The Man in the Stocks

Southland Times, Issue 22993, 12 September 1936, Page 21 (Supplement)

The Man in the Stocks

(By

Chester Loring)

On a certain morning in July, 1670, as I was on my way to wash in the brook I heard a merry whistling from behind the hedge encircling the village green. “As like as not some yokel on his way to the fields,” I said to myself and continued on my way. But as I passed a breach in the hedge the whistling ceased suddenly and a voice hailed me: “Ahoy there, lad!” I stopped immediately, for I was not accustomed to being addressed in such a familiar fashion. Going back I looked through the gap in the hedge and saw a dishevelled looking fellow imprisoned in the stocks. He recommenced his whistling as I appeared and wagged his feet to the lilt of the air. “So a night in the stocks has not dampened your spirits?” I said, surprised at his cheerfulness. He did not answer immediately, but continued whistling and wagging his feet till the tune was finished. Even then he ignored my question. "What think you of my tune, lad?” , he asked. "Little enough.” I replied, thinking that the stocks were a fitting place for such a churlish fellow. He laughed. "Methinks ’tis merely that your ears are not attuned to the strangeness of it. ’Tis a song the Moorish pirates sing.” “The Moorish pirates!” I echoed eagerly. "Aye,” he said. “Listen. Perhaps the words will suit you better.” And in a great deep voice he rumbled out the same air with the Moorish words. I listened eagerly. The same tune had sounded mundane to me before when whistled, but now that deep voice brought out the fierce lilt of it and unfamiliar and meaningless to me as the words were they nevertheless spoke to me of far lands and strange peoples; of ships and ad-

venture. As he finished I cast my last scruples to the winds and scrambled through the hedge. “You must be a sailor,” I said. He nodded and his bright eyes searched my face. “Where are you going, lad?” he asked. “To wash at the brook,” I said. "Wouldn’t you like someone to go along with you?” “Of course,” I said. “But who is there?”

“What’s wrong with me?” he said, and started to whistle again. “You?” I queried, somewhat taken aback. “Aye,” he laughed. “Methinks a wash would not go amiss with me!” I studied him closely. He was a big muscular fellow with horny, toil-worn hands and a tanned complexion which made his eyes look startlingly blue by contrast. He had a fierce spiked moustache and tufts of red beard; an ivory ring dangled from his ear. The whole of his features and the tattered finery of his clothes were plastered with mud and filth which the villagers had flung at him. “Yes,” I agreed. “A wash would, of a certainty, do you no harm.” He nodded and beckoned me towards him with his head, which was the only part of his body which he could move to any great extent. “Come closer,” he said, and when I did so: “Now put your hand into my breast pocket and take out what you find." Warily I did as directed and drew out a quaint little twisted dagger in an ivory sheath. The hilt was of ivory, too, and the pommel was fashioned to represent a skull.

, i There were some queer twirling i hieroglyphics on the sheath which ' he said were Arabic. It was just i the thing to take a boy’s fancy, and the man in the stocks was quick to notice my pleasure and take advantage of it. “It’s yours if you let me out of here,” he said. “What is to prevent my taking it and leaving you here?” I asked on impulse. “Nothing,” he said. “But you won’t—by the cut of your jib you’re a straight sailor.” Without a word I drew out the bolts and lifted up the top of the stocks. He lifted "his long legs out stiffly and standing awkwardly commenced stamping his feet to bring the blood back into circulation. Rubbing his wrists he looked at me shrewdly. “What’s to prevent my taking that dagger back now, m’lad?” he said. “Nothing,” I mimicked. “But you won’t—by the cut of your jib you’re a straight sailor.”

He laughed then; such a great, throaty, infectious laugh that I could not help joining him. “Faith, lad!” he said at length. “Methinks you and I could be good friends. What might your name be?” “Peter,” I said. “Peter,” he mused. “And a right goodly name, too. Mine’s Rob.” We set off down the woodland path and I asked him why he had been put in the stocks. “Vagrancy, Peter, vagrancy,” he said. “They accused me of vagrancy because I was ragged and penniless —and because of these!” And, thrusting his wrists under my nose he jerked back his cuffs. I winced as I saw the deep, ragged scar encircling each wrist. “When they saw these scars they mistook me for a convict or some such—but they were wrong, Peter —they were wrong. The galleys gave me these scars!” “The galleys!” “Aye,” he said. "I put in 10 years at an oar-bench on a Moorish pirate galley. Think of it, Peter--10 years!” I tried to think back 10 years and tried to imagine the misery and

