FIRING THE STACKS: THE CAPTURE OF ROGER.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1217, 28 June 1895, Page 29

FIRING THE STACKS: THE CAPTURE OF ROGER.

A selected reading fr;>m ' Kitty Alone. By P. Baring-Gould. Dodd, Mead and Co. Pasco Peppcnll. the innkeeper, had promised to ferry Jan Pooke across the little estuary of the Teign at 6.10 in the evening, when the Exeter train was due. Jan was the son of tho wealthiest Teom-iii of the parish. Everyone being busy, it was decided that Kitty Alone, Pasco's young niece, must do the work. It was a dull evenin* in March, and on crossing the river Kitty found the train was late. Af cer waiting some time' she, in despair, determined to return home without him, when tho belated train arrived. In the meantime the tide turned, the east wind blew up cold and fierce, and there was great danger of the little boat's being carried out to sea. In their united efforts to avoid this, the craft was caught in the mud and they were compelled to wait for hours, for the tide to turn again.

The cold cut like a razor. The wind moaned over the bulwarks of the ferryboat. The mud exhaled a dead and unpleasant • odour. Gulls fluttered near and screamed. Tho clouds overhead parted, and for a while exposed tracks of sky, thick strewn with stars that glittered frostily. ■ Presently the young man said : Hang it! you will catch cold. Lie in the bottom of the boat, and I will throw my coat over you.'- ' But you will yourself be chilled.' 'I —I alll tough as nails. But stay. I know something better. I have my new bottle-green coat, splendid as the day. You, shall have that over you.' ' But it may become crumpled.' ' Sister Sue shall iron ic again.'

' Or stainod.' 'You shan't die of cold just to save my bottle-green. Lie down. I wish the hat could be made to serve ; some purpose. There's no water in the boat?'

' None.' ' And T am glad. It would have gone to my heart like a knife to have had to bale it out with my box-hat.' Kate was now very chilled. After tho exertion and the consequent heat in which she had been, the reaction had set in, and th-> blood cnrdl°d in her veins. The wind pierced the thin shawl as though if; were a cobweb. Pooke folded up his garments to make a pillow for her head, insisted on her lym~ down, so that the side of the boat might in some measure screen her from the wind, and then he spread his new coat over her. ' There, Kitty. Hang it! we are comrade? in ill-luck ; so there is a brotherhood of misery between us. Let me call yau Kitty, and let me be Jan to you—Tottle, if yon will.' ' Only when you begin to boast about your new suit ' ' There, Kitty, don't be hard on me. I must think of something to keep me warm, and what else so warming as the thoughts <>f the ducks, and nankeen, and bottle-green, and the box-hat. 1 don't believe anything else could make me keep up my spirits. Go to sleep, and when I feel the boat lift I will sine,- out.' Kate was touched by the kindness o± tho soft-headod lad. As she lay in the bottom < f the boat without sneaking, and ho thought she was dozing, he put down his hand anl touched the clothes about her. He wished u> assure himself that she was well covered. The night crept along, slow, chilly as a,

lug; the time seemed interminable. Beiuumbed by cold, Kate finally dozed without knowing she was slipping out of consciousness. iSleop she did not —she was in a condition of uneasy terror, shivering with cold, cramped by bar position, bruised by the ribs of the boat, with the smell of mud and new cloth in her nose, and Avibh occasionally a brass button touching her cheek, and with its cold stabbing as with a needle. The wind, curling and whistling in the boat as it came over the side, bored into the marrow of the bones, the muscles became hard, the flesh tuvned to wax. Kata discovered that she had been uncon-

scious ouly by the confusion of her intellect ■when Pooke aroused her by a touch, and told liec that the boat was afloat. She staggered to her knees, brushed the scattered hair out of her dazed eye 3, rose to her feet, and seated herself on the bonoh. Her wits were as

though curdled in her brains. They would not move. . Every limb was stiff, every nerve ached. Her teeth chattered; she felt sick and faint. Sleepily she looked around. No lights were twinkling from the windows on the banks. In every house candles had long ago been extinguished. All the world slept.

