Chapter Twenty Three.
The Question.
There are many pleasures in life, and plenty of people to sing the praises of the sport most to their taste; but it is doubtful whether there is any manly pursuit which gives so much satisfaction to an adept in the art as skating.
I don’t mean skating upon the ornamental water of a park, elbowed here, run against there, crowded into a narrow limit, and abortively trying to cut figures upon a few square feet of dirty, trampled ice, full of holes, dotted with stones thrown on by mischievous urchins to try whether it will bear, and being so much unlike ice that it is hardly to be distinguished from the trampled banks; but skating over miles of clear black crystal, on open water, with the stars twinkling above like diamonds, the air perfectly still around, but roaring far on high, as Jack Frost and his satellites go hurrying on to mow down vegetation and fetter streams; when there is so much vitality in the air you breathe that fatigue is hardly felt, and when, though the glass registers so many degrees of frost, your pulses beat, your cheeks glow, and a faint dew upon your forehead beneath your cap tells you that you are thoroughly warm. How the blood dances through the veins! How the eyes sparkle! How tense is every nerve! How strong each muscle! The ice looks like steel. Your skates are steel, and your legs feel the same as stroke, whish! stroke, whish! stroke! stroke! stroke! stroke! away you go, gathering power, velocity, confidence, delight, at the unwonted exercise, till you feel as if you could go on for ever, and begin wishing that the whole world was ice, and human beings had been born with skates to their toes instead of nails.
Some such feelings as these pervaded the breasts of Dick Winthorpe and Tom Tallington as they glided along homeward on that night. Every now and then there was a sharp report, and a hissing splitting sound. Then another and another, for the ice was really too thin to bear them properly, and it undulated beneath their weight like the soft swell of the Atlantic in a calm.
“Sha’n’t go through, shall we?” said Tom, as there was a crack as loud as a pistol-shot.
“We should if we stopped,” said Dick. “Keep on and we shall be on fresh ice before it breaks.”
And so it seemed. Crack! crack! crack! But at every report and its following splitting the lads redoubled their exertions, and skimmed at a tremendous rate over the treacherous surface.
At times it was quite startling; but they were growing so inured to the peril that they laughed loudly—a joyous hearty laugh—which rang out to the music made by their skates.
They were in the highest of glee, for though they did not revert to it in words, each boy kept thinking of the past quarrel, and rejoicing at its end, while he looked forward to days of enjoyment in companionship such as had gone before.
The star—one of those in the Great Bear—did them good stead, for it was easy to follow; and saving that they were always within an ace of going through, they skimmed on in safety.
From time to time they glanced back to see the glare of the fire dying out to such an extent that when they were well in sight of the light at the landing-place which they felt convinced Hickathrift was showing, the last sign had died out, and just then a loud crack made them forget it.
“Don’t seem to be freezing so hard, does it?” said Tom.
“Oh, yes, I think so; only we must be going over ice we cracked before. Now, then, let’s put on all the speed we can, and go right in to where the light is with a rush.”
Tom answered to his companion’s call by taking stroke for stroke, and away they went quicker than ever. The ice bent and swayed and cracked, and literally hissed as they sped on, with the white powder flying as it was struck off. The metallic ring sounded louder, and the splitting more intense; but still they passed on in safety till they were within one hundred yards of where the wheelwright was waiting, when there was a sharp report as loud as that of a gun, a crack, and there were no skaters on the surface, only a quantity of broken ice in so much black water, and directly after a loud yell rose from the shore.
“Now, Jacob, out with it!” came in stentorian tones; and then there was a cracking sound, a great deal of splashing, and the punt was partly slid along the ice, partly used to break it up, by the two men who waded by its side, and finally got it right upon the ice and thrust along till it was close to the place where the lads had broken in.
“Now, then, where are you?” shouted Hickathrift as he peered around.
“Here we are, all right, only so precious cold!” cried Dick. “It isn’t very deep here; only up to your chest.”
“It’s up to my chin,” cried Tom with a shiver, “and I’m holding on by the ice.”
Hickathrift did not hesitate, but waded towards him, breaking opposing sheets of ice with a thump of his fist, and at last, with some little difficulty, all got ashore.
“Theer, both of you, run for it to the Toft and get to bed. The missus knows what to do better than I can tell her. Nivver mind your pattens.”
If they had stopped to get them off it would have been a terribly long job with their rapidly-numbing hands, so they did not pause, but scuffled over the ground in the best way they could to the house, where hot beds and a peculiar decoction Mrs Winthorpe prepared had a double property, for it sent them into a perspiration and off to sleep, one of the labourers bearing the news to Grimsey that the heir to the house of Tallington would not return that night, consequent upon having become “straänge and wet.”
The next morning the boys came down to breakfast none the worse for their wetting, to find that Mr Marston was already there looking very serious.
He had been told of the burning-out of poor Dave, and he had other news of his own, that three of the cottages had been fired during the past night.
“And the peculiar part of the business is,” said Mr Marston, “that big Bargle saw the person who fired the last of the houses.”
The engineer looked at Dick as he spoke.
“Why didn’t he catch him then?” said Dick sharply, for Mr Marston’s look annoyed him; “he is big enough.”
“Don’t speak pertly, Dick!” said his father sternly.
“It was because he is so big that he did not catch him, Richard Winthorpe,” said the engineer coldly. “The ice bore the person who fired the places, because he was skating.”
“Skating!” cried Dick, flushing up.
“Yes, skating!” said Mr Marston. “Bargle says that the man hobbled over the ground in his skates, but as soon as he reached the ice he went off like a bird. The ice cracked and splintered, but it seemed to bear him, and in less than a minute he was out of sight, but Bargle could hear him for a long time.”
“Well, it wasn’t me, Mr Marston,” said Tom, laughing. “I was skating along with Dick, but it was neither of us. We went to another fire.”
“Breakfast is getting cold,” said Mrs Winthorpe, who looked troubled, for the squire was frowning, and Dick turning pale and red by turns.