■ torture of that time as a galle; slave. I thought of the torment o exposure to the fierce sun, and o the shivering misery of the storm! days when the sea climbed aboarc and kept the slaves continually drenched. And last but not least ; thought of the biting whip which was the only reward when work well done made muscles ache and brought even the strongest of men to the limit of their endurance. “Rob,” I said, “I’d like to help you.” His moustache lifted in a wry smile as he turned towards me and searched my face with that keen, eager glance of his. "God bless you, lad,” he said. “You are the first person who has offered me help in the last 15 years. You’re the kind of lad I’d like for a son.” “And you’re the kind of man Td like for a father,” I said. There was a look of real pleasure on his face as he turned to me. “ ’Tis good to know that I have found favour in someone’s eyes,” he said. “Have you not a father of your own then, Peter lad?” “No,” I said. “He died before I was born." » At this stage we reached the brook and the conversation came |

temporarily to an end. Rob stood straddled in mid-stream on two stones and washed the filth off his face and clothes as best he could and dried himself with a large square of coloured cloth which he wore about his throat. “I’ll wager you could tell some fine stories of adventure,” I said as he finished. “Aye,” he said grimly. “I could! But there’s one tale I know that has always been particularly interesting to me.” “Anything that interests you will interest me,” I said. He sat down on a large stone and I followed suit “Well,” he began. “It’s like this, Peter. Once there were two brothers whose father was one of the landed gentry of England—a lord, as a matter of fact. We will call the two A and B respectively. Well, the father died and A as the elder inherited the title and estate and also won a good wife for himself. But B was jealous, for he had several times offered his hand to the woman who was now his brother’s wife and had each time been refused. Moreover, he jvas a spendthrift and spent

y | over much time at the gambling if tables, so that he was in debt. lf "So it was that it occurred to B y that if he could get rid of his “ brother he would not only inherit 7 the title and estate but would also 1 be having his . revenge on his 1 brother’s wife for the way she had J treated him. So he arranged for 1 his brother to go to Portsmouth. 1 There he was enticed into a low ; tavern and kidnapped and put upon a ship bound for India. But ' when the ship was off the coast of [ Morocco she was captured by , Moorish pirates, and all those aboard her w’ho looked strong enough were put to the oars. A was one of these. “For 10 weary years he toiled at that oar. At first he thought the misery of it would kill him and he even prayed for death. But death was not for him, although it took many of the other slaves. And soon he grew strong and inured to the work and prayed for revenge on his brother and prayed that he might see his wife again some day. “Then one day as the pirate galley was returning from a raid she ran into a British man-o’-war and there was a fight. The pirate was beaten and those of her slaves who were English were taken aboard the man-o’-war. But the Englishman was on an extended voyage and what with one thing and another it .was well nigh five years before A returned to England. But the desire for revenge was still strong within him and he set out for his native village. But on the way he was put into the stocks for vagrancy and remained there till a lad with blue eyes and

a haughty air came and let him out and took him down to the brook to wash. Then the lad asked for a story and A told him the story of his life.” He broke off and began tossing pebbles into the brook. “So you’re a lord?” I asked. With a little twisted smile he looked down at his scarred wrists and horny hands and the soiled rags he wore. “No,” he said, almost inaudibly. "That was all years ago in another world. But, once I was Lord Rux-ton-Falconer.” I sprang to my feet. “What!” I cried. “But you can’t be! I’m Lord Ruxton-Falconer! You've been lying!” He rose quickly and seized my arm, his eyes blazing. “Hold hard, my lad!” he said. “Nobody calls me a liar! Tell,me now—how long have you been Lord Ruxton-Falconer?” “Always!” I said. “When I was born my uncle Rupert had to give up the title and the estate in my favour.” I felt his grip tighten convulsively on my arm. “Rupert!” he cried. “Rupert you said! How long was he Lord Rtix-ton-Falconer, then?” “A matter of a few months,” I said, trying not to wince at the pressure of his hand. “He inherited it from my father, I believe." "Peter!” he cried. "Peter lad! Tell me! What is your mother's name?” “Amaryllis,” I said. , “Amaryllis,” he breathed. “Thank God!” And then he seized me in both hands, grasping my shoulders and shaking me joyfully. “Peter!" he shouted, thrusting his face close to mine. “You’re not Lord Ruxton-Falconer any more! Not till I die anyway! Look at me Peter! I’m your father!” QUESTIONS Readers are invited to send questions on any subjects of interest to ba answered in these-Bdjmnns,