The White Gauntlet

Not in Bulstrode mansion – where the prisoner was surrounded by fourscore cuirassiers? No – clearly not. There could be no possibility of accomplishing a rescue there; nor did Gregory Garth give it a moment’s thought. His ideas became directed to the road that lay between the two prisons – the store-room and the Tower. He already knew that Holtspur was to be transferred from one to the other, and on the following day. During the transit, might there not be some chance of effecting a rescue?

Garth knew the London Road – every inch of it – and, in one way or other, was acquainted with most of the people who dwelt near it. Although upon an odd individual, here and there, he had practised his peculiar vocation, there were few with whom he was upon hostile terms. With many he held relations of friendship; and with a goodly number certain other relations, that should entitle him to an act of service at their hands.

With a plan – but still only half developed – he had once more hurried back along the Hedgerley Road, towards the rendezvous, where Dancey and the Indian had already arrived with the horses.

He found them waiting, and apprehensive; – almost expecting the sad tidings he had to communicate – the failure of their enterprise.

As Garth, during the backward tramp, had more definitely arranged his programme of action, there was no time wasted in consultation. Dancey readily consented to the proposal, to become his confederate in the scheme he had so promptly conceived.

Oriole having been directed to return to Stone Dean, the ex-footpad sprang upon his stolen steed; and, followed by the deer-stealer on his scraggy cob, at once started off along upon a bridle path, which winding around the southern boundary of Bulstrode Park, would bring them to the king’s highway, where the latter crossed over the elevated plain of Jarret’s Heath.

It is in pursuance of the scheme conceived by Garth, that he and his companion were descending Red Hill at that early hour of the morning.

Whithersoever bent, they were evidently in haste to reach their destination – more especially Garth, who was constantly urging his companion to keep up with him. The quadruped bestridden by the deer-stealer was the chief obstruction to their speed; and despite the frequent application of a stout stick, which his rider carried in hand, and the pricking of a rusty spur fastened upon his heel, the sorry hack could not be urged beyond a slow shuffling trot – discontinued the instant the stimulus of stick and spur were suspended.

“The devil burn your beest, Dancey!” cried the ex-footpad, losing all patience at the slow pace of the animal. “We’ll not ha’ nigh time enough to see them all. From what your daughter learnt yesterday, the sogers ’ll bring their prisoner down the road, the first thing in the mornin’. They’ll do that, so’s to make the journey to Lonnon afore night. No doubt about their gettin’ to Uxbridge by ten o’ the clock; an’ just see what we’ve got to do afore then. Stick the spur into him – up to the shank, Dancey! The lazy brute! I’d make ’im go, if I war astride o’ him.”

“The poor creetur!” compassionately rejoined Dancey, by way of an apology for his nag, “he han’t had a bite o’ any thin’ to eat for a week – ’ceptin’ what he ha’ grubbed off o’ the roadside. No wonder he bean’t much for a fast journey.”

“Lucky it isn’t a longish one. If we had Lonnon afore us we’d niver get there! As it is – ha! now I think on’t, I’ve got a idea as’ll save time. There be no use for us to keep thegither. You go round Denham way, an’ warn your friends there. You can cross the Colne higher up, an’ scud on to the Harefield fellows. I’ll take Uxbridge an’ Hillindon, and along in the Drayton direction. That’ll be our best plan. We can meet at the Rose and Crown, as soon as we’ve got through. I’ll go there first, so as to gi’e old Brownie a hint ’bout gettin’ his tap ready. Lucky I ha’ been able to borrow some money upon a watch I chanced upon – a tydish bit – else we mightn’t find these patriots so free to lend us a hand. I shall spend it all – every stiver o’t – for the rescue o’ Master Henry.”

“I han’t got nothin’ to spend, or I’d do the same for him,” returned the deer-stealer. “He be the best an’ liberallest gentleman ever coom about these parts – that be he.”

“You’re not far wrong about that, Master Dancey. Too good a gentleman to have his head chopped off for speakin’ no more than’s the truth; an’ we must do our best to help ’im keep it on his shoulders. There’s your road to Denham. Stick the spur into your blessed beast, an’ make him do his damnest. Be sure you meet me at the bridge – afore ten.”

