Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

CHAPTER XVI
THE COUNCIL AT THE TOWN PUMP

Next morning the sun had made but little progress in the heavens and the dew was not yet off the grass when the party, an imposing cavalcade, issued from the manor on the return journey. Their home-coming was uneventful. The barn-burners had disappeared like rabbits in their holes; the manor whose master had fled, deserted even by the faithful Oly-koeks, was seen for the last time from the brow of the hill, and then, with its gables and extensive wings, vanished from sight.

“Well,” remarked Barnes as they sped down the road, “it was a happy coincidence for me that led the anti-renters to the patroon’s house last night.”

And he proceeded to explain how when he had sought the magistrate, he found that official organizing a posse comitatus for the purpose of quelling an anticipated uprising of lease-holders. In answer to the manager’s complaint the custodian of the law had asserted his first duty was generally to preserve the peace; afterward, he would attend to Barnes’ particular grievance. Obliged to content himself as best he might with this meager assurance, the manager, at his wit’s end, had accompanied the party whose way had led them in the direction the carriage had taken, and whose final destination–an unhoped-for consummation!–had proved the ultimate goal of his own desires.

On reaching, that afternoon, the town where they were playing, Susan was the first of the company to greet Constance.

“Now that it’s all over,” she laughed, “I rather envy you that you were rescued by such a handsome cavalier.”

“Really,” drawled Kate, “I should have preferred not being rescued. The owner of a coach, a coat of arms, silver harness, and the best horses in the country! I could drive on forever.”

But later, alone with Susan, she looked hard at her:

“So you fainted yesterday?”

“Oh, I’m a perfect coward,” returned the other, frankly.

Kate’s mind rapidly swept the rough and troubled past; the haphazard sea upon which they had embarked so long ago–

“Dear me!” she remarked quietly, and Susan turned to conceal a blush.

Owing to the magistrate’s zeal in relating the story of the rescue, the players’ success that night was great.

“The hall was filled to overflowing,” says the manager in his date book. “At the end of the second act, the little girl was called out, and much to her inward discomfiture the magistrate presented her with a bouquet and the audience with a written speech. Taking advantage of the occasion, he pointed a political moral from the tale, and referred to his own candidacy to the legislature, where he would look after the interests of the rank and file. It was time the land-owners were taught their places–not by violence–Oh, no–no French methods for Americans!–by ballot, not by bullet! Let the people vote for an amendment to the constitution!

“As we were preparing to leave the theater, the magistrate appeared behind the scenes. ‘Of course, Mr. Barnes, you will appear against the patroon?’ he said. ‘His prosecution will do much to fortify the issue.’

“‘That is all very fine,’ I returned, satirically. ‘But will the Lord provide while we are trying the case? Shall we find miraculous sustenance? We live by moving on, sir. One or two nights in a place; sometimes, a little longer! No, no; ’tis necessary to forget, if not to forgive. You’ll have to fortify your issue without us.’

“‘Well, well,’ he said, good-naturedly, ‘if it’s against your interests, I have no wish to press the matter.’ Whereupon we shook hands heartily and parted. I looked around for Constance, but she had left the hall with Saint-Prosper. Have I been wise in asking him to join the chariot? I sometimes half regret we are beholden to him–”

From the Shadengo Valley Barnes’ company proceeded by easy stages to Ohio, where the roads were more difficult than any the chariot had yet encountered. On every hand, as they crossed the country, sounded the refrains of that memorable song-campaign which gave to the state the fixed sobriquet of “Buckeye.” Drawing near the capital, where the convention was to be held, a log cabin, on an enormous wagon, passed the chariot. A dozen horses fancifully adorned were harnessed to this novel vehicle; flowers over-ran the cabin-home, hewn from the buckeye logs of the forest near Marysville. In every window appeared the faces of merry lads and lasses, and, as they journeyed on, their chorus echoed over field and through forest. The wood-cutter leaned on his ax to listen; the plowman waved his coonskin cap, his wife, a red handkerchief from the doorway of their log cabin.

 
“Oh, tell me where the Buckeye cabin was made?
’Twas built among the boys who wield the plow and spade,
Where the log-cabin stands in the bonnie Buckeye shade.”
 

