The White Gauntlet

Another individual, still taller and more robust – as also older – was assisting “Greg’ry” in distributing the good cheer; while the host of the inn – equally interested in the quick circulation of the can – was bustling about with a smile of encouragement to all customers who came near him.

It might have been noticed that the eyes of the revellers were, from time to time, turned towards the bridge – by which the road leading westward was carried across the Colne. There was nothing particular about this structure – a great elevated arch, supporting a narrow causeway, flanked by stone walls, which extended from the water’s edge some twenty or thirty yards along both sides of the road. The walls were still farther continued towards the town by a wooden paling, which separated the road from the adjoining meadows.

These, bordering both sides of the river, extended away towards the south-west, as far as the eye could reach.

Between the houses, and the nearer end of the bridge, intervened about a hundred yards of the highway, which lay directly under the eyes of the roistering crowd; but on the other side of the river, the road was not visible from the inn – being screened by the mason-work of the parapet, and the arched elevation of the causeway.

Neither on the road, nor the bridge, nor in the meadows below, did there appear aught that should have attracted the attention of the idlest loiterer; though it was evident from the glances occasionally cast westward over the water, that some object worth seeing was expected to show itself in that direction.

The expression upon the countenances of most was that of mere curiosity; but there were eyes among the crowd that betrayed a deeper interest – amounting almost to anxiety.

The tall man in odd apparel, with the bushy black whiskers, though bandying rough jests with those around him, and affecting to look gay, could be seen at intervals casting an eager look towards the bridge, and then communicating in whispers with the individual in the faded velveteens – who was well-known to most of the bystanders as “Old Dick Dancey the deer-stealer.”

“What be ye all gathered here about?” inquired a man freshly arrived in front of the inn. “Anything to be seen, masters?”

“That there be,” answered one of those thus interrogated. “Wait a bit and maybe you’ll see something worth seeing.”

“What might it be?”

“Dragoniers – royal soldiers of his Majesty the King.”

“Bah! what’s there in that to get up such a row for? One sees them now every day.”

“Ay, and once a day too often,” added a third speaker, who did not appear to be amongst the most loyal of His Majesty’s lieges.

“Ah! but you don’t see them every day as you will this morning – taking a prisoner to the Tower – a grand gentleman at that!”

“A prisoner! Who?”

A name was pronounced, or rather soubriquet: for it was by a phrase that the question was answered.

“The Black Horseman,” replied the man who had been questioned. “That’s the prisoner you shall see, master.”

The announcement might have caused a greater commotion among the spectators, but that most of those present had already learnt the object of the assemblage. The excitement that at that instant succeeded, sprang from a different cause. A man who had climbed up on the parapet of the bridge – and who had been standing with his face turned westward – was seen making a signal, which appeared to be understood by most of those around the inn. At the same instant, a crowd of boys, who had been sharing his view from the top of the wall, commenced waving their caps, and crying out “The horse sogers – the King’s Kewresseers! – they’re comin’ they’re comin’!”

The shouting was succeeded by a profound silence – the silence of expectation.

Soon after, plumes waving over steel helmets, then the helmets themselves, then glancing gorgets and breastplates, proclaimed the approach of a troop of cuirassiers.

They came filing between the walls of grey mason-work – their helmets, as they rose up one after another over the arched parapet, blazing under the bright sun, and dazzling the eyes of the spectators.

In the troop there were exactly a dozen horsemen, riding in files of two each; but the cavalcade counted fourteen – its leader making the thirteenth, while a man, not clad in armour, though in line among the rest, completed the number.

This last individual, although robed in rich velvet, and with all the cast of a cavalier, was attached to the troop in a peculiar manner. The attitude he held upon his horse – with hands bound behind his back, and ankles strapped to the girth of his saddle – told that he was of less authority than the humblest private in the rank. He was a prisoner.

He was not unknown to the people composing that crowd, into the midst of which his escort was advancing. The black horseman had ridden too often through the streets of Uxbridge, and held converse with its inhabitants, to pass them in such fashion, without eliciting glances of recognition and gestures of sympathy.

He was no longer astride his own noble steed, as well-known as himself; though the horse was there, with a rider upon his back who but ill became him.

This was the chief of the escort, Cornet Stubbs, who, an admirer of horse flesh, had that day committed an act of quiet confiscation.

Holtspur was between two of the troopers, about three or four files from the rear; while the cornet – somewhat conceited in the exercise of his conspicuous command – rode swaggeringly at the head. In this fashion, the glittering cavalcade crossed the causeway of the bridge, and advanced among the crowd – until its foremost files had penetrated to a point directly in front of the inn.

Stubbs had been scanning the countenance of the people as he rode in among them. He fancied he saw faces that frowned upon him; but these were few; and, on the whole, the assemblage seemed simply hilarious and cheerful.

