The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

      CHAPTER II.

       KIRKE’S DRAGOONS

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      Oglethorpe’s farm stood a mile or so to the south of Bridgewater on the right bank of the river. It was a straggling Tudor building showing grey above the ivy that clothed its lower parts. Approaching it now, through the fragrant orchards amid which it seemed to drowse in Arcadian peace beside the waters of the Parrett, sparkling in the morning sunlight, Mr. Blood might have had a difficulty in believing it part of a world tormented by strife and bloodshed.

      On the bridge, as they had been riding out of Bridgewater, they had met a vanguard of fugitives from the field of battle, weary, broken men, many of them wounded, all of them terror-stricken, staggering in speedless haste with the last remnants of their strength into the shelter which it was their vain illusion the town would afford them. Eyes glazed with lassitude and fear looked up piteously out of haggard faces at Mr. Blood and his companion as they rode forth; hoarse voices cried a warning that merciless pursuit was not far behind. Undeterred, however, young Pitt rode amain along the dusty road by which these poor fugitives from that swift rout on Sedgemoor came flocking in ever-increasing numbers. Presently he swung aside, and quitting the road took to a pathway that crossed the dewy meadowlands. Even here they met odd groups of these human derelicts, who were scattering in all directions, looking fearfully behind them as they came through the long grass, expecting at every moment to see the red coats of the dragoons.

      But as Pitt’s direction was a southward one, bringing them ever nearer to Feversham’s headquarters, they were presently clear of that human flotsam and jetsam of the battle, and riding through the peaceful orchards heavy with the ripening fruit that was soon to make its annual yield of cider.

      At last they alighted on the kidney stones of the courtyard, and Baynes, the master, of the homestead, grave of countenance and flustered of manner, gave them welcome.

      In the spacious, stone-flagged hall, the doctor found Lord Gildoy—a very tall and dark young gentleman, prominent of chin and nose—stretched on a cane day-bed under one of the tall mullioned windows, in the care of Mrs. Baynes and her comely daughter. His cheeks were leaden-hued, his eyes closed, and from his blue lips came with each laboured breath a faint, moaning noise.

      Mr. Blood stood for a moment silently considering his patient. He deplored that a youth with such bright hopes in life as Lord Gildoy’s should have risked all, perhaps existence itself, to forward the ambition of a worthless adventurer. Because he had liked and honoured this brave lad he paid his case the tribute of a sigh. Then he knelt to his task, ripped away doublet and underwear to lay bare his lordship’s mangled side, and called for water and linen and what else he needed for his work.

      He was still intent upon it a half-hour later when the dragoons invaded the homestead. The clatter of hooves and hoarse shouts that heralded their approach disturbed him not at all. For one thing, he was not easily disturbed; for another, his task absorbed him. But his lordship, who had now recovered consciousness, showed considerable alarm, and the battle-stained Jeremy Pitt sped to cover in a clothes-press. Baynes was uneasy, and his wife and daughter trembled. Mr. Blood reassured them.

      “Why, what’s to fear?” he said. “It’s a Christian country, this, and Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who harbour them.” He still had, you see, illusions about Christians. He held a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his lordship’s lips. “Give your mind peace, my lord. The worst is done.”

      And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall—a round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace about the breast of his coat.

      Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.

      The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He announced his authority to the yeoman.

      “I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons. What rebels do you harbour?”

      The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed itself in his trembling voice.

      “I... I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman....”

      “I can see for myself.” The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed, and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.

      “No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned rebel, and that’s enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons. “Out with him, my lads.”

      Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.

      “In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be moved without peril to his life.”

      Captain Hobart was amused.

      “Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him? There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”

      “You’re hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am. We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”

      The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain’s eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.

      “Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.

      “My name is Blood, sir—Peter Blood, at your service.”

      “Aye—aye! Codso! That’s the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”

      If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.

      “I was.”

      “Then I remember you—five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”

      “That is so. I knew your colonel.”

      “Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.” The Captain laughed unpleasantly. “What brings you here, sir?”

      “This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a medicus.”

      “A doctor—you?” Scorn of that lie—as he conceived it—rang in the heavy, hectoring voice.

      “Medicinae baccalaureus,” said Mr. Blood.

      “Don’t fling your French at me, man,” snapped Hobart. “Speak English!”

      Mr. Blood’s smile annoyed him.

      “I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.”

      The Captain sneered. “Which you reached by way of Lyme Regis in the following of your bastard Duke.”

      It was Mr. Blood’s turn to sneer. “If your wit were as big as your voice, my dear, it’s the great man you’d be by this.”

      For a moment the dragoon was speechless. The colour deepened in his face.

      “You may find me great enough to hang you.”