From lip to lip the song had been carried, until the entire country was singing it, and the log-cabin had become a part of the armorial bearings of good citizenship, especially applicable to the crests of presidents. Well might the people ask:

 
“Oh, what has caused this great commotion
All the country through?”
 

which the ready chorus answered:

 
“It is a ball a-rolling on
For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!”
 

The least of the strollers’ troubles at this crucial period of their wanderings were the bad roads or the effects of song and log-cabin upon the “amusement world,” the greatest being a temperance orator who thundered forth denunciations of rum and the theater with the bitterness of a Juvenal inveighing profligate Rome. The people crowded the orator’s hall, upon the walls of which hung the customary banners: a serpent springing from the top of a barrel; the steamboat, Alcohol, bursting her boiler and going to pieces, and the staunch craft, Temperance, safe and sound, sailing away before a fair wind. With perfect self-command, gift of mimicry and dramatic gestures, the lecturer swayed his audience; now bubbling over with witty anecdotes, again exercising his power of graphic portraiture. His elixir vitae– animal spirits–humanized his effort, and, as Sir Robert Peel played upon the House of Commons “as on an old fiddle,” so John B. Gough (for it was the versatile comic singer, actor and speaker) sounded the chords of that homely gathering.

Whatever he was, “poet, orator and dramatist, an English Gavazzi,” or, “mountebank,” “humbug,” or “backslider,” Mr. Gough was, even at that early period, an antagonist not to be despised. He had been out of pocket and out at the elbows–indeed, his wardrobe now was mean and scanty; want and privation had been his companions, and, from his grievous experiences, he had become a sensational story-teller of low life and penury. Certainly Barnes had reason to lament the coincidence which brought players and lecturer into town at the same time, especially as the latter was heralded under the auspices of the Band of Hope.

The temperance lectures and a heavy rain combined to the undoing of the strollers. Majestically the dark clouds rolled up, outspread like a pall, and the land lay beneath the ban of a persistent downpour. People remained indoors, for the most part, and the only signs of life Barnes saw from the windows of the hotel were the landlord’s Holderness breed of cattle, mournfully chewing their monotonous cuds, and some Leicester sheep, wofully wandering in the pasture, or huddled together like balls of stained cotton beneath the indifferent protection of a tree amid field.

Exceptional inducements could not tempt the villagers to the theater. Even an epilogue gained for them none of Mr. Gough’s adherents. “The Temperance Doctor” failed miserably; “Drunkard’s Warning” admonished pitiably few; while as for “Drunkard’s Doom,” no one cared what it might be and left him to it.

After such a disastrous engagement the manager not only found himself at the end of his resources, but hopelessly indebted, and, with much reluctance, laid the matter before the soldier who had already advanced Barnes a certain sum after their conversation on the night of the country dance and had also come to his assistance on an occasion when box-office receipts and expenses had failed to meet. Moreover, he had been a free, even careless, giver, not looking after his business concerns with the prudent anxiety of a merchant whose ventures are ships at the rude mercy of a troubled sea. To this third application, however, he did not answer immediately.

“Is it as bad as that?” he said at length, thoughtfully.

“Yes; it’s hard to speak about it to you,” replied the manager, with some embarrassment, “but at New Orleans–”

The soldier encountered his troubled gaze. “See if you can sell my horse,” he answered.

“You mean–” began the other surprised.

“Yes.”

“Hanged if I will!” exclaimed the manager. Then he put out his hand impulsively. “I beg your pardon. If I had known–but if we’re ever out of this mess, I may give a better account of my stewardship.”

Nevertheless, his plight now was comparable to that of the strollers of old, hunted by beadles from towns and villages, and classed as gypsies, vagabonds and professed itinerants by the constables. He was no better served than the mummers, clowns, jugglers, and petty chapmen who, wandering abroad, were deemed rogues and sturdy beggars. Yet no king’s censor could have found aught “unchaste, seditious or unmete” in Barnes’ plays; no cause for frays or quarrels, arising from pieces given in the old inn-yards; no immoral matter, “whatsoever any light and fantastical head listeth to invent or devise;” no riotous actors of rollicking interludes, to be named in common with fencers, bearwards and vagrants.

