Kitabı oku: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», sayfa 24
How Master Peasegood preached Wisdom
Gil’s ship, with Father Brisdone on board, after waiting in vain for its freight, grounded as the tide went down. The old priest, who had been on deck, leaning over the bulwarks gazing up the river for the boat that did not come, had been startled by a great flash of light which suddenly shot up above the hills, and then by a heavy clap as of thunder, followed shortly by a fierce glow in the sky, all of which told him only too plainly of some terrible catastrophe at the powder-works.
He was not surprised, then, that the boat did not arrive till the long, weary night had passed away, and the bright sun shone once more upon the dancing waters, but even then noon was fast approaching before there was the measured dip of oars, and the boat came round a wooded point.
He looked earnestly for Mace, but, not seeing her, he sighed.
“My eyes fail me a good deal now,” he said; and, shading them with his hand, he stood watching till, as the boat neared the ship, he could see that she had four men lying in the stern sheets, and he concluded that there had been an encounter.
“A bad augur,” he said, sadly; “bloodshed on the eve of a wedding. Poor boy though, there seems no chance of a wedding, for he has not won his love.”
His hands trembled as he stood at the gangway, while the boat was run up to the side and Gil painfully climbed on board.
“Failed, my son?” cried Father Brisdone and here he stopped short as he saw the terrible look of anguish in the young man’s eyes.
“Help my poor lads, father,” he said sadly. “They have been lying hurt these many hours.”
One by one four injured men were hoisted on board, and laid beneath the shelter of a sail, while Gil and the father attended to their injuries with rough but sensible surgery. There was a severe sword-wound and plenty of terrible burns, but the worst sufferer was poor Wat Kilby, whose face was blackened by the explosion, hair and beard burned off, and his thigh-bone broken.
He was in a high fever and wandering when slung on board, turning angrily upon those who had helped him.
“Don’t I tell you the poor lass is burning?” he cried. “This is your doing, skipper,” he moaned. “You were always against it, and now you leave the poor lass to burn, and keep me here. Father, this is the boy I watched over and brought up, and taught. This be the way he treats me now I am in trouble.”
It was with great difficulty that they could keep the poor old fellow sufficiently quiet to enable them to perform the necessary bandaging, but at last he sank into the heavy sleep of exhaustion; and Gil, having satisfied himself that his injured men were cared for, saw to his own burns, gave orders for the ship to be floated up to her old berth on the next tide, and then returned to the Pool.
For the next seven days he was almost constantly at Roehurst, in company with the stricken father, whom affliction seemed to have turned back to him as his only friend; and together they hung about the ruins, which still smouldered slightly, and crumbled more and more into a shapeless heap, overhung by a few masses of tottering wall.
Gil would have tried to persuade the old man to leave the spot, but that it had so terrible a fascination for him as well, and together they would sit hour after hour gazing at the ruins, and rebuilding the place mentally and occupying it as of old.
The people of the sparsely inhabited district came to gaze at the wreck, and from far and near they gathered together two days after the fire, to see Gil’s men carry the flower-sprinkled bier from Croftly’s house to the little rustic churchyard two miles away, the men taking it in turns to bear her, four and four about. The place was densely crowded, thinly populated as was the country there, to see Gil Carr and the weak, broken founder, who seemed to have aged in one night to a venerable old man, walk hand in hand behind, and stand bareheaded while Master Peasegood read, and sobbed, and read, and finally letting fall his book, went down upon his knees in the soft earth, and prayed beside the grave.
Sir Mark chafed more and more, but it was in vain. He was to have been chief actor in another scene; here he was completely set aside again, and Gil Carr had resumed his place.
Fortunately for Sir Mark, his old acquaintance Sir Thomas Beckley came forward to offer his hospitality, and he took up his abode with him, feeling that he could not leave the place with his task undone, and in a bitter mood he received the attempts at consolation offered to him by Anne, who, however, always kept very much aloof, playing the part of the injured woman, but promising herself a sharp revenge, if ever the King’s messenger should again lay siege unto her heart.