It never occurred to him, that there could be any intention of interrupting his march. How could it? He presumed, that, as soon as his charger penetrated into the thick of the crowd, the individuals comprising it would spring quickly aside, and make way for him and his followers.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that on getting fairly in front of the inn, he found the passage blocked by human bodies – standing so densely across the street, that in order to avoid riding over them, he was compelled to bring his horse to a halt.

Just at that instant, a shout rose up around him – apparently intended as a cheer of congratulation to the soldiers; while a voice, louder than the rest, vociferated: “The King! the King! Down with disloyal knaves! Death to all traitors!”

There was a touch of irony in the tones; but it was too delicately drawn for the dull perception of Cornet Stubbs; and he interpreted the speeches, in their loyal and literal sense.

“My good friends!” he graciously replied, while a gratified expression stole over his stolid features, “Glad to find you in such good spirits. Am, by Ged!”

“Oh! we’re in the right spirit,” rejoined one. “You’ll see bye-and-bye. Come, master officer! have a drink. Let’s toast the king! You won’t object to that, I’m sure?”

“By no means,” replied Stubbs. “By no means. I should be most happy to drink with you; but you see, my friends, we’re on duty; and must not be detained – mustn’t, by Ged!”

“We won’t detain ye a minnit,” urged the first speaker – a stalwart blacksmith, as hard of face as his own hammer. “We won’t, by Ged!” added he in a tone which, coupled with the peculiar form of expression, led Stubbs to conceive some doubts about the sincerity of his proffered friendship.

“Look alive there, lads!” continued the village Vulcan. “Bring out the stingo, landlord! Some of your best wine for the officer; and your strongest home-brew for his brave men. Ding it – the day’s hot and dusty. You have a long ride atween this and Lunnun. You’ll feel fresher, after sluicin’ your throats with a can o’ our Uxbridge ale. Won’t ye, masters?”

The last appeal was made to the troopers; who, without making any verbal reply, signified by nods and other gestures, that they were nothing loath to accept the offer, without calling in question the brusquerie of him who made it.

Almost as if by enchantment a number of men, with drinking-vessels in their hands, appeared on both flanks of the mounted escort – each holding a cup, or can, temptingly before the eyes of a trooper.

These ready waiters were not the regular tapsters of the establishment, but men of other and different crafts: the shoemakers already spoken of, in their wax-smeared aprons – the millers in their snow-white jackets – the blacksmiths in the grimy garments – and the butchers redolent of suet.

Notwithstanding the sans façon of the invitation, and the odd apparel of the attendants, the liquor frothing up before their eyes, and within scenting distance of their nostrils, was too much for the troopers to withstand. A five miles’ ride along a hot and dusty road had brought them to that condition called “drouthy;” and, under such circumstances, it would not have been human nature to have denied themselves the indulgence of a drink, thus held, as it were, to their very lips.

It would not have been Scarthe’s cuirassiers to have done so; and, without waiting the word – either of permission or command – each trooper took hold of the can nearest to his hand; and, raising it to his lips, cried out: “The King!”

The crowd echoed the loyal sentiment; while the improvised cup-bearers – as if still further to testify their respect – took hold of the bridles of the horses, and kept them quiet, in order that their riders might quaff in comfort, and without spilling the precious liquor.

There were two of these attendants, however, who deviated slightly from the fashion of the rest. They were those who waited upon the two troopers that on each side flanked the prisoner. Instead of contenting themselves with holding the horses at rest, each of these attendants led the one whose bridle he had grasped a little out of the alignment of the rank. It was done silently, and as if without design; though the moment after, there was an apparent object – when a tall man, with black whiskers and swarth complexion, passed around the head of one of the horses, and holding up a flagon invited the prisoner to drink.

“You’ve no objection to him having a wet, I suppose?” said this man, addressing himself in a side speech to the soldiers who guarded him. “Poor gentleman! He looks a bit thirstyish – doan’t he?”

“You may give him a drink, or two of them, for aught I care,” said the soldier more immediately interested in making answer. “But you’d better not let the officer see you.”

The speaker nodded significantly towards Stubbs.

“I’ll take care o’ that,” said Gregory Garth: for it was he who held up the flagon.

“Here, master,” he continued, gliding close up to the prisoner. “Take a drop o’ this beer. ’Tan’t a quality liquor, I know – such as I suppose ye’ve been used to; but it be tidyish stuff for all that, an’ ’ll do ye good. Bend downish a bit, an’ I’ll bold it to yer lips. Don’t be afeard o’ fallin’ out o’ yer saddle. I’ll put my hand ahind to steady ye. So – now – that’s the way!”

Gregory’s fingers, as he continued to talk, had found their way around the croup of the saddle, and rested upon the wrists of the prisoner – where they were tied together.