“Better give it up, Mr. Barnes,” said a remarkably sweet and sympathetic voice, as the manager was standing in the hotel office, turning the situation over and over in his mind.

Barnes, looking around quickly to see who had read his inmost thoughts, met the firm glance of his antagonist.

“Mr. Gough, it is an honor to meet one of your talents,” replied the manager, “but”–with an attempt to hide his concern–“I shall not be sorry, if we do not meet again.”

“An inhospitable wish!” answered the speaker, fixing his luminous eyes upon the manager. “However, we shall probably see each other frequently.”

“The Fates forbid, sir!” said Barnes, earnestly. “If you’ll tell me your route, we’ll–go the other way!”

“It won’t do, Mr. Barnes! The devil and the flesh must be fairly fought. ‘Where thou goest’–You know the scriptural saying?”

“You’ll follow us!” exclaimed the manager with sudden consternation.

The other nodded.

“Why, this is tyranny! You are a Frankenstein; an Old-Man-of-the Sea!”

“Give it up,” said the orator, with a smile that singularly illumined his thin, but powerful features. “As I gave it up! Into what dregs of vice, what a sink of iniquity was I plunged! The very cleansing of my soul was an Augean task. Knavery, profligacy, laxity of morals, looseness of principles–that was what the stage did for me; that was the labor of Hercules to be cleared away! Give it up, Mr. Barnes!” And with a last penetrating look, he strode out of the office.

In spite of Barnes’ refusal, the soldier offered to sell his horse to the landlord, but the latter curtly declined, having horses enough to “eat their heads off” during the winter, as he expressed it. His Jeremy Collier aversion to players was probably at the bottom of this point-blank rebuff, however. He was a stubborn man, czar in his own domains, a small principality bounded by four inhospitable walls. His guests–having no other place to go–were his subjects, or prisoners, and distress could not find a more unfitting tribunal before which to lay its case. There was something so malevolent in his vigilance, so unfriendly in his scrutiny, that to the players he seemed an emissary of disaster, inseparable from their cruel plight.

Thus it was that the strollers perforce reached a desperate conclusion when making their way from the theater on the last evening. By remaining longer, they would become the more hopelessly involved; in going–without their host’s permission–they would be taking the shortest route toward an honorable settlement in the near future; a paradoxical flight from the brunt of their troubles, to meet them squarely! This, to Barnes, ample reason for unceremonious departure was heartily approved by the company in council assembled around the town pump.

“Stay and become a county burden, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Adams, tragically.

“As well be buried alive as anchored here!” fretfully added Susan.

“The council is dissolved,” said the manager, promptly, “with no one the wiser–except the town pump.”

“An ally of Mr. Gough!” suggested Adonis.

Thus more merrily than could have been expected, with such a distasteful enterprise before them, they resumed their way. It was disagreeable under foot and they presented an odd appearance, each one with a light. Mrs. Adams, old campaigner that she was, led the way for the ladies, elastic and chatty as though promenading down Broadway on a spring morning. With their lanterns and the purpose they had in view, they likened themselves to a band of conspirators. As Barnes marched ahead with his light, Susan playfully called him Guy Fawkes, of gun-powder fame, whereupon his mind almost misgave him concerning the grave adventure upon which they were embarked.

The wind was blowing furiously, doors and windows creaked, and all the demons of unrest were moaning that night in the hubbub of sounds. Save for a flickering candle in the hall, the tavern was dark, and landlord and maids had long since retired to rest. Amid the noise of the rain and the sobbing of the wind, trunks were lowered from the window; the chariot and property wagon were drawn from the stable yard and the horses led from their stalls. In a trice they were ready and the ladies, wrapped in their cloaks, were in the coach. But the clatter of hoofs, the neighing of a horse, or some other untoward circumstance, aroused the landlord; a window in the second story shot up and out popped a head in a night-cap.

“Here!–What are you about?” cried the man.

“Leaving!” said the manager, laconically.

The landlord threw up his arms like Shylock at the loss of his money-bags.