“Look here,” said the squire suddenly; “I cannot, and I will not, have unpleasantness of this kind in my house. I must speak plainly, Marston. You suspect my boy of firing your men’s huts last night?”
“I am very sorry, Mr Winthorpe, and I do it unwillingly, but appearances are very much against him.”
“They are,” said the squire gravely.
“I like Dick; I always did like Dick,” said the engineer; “and it seems to me horrible to have to suspect such a lad as he is; but put yourself in my place, Mr Winthorpe. Can you be surprised?”
“I am not surprised, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe, rising and going to her son’s side. “Dick was out last night skating with Tom here over the thin ice, and of course it must have been a very light person to cross last night in skates; but you are mistaken. My boy would not commit such a cowardly crime.”
The moment before, Dick, who was half-stunned by the accusation, and ready to give up in despair, leaped to his feet and flung his arms about his mother’s waist. His eyes flashed and the colour flushed right up into his brows as he kissed her passionately again and again.
“You are right,” said the squire. “But speak out, Dick. You did not do this dastardly thing?”
“No, father,” said Dick, meeting his eyes boldly. “I couldn’t.”
“There, Marston,” said the squire; “and I will not insult Tom Tallington by accusing him.”
“Oh, no, father! we were together all the time.”
“But I say,” cried Tom, “old Dave said it was a chap in skates who set fire to his place, and he couldn’t follow him over the ice.”
“Yes; I’d forgotten,” cried Dick, “and he shot at him.”
“Then I am wrong once more, Dick,” said Mr Marston. “I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course I will, Mr Marston,” said Dick huskily, as he took the extended hand; “but I don’t think you ought to be so ready to think ill of me.”
“And I say the same, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe. “My boy is wilful, and he may have been a bit mischievous, but he could not be guilty of such cowardly tricks as these.”
“No,” said Tom, with his mouth full of pork-pie; “of course he could not. Dick isn’t a coward!”
“I humbly apologise, Mrs Winthorpe,” said Marston, smiling, “and you must forgive me. A man who has been shot at has his temper spoiled.”
“Say no more, Marston, my lad,” said the squire warmly; “we all forgive you, and—breakfast waits.”
The subject was hurriedly changed, Dick being after all able to make a good meal, during which he thought of the past, and of how glad he was to be friends with Tom Tallington again; and then, as he had his second help of pie to Tom’s third, it seemed to him that the same person must be guilty of all these outrages, and if so it could not by any possibility be Farmer Tallington, for he never skated, and even if he could, he weighed at least sixteen stone, and the ice had broken under the weight of Tom’s seven or eight.
“We shall find him yet, Marston; never fear,” said the squire; “and when we do—well, I shall be sorry for the man.”
“Why?” said Mrs Winthorpe.
“Because,” said the squire gravely, “I have been so near death myself that—there, this is not a pleasant subject to talk about. We will wait.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
Preparing for Action.
Hickathrift shook his head; Mrs Hickathrift screwed up her lips, shut her eyes, and shuddered; and the former doubled up his hard fist and shook it in the air, as if he were going to hit nothing, as he gave out his opinion—this being also the opinion of all the labouring people near.
“Ay, yow may laugh, Mester Dick, but they’ll nivver find out nowt. It’s sperrits, that’s what it is—sperrits of the owd fen, them as makes the ager, and sends will-o’-the-wisps to lead folkses into the bog. They don’t like the drain being med, and they shutes and bons, and does all they can to stop it.”
“You’re a great goose, Hicky,” said Dick sharply. “Who ever heard of a ghost—”
“I didn’t say ghost, my lad. I said sperrits!”
“Well, they’re all the same.”
“Nay, nay, ghosts is ghosts, and sperrits is sperrits.”
“Well, then, who ever heard of a spirit going out skating with a lantern, or poling about with a punt, or shooting people, or blowing up sluice-gates, or cutting beasts’ legs, or setting fire to their houses? Did you?”
“I nivver did till now, Mester Dick.”
“It’s all nonsense about spirits; isn’t it, Tom?”
“Of course it is,” was the reply. “We’re going to catch the spirit some day, and we’ll bring him here.”
“Ay, do,” said Hickathrift, nodding his head softly. “Well, I’m glad you two hev made it up.”
“Never mind about that. Has Dave been over?”
“Ay, lad. Soon as the ice went away and he could get his punt along he come to me and asked me to get him some wood sawn out; and we done it already. Ice is gone and to-morrow I’m going to pole across and help him knock up a frame, and he’ll do the rest hissen.”
The damage was far more severe at the drainage works; but even here the traces of the fire soon disappeared, and fresh huts were run up nearer to where the men were at work.
One thing, however, was noticeable, and that was the action of the squire, the engineer, and Farmer Tallington—the engineer, after hanging away for a time, becoming again more friendly, though Dick never seemed at ease in his presence now.
These three leaders on the north side of the fen held a meeting with dwellers on the west and south, and after long consultation the results were seen in a quiet way which must have been rather startling to wrong-doer? and those who were secretly fighting to maintain the fen undrained.
Tom was the first to begin talking about these precautions as he and Dick started to go down to the drain one morning early in spring, after a long spell of bitter miserable weather, succeeded by a continuance of fierce squalls off the sea.
“I say,” he said, “father’s got such a splendid new pair of pistols.”
“Has he? So has my father,” said Dick staring. “Are yours mounted with brass and with brass pans?”
“Yes, and got lions’ heads on the handles just at the end.”
“Ours are just the same,” said Dick. “I say, Tom, it won’t be very pleasant for the spirits if they come now. Hullo, what does Hicky want?”
The big wheelwright was signalling to them to come, and they turned in to his work-shed.
“Thowt you lads ’d like to see,” he said. “What d’yer think o’ them?”
He pointed to a couple of muskets lying on the bench.
“Are these yours?” said Tom.
“Yes and no, lads. They’re for me and Jacob, and we’ve got orders to be ready at any time to join in and help run down them as does all the mischief; but it’s a sorry business, lads. Powther and shot’s no use. Yow can’t get shut of sperrits that ways. Good goons, aren’t they?”
The pieces were inspected and the boys soon afterwards started.
