Moonfleet, John Meade Falkner [intellectual books to read txt] 📗

me, dazed with the blow to my head, and breathing hard; while the glow of torches as they came down the passage reddened and flickered on the roof above. IV In the Vault

Let us hob and nob with Death

Tennyson

Though nothing of the vault except the roof was visible from where I lay, and so I could not see these visitors, yet I heard every word spoken, and soon made out one voice as being Master Ratsey’s. This discovery gave me no surprise but much solace, for I thought that if the worst happened and I was discovered, I should find one friend with whom I could plead for life.

“It is well the earth gave way,” the sexton was saying, “on a night when we were here to find it. I was in the graveyard myself after midday, and all was snug and tight then. ’Twould have been awkward enough to have the hole stand open through the day, for any passerby to light on.”

There were four or five men in the vault already, and I could hear more coming down the passage, and guessed from their heavy footsteps that they were carrying burdens. There was a sound, too, of dumping kegs down on the ground, with a swish of liquor inside them, and then the noise of casks being moved.

“I thought we should have a fall there ere long,” Ratsey went on, “what with this drought parching the ground, and the trampling at the edge when we move out the side stone to get in, but there is no mischief done beyond what can be easily made good. A gravestone or two and a few spades of earth will make all sound again. Leave that to me.”

“Be careful what you do,” rejoined another man’s voice that I did not know, “lest someone see you digging, and scent us out.”

“Make your mind easy,” Ratsey said; “I have dug too often in this graveyard for any to wonder if they see me with a spade.”

Then the conversation broke off, and there was little more talking, only a noise of men going backwards and forwards, and of putting down of kegs and the hollow gurgle of good liquor being poured from breakers into the casks. By and by fumes of brandy began to fill the air, and climb to where I lay, overcoming the mouldy smell of decayed wood and the dampness of the green walls. It may have been that these fumes mounted to my head, and gave me courage not my own, but so it was that I lost something of the stifling fear that had gripped me, and could listen with more ease to what was going forward. There was a pause in the carrying to and fro; they were talking again now, and someone said⁠—

“I was in Dorchester three days ago, and heard men say it will go hard with the poor chaps who had the brush with the Elector last summer. Judge Barentyne comes on assize next week, and that old fox Maskew has driven down to Taunton to get at him before and coach him back; making out to him that the law’s arm is weak in these parts against the contraband, and must be strengthened by some wholesome hangings.”

“They are a cruel pair,” another put in, “and we shall have new gibbets on Ridgedown for leading lights. Once I get even with Maskew, the other may go hang, ay, and they may hang me too.”

“The Devil send him to meet me one dark night on the down alone,” said someone else, “and I will give him a pistol’s mouth to look down, and spoil his face for him.”

“No, thou wilt not,” said a deep voice, and then I knew that Elzevir was there too; “none shall lay hand on Maskew but I. So mark that, lad, that when his day of reckoning comes, ’tis I will reckon with him.”

Then for a few minutes I did not pay much heed to what was said, being terribly straitened for room, and cramped with pain from lying so long in one place. The thick smoke from the pitch torches too came curling across the roof and down upon me, making me sick and giddy with its evil smell and taste; and though all was very dim, I could see my hands were black with oily smuts. At last I was able to wriggle myself over without making too much noise, and felt a great relief in changing sides, but gave such a start as made the coffin creak again at hearing my own name.

“There is a boy of Trenchard’s,” said a voice that I thought was Parmiter’s, who lived at the bottom of the village⁠—“there is a boy of Trenchard’s that I mistrust; he is forever wandering in the graveyard, and I have seen him a score of times sitting on this tomb and looking out to sea. This very night, when the wind fell at sundown, and we were hung up with sails flapping, three miles out, and waited for the dark to get the sweeps, I took my glass to scan the coastline, and lo, here on the tomb-top sits Master Trenchard. I could not see his face, but knew him by his cut, and fear the boy sits there to play the spy and then tells Maskew.”

“You’re right,” said Greening of Ringstave, for I knew his slow drawl; “and many a time when I have sat in the wood, and watched the manor to see Maskew safe at home before we ran a cargo, I have seen this boy too go round about the place with a hangdog look, scanning the house as if his life depended on’t.”

’Twas very true what Greening said; for of a summer evening I would take the path that led up Weatherbeech Hill, behind the Manor; both because ’twas a walk that had a good prospect in itself, and also a sweet charm