And with these injunctions the ex-footpad separated from the deer-stealer – the latter turning off upon the lane which led to the village of Denham; while the former continued along the direct road towards the town of Uxbridge.

Volume Three – Chapter Eight

At that early hour all the world appeared to be asleep – silence and slumber having been seemingly restored to the lately disturbed inmates of Bulstrode mansion; though not all of these had been disturbed, by the occurrences we have described.

Happy in the thought of having humiliated his rival, and the hope of eventually crushing him altogether, Captain Scarthe had slept soundly throughout the whole night – little suspecting the series of incidents that were transpiring, some scarce a score of yards from his couch, and all within a mile’s circuit of the mansion.

Even after awaking, he was not informed of the various love interviews, hairbreadth escapes, and captures, that, during the after-hours of that eventful night had been following each other in such quick succession. The whole affair had been managed so silently that, beyond the six men comprising the guard, with the corporal himself, not another cuirassier knew of what had happened. Withers had taken care that the tongues of his comrades should be tied – a purpose he might not have succeeded in effecting, but for those golden pieces which the lady had so profusely poured into his palm, and of which he was now compelled to make a generous, though somewhat reluctant disbursement.

The result was, that at the changing of the guard, the prisoner was handed over to the relief, bound as before; and no one in the troop was made acquainted with the facts, either of his escape or recapture. The new guard entered upon its tour, undo the full belief, that their charge had spent the whole of the night within the precincts of his prison.

Of the several individuals who had been privy to his escape, there was only one who by daybreak still remained ignorant that he had been retaken. Marion slumbered till the morning, unconscious of the re-arrest of her lover, as Scarthe of his temporary deliverance. On parting with him, she had gone to her couch, though not directly. The noises heard without had made her uneasy; and, standing by a window on the stairway she had listened. She had heard voices of men – a woman’s as well – uttered in low tones; but soon after they had ceased. She knew it must be some of the guard, and the woman’s voice she could guess at; but, as so little disturbance had been made, she did not suspect that it was an alarm, or that they had yet discovered the absence of the prisoner from his place of confinement.

She listened for a long time. She even returned to the verandah door, opened it, looked out, and listened again. But all was quiet, outside as within; and supposing that the soldiers had returned into the courtyard, she at length re-entered her chamber, and sought repose upon her couch.

Her prolonged vigil, and its happy termination, favoured sleep; and at that moment, when Henry Holtspur was struggling in the grasp of the cuirassier guards, Marion Wade was dreaming a delightful dream of his delivery – in which she fancied herself enjoying over and over again that ecstatic interview that had succeeded it!

Her slumber, with its concomitant dream, was protracted far into the hours of daylight. Long as they had continued, both were destined to a rude interruption.

She was awakened by sounds without, betokening the presence of men under the window of her chamber. Horses, too – as could be told by the stamping of hooves upon the gravelled esplanade. Several distinct voices reached her ear – one louder than the rest – which was occasionally raised in abrupt accents of command; and once or twice in a tone altogether different – in laughter! Whichever way uttered, it sounded harsh in the hearing of Marion Wade: she knew it was Scarthe’s.

For what was the cuirassier captain abroad at so early an hour? Was it so early?

Her arm was extended from under the coverlet, white as the counterpane itself. Her jewelled watch was taken up from the tripod table on which it lay. Its dial was consulted: ten of the clock!

At the same instant, the hour was proclaimed in sonorous cadence from the tower o’ertopping the mansion.

It was not to assist her in conjecturing the purpose of that matutinal commotion that Marion had so eagerly glanced to the dial of her watch. After the events of the night, she could have had but one surmise: that Holtspur’s escape had been discovered; and the noises outside were made by those preparing to go off in pursuit of him. She had looked at her watch, to ascertain the time that had elapsed since Holtspur’s departure. She was gratified at perceiving the lateness of the hour.

But why did Scarthe appear to be so happy? Those peals of laughter were inappropriate to the occasion – proceeding from one who should have been suffering chagrin?

