“Master Dove,” protested Murrell, with such dignity as was consistent with
hanging to the tub, which Roboshobery had seized. “Yow be mistaken. I be no
smuggler, though ‘t may seem so. This liquor ben’t mine—none of it, not
now—an’ I repent ever touchin’ it. I am but puttin’ it out o’ my house,
where ‘t should never hev come. Touchin’ pitch I hev been defiled, an’ my
lawful arts hev been undone.”
“Well,” said Dove, who was by no means convinced, “I dunno ‘bout arl that;
an’ as to pitch, ‘tis a useful ‘nough thing in its place, though I’d rayther
hev a barr’l o’ this stuff jus’ now. I onny offered to give y’ a hand.”
Since Dove would not go he might well help to shorten the job. “There are
but fower or five left now,” Murrell answered, “an’ if yow’ll go back with
Ann Pett you can help bring ‘em, an’ thank ‘ee kindly. I’ll stow these.”
So Dove went toward the cottage with the woman, and Murrell added the two
tubs to the pile.
The cunning man found Dove’s presence doubly awkward, for there might be
other visitors, though he did not expect them just yet. Golden Adams had been
mightily tickled by Murrell’s arrangements for doing justice between old Sim
Cloyse and himself, and had sworn not to deny himself the pleasure of
witnessing their working out; though he had promised the cunning man that the
pistols should not go with him. He was to observe Cloyse’s doings from a
place of concealment, and he might, if he pleased, follow him, when, as was
regarded certain, he would come to knock up Murrell and report that forty of
the tubs were missing.
Roboshobery Dove stumped out sturdily with a tub on each shoulder, and Ann
Pett behind him; and with one more journey to the cottage brought out the
last two.
“That be arl, so your darter tell me,” Roboshobery remarked, leaning on
the stile. “But that be a queer place to putt ‘em!”
“I care not where they go, Master Dove,” Murrell replied, with something
of his common self-possession; for he was relieved at seeing the job
done.
“I care not where they go, so as they go out o’ my house. I might ha’ putt
‘em in the hoss-road or let the officers take ‘em, ‘stead o’ toilin’ an’
draggin’ to putt ‘em behind a hedge in a field nobody goes near.”
“‘Tis a quiet field enough,” replied Dove, to whom the whole proceeding
was incomprehensible; “but why putt ‘em in a field at arl?”
“Master Dove, I hev told yow, though in your way o’ thinkin’ yow may not
see ‘t. I hev siled my hands with an evil traffic, and now that I see my
hainish error I wash my hands of it, an’ I putt the thing from me.” Cunning
Murrell turned toward his cottage. “Come away, Master Dove, from the place,”
he said, “an’ if yow hev aught to say to me, say’t quickly, for ‘tis late;
or, better still, leave it till to-morrow.”
“Why, Master Murr’ll, sir,” Dove answered, walking at his side, “what I
did hev in my mind was to speak agen to yow o’ Mrs Martin an’ her niece.”
“An’ what o’ them?” Murrell’s face was invisible in the dusk, or
Roboshobery Dove would have seen that he frowned and screwed his lips. The
evening’s adventures had made him touchy.
“Why, they be in very bad trouble, as yow know, an’ I thought to ask if
yow’d made such trial as yow spoke of, arl by yourself, without any oather
party’s partic’lars.”
Cunning Murrell was in an unaccustomed and unpleasant position. He could
not afford to be angry, for Roboshobery Dove was witness to his connection
with the smuggled tubs, and in that respect might be as dangerous as if they
still lay concealed in his cottage. On the other hand, the story of the
burning of the witch-bottle at Banham’s would be all over the village in the
morning, and it were useless to attempt to conceal it. He saw that he must
make some concession if he were to save his dignity at all. So he answered:
“Yes, I hev.”
“Ah!” said Dove, eagerly, “an’ ‘tis right, aren’t it? Yow’ve found ‘tis
anoather witch, I hoad a pound. Han’t ye? Who is’t?”
“Master Dove, I hev made several trials, an’ I be willin’ to tell ‘ee that
they den’t pint to Mrs Martin.”
“There! I knowed it well ‘nough!” cried Dove, triumphantly. “Den’t I
say’t, Master Murr’ll, sir? Den’t I say’t, now?”
“But when I made the trials, Master Dove, I was under that evil
influence.” And Murrell pointed toward the stile.
“What, the tubs? Lord bless ‘ee, what difference would they make? Unless
yow’d been a-drinkin too much out of ‘em.”
“I hev drunk nothen out of ‘em, Master Dove, an’ that weren’t my meanin’.
