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MILES Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,
keeping a sharp lookout for the persons he sought, and hoping and
expecting to overtake them presently. He was disappointed in this,
however. By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the
way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as
to how to proceed. Still, he continued his efforts as best he could
during the rest of the day. Nightfall found him leg-weary, half
famished, and his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he
supped at the Tabard inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early
start in the morning, and give the town an exhaustive search. As he
lay thinking and planning, he presently began to reason thus: The
boy would escape from the ruffian, his reputed father, if possible;
would he go back to London and seek his former haunts? No, he would
not do that, he would avoid recapture. What, then, would he do?
Never having had a friend in the world, or a protector, until he met
Miles Hendon, he would naturally try to find that friend again,
provided the effort did not require him to go toward London and
danger. He would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do, for
he knew Hendon was homeward bound, and there he might expect to find
him. Yes, the case was plain to Hendon- he must lose no more time in
Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk's Holm,
searching the wood and inquiring as he went. Let us return to the
vanished little king now.
The ruffian, whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about
to join' the youth and the king, did not exactly join them, but fell
in close behind them and followed their steps. He said nothing. His
left arm was in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left
eye; he limped slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. The
youth led the king a crooked course through Southwark, and by and by
struck into the highroad beyond. The king was irritated now, and
said he would stop here- it was Hendon's place to come to him, not his
to go to Hendon. He would not endure such insolence; he would stop
where he was. The youth said:
'Thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood
yonder? So be it, then.'
The king's manner changed at once. He cried out:
'Wounded? And who hath dared to do it? But that is apart; lead on,
lead on! Faster, sirrah! art shod with lead? Wounded, is he? Now
though the doer of it be a duke's son, he shall rue it!'
It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily
traversed. The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking
in the ground, with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way
into the forest, watching for similar boughs and finding them at
intervals; they were evidently guides to the point he was aiming at.
By and by an open place was reached, where were the charred remains of
a farmhouse, and near them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay.
There was no sign of life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. The
youth entered the barn, the king following eagerly upon his heels.
No one there! The king shot a surprised and suspicious glance at the
youth, and asked:
'Where is he?'
A mocking laugh was his answer. The king was in a rage in a
moment; he seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon
the youth when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. It was from
the lame ruffian, who had been following at a distance. The king
turned and said angrily:
'Who art thou? What is thy business here?'
'Leave thy foolery,' said the man, 'and quiet thyself. My disguise
is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father
through it.'
'Thou art not my father. I know thee not. I am the king. If thou
hast hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for
what thou hast done.'
John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice:
'It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee; but if
thou provoke me, I must. Thy prating doth no harm here, where there
are no ears that need to mind thy follies, yet is it well to
practise thy tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our
quarters change. I have done a murder, and may not tarry at home-
neither shalt thou, seeing I need thy service. My name is changed, for
wise reasons; it is Hobbs- John Hobbs; thine is Jack- charge thy
memory accordingly. Now, then, speak. Where is thy mother? Where are
thy sisters? They came not to the place appointed- knowest thou
whither they went?'
The king answered, sullenly:
'Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my
sisters are in the palace.'
The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the king
would have assaulted him, but Canty- or Hobbs, as he now called
himself- prevented him, and said:
'Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret
him. Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a
morsel to eat, anon.'
Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the
king removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable
company. He withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn,
where he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. He lay
down here, drew straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon
absorbed in thinking. He had many griefs, but the minor ones were
swept almost into forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his
father. To the rest of the world the name of Henry VIII brought a
shiver, and suggested an ogre whose nostrils breathed destruction
and whose hand dealt scourgings and death; but to this boy the name
brought only sensations of pleasure, the figure it invoked wore a
countenance that was all gentleness and affection. He called to mind a
long succession of loving passages between his father and himself, and
dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and
real was the grief that possessed his heart. As the afternoon wasted
away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sunk gradually into a
tranquil and healing slumber.
After a considerable time- he could not tell how long- his
senses struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed
eyes vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he
noted a murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A
snug sense of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken, the
next moment, by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse laughter. It
startled him disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head to see whence
this interruption proceeded. A grim and unsightly picture met his eye.
A bright fire was burning in the middle of the floor, at the other end
of the barn; and around it, and lit weirdly up by the red glare,
lolled and sprawled the motliest company of tattered gutter-scum and
ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or dreamed of. There were
huge, stalwart men, brown with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in
fantastic rags; there were middle-sized youths, of truculent
countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind medicants, with
patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden legs and
crutches; there was a villain-looking peddler with his pack; a
knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements
of their trades; some of the females were hardly grown girls, some
were at prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud,
brazen, foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were
three sore-faced babies; there were a couple of starveling curs,
with strings around their necks, whose office was to lead the blind.
The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy
was beginning, the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A
general cry broke forth:
'A song! a song from the Bat and Dick Dot-and-go-One!'
One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the
patches that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard
which recited the cause of his calamity. Dot-and-go-One
disencumbered himself of his timber leg and took his place, upon sound
and healthy limbs, beside his fellow-rascal; then they roared out a
rollicking ditty, and were reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of
each stanza, in a rousing chorus. By the time the last stanza was
reached, the half-drunken enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch that
everybody joined in and sang it clear through from the beginning,
producing a volume of villainous sound that made the rafters quake.
These were the inspiring words:
'Bien Darkmans then, Bouse Mort and Ken,
The bien Coves bings awast,
On Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine
For his long lib at last.