“The reckoning!” he exclaimed. “What about the reckoning?”

“Your pound of flesh, sir!” replied Barnes.

“My score! My score!” shouted the other. “You would not leave without settling it!”

“Go to bed, sir,” was the answer, “and let honest people depart without hindrance. You will be paid out of our first profits.”

But the man was not so easily appeased. “Robbers! Constable!” he screamed.

Conceiving it was better to be gone without further parley, having assured him of their honorable intentions, Barnes was about to lash the horses, when Kate suddenly exclaimed:

“Where’s Constance?”

“Isn’t she inside?” asked the manager quickly.

“No; she isn’t here.”

“Oh, I sent her back to get something for me I had forgotten,” spoke up Mrs. Adams, “and she hasn’t returned yet.”

“Sent her back! Madam, you have ruined everything!” burst out Barnes, bitterly.

“Mr. Barnes, I won’t be spoken to like a child!”

“Child, indeed–”

But the querulous words were not uttered, for, as the manager was about to leave the box in considerable perturbation, there–gazing down upon them at a window next to that occupied by the landlord–stood Constance!

For a tippet, or a ruff, or some equally wretched frippery, carelessly left by the old lady, all their plans for deliverance appeared likely to miscarry. Presumably, Constance, turned from her original purpose by the noisy altercation, had hurried to the window, where now the landlord perceived her and immediately availed himself of the advantage offered.

“So one of you is left behind,” he shouted exultantly. “And it’s the leading lady, too! I’ll take care she stays here, until after a settlement. I’ll stop you yet! Stealing away in the middle of the night, you–you vagabonds!”

His voice, growing louder and louder, ended in a shrieking crescendo. Disheartened, there seemed no alternative for the players save to turn back and surrender unconditionally. Barnes breathed a deep sigh; so much for a tippet!–their dash for freedom had been but a sorry attempt!–now he saw visions of prison bars, and uttered a groan, when the soldier who was riding his own horse dashed forward beneath the window and stood upright in his stirrups.

“Do not be afraid, Miss Carew,” he said.

Fortunately the window was low and the distance inconsiderable, but Barnes held his breath, hoping the hazard would deter her.

“Do not, my dear!” he began.

But she did not hesitate; the sight of the stalwart figure and the strong arms, apparently reassured her, and she stepped upon the sill.

“Quick!” he exclaimed, and, at the word, she dropped into his upstretched arms. Scarcely had she escaped, however, before the landlord was seen at the same window. So astonished was he to find her gone, surprise at first held him speechless; then he burst into a volley of oaths that would have shamed a whaler’s master.

“Come back!” he cried. “Come back, or–” The alternative was lost in vengeful imprecation.

Holding Constance before him, the soldier resumed his saddle. “Drive on!” he cried to Barnes, as past the chariot sped his horse, with its double burden.

CHAPTER XVII
THE HAND FERRY

At a lively gait down the road toward the river galloped the horse bearing Saint-Prosper and Constance. The thoroughfare was deserted and the dwelling houses as well as the principal buildings of the town were absolutely dark. At one place a dog ran out to the front gate, disturbed by the unusual noise on the road, and barked furiously, but they moved rapidly on. Now the steeple of the old church loomed weirdly against the dark background of the sky and then vanished.

On; on, they went, past the churchyard, with its marble slabs indistinctly outlined in the darkness, like a phantom graveyard, as immaterial and ghostlike itself as the spirits of the earliest settlers at rest there beneath the sod. This was the last indication of the presence of the town, the final impression to carry away into the wide country, where the road ran through field and forest. As they sped along, they plunged into a chasm of blackness, caused by the trees on both sides of the road which appeared to be constantly closing upon them. In the darkness of that stygian tunnel, dashing blindly through threatening obscurity, she yet felt no terrors, for a band of steel seemed to hold her above some pit of “visible night.”

