, that at the changing of the guard, the prisoner was handed over to the relief, bound as before; and no one in the troop was made acquainted with the facts, either of his escape or recapture. The new guard entered upon its tour, undo the full belief, that their charge had spent the whole of the night within the precincts of his prison.

Of the several individuals who had been privy to his escape, there was only one who by daybreak still remained ignorant that he had been retaken. Marion slumbered till the morning, unconscious of the re-arrest of her lover, as Scarthe of his temporary deliverance. On parting with him, she had gone to her couch, though not directly. The noises heard without had made her uneasy; and, standing by a window on the stairway she had listened. She had heard voices of men – a woman’s as well – uttered in low tones; but soon after they had ceased. She knew it must be some of the guard, and the woman’s voice she could guess at; but, as so little disturbance had been made, she did not suspect that it was an alarm, or that they had yet discovered the absence of the prisoner from his place of confinement.

She listened for a long time. She even returned to the verandah door, opened it, looked out, and listened again. But all was quiet, outside as within; and supposing that the soldiers had returned into the courtyard, she at length re-entered her chamber, and sought repose upon her couch.

Her prolonged vigil, and its happy termination, favoured sleep; and at that moment, when Henry Holtspur was struggling in the grasp of the cuirassier guards, Marion Wade was dreaming a delightful dream of his delivery – in which she fancied herself enjoying over and over again that ecstatic interview that had succeeded it!

Her slumber, with its concomitant dream, was protracted far into the hours of daylight. Long as they had continued, both were destined to a rude interruption.

She was awakened by sounds without, betokening the presence of men under the window of her chamber. Horses, too – as could be told by the stamping of hooves upon the gravelled esplanade. Several distinct voices reached her ear – one louder than the rest – which was occasionally raised in abrupt accents of command; and once or twice in a tone altogether different – in laughter! Whichever way uttered, it sounded harsh in the hearing of Marion Wade: she knew it was Scarthe’s.

For what was the cuirassier captain abroad at so early an hour? Was it so early?

Her arm was extended from under the coverlet, white as the counterpane itself. Her jewelled watch was taken up from the tripod table on which it lay. Its dial was consulted: ten of the clock!

At the same instant, the hour was proclaimed in sonorous cadence from the tower o’ertopping the mansion.

It was not to assist her in conjecturing the purpose of that matutinal commotion that Marion had so eagerly glanced to the dial of her watch. After the events of the night, she could have had but one surmise: that Holtspur’s escape had been discovered; and the noises outside were made by those preparing to go off in pursuit of him. She had looked at her watch, to ascertain the time that had elapsed since Holtspur’s departure. She was gratified at perceiving the lateness of the hour.

But why did Scarthe appear to be so happy? Those peals of laughter were inappropriate to the occasion – proceeding from one who should have been suffering chagrin?

At the thought, Marion sprang from her couch, and glided towards the window. From that window, but the morning before, she had witnessed the most painful spectacle of her life. Very similar, and scarce less painful, was that which now greeted her glance: Henry Holtspur, bound upon the back of a horse, and encompassed by a troop of cuirassiers, who, in full armour, were keeping close guard upon him!

They were all mounted, with accoutrements and valises strapped to their saddles – as if ready for a journey. Scarthe himself a journey, pacing back and forth upon the gravelled walk; but in a costume that showed he had no intention to accompany the party, on whatever expedition it was bent. Cornet Stubbs was to be its leader. Mounted upon Holtspur’s steed, he was at that moment placing himself at the head of the troop, preliminary to commencing the march.

Marion had scarce time to take in the details of this tableau – equally unexpected and sad – when a bugle brayed out the signal, “Forward.” Its notes drowned the scream that escaped from her quivering lips, as the form of her beloved was ruthlessly borne away out of sight.