“I don’t see much use in our going down here,” said Tom, “for if there is anything stupid it’s the cutting of a drain. It’s all alike, just the same as the first bit they cut.”
“Only we don’t have to go so far to see the men at work. I suppose one of these days we shall have Mr Marston setting up huts for the men about the Toft. Hist! look out! What’s that?”
“Whittrick!” said Tom, running in pursuit of the little animal which crossed their path. “There must be rabbits about here.”
“Yes. Do you know what they call whittricks down south?”
“No.”
“Stoats.”
“How stupid!” said Tom after a vain chase after the snaky-looking little creature. “They must be very silly people down south. Do they call them stoats in London?”
“Haven’t got any in London—only rats.”
The engineer greeted the lads warmly and went up to the temporary hut he occupied to fetch his gun, when, in the corner of the room Dick saw something which made him glance at Tom.
“Yes,” said the engineer, who saw the glance; “we’re going to show your fen-men, Master Dick, that we do not mean to be trifled with. I’ve got muskets; and as the law does not help us, we shall help ourselves. So if anyone intends to come shooting us, blowing up our works, or setting fire to our huts, he had better look out for bullets.”
“But you wouldn’t shoot anyone, Mr Marston?” said Tom.
“Indeed but we would, or any two, sir. It’s a case of self-defence. There, Dick, don’t look at me as if I were a bloodthirsty savage. I have got all these muskets down and shown my men how to use them, and I am letting it be known that we are prepared.”
“Seems rather horrible,” said Dick.
“More horrible for your father to be shot, Dick, and for people to be burned in their beds, eh!”
“Ever so much,” cried Tom. “You shoot ’em all, Mr Marston.”
“Precaution is better than cure, Tom,” said the engineer smiling. “Now that we are prepared, you will see that we shall not be interfered with, and my arming the men will save bloodshed instead of causing it.”
“Think so, sir?”
“I am sure of it, my lad. Besides, if I had not done something, my men would not have stayed. Even Bargle said it was getting too warm. He said he was not afraid, but he would not stay. So here we are ready for the worst: self-defence, my lads. And now let’s go and get a few ducks for dinner. They are pretty plentiful, and my men like them as well as I.”
The result was a long walk round the edge of the fen and the bringing back of a fairly miscellaneous bag of wild-fowl, the engineer having become a skilful gunner during his stay in the wild coast land.
Mr Marston was right; the preparations made by him and all the farmers round who had an interest in the draining of the fen had the effect of putting a stop to the outrages. The work went on as the weeks glided by, and spring passed, and summer came to beautify the wild expanse of bog and water. There had been storm and flood, but people had slept in peace, and the troubles of the past were beginning to be forgotten.
There were plenty of fishing and fowling expeditions, visits to the decoy with good results, and journeys to John Warren’s home for the hunting out of rabbits; but life was beginning seriously for the two lads, who found occupation with Mr Marston and began to acquire the rudiments of knowledge necessary for learning to be draining engineers. Sometimes they were making drawings, sometimes overlooking, and at others studying works under their teacher’s guidance.
But it was a pleasant time, for Marston readily broke off work to join them in some expedition.
One day, as they were poling along, Tom gave Dick a queer look, and nodded in the direction of a fir-crowned gravelly island lying about a mile away.
“When’s the Robinson Crusoe business going to begin, Dick?” he said.
Dick laughed, but it was not a merry laugh, for the memory was a painful one, and mingled with recollections of times when everyone was suspicious of him, or seemed to be; and he was fast relapsing into an unhappy morbid state.
“What was the Robinson Crusoe business?” said Marston; and on being told, he laughingly proposed going on.
“Let’s have a look at the place, boys,” he said. “Why shouldn’t we have a summer-house out here to come and stay at sometimes, shooting, fishing, or collecting. We cannot always work.”
The pole was vigorously plied, and at the end of half an hour they had landed, to find the place just as they remembered it to have been the year before. There were the bushes, the heath, and heather in the gravelly soil, and the fir-trees flourishing.
“A capital place!” said the engineer. “I tell you what, boys, we’ll bring Big Bargle over, and a couple of men; the wheelwright shall cut us some posts, rafters, and a door, and we’ll make a great hut, and—”
He stopped short at that point and stared, as they all stood in the depths of the little fir-wood, with the water and reed-beds hidden from sight. For there, just before them, as if raised by magic, was the very building Mr Marston had described, and upon examination they found it very dry and warm, with a bed of heath in one corner.
“Some sportsman has forestalled us,” said the engineer. “One of the farmers, I suppose, from the other side of the fen.”
They came away, with the lads sharing the same feeling of disappointment, for the little island was robbed of all its romance. It was no longer uninhabited, and the temptation to have a hut there was gone.
“Plenty more such places, boys,” said Mr Marston, “so never mind. We’ll hunt one out and make much of it before my drain turns all this waste into fertile fields. Now let’s get back, for I have a lot to chat over with the wheelwright.”
The next morning Hickathrift was beaming, and he came up to the Toft to catch Dick, who was feeding Solomon and avoiding his friendly kicks, while he waited for Tom to go over with him to the works.
“Say, Mester Dick, on’y think of it! Leave that owd ass alone, lad, and listen to me.”
“What is it, Hicky?”
“Why, lad, I’m a man full o’—what do you call that when a chap wants to get on in the world?”
“Ambition, Hicky.”
“That’s it, Mester Dick. I’m full on it, bud I’ve nivver hed a chance. You see I’ve had to mend gates, and owd carts, and put up fences. I did nearly get the job to build a new barn, bud I lost it, and all my life’s been jobs.”
“And what now?” said Dick warmly.
“What now, lad! Why, Mester Marston’s set me to mak three sets o’ small watter gates for sides o’ the dreern, and I’m to hev money in advance for the wood and iron work, and my fortune’s about made.”
“Hooray, Hicky! I am glad,” cried Dick; and Tom, coming up, was initiated into the great new step in advance, and added his congratulations.
“Why, you’re carpenter and joiner to the works now, Hicky!” said Dick, laughing.
