# The Highwayman (Bailey)/Chapter XXXI

Captain McBean, healthily red and brown, showed no sign of having been out of bed all night. From cold water and a razor in his own lodgings he came back at a round pace to St. Martin's Lane. He found his aide, Mr. Mackenzie, taking the air on the doorstep of the Blue House, and rebuked him. "I bade ye bide with the lad, Donald."
"The surgeon has him in hand, sir."
"Tiens. He's a brisk fellow, that Rolfe."
"I'm thinking Mr. Boyce will need him."
"Eh, is there anything new?"
"I would not say so. But he's sore hurt. And I'm thinking he takes it hard."
"Aye, you're the devil of a thinker, Donald." Captain McBean grinned. "And the Colonel, has he made a noise?"
"He's in the way of calling for liquors, but he's peaceable, the women say."
"You'll go get your breakfast and be back again. And bring O'Connor with you. I'll hope to need the two of you." Captain McBean relieved guard on the doorstep till the surgeon came down. "I'm obliged to you, Mr. Rolfe. What do you make of him?"
"Egad, Captain, you're devoted. Why, the old gentleman has put in for some fever, but I doubt he will do well enough."
"Be sure of it. What of the young one?"
Mr. Rolfe pursed his lip. "Faith, there's no more amiss. But—but—why, he was hard hit, I grant you—but you might take the young one for the old one. D'ye follow me? The lad hath no vigour in him."
McBean nodded. "I'll be talking to him, by your leave."
"Od's life, I would not talk long. I don't like it, Captain, and there's the truth. Go easy with him. I will be here again to-day."
Captain McBean went up to the room where Harry lay as white as his pillows. A woman was feeding him out of a cup. "You made it damned salt, your broth," says Harry, in a feeble disgust.
"'Tis what you lack, look you." Captain McBean sat himself on the bed and took the cup and waved the woman off. "'Tis the natural, hale salinity and the sanguineous part which you lose by a wound, and for lack of it you are thus faint. Therefore we do ever administer great possets of salt to the wounded, and—"
"And pickle me before I be dead," says Harry. "Be hanged to your jargon."
"You'll take another sup, my lad, if I hold your long nose to it. And you may suck your orange after."
Harry made a wry face, swallowed a mouthful and lay back out of breath. After a while, "You were here all night, weren't you?" he said.
"I am body physician to the family of Boyce, mon brave."
"My father?"
"Has a hole in his shoulder, praise God, and a damned paternal temper. He will do well enough."
"How do you come into it?" McBean grinned. "Who were they?"
"I am here to talk to you, mon cher. You will not talk to me, for it is disintegrating to your tissues. Allons, compose yourself and attend. Now I come into it, if you please, out of gratitude. Mr. Boyce—I have it in command from His Majesty to present you with his thanks for very gallant and faithful service."
"Oh, the boy got off then?"
"King James is returned to France, sir," says McBean with dignity. "Look 'e, tie up your tongue. His Majesty charged me to put this in your hands and to advise you that he would ever have in memory your resource and spirit and your loyalty. Which I do with a great satisfaction, Mr. Boyce."
Harry fingered a pretty toy of a watch circled with diamonds, and wrought with a monogram in diamonds and sapphires. "Poor lad," says he.
"It's his own piece and was his father's, I believe. Pardieu, sir, there's many will envy you."
Harry's head went back on its pillows. "It's a queer taste."
"Mr. Boyce, you may count upon it that when His Majesty is established in power, he—"
"He will have as bad a memory as the rest of his family. Bah, what does it matter? You are talking of the millennium."
"You will talk, will you?" says McBean. "I'll gag you, mordieu, if you answer me back again. Come, sirrah, you know the King better. It's a noble, generous lad. So leave the Whiggish sneers to your father. So much for that. Now, mon ami, you have put me under a great obligation. It was a rare piece of work, and to be frank, I did not think you had it in you. But I did count upon you as a gentleman of high honour, and, pardieu, I count myself very fortunate I applied to you. I speak for my party, Mr. Boyce, when I thank you and promise you any service of mine."
Harry mumbled something like, "Damn your eloquence."
But McBean was not to be put off. "You will like to know that the King when he was quit of Marlborough—egad, the old villain hath been a gentleman in this business—made straight for me and was instant that I should concern myself for you. I held it my first duty to get His Majesty out of the country. Between ourselves, I was never in love with this plan of palace trickery and Madame Anne. But the thing was offered us, and we could not show the white feather. Bien, His Majesty took assurance from Marlborough of your safety, so I had no great alarm for you. I could not be aware of your private feuds. But now, mordieu, I make them my own. I promise you, it touches me nearly that you should be hacked down, and egad, before my eyes."
Harry tried to raise himself and said eagerly, "Who was in it? Who were they?"
Captain McBean responded with some more of the salt broth. "Now I'll confess that I had some doubts of your father. As soon as I was back in London I made haste to find you. I was waiting at that tavern of yours when I heard the scuffle. You were down before I could reach you, and there was your father fighting across you most heroical. Faith, I did not know the old gentleman had it in him. He had pinked one, I believe, but he is slow, and they were too many for him. He took it badly in the shoulder as I came. But they were not workmen. I put one out at the first thrust, and the rogues would not stand. I tickled one in the ham as he ran, but missed the sinew in his fat. So it ended. Now I'll confess I did the old gentleman a wrong. I guessed the business might be one of his damned superfine plots. It would be like him to have you finished while he made a brag of fighting for you. But I was wrong. Mordieu, I believe he has a kindness for you, Harry."
"What?" says Harry, startled by the name.
"Oh, mon ami, you must let me be kindly too. Egad, you command my emotions, sir. No, the old gentleman hath his humanity. He would have died for you, Harry, and faith he is so rheumatic he nearly did. No, it was not he played this damned game. Who d'ye think it was that I put on his back? That rascal Ben—you remember Ben of the North Road? I put the villain to the question who set him on you. Bien he was hired to it by that fine fellow Waverton."
"Geoffrey!" Harry gasped.
"Even so. Now, Harry, what has Master Geoffrey Waverton against you? If he wanted to murder your father I could understand it. That affair at Pontoise is matter enough for a life or two. Though he should take it gentlemanly. But why must he murder you?"
"I am not dead yet," said Harry, and his mouth set.
Captain McBean laughed. "Not by fifty year:" and he contemplated Harry's pale drawn face with benign approval. "But why does Mr. Waverton want you dead now?"
"That's my affair," said Harry.
"Enfin." Captain McBean shrugged, with a twist of the lip and a cock of the eye.
"Is there more of that broth?" says Harry.
Captain McBean administered it. "I go get another cup, Harry." He nodded and went out.
His two aides, Mackenzie and O'Connor, were waiting below. "Donald, go up. The same orders. None but Rolfe is to come to him without you stand by. And shorten your damned long face, if you can. Patrick, we take horse."