Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 5

"'Twas my dinner and I do need a deal of feeding, I! Lord, how I sweat! Prithee, master, let me up. How have I deserved this?"

"Called me rogue and thief!"

"Aye, that I did--to my woe. Aye, rogue I named thee and likewise--lousy knave--and grieve for't now, I do!"

"And so needs must you sweat awhile!" says I.

And thus I (aloft and at mine ease) and the fat fellow trotting breathless at the wheel we went awhile (and never another word) until, what with fear of losing his goods, what with the mud and heat and sweat, the poor gross fool looked wellnigh spent and all foredone (as I had seen many a better man than he), whereupon I brought the waggon to a stand and reached down to stir him where he lent half-swooning across the wheel.

"Hark'ee, fool, dost know of one called Brandon of Shene hereabouts?"

"Aye, truly--truly!" he gasped. "I do know--Sir Richard--pa.s.sing well.

Ad's bobs, my innards be all shook t'pieces and I do be parched wi'

thirst."

"Why then, up with you!" says I, and giving him my hand, aided him back to the driving-seat. Being there, he sighed, groaned and cast a yearning eye towards his wallet.

"Parched wi' thirst I be!" he groaned.

"I've been the like ere now!" says I, and having gulped down what remained of the fellow's beer I tossed the jar into the road, whereat he beat his breast.

"My beer!" he wailed, "And I a-famishing wi' thirst! O my beer!"

"There's sweet water i' the brook yonder!" says I.

"You be a chap wi' no bowels, for sure!" he cried. "Aye, a hard man you be!"

"'Tis a hard world," says I, "but 'tis no matter for that, tell me of Sir Richard Brandon."

"Why then, you must know I am Myles Trueman--"

"And truly, man, there be miles of you, but 'tis no matter for that either--what of Sir Richard?"

"I do be coming to he," says Trueman in surly tone. "I do farm Sir Richard's land--a hard man, see you, though just."

"So--here's another hard man."

"Though a just--aye, and a G.o.dly! He hath restored our church weatherc.o.c.k an' all an' set up a fine, large and fair pillory on the green. Lunnon couldn't show a finer, wi' stocks an' cucking-stool complete and rare to fancy--"

"And findeth he the wherewithal to fill 'em?"

"That doth he! Aha, there be never a vagrant, gipsy nor beggar dare come anigh in Sir Richard's time. And witches be few hereabouts since old Mother Mottridge was ducked, and scolds and shrews be fewer by reason o' the brank, d'ye see?"

"Hum!" says I, "a right proper gentleman this!"

"Aye," quoth Trueman, nodding until his fat cheeks quivered, "and one that doth abhor vagrants and such-like vermin--"

"As myself?" says I. To this Trueman answered nothing, but fell a-fanning himself with his hat again, eyeing me warily the while.

"Art strange in these parts?" he questioned.

"Aye and no!"

"Hast met Sir Richard?"

"I have!"

"Aha!" quoth the fellow, nodding. "He had ye whipped, belike?"

"He did so."

"For stealing of a fine, fat capon, belike?"

"Nay, 'twas for another matter. But what of him, is he hale o' body, rich and well esteemed, is he strong in friends and a power at court yet?"

"No," says Trueman, flicking his plodding horses. "Neither one nor t'other!"

"How--not?" quoth I. "And wherefore?"

"Because he's dead--"

"Dead!" says I, starting up. "Dead?"

"Why look'ee, if he ain't dead--leastways--" But here I seized him by the throat and, twisting him round, shook him to and fro till he choked:

"Rogue--d.a.m.ned rogue!" I cried 'twixt gnashing teeth. "Will ye mock me then!"

"No--no!" he gasped.

"Then tell me ye lied--confess!"

"Aye, aye--I'll confess--anything--anything ye will, master!"

"Then Sir Richard lieth snug in his manor of Shene--doth he not? Aye or no?"

"Aye--aye, at Shene--at Shene!" Hereupon I loosed him and, falling back on the hay, found myself all breathless and shaking as with an ague-fit. And these tremors were within me as without, since (by reason of this fellow's lying words) I had, for one black moment, doubting G.o.d's justice, seen (as it were) my countless anguished supplications for vengeance on mine enemy so much vain breath, and this my toilsome journey a labour to no purpose. But now, bowing my head, I (who knew no forgiveness) humbly prayed forgiveness of G.o.d for my doubting of G.o.d, and pa.s.sionately besought Him that He would cherish mine enemy and save him in health. And this to no other end but that I myself might destroy him.

"His life, O G.o.d--give this man's life into mine hand!" So prayed I (in my vain pride and selfish blindness) as I jogged along that sunny midsummer morn; and thereafter, my trembling having pa.s.sed from me, I stretched myself out amid the hay and fell to blissful slumber.

Now to all such as reading this my narrative shall contemn and abhor me for the purblind fool and poor, desperate wretch I was, and who, living but for murder, could cry thus on G.o.d for the blood of his fellow-man--to all such I would say that none can despise me more utterly than I who write these words. For life since then hath learned me many truths and in some few things I am, mayhap, a little wiser.

But, because I was proud and stubborn beyond belief, because hate begetteth hate and evil--evil, so came I to consort and make fellowship with pirates and the like rogues and to endure much of harms and dangers as battle, shipwreck, prison and solitude; until G.o.d (of His infinite mercy) brought me forth a better man therefor and, in some sense, a more worthy. All of the which I have fully and faithfully recorded for such as shall trouble to read this narrative to the end.

And so will I again to my story.

CHAPTER IV