“Ay, lad, that’s it, and I don’t fear for nowt.”
It was less than a fortnight after, that Dick lay asleep one night and dreaming of being in a boat on the mere, or one of its many additional pools, when he started into wakefulness with the impression that the house was coming down.
“Eh? What is it?” he cried, as there was a heavy thumping on the wall close to his bed’s head.
“Get up—fire!” came in muffled tones; and bounding out of bed he saw that there was a lurid light on the water, evidently reflected from something burning pretty near at hand, while there was the distant hum of voices, mingled with shrieks and the barking of a dog.
Dick began hurriedly dressing, and threw open the window, to find that the dog was Grip, who was out in the yard barking frantically, as if to alarm the house.
“What is it, father? Where?” cried Dick.
“Don’t know; not here. Labourers’ cottages, I think,” replied the squire, who was still dressing. Then, as a burst of flame seemed to rush up skyward, and a cloud of brilliant sparks floated away, he added, “Dick, my lad, it is poor Hickathrift’s turn now.”
He was quite right, for as they ran the few hundred yards which separated them from the burning place, it was to find that the poor fellow’s house, work-shed, stock of wood, peat-stack, and out-buildings were in a blaze; even his punt, which had been brought up for its annual repair and pitching, blazing furiously.
Hickathrift, Jacob, Mrs Hickathrift, and the farm people were all at work with buckets, which they handed along from the dipping place by the old willows; but at the first glance the squire saw that it was in vain, and that the fire had taken such hold that nothing could be saved. Both he and Dick, however, joined in the efforts, saying nothing but working with all their might, the squire taking Jacob’s place and dipping the water, while the apprentice and Dick helped to pass the full buckets along and the empty back, for they were not enough to form a double line.
For about a quarter of an hour this was kept up, the wheelwright throwing the water where he thought it would do most good; but the flames only roared the louder, and, fanned by a pleasant breeze, fluttered and sent up sparks of orange and gold, till a cask of pitch got well alight, and then the smoke arose in one dense cloud.
It was a glorious sight in spite of its horror, for the wood in the shed and the pile without burned brilliantly, lighting up the mere, gilding the reeds, and spreading a glow around that was at times dazzling.
“Pass it along quick! pass it along!” Jacob kept saying, probably to incite people to work harder; but it was not necessary, for everyone was doing his or her best, when, just as they were toiling their hardest, the wheelwright took a bucket of water, hurled it as far as he could, and then dashed on the empty vessel and turned away.
“No good,” he said bitterly, as he wiped his face. “Fire joost spits at me when I throw in the watter. It must bon down, squire, eh?”
“Yes, my man, nothing could save the place now.”
“And all my same (lard) in a jar—ten pounds good,” murmured Mrs Hickathrift.
“Ay, moother, and my Sunday clothes,” said the wheelwright with a bitter laugh.
“And my best frock.”
“Ay, and my tools, and a bit o’ mooney I’d saved, and all my stoof. Eh, but I’m about ruined, moother, and just when I was going to get on and do the bit o’ work for the dreern folk.”
The fire seemed to leap up suddenly with a great flash as if to enlighten the great fellow’s understanding, but he did not grasp the situation for a few moments, till his wife, as she bemoaned the loss of a paste-board and a flour-tub, suddenly exclaimed:
“It’s them sperrits of the fen as has done it all.”
“Ay, so it be!” roared Hickathrift. “Ay! Hey, bud if I could git one of ’em joost now by scruff of his neck and the seat of his breeches, I’d—I’d—I’d roast him.”
“Then it was no accident, Hickathrift?”
“Yes, squire,” said the man bitterly; “same sort o’ axden as bont Farmer Tallington’s stable and shed. Hah, here he is!” he added, as the farmer came panting up with Tom. “Come to waärm theesen, farmer? It’s my turn now.”
“My lad! My lad!” panted the farmer, “I am sorry.”
“Thanky, farmer; but fine words butter no parsneps. Theer, bairn,” he cried, putting his arm round his wife’s waist; “don’t cry that away. We aren’t owd folks, and I’m going to begin again. Be a good dry plaäce after fire’s done, and theer’ll be some niced bits left for yow to heat the oven when fire’s out.”
“And no oven, no roof, no fireside.”
“Hush! hush! bairn!” said the big fellow thickly. “Don’t I tell thee I’m going to begin again! What say, Mester Dick? Nay, nay, lad, nay.”
“What did Dick say?” said the squire sharply.
“Hush, Hicky!” whispered Dick quickly.
“Nay, lad, I wean’t hoosh! Said, squire, as he’s got thretty shillings saved up, and he’d give it to me to start wi’.”
“And so he shall, my man, and other neighbours will help you too. I’ll make Dick’s thirty shillings a hundred guineas.”
“Well, I can’t do that, Hickathrift,” said Farmer Tallington; “but if ever you want to borrow twenty guineas come to me; and there’s my horse and sled to lead wood wheniver you like, and a willing hand or two to help.”
Hickathrift turned sharply to say something; but he could only utter a great gulp, and, turning away, he went a few yards, and leaned his head upon his arm against a willow tree, and in the bright glow of the burning building, whose gilded smoke rose up like some vast plume, they could see his shoulders heave, while his wife turned to the squire, and in a simple, homely fashion, kissed his hand.
The squire turned to stop Dick, but it was too late, for the lad had reached the wheelwright and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Hicky,” he said softly; “be a man!”
“Ay, lad, I will,” said the great fellow, starting up with his eyes wet with tears. “It isn’t the bont plaäce made me soft like that, but what’s been said.”
He had hardly spoken before there was a peculiar noise heard in the distance, as if a drove of cattle had escaped and were coming along the hard road of the fen; but it soon explained itself, for there were shouts and cries, and five minutes later Mr Marston and his men, nearly a hundred strong, came running up, ready to assist, and then utter the fiercest of denunciations against those who had done this thing.
Then there was an ominous silence, as all stood and watched the burning building till there was nothing but a heap of smouldering wood, which was scattered and the last sparks quenched.
