CHAPTER X.

Give good hearing to those that give the first information in business, and rather direct them in the beginning, than interrupt them in the continuance of their speeches; for he that is put out of his own order will go forward and backward, and be more tedious while he waits upon his memory, than he could have been if he had gone on his own course—LORD BACON.

Affairs remained in this unpleasant state until the evening of the 30th of October, when between seven and eight o’clock a man on a jaded horse, and covered with mud, galloped up to the door of Warenne’s lodging. He hastily ascertained from the servant that his master was within; threw the rein to him, and dashed up the stairs. It was Nicholas.

“Warenne,” cried he, as soon as he entered the room, “you must be off, and quickly, if you wish to save Fisherton. It will be attacked to-morrow night by a large body of men, and sacked and burnt, if you are not there to prevent it.”

“When?” asked Warenne; “to-morrow night? for heaven’s sake tell me what you have heard.”

“I will,” replied Nicholas, “all in order; but the upshot is this,—that Fisherton will be plundered to-morrow night, and that there are more smugglers engaged in the business than are sufficient to set your one troop at defiance.”

He then proceeded to state that he had been shooting that very morning on some property of his father’s between the Plashetts and the coast, when a woman in great distress had run up to him, and begged him to come and speak with her husband, who was dying. “He wished,” she said, “to speak to some clergyman, or magistrate, or to Mr. Nicholas.”

Nicholas accordingly accompanied her to her cottage, where he found a poor fellow, to whom his father had behaved with much kindness the previous winter, lying with both his legs broken, and his back severely injured, from a fall of ground in a chalk-pit. Clarke, for that was his name, was in great agony, and evidently could not live many hours. On seeing Nicholas, and receiving his condolences, he said, “My body is bad enough, to be sure, but it is nothing to my mind. I could not die easy till I had seen you, Mr. John. Tell the women to leave the room, sir. I must speak to you; if I die before I make a clean breast, I can never find no mercy. Why don’t the women leave the room?” repeated he fiercely. “Now, then, they are gone, and no one is here but ourselves. Come nearer to me, if you please, sir. You know, sir, about our nightly meetings. I have been one as has regularly attended them. God forgive me, I wish I had never heard of them. Last night, sir, last night,” as he repeated the word he raised himself in his bed, casting his eyes inquiringly about the room, as if he dreaded a witness to his disclosure, and sank his voice to a whisper, “it was agreed that we should make an attack on Fisherton as to-morrow night. The troops are changed to-morrow: the one as is at Fisherton goes to Calbury, and the Charnstead one comes into Fisherton; and we reckoned that the new men would not know the ground, and having just marched in, would be tired, and off their guard. So we settled to collect together at certain places after dusk, and then, in company with the smugglers, who were to join us there, to enter the town, and set fire to it in several parts, and plunder it in the confusion. That ever I should have agreed to such wickedness! I never should, Mr. John—I never should, if I had not been fool enough to listen to those villains, who persuaded us that we were all deprived of our rights by the rich, and that it was appointed that we should all share and share alike. I see it all quite different now. Do you think, sir, I shall ever be forgiven?”

Nicholas, shocked and alarmed, tried to soothe the wretched man—“That is a question I can hardly answer, for I am no divine; but I should think you might be, if you are really sorry for what you were going to do. One thing I am sure of, the best way of making amends for your crime is to confess all you know.”

“I know no more,” replied the poor fellow. “Our leaders never told us any more than I have just said, that we were to attack the place to-morrow between nine and ten o’clock, by which time we thought people would be beginning to go to bed.”

Nicholas having thus ascertained all that could be extracted from the wounded man, considered that between the present hour and the morrow’s night there was but little time for communication with Warenne, on whom the safety of the town depended, and he became anxious to depart; but Clarke, seizing his hand, exclaimed—

“Pray, sir, don’t leave! I am no ways prepared for death.”

Nicholas observed to him, “Clarke, if I do not go, I cannot prevent the attack, and your confession will do no good.”

“Oh no!” replied Clarke, withdrawing his grasp, “nor me no good neither. I had forgot that—go sir, go—but no—stay one moment. Oh, sir, when I am gone, don’t give me up—don’t let people know as I ever split; they would murder my wife and children. And do you, Martha—pray, sir, call my wife—Martha, I say, I charge you never, as you value your life, tell a soul as Mr. John has been here to-day.” The poor frightened woman promised acquiescence. “Now then go, sir,” said he; “God bless you! I will try and pray.”

Nicholas immediately made the best of his way to the Plashetts, sent off an express to Seaforth, and himself started for Calbury on the best horse in his stable.

Warenne listened patiently to Nicholas’s story, for he knew well that the quickest mode of obtaining the truth from any man is to let him speak what he has to say in his own manner. At its close he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought, then, turning to Nicholas, he asked him if he had seen a magistrate, or could say that he was sent by any magistrate to ask the assistance of the soldiery. Nicholas replied in the negative, and Warenne began to pace up and down the room in deep thought, and apparently under much anxiety. At last he stopped, and exclaimed, “Well, then, I must take the responsibility on myself. Communication with head-quarters is impossible. I must disobey orders, and abide the consequences: I cannot, for any hazard to myself, suffer a town to be burnt, and its inhabitants to be massacred.”

He rang the bell; and bade his servant send Captain Harris to him, and also his brother; and he resumed his meditative walk, until it flashed across him that he was treating Nicholas with great inhospitality.

“I beg your pardon, Nicholas,” said he, “I make you but an ill return for your kindness in bringing me this news yourself in person; but the truth is, I am so awkwardly placed, that I am forced to employ all my wits in considering what will be my best line of conduct.”

“Oh never mind me,” answered the good-natured fellow; “I shall go and hunt out your cook, and take care of myself. You have plenty on your hands, without attending to the wants of a hungry man.”

A few minutes brought Captain Harris to his colonel’s apartment. “Captain Harris,” said Warenne, “you will immediately call out your troop, and proceed with it in the direction of Charnstead, so as to reach that place to-morrow morning before eight o’clock. Rest there until Captain Paulet moves his troop to Fisherton, and do you then accompany him. You will meet the Fisherton troop between that place and Charnstead; take them back with you. As soon as you arrive at Fisherton, if I am not with you, notify your arrival to Major Stuart. He will probably have quarters ready for you; but whether you see him or not, do not unbridle, and keep your men standing by their horses.”

Captain Harris, who had received many similar orders the previous winter in Ireland, merely bowed and left the room, and in twenty minutes was with his troop in march on the Charnstead road.

Frank came in as Captain Harris left the room. Warenne briefly explained to him how matters stood. “And now, Frank,” said he, “I shall leave you with the remaining troops to take care of this neighbourhood. No (seeing Frank about to interrupt him), I cannot take you with me. On the contrary, I must leave you here. I must have some one on this ground who will value my honour as his own, and I look to you as the person I can best trust on earth. Should a disturbance take place here, and get to a head while I am absent, I am a ruined man. If you love me, you will stay here.”

Frank _did_ dearly love his brother: he was flattered too by the unlimited confidence reposed in him. He therefore said not a word about going, but simply asked for his orders.

“You are almost as good a soldier as I am,” said Warenne, “and must be guided by circumstances. I hardly think that you will be called on to take any very serious measures. It will be well, however, to keep a watchful eye on all that is going forward, and to make as much parade as you can with your soldiers. Never mind harassing them a little, for a day or two; but multiply their numbers as much as possible, by showing them in different parts of the town. Make your one hundred and fifty men appear five hundred if you can. Should you be required to act, be decisive.”

The two brothers then proceeded to arrange some minor details, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice saying, in rather a tone of authority, “Colonel, I must come in.”

“By all that is sacred, it is Nanny Rudd!” exclaimed Frank, “what can she want here at this hour?” He ran to the door and opened it. “Come in, Nanny; what are your commands to-night?”

“Captain Warenne,” answered Nanny, “ye’ll give that girl, as come with me, and brought me here, a crown. I promised her the same; and whiles you are taking it out of your purse, I’ll spake a word with your brother. I have business with him.”

Warenne came forward, and laying hold of her hand, inquired what she had to say to him.

“Is the captain,” asked Nanny, with emphasis, “giving the girl the crown?”

Frank knew Nanny’s ways, and guessed that she wished him to get the girl out of the room. “Here, my good girl,” said Frank, stepping into an adjoining room, “here is not a crown, but a guinea for you. You are a kind-hearted lass to lead about a poor blind old woman, who is neither kith nor kin to you.”

The girl was delighted both with the guinea and with Frank, and immediately began telling him how she came to accompany the old lady to Warenne’s lodgings.

In the meanwhile Nanny bade Warenne close the door. “I don’t want,” said she, “that poor lass to hear what I am saying. She has nothing of the soldier about her, and don’t comprehend the necessity of keeping an asy tongue on all occasions, and she might tell tales, and get herself and others into trouble. Colonel,” continued she, when she ascertained that the door was shut, “I could not rest on my settle till I got to you to-night. How should I, when I receives the King’s money as I do? There’s going to be a row somewhere on the coast. I should guess to-morrow night, but I didn’t hear particulars.”

“Indeed, Nanny,” said Warenne, “what have you heard?”

“I’ll tell your honour,” answered Nanny. “There’s a man been staying at my brother’s house these last ten days; a pretty bad one, I reckon. I couldn’t make out why he kept staying on so. Well, to-night, just about six o’clock, he comes into the kitchen,—with Will Sharpe, whom you’ve heard speak of, I dare say, in this town, as a big thief and vagabond,—as I suppose ready-dressed for travelling; for Will says to him,—

“‘Then you’re off now?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘in less than five minutes; my job is done, and well done. We’ve flammed the beaks (that’s the magistrates, you know) finely. I was to stay here till the latest moment I could this evening, to ascertain that the bloody redcoats—them was his words, a nasty blackguard!—was quiet, and nothing suspected, and then to get down, you know where, in time to make the necessary arrangements for to-morrow.’ ‘You’ll be there,’ says Will, ‘early to-morrow morning?’ ‘I’ll be on the Plashetts Green by twelve to-night,’ answers t’other, ‘or I’ll know the rights on it.’ With that he jumped into his gig or light cart, and went away like a madman. Will Sharpe came back into the kitchen, and had some beer, and I did not dare to move till he was gone; but at last he went, and I stole out into the back-yard, and got my brother’s girl to lead me here.”

“About six did the man set off?” asked Warenne.

“Yes,” answered she, “and I would have been here an hour ago if that prying divil of his companion had gone away at first, as he ought. I hate a man to sit and drink by himself; it is not neighbourly.”

He was off, then, thought Warenne, before the troops had started; so far, so good. Nicholas, too, came the cross-road, so he did not meet him.

“But now, Colonel,” said Nanny, interrupting his calculations, “I must go, or the girl will get into a scrape at home.”

Warenne asked her if she wanted anything for herself.

“If you mean pay, for doing my duty as a soldier’s widow ought,” said Nanny, “I’m above it; but you didn’t mean that, I reckon; for I am told you’re quite the gentleman, thof I do think an officer in his Majesty’s infantry would have had more delicacy; but no, no, I want nothing; we’ll talk of that some other day. Where’s the wench? Betsy! Betsy!”

Betsy returned with a radiant face at having had nonsense talked to her for a quarter of an hour by a very handsome captain of dragoons.

“Betsy, where are you?” muttered the old woman; “I didn’t do right to send that captain out with you. I heard him give you a guinea, too. They are all alike, them captains. I hope he has not turned your head; that would be but a bad return for your coming along with me this night.”

“Lawk, Nanny!” said Betsy, laughing, “do you think I don’t know the value of an officer’s talk, and they quartered here for three months?”

“You are a giddy child, Betsy,” answered Nanny; “but I’ll hope for the best.”

Warenne informed Frank of the confirmation given to Nicholas’s story by Nanny’s intelligence. “We shall be a match for them yet, I trust,” continued he; “but now I must to work. I must send off an express to head-quarters—tell the adjutant to have one ready for me. The general will not thank me for the step I am about to take; so I must e’en write him as conciliatory a letter as I can. Good night.”

Warenne composed his letter with the greatest care; stated his extreme reluctance to disobey the orders which he had received; hoped that, under the circumstances of the case, he should merely anticipate his general’s wishes by the arrangements which he had made to prevent the loss of life and destruction of property, which could not fail to be consequent on the execution of a plot such as he developed; and added the informations of Nicholas and Nanny Rudd.

This done, for the first time since Nicholas’s arrival, he ventured to turn his mind wholly to the difficulties of his situation. To the charge of disobedience, to the risk of disgrace, when so important an object was in view, he had reconciled himself without a struggle; but now that he had leisure to reflect, there was much to appal him in the enterprise which he had undertaken.

He was about to stake his military character on a single cast; to disobey the strict orders of his general, to act upon his own responsibility; wherefore, if he failed, he must expect to be dismissed from the service. He doubted for a moment whether it would not have been wiser to adopt the safe line—obey orders, and avoid danger of every sort—but it was only for a moment; the next, his generous nature spurned the thought. His self-devotion, however, was tasked to the utmost when he contemplated the effect that might be produced on Adelaide’s mind by his being disgraced.

Hope, spite of reason, had hitherto remained an inmate of his breast; and had whispered that a day might come when he could venture to declare to her his passion; but can this, he asked himself, ever take place if I am dishonoured? Can I, with a tarnished reputation, ever ask her to wed me? or can she ever believe my vows, when I now leave this spot, where danger is supposed to threaten, and trust her to the protection of any arm but my own?

These ideas, in every variety of form, for a time pressed upon Warenne’s heated imagination; but wrestling with the rebellious feelings of his heart, he would not suffer his love to unman him. His only hope was in success—a poor hope, perhaps; for even success might not rescue him from censure for presumption and disregard of discipline. Still it was his only hope; he would not, therefore, willingly throw it away, by yielding to thoughts which, at the best, could but enervate him.

He forced his mind from the reflections which he had allowed to bewilder him, and tried to compose himself for the night—how well, let those declare who have endured the torments of uncertainty. Certainty, even of the worst, may be borne; the condemned criminal sleeps, who is to rise to execution; but while hope has power to frame visions for the future, which fear shall the next moment dissipate, sleep is chased from the eyelids of the unfortunate, and forgetfulness is a boon which they are not permitted to enjoy.