My meanin’ were, as I toad ‘ee a while back, that silin’ my hands with such
unbeseemin’ traffic hev done injury to my lawful arts—arts that need
clean hands above arl things. So that when my trials show nothen agen Mrs
Martin, ‘tis mayhap not to be depended on.”
“Lord bless ‘ee, what difference can a few tubs make, standin’ in a larned
man’s house? ‘Taren’t in natur. Lord! there’s many a good man had thousands,
one time an’ anoather! If yow hev proved Mrs Martin no witch’ enough, an’ arl
the tubs in the world can’t matter a farden!”
“Is that your opinion then?” Murrell asked, keenly.
“Ay, sarten to say. Stands to reason.”
“Well, Master Dove, it ben’t mine. But every man hev a right to his own
opinion. Now, attend. Master Dove. I hev told yow that I hev made trials that
do not pint to Mrs Martin as a witch. Very good. Now it seems yow be anxious
to clear Mrs Martin. If yow were to tell abroad that I had made the trials,
‘twouldn’t be well to mention they tubs.”
“Well, I wouldn’t speak o’ them, nohow, o’ coase,” Roboshobery Dove
answered, a little reproachfully; because to give information of illicit tubs
was in his eyes the unpardonable sin.
“No, ‘twere best not,” replied Murrell, the casuist. “If it ben’t known I
hev meddled in such matters, the better will it be taken that Mrs Martin be
no witch, if that’s what yow’re wantin’. An’ if ‘tis your honest opinion (as
‘tis
not
mine) that the tubs make no difference, why, arl the more
reason for not tellin’ what yow’ve seen to-night. Do ‘ee unnerstand?”
Roboshobery Dove, who was no casuist, was not at all sure that he did. But
he said, with consideration: “I think I see. Master Murrell, sir. I may give
it out, an’ stand to’t, an’ yow’ll back me, that Mrs Martin be no proved
witch—summut havin’ been wrong in the partic’lars—so long as I
keep close about your little games with they tubs. I think that be about the
size of it, hey.”
Murrell was disgusted with the coarseness of this interpretation of his
argument. But he only said: “Well, well—putt it in what form ye like,
so long as we unnerstand. An’ now I bid yow good-night, Master Dove, an’
thank ‘ee for your help. Yow den’t need—”
Both started at a sharp noise far down the lane. There was a yell, and a
sudden clamour of shouts; then a whistle, and the quick noise of scurrying
feet. And again there was shouting—one great and angry voice
predominating, it would seem, in mingled orders and curses. And the scurrying
feet came nearer.
Dove started off down the lane, and Murrell, after a second’s hesitation,
followed him. His safest course would have been to shut himself indoors; but
curiosity impelled him, and, after all, nobody would be surprised to find him
abroad at any hour of the night.
He had scarcely passed the stile when a tall man met him, and instantly
seized his arm. “‘Tis up with Cloyse,” said the man, in a loud whisper; and
then Murrell saw that it was Golden Adams.
“‘Tis up with Cloyse,” repeated Adams, “an’ the guard hev arl his tubs. I
see ‘em comin’ ‘fore they got him, an’ I runned up fust. Get on—get yow
away. That hat do shine like a noo tin pot. Get yow away—they’re arter
the carriers, lickertysplit!”
He dragged the little man a yard, but finding him resisting, said: “Why
woant yow come? They’ll be here in a bit, I tell ‘ee! We doan’t want to lose
our own lot!”
“Let go my arm, Golden Adams,” said Murrell “an’ look arter your own
business. As for me, I’m done with it. I ask no pay, and I give no more
service. But there be your tubs in the ditch behind the hedge!”
“What?” Adams dropped the arm, took a short run toward the stile, checked,
and came back. “What d’ ye mean?” he said fiercely, pushing his fist in
Murrell’s face. “Playin’ tricks?”
“The tricks be your own, Golden Adams. The tubs be where I say—the
best place I could find for ‘em. I take no share, an’ I want none of
‘em—keep ‘em for yourself I be done with such business. I bear yow no
ill will, but I hev reasons of my own.”
For a moment it seemed that Adams would knock Murrell down. But at that
instant there were three loud signal-shots, and then everything was touched
with a pale radiance, for a blue-light was lit on Castle Hill.
Golden Adams turned with a curse, and leaped over the stile. Three or four
men, panting hard, came running by Murrell; and behind them ran more. While
up the hill came stealing a subtle and pleasant odour, mingling agreeably
with the sweet natural scents of the night; and it was the smell of white
brandy. For the carriers, unused to the business, and taking no pride in the
valiant fulfilment of their charge, as did the carriers of old days, had
flung their burdens away and bolted at the first alarm; and two tubs of
brandy, near a hundred degrees above proof and burst in the fall, now
advertised their bearers’ pusillanimity to every waking nose within half a
mile.