Chapter Twenty Five.
The Troubles culminate.
The fire at the wheelwright’s lasted people nearly a month for gossip, but Hickathrift would not believe it was the work of spirits now.
Then came the news of a fresh outrage. The horses employed in bringing stones for certain piers to water-gates were shot dead one night.
Next, a fresh attempt was made to blow up the sluice, but failed.
Last of all, the man who was put on to watch was shot dead, and his body found in the drain.
After this there was a pause, and the work was carried on with sullen watchfulness and bitter hate. The denunciations against the workers of the evil were fierce and long.
But in spite of all, the drain progressed slowly and steadily. The engineer was carrying his advances right into the stronghold of the fen-men, who bore it all in silence, but struck sharply again and again.
“I wonder who is to get the next taste!” said Tom Tallington one day as he and Dick were talking.
“No one,” said Dick; “so don’t talk about it. The people are getting used to the draining, and father thinks they’ll all settle down quietly now.”
“How long is it since that poor fellow was shot?”
“Don’t talk about it, I tell you,” said Dick angrily. “Three months.”
“No.”
“Nearly.”
Dick was right; nearly three months had gone by since the poor fellow set to keep watch by Mr Marston had been shot dead, and this culmination of the horrors of the opposition had apparently startled his murderers from making farther attempts.
“I tell you what it is,” said Tom, “the man who fired that shot and did all the other mischief has left the country. He dare not stay any longer for fear of being caught.”
“Then it was no one over our side of the fen,” said Dick thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. Well, I’m going to have a good long day in the bog to-morrow. It’s wonderfully dry now, and I mean to have a good wander. What time shall you be ready?”
“Can’t go,” said Tom. “I’ve promised to ride with father over to the town.”
“What a pity! Well, never mind; we’ll go again the next day and have a good long day then.”
“Will Mr Marston go with us?”
“No. I asked him, and he said he should be too busy at present, but he would go in a fortnight’s time. He said he should not want either of us for a week, so we can go twice if we like.”
Tom smiled as if, in spite of his many wanderings, the idea of a ramble in the fen would be agreeable.
“Shall you fish?” he said.
“N–no, I don’t think I shall. I mean to have a long wander through the flats away west of the fir island.”
“You can’t,” said Tom; “it’s too boggy.”
“Not it. Only got to pick your way. Do you think I don’t know what I’m about?”
“Better take old Solomon with you, and ride him till he sinks in, and then you can walk along his back into a safe place.”
“Then I’d better take another donkey too, and get him to lie down when I come to another soft place.”
“Ah, I would!” said Tom.
“I shall,” said Dick. “Will you come?”
“Do you mean by that to say that I am a donkey?” cried Tom half angrily.
“Yes, when you talk such stupid nonsense. Just as if I couldn’t get through any bog out here in the fen. Anyone would think I was a child.”
“Well, don’t get lost,” said Tom; “but I must go now.”
The boys parted, with the promise that Tom was to come over from Grimsey to breakfast the next morning but one, well provided with lunch; that in the interim Dick was to arrange with Hickathrift about his punt, and that then they were to have a thoroughly good long exploring day, right into some of the mysterious parts of the fen, Dick’s first journey being so much scouting ready for the following day’s advance.
As soon as Dick was left alone he strolled down to the wheelwright’s, having certain plans of his own to exploit.
“Well, Hicky, nearly got all right?” he said.
“Nay, nay, lad, and sha’n’t be for a twelvemonth,” replied the great bluff fellow, staring at his newly-erected cottage. “Taks a deal o’ doing to get that streight. How is it you’re not over at the works?”
“Not wanted for a bit. I say, Hicky, may I have the punt to-morrow?”
“Sewerly, Mester Dick, sewerly. I’ll set Jacob to clear her oot a bit for you. Going fishing?”
“Well—no,” said Dick, hesitating. “I was—er—thinking of doing a little shooting.”
“What at fend o’ June! Nay, nay, theer’s no shooting now.”
“Not regular shooting, but I thought I might get something curious, perhaps, right away yonder.”
“Ay, ay, perhaps so.”
“Might see a big pike basking, and shoot that.”
“Like enough, my lad, like enough. Squire going to lend you a goon?”
Dick shook his head, but the wheelwright was busy taking a shaving off a piece of wood, so did not see it, and repeated his question.
“No, Hicky, I want you to lend me one of those new ones.”
“What, as squire and Mr Marston left for me and Jacob! Nay, nay, lad, that wean’t do.”
“Oh, yes, it will, Hicky. I’ll take great care of it, and clean it when I’ve done. Lend me the gun, there’s a good fellow.”
“Nay, nay. That would never do, my lad. Couldn’t do it.”
“Why not, Hicky?”
“Not mine. What would squire say?”
“He wouldn’t know, Hicky. I shouldn’t tell him.”
“Bud I should, lad. Suppose thou wast to shoot thee sen, or blow off a leg or a hand? Nay, nay. Yow can hev the boat, bud don’t come to me for a gun.”
Hickathrift was inexorable, and what was more, he watched his applicant narrowly, to make sure that Dick did not corrupt Jacob.
His visitor noticed it, and charged him with the fact.
“Ay,” he said, laughing, “that’s a true word. I know what Jacob is. He’d do anything for sixpence.”
“I hope he wouldn’t set fire to the house for that,” said Dick angrily.
Hickathrift started as if stung, and stared at his visitor.
“Nay,” he said, recovering himself, “our Jacob nivver did that. He were fast asleep that night, and his bed were afire when I wackened him. Don’t say such a word as that.”
“I didn’t mean it, Hicky; but do lend me the gun.”
“Nay, my, lad, I wean’t. There’s the poont and welcome, but no gun.”
Dick knew the wheelwright too well to persevere; and in his heart he could not help admiring the man’s stern sense of honesty; so making up his mind to be content with some fishing and a good wander in the untrodden parts of the fen, he asked Hickathrift to get him some baits with his cast-net.
“Ay, I’ll soon get them for you, my lad,” said Hickathrift. “Get a boocket, Jacob, lad.”
