Martin Hyde, The Duke\'s Messenger

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MARTIN HYDE
THE DUKE'S MESSENGER
by John Masefield

CONTENTS
I. I LEAVE HOME
II. I LEAVE HOME AGAIN
III. I LEAVE HOME A THIRD TIME
IV. I LEAVE HOME FOR THE LAST TIME
V. I GO TO SEA
VI. THE SEA! THE SEA!
VII. LAND RATS AND WATER RATS
VIII. I MEET MY FRIEND
IX. I SEE MORE OF MY FRIEND
X. SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT
XI. AURELIA
XII. BRAVE CAPTAIN BARLOW
XIII. IT BREEZES UP
XIV. A DRINK OF SHERBET
XV. THE ROAD TO LYME
XVI. THE LANDING
XVII. A VOICE AT DAWN
XVIII.I SPEAK WITH AURELIA
XIX. I MEET THE CLUB MEN
XX. THE SQUIRE'S HOUSE
XXI. MY FRIEND AURELIA AND HER UNCLE
XXII. THE PRIEST'S HOLE
XXIII.FREE
XXIV THE END

MARTIN HYDE

THE DUKE'S MESSENGER

by

John Masefield

CHAPTER I. I LEAVE HOME

I was born at Oulton, in Suffolk, in the year 1672. I know not
the day of my birth, but it was in March, a day or two after the
Dutch war began. I know this, because my father, who was the
clergyman at Oulton, once told me that in the night of my birth a
horseman called upon him, at the rectory, to ask the way to
Lowestoft. He was riding from London with letters for the
Admiral, he said; but had missed his way somewhere beyond
Beccles. He was mud from head to foot (it had been a wet March)
but he would not stay to dry himself. He reined in at the door,
just as I was born, as though he were some ghost, bringing my
life in his saddle bags. Then he shook up his horse, through the
mud, towards Lowestoft, so that the splashing of the horse's
hoofs must have been the first sound heard by me. The Admiral was
gone when he reached Lowestoft, poor man, so all his trouble was
wasted. War wastes more energy, I suppose, than any other form of
folly. I know that on the East Coast, during all the years of my
childhood, this Dutch war wasted the energies of thousands. The
villages had to drill men, each village according to its size, to
make an army in case the Dutch should land. Long after the war
was over, they drilled thus. I remember them on the field outside
the church, drilling after Sunday service, firing at a stump of a
tree. Once some wag rang the alarm-bell at night, to fetch them
out of their beds. Then there were the smugglers; they, too, were
caused by the war. After the fighting there was a bitter feeling
against the Dutch. Dutch goods were taxed heavily (spice, I
remember, was made very dear thus) to pay for the war. The
smugglers began then to land their goods secretly, all along the
coast, so that they might avoid the payment of the duty. The
farmers were their friends; for they liked to have their gin
cheap. Indeed, they used to say that in an agueish place like the
fens, gin was a necessity, if one would avoid fever. Often, at
night, in the winter, when I was walking home from Lowestoft
school, I would see the farmers riding to the rendezvous in the
dark, with their horses' hoofs all wrapped up in sacks, to make
no noise.

I lived for twelve years at Oulton. I learned how to handle a
boat there, how to swim, how to skate, how to find the eggs of
the many wild fowl in the reeds. In those days the Broad country
was a very wild land, half of it swamp. My father gave me a
coracle on my tenth birthday. In this little boat I used to
explore the country for many miles, pushing up creeks among the
reeds, then watching, in the pools (far out of the world it
seemed) for ruffs or wild duck. I was a hardy boy, much older
than my years, like so many only children. I used to go away,
sometimes, for two or three days together, with my friend John
Halmer, Captain Halmer's son, taking some bread, with a blanket
or two, as my ship's stores. We used to paddle far up the Waveney
to an island hidden in reeds. We were the only persons who knew
of that island. We were like little kings there. We built a rough
sort of tent-hut there every summer. Then we would pass the time
there deliciously, now bathing, now fishing, but always living on
what we caught. John, who was a wild lad, much older than I, used
to go among the gipsies in their great winter camp at Oulton. He
learned many strange tricks from them. He was a good
camp-companion. I think that the last two years of my life at
Oulton were the happiest years of my life. I have never cared for
dry or hilly countries since. Wherever I have been in the world,
I have always longed for the Broads, where the rivers wander
among reeds for miles, losing themselves in thickets of reeds. I
have always thought tenderly of the flat land, where windmills or
churches are the only landmarks, standing up above the mist, in
the loneliness of the fens. But when I was nearly thirteen years
old (just after the death of Charles the Second) my father died,
leaving me an orphan. My uncle, Gabriel Hyde, a man about town,
was my only relative. The vicar of Lowestoft wrote to him, on my
behalf. A fortnight later (the ways were always very foul in the
winter) my uncle's man came to fetch me to London. There was a
sale of my father's furniture. His books were sent off to his
college at Cambridge by the Lowestoft carrier. Then the valet
took me by wherry to Norwich, where we caught a weekly coach to
town. That was the last time I ever sailed on the Waveney as a
boy, that journey to Norwich. When I next saw the Broads, I was a
man of thirty-five. I remember how strangely small the country
seemed to me when I saw it after my wanderings. But this is away
from my tale. All that I remember of the coach-ride was my
arrival late at night at the London inn, a dark house full of
smells, from which the valet led me to my uncle's house.