Up to the day of the funeral the founder had been almost childish from the effects of the shock; but after that he seemed to have recovered himself, though he looked aged and bent, and changed to a remarkable degree.
“I was very hard upon you, Gil,” he said to him one evening, as they stood leaning against one of the posts that had helped to support the swing bridge now completely swept away, and whose place was occupied by a couple of stout planks laid across the race. “I was very hard upon you, my lad, but, though I made that affair of Abel Churr’s an excuse, I don’t think I believed at heart that you did away with the poor wandering wretch.”
Gil looked at him sadly, and bowed his head without speaking.
“What are you going to do now, my lad?” continued the founder, gazing at him with a yearning look as one his lost child had loved.
“To do?” said Gil, in a low hopeless tone, “to do? What is there left to do, sir, but die?”
“Hush, my lad,” said the founder, laying a trembling hand upon the young man’s arm; “that is for me to say. I am old and stricken: the storm has torn one great branch from the trunk, and the old tree will slowly wither and die. You are young yet, and hope will come to you again as time goes on.”
“Hush, for God’s sake, hush!” cried Gil, turning upon him almost fiercely; then, gazing round him in the gathering gloom of the evening, he let himself sink, upon his knees lower and lower, with his hands covering his face, as for the first time in the solitude of that blasted home he gave full vent to the pent-up agony that for days and days he had striven to hide.
“Hope,” he groaned, “hope?” as his broad shoulders heaved and the despairing sobs tore their way from his weary breast. “He does not know what she was to me – he cannot tell how I loved her. Mace, Mace, my darling, would to God I were lying by thy side!”
It had grown quite dark now, and the founder sank upon his knees in the black ashes to lay his hands upon the young man’s head.
“Gil, my son,” he whispered hoarsely, “forgive me, for I never knew your heart till now. In her name I ask you to forgive me for the wrong I would have done you both in tearing you apart. I thought I was doing right, but I am punished for my fault.”
“Forgive you!” groaned Gil, who, for the first time in his life, was quite unmanned. “Yes, I forgive you, if there is aught to forgive.”
He pressed the old man’s hand, as he rose after a time, weak and desolate, to sit down upon one of the stones cast from the main building by the blast. Some distance away a couple of windows shed their feeble light, as if they were signals to Mace to open her casement once again, and a groan rose to Gil’s lips as he thought of the past. Then, like a wandering spirit, a white, filmy-looking owl swept by them, turned and came back once more, as if attracted by the blackened ruins, glided to and fro for a few minutes, and it seemed to the two men that it shrieked faintly just over the very centre of the ruined house before it glided away.
Gil sat watching the bird in a dreamy, hopeless way, and, as he gazed through the darkness, he felt that the place would become the home of such creatures.
He was aroused from his reverie by the founder.
“How did it happen, Gil?” he said.
He spoke in a low, hoarse voice, but his Words sounded very plain in the silence of the autumn even.
“How did it happen?” said Gil, repeating his words.
“Yes, my boy, tell me all. I cannot believe that God would make that old woman with her curses his instrument to punish me.”
“I have little to tell,” said Gil. “I saw our darling again and again, begging that she would go with me; but she refused till she found it hopeless to move you, and that the wedding was to be.”
“Yes, yes – go on,” groaned the founder.
“Then she consented, and I made my plans.”
“Yes, I see,” replied the founder, “you were there with your men, and Sir Mark felt sure that you were coming. But yours was a mad revenge on him, and meant ruin and destruction to all.”
“I do not understand you,” said Gil, quietly.
“Did you think by blowing down part of the place to get her away in the confusion?”
“Blow down? The place?” said Gil. “We had not a charge of powder with us. I left it all on board.”
“Then it was the store below caught first,” said the founder, musingly; “but how – how?”
“I cannot tell,” said Gil.
“Wat Kilby,” exclaimed the founder, jumping at a cause for the terrible disaster; “he was smoking his tobacco by the entry, and must have thrown down the burning pipe.”
“Nay, he did not smoke; he was by my side bearing a ladder.”
“Are you speaking frankly to me, Gil?” said the founder. “I prithee keep nothing back.”