The next minute he was getting the newly-made circular net with its pipe-leads from where it hung over the rafters of his shed, and striding down to a suitable shallow where a shoal of small fish could be seen, he ranged the net upon his arm, holding the cord tightly, and, giving himself a spin round, threw the net so that it spread out flat, with the pipe-leads flying out centrifugally, and covering a good deal of space, the leads driving the fish into the centre. When it was drawn a couple of dozen young roach and rudd were made captives, and transferred to the bucket of water Jacob brought.
“Fetch that little bit o’ net and a piece o’ band, lad,” said the wheelwright; and as soon as Jacob reappeared, Hickathrift bound the fine net over the top of the pail, and lowered it by the cord into a deep cold pool close by the punt.
“Theer they’ll be all ready and lively for you in the morning, and you’ll hev better sport than you would wi’ a gun.”
Opinions are various, and Dick’s were very different to the wheelwright’s; but he accepted his rebuff with as good a grace as he could, and went home.
The next morning was delicious. One of those lovely summer-times when the sky is blue, and the earth is just in its most beautiful robe of green.
“Going on the mere, Dick?” said his father. “Well, don’t get drowned or bogged.”
“Dick will take care,” said Mrs Winthorpe, who was busy cutting provender.
“Tom Tallington going with you?” said the squire.
“No, father; I’m going alone.”
“I wish you could have come with me, Hicky!” said Dick, as, laden with his basket of fishing-tackle and provender, he took his place in the punt.
“Ay, and I wish so too,” said the wheelwright, smiling, as he drew up and uncovered the pail of bait to set it in the boat. “Bud too busy. Theer you are! Now, go along, and don’t stop tempting a man who ought to be at work. Be off!”
To secure himself against further temptation he gave the punt a push which sent it several yards away; so, picking up the pole, Dick thrust it down and soon left the Toft behind, while the water glistened, the marsh-marigolds glowed, and the reeds looked quite purple in places, so dark was their green.
Dick poled himself along, watching the water-fowl and the rising herons disturbed in their fishing, while here and there he could see plenty of small fish playing about the surface of the mere; but he was not in an angling humour, and though the tempting baits played about in the bucket he did not select any to hook and set trimmers for the pike that were lurking here and there.
At last, though, he began to grow tired of poling, for the sun was hot; and, thinking it would be better to wait for Tom before he tried to explore the wild part of the fen, he thrust the punt along, to select a place and try for a pike.
This drew his attention to the baits, where one of the little roach had turned up nearly dead, a sure sign that the water required changing, so, setting down the pole, he took up the bucket, and, lowering it slowly over the side, he held one edge level with the water, so that the fresh could pour in and the stale and warm be displaced.
Trifles act as large levers sometimes. In this case for one, a few drops of water from the dripping pole made the bottom of the punt slippery; and as Dick leaned over the side his foot gave way, the weight of the bucket overbalanced him, and he had to seize the side of the punt to save himself. This he did, but as he leaned over, nearly touching the water, it was to gaze at the bucket descending rapidly, and the fish escaping, for he had let go.
“What a nuisance!” he cried, as he saw the great vessel seem to turn of a deeper golden hue as it descended and then disappeared, becoming invisible in the dark water, while the punt drifted away before he could take up the pole to thrust it back.
There was nothing to guide him, and the poling was difficult, for the water was here very deep, and though he tried several times to find the spot where the bucket had gone down, it was without success.
“Why, if I did find it,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t be able to get it up without a hook.”
This ended the prospect of fishing, and as he stood there idly dipping down the pole he hesitated as to what he should do, ending by beginning to go vigorously in the direction of Dave Gittan’s newly-built-up hut.
“I’ll make him take me out shooting,” he said; “and we’ll go all over that rough part of the fen.”
There were very few traces of the past winter’s fire visible at Dave’s home as Dick approached, ran his punt on to the soft bog-moss, and landed, securing his rope to a tree, and there were no signs of Dave.
He shouted, but there was no reply, and it seemed evident that the dog was away as well.
A walk across to Dave’s own special landing-place put it beyond doubt, for the boat was absent.
“What a bother!” muttered Dick, walking back toward the hut, a stronger and better place than the one which had been burned. “Perhaps he has gone to see John Warren!”
Dick hesitated as to whether he should follow, and as he hesitated he reached the door of the hut and peeped in, to make sure that the dog was not there asleep.
The place was vacant, and as untidy already as the old hut. In one corner there was a heap of feathers plucked from the wild-geese he had shot; in another a few skins, two being those of foxes, the cunning animals making the fen, where hunters never came, their sanctuary. There were traces, too, of Dave’s last meal.
But it was at none of these that Dick looked so earnestly, but at the ’coy-man’s old well-rubbed gun hanging in a pair of slings cut from some old boot, and tempting the lad as, under the circumstances, a gun would tempt.
Hickathrift had refused to lend him one, badly as he wanted it; and here by accident was the very thing he wanted staring at him almost as if asking him to take it.
And Dave! where was he?
Dave might be anywhere, and not return perhaps for days. His comings and goings were very erratic, and Dick tried to think that if the man were there he would have lent him the gun.
But it was a failure.
“He wouldn’t have lent it to me,” said Dick sadly; and he turned to go. But as he glanced round, there was the old powder-horn upon a roughly-made shelf, and beside it, the leathern bag in which Dave kept his shot, with a little shell loose therein which he used for a measure.
It was tempting. There was the gun; there lay the ammunition. He could take the gun, use it, and bring it back, and give Dave twice as much powder and shot as he had fired away. He could even clean the gun if he liked; but he would not do that, but bring it back boldly, and own to having taken it Dave would not be very cross, and if he were it did not matter.
He would take the gun.
No, he would not. It was like stealing the man’s piece.
No, it was not—only borrowing, and Dave would be the gainer.
Still he hesitated, thinking of his father, of Hickathrift’s refusal, of its being a mean action to come and take a man’s property in his absence; and in this spirit Dick flung out of the hut and walked straight down to the boat, seeing nothing but that gun tempting him as it were, and asking him to seize the opportunity and enjoy a day’s shooting untrammelled by anyone.
