# The Splendid Spur/Chapter 18

pp. 275–293.

### CHAPTER XVIII.
#### JOAN DOES ME HER LAST SERVICE.

We came, a little before midnight, to Sir Bevill's famous great house of Stow, near Kilkhampton: that to-night was brightly lit and full of captains and troopers feasting, as well they needed to, after the great victory. And here, though loth to do so, I left Delia to the care of Lady Grace Grenville, Sir Bevill's fond beautiful wife, and of all gentlewomen I have ever seen the pink and paragon, as well for her loyal heart as the graces of her mind: who, before the half of our tale was out, kissed Delia on both cheeks, and led her away. “To you too, sir, I would counsel bed,” said she, “after you have eaten and drunk, and especially given God thanks for this day's work.”
Sir Bevill I did not see, but striding down into the hall, picked my way among the drinking and drunken; the servants hurrying with dishes of roast and baked and great tankards of beer; the swords and pikes flung down under the forms and settles, and sticking out to trip a man up; and at length found a groom who led me to a loft over one of the barns: and here, above a mattress of hay, I slept the first time for many months between fresh linen that smell'd of lavender, and in thinking how pleasant 'twas, dropped sound asleep.
Sure there is no better, sweeter couch than this of linen spread over hay. Early in the morning, I woke with wits clear as water, and not an ache or ounce of weariness in my bones: and after washing at the pump below, went in search of breakfast and Sir Bevill. The one I found, ready laid, in the hall; the other seated in his writing-room, studying in a map; and with apology for my haste, handed him Master Tingcomb's confession and told my story.
When 'twas over, Sir Bevill sat pondering, and after a while said, very frankly—
“As a magistrate I can give this warrant; and 'twould be a pleasure, for well, as a boy, do I remember Deakin Killigrew. Young sir——” he rose up, and taking a turn across the room, came and laid a hand on my shoulder, “I have seen his daughter. Is it too late to warn you against loving her?”
“Why yes,” I answer'd blushing: “I think it is.”
“She seems both sweet and quaint. God forbid I should say a word against one that has so taken me! But in these times a man should stand alone: to make a friend is to run the chance of a soft heart: to marry a wife makes the chance sure——”
He broke off, and went on again with a change of tone—
“For many reasons I would blithely issue this warrant. But how am I to spare men to carry it out? At any moment we may be assail'd.”
“If that be your concern, sir,” answer'd I, “give me the warrant. I have a good friend here, a seafaring man, whose vessel lies at this moment in Looe Haven, with a crew on board that will lay Master Tingcomb by the heels in a trice. Within three days we'll have him clapp'd in Launceston Jail, and there at the next Assize you shall sit on the Grand Jury and hear his case, by which time, I hope, the King's law shall run on easier wheels in Cornwall. The prisoners we have already I leave you to deal withal: only, against my will, I must claim some mercy for that rogue, Settle.”
To this Sir Bevill consented; and, to be short, the three knaves were next morning pack'd off to Launceston: but in time, no evidence being brought against them, regained their freedom, which they used to come to the gallows, each in his own way. Their doings no longer concern this history, and so I gladly leave them.
To return, then, to my proper tale, 'twas not ten minutes before I had the warrant in my pocket. And by eleven o'clock (word having been carried to Delia, and our plans laid before Billy Pottery, who on the spot engaged himself to help us) our horses were brought round to the gate, and my mistress appear'd, all ready for the journey. For tho' assured that the work needed not her presence, and that she had best wait at Stow till Master Tingcomb was smok'd out of his nest, she would have none of it, but was set on riding with me to see justice done on this fellow, of whose villainy I had told her much the night before. And glad I was of her choice, as I saw her standing on the entrance steps, fresh as a rose, and in a fit habit once more: for Lady Grace had lent not only her own bay horse, but also a riding dress and hat of grey velvet to equip her: and stood in the porch to wish us God-speed! while Sir Bevill help'd Delia to the saddle.
So, with Billy tramping behind us, away we rode up the combe, where Kilkhampton tower stood against the sky; and turning to wave hands at the top, found our host and hostess still by the gate, watching us, with hands rais'd to shield their eyes from the sun.
The whole petty tale of this day's ride I shall not dwell upon. Indeed, I scarcely noted the miles as they pass'd. For all the way we were chattering, Delia telling me how Captain Settle and his gang had hurried her (tho' without indignity) across Dartmoor to Ashburton, thence to Lynton in North Devon, and so along the coast of Somerset to Bristol; how they there produced a paper, at sight of which Sir Nathaniel Fiennes, the new Governor, kept her under lock and key. And thus she remained four months, at the end of which time they convey'd her on board a sloop, call'd the Fortitude, and bound for the Virginias, with the result that has been told. To all of which I listen'd greedily, stealing from time to time a look at her shape, that on horseback was graceful as a willow, and into her eyes that, under the flapping grey brim, were gay and fancy-free as ever.