“Can you speak to me like that?” replied Gil, in a grave, reproachful tone. “Master Cobbe, I have kept nothing back; I have added nothing to my story; I have only left out that there was the priest awaiting on board of my ship, to be our darling’s companion until we were made man and wife.”
“Forgive me, Gil,” said the founder. “I know now that you are keeping nothing back. But how could it have happened?”
“A shot from one of Sir Mark’s men’s pieces must have gone through to your store of powder,” said Gil. “They did fire, but my men struck their pieces aside.”
The founder accepted this theory, and they sat in silence for a few moments, till they were interrupted by the approach of a great, dark figure, who seemed at last to make them out.
“Ah! friend Cobbe,” it said, in the thick rich tones of Master Peasegood, “I was seeking thee. Come; the night-dew is falling, and it is time you were safely housed. Ah! Gil, my good lad, you here?”
“Yes,” was the curt response. “Master Peasegood, hadst thou but done thy duty by her who was thy charge, these troubles might not have been.”
“Reproach me not, good lad, I was taken away through Sir Mark’s scurvy tricks and carried up to London. And there I was, day after day, half prisoner, half free. Sometimes they’d let me fly a little bit, like a bird with a string at its leg. Other times they’d keep me in, and never a word could I get to know of my offence.”
“Not a legal prisoner, then?”
“Nay, lad, not at all. Though, had I tried to flee I had been tied fast enough, I’ll warrant. I took advantage of my freedom to see Saint Paul’s, and should be sorry to preach there. I bought me though, as I had my money with me and the chance was good, six yards of cloth in Paul’s churchyard to make me a goodly cloak – four pounds sixteen it cost me – and seven yards of calamanko for a cassock; one pound four and sixpence that, besides a pound for a new hat, and six shillings for a lutestring hood for Mistress Hilberry. I lightened my pocket, Gil, but I was heavy enough at heart.”
Gil nodded.
“I grew so hot of blood and angry at last with the way they kept me in, and the too free use I made of the most villainous ale, Master Cobbe, I ever put to my lips, that had I not been blooded freely by a chirurgeon, I should have been ill. It was not the proper time – the haemeroyal time, though close upon the full, but I let him take a good ten ounces from my veins, and felt a better man.”
“It would have been better, Master Peasegood, had you been here.”
“True, lad, but I was not my own ruler. That Sir Mark never trusted me. I had hard work to get free again, and hurried down to get to our darling’s side. You saw me when I came – that night? Sir Thomas Beckley overtook me, and he brought me on.”
Gil bent his head, and held out his hand, which the other pressed.
“When do you sail again?” said the parson.
“I sail again? Maybe never,” said Gil. “Why should I sail?”
“To give thyself occupation – work – toil-weary evening and restful night. Up, man, and work. Bear thy load bravely till Heaven send the soft touch of time to make it lighter. Thou art young; thy ship waits. Go across the sea and do thy work. This is no place for thee.”
“Why do you interfere with me, Master Peasegood?” cried Gil, testily. “I am none of thy followers.”
“Nay, my lad, thou art not; but I give thee good advice that my lips seemed urged to speak. Go and toil, and sit not down sobbing like a fretful child.”
“Man, you would madden me if I listened,” cried Gil.
“Nay, but thou shalt listen,” said Master Peasegood, “and I will quell thy madness. Thou hast received one terrible loss like a man; I would not have thee do it like a woman. Then, too, Master Cobbe, when are these fires to be relit, and the wreathing curls of smoke to rise from each furnace chimney?”
“Never,” said the founder sadly, “my energy has gone, and I am spent.”
“Tut, tut, man; fie!”
“What have I to live for?” cried the founder, as angry now as Gil.
“Not for thyself,” cried Master Peasegood. “Not both of ye to indulge a moping selfish regret, but for others – for the memory of one dead. Tut! man, those do not pay most respect to their dead who sit and sigh, and groan, and work themselves into fevers. Gil Carr, thy men call for thee to lead them in some seafaring adventure. Jeremiah Cobbe, thou hast got together here some fifty souls – workmen, their wives, and the children they have begotten. Thou didst bring them to do thy work, and now the furnaces are cold, the busy wheel has ceased to turn, and thy workmen lean against the doorposts, and idle, and get out of trim. Come, come! up, and be doing.”
“For whom?” cried the founder angrily, “for whom should I toil?”
“Not for thyself, but for thy people. Nay, nay! don’t take it ill, and think me unfeeling. To both of you I say it is your duty, and, in the name of yon sweet girl whom we all so dearly loved, I say keep her memory green in your heart of hearts, but cease unmanly repinings against fate.”
“Ah! Master Peasegood,” said the founder more gently, “thou hast never been a father.”
“Had I been sweet Mace’s father could I have loved her better, Jeremiah Cobbe? Have not mine eyes oft filled with tears at the memory of her sweet face; has not my voice choked, and have not my words failed when I have tried to speak, Gil Carr? Tut, man, give me credit for loving her as well. Thou hast felt sore against me because I tried to keep you two apart; but why was it, Gil, why was it? Had I not seen that which made me think thou would’st prove a faithless lover to her, poor child. Give me your hand, man, my love for her was different to thine, but it was quite as deep.”
Gil’s hand was laid in the heavy palm of the parson of Roehurst, and they joined in a close firm grip without another word.
“When shall these fires be going again, Master Cobbe,” continued the parson; “when shall the busy wheel turn plashing round? Come, come, promise me that thy mourning shall not be quite out of bounds.”
The founder had turned his back, and remained gazing away from them at the blackened heap.
“You will be up and doing, will you not, Master Cobbe?” continued the parson, urging him on. “Come: for thy child’s sake. Would’st have this place left a ruin? Come, promise me thou wilt.”
A deep sigh seemed to tear itself from the founder’s breast, and he turned to gaze in the direction of his works.
“Thou art right, parson,” he said; “it is not fair that the workmen I brought here to feed and furnish with hard labour should suffer for my sake. The fires shall be lit again.”
“Ay, that’s well,” said Master Peasegood earnestly. “It will be glad news for many a heart. Then I shall see the axe busy again as the leaves fall, and the glow of the charcoal fire in the woods; and meantime thy men will delve for iron, and the furnaces go roaring on. Is it not so?”
“Yes.”
“Bravely spoken, brave heart,” said Master Peasegood; “and thou, Gil Carr, off to thy ship once more, and bear away her freight. Come back to us laden with the pale yellow brimstone and the grey-white salt. Tut, tut, tut, of what am I speaking?” he muttered, as Gil shuddered. “You will go, my brave lad, eh?”
“I suppose so: yes,” said Gil slowly; and the parson laid his hand upon the founder’s shoulder once more.
“And the dear old house, Master Cobbe? There is sandstone waiting in the quarry to be borne here, and thou hast oaken timber enough cut to build it up. When wilt begin to repair thy loss?”
“Never,” cried the founder fiercely. “Parson Peasegood, I’ll work and toil and invent and strive day and night to keep things going here, but it is for others’ sake, not mine.”
“Nay, nay, but the house must be restored.”
“Never,” cried the founder; “never, Master Peasegood; never, Gil Carr. I care nothing for the words of that reviling old woman and her curses. Punishments come from Heaven, not from Hell, and, if she be a witch, ’tis devil’s work she does; but no hand shall touch yon heap, neither stone nor ash shall be disturbed. The flowers may spring up again, and the grass will grow, but to touch it would be to me like disturbing my poor child’s grave. Our dear old home died with my darling. Let them rest.”
He turned away and walked firmly across the planks towards the lane where Tom Croftly’s cottage stood, followed by the parson and Gil, who stepped back as the founder rapped upon the cottage door.
“Tom,” he said, as the door was opened, and the light of a rush-candle shone upon his deeply-lined face, “go round to the men and bid them light the big furnace in the morning, and you see about the mixing up of another batch of powder.”
“Hurray, master,” cried the man. “Give me my hat, wife. Dal me! but that’s good news again.”
“Thou’lt go on making powder again – so soon?” said Master Peasegood, as the founder joined them, and they went down the lane.
“Yes,” said the founder firmly. “Gil, when thou com’st back, my lad, there will be some score barrels of the best and strongest make. I want to show people that an old hag’s curses are as light as wind.”
“Ay, and that a bad mishap is not to be taken as a judgment, because a would-be soothsayer says ’tis so,” cried Master Peasegood. “Thou’rt right, Master Cobbe. I thank Heaven I spoke to you both as bravely as I did, for my heart misgave me all the while.”
The next morning the smoke rolled up once more from the furnace chimney. The great wheel turned and plashed as it shed showers of silver from its broad paddles and spokes; blackened men bore baskets of soft dogwood charcoal to be ground, and others shovelled up the pale yellow sulphur and the crystals of potash for mixing into powder once again. Two heavy tumbrils jolted and blundered down the cinder-made lane to fetch great loads of ironstone from the pits in the woods whence it was dug, and then fierce furnaces were charged with layers of ore and charcoal ready for smelting, while the horses tugged at their loads in answer to the uncouth cries of the men. It was as if the people of Roehurst had awakened from sleep, and all were rejoicing in the gladsome feeling of being once more at work after their enforced idleness, the change acting like a spur. There was shouting over the various works, and now and then some one burst forth into a song, some doleful love-ditty about a sweet young maiden, sung in a minor key.
Tom Croftly was in his element once more, and after seeing the furnaces started and the men preparing the next batch of powder, he anxiously set his colliers to work to get him more coal.
It was no sending down a set of blackened miners with their Davy lamps crowding a cage that dropped slowly into the gas and choke-damp charged bowels of the earth, but the superintending of couples of men who attacked some cords of wood – long, low stackings of the loppings of the trees cut down the previous winter – and, clearing out a circular space, throwing out the earth all round, they set up a pole in the centre. Then picking the branches that were some four feet long, they carefully began to build them round the centre pole, standing all on end, and going on round and round till a low circular stack was built, when the stout central pole was taken away, the space it occupied being filled with light brushwood, which was then set alight ready to communicate with the wood around, while the air running in through spaces left at the sides soon made a swift fire. This, however, was not allowed to burn fiercely, for old charcoal powder mixed with dry earth lay ready, and, after the stack had been covered with a litter of weeds, dry grass, and thin twigs from the fallen trees sufficient to keep it from falling through, the earth was shovelled on all over the stack wherever there was a sign of flame or thin smoke breaking forth, till at last the flames were stifled and the thick smoke rose only from the centre.
“More loam on,” cried Tom Croftly, who, spade in hand, danced excitedly round the charcoal pile like a grim black demon busy over some fiery task, and the men worked and watched, smothering the flames with more earth and water till not a gleam was seen, though all the while the fire was glowing fiercely and burning out the watery gases of the wood.
And this went on night and day, the colliers having a shelter rigged up to keep off the night-air when they needed rest, this being called turn and turn, for, should there be no one ready to throw on shovels-full of loam when the fire began to work a way through, the burning would be spoiled.
But there were no burnings spoiled with Tom Croftly, who, had the men been disposed to fail, would have been there to catch them lapsing and take the shovel in hand himself. So the charcoal burned its time, glowing slowly in the well-closed heat till by gentle testing here and there it was declared to be quite fit, when the earth was cleared away, water used liberally for quenching, and the erst flaming heap allowed to cool, the effect being that the branches of rough wood were turned into black clinking metallic-sounding charcoal, hard and brittle to the touch, and ready to fuse the ironstone or turn into potent powder in the mill.
Then by slow degrees the traces of the explosion were softened down, and a new bridge took the place of that which had been swept away. A fresh fence, too, was made of riven oak, and surrounded the ruined garden, so that Master Peasegood had hopes that the founder had re-considered his words.
But he had not. The fence was there to protect the ruins from the feet of straying cattle. It was not needed to keep off the people of the little place, for they gazed upon it with awe, and whispered that it was haunted by the dead. And, when Master Peasegood asked thereof, the founder said his words stood firm. But this was when weeks had glided by, and Gil Carr’s ship was tossing far away upon the sea.
