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Crown and Sceptre: A West Country Story, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 41. Nat Is Lost |
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_ CHAPTER FORTY ONE. NAT IS LOST "Have I been to sleep, Samson?" "Yes, sir, sound as a top. You dropped off after you had that bread and cider." "And the Hall?--is it still burning?" "Yes, sir; a regular steady fire down at the bottom, with the walls standing up all round." "And the prisoners?" "All gone, sir. They packed 'em off to the west'ard in a couple of waggons, and a troop of our men as escorts. Fine fellows, sir, all but that one as fired the Hall. I couldn't help being sorry to see how wounded and helpless they were. But how they carried it off, laughing and talking there till they'd been seen to, and were tired and got stiff! Then it began to tell on 'em, and they had to be lifted into the waggons and laid on the straw almost to a man." "I hope they'll all recover," said Fred, sadly. "So do I, sir, even if we have to fight 'em again. But we shall see no more of the poor lads for a long time, unless some of their party rescues them, cures them, and the game begins over again. Feel ready, sir?" "Ready?" "Yes; it's about twelve o'clock, and I thought you might like to come and help me bully that ugly brother of mine." "Why, Samson," said Fred, with a sad smile, "every one says you two are so like." "So we are, sir, to look at," replied Samson, grinning; "but I never said I was good-looking, did I?" "Yes, I'm ready," said Fred, rising from his heather couch. "Oh, how stiff and cold I am!" "You've just wakened; that's why. You'll be as fresh as fresh soon. Come along, sir, and we'll give that rascal such a bullying." "With care and chicken," said Fred, with a miserable attempt at being jocose. "Now, don't I keep telling you it's only to make him strong, so as he can feel it all the sharper when I give him the big beating I've promised him? Come along, sir." Fred made a few inquiries as to the state of affairs; learned that the camp was quite at rest, and that he was not likely to be called on duty, and then, with a terrible depression of spirits, increasing at every step, he walked on beside Samson on as dark a night as he could recall. "Dark, sir?" said the ex-gardener, in response to a remark. "Well, yes, sir, it is; but it don't make any difference to us. We could find our way where we are going with our eyes shut." The darkness was not their only difficulty: they had to avoid the sentinels again, and neither could say for certain whether any changes had been made. Still, both had been on moorland, over bog, and through the deepest woods in the dark on trapping expeditions times enough. They had even been in the darkness on the dangerous cliff slopes again and again, so that they had no hesitation in going rapidly on till the lake had been skirted and the wilderness reached, without their being challenged. Then the dense undergrowth was entered, and they stood listening for a few moments. There were distant sounds--the snort of a horse where it was picketed, a low humming as if some sentry were cheering his dreary watch by recollections of an old west-country ditty, and then from a little distance there was the half-hissing, half-grating cry of a white owl, as it flapped along upon its downy, silent pinions, while, through the trees at the edge of the wood, there was a dull red light, which showed where the embers of the great oaken beams of the Hall sent forth their dying glow. "Let's go on," whispered Fred, just as something came gliding along the edge of the wilderness, and as they moved it uttered a piercing screech, turned, and swept away. "Ugh!" ejaculated Samson; but Fred's hand was upon his lips, and they stood close together with throbbing hearts, wondering whether the two cries would alarm the nearest sentinel. But they heard nothing, and as silently as possible stole in among the trees, it being impossible to make any selection of route. "How them owls do chill one, like, in a unked place like this! 'Member that one as come out of the wood shed as we went in last winter? Always scares me." "I dare say it scares them more than it does us," whispered back Fred. "Now don't speak." "Right, sir." Fred led on, moving more by instinct than sight, and seeming to feel which was the way to the spot where they had left the injured man; but it was a long and arduous task, and not till after he had gone astray three times did he pause in perplexity. "If I could get any idea of where the Hall lay, perhaps I could find him," whispered Fred; "but we have turned about so, that I don't know which way we are looking now." "More don't I, sir; for aught I know we might be somewhere hundreds of miles away. It's so plaguey dark." "Look! Isn't that the reflection of the fire?" "No, sir; there's nothing there. Ah, look there!" A dull low sound fell upon their ears, and simultaneously there was a flash of light in quite a different direction to that in which they had been straining their eyes. "What's that, sir?" "Some part of the Hall fallen in." "And made the fire flash up just as it does when you're burning rubbish. That's right, sir." "Yes; and I can find it now," whispered Fred. The struggle through the undergrowth was resumed, every step having to be taken with the greatest caution; and at last, after making endless diversions to avoid tree-trunks and masses of tangled growth that they could not force their way through, Fred stopped short. "What is it, sir?" "This is the place." "No, sir, I don't think it is." "Yes; I can tell by the touch. I am close up to the fallen tree. There, I can feel the touchwood. Be quiet. Hist! Nat! Nat!" There was no reply, and after a pause, Fred called again, as loudly as he dared. "No, sir; I thought it wasn't," said Samson, softly. "It's further up." "Be