“It wouldn’t do,” he said with a sigh as he got slowly into the boat and stooped to untie the rope, when, perhaps, the position sent the blood rushing to his head. At any rate his wilful thoughts mastered him, and in a spirit of reckless indifference to the consequences he leaped ashore, ran up to the hut, dashed in, caught up the powder-horn and shot-bag, thrust them into his pockets, and seizing the gun, he took it from its leather slings, his hands trembling, and a sensation upon him that Dave was looking in at the door.
“What an idiot I was!” he cried, with a feeling of bravado now upon the increase. “Dave won’t mind, and I want to shoot all by myself.”
He glanced round uneasily enough as he made for the punt, where he laid the gun carefully down, and, seizing his pole, soon sent the vessel to some distance from the hut, every stroke seeming to make him breathe more freely, while a keen sensation of joy pervaded him as he glanced from time to time at the old flint-lock piece, and longed to be where there would be a chance to shoot.
The day was hot as ever, but the heat was forgotten as the punt was sent rapidly along in the direction of the fir-clump island, for it was out there that the wilder part of the fen commenced, and the hope that he would there find the birds more tame consequent upon the absence of molestation made the laborious toil of poling seem light.
But all the same a couple of hours’ hard work had been given to the task, and Dick was still far from his goal, when it occurred to him that a little of the bread and butter cut in slices, and with a good thick piece of ham between each pair, would not be amiss.
He laid the pole across the boat, then, and for a quarter of an hour devoted himself to the task of food conversion for bodily support.
This done, there was the gun lying there. It was not likely that he would have a chance at anything; but he thought it would be as well to be prepared, and in this spirit, with hands trembling from eagerness, he raised the piece and began the task of loading, so much powder, and so much paper to ram down upon it.
But he had no paper. It was forgotten, and Dick paused.
Necessity is the mother of invention. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief and his knife, and in a few minutes the cotton square was cut up, a piece rammed in as a wad, and a measure of shot poured on the top.
Another piece of handkerchief succeeded, going down the barrel with that peculiar whish whash sound, to be thumped hard with the ramrod at the bottom till the rod was ready to leap out of the barrel again.
Then there was the pan to open and prove full of powder, and all ready for the first great wild bird he should see, or perhaps a hare or a fox, as soon as he should land.
For it was thought no sin to shoot the foxes there in that wild corner of England, where hounds had never been laid on, and the only chance of hunting would have been in boats. Foxes lived and bred there year after year, and died without ever hearing the music of the huntsman’s horn.
Dick laid the gun down with a sigh, and took up the pole, which he used for nearly an hour before, with the fir island well to his left, he ran the punt into a narrow cove among the reeds which spread before him, and, taking the piece, stepped out upon what was a new land.
It must have been with something of the feelings of the old navigators who touched at some far western isle, that Dick Winthorpe landed from his boat, and secured it by knotting together some long rushes and tying the punt rope to them. For here he was in a place where the foot of man could have rarely if ever trod, and, revelling in his freedom and the beauty of the scene around, he shouldered the piece.
He would have acted more wisely if he had filled his pockets with provender from the basket; but he wanted those pockets for the powder and shot, and without intending to go very far from the punt he started, meaning to go in a straight line for some trees he could see at a great distance off, hoping to find something in the shape of game before he had gone far.
It is very easy to make a straight line on a map, but a difficult feat to go direct from one spot to another in a bog.
Dick did not find it out, for he knew it of old, and so troubled himself very little as he plodded on under the hot afternoon sun, now on firm ground, now making some wide deviation so as to avoid a pool of black water. Then there were treacherous morass-like pieces of dark mire thinly covered with a scum-like growth, here green, there bleached in the June sunshine.
It was always hot walking, and made the worse by the way in which, in spite of all his care, his feet sank in the soft soil. At times he plashed along, having to leap from place to place, and then when the way seemed so bad that he felt that he must return, it suddenly became better and lured him on.
He panted and perspired, and struggled on, with the gun always ready; but saving a moor-hen or two upon one or other of the pools, and a coot sailing proudly along at the edge of a reed-bed with her little dingy family, he saw nothing worthy of a shot.
Once there was a rustle among the reeds, but whatever made it was gone before he could see what it was. Once a great heron rose from a shallow place, offering himself as a mark; but it took Dick some time to get a good view of the grey bird, and when at last he brought the sight of the gun to bear upon it, the heron refused to remain still, and the muzzle of the piece described two or three peculiar circles. When at last it was brought steadily to bear upon the mark it was about a hundred yards away, and the trigger was not pulled.
How long Dick had tramped and struggled on through mire and water and over treacherous ground he did not know, but he did not get one chance; and at last, when he stopped short with a horrible sinking sensation in his inner boy, the only things which presented themselves as being ready to be shot were some beautiful swallow-tailed butterflies, while, save that the sun was right before him and going down, the lad had not the slightest idea of where he was.
But he could not stand still, for he was on a soft spot, so he struggled on to where the ground looked more dry, and fortunately for him it proved to be so, and he stood looking round and thinking of going back.
“I wish I had brought something to eat,” he said, gazing wistfully in the direction in which he believed the punt lay.
But it was in vain to wish, so he determined to retrace his steps, fighting against the thought that it would be a difficult task, for to all intents and purposes he had lost all idea of the direction in which he had come. It was very hot, though, and the gun was very heavy. He was weary too with poling the boat and walking, and but for the romance of the expedition he would have declared himself fagged out.
As it was, he thought he would have ten minutes’ rest before starting back, so picking out a good dry firm place, he laid the gun down, and then, seeing how comfortable the gun seemed, he lay at full length upon his back on the soft heather and gazed straight up at the blue sky.
Then his eyes wandered to a cloud of flies, long gnat-like creatures, which were beginning to dance over the reeds, and he lay watching them till he thought he would get up and be on the move.
Then he thought, as it was so refreshing to be still, he would wait another five minutes.
