The White Gauntlet

“A cuirassier captain – Scarthe by name – has gone down with the skeleton of a troop to your neighbourhood. It is believed he has a commission to recruit. He is to be quartered on Sir Marmaduke Wade; but you will know all this before our messenger reaches you. It is well. Sir Marmaduke will surely hold out no longer? Make some excuse to see him, and ascertain how this benevolence acts. Do all you can, without compromising yourself to make the recruiting unpopular. Call the friends together at the old rendezvous on the night of the 20th. Pym, and Martin, and I will be down, and perhaps young Harry Vane. If you could get Sir Marmaduke to attend, it would be a point. See that your invitations are conveyed with due secrecy, and by trusty hands. I give you but little time. Act with caution: for this cuirassier captain, who is a courtier of some note, is doubtless entrusted with other commissions, besides that of raising recruits. Keep your eye upon him; and keep his as much as may be off yourself. My Messenger returns here at once. Feed his horse, and despatch him. You may trust the man. He has suffered in the cause: as you may convince yourself by glancing under the brim of his beaver. Don’t be offended if he insist on wearing it in your presence. It’s a way he has. He will himself tell you his name, which for certain reasons may not be written here. The good work goes bravely on.”

So ended the despatch.

There was no name appended. None was needed; for although the handwriting was not that of the great patriot, Henry Holtspur well knew that the dictation was his. It was not the first communication of a similar kind that had passed between him and Hampden.

The first thing which he did, after reading the despatch, was to cast a stealthy glance at the individual who had been its bearer; and directed towards that portion immediately under his hat.

Holtspur could observe nothing there – at least nothing to explain the ambiguous allusion in the letter of his correspondent. One circumstance, however, was singular. On both sides, the brim of the beaver was drawn down, and fastened in this fashion by a strap of leather passing under the chin: as if the wearer had caught cold in his ears, and wished to protect them from the night air.

The oddness of the style did not remain long a puzzle. He who had adopted it noticed the furtive scrutiny of the cavalier, and answered it with a grim smile.

“You perceive that I wear my hat rather slouchingly – not to say ill-manneredly,” said he. “It has been my fashion of late. Why I’ve taken to it would be explained by my uncovering; but perhaps it would save trouble, if I tell you my name. I am William Prynne.”

“Prynne!” exclaimed the cavalier, starting forward and eagerly grasping the Puritan by the hand. “I am proud to see you under my poor roof; and such hospitality as I can show – ”

“Henry Holtspur need not declare these sentiments to William Prynne,” said the earless Puritan, interrupting the complimentary speech. “The friend of the oppressed is well-known to all who have suffered; and I am of that number. I thank you for a hospitality which I can partake of for but a few minutes. Then I must bid you adieu, and be gone. The work of the Lord must not tarry. The harvest is fast ripening; and it behoves the reapers to get their sickles in readiness.”

The cavalier was too much alive to the necessity of the times, to spend a moment in idle speech. Directing the messenger’s horse to be fed – a duty which the ex-footpad took upon himself to perform – he ordered Oriole to place a repast before his visitor.

To this the hungry Puritan, notwithstanding his haste, proceeded to do ample justice; while Holtspur, throwing open his desk, hurriedly indited an answer to the letter of his correspondent.

Like the despatch, it was neither directed nor signed by any name, that could compromise either the writer or him for whom it was intended. The greatest danger would be to him who was to be entrusted with its delivery. But the staunch partisan of religious liberty recked little of the risk. The great cause, glowing in his zealous heart, rendered him insensible to petty fears; and, after finishing his hurried meal, he once more betook himself to the saddle; shook the hand of his host with cold yet fraternal grasp; bade adieu to Stone Dean; and rode swiftly and silently away.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Four

Before the hoof-strokes of the Puritan’s horse had ceased grinding on the gravelled path, Holtspur summoned the ex-footpad into his presence.

During the interval that had elapsed, the latter had not been idling his opportunity: as was indicated by the condition of the haunch of cold venison of which he had been invited to partake; and which was the same set before the traveller who had just taken his departure. A huge crevasse, scooped crosswise out of the joint, told incontestably that Garth had supped to his satisfaction; while a tankard of strong ale, which accompanied the missing meat, had set his spirits in a very satisfactory state.

As he had previously obtained sufficient sleep – to compensate for his loss of that necessary restorative on the preceding night – he was now ready for anything – according to his own declaration “anything, from pitch and toss up to manslaughter!”

It was fortunate he was in this prime condition: since his services – though not for any sanguinary purpose – were just then needed.

“Garth!” began the cavalier, as his old retainer entered the room, “I hinted to you, that a good cause might stand in need of you soon. It needs you now.”

“I’m ready, Master Henry, to do your bidding an’ though I never cut throat in my life, if you say the word – ”

“Shame – shame! Gregory! Don’t, my good fellow allow your thoughts to run into such frightful extremes. Time enough to talk of throat-cutting when,” – here the cavalier paused in his speech; “never mind when,” he continued – “I want you just now for a purpose altogether pacific.”

“Oh, anything ye like, Master Henry. I’m ready to turn Puritan, an’ go a preechin’, if you’re in the mind to make a ‘missioner’ o’ me. I had a word or two with that theer ’un, whiles ye war a writin’ him out his answer; an’ he gied me a consid’rable insight into theer way o’ translatin’ the Scripter. I reckon it be the right way; though ’taint accordin’ to old Master Laud an’ his Romish clargy.”

“Come, Garth!” said the cavalier, speaking impatiently; “the service for which I want you has nothing to do with religious matters. I’m in need of a messenger – one who knows the county – more especially the residences of a number of the gentry, to whom I have occasion to send letters. How long have you been living in Buckinghamshire?”

“Well, Master Henry, I’ve been in an’ about old Bucks a tidyish time – off an’ on I reckon for the better part o’ the last ten year – indeed, iver since I left the old place, you know – but I han’t niver been over a entire year in one partikler place at a time, d’ye see. My constitution ha’ been rather delicate at times, an’ needed change o’ air.”

“You know the topography of the county, I suppose?”

“I doan’t understand what ye mean by that ere topografy. It be a biggish sort o’ a word. If you mean the roads, I knows them, putty nigh as well as the man that made ’em – specially them as runs atween here an’ Oxford.”

“Good! That’s the very direction in which I stand in need of a trusty messenger. I have others I can send towards the north and south, but none who know anything of the Oxford side. You will do. If you are familiar with the roads in that direction, then you must also be acquainted with most of the residences near them – I mean those of the gentry.”

“Oh! ye-e-s,” assented Gregory, in a thoughtful drawl. “I’ve heerd speak o’ most on ’em; an’ I dar say most o’ ’em’s heerd speak o’ me.”

“Could you deliver letters to H – L – , to Sir K. F – , to young M – , son of Lord S., to R – M – , of Cheveley Park, and to Master G. C., a magistrate of the borough of High Wycombe?”

The cavalier, in putting this question, gave the names in full.

“Well,” replied the ex-footpad, “I dare say I kud deliver letters to all the gents you’ve made mention o’ – that be in the order as you’ve named ’em. But if I war to begin whar you’ve left off, then I shud be obligated to leave off, just whar I hed begun.”

“What! I don’t understand you, Gregory.”

“Why, it be simple enough, Master Henry. War I to carry a letter to that old pot-guts Justice o’ High Wycombe, ’taint likely I shud bring back the answer, – much less get leave to go on to the tothers, as you’ve named.”

“How’s that, Garth?”

“Kase ye see Old Wyk an’ hae had a leetlish bit o’ a quarrel– oncest on a time; an’ if he war to see me agin, he might remember that ere diff’rence atween us, an’ jug me. I’ll take yer letters to the tothers; an’ him last o’ all, if ye insist on’t; but if ye do, Master Henry, I won’t promise to bring back any answers.”

“Never mind him, then,” said the cavalier, appearing to give up the idea of communicating with the Wycombe Justice. “You can safely visit all the others, I suppose?”

Gregory nodded assent.

“You must start at once. Ah! I did not think of it; you will stand in need of a horse?”

“No, I woant,” replied the footpad, with a significant smile, “I’ve got one.”

“Oh! the horse you – ”

The cavalier hesitated to finish the speech that had risen to his tongue.

“Why, ye-e-s,” drawled the ex-footpad, “it’s a anymal as has done the King sarvice; an’ I doant see why it shudn’t now be employed in the sarvice o’ the People. If I be allowed to ha’ my guess, Master Henry, I shud say, that’s the errand on which ye be sendin’ me.”

“It is,” assented the cavalier, with emphasis.

“I am glad o’ ’t,” exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain degree of enthusiasm. “Write yer letters, Master Henry; I’ll take ’em whar they’re directed – even if one o’ ’em be to the jailer o’ Newgate!”

The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the table, and commenced preparing the epistles.

In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and, mounted upon the stolen steed of the King’s courier, was making his way along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of Colleges.

At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.

“Oriole!” asked the cavalier. “Do you think you can find the way to the cottage of Dick Dancey – the woodman who comes here so frequently? You have been over to his wigwam, haven’t you?”

The Indian made a sign of assent.

“You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will have no difficulty in finding the place – although there’s not a very clear path to it.”

Oriole’s only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the lip, as much as to say, “Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of his own race – a fool to lose my way in a forest?”