The clouds overhead had been brushed away, and the lights of heaven looked down and were reflected in the water. The boat was as it were floating between two heavens besprent with stars, the one above, the other below, and across each was drawn the silvery nebulous Milky Way. Although the boat was lifted from the bank, yet it was by no moans certain that Coumbo Cellars could be reached for at least another half hour. The tide that had raced out seemed to return at a crawl. Nevertheless, it was expedient to restore circulation by the exercise of the arms. Kate assumed one oar, Jan the other, and began to row ; she at first with difficulty, then with ease, as warmth returned and her blood resumed its flow. The swelling tide carried the boat up with it, and the oars were leisurely dipped, breaking the diamonds in the water into a thousand brilliants. As they approached the reach whore lay Coombe-in-Teignhead, Jan Pooke said : ' There is a light burning in your house. They are all up, anxious, Avatching for you, and in trouble. On my word, will not my father bo g* in a condition of fright and distress con**J cerning mo if ho hears that lam out? I wont off without saying anything to anybody. I intended to be back all right in the evening. But there's no telling, father may have boen asking after me. They will bo in a bad state of mind, father and sister Sue. Hulloa ! what is that light ? It comes from our place;' Jan Pooke rested on his oar, and turned. From behind an orchard a glow, as of fire, was shining. It had broken forth suddenly. The light streamed between the trees, sending fiery arrows shooting over the water; it rose in a halo above the trees. ' Kate, whatever can it be ? That is our orchard. There is our rick-yard behind. It never can be that our ricks are afire, or our house ? The house is just beyond. The blaze is at our place—pull hard !' ' It's a chance if there is water enough to carry us across.' Then, from above the belt of orchard broke lambent flame, and cast up tufts of ignited matter into the air, to be caught and carried away by the strong wind. Now there lay a fiery path between the ferryboat and the shore. Pooke seated himself. He was greatly agitated. 'Kate, it is our rick-yard! That chap, Boger,has done it.' The words had hardly escaped him before a boat shot past, and his oar clashed with that of the rower in that boat. As it passed, Jan saw the face of the man who was rowing, kindled by the orange blaze from the shore. The recognition was instantaneous. 'Eedmore, it is you!' Then breathlessly, * Kate, about! we must catch him. He has set our ricks ablaze.' The boat was headed round, and the young arms bent at the oars, and the little vessel flew in pursuit. The man they were pursuing rowed clumsily, and with all his efforts made little way, so that speedily he was overtaken, and Jan ran the ferryboat against the other, struck the oar out of the hands of the rower, and flung himself upon the man and gripped him.

* Kate—hold the boats together.' Then ensued a furious struggle. Both men were strong. The position in which both were was difficult—Jan Pooke half in one boat, half in the other, but Roger Eedmore grasped at the seat in his boat, while holding an oar in his right hand. The flaring rick sent a yellow lighb over them. The boats reeled and clashed together, and clashing drifted together with the tide up the river, past Coombe Cellars. Pooke, unable as he was to master his man, cast himself wholly into his adversary's boat. Eedmore had let go the oar, and now staggered to his feet. The men, wrestling, tossed in the rolling boat, fell, were up on their knees, and down again in the bottom. ' Quick, Kate !' shouted Jan. ' I have him ! Quick! —the string of my parcel.' Kate handed him what he desired. ' In another moment Pooko was upright. ' Ho is safe,' said he, panting. ' I have bound his wrists behind his back. Now—Kate !' The boat 3 had run ashore a little way above the Cellars, drifted to the strand by the flowing tide. ' Kate,' said Pooke, jumping out, you hold that cord —here. I have fastened it round the rowlock. He can't release himself. Hold him, whilst I run for help. We will have him tried—he shall swing for this ! Do you know that, Roger Eedmore ? What you have dono is no joke-it will bring you to the gallows !' Kate sat in her boat holding the string that was twisted round the rowlock and thac held Roger Radmore's hands bound behind his back. Pie was crouched in the bottom of the boat, sunken into a heap, hanging by his hands. Now and then he made a convulsive effort with his shoulders to release his arms, but was powerless. He could not scramble to hi 3 feet, held down as ho was behind. He turned his face, and from over Coombe Cellars, where the sky was alight with lire, a glow came on his countenance. ■• You be Kitty Alone?' said ho. Kate hardly answered. Her heart was fluttering; her heaa giddy with alarm aud distress,' coming after a night's exposure in the open boat. As yet, no sign of dawn in the east; only the flames from the burning farm-produce lighted up the sky to the southwest, and were reflected in the in-flowing water. 'J.'he agricultural riots which had filled the South of England Avith terror at the close of 1830 were, indeed, a thing of the past, but the reminiscence of them lay deep in the hearts of the labourers; and for ten and fifteen years after, at intervals, there were fresh outbreaks of incendiarism. In the { Swing' riots many men had boon hung or transported for fcho crimes then committed, and the statute against arson passed in the reign of George IV., making such an