So he waited another five minutes, and then he did not get up, but lay, not looking at the cloud of gnats which were dancing now just over his face as if the tip of his nose were the point from which they streamed upward in the shape of a plume, for Dick Winthorpe was fast asleep.
How long it was Dick did not know, only that it was a great nuisance that that bull would keep on making such a tremendous noise, bellowing and roaring round and round his bed till it annoyed him so much that he started up wide awake and stared.
It was very dark, not a star to be seen; but the bull was bellowing away in the most peculiar manner, seeming as if he were now high up in the air, and now with his muzzle close to the ground practising ventriloquism.
“Where am I?” said Dick aloud; and then, as the peculiar bellowing noise came apparently nearer, “Why, it’s the butterbump!”
Dick was right, it was the butterbump, as the fen people called the great brown bittern, which passed its days in the thickest parts of the bog, and during the darkness rose on high, to circle round and over the unfortunate frogs that were to form its supper, and utter its peculiar bellowing roar.
Dick had never heard it so closely before, and he was half startled by the weird cry. The fen, that had been so silent in the hot June sun, now seemed to be alive with peculiar whisperings and pipings. The frogs were whistling here, a low soft plaintive whistle, and croaking there, while from all around came splashings and quackings and strange cries that were startling in the extreme to one just awakened from the depths of sleep to find himself alone in the darkness, and puzzled by the question: How am I to get back?
No; return was impossible—quite impossible, and the knowledge was forced upon him more and more that he had to make up his mind to pass the night where he was, for to stir meant to go plunge into some bog, perhaps one so deep that his escape with life might be doubtful.
“How stupid I was!” mused Dick. “How hungry I am!” he said aloud. “What a tiresome job!”
He looked around, to see darkness closing him in, not a star visible; but the fen all alive with the sounds, which seemed to increase, for a bittern was answering the one overhead, and another at a greater distance forming himself into a second echo.
“I wonder how long it is since I lay down!” thought Dick.
It might have been four hours—it might have been six or eight. He could not tell, only that he was there, and that his mother would be in a horrible state of dread.
This impressed him so strongly that he was about to start off in a vain effort to find the boat, but his better sense prevailed, and he remained where he was, wondering whether it would be possible to pass the night like that, and, in spite of himself, feeling no little dread of the weird sounds which seemed to come nearer and nearer.
Then the feeling of dread increased, for, though he could see nothing, certain noises he heard suggested themselves as being caused by strange creatures—dwellers in the fen—coming nearer to watch him, and among them he fancied that there were huge eels fresh from the black slime, crawling out of the water, and winding themselves like serpents in and out among the rough grass and heath to get at him and fix their strong jaws upon his legs.
Then little four-footed, sharp-teethed creatures appeared to be creeping about in companies, rushing here and there, while whittricks and rats were waiting till he dropped asleep to leap upon him and bite him, tearing out little pieces of his flesh.
His imagination was so active that his face grew wet with horror, till, making an effort over himself, he started right up and angrily stamped his foot.
“I didn’t think I was such a coward,” he said half aloud; and then, “I hope poor mother will not be very much alarmed, and I wish Tom Tallington was here!”
The wish was so selfishly comic that he laughed and felt better, for now a new idea came to him.
It was very dark, but the nights were at their shortest now, and it would be daybreak before three—at least so light that he might venture to try and regain the boat.
He stood for a while listening to the noises in the fen; the whispering and chattering, piping and croaking, with the loud splashings and rustlings among the reeds, mingled with the quacking of ducks and the scuttering of the drakes, while every now and then the bittern uttered his hoarse wild roar.
Then, growing weary, he sat down again, and after a time he must have dropped asleep, for he rose feeling quite startled, and stood staring as a peculiarly soft lambent light shone here and there before him.
It was apparently about fifty yards away, and looked like nothing which he had ever seen, for when he had noticed this light before it had always been much farther away.
He knew it was the marsh light, but somehow it seemed more weird and strange now than ever, and as if all the tales he had heard of it were true.
For there it was coming and going and gliding up and down, as if inviting him to follow it, while, as he seemed to feel that this was an invitation, he shuddered and his brow grew cold and dank, for he believed that to follow such a light would be to go direct to his death.
All the old legendary stories crowded into his mind as that light came and went, and seemed to play here and there for what must have been half an hour, when it disappeared. But as it passed away he saw another away to his left, and he was watching this intently when he noticed that far beyond there was a faint light visible; and feeling that this was the first sign of the dawn, he turned to gaze at the will-o’-the-wisp again, and watched it, shuddering as it seemed to approach, growing bolder as it glided away.
“But that was not dawn—that,” he said, “that faint light!” It was growing stronger and it was nearer, and more like the rising of the sun, or like—yes, it must be fire again.
Dick’s heart leaped, and the chilly feeling of nervous dread and the coldness of the temperature passed away, to give place to a sense of excitement which made his blood dance in his veins and his cheeks flush.
He was not mistaken—he had had too much experience of late. It was fire, and he asked himself whose turn it was now, and why, after the long lapse from outrage, there should be another such a scene as that.
It was impossible to tell where the fire was, but it was a big conflagration evidently, for it was lighting up the sky far more than when he first observed it, but whether it was in the direction of his home or toward the far end of the fen he could not tell.
He thought once that he might be mistaken, and that it was the forerunner of the rising moon; but he was convinced directly that it was fire he saw from the way in which it rose and fell and flickered softly in the sky.
He must have been watching the glow for quite a couple of hours, and it was evidently paling, and he was hopefully looking for another light—that of day, when it seemed to him that he could hear the splashing of water and the rustling of reeds.
The sounds ceased and began again more loudly, and at last they seemed to be coming nearer, but passing him by—somewhere about a hundred yards away.
The sounds ceased—began again—ceased—then sounded more loudly; and at last, with palpitating heart, Dick began to move in the direction of the noise, for he realised that either there was open water or a canal-like passage across the bog, which someone was passing through in a boat.
Dick paused again to listen, but there could be no mistake, the sounds were too familiar, and with voice husky with excitement he put his hand to his mouth and uttered a loud hail.