Chapter 15 — Master Huckaback Fails of Warrant
On the following day Master Huckaback， with some show of mystery， demanded from my mother an escort into a dangerous part of the world， to which his business compelled him. My mother made answer to this that he was kindly welcome to take our John Fry with him； at which the good clothier laughed， and said that John was nothing like big enough， but another John must serve his turn， not only for his size， but because if he were carried away， no stone would be left unturned upon Exmoor， until he should be brought back again. Hereupon my mother grew very pale， and found fifty reasons against my going， each of them weightier than the true one， as Eliza （who was jealous of me） managed to whisper to Annie. On the other hand， I was quite resolved （directly the thing was mentioned） to see Uncle Reuben through with it； and it added much to my self-esteem to be the guard of so rich a man. Therefore I soon persuaded mother， with her head upon my breast， to let me go and trust in God； and after that I was greatly vexed to find that this dangerous enterprise was nothing more than a visit to the Baron de Whichehalse， to lay an information， and sue a warrant against the Doones， and a posse to execute it.
Stupid as I always have been， and must ever be no doubt， I could well have told Uncle Reuben that his journey was no wiser than that of the men of Gotham； that he never would get from Hugh de Whichehalse a warrant against the Doones； moreover， that if he did get one， his own wig would be singed with it. But for divers reasons I held my peace， partly from youth and modesty， partly from desire to see whatever please God I should see， and partly from other causes.
We rode by way of Brendon town， Illford Bridge， and Babbrook， to avoid the great hill above Lynmouth； and the day being fine and clear again， I laughed in my sleeve at Uncle Reuben for all his fine precautions. When we arrived at Ley Manor， we were shown very civilly into the hall， and refreshed with good ale and collared head， and the back of a Christmas pudding. I had never been under so fine a roof （unless it were of a church） before； and it pleased me greatly to be so kindly entreated by high-born folk. But Uncle Reuben was vexed a little at being set down side by side with a man in a very small way of trade， who was come upon some business there， and who made bold to drink his health after finishing their horns of ale.
‘Sir，’ said Uncle Ben， looking at him， ‘my health would fare much better， if you would pay me three pounds and twelve shillings， which you have owed me these five years back； and now we are met at the Justice’s， the opportunity is good， sir.‘
After that， we were called to the Justice-room， where the Baron himself was sitting with Colonel Harding， another Justiciary of the King‘s peace， to help him. I had seen the Baron de Whichehalse before， and was not at all afraid of him， having been at school with his son as he knew， and it made him very kind to me. And indeed he was kind to everybody， and all our people spoke well of him； and so much the more because we knew that the house was in decadence. For the first De Whichehalse had come from Holland， where he had been a great nobleman， some hundred and fifty years agone. Being persecuted for his religion， when the Spanish power was everything， he fled to England with all he could save， and bought large estates in Devonshire. Since then his descendants had intermarried with ancient county families， Cottwells， and Marwoods， and Walronds， and Welses of Pylton， and Chichesters of Hall； and several of the ladies brought them large increase of property. And so about fifty years before the time of which I am writing， there were few names in the West of England thought more of than De Whichehalse. But now they had lost a great deal of land， and therefore of that which goes with land， as surely as fame belongs to earth—I mean big reputation. How they had lost it， none could tell； except that as the first descendants had a manner of amassing， so the later ones were gifted with a power of scattering. Whether this came of good Devonshire blood opening the sluice of Low Country veins， is beyond both my province and my power to inquire. Anyhow， all people loved this last strain of De Whichehalse far more than the name had been liked a hundred years agone.
Hugh de Whichehalse， a white-haired man， of very noble presence， with friendly blue eyes and a sweet smooth forehead， and aquiline nose quite beautiful （as you might expect in a lady of birth）， and thin lips curving delicately， this gentleman rose as we entered the room； while Colonel Harding turned on his chair， and struck one spur against the other. I am sure that， without knowing aught of either， we must have reverenced more of the two the one who showed respect to us. And yet nine gentleman out of ten make this dull mistake when dealing with the class below them！
Uncle Reuben made his very best scrape， and then walked up to the table， trying to look as if he did not know himself to be wealthier than both the gentlemen put together. Of course he was no stranger to them， any more than I was； and， as it proved afterwards， Colonel Harding owed him a lump of money， upon very good security. Of him Uncle Reuben took no notice， but addressed himself to De Whichehalse.
The Baron smiled very gently， so soon as he learned the cause of this visit， and then he replied quite reasonably.
‘A warrant against the Doones， Master Huckaback. Which of the Doones， so please you； and the Christian names， what be they？’
‘My lord， I am not their godfather； and most like they never had any. But we all know old Sir Ensor’s name， so that may be no obstacle.‘
‘Sir Ensor Doone and his sons—so be it. How many sons， Master Huckaback， and what is the name of each one？’
‘How can I tell you， my lord， even if I had known them all as well as my own shop-boys？ Nevertheless there were seven of them， and that should be no obstacle.’
‘A warrant against Sir Ensor Doone， and seven sons of Sir Ensor Doone， Christian names unknown， and doubted if they have any. So far so good Master Huckaback. I have it all down in writing. Sir Ensor himself was there， of course， as you have given in evidence—’
‘No， no， my lord， I never said that： I never said—’
‘If he can prove that he was not there， you may be indicted for perjury. But as for those seven sons of his， of course you can swear that they were his sons and not his nephews， or grandchildren， or even no Doones at all？’
‘My lord， I can swear that they were Doones. Moreover， I can pay for any mistake I make. Therein need be no obstacle.’
‘Oh， yes， he can pay； he can pay well enough，’ said Colonel Harding shortly.
‘I am heartily glad to hear it，’ replied the Baron pleasantly； ‘for it proves after all that this robbery （if robbery there has been） was not so very ruinous. Sometimes people think they are robbed， and then it is very sweet afterwards to find that they have not been so； for it adds to their joy in their property. Now， are you quite convinced， good sir， that these people （if there were any） stole， or took， or even borrowed anything at all from you？’
‘My lord， do you think that I was drunk？’
‘Not for a moment， Master Huckaback. Although excuse might be made for you at this time of the year. But how did you know that your visitors were of this particular family？’
‘Because it could be nobody else. Because， in spite of the fog—’
‘Fog！’ cried Colonel Harding sharply.
‘Fog！’ said the Baron， with emphasis. ‘Ah， that explains the whole affair. To be sure， now I remember， the weather has been too thick for a man to see the head of his own horse. The Doones （if still there be any Doones） could never have come abroad； that is as sure as simony. Master Huckaback， for your good sake， I am heartily glad that this charge has miscarried. I thoroughly understand it now. The fog explains the whole of it.’
‘Go back， my good fellow，’ said Colonel Harding； ‘and if the day is clear enough， you will find all your things where you left them. I know， from my own experience， what it is to be caught in an Exmoor fog.’
Uncle Reuben， by this time， was so put out， that he hardly knew what he was saying.
‘My lord， Sir Colonel， is this your justice！ If I go to London myself for it， the King shall know how his commission—how a man may be robbed， and the justices prove that he ought to be hanged at back of it； that in his good shire of Somerset—’
‘Your pardon a moment， good sir，’ De Whichehalse interrupted him； ‘but I was about （having heard your case） to mention what need be an obstacle， and， I fear， would prove a fatal one， even if satisfactory proof were afforded of a felony. The mal-feasance （if any） was laid in Somerset； but we， two humble servants of His Majesty， are in commission of his peace for the county of Devon only， and therefore could never deal with it.’
‘And why， in the name of God，’ cried Uncle Reuben now carried at last fairly beyond himself， ‘why could you not say as much at first， and save me all this waste of time and worry of my temper？ Gentlemen， you are all in league； all of you stick together. You think it fair sport for an honest trader， who makes no shams as you do， to be robbed and wellnigh murdered， so long as they who did it won the high birthright of felony. If a poor sheep stealer， to save his children from dying of starvation， had dared to look at a two-month lamb， he would swing on the Manor gallows， and all of you cry “Good riddance！” But now， because good birth and bad manners—’ Here poor Uncle Ben， not being so strong as before the Doones had played with him， began to foam at the mouth a little， and his tongue went into the hollow where his short grey whiskers were.
I forget how we came out of it， only I was greatly shocked at bearding of the gentry so， and mother scarce could see her way， when I told her all about it. ‘Depend upon it you were wrong， John，’ was all I could get out of her； though what had I done but listen， and touch my forelock， when called upon. ‘John， you may take my word for it， you have not done as you should have done. Your father would have been shocked to think of going to Baron de Whichehalse， and in his own house insulting him！ And yet it was very brave of you John. Just like you， all over. And （as none of the men are here， dear John） I am proud of you for doing it.’
All throughout the homeward road， Uncle Ben had been very silent， feeling much displeased with himself and still more so with other people. But before he went to bed that night， he just said to me， ‘Nephew Jack， you have not behaved so badly as the rest to me. And because you have no gift of talking， I think that I may trust you. Now， mark my words， this villain job shall not have ending here. I have another card to play.’
‘You mean， sir， I suppose， that you will go to the justices of this shire， Squire Maunder， or Sir Richard Blewitt， or—’
‘Oaf， I mean nothing of the sort； they would only make a laughing-stock， as those Devonshire people did， of me. No， I will go to the King himself， or a man who is bigger than the King， and to whom I have ready access. I will not tell thee his name at present， only if thou art brought before him， never wilt thou forget it.’ That was true enough， by the bye， as I discovered afterwards， for the man he meant was Judge Jeffreys.
‘And when are you likely to see him， sir？’
‘Maybe in the spring， maybe not until summer， for I cannot go to London on purpose， but when my business takes me there. Only remember my words， Jack， and when you see the man I mean， look straight at him， and tell no lie. He will make some of your zany squires shake in their shoes， I reckon. Now， I have been in this lonely hole far longer than I intended， by reason of this outrage； yet I will stay here one day more upon a certain condition.’
‘Upon what condition， Uncle Ben？ I grieve that you find it so lonely. We will have Farmer Nicholas up again， and the singers， and—’
‘The fashionable milkmaids. I thank you， let me be. The wenches are too loud for me. Your Nanny is enough. Nanny is a good child， and she shall come and visit me.’ Uncle Reuben would always call her ‘Nanny’； he said that ‘Annie’ was too fine and Frenchified for us. ‘But my condition is this， Jack—that you shall guide me to-morrow， without a word to any one， to a place where I may well descry the dwelling of these scoundrel Doones， and learn the best way to get at them， when the time shall come. Can you do this for me？ I will pay you well， boy.’
I promised very readily to do my best to serve him， but， of course， would take no money for it， not being so poor as that came to. Accordingly， on the day following， I managed to set the men at work on the other side of the farm， especially that inquisitive and busybody John Fry， who would pry out almost anything for the pleasure of telling his wife； and then， with Uncle Reuben mounted on my ancient Peggy， I made foot for the westward， directly after breakfast. Uncle Ben refused to go unless I would take a loaded gun， and indeed it was always wise to do so in those days of turbulence； and none the less because of late more than usual of our sheep had left their skins behind them. This， as I need hardly say， was not to be charged to the appetite of the Doones， for they always said that they were not butchers （although upon that subject might well be two opinions）； and their practice was to make the shepherds kill and skin， and quarter for them， and sometimes carry to the Doone-gate the prime among the fatlings， for fear of any bruising， which spoils the look at table. But the worst of it was that ignorant folk， unaware of their fastidiousness， scored to them the sheep they lost by lower-born marauders， and so were afraid to speak of it： and the issue of this error was that a farmer， with five or six hundred sheep， could never command， on his wedding-day， a prime saddle of mutton for dinner.
To return now to my Uncle Ben—and indeed he would not let me go more than three land-yards from him—there was very little said between us along the lane and across the hill， although the day was pleasant. I could see that he was half amiss with his mind about the business， and not so full of security as an elderly man should keep himself. Therefore， out I spake， and said，—
‘Uncle Reuben， have no fear. I know every inch of the ground， sir； and there is no danger nigh us.’
‘Fear， boy！ Who ever thought of fear？ ’Tis the last thing would come across me. Pretty things those primroses.‘
At once I thought of Lorna Doone， the little maid of six years back， and how my fancy went with her. Could Lorna ever think of me？ Was I not a lout gone by， only fit for loach-sticking？ Had I ever seen a face fit to think of near her？ The sudden flash， the quickness， the bright desire to know one‘s heart， and not withhold her own from it， the soft withdrawal of rich eyes， the longing to love somebody， anybody， anything， not imbrued with wickedness—
My uncle interrupted me， misliking so much silence now， with the naked woods falling over us. For we were come to Bagworthy forest， the blackest and the loneliest place of all that keep the sun out. Even now， in winter-time， with most of the wood unriddled， and the rest of it pinched brown， it hung around us like a cloak containing little comfort. I kept quite close to Peggy‘s head， and Peggy kept quite close to me， and pricked her ears at everything. However， we saw nothing there， except a few old owls and hawks， and a magpie sitting all alone， until we came to the bank of the hill， where the pony could not climb it. Uncle Ben was very loath to get off， because the pony seemed company， and he thought he could gallop away on her， if the worst came to the worst， but I persuaded him that now he must go to the end of it. Therefore he made Peggy fast， in a place where we could find her， and speaking cheerfully as if there was nothing to be afraid of， he took his staff， and I my gun， to climb the thick ascent.
There was now no path of any kind； which added to our courage all it lessened of our comfort， because it proved that the robbers were not in the habit of passing there. And we knew that we could not go astray， so long as we breasted the hill before us； inasmuch as it formed the rampart， or side-fence of Glen Doone. But in truth I used the right word there for the manner of our ascent， for the ground came forth so steep against us， and withal so woody， that to make any way we must throw ourselves forward， and labour as at a breast-plough. Rough and loamy rungs of oak-root bulged here and there above our heads； briers needs must speak with us， using more of tooth than tongue； and sometimes bulks of rugged stone， like great sheep， stood across us. At last， though very loath to do it， I was forced to leave my gun behind， because I required one hand to drag myself up the difficulty， and one to help Uncle Reuben. And so at last we gained the top， and looked forth the edge of the forest， where the ground was very stony and like the crest of a quarry； and no more trees between us and the brink of cliff below， three hundred yards below it might be， all strong slope and gliddery. And now far the first time I was amazed at the appearance of the Doones‘s stronghold， and understood its nature. For when I had been even in the valley， and climbed the cliffs to escape from it， about seven years agone， I was no more than a stripling boy， noting little， as boys do， except for their present purpose， and even that soon done with. But now， what with the fame of the Doones， and my own recollections， and Uncle Ben’s insistence， all my attention was called forth， and the end was simple astonishment.
The chine of highland， whereon we stood， curved to the right and left of us， keeping about the same elevation， and crowned with trees and brushwood. At about half a mile in front of us， but looking as if we could throw a stone to strike any man upon it， another crest just like our own bowed around to meet it； but failed by reason of two narrow clefts of which we could only see the brink. One of these clefts was the Doone-gate， with a portcullis of rock above it， and the other was the chasm by which I had once made entrance. Betwixt them， where the hills fell back， as in a perfect oval， traversed by the winding water， lay a bright green valley， rimmed with sheer black rock， and seeming to have sunken bodily from the bleak rough heights above. It looked as if no frost could enter neither wind go ruffling； only spring， and hope， and comfort， breathe to one another. Even now the rays of sunshine dwelt and fell back on one another， whenever the clouds lifted； and the pale blue glimpse of the growing day seemed to find young encouragement.
But for all that， Uncle Reuben was none the worse nor better. He looked down into Glen Doone first， and sniffed as if he were smelling it， like a sample of goods from a wholesale house； and then he looked at the hills over yonder， and then he stared at me.
‘See what a pack of fools they be？’
‘Of course I do， Uncle Ben. “All rogues are fools，” was my first copy， beginning of the alphabet.’
‘Pack of stuff lad. Though true enough， and very good for young people. But see you not how this great Doone valley may be taken in half an hour？’
‘Yes， to be sure I do， uncle； if they like to give it up， I mean.’
‘Three culverins on yonder hill， and three on the top of this one， and we have them under a pestle. Ah， I have seen the wars， my lad， from Keinton up to Naseby； and I might have been a general now， if they had taken my advice—’
But I was not attending to him， being drawn away on a sudden by a sight which never struck the sharp eyes of our General. For I had long ago descried that little opening in the cliff through which I made my exit， as before related， on the other side of the valley. No bigger than a rabbit-hole it seemed from where we stood； and yet of all the scene before me， that （from my remembrance perhaps） had the most attraction. Now gazing at it with full thought of all that it had cost me， I saw a little figure come， and pause， and pass into it.
Something very light and white， nimble， smooth， and elegant， gone almost before I knew that any one had been there. And yet my heart came to my ribs， and all my blood was in my face， and pride within me fought with shame， and vanity with self-contempt； for though seven years were gone， and I from my boyhood come to manhood， and all must have forgotten me， and I had half-forgotten； at that moment， once for all， I felt that I was face to face with fate （however poor it might be）， weal or woe， in Lorna Doone.