offence felony, and to be punished capitally, was in force, and not modified till much later. When, therefore, Jan Pooke threatened Hedmore with the gallows, he threatened him with what the unhappy man knew would be his fato if convicted.

Kate was acquainted with the story of Eoger. Ho had boen a labourer on Mr Pooke's farm. Ho was a morose man, with a sickly wife and delicate children, occupying a cottage on the farm. At Christmas the man had taken a drop too much, and had been insolent to his master. The intoxication might have been forgiven—nob so the impertinence He was at once discharged, and given notice to quit his cottage at Lady Day. For nearly three months the man had been out of work. In winter thers is no demand for additional hands ; no great undertakings are prosecuted. All the farmers were supplied with workmen, and had some difficulty in the frosty weather in finding occupation for them. None were inclined to take on lioger Eedmore. Moreover, the farmers huug together like bees. A man who had offonded one incurred the displeasure of all.

Bodmoro wandered from . one farm to another, seeking for employment, only to meet with refusal everywhere. In a day or two he would be cast forth from his cottage with wife and family. Whither to go lie knew not. He had exhausted what little, money he had saved and had nowhere found work. Kate felt pity for the man. He had transgressed, and' his transgression had fallen heavy upon him. He was not an intemperate man; he did not frequent the public-house. Others who drank, and drank hard, remained with their masters, who overlooked their weakness. In the forefront of Roger's offence stood his insolence; and Pooke, the richest yeoman in the place, was proud and would not forgive. As Kate held the string she felt that the wretched man was shivering. He shook the boat, and chattered its side against her boat. ' Are you very cold ?' asked the girl-, ' I'm hungry,' he answored sullenly. ' You are trembling.' 'l've had nor bite nor crumb for fortyeight hours. That's enough to make a man shake.'

'Nothing to eat? Did you ask for something?' 'I went to the Rectory. Passon Fielding gave mo a loaf, but I took it home —wife and the little ones were more starving than I, and I cut it up between 'em.' ' I think—l almost think I have a piece of bread with me,' said Kate. She had, in fact, taken some in her pocket the night before when she crossed and had forgotten to eat it, or had no appetite for it. Now she produced. the slice.

'I cannot take it,' said the bound man. 'My hands be tied fast behind me. You must please put it into my mouth; and the Lord bless you for it.' Holding the cord with her right Kate extended the bread with the other hand to the man, whoso face was averted, and thrust it between his lips. ' You must hold your hand to my mouth while I eat,' said he. 'I wouldn't miss a crumb, and it will fall if you take your hand from me.'

Consequently, with her hand full of bread much broken, she fed the unfortunate man, and he ate it out of her palm. He ate greedily till he had consumed the last particle. It moved Kate to the heart to feel the hungry wretch's lips picking the crumbs. ' Oh, Roger !' she said in a tone full of compassion and sorrow, rather than reproach, ' why —why did you do it ?' 4 I'll tell you why. I couldn't help it. Did you know my Joan ? Her was the purtiest little maid in all Coombe. Her's dead now.' ' Dead, Roger ?' ' Ay, I reckon ; died to-night in her mother's lap; died o' want, and cold, and nakedness. Us had no bread till Passon gave me that loaf —and no coals, and no blankets, and naught but rags. The little maid has been sick These three weeks. Us can't have no doctor. I've been out o' work three months, and now the parish must bury her. Joan, she wor my very darling, nigh my heart.'

He was silent. The boat he was in chattered more vigorously against that of Kate. 'I knowed,' he pursued, 'I knowed what ha' done it. It wor Farmer Pooke thro wed me out of employ —took the bread out o' our mouths. Us had a bit o' candle-end, and I wor down on my knees beside my wife, and little, Joan lyin' on her lap ; and wife and I neither could speak; us couldn't pray ; us just watched the poor little maid passin' away.' He was silent, but Kate heard that he was subbing. Presently he said: ' You've been kind. If you've got a bit o'handkercher or what else, wipe mv face with it, will y' ? There's something, the dew or the salt water from the oars, splashed over it.' The girl passed her shawl over the man's face.