Roboshobery Dove came back up-hill at his best pace. Murrell, the trees,
the hedges, the cottages, and the backs of the flying carriers were
distinguishable now in the pale flickering light of the flare. “Look at ‘em!”
said Roboshobery, with great contempt. “Every man hulled away his tubs an’
run, as though there weren’t a chance o’ most on ‘em gettin’ away, tubs and
arl! Two score on ‘em an’ more, arl runnin’ like for a wager! Want their
mothers with ‘em, I count. Lot o’ big gals!”
Hadleigh was rousing—was awake. The signal-shots and the tramp of
running men had begun it, and most of the sleepers had reached their chamber
windows ere the blue light had burned out.
To every man in these parts the blue light of the coastguard was as the
trump of Gabriel; and now that the light was burned almost at their own doors
all Hadleigh scrambled out of bed, seized the nearest handful of anything
resembling clothing, and came to see. Several brought lanterns, most had
night-caps, one had a gun, and a few had boots.
“What is’t? Where be? Be it the Rooshans? A run o’ stuff! The coastguard’s
got ‘em, sarten to say!” So spoke the men of Hadleigh; and the women, too,
for they came as readily as the men.
Presently up the lane came the chief officer, swearing now but
intermittently, gripping a man by the collar; and with him came one of his
men with another prisoner. And it was not long ere it was seen that the chief
officer had hold of old Sim Cloyse, while his man had caught an unlucky
carrier, an Eastwood man. Young Sim, it seemed, had been knocked over, but
for the present had escaped in the dark.
“Come!” cried the chief officer. “I want a horse and cart to hire for the
Queen’s service, to carry seized goods. If any of you people like to bring me
one it shall be paid for. If not, I shall have to rout one out, and take
it.”
Everybody instantly remembered that somebody else had a horse and cart,
but at length there was a general agreement that Banham was the patriot who
should serve the Queen, as being carrier by trade, as well as having his cart
close at hand. Banham, in fact, was already present in shirt and trousers,
with Mrs Banham in a mysterious white under-garment, a shawl, and a nightcap;
and a train of small Banhams in nothing but their shirts.
The chief officer held both prisoners while his man burned another blue
light on a little knoll close at hand, so that the incoming guards should
make directly for the spot where they were needed. The display was regarded
with great enthusiasm, and it communicated a comic ghostliness to the
assemblage. While it continued two men arrived, and took over the captives,
so that the chief officer might go with Banham to see the horse
harnessed.
Long before this Roboshobery Dove had made little preparations of his own.
He was aware of the danger of appearing as the sole fully-dressed person in
the crowd (with the exception of Murrell, whose night-walking habits were
known), and he had pulled off his coat and waistcoat, and stowed them, with
his glazed hat, in a convenient corner. So that now he stood with the rest in
his shirt, trousers, and, as usual, one boot; and a handful of the shirt was
dragged negligently over his waistband, as an expression of careless haste.
And as he stood thus there came to him a sudden and brilliant notion. He
resolved to make a speech.
The officer had just gone off with Banham, and Mrs Banham had gone to
direct and counsel her husband. Murrell was looking on almost unnoticed in
the shade behind the villagers. Roboshobery Dove, however, directed the
general attention to him by hailing him in a loud voice.
“Master Murr’ll, sir!” bawled Roboshobery Dove.
The cunning man gave a start and coughed. “Well, Master Dove,” he said
quietly, “I be here.”
“Master Murr’ll, sir,” Roboshobery proceeded in the same loud voice, “I
think on this here interestin’ occasion, arl these here neighbours bein’
present together, which is uncommon, I will take the liberty, so to say, o’
givin’ out a piece o’ information I hev received, or beared, from yow. ‘Tis
as respects Mrs Martin, neighbours, which hev most unjustly been putt upon
for a witch, when stands to reason she coon’t be, her son bein’ killed
fightin’ the Rooshans, as be well knowed. Well, neighbours, to make the yarn
no longer than need be, Master Murr’ll here, which be well knowed as a
genelman o’ the very primest powerful larnin’, hev made sarten performances
which prove Mrs Martin be no witch at arl, but far from it on the contrairy,
an’ nothen o’ the sort; an’ if anything ever looked otherwise, it was ‘cause
the devil muddled the partic’lars, as might ha’ been guessed. So much be arl
needed to be said, since oather surprisin’ partic’lars, as matters of
opinion, I ben’t allowed to mention, seein’ every man hev a right to his own,
as Master Murr’ll do sartify. An’ so—”