The MS. in a Red BoxHamilton, John A. (John Arthur)
History
The MS. in a Red Box
Hamilton, John A. (John Arthur)
Axholme, Isle of (England) -- History -- Fiction
"If so," he added, "the fellow will keep the knowledge to himself,
until he gives up hope of taking you single-handed. He will endeavour
so to do, rather than share the reward with others. Remember the offer
is equal for taking you 'dead or alive!' So prithee be on thy guard,
my friend."
Some of the earl's officers had visited Belshaw, but could not learn
anything from the women, and John's cousin knew nothing.
John had called at the Crowle vicarage to assure my aunt I was in no
present danger. There he heard news of Dick Portington, who had been
to London and the Bath with Ryther and his daughter for some time; and
it was commonly reported that Dick and Mistress Ryther were to be
married at Christmas. So it was not probable that Dick and I should be
on the old terms of close friendship any more.
We had some talk of the defeat of King Christian at Lutter, of which
John had heard in Hull, and of the purpose of King Charles to enroll a
body of volunteers to go to the assistance of his uncle and the cause
of Protestantism.
"If we could but smuggle you out of the Isle," said John, "here might
be an opening for you."
But of smuggling me away there seemed to be no chance just now. After
we had agreed on a plan of communication, John returned, and I resigned
myself with such composure as I could muster to a sojourn at Lindholme
for an uncertain time, which I must pass as best I could.
There was certainly plenty of such diversion as fowling affords, for at
that time the birds were more abundant all over the Isle than in these
days, and round about Lindholme more numerous than anywhere else, but
difficult to come by on account of the rottenness of the bog and the
height and thickness of the reeds. I have seen the surface of the
ground for a couple of roods blackened with brent geese, when it was
impossible to get within shot of them, and though flocks of hoopers
(which some call whistling swans) came to feed every evening of my stay
at Lindholme, returning to the seashore every morning, the only manner
of getting a shot was to find some spot beneath their line of flight,
where the ground would bear a man's weight, and there was cover in
which to hide, and such spots were bad to find. We often heard the
dunbirds (redheads, our marshmen call them) working all night within
half a mile of us, and might have had good sport, if we could have got
near to them in the morning twilight, when they head up together ready
to fly to their day quarters; but that could only be done when rain had
fallen so heavily that there was water sufficient to float a punt. So,
though game was plentiful, there was occasion for judgment and skill in
taking it, which gave zest to our diversion, and the hermit and I spent
most of the day in the open air, sometimes venturing on to the bog
where he had not dared to go alone. Of an evening we sat over the fire
awhile, he smoking his pipe and often drinking rather freely of
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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