silent, man," said Fred, impatiently. "I am sure we are right. It may be a little to the left or a little to the right, but its close here." He called again and again softly, but without result. "Let me try, Master Fred, as you are so sure." Fred gave his consent, whispering to his companion to be careful. "Nobody won't take any notice of what I do, Master Fred," whispered Samson. "I'll give him an old cry we used to have on the moor, when we were boys;" and directly after, sounding distant and strange, and as if it could not possibly have been given by his companion, there rang out a peculiar low piping whistle, followed by a short jerky note or two. "That's oyster-catcher, Master Fred, as you well know. If he hears that he'll answer and know it's friends--I mean enemies." Fred made no reply to his follower's paradoxical speech, but listened intently. "Again," he said, after a time; and the cry rang out, to be followed by a dull thud as of footsteps, and a clink of steel against steel. Fred felt his arm grasped, and Samson's hot breath in his ear. "Keep quiet. There's a sentry close by, and they're going the rounds." The dull sound of footsteps died away, and not till then did Samson venture upon another call, that proved to be as unavailing as those which had preceded it. "P'raps he's asleep," said Samson, softly; "but that ought to have roused him." Fred drew a long breath, as in imagination he saw the poor wounded fellow lying there in the dark and cold; and as a chilly perspiration bedewed his face, he felt a horrible feeling of reproach for not having given notice of an injured man lying in the wood. For he told himself, and the thought gathered strength, that perhaps they had come too late. For a few minutes he could not speak, and when he did, his heart was beating heavily, as he whispered-- "Samson, do you think--?" He could not finish the terrible sentence, one which his companion misconstrued. "Of course I do, sir. I told you so. This aren't the place, I'm sure." "It is! it is!" said Fred, with passionate energy, "Here, I am touching the old tree; and, yes--I know. Here is the place where he must be lying." "Very well, then, sir, stoop down and lay hold of his leg gently, and give it a pull. Be on the look-out, for he can be very nasty at being woke up. Maybe he'll kick out. He used to when we were boys." Fred felt dizzy as he listened to his companion's careless utterance, and he asked himself whether he should tell him what he thought. Twice over he was on the point of speaking, but he clung to the hope that his ideas might be only fancy, and he stood there turning icily cold. The idea seemed so terrible--to stoop down there in that utter darkness and touch the form of the poor fellow who had been left in despair and loneliness to die, untended and without a soul to whom he could say a farewell word. No; he could not do it, and he felt as if he must turn and rush out of the wood. "Feel him, Master Fred?" whispered Samson. Again the sensation of cold and dread came over Fred, and he was about to yield to it and hurry away, when his determination mastered, and, setting his teeth fast, he bent down, went upon hands and knees, and felt on before him, letting his hand sink slowly so as to reverently touch him who he felt must be lying dead. "Well, sir--got him?" "No!" whispered Fred, hoarsely, as his hand touched the twigs and leaves. "Try again, sir." Fred crept on, and again stretched out his hand. "Now you have him, sir?" "No," said Fred, with a throb of excitement sending a thrill through him; "he is not here." "There, what did I tell you!" said Samson, in a satisfied tone. "You would be so obstinate. This aren't the place." "But it is," whispered Fred. "I can feel where he laid. The twigs are all levelled down." "Nonsense, sir!" "I tell you I am right; it's the hole he made for himself. This is the place, and--Hah!" "Got him?" "No; but here is your jerkin that you left to cover him." "Then you are right, sir. Well, feel about more." "I cannot get any further. This is the place, and he has either been found, or he has crept away, and--Yes, that's it; he hasn't had strength to creep back." "Then we must call again." "Yes." Samson repeated his cry, over and over again, without result, and then, Fred having rejoined him, they stood listening. "We cannot find him to-night, Samson." "No, sir. Well, it doesn't much matter. He's ever so much better, or he wouldn't have gone out for a walk. Here, let's sit down and eat this here bread and chicken, and drink the cider, sir. I feel as if I hadn't had anything for a week, and the food has been bumping about my lips and asking to go in ever since we started. I'm glad now I brought it, but I've been sorry I was so stupid all along." "Do you think we could find him if we searched?" said Fred, ignoring his companion's remark about the food. "Sure we couldn't, sir, without a lanthorn; and if we had one we durstn't use it. Let's set down and have a bite." "No, no. Look here! If he has crept away, he is sleeping somewhere not far off, and he is sure to come back. Give me the food, and I'll lay it in there ready for him. He'll find it when it's light." "Put it there, sir?" "Yes." "But the slugs and snails and beetles and things 'll come and eat it all before morning. Don't let's waste good food, sir, like that." "Do as I bid you, sir. Give me the food." Samson sighed and obeyed. The bread and fowl were placed with the bottle on the jerkin at the far end of the little tunnel where Nat had lain, and Fred backed out. "Come," he said laconically. Samson grunted dismally, and followed his leader; and after they had struggled out of the wilderness, they made their way back to camp without any further check than a challenge or two, the password enabling them to reach the tent not long before morning dawned. _ |
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