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Crown and Sceptre: A West Country Story, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 24. Discovering The Traitor |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. DISCOVERING THE TRAITOR When Fred came to himself, he was no longer lying upon straw, but upon a comfortable bed, in a clean, white-washed room. It was evening, for the sun seemed to be low, and sending a ruddy glow through the open window. For a time he felt puzzled, and wondered why he was there; and as he tried to collect his thoughts, and the memory of the fight which he had heard came back, it seemed as if it was all a dream. But no; that was no dream. Tramp--tramp! tramp--tramp!--the heavy march of an armed man. It was a sentinel going to and fro beneath the window sure enough; for the footsteps sounded faint, grew gradually louder, as if passing close to the window, became gradually fainter, and then grew louder once more, and this over and over again. At the same time that he was listening to this, he became aware of a peculiar scratching noise close by, but until in his heavy drowsy state he had settled in his own mind that it was a sentinel, he could not pay any heed to the scratching. By degrees he recognised the sound as being that of a pen, and knew that some one was writing, and just as he had arrived at this conclusion, there was the faint scrape of a chair, a clinking noise such as might be made by the hilt of a sword against a breastplate, and directly after a sun-browned, anxious face was gazing earnestly into his. "Father!" whispered Fred, feebly. "My dear boy! Thank Heaven!" The first sentence was uttered aloud--the second breathed softly. "How is it with you, Fred?" "Bad, father, bad," he murmured. "I seem to have no strength left, and--and--and--oh, father," he gasped, as he clung to the hand which took his, "I did--indeed, I did my best." "Why, Fred, my boy, Fred. Don't--don't take it so seriously as that. You were overpowered and wounded." "Yes, father, but you trusted me with the prisoners, and I allowed myself to be out-manoeuvred, and I have disgraced myself." "What! How?" "And I did try so hard to do my duty. I wish now I had been killed." "Fred! My son!" "Don't be angry with me now I am so weak." "Yes, too weak, my dear boy," said Colonel Forrester, as he knelt down by the bedside, and passed his arm beneath the lad's neck as he kissed his forehead, "too weak to talk about all this. Be silent and listen to me." Fred answered by a look. "You think you have disgraced yourself by letting your enemies out-manoeuvre you, and with the prisoners turn the table on your little escort?" Fred gave another pitiful look. "That you have disgraced yourself for ever as a young officer?" "Yes," whispered the wounded lad. "And that I, your father and your colonel, am angry for what you look upon as a lapse?" Fred tried to bow his head, but failed. "Well, then, my dear boy, let me set your poor weak head at rest. I know everything you did from your start until you were trapped in the wood, the enemy letting you pass one troop, and having another waiting for you at the end of the wood." "Yes, that is how it was, and I did not take sufficient care." "Yes, you did, my boy; your precautions were all that an officer on such a duty could take, and all that I should have taken." "You seem to be giving me fresh life, father," whispered Fred. "But how did you know?" "Partly from the advance guard, partly from Samson; and both join in saying that my son behaved as a gallant officer should. I am quite satisfied, my boy. I sent you upon a dangerous expedition, and in spite of the perils of your journey, you have escaped with life, and you are no longer a prisoner. In fact, we have turned the tables on the enemy again, and read them a lesson they will not forget." "Yes; I heard the fighting, father." "And do you know whose men they were?" "No." "Sir Godfrey Markham's." "Father?" "Yes; and his son, lately your prisoner, was with them." "And they are prisoners now?" "No, my boy; they cut their way out with about a hundred mere, and escaped. This war is one of constant change." "Then you are not angry with me, father?" "On the contrary, Fred, I am proud. You acted better than many older officers would have done." "You say that to comfort me over my disgrace." "I say it because it is true, and because you are not in disgrace. A far more experienced man would easily have been led into such an ambush, betrayed as you were." "Betrayed?" said Fred. "Yes; some one must have carried information to the enemy." "You think that?" "Of course." "But who could have done so? We had no traitors with us." "Perhaps not, but the enemy may have had friends near." "Impossible, father!" "Quite possible, my boy. Where did you stay to refresh your men?" "Here, father--at this very place. At least," added Fred, as he glanced round, "if this is the little inn where I was a prisoner in the loft." "The very place, my boy; and now the secret is out. Lie still now, and don't speak." Fred gazed at his father eagerly as he rose from his knees and crossed to the door, which he opened, passed out on to the landing, called for the host, and returned. Instead of the florid landlord, there was a heavy step on the stairs, and the shock-headed boy of the place entered the room to look from Fred to Colonel Forrester and back. "Where does the nearest doctor live?" said the colonel, quietly. "At Brownsand," replied the lad, with another sympathetic glance at the wounded officer. "Rather a long ride?" "Only twelve miles, sir." "But that's where a body of the king's men lie, is it not?" "Well, no, sir, I don't think so now. Those is them that you had to fight with. They were at Brownsand t'other day." "You have a horse here, have you not?" "No, sir, only a pony; and if I took the short cut it would not be a long journey." "But could the pony do the journey to-day?" "Do it to-day, sir? Yes; she's as hard as a stag." "That will do for the present," said Colonel Forrester. "Shall I ride over for the doctor, sir?" "No. Send up your master." The lad went down quite sulkily, and delivered his message, while Colonel Forrester smiled at his son. "Well, Fred," he said, "I suppose you see now?" Fred's