“And did you,” asked I, “never at heart chide me for leaving you so!”
“Why no. I never took thee for a conjurer, Jack.”
“But, at least, you thought of me,” I urged.
“Oh, dear—oh, dear!” She pull'd rein and look'd at me: “I remember now that last night I kiss'd thee. Forget it, Jack: last night, so glad was I to be sav'd, I could have kiss'd a cobbler. Indeed, Jack,” she went on seriously, “I would that some maid had got hold of thee, in all these months, to cure thy silly notions!”
At Launceston, Billy Pottery took leave of us: and now went, due south, toward Looe, with a light purse and lighter heart, undertaking that his ship should lie off Gleys, with her crew ready for action, within eight-and-forty hours. Delia and I rode faster now toward the south-west: and having by this time recover'd my temper, I was recounting my flight along this very road, when I heard a sound that brought my heart into my mouth.
'Twas the blast of a bugle, and came from behind the hill in front of us. And at the same moment I understood. It must be Sir George Chudleigh's cavalry returning, on news of their comrades' defeat, and we were riding straight toward them, as into a trap.
Now what could have made me forgetful of this danger I cannot explain, unless it be that our thorough victory over the rebels had given me the notion that the country behind us was clear of foes. And Sir Bevill must have had a notion we were going straight to Looe with Billy. At any rate, there was no time to be lost: for my presence was a danger to Delia as well. I cast a glance about me. There was no place to hide.
“Quick!” I cried; “follow me, and ride for dear life!”
And striking spur into Molly I turn'd sharp off the road and gallop'd across the moor to the left, with Delia close after me.
We had gone about two hundred yards only when I heard a shout, and glancing over my right shoulder, saw a green banner waving on the crest of the road, and gathered about it the vanguard of the troop—some score of dragoons: and these, having caught sight of us, were pausing a moment to watch.
The shout presently was followed by another; to which I made no answer, but held on my way, with the nose of Delia's horse now level with my stirrup: for I guess'd that my dress had already betrayed us. And this was the case; for at the next glance I saw five or six dragoons detach themselves from the main body, and gallop in a direction at an acute angle to ours. On they came, yelling to us to halt, and scattering over the moor to intercept us.
Not choosing, however, to be driven eastward, I kept a straight course and trusted to our horses' fleetness to carry us by them, out of reach of their shot. In the pause of their first surprise we had stolen two hundred yards more. I counted and found eight men thus in pursuit of us: and to my joy heard the bugle blown again, and saw the rest of the troop, now gathering fast above, move steadily along the road without intention to follow. Doubtless the news of the Cornish success made them thus wary of their good order.
Still, eight men were enough to run from; and now the nearest let fly with his piece—more to frighten us, belike, than with any other view, for we were far out of range. But it grew clear that if we held on our direction they must cut us off: as you may see by these two arrows, the long thin one standing for our own course, the thicker and shorter for that of the dragoons.
Only now with good hope I saw a hill rising not half a mile in front, and somewhat to the right of our course: and thought I “if we can gain the hollow to the left of it, and put the hill between us, they must ride over it or round—in either case losing much time.” So, pointing this out to Delia, who rode on my left (to leave my pistol arm free and at the same time be screen'd by me from shot of the dragoons) I drove my spurs deep and called to Molly to make her best pace.
The enemy divin'd our purpose: and in a minute 'twas a desperate race for the entrance to the hollow. But our horses were the faster, and we the lighter riders; so that we won, with thirty yards to spare, from the foremost:—not without damage, however; for finding himself baulked, he sent a bullet at us which cut neatly through my off rein, so that my bridle was henceforward useless and I could guide Molly with knee and voice alone. Delia's bay had shied at the sound of it, and likely enough saved my mistress' life by this; for the bullet must have pass'd within a foot before her.
Down the hollow we raced with three dragoons at our heels, the rest going round the hill. But they did little good by so doing, for after the hollow came a broad, dismal sheet of water (by name Dozmaré Pool, I have since heard) about a mile round and bank'd with black peat. Galloping along the left shore of this, we cut them off by near half-a-mile. But the three behind followed doggedly, though dropping back with every stride.
Beyond the pool came a green valley; and a stream flowing down it, which we jump'd easily. Glancing at Delia as she landed on the further side, I noted that her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes brimful of mirth.
“Say, Jack,” she cried; “is not this better than love of women?”
“In Heaven's name,” I called out, “take care!”
But 'twas too late. The green valley here melted into a treacherous bog, in the which her bay was already plunging over his fetlocks, and every moment sinking deeper.
“Throw me the rein!” I shouted, and catching the bridle close by the bit, lean'd over and tried to drag the horse forward. By this, Molly also was over hoofs in liquid mud. For a minute and more we heav'd and splashed: and all the while the dragoons, seeing our fix, were shouting and drawing nearer and nearer. But just as a brace of bullets splashed into the slough at our feet, we stagger'd to the harder slope, and were gaining on them again. So for twenty minutes along the spurs of the hills, we held on, the enemy falling back and hidden, every now and again, in the hollows—but always following: at the end of which time, Delia call'd from just behind me—
“Jack—here's a to-do: the bay is going lame!”
There was no doubt of it. I suppose he must have wrung his off hind leg in fighting through the quag. Any way, ten minutes more would see the end of his gallop. But at this moment we had won to the top of a stiff ascent: and now, looking down at our feet, I had the joyfullest surprise.
'Twas the moor of Temple spread below like a map, the low sun striking on the ruin'd huts to the left of us, on the roof of Joan's cottage, on the scar of the high road, and the sides of the tall tor above it.
“In ten minutes,” said I, “we may be safe.”
So down into the plain we hurried: and I thought for the first time of the loyal girl waiting in the cottage yonder; of my former ride into Temple; and (with angry shame) of the light heart with which I left it. To what had the summoning drums and trumpets led me? Where was the new life, then so carelessly prevented? But two days had gone, and here was I running to Joan for help, as a child to his mother.
Past the peat-ricks we struggled, the sheep-cotes, the straggling fences—all so familiar; cross'd the stream and rode into the yard.
“Jump down,” I whisper'd: “we have time, and no more.” Glancing back, I saw a couple of dragoons already coming over the heights. They had spied us.
Dismounting I ran to the cottage door and flung it open. A stream of light, flung back against the sun, blazed into my eyes.
I rubbed them and halted for a moment stock-still.
For Joan stood in front of me, dress'd in the very clothes I had worn on the day we first met—buff-coat, breeches, heavy boots, and all. Her back was toward me, and at the shoulder, where the coat had been cut away from my wound, I saw the rents all darn'd and patch'd with pack thread. In her hand was the mirror I had given her.
At the sound of my step on the threshold she turn'd with a short cry—a cry the like of which I have never heard, so full was it of choking joy. The glass dropp'd to the floor and was shatter'd. In a second her arms were about me, and so she hung on my neck, sobbing and laughing together.
“'Twas true—'twas true! Dear, dear Jack—dear Jack to come to me: hold me tighter, tighter—for my very heart is bursting!”
And behind me a shadow fell on the doorway: and there stood Delia regarding us.
“Good lad—all yesterday I swore to be strong and wait for years, if need be. Fie on womankind, to be so weak! All day I sat an' sat, an' did never a mite o' work—never set hand to a tool: an' by sunset I gave in an' went, cursing mysel', over the moor to Warleggan, to Alsie Pascoe, the wise woman—an' she taught me a charm—an' bless her, bless her, Jack, for't hath brought thee!”
“Joan,” said I, hot with shame, taking her arms gently from my neck: “listen: I come because I am chased. Once more the dragooners are after me—not five minutes away. You must lend me a horse, and at once.”
“Nay,” said a voice in the doorway, “the horse, if lent, is for me!”
Joan turn'd, and the two women stood looking at each other;—the one with dark wonder, the other with cold disdainfulness—and I between them scarce lifting my eyes. Each was beautiful after her kind, as day and night: and though their looks cross'd for a full minute like drawn blades, neither had the mastery. Joan was the first to speak.
“Jack, is thy mare in the yard?”
I nodded.
“Give me thy pistols and thy cloak.” She stepp'd to the window-hole at the end of the kitchen, and look'd out. “Plenty o' time,” she said; and pointed to the ladder leading to the loft above—“Climb up there, the both, and pull the ladder after. Is't thou, they want—or she?” pointing to Delia.
“Me chiefly they would catch, no doubt—being a man,” I answer'd.
“Aye—bein' a man: the world's full o' folly. Then Jack do thou look after her, an' I'll look after thee. If the rebels leave thee in peace, make for the Jews' Kitchen and there abide me.”
She flung my cloak about her, took my pistols and went out at the door. As she did so, the sun sank and a dull shadow swept over the moor. “Joan!” I cried, for now I guess'd her purpose and was following to hinder her: but she had caught Molly's bridle and was already astride of her. “Get back!” she call'd softly; and then, “I make a better lad than wench, Jack,”—leapt the mare through a gap in the wall, and in a moment was breasting the hill and galloping for the high road.
In less than a minute, as it seem'd, I heard a pounding of hoofs, and had barely time to follow Delia up the ladder and pull it after me, when two of the dragoons rode skurrying by the house, and pass'd on yelling. Their cries were hardly faint in the distance before there came another three.
“'A's a lost man, now, for sure,” said one: “Be dang'd if 'a's not took the road back to Lan'son!”
“How 'bout the gal?” ask'd another voice. “Here's her horse i' the yard.”
“Drat the gal! Sam, go thou an' tackle her: reckon thou'rt warriors enow for one 'ooman.”
The two hasten'd on: and presently I heard the one they call'd “Sam” dismounting in the yard. Now there was a window-hole in the loft, facing, not on the yard, but toward the country behind; and running to it I saw that no more were following—the other three having, as I suppose, early given up the chase. Softly pulling out a loose stone or two, I widen'd this hole till I could thrust the ladder out of it. To my joy it just reach'd the ground. I bade Delia squeeze herself through and climb down.
But before she was half way down I heard a wild screech in the kitchen below, and the voice of Sam shrieking—
“Help—help! Lord ha' mercy 'pon me—'tis a black cat—'tis a witch! The gal's no gal, but a witch!”
Laughing softly, I was descending the ladder when the fellow came round the corner screaming—with Jan Tergagle clawing at his back and spitting murderously. Delia had just time to slip aside, before he ran into the ladder and brought me flying on top of him. And there he lay and bellow'd till I tied him, and gagg'd his noise with a big stone in his mouth and his own scarf tied round it.
“Come!” I whisper'd: for Joan and her pursuers were out of sight. Catching up her long skirt, Delia follow'd me, and up the tor we panted together, nor rested till we were safe in the Jews' Kitchen.
“What think you of this for a hiding place?” ask'd I, with a laugh.
But Delia did not laugh. Instead, she faced me with blazing eyes, check'd herself and answer'd, cold as ice—
“Sir, you have done me a many favours. How I have trusted you in return it were best for you to remember, and for me to forget.”
The dark drew on; the western star grew distinct and hung flashing over against our hiding; and still we sat there, hour after hour, silent, angry, waiting for Joan's return, Delia at the entrance of the den, chin on hand, scanning the heavens and never once turning toward me; I further inside, with my arms cross'd, raging against myself and all the world, yet with a sick'ning dread that Joan would never come back.
As the time lagg'd by, this terror grew and grew. But, as I think, about ten o'clock, I heard steps coming over the turf. I ran out. 'Twas Joan herself and leading Molly by the bridle. She walk'd as if tir'd, and leaving the mare at the entrance, follow'd me into the cave. Glancing round, I noted that Delia had slipt away.
“Am glad she's gone,” said Joan shortly: “How many rebels pass'd this way, Jack?”
“Five, counting one that lies gagg'd and bound, down at the cottage.”
“That leaves four:”—she stretch'd herself on the ground with a sigh—“four that'll never trouble thee more, lad.”
“Why? how——”
“Listen, lad: sit down an' let me rest my head 'pon thy knee. Oh, Jack, I did it bravely! Eight good miles an' more I took the mare—by the Four—hol'd Cross, an' across the moor past Tober an' Catshole, an' over Brown Willy, an' round Roughtor to the nor'-west: an' there lies the bravest quag—oh, a black, bottomless hole!—an' into it I led them; an' there they lie, every horse, an' every mother's son, till Judgment Day.”
“Dead?”
“Aye—an' the last twain wi' a bullet apiece in their skulls. Oh, rare! Dear heart—hold my head—so, atween thy hands. 'Put on his cast off duds,' said Alsie, 'an' stand afore the glass, sayin' “Come, true man!” nine-an'-ninety time.' I was mortal 'feard o' losin' count; but afore I got to fifty, I heard thy step an'—hold me closer, Jack.”
“But Joan, are these men dead, say you?”
“Surely, yes. Why, lad, what be four rebels, up or down, to make this coil over? Hast never axed after me!”
“Joan—you are not hurt?”
In the darkness I sought her eyes, and, peering into them, drew back.
“Joan!”
“Hush, lad—bend down thy head, and let me whisper. I went too near—an' one, that was over his knees, let fly wi' his musket—an' Jack, I have but a minute or two. Hush lad, hush—there's no call! Wert never the man could ha' tam'd me—art the weaker, in a way: forgie the word, for I lov'd thee so, boy Jack!”
Her arms were drawing down my face to her: her eyes dull with pain.
“Feel, Jack—there—over my right breast. I plugg'd the wound wi' a peat turf. Pull it out, for 'tis bleeding inwards, and hurts cruelly—pull it out!”
As I hesitated, she thrust her own hand in and drew it forth, leaving the hot blood to gush.
“An' now, Jack, tighter—hold me tighter. Kiss me—oh, what brave times! Tighter, lad, an' call wi' me—'Church an' King!' Call, lad—'Church an'——'”
The warm arms loosen'd: the head sank back upon my lap.
I look'd up. There was a shadow across the entrance, blotting out the star of night. 'Twas Delia, leaning there and listening.