At the thought, Marion sprang from her couch, and glided towards the window. From that window, but the morning before, she had witnessed the most painful spectacle of her life. Very similar, and scarce less painful, was that which now greeted her glance: Henry Holtspur, bound upon the back of a horse, and encompassed by a troop of cuirassiers, who, in full armour, were keeping close guard upon him!

They were all mounted, with accoutrements and valises strapped to their saddles – as if ready for a journey. Scarthe himself a journey, pacing back and forth upon the gravelled walk; but in a costume that showed he had no intention to accompany the party, on whatever expedition it was bent. Cornet Stubbs was to be its leader. Mounted upon Holtspur’s steed, he was at that moment placing himself at the head of the troop, preliminary to commencing the march.

Marion had scarce time to take in the details of this tableau – equally unexpected and sad – when a bugle brayed out the signal, “Forward.” Its notes drowned the scream that escaped from her quivering lips, as the form of her beloved was ruthlessly borne away out of sight.

Nearly half an hour had elapsed before the confusion of ideas – consequent on such a painful scene – permitted on the part of Marion Wade, a return to anything like calm reflection. Even then her mind was still wandering amidst a maze of unavailing thoughts, when voices, again heard below, recalled her to the window.

She looked out as before. The tableau was changed from that she had already contemplated.

Only two individuals composed it – Scarthe and a stranger.

The latter was a man in civilian costume; but of a certain guise that betokened him to be in the service of the king. He was on horseback – his horse frothing, smoking, and panting, as if after a long gallop at top speed.

Scarthe was standing by the stirrup, listening to some communication which the rider appeared to impart – in a haste that proclaimed its importance.

Despite his earnestness, the stranger spoke in a low tone; but his voice ascending to the window of Marion’s chamber, was sufficiently loud for her to catch the significant words —

“Prisoner – rescue – Uxbridge!”

On hearing them, Scarthe was seen to spring back from the side of the horseman, with as much alertness as if the latter had aimed a blow at him!

Next moment, and, without even staying to make reply to the communication which the messenger had made, he rushed on towards the gate of the courtyard, loudly vociferating, “To horse – every man to horse!”

With that promptitude to which he had trained his troop, the cuirassiers were almost instantly in their saddles; and before Marion Wade could recover from the shock of this new surprise – more gratifying than that which had preceded it – she beheld Scarthe himself – enveloped in his steel armour – ride forth at the head of his troop; and go off at a gallop along the avenue leading out towards Uxbridge.

“A rescue – Uxbridge!” were the words that continued to echo in her ears, long after the trampling of the troopers’ horses had died away upon the distant road.

“God grant it may be true!” was her murmured response to that echo.

The excited suppliant did not content herself with this simple formulary of speech. Nudely kneeling upon the floor, her white arms crossed over her bosom, she breathed forth a prayer – a fervent, passionate prayer – invoking the protection of the God she loved, for the man she adored!

Volume Three – Chapter Nine

It was approaching the hour of ten, and Uxbridge was in the full tide of active life. More than the usual number of people appeared to be parading its streets; though no one seemed to know exactly why. It was not market-day; and the extra passengers sauntering along the footways, and standing by the corners, were not farmers. They appeared to be mostly common people – of the class of labourers, and artisans. They were not in holiday dresses; but in their ordinary every-day garb: as if they had been at work, and had abruptly “knocked off” to be present at some improvised spectacle – of which they had just received notice. The shoemaker was in his leathern apron, his hands sticky with wax; the blacksmith begrimed and sweating, as if fresh from the furnace; the miller’s man under a thick coating of flour-dust; and the butcher with breeches still reeking, as if recently come out from the slaughter-house.

A crowd had collected in front of the Rose and Crown, with groups stretching across the adjacent causeway; and to this point all the odd stragglers from the upper part of the town appeared tending.

Those who had already arrived there were exhibiting themselves in a jolly humour. The tavern tap was flowing freely; and scores of people were drinking at somebody’s expense; though at whose, nobody seemed either to know or care.

A tall, dark-complexioned man, oddly attired – assisted by the potmen of the establishment – was helping the crowd to huge tankards of strong ale, though he seemed more especially attentive to a score of stout fellows of various crafts and callings – several of whom appeared to be acquainted with him; and were familiarly accosting him by his name of “Greg’ry.”