Bing'd out bien Morts and toure, and toure,
Bing out of the Rome vile bine,
And toure the Cove that cloy'd your duds,
Upon upon the Chates to trine.'*(15)
Conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song,
for that was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be
listening. In the course of it it appeared that 'John Hobbs' was not
altogether a new recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former
time. His later history was called for, and when he said he had
'accidentally' killed a man, considerable satisfaction was
expressed; when he added that the man was a priest, he was roundly
applauded, and had to take a drink with everybody. Old acquaintances
welcomed him joyously, and new ones were proud to shake him by the
hand. He was asked why he had 'tarried away so many months.' He
answered:
'London is better than the country, and safer these late years,
the laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced. An I had not had
that accident, I had stayed there. I had resolved to stay, and
nevermore venture countrywards- but the accident had ended that.'
He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The 'Ruffler,'
or chief, answered:
'Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and
maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts.*(16) Most are
here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow
at dawn.'
'I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me. Where may he
be?'
'Poor lad, his diet is brimstone now, and over hot for a
delicate taste. He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer.'
'I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave.'
'That was he, truly. Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but
absent on the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly
conduct, none ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven.'
'She was ever strict- I remember it well- a goodly wench and
worthy all commendation. Her mother was more free and less particular;
a troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit
above the common.'
'We lost her through it. Her gift of palmistry and other sorts
of fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame.
The law roasted her to death at a slow fire. It did touch me to a sort
of tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot- cursing and
reviling all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the
flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and
crackled about her old gray head- cursing them, said I?- cursing them!
why an thou shouldst live a thousand years thou'dst never hear so
masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with her. There be base and
weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy.'
The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general
depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened
outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able
to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals
and under peculiarly favoring circumstances- as in cases like to this,
for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir.
However, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the
mourners.
'Have any other of our friends fared hardly?' asked Hobbs.
'Some- yes. Particularly new-comers- such as small husbandmen
turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were
taken from them to be changed to sheep-ranges. They begged, and were
whipped at the cart's tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood
ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were
whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they begged a third time-
poor devils, what else could they do?- and were branded on the cheek
with a red-hot iron, then sold for slaves; they ran away, were
hunted down, and hanged. 'Tis a brief tale, and quickly told. Others
of us have fared less hardly. Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge-
show your adornments!'
These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing
their backs, crisscrossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one
turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once
been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder- the letter V and a
mutilated ear; the third said:
'I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and
kids- now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the
wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in- in the
other place- but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in
England! My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by
nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my
mother was burned for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed.
English law!- up, all with your cups!- now all together and with a
cheer!- drink to the merciful English law that delivered her from
the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and all. I begged, from
house to house- I and the wife- bearing with us the hungry kids- but
it was a crime to be hungry in England- so they stripped us and lashed
us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful English
law!- for its lash drank deep of my Mary's blood and its blessed
deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter's field, safe
from all harms. And the kids- well, whilst the law lashed me from town
to town, they starved. Drink lads- only a drop- a drop to the poor
kids, that never did any creature harm. I begged again- begged for a
crust, and got the stocks and lost an ear- see, here bides the
stump; I begged again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me
minded of it. And still I begged again, and was sold for a slave- here
on my cheek under this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red
S the branding iron left there! A SLAVE! Do ye understand that word!
An English SLAVE!- that is he that stands before ye. I have run from
my master, and when I am found- the heavy curse of heaven fall on
the law of the land that hath commanded it!- I shall hang!'*(17)
A ringing voice came through the murky air:
'Thou shalt not!- and this day the end of that law is come!'
All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little king
approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly
revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out:
'Who is it ? What is it? Who art thou, manikin?'
The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and
questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity:
'I am Edward, king of England.'
A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly
of delight in the excellence of the joke. The king was stung. He
said sharply:
'Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal
boon I have promised?'
He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was
lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. 'John Hobbs'
made several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last
succeeded- saying:
'Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad- mind him
not- he thinketh he is the king.'
'I am the king,' said Edward, turning toward him, 'as thou shalt
know to thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder- thou
shalt swing for it.'
'Thou'lt betray me!- thou? An I get my hands upon thee-'
'Tut-tut!' said the burly Ruffler, interposing in time to save the
king, and emphasizing this service by knocking Hobbs down with his
fist, 'hast respect for neither kings nor Rufflers? An thou insult
my presence so again, I'll hang thee up myself.' Then he said to his
majesty, 'Thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou
must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. Be king,
if it please thy mad humor, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title
thou hast uttered- 'tis treason; we be bad men, in some few trifling
ways, but none among us is so base as to be traitor to his king; we be
loving and loyal hearts, in that regard. Note if I speak truth.
Now-all together: "Long live Edward, King of England!"'
'LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!'
The response came with such a thunder-gust from the motley crew
that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little king's
face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined
his head and said with grave simplicity:
'I thank you, my good people.'
This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of
merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the
Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature:
'Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humor thy fancy, if thou
must, but choose some other title.'
A tinker shrieked out a suggestion:
'Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!'
The title 'took' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring
shout sent up, of:
'Long live Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!' followed by
hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.
'Hale him forth, and crown him!'
'Robe him!'
'Scepter him!'
'Throne him!'
These and twenty other cries broke out at once; and almost
before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned
with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a
barrel, and sceptered with tinker's soldering-iron. Then all flung
themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical
wailings, and mocking supplications, while they swabbed their eyes
with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons:
'Be gracious to us, O sweet king!'
'Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble majesty!'
'Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!'
'Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of
sovereignty!'
'Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat
the dirt and be ennobled!'
'Deign to spit upon us, O sire, that our children's children may
tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy forever!'
But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and
carried off the honors. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the king's
foot, and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for
a rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched
by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the
vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the
highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings a
sight. He made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy and
admiration of the whole mangy rabble.
Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes;
and the thought in his heart was, 'Had I offered them a deep wrong
they could not be more cruel- yet have I proffered naught but to do
them a kindness- and it is thus they use me for it!'
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