XLIV
Of the Fate of Dennis Watson
So strongly did Dennis row that he reached the stairs on the north bank of the river, close upon the head of the bridge, while we were yet some four boats’ lengths away. He leaped from his boat and was at the head of the stair before we reached the foot, and so he disappeared through an archway that gave access to the bridge.
“Quick, friend!” I cried, as I saw my enemy getting beyond my reach. “If he is once out of sight I shall never find him in this great city.”
“He is not escaped yet, master,” said the boatman. “He cannot pass the north gate without being observed, and if he turns t’other way you can follow him.”
He bent himself earnestly to the oars as he spoke, and in another instant the boat grated against the slimy steps, over which the water was lapping dismally. I was fumbling for my purse, when the man followed me from the boat and hooked his craft to a ring in the wall close by.
“Run on, master,” said he. “Lord love you, I am all for a bit of adventure myself, and will help you with this matter. Up the stairs and through the archway.”
We ran to the head of the steps, and, turning through a deep arch in the great wall, found ourselves on the bridge immediately beneath the north gate. The keeper had already closed the portcullis, and was seated in his lodge half asleep.
“Rouse him up,” said the boatman. “Hallo, Master Grice, are you already slumbering? Come, has a man passed through the lodge just now?”
“Not this half-hour,” answered the keeper, “neither north nor south.”
“What, man, bethink thee! One ran through the archway from the river steps but this moment.”
“Then a’ turned towards Southwark end,” said the keeper, and laid his head back against the hood of his chair; “a’ came not through my lodge, Tom Drewitt.”
“Come,” said the waterman. “We waste time there, master. Let us go down the bridge.”
We left the lodge and walked quickly away in the direction of the south gate, looking hither and thither as we passed between the houses for some sign of the man we sought. The bridge was but badly lighted, and there were few people on it, for a light snow had begun to fall and the cold air was keen and biting.
“He will probably have turned into one of these houses,” said I, by that time despairing of seeing him again.
“Maybe so, master,” said the boatman; “but ’tis my opinion that he will have made for the other end of the bridge. Let us get down to the gate as sharply as we can. But stay; let us use some little craft in our design. Do you, master, walk first and make straight for t’other gate, and I will come after at a few paces’ distance.”
In this way we pressed forward, I going first, grasping my staff and looking narrowly into every nook and corner as I passed. I felt sure that we had lost Dennis, for the doors of several shops and houses stood open, and there was naught easier than for him to run inside one of them and hide himself until we had gone by. It was impossible for us to search every house; but even if we had done so, the buildings were so full of holes and corners that our man might have hid in one room while we were seeking him in another. Great wooden houses they were on that bridge, with high gables that projected over the roadway beneath, so that the eaves formed a sort of shelter and kept rain and snow from those who walked beneath them.
I had reached the centre of the bridge, and was beginning to redouble my pace, when a shout from the boatman brought me to a halt. As I turned he ran up, pointing to the door of a tavern which stood open on our right hand.
“He came out from there as you passed,” said the man, “and when I shouted he ran across the bridge and into yon door,” pointing to a house opposite the inn. “So now, master, we have him caged.”
“Will he escape at the back?” I said.
“Not unless he goes into the river,” answered the boatman. “Come, we have him now. He has closed the door behind him, but we will soon remedy that.”
Saying this, he advanced to the house in which Dennis had taken refuge, and began to knock loudly at the door, to which there presently came an old man, who opened it and looked fretfully out at us.
“What do you beat my door so violently for?” he asked, regarding us with anything but favourable glances.
“We are sorry to disturb you, master,” said I, “but there is a man run into your house just now whom we are in pursuit of, so we will thank you to let us search for him.”
When I said that the old man looked at us more suspiciously than ever, and shook his head as if he had no trust in our tale.
“There is no man run into my house,” said he, and made as if he would shut the door in our faces. But the boatman, not to be outdone, placed his foot within the threshold and began to push his way in. Now, at this the old man set up a violent clamour, calling for help, and shouting to those near at hand that thieves were breaking into his house, so that we presently found ourselves in the centre of a crowd, every member of which was asking at the same time what all the uproar was about.
“Friends,” said I, trying to quiet the old man, who was still calling out that we were thieves and designed to rob him, “we are peaceable men enough, and have no intention of robbing anybody. We are in pursuit of a man who must be punished for his misdeeds, and we followed him upon the bridge here and have traced him to this house, into the open door of which he ran but a few moments ago. Because we want to search for him this ancient gentleman calls us thieves.”
“What hath the man done?” asked several near me.
“As much wickedness as half a dozen ordinary men, sir,” said I, “and hath robbed his own father into the bargain.”
“Give the rogue no quarter,” said a great burly man. “Come, let them in, Master Bradley; ’tis poor work standing against justice. What, man! they will do thy house no harm.”
“I saw no man run into my house,” said the old gentleman. “If any man entered he hath run up the stairs.”
“Let us turn him out of his hole,” said the big man. “Keep an eye on the windows, some of you, lest he escape that way. Robbed his father, quotha! Alack, a rope is too good for such.”
We pressed forward and entered the house and ran up the stairs, some going into one room and some into another, while the old man toiled behind us, wringing his hands and begging us not to harm his goods. But in none of the sleeping chambers, nor in any nook or corner on the stairs, could we find a trace of Dennis. I made my way to the windows overlooking the river, and, pushing the casement open, looked out. Underneath me at a great distance lay the water, splashing and lapping the piles of the bridge, with here and there a faint gleam of light reflected from the lamps which gleamed through the windows of the houses. There was no way by which he could have escaped in the rear of the house. We turned to the last flight of stairs, which seemed to lead into the roof of the house, and terminated in a trapdoor. Up these we pushed, only to find the trap closed and evidently barred from above.
“I warrant me he hath run up here and bolted down the trapdoor,” said the burly citizen, who was blowing and panting at my side. “He thinketh to escape by the roofs, no doubt. He—God’s mercy, what voice is that?”
A great shout came up from the people who had gathered on the bridge below.
“They see something,” said the boatman. “To the windows!”
We scrambled down the ladder, and running to the window which looked upon the bridge, threw it open and pushed out our heads. Then we saw that the road beneath was full of people, and that they were all looking up to the roof of the house opposite that which we had entered, where stood Dennis Watson, who had evidently leaped across the gulf that yawned between, and was now bracing himself for a climb along the tiles on the other side.
“Ah!” said the boatman, “I see what he is after, master. He is making for the rear of the tavern, where there is a stair which leads to the river. There are always boats fastened to the pier underneath the tavern, and he will go down the stair and escape in one.”
And with that he ran down to the bridge and made for the inn, while I and the men that had followed us in remained at the window watching my enemy’s movements. He was climbing along the roof of the opposite house with very careful steps, for the tiles and the woodwork were slippery with snow, and the roof sloped dangerously. Presently he came to a part where there was naught to hold by, and rose to his feet and balanced himself on the uncertain edge of the roof. When I saw him in this perilous position I was minded to shout to him to return and meet me in fair fight, for I had no wish to see him dash himself to pieces. But before I could open my lips there was a sudden gust of icy wind blew down the river and caused him to stagger. His foot seemed to slip on the snow-covered roof; he made a great effort to recover his balance; then he slipped further and further, and finally fell over the edge of the gable, and came to the bridge beneath with a heavy sound that turned me sick.
“He hath escaped you, master,” said the big man at my side. “He is gone where you cannot catch him.”
We hurried down the stairs and found a crowd surrounding the body. Dennis Watson was dead enough, for he had fallen some fifty feet and lighted upon his head. Bitterly as he had wronged me and mine, I could not avoid feeling sorry for him as I saw him lying there with the folks pushing their way through the crowd to stare at him. But there was little time for feelings of that sort, for the watch had now appeared on the scene, and when they had removed the dead man’s body I was forced to go with them and say what I knew about him, upon which business I was detained some time, and did meanwhile learn some particulars concerning Dennis Watson’s history since the time of his flight from our neighbourhood. For it seemed that the people of the inn to which his body was carried were somewhat acquainted with him, and reported that when he first used to come to their house he was gaily dressed, and did make much show of money and led a dissolute life, but that of late he had lived a precarious existence, and had been suspected of being concerned in the doings of a band of thieves who infested the riverside. From which news I gathered that the money he had stolen from his father had done Dennis Watson no good, and that he had been amply punished for that and all his other misdeeds. Now, they found no money on his body, and were for burying him like a pauper, but I did not like to think that the son of a Yorkshire yeoman should have no better burial than what is given to a dog, and I accordingly paid for his grave myself and saw him decently interred, having no quarrel with him now that he was dead.
I was busied with these matters during the next two days, but on the 2nd of February, being the third day after the King’s execution, I said farewell to Master Goodfellow and his wife and set forth upon my journey homeward, being well satisfied to depart from London, which great city I admired vastly, but had no very pleasant memories of. You may be sure that I was glad enough at the thought of seeing Dale’s Field and my dear love again, and as I rode along the road I made up my mind that we would waste no more time, but call Parson Drumbleforth’s services into requisition and be married out of hand. And that done, I would leave my home no more, neither for King nor Commons, but would attend to my business and find my pleasure in my own land and my own house as a yeoman should. For by that time I had had enough of war and turmoil and of adventures here and there, and it seemed to me that there was naught like a quiet life. And therewith I fell at meditating on what General Cromwell had said to me about there being other folk than myself that did desire to live peaceably on their farms but were called to other things, and I decided that such were more to be pitied than envied.
I spent the first night of my homeward journey at Hitchin, and went forward the next day to Huntingdon, where I slept the second night, and until this point I met with no adventure worth recording. As for the talk at the inns, it was of naught but the King’s death, respecting which every man was willing to converse, but few to venture an opinion. I said naught on the matter, being anxious to escape questions, which would certainly have been showered upon me if I had admitted that I was present at the scene before Whitehall. That scene, indeed, was never out of my mind, and I dreamed of it more than once during the next few weeks.
On the third day of my journey, when I was drawing near to Peterborough, I saw before me on the roadside the figure of a man who lay stretched out on the bank as if he were ill or dead, while his horse stood near him cropping the grass. It was a cold, raw afternoon, and I immediately concluded that the man had fallen from his horse and was now insensible, or he would never lie there in such peril of his life. So I rode up to him, and, dismounting, bent down to see what it was that ailed him. There was something familiar in his countenance, but I took little heed of it at the moment, for the man was insensible and blue with cold, and looked deathlike to my mind. Now, I had in my saddlebag a small flask of strong waters which Mistress Goodfellow had pressed upon me, and I immediately produced this and poured a little of its contents between the man’s lips. At first there seemed to be no effect, but presently he sighed deeply and opened his eyes somewhat, so that I redoubled my exertions and strove hard to bring him to. While I was thus engaged I had leisure to study his face, and then I saw that he was the man who had knocked at the door of the wayside inn between Aberford and Castleford, and had manifested such uneasy symptoms at sight of me.
In a few minutes the man opened his eyes and looked at me. The light was already failing, but it was sufficiently strong to allow of his recognising me, and again I saw the horrified look come into his face which I had first seen when I opened John Sanderson’s door to him that morning after my release from the Parliamentarians’ camp before York. It was a look of such fear as I never saw on any other man’s face, and was all the worse to me because I did not understand it.
“Come, master,” said I, “there is no need to look so frightened; I am neither thief nor cutthroat, and desire naught but your good. Have you fallen from your horse that you lie here like this?”
“Ay,” said he faintly. “I am ill, dying, sir, I think, this three days. Ride on, good sir, and leave me.”
“Nay, friend,” I answered, “I shall not leave you till you are in some safe hands. Come, we are but a mile or two out of Peterborough, so let me help you to your horse, and I will walk by your side till we reach the town.”
And therewith I raised him up and made him take another drink of the strong waters, and so got him to his horse at last, and walked by his side to support him, leading my own horse by the bridle. In this way we went forward to Peterborough, the man now and then groaning with pain, and at times looking at me with the same look of fear in his face which had come there as soon as he had opened his eyes and seen me bending over him.