A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration TimesWesterman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
History
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration Times
Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
Adventure stories; Great Britain -- History -- Restoration, 1660-1688 -- Juvenile fiction
With this ceremonious display the tragedy was brought to a close, and
the two officers, learning that I was on my way to Portsmouth, consented
to let me ride with them.
The troopers formed up again, the prisoners firmly bound to two of their
number, and the cavalcade passed onwards, leaving by the roadside a
motionless object that had once been a man.
As we journeyed along, the officers plied me with questions, taking a
great interest in my account of my meeting with the three footpads. The
older of the two officers was about forty years of age, bronzed with the
sun and wrinkled with exposure to the weather. His blue eyes twinkled
in a kindly manner, while his lips, partly concealed by his closely
trimmed moustache and beard, denoted both firmness and discretion.
His companion, apparently ten years younger, also wore a beard of Van
Dyck cut. His appearance, however, denoted a man who was given to
perform actions on the spur of the moment rather than to be ruled by
deliberate counsel. He was addressed as Middleton by his companion, but
I could not then gather what was the name of the elder man. Both men
wore flowing lovelocks, and affected the rich apparel of the Cavaliers,
which contrasted vividly with the sombre garb of their escort.
When I mentioned that I was on my way to my uncle, Master Anderson, the
younger of the twain gave his companion a wink that did not escape me,
and remarked: "Then, Master Aubrey, we’ll see more of thee anon, if I
mistake not."
The coach now descended a long declivity, at the bottom of which lay a
straggling village, which, I was told, boasted of the name of Horndean.
Here we rested the horses, my two benefactors going into the inn, from
which presently a man came out bringing me a cup of milk and a plate of
coarse brown bread and rich yellow cheese.
In half an hour the journey was resumed, the road leading up a short,
steep incline and then plunging into a dense wood, which once formed a
royal hunting-ground--the Forest of Bere.
At length we entered a deep, dark hollow, where the shade made a
blinding contrast to the glare of the sun.
Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, followed by a sound of scuffling, a
score of round oaths, and the sharp report of firearms.
The coach came to a sudden standstill, throwing me from my seat, while
the others jumped out, unsheathing their swords as they did so.
I too made for the door, and could see the troopers preparing to fire
into a thicket on the left-hand side of the road, while one of their
number lay on the ground, his head bleeding from a severe wound.
After the next volley some of the men plunged into the underwood,
encouraged by the voice of the sergeant shouting: "After him, men, at
all costs; he cannot be far off."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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