Nearly half an hour had elapsed before the confusion of ideas – consequent on such a painful scene – permitted on the part of Marion Wade, a return to anything like calm reflection. Even then her mind was still wandering amidst a maze of unavailing thoughts, when voices, again heard below, recalled her to the window.

She looked out as before. The tableau was changed from that she had already contemplated.

Only two individuals composed it – Scarthe and a stranger.

The latter was a man in civilian costume; but of a certain guise that betokened him to be in the service of the king. He was on horseback – his horse frothing, smoking, and panting, as if after a long gallop at top speed.

Scarthe was standing by the stirrup, listening to some communication which the rider appeared to impart – in a haste that proclaimed its importance.

Despite his earnestness, the stranger spoke in a low tone; but his voice ascending to the window of Marion’s chamber, was sufficiently loud for her to catch the significant words —

“Prisoner – rescue – Uxbridge!”

On hearing them, Scarthe was seen to spring back from the side of the horseman, with as much alertness as if the latter had aimed a blow at him!

Next moment, and, without even staying to make reply to the communication which the messenger had made, he rushed on towards the gate of the courtyard, loudly vociferating, “To horse – every man to horse!”

With that promptitude to which he had trained his troop, the cuirassiers were almost instantly in their saddles; and before Marion Wade could recover from the shock of this new surprise – more gratifying than that which had preceded it – she beheld Scarthe himself – enveloped in his steel armour – ride forth at the head of his troop; and go off at a gallop along the avenue leading out towards Uxbridge.

“A rescue – Uxbridge!” were the words that continued to echo in her ears, long after the trampling of the troopers’ horses had died away upon the distant road.

“God grant it may be true!” was her murmured response to that echo.

The excited suppliant did not content herself with this simple formulary of speech. Nudely kneeling upon the floor, her white arms crossed over her bosom, she breathed forth a prayer – a fervent, passionate prayer – invoking the protection of the God she loved, for the man she adored!

Volume Three – Chapter Nine

It was approaching the hour of ten, and Uxbridge was in the full tide of active life. More than the usual number of people appeared to be parading its streets; though no one seemed to know exactly why. It was not market-day; and the extra passengers sauntering along the footways, and standing by the corners, were not farmers. They appeared to be mostly common people – of the class of labourers, and artisans. They were not in holiday dresses; but in their ordinary every-day garb: as if they had been at work, and had abruptly “knocked off” to be present at some improvised spectacle – of which they had just received notice. The shoemaker was in his leathern apron, his hands sticky with wax; the blacksmith begrimed and sweating, as if fresh from the furnace; the miller’s man under a thick coating of flour-dust; and the butcher with breeches still reeking, as if recently come out from the slaughter-house.

A crowd had collected in front of the Rose and Crown, with groups stretching across the adjacent causeway; and to this point all the odd stragglers from the upper part of the town appeared tending.

Those who had already arrived there were exhibiting themselves in a jolly humour. The tavern tap was flowing freely; and scores of people were drinking at somebody’s expense; though at whose, nobody seemed either to know or care.

A tall, dark-complexioned man, oddly attired – assisted by the potmen of the establishment – was helping the crowd to huge tankards of strong ale, though he seemed more especially attentive to a score of stout fellows of various crafts and callings – several of whom appeared to be acquainted with him; and were familiarly accosting him by his name of “Greg’ry.”

Another individual, still taller and more robust – as also older – was assisting “Greg’ry” in distributing the good cheer; while the host of the inn – equally interested in the quick circulation of the can – was bustling about with a smile of encouragement to all customers who came near him.

It might have been noticed that the eyes of the revellers were, from time to time, turned towards the bridge – by which the road leading westward was carried across the Colne. There was nothing particular about this structure – a great elevated arch, supporting a narrow causeway, flanked by stone walls, which extended from the water’s edge some twenty or thirty yards along both sides of the road. The walls were still farther continued towards the town by a wooden paling, which separated the road from the adjoining meadows.

These, bordering both sides of the river, extended away towards the south-west, as far as the eye could reach.

Between the houses, and the nearer end of the bridge, intervened about a hundred yards of the highway, which lay directly under the eyes of the roistering crowd; but on the other side of the river, the road was not visible from the inn – being screened by the mason-work of the parapet, and the arched elevation of the causeway.

Neither on the road, nor the bridge, nor in the meadows below, did there appear aught that should have attracted the attention of the idlest loiterer; though it was evident from the glances occasionally cast westward over the water, that some object worth seeing was expected to show itself in that direction.

The expression upon the countenances of most was that of mere curiosity; but there were eyes among the crowd that betrayed a deeper interest – amounting almost to anxiety.

The tall man in odd apparel, with the bushy black whiskers, though bandying rough jests with those around him, and affecting to look gay, could be seen at intervals casting an eager look towards the bridge, and then communicating in whispers with the individual in the faded velveteens – who was well-known to most of the bystanders as “Old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer.”

“What be ye all gathered here about?” inquired a man freshly arrived in front of the inn. “Anything to be seen, masters?”

“That there be,” answered one of those thus interrogated. “Wait a bit and maybe you’ll see something worth seeing.”

“What might it be?”

“Dragoniers – royal soldiers of his Majesty the King.”

“Bah! what’s there in that to get up such a row for? One sees them now every day.”

“Ay, and once a day too often,” added a third speaker, who did not appear to be amongst the most loyal of His Majesty’s lieges.

“Ah! but you don’t see them every day as you will this morning – taking a prisoner to the Tower – a grand gentleman at that!”

“A prisoner! Who?”

A name was pronounced, or rather soubriquet: for it was by a phrase that the question was answered.

“The Black Horseman,” replied the man who had been questioned. “That’s the prisoner you shall see, master.”

The announcement might have caused a greater commotion among the spectators, but that most of those present had already learnt the object of the assemblage. The excitement that at that instant succeeded, sprang from a different cause. A man who had climbed up on the parapet of the bridge – and who had been standing with his face turned westward – was seen making a signal, which appeared to be understood by most of those around the inn. At the same instant, a crowd of boys, who had been sharing his view from the top of the wall, commenced waving their caps, and crying out “The horse sogers – the King’s Kewresseers! – they’re comin’ they’re comin’!”

The shouting was succeeded by a profound silence – the silence of expectation.

Soon after, plumes waving over steel helmets, then the helmets themselves, then glancing gorgets and breastplates, proclaimed the approach of a troop of cuirassiers.

They came filing between the walls of grey mason-work – their helmets, as they rose up one after another over the arched parapet, blazing under the bright sun, and dazzling the eyes of the spectators.

In the troop there were exactly a dozen horsemen, riding in files of two each; but the cavalcade counted fourteen – its leader making the thirteenth, while a man, not clad in armour, though in line among the rest, completed the number.

This last individual, although robed in rich velvet, and with all the cast of a cavalier, was attached to the troop in a peculiar manner. The attitude he held upon his horse – with hands bound behind his back, and ankles strapped to the girth of his saddle – told that he was of less authority than the humblest private in the rank. He was a prisoner.

He was not unknown to the people composing that crowd, into the midst of which his escort was advancing. The black horseman had ridden too often through the streets of Uxbridge, and held converse with its inhabitants, to pass them in such fashion, without eliciting glances of recognition and gestures of sympathy.

He was no longer astride his own noble steed, as well-known as himself; though the horse was there, with a rider upon his back who but ill became him.

This was the chief of the escort, Cornet Stubbs, who, an admirer of horse flesh, had that day committed an act of quiet confiscation.

Holtspur was between two of the troopers, about three or four files from the rear; while the cornet – somewhat conceited in the exercise of his conspicuous command – rode swaggeringly at the head. In this fashion, the glittering cavalcade crossed the causeway of the bridge, and advanced among the crowd – until its foremost files had penetrated to a point directly in front of the inn.

Stubbs had been scanning the countenance of the people as he rode in among them. He fancied he saw faces that frowned upon him; but these were few; and, on the whole, the assemblage seemed simply hilarious and cheerful.

It never occurred to him, that there could be any intention of interrupting his march. How could it? He presumed, that, as soon as his charger penetrated into the thick of the crowd, the individuals comprising it would spring quickly aside, and make way for him and his followers.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that on getting fairly in front of the inn, he found the passage blocked by human bodies – standing so densely across the street, that in order to avoid riding over them, he was compelled to bring his horse to a halt.

Just at that instant, a shout rose up around him – apparently intended as a cheer of congratulation to the soldiers; while a voice, louder than the rest, vociferated: “The King! the King! Down with disloyal knaves! Death to all traitors!”

There was a touch of irony in the tones; but it was too delicately drawn for the dull perception of Cornet Stubbs; and he interpreted the speeches, in their loyal and literal sense.

“My good friends!” he graciously replied, while a gratified expression stole over his stolid features, “Glad to find you in such good spirits. Am, by Ged!”

“Oh! we’re in the right spirit,” rejoined one. “You’ll see bye-and-bye. Come, master officer! have a drink. Let’s toast the king! You won’t object to that, I’m sure?”

“By no means,” replied Stubbs. “By no means. I should be most happy to drink with you; but you see, my friends, we’re on duty; and must not be detained – mustn’t, by Ged!”

“We won’t detain ye a minnit,” urged the first speaker – a stalwart blacksmith, as hard of face as his own hammer. “We won’t, by Ged!” added he in a tone which, coupled with the peculiar form of expression, led Stubbs to conceive some doubts about the sincerity of his proffered friendship.

“Look alive there, lads!” continued the village Vulcan. “Bring out the stingo, landlord! Some of your best wine for the officer; and your strongest home-brew for his brave men. Ding it – the day’s hot and dusty. You have a long ride atween this and Lunnun. You’ll feel fresher, after sluicin’ your throats with a can o’ our Uxbridge ale. Won’t ye, masters?”

The last appeal was made to the troopers; who, without making any verbal reply, signified by nods and other gestures, that they were nothing loath to accept the offer, without calling in question the brusquerie of him who made it.

Almost as if by enchantment a number of men, with drinking-vessels in their hands, appeared on both flanks of the mounted escort – each holding a cup, or can, temptingly before the eyes of a trooper.

These ready waiters were not the regular tapsters of the establishment, but men of other and different crafts: the shoemakers already spoken of, in their wax-smeared aprons – the millers in their snow-white jackets – the blacksmiths in the grimy garments – and the butchers redolent of suet.

Notwithstanding the sans façon of the invitation, and the odd apparel of the attendants, the liquor frothing up before their eyes, and within scenting distance of their nostrils, was too much for the troopers to withstand. A five miles’ ride along a hot and dusty road had brought them to that condition called “drouthy;” and, under such circumstances, it would not have been human nature to have denied themselves the indulgence of a drink, thus held, as it were, to their very lips.

It would not have been Scarthe’s cuirassiers to have done so; and, without waiting the word – either of permission or command – each trooper took hold of the can nearest to his hand; and, raising it to his lips, cried out: “The King!”

The crowd echoed the loyal sentiment; while the improvised cup-bearers – as if still further to testify their respect – took hold of the bridles of the horses, and kept them quiet, in order that their riders might quaff in comfort, and without spilling the precious liquor.

There were two of these attendants, however, who deviated slightly from the fashion of the rest. They were those who waited upon the two troopers that on each side flanked the prisoner. Instead of contenting themselves with holding the horses at rest, each of these attendants led the one whose bridle he had grasped a little out of the alignment of the rank. It was done silently, and as if without design; though the moment after, there was an apparent object – when a tall man, with black whiskers and swarth complexion, passed around the head of one of the horses, and holding up a flagon invited the prisoner to drink.