Out of the tunnel into the comparatively open space, the wind boomed with all its force, and like an enraged monster, drove the storm-clouds, now rainless, across the sky. Occasionally the moon appeared through some aperture, serene, peace-inspiring, momentarily gilding the dark vapor, and again was swallowed up by another mass of clouds. A brood of shadows leaped around them, like things of life, now dancing in the road or pursuing through the tufts of grass, then vanishing over the meadows or disappearing in murky nooks. But a moment were they gone and then, marshaled in new numbers, menacing before and behind, under the very feet of the horse, bidding defiance to the clattering hoofs. With mane tossed in the angry wind, and nostrils dilated, the animal neighed with affright, suddenly leaping aside, as a little nest of unknown dangers lurked and rustled in the ambush of a drift of animated brush.

At that abrupt start, the rider swayed; his grasp tightened about the actress’ waist; her arms involuntarily held him closer. Loosened by the wind and the mad motion, her hair brushed his cheek and fell over his shoulder, whipped sharply in the breeze. A fiercer gust, sweeping upon them uproariously, sent all the tresses free, and scudded by with an exultant shriek. For a time they rode in this wise, her face cold in the rush of wind; his gaze fixed ahead, striving to pierce the gloom, and then he drew rein, holding the horse with some difficulty at a standstill in the center of the thoroughfare.

With senses numbed by the stirring flight, the young girl had been oblivious to the firmness of the soldier’s sustaining grasp, but now as they paused in the silent, deserted spot, she became suddenly conscious of it. The pain–so fast he held her!–made her wince. She turned her face to his. A glint of light fell on his brow and any lines that had appeared there were erased in the magical glimmer; eagerness, youth, passion alone shone upon his features.

His arm clasped her even yet more closely, as if in the wildness of the moment he would fiercely draw her to him regardless of all. Did she understand–that with her face so near his, her hair surrounding him, her figure pressed in that close embrace–he must needs speak to her; had, indeed, spoken to her. She was conscious her hand on his shoulder trembled. Her cheek was no longer cold; abruptly the warm glow mantled it. Was it but that a momentary calm fell around them; the temporary hush of the boisterous wind? And yet, when again the squall swept by with renewed turmoil, her face remained unchilled. She seemed but a child in his arms. How light her own hand-touch compared to that compelling grasp with which he held her! She remembered he had but spoken to her standing in the window, and she had obeyed without a question–without thought of fear. She longed to spring to the ground now, to draw herself from him.

“You can hear the chariot down the road, Miss Carew.”

Quickly her glance returned to his face; his gaze was bent down the thoroughfare. He spoke so quietly she wondered at her momentary fears; his voice reassured her.

A gleam of light shot through a rift in the clouds.

“Hello-a!” came a welcome voice from the distance.

“Hello-a!” answered the soldier.

“You’d better ride on!” shouted the manager. “They’re after us!”

For answer the soldier touched his horse, and now began a race for the river and the ferry, which were in plain sight, Luna fortunately at this critical moment sailing from between the vapors and shining from a clear lake in the sky. The chaste light, out of the angry convulsions of the heavens, showed the fugitives the road and the river, winding like a broad band of silver across the darkness of the earth, its surface rippled into waves by the northern wind. Behind them the soldier and Constance could hear the coach creaking and groaning. It seemed to careen on its beams’ end, but some special providence was watching over the players and no catastrophe occurred.

Nearer came the men on horseback down the hill; now the foremost shouted. Closer was the river; Saint-Prosper reached its bank; the gang-plank was in position and he dashed aboard. With a mighty tossing and rolling, the chariot approached, rattled safely across the gangway, followed by the property wagon, and eager hands grasped the rope, extending from shore to shore above the large, flat craft. These hand ferries, found in various sections of the country, were strongly, although crudely, constructed, their sole means of locomotion in the stationary rope, by means of which the passengers, providing their own power for transportation, drew themselves to the opposite shore.

The energy now applied to the hempen strand sent the ferry many feet from the shore out into the river, where the current was much swifter than usual, owing to the heavy rainfalls. The horses on the great cumbersome craft were snorting with terror.

Crack! pish! One of the men on the shore used his revolver.

“An illogical and foolish way to collect debts, that!” grumbled the manager, tugging at the rope. “If they kill us, how can we requite them for our obligations?”