I lay awake, that first night, much puzzled by the noise, fearing
that London would be all streets, a dismal place. When I fell
asleep, I was waked continually by chiming bells. In the morning,
early, I was roused by the musical calling made by milkmen on
their rounds, with that morning's milk for sale. At breakfast my
uncle told me not to go into the street without Ephraim, his man;
for without a guide, he said, I should get lost. He warned me
that there were people in London who made a living by seizing
children ("kidnapping" or "trepanning" them, as it was called) to
sell to merchant-captains bound for the plantations. "So be very
careful, Martin," he said. "Do not talk to strangers." He went
for his morning walk after this, telling me that I might run out
to play in the garden.

I went out of doors feeling that London must be a very terrible
place, if the folk there went about counting all who met them as
possible enemies. I was homesick for the Broads, where everybody,
even bad men, like the worst of the smugglers, was friendly to
me. I hated all this noisy city, so full of dirty jumbled houses.
I longed to be in my coracle on the Waveney, paddling along among
the reeds, chucking pebbles at the water-rats. But when I went
out into the garden I found that even London held something for
me, not so good as the Broads, perhaps, but pleasant in its way.

Now before I go further, I must tell you that my uncle's house
was one of the old houses in Billingsgate. It stood in a narrow,
crowded lane, at the western end of Thames Street, close to the
river. Few of the houses thereabouts were old; for the fire of
London had nearly destroyed that part of the city, but my uncle's
house, with a few more in the same lane, being built of brick,
had escaped. The bricks of some of the houses were scorched
black. I remember, also, at the corner house, three doors from my
uncle's house, the melted end of a water pipe, hanging from the
roof like a long leaden icicle, just as it had run from the heat
eighteen years before. I used to long for that icicle: it would
have made such fine bullets for my sling. I have said that Fish
Lane, where my uncle lived, was narrow. It was very narrow. The
upper stories of the houses opposite could be touched from my
bed-room window with an eight-foot fishing rod. If one leaned
well out, one could see right into their upper rooms. You could
even hear the people talking in them.

At the back of the house there was a garden of potherbs. It
sloped down to the river-bank, where there were stairs to the
water. The stairs were covered in, so as to form a boat-house, in
which (as I learned afterwards) my uncle's skiffs were kept. You
may be sure that I lost no time in getting down to the water,
after I had breakfasted with my uncle, on the morning after my
arrival.

A low stone parapet, topped by iron rails, shut off the garden
from the beach. Just beyond the parapet, within slingshot, as I
soon proved, was the famous Pool of London, full of ships of all
sorts, some with flags flying. The mild spring sun (it was early
in April) made the sight glorious. There must have been a hundred
ships there, all marshalled in ranks, at double-moorings, head to
flood. Boats full of merchandise were pulling to the wharves by
the Custom House. Men were working aloft on the yards, bending or
unbending sails. In some ships the sails hung loose, drying in
the sun. In others, the men were singing out as they walked round
the capstan, hoisting goods from the hold. One of the ships close
to me was a beautiful little Spanish schooner, with her name La
Reina in big gold letters on her transom. She was evidently one
of those very fast fruit boats, from the Canary Islands, of which
I had heard the seamen at Oulton speak. She was discharging
oranges into a lighter, when I first saw her. The sweet, heavy
smell of the bruised peels scented the river for many yards.

I was looking at this schooner, wishing that I could pass an hour
in her hold, among those delicious boxes, when a bearded man came
on deck from her cabin. He looked at the shore, straight at
myself as I thought, raising his hand swiftly as though to beckon
me to him. A boat pushed out instantly, in answer to the hand,
from the garden next to the one in which I stood. The waterman,
pulling to the schooner, talked with the man for a moment,
evidently settling the amount of his fare. After the haggling, my
gentleman climbed into the boat by a little rope-ladder at the
stern. Then the boatman pulled away upstream, going on the last
of the flood, within twenty yards of where I stood.

I had watched them idly, attracted, in the beginning, by that
sudden raising of the hand. But as they passed me, there came a
sudden puff of wind, strong enough to flurry the water into
wrinkles. It lifted the gentleman's hat, so that he saved it only
by a violent snatch which made the boat rock. As he jammed the
hat down he broke or displaced some string or clip near his ears.
At any rate his beard came adrift on the side nearest to me. The
man was wearing a false beard. He remedied the matter at once,
very cleverly, so that I may have been the only witness; but I
saw that the boatman was in the man's secret, whatever it was. He
pulled hard on his starboard oar, bringing the boat partly across
the current, thus screening him from everybody except the workers
in the ships. It must have seemed to all who saw him that he was
merely pulling to another arch of London Bridge.

I was not sure of the man's face. It seemed handsome; that was
all that I could say of it. But I was fascinated by the mystery.
I wondered why he was wearing a false beard. I wondered what he
was doing in the schooner. I imagined all sorts of romantic plots
in which he was taking part. I watched his boat go through the
Bridge with the feeling that I was sharing in all sorts of
adventures already. There was a fall of water at the Bridge which
made the river dangerous there even on a flood tide. I could see
that the waves there would be quite enough for such a boat
without the most tender handling. I watched to see how they would
pass through. Both men stood up, facing forwards, each taking an
oar. They worked her through, out of sight, in a very clever
fashion; which set me wondering again what this handsome
gentleman might be, who worked a boat so well.

I hung about at the end of the garden until dinner time, hoping
that they would return. I watched every boat which came
downstream, finding a great pleasure in the watermen's skill, for
indeed the water at the Bridge was frightful; only a strong nerve
could venture on it. But the boat did not come back, though one
or two other boