The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
never dare to come to Limepits now," said Taffendale, bending down to Rhoda. "After that," he continued, pointing to the scene of devastation, "after that they'll all be for running away as fast as they can. That means prison for some of them."
But as he spoke, he and those about him became aware that the mob was already quitting Cherry-trees.
The torches came together; the horns and the drum and the tin-pans were sounded with renewed fury; and in the glare of the burning farmstead the watchers saw two straw-stuffed effigies lifted high above the heads of the howling and yelling crowd. Swaying and lurching, they were moved on again—not back to the village, as Taffendale had expected, but along the road which wound round by the fields and the corner of the woods wherein lay Badger's Hollow in the direction of the Limepits. Tibby Graddige uttered a loud exclamation.
"Didn't I tell yer!" she cried. "I said they'd come up to yeer place, Mestur Taffendale. They're i' that condition o' pomp and vanity 'at they care for nowt nor nobody. I know what they're aimin' to do. They mean t' burn t' stuffed images i' front o' yeer house, mestur, and to say t' stang warning."
"Come on, sir, let's get back," said the foreman.
But as they turned to hurry over the fields, the quarrymen came running through the darkness, ten or twelve great fellows, only too eager to come to grips with the mob. They were for crossing the land, and intercepting the stang-riders before they reached the woods. But the foreman, wise in his knowledge, counselled otherwise.
"Keep off comin' to blows wi' 'em!" he said. "I know what they want. Mistress Graddige here's reight. Let 'em come up t' road to t' farm, maister, and let 'em burn t' images and shout t' warning, and then they'll go away satisfied with what they've done. What we want to do is to keep 'em offen t' premises. Theer's five-and-forty cornstacks i' our stackyard, ye know, maister."
Taffendale knew that well enough; he knew also what he had in his granaries, and stables, and barns, and byres, and sties. If the Limepits got on fire thousands of pounds' worth of property would go. And he thought quickly and clearly for the needs of the moment.
"All right," he said sharply. "Quick, lads—back home! We'll surround the place and keep them off. When we get there every man and lad lay hold of a good stick, and don't be afraid to use it if there's any need arises. Now hurry!"
The mob was surging up the lane, more riotous and loud of lung than ever, when Taffendale and his men reached the farmstead. He hurried the two women into the house, and then posted the quarrymen and the farm hands along the front of the garden and entrance to the outbuildings.
"Do naught till I give the word!" he shouted, springing on the horseblock at his front gate in order to overlook his little army. "Keep in the background. If they'll go away quietly when they've finished with their damned ceremonies, let 'em go! But if they try to come in, drive them back and lay on hard."
The mob came along with the rush and roar of a horde of savages. The light from the flaring and guttering torches and naphtha lamps fell full on Taffendale, who remained standing on the horseblock watching his persecutors over a set mouth and folded arms. And as they swept up to his very feet he saw that every man and lad in the crowd either had his face blackened beyond recognition, or was masked by a piece of cloth in which eyelets had been cut. As for the women, they looked more like wild beasts than human beings, and their unbound hair concealed all that was to be seen of their features, save glittering eyes and shining teeth.
A storm of execration and obscene abuse burst over Taffendale as the crowd came to a halt and faced him. It suddenly died down into a low continuous growl as he lifted a hand.
"Not a foot do you set on my property, you scoundrels!" he shouted. "You've done enough harm for one night down yonder, and some of you'll find yourselves in gaol before the week's out. Be off before you get your heads broken."
A further roar of abuse followed Taffendale's admonition, and one of the masked men forced himself to the front and shook his fist at the figure on the horseblock.
"None o' yeer advice!" he shouted, with a foul epithet, at which the crowd burst into a shriek of derisive laughter. "We know what's t' law and what isn't t' law. We're on the public highway, and ye can't put us offen it. We'm boun' to burn t' images o' ye and yer fancy woman afore yer faces—what, lads?"
In the midst of another storm of abuse some hand in the crowd threw a rotten egg at Taffendale with well-directed aim. The egg struck him full on the breast of his buttoned-up coat, burst, and bespattered the coat with its stinking contents. The mob yelled delightedly: Taffendale calmly divested himself of the coat and tossed it over the garden hedge behind him.
"Any more violence and you shall have something to yell for," he said. "I shan't warn you. Keep quiet, men!" he shouted, as some of the lime-burners started forward, cudgels in hand. "Keep quiet, I say! Let them have their play out."
The mob retreated a few paces to the broad strip of grass on the opposite side of the road. To the accompaniment of the blaring horns, the insistent thumping of the drum and beating of the pans and kettles, the leaders made their preparations for burning the stuffed effigies, which still swayed and nodded in ridiculous fashion on the ladder. Some of the men carried bundles of straw; others armfuls of sticks and dry wood; a lad came forward with a tin bottle of paraffin. Facing the horseblock, on which Taffendale kept his position, defiant and watchful, they built up a pyre of straw and wood, on the apex they placed the figures, still tied together at the waists. To the accompaniment of an increased volume of objurgation the fire was lighted, and black smoke and bright flame shot upward above the glow of the lime-pits in the background. And Taffendale, looking round, saw in the windows of his house the white faces of the frightened women, and further away the last dull light of the fire at Cherry-trees—burnt out.
The masked leader who had answered Taffendale's challenge with defiance, sprang upon a heap of stones at the side of the burning effigies. As the flames roared and sputtered upwards he began to shout the words of the doggerel nominy, his followers of the mob dancing and leaping about him and the quivering tongues of red fire—
"Rang a dang-dang! Rang a dang-dang It's not for you nor for me that we ride this stang! But for—"
Taffendale felt a hand pull at his knee. He looked down and saw the foreman's face beneath him, full of anxiety.
"Maister!" he said. "Maister! Look wheer them sparks is flyin'!"
Taffendale glanced at the shower of sparks sailing gaily away before the wind. A south-east breeze had been steadily rising and increasing in force all the evening, and now as the flakes of fire rose from the smoking mass on the roadside it was carrying them across the corner of the garden towards the great stackyard which lay at the side of the farmstead. And, as the foreman had remarked in the hollow, there were in that stackyard five-and-forty stacks of wheat and barley and oats, the yield of the recent harvest. Taffendale, a wealthy man, had no need to thrash his corn, as most farmers did—almost as soon as it was got from the land. He could afford to keep it, and keep it for months he always did. No thrashing machine had entered his yard that autumn, nor would enter; there stood the forty-five stacks, stoutly thatched and neatly trimmed, not to be touched before the end of the next spring. And now the sparks were flying that way; as Taffendale and the foreman gazed anxiously into the blackness above them, they saw a scurrying lump of red fall on the roof of the pigeon-cote and continue to glow fiercely and to shoot out tiny sparks of flame over the surrounding tiles.
Taffendale snapped out one fierce exclamation and leaped from the horseblock. He snatched a stick from one of his own farm lads, and waved his arm to his men.
"Out with that fire!" he shouted, above the roar of the flames and the strident voice of the nominy caller. "Quick, men! Out with it! Lay on!"
The lime-burners leaped on the crowd with a fury that sent its members flying as sparrows fly before the sudden onset of a hawk. Up rose the cudgels and down they fell, on heads, arms, shoulders, and on the burning figures and the red mass of straw and wood beneath. But the beating in of the fire only sent a fresh shower of sparks whirling and eddying into the sky, to be seized and carried onward by the wind, and suddenly, high above the yells and