Browning's England Part 27

Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue?

People have urged "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young!

You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits: Besides it had maybe cost you life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!

So, cap me, the coward,--thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good: The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food.

See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends, The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I, Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why, When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray G.o.d I have balked him quite!

I'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight And take the example,--see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right.

"You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to die Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.

Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn That peasants should stick to their plough-tail, leave to the King the King's concern.

"Here's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes: What call has a man of your kind--much less, a woman--to interpose?

Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes--so much the worse!

The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

"Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago, And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know.

Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news, From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

"All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do!

Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too.

Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure Betokens the finger foul with ink: 'tis a woman who writes, be sure!

"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'--good natural stuff, she pens?

Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about c.o.c.ks and hens, How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round cas.e.m.e.nt in famous leaf.'

"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grown With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own: And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek For the second Company sure to come ('tis whispered) on Monday week.'

"And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder you see, was out: Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about!

Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign: But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

"That traitors had played us false, was proved--sent news which fell so pat: And the murder was out--this letter of love, the sender of this sent that!

'Tis an ugly job, though, all the same--a hateful, to have to deal With a case of the kind, when a woman's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks, Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp: A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort--the scamp!

"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks, And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books, Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime, Or martial law must take its course: this day next week's the time!'

"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice!

He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice!

His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she stands To pay for her fault. 'Tis an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!

Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives-- Or sweethearts or what they may be--from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"

Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face--the brute With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit!

He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear; He had but a handful of men, that's true,--a riot might cost him dear.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place.

I hope she was wholly with G.o.d: I hope 'twas His angel stretched a hand To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes, No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies-- "Why did you leave me to die?"--"Because...." Oh, fiends, too soon you grin At merely a moment of h.e.l.l, like that--such heaven as h.e.l.l ended in!

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line.

Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,--for, of all eyes, only mine Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer, Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group: I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop!

From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened: _I_ touch ground?

No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst--aught else but see, see, only see?

And see I do--for there comes in sight--a man, it sure must be!-- Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight On and on, anyhow onward--a man that's mad he arrives too late!

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?

Why does not he call, cry,--curse the fool!--why throw up his arms instead?

O take his fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay!

Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he's mad to say?"

And a minute, only a moment, to have h.e.l.l-fire boil up in your brain, And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,--time's over, repentance vain!

They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb, Deaf, blind were we struck, that n.o.body heard, not one of us saw him come!

Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast?

Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

Dead! dead as she, by the self-same shot: one bullet has ended both, Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth.

"Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting--that sounds like Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers!

There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved: No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she's saved!

And torn his garb and b.l.o.o.d.y his lips with heart-break--plain it grew How the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true.

It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lion's den!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms-- The license and leave: I make no doubt--what wonder if pa.s.sion warms The pulse in a man if you play with his heart?--he was something hasty in speech; Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,--what followed but fresh delays?

For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways!

And 'twas "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick Of the red-coats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for G.o.d's sake, quick!"

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You brag Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!"

Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still, With their "Wait you must;--no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"

And a borough there was--I forget the name--whose Mayor must have the bench Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French!

It well may have driven him daft, G.o.d knows! all man can certainly know Is--rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror--so!