The river was unusually high and the current set the boat, heavily loaded, tugging at the rope. However, it resisted the strain and soon the craft grated on the sand and the party disembarked, safe from constable and bailiff in the brave, blue grass country. Only one mishap occurred, and that to Adonis, who, in his haste, fell into the shallow water. He was as disconsolate as the young hero Minerva threw into the sea to wrest him from the love of Eucharis. But in this case, Eucharis (Kate) laughed immoderately at his discomfiture.

As Barnes was not sure of the road, the strollers camped upon the bank. The river murmured a seductive cradle-song to the rushes, and, on the shore, from the dark and ominous background, came the deeper voice of the pines.

Constance, who had been unusually quiet and thoughtful, gradually recovered her spirits.

“Here, Mrs. Adams, is your tippet,” she said with a merry smile, taking a bit of lace from her dress.

“Thank you, my dear; I wouldn’t have lost it for anything!” said the old lady, effusively, while Barnes muttered something beneath his breath.

The soldier, who had dismissed the manager’s thanks somewhat abruptly, occupied himself arranging the cushions from the chariot on the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Adams noticed a crimson stain on his shoulder.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, in the voice of the heroine of “Oriana,” “you are wounded!”

“It is nothing, Madam!” he replied.

Stripping off his coat, Barnes found the wound was, indeed, but slight, the flesh having just been pierced.

“How romantic!” gushed Susan. “He stood in front of Constance when the firing began. Now, no one thought of poor me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Hawkes discreetly stood behind me.”

“Jokes reflecting upon one’s honor are in bad taste,” gravely retorted the melancholy actor.

“Indeed, I thought it no jest at the time!” replied the other.

“Mistress Susan, your tongue is dangerous!”

“Mr. Hawkes, your courage will never lead you into danger!”

“Nay,” he began, angrily, “this is a serious offense–”

“On the contrary,” she said, laughing, “it is a question of defense.”

“There is no arguing with a woman,” he grumbled. “She always takes refuge in her tongue.”

“While you, Mr. Hawkes, take refuge–”

But the other arose indignantly and strode into the gloom. Meanwhile Barnes, while dressing the injury, discovered near the cut an old scar thoroughly healed, but so large and jagged it attracted his attention.

“That hurt was another matter,” said he, touching it.

Was it the manager’s fingers or his words caused Saint-Prosper to wince? “Yes, it was another matter,” he replied, hurriedly. “An Arab spear–or something of the kind!”

“Tell us about it,” prattled Susan. “You have never told us anything about Africa. It seems a forbidden subject.”

“Perhaps he has a wife in Tangiers, or Cairo,” laughed Kate.

 
“He was wed in Amsterdam,
Again in far Siam,
 
 
 And after this
 
 
 Sought triple bliss
And married in Hindustan,”
 

sang Susan.

The soldier made some evasive response to this raillery and then became silent. Soon quiet prevailed in the encampment; only out of the recesses of the forest came the menacing howl of a vagabond wolf.

“Such,” says Barnes in his notebook, “is the true history of an adventure which created some talk at the time. A perilous, regrettable business at best, but we acted according to our light and were enabled thereafter to requite our obligations, which could not have been done had they seized the properties, poor garments of players’ pomp; tools whereby we earned our meager livelihood. If, after this explanation, anyone still has aught of criticism, I must needs be silent, not controverting his censure.

“With some amusement I learned that our notable belligerent, Mr. Gough, was well-nigh reduced to the same predicament as that in which we found ourselves. He could not complain of his audiences, and the Band of Hope gained many recruits by his coming, but, through some misapprehension, the customary collections were overlooked. The last night of the lecture, the chairman of the evening, at the conclusion of the address, arose and said: ‘I move we thank Mr. Gough for his eloquent effort and then adjourn.’

“The motion prevailed, and the gathering was about to disperse when the platform bludgeon-man held them with a gesture. ‘Will you kindly put your thanks in writing, that I may offer it for my hotel bill,’ said he.

“But for this quick wit and the gathering’s response to the appeal he would have been in the same boat with us, or rather, on the same boat–the old hand ferry! Subsequently, he became a speaker of foreign and national repute, but at that time he might have traveled from Scarboro’ to Land’s End without attracting a passing glance.”