answer was cut short off by the heavy step of the landlord, who came up with a sympathising look in his face, and seemed eager to serve. "The young gentleman's not worse, sir, I hope." "You are sorry for him, then?" said the colonel, quietly. "Sorry for him, sir? Why of course I am." "As sorry as you were for the young prisoner he brought by here." "Oh yes, sir, I was sorry for him, too; but he was not wounded." "You treacherous dog!" cried the colonel, in a voice of thunder, as he seized the landlord by the throat, and forced him to his knees; "so nothing would do but you must bid that boy take the pony and ride over to Brownsand so as to betray the fact that an escort of prisoners had halted at your house and were gone on by the Brownsand road." "No, sir; I never--I never did." "You lie, you old villain: tell the truth before I hand you over to my men, and have you hung for a spy on the nearest tree." "I swear, colonel, I never did anything of the kind," cried the landlord, piteously. "No, sir, it is not true," cried a girlish voice; and the landlord's little daughter appeared in the doorway. "Then pray who did?" cried Colonel Forrester. "I did, sir," said the girl, undauntedly. "And pray, why?" "Because I heard that the young officer was Sir Godfrey Markham's son, and it seemed so horrible that he should be dragged off a prisoner." "What do you know of Sir Godfrey Markham?" asked the colonel, sternly. "I had heard my father speak of him, sir." "And so you planned all this and executed it yourself?" "Yes, sir; I sent our lad off with a message to where the king's men lay." "I need not ask, I suppose, whether you are telling the truth," said the colonel, grimly. "No, sir. Why should I tell a lie?" replied the girl, quietly; and she looked unflinchingly in her questioner's face. "And at the first opportunity, I suppose, you will betray us into the enemy's hands?" "Oh no, sir," said the girl, with the tears in her eyes, as she glanced at Fred. "I would sooner try and save you, though you are the enemies of our king." "Silence, girl! there is no king now in England, only a man who calls himself king. A tyrant who has been driven from the throne." The girl flushed and held up her head. "It is not true," she cried, proudly. "God save the king!" "What!" cried Colonel Forrester, in a voice of thunder; and for the first time the innkeeper spoke, his ruddy face now mottled with white, and his hands trembling as he placed them together beseechingly. "Don't take any notice of what she says, sir. She's a foolish, wilful girl, sir. I've been a miserable coward to hold my tongue so long, but I will speak now. It was all my doing. I held back so as not to seem in the business, because I wanted to be friends with both sides, sir; but I could not bear to see the young squire carried off a prisoner, and I winked at it all. It was my doing, sir. Don't believe a word she says." "Father, what have you said?" cried his child, clinging to him. "Hush! Hold your tongue," he whispered angrily. "So we have the truth at last," said the colonel. "You convict yourself of being a spy and traitor; and you know your fate, I suppose?" As Colonel Forrester spoke, he rose and walked to the window, made a sign with his hand, and directly after heavy steps were heard upon the stairs, accompanied by the clank of arms. In an instant the girl was at the colonel's feet. "Oh, sir, what are you going to do?" she shrieked. "He is my father." The guilty innkeeper's lips were quivering, and the white portions in his face were gradually increasing, to the exclusion of the red, for the steps of the soldiers on the stairs brought vividly before his eyes the scene of a spy's fate. He knew what such a traitor's end would be, and, speechless with terror, he could hardly keep his feet, as he looked from his child to the stern colonel and back again. "Father!" she cried, "why don't you speak? Why don't you ask him to forgive us?" "Mercy--mercy!" faltered the wretched man. "What mercy did you have on my poor boy?" cried the colonel, fiercely. "Through your treachery, he was surrounded by five times the number of his own men; and, for aught you cared, instead of lying wounded here he might have been dead." "Mercy! I did not know," gasped the miserable culprit. "Mercy? Yes; you shall have the choice of your own trees on which to hang," cried the colonel. "No, no; mercy!" gasped the trembling man, dropping on his knees; "for my child's sake--for Heaven's sake--spare me!" "Father!" cried Fred, excitedly. "Silence, boy! I am their judge," said Colonel Forrester, sternly. "Yes, man, for your child's sake, I will spare you, in spite of your cowardly treachery." "Father, father!" cried the girl, excitedly; but he could not speak. "Yes, I will spare you for your child's sake," said the colonel again. "There, little woman, I forgive you, for you are as brave and true-hearted as can be. I believe you--every word. Your little heart was moved to pity for the prisoner, as it has been moved to pity for my poor boy here, and for my men." He took her hand in his, and held it. "I have heard of all your busy nursing, and I do not blame you; I would rather praise. There, help the old man downstairs, and I am not afraid of your betraying us." The girl raised his hand and kissed it before rushing to her father, flinging her arms about him, and helping him away, so weak and semi-paralysed by fright that he could hardly totter from the room, the colonel following to the door, and signing to the soldiers to go down. "There, he has had his punishment," said the colonel, smiling; "and now you will be able to rest in peace." "Thank you, father, thank you," whispered Fred, huskily. "You see you were not to blame now." "Not so much as I thought, father." "Not to blame at all. There, make haste and grow strong, my boy, before we are driven out in turn by the enemy." "Are they near, father?" "No; as far as I know, my boy. But the victors of yesterday are the defeated to-day, perhaps to win again to-morrow. Ah, my boy, it is fratricidal work! and, though I love my cause as well as ever, I would give all I possess as one of the richest men in our county to see home smiling again in peace." _ |
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