' Thank y' kindly,' he said. Then he drew a long breath and continued his story. ' Well, now, when wife and I saw as little Joan were gone home, then her rose up and never said a word, but laid her on our ragged bed.; and I —l had the candle-end in my hand, and I put it into the lantern, and I went out. My heart wor full o' gall and bitterness, and my head wor burning. I knows well who'd killed our Joan : it was Farmer Pooko as turned me out o' employ, all about a bit o' nonsense I said and never meant, and when I wor sober never romombor to ha' said ; so, mad wi' sorrow and anger, I —l gone and dono it with that bit o' candlo-end.'

' Oh, Roger, Roger ! .you havo made matters much worse for yourself, for all.' 'I might ha' mad 3 it worser still:' ' It yon had not fired the rick, Roger !' ' I tell you I might ha' done worse than that, and now been a free man.' ' I cannot eeo that.'

' Put your hand down by my right thigh. Do yon feel nothing tiiere, hanging to the strap round my waist?' Kate felt a string and a knife, a large knife.

' Do you mean this, Roger ?' ' Yes, I does. As Jan Tottle wor a-wrast-lin' wi' me here in this boat, and trying to overmaster mc, the thought came into my head as I might easy take my knife and run it in under his ribs and pierce his heart. Had I done that he'd failed dead hero, and I'd gotten scot-free away.' ' Roger !' Kate shrank away in horror. ' I didn't do it, but 1 might. I'd no quarrel with young Jan. He's good enough. It's the old fayther be the hard and cruel one. I kuowed what was afore me, as young Jan twisted and turned and threw me. I must be took to Exeter gaol, and there be hanged by the neck till dead—but I wouldn't stain my hands wi' an innocent lad's blood. I wouldn't have it said of my little childcr they was come of a murderiu' villain.' Kate shudderod. Still holding fast the cord that constrained the man and kept him in his position of helplessness, she drew back

from him as far as she could without surrendering her hold. ' I had but to put down my hand and slip open my clasp-knife—and I would have boen freo, and Jan lying here in his blood.' She hardly breathed. A band as of iron seemed to be about her breast and tightening. ' Kitty,' said the man, ' you have fed me with bread out of your hand, and with your hand you have wiped the salt tears from my eves. With that hand will you give me over to the gallows? If you do, my death will lie on you, and those of my Jane and the little ones.' ' Roger I am here in trust.' ' I spared Jan. Can you not spare me ?' Kate trembled. She hardly breathed. ' Let mo go, and I sware to you—l swear by all those ten thousand eyes o' heaven looking down on us—that I wid do for you what you have done for me.' ' That is an idle promise,' said Kate ; you never can do that.' ' Who can say what is to be, or is not to bo ? Let me go, for my wife and poor children's sake.'

She did not answer. ' Let me go because I spared Jan Pooko.' She did not move. ' Lot me go for the littlo dead Joan's sake —that when she lies i' the church-yard they may not say of her, " Thickey there green mound, wi' them daisies on it, covers a poor maid whose father wor hanged."' Then Kate let go the string, it ran round the rowlock, and the man scrambled to his feet. ' Cut it with my-knife,' ho said. Sho took the swinging knifo, oponed the blade, and with a stroke cut through the cord that held his wrists.

Then lioger Redmore shook the strings from his hands and held up his freed arms to heaven, and cried, " The Lord, who sits enthroned above thickey shining stars, reward you and help me to do for you as you ha' done for me. Amen.'

He leaped from the boat and was lost in the darkness.

A minute later, and Jan Pooke, with a party of men, came up. ' Jan,' said Kate, ' he is gone—escaped.' She drew the young man aside. ' I will not deceive you—l'lot him go. He begged hard. He might have killed you. His little Joan is doad.' Jan Pooko was at first staggered, and inclined to be angry, but he speedily recovered himself. He was a good-natured lad, and he said in a low tone, * Toll no one else. After all, it is best. I shouldn't ha' liked to have appeared against him, and been the occasion oi his death.'