“Rebels!” whisper’d I. Joan nodded.
There were three regiments in all, whereof the first (and biggest) was of dragoons. So clear was the air, I could almost read the legend on their standard, and the calls of their captains were borne up to us extremely distinct.
As they rode leisurely past, I thought of Master Tingcomb’s threat, and wonder’d what this array could intend. Nor, turning it over, could I find any explanation: for the Earl of Stamford’s gathering, he had said, was in the northeast, and I knew such troops as the Cornish generals had to be quarter’d at Launceston. Yet here, on the near side of Launceston, was a large body of rebel horse marching quietly to the sou’-west. Where was the head or tail to it?
Turning my head as the last rider disappear’d on the way to Bodmin, I spied a squat oddly shap’d man striding down the hill very briskly: yet he look’d about him often and kept to the hollows of the ground; and was crossing below us, as it appeared, straight for Joan’s cottage.
Cried I: “There is but one man in the world with such a gait—and that’s Billy Pottery!”
And jumping to my feet (for he was come directly beneath us) I caught up a great stone and sent it bowling down the slope.
Bounce it went past him, missing his legs by a foot or less. The man turn’d, and catching sight of me as I stood waving, made his way up the hill. ’Twas indeed Captain Billy: and coming up, the honest fellow almost hugg’d me for joy.
“Was seeking thee, Jack,” he bawled: “learn’d from Sir Bevill where belike I might find thee. Left his lodging at Launceston this mornin’, and trudged ivery foot o’ the way. A thirsty land, Jack—neither horse’s meat nor man’s meat therein, nor a chair to sit down on: an’ three women only have I kiss’d this day!” He broke off and look’d at Joan. “Beggin’ the lady’s pardon for sea manners and way o’ speech.”
“Joan,” said I, “this is Billy Pottery, a good mariner and friend of mine: and as deaf as a haddock.”
Billy made a leg; and as I pointed to the road where the cavalry had just disappeared, went on with a nod—
“That’s so: old Sir G’arge Chudleigh’s troop o’ horse sent off to Bodmin to seize the High Sheriff and his posse there. Two hour agone I spied ’em, and ha’ been ever since playin’ spy.”
“Then where be the King’s forces?” I made shift to enquire by signs.
“March’d out o’ Launceston today, lad—an’ but a biscuit a man between ’em, poor dears—for Stratton Heath, i’ the nor’-east, where the rebels be encamp’d. Heard by scouts o’ these gentry bein’ sent to Bodmin, and were minded to fight th’ Earl o’ Stamford whiles his dragooners was away. An’ here’s the long an’ short o’t: thou’rt wanted, lad, to bear a hand wi’ us up yonder—an the good lady here can spare thee.”
And here we both look’d at Joan—I shamefacedly enough, and Billy with a puzzled air, which he tried very delicately to hide.
She put her hand in mine.
“To fight, lad?”
I nodded my head.
“Then go,” she said without a shade in her voice; and as I made no answer, went on—“Shall a woman hinder when there’s fightin’ toward? Only come back when thy wars be over, for I shall miss thee, Jack.”
And dropping my hand she led the way down to the cottage.
Now Billy, of course, had not heard a word of this: but perhaps he gathered some import. Anyway, he pull’d up short midway on the slope, scratched his head, and thunder’d—
“What a good lass!”
Joan, some paces ahead, turn’d at this and smil’d: whereat, having no idea he’d spoken above a whisper, Billy blush’d red as any peony.
’Twas but a short half hour when, the mare being saddled and Billy fed, we took our leave of Joan. Billy walked beside one stirrup, and the girl on the other side, to see us a few yards on our way. At length she halted—
“No leave-takin’s, Jack, but ‘Church and King!’ Only do thy best and not disgrace me.”
And “Church and King!” she call’d thrice after us, standing in the road. For me, as I rode up out of that valley, the drums seem’d beating and the bugles calling to a new life ahead. The last light of day was on the tors, the air blowing fresher as we mounted: and with Molly’s every step the past five months appear’d to dissolve and fall away from me as a dream.
On the crest, I turn’d in the saddle. Joan was yet standing there, a black speck on the road. She waved her hand once.
Billy had turn’d too, and, uncovering, shouted so that the hilltops echoed.
“A good lass—a good lass! But what’s become o’ t’other one?”
XVI
The Battle of Stamford Heath
Night came, and found us but midway between Temple and Launceston: for though my comrade stepp’d briskly beside me, ’twas useless to put Molly beyond a walk; and besides, the mare was new from her day’s journey. This troubled me the less by reason of the moon (now almost at the full), and the extreme whiteness of the road underfoot, so that there was no fear of going astray. And Billy engaged that by sunrise we should be in sight of the King’s troops.
“Nay, Jack,” he said, when by signs I offered him to ride and tie: “never rode o’ horseback but once, and then ’pon Parson Spinks his red mare at Bideford. Parson i’ those days was courtin’ the Widow Hambly, over to Torrington: an’ I, that wanted to fare to Barnstaple, spent that mornin’ an’ better part o’ th’ afternoon, clawin’ off Torrington. And th’ end was the larboard halyards broke, an’ the mare gybed, an’ to Torrington I went before the wind, wi’ an unseemly bloody nose. ‘Lud!’ cries the widow, ‘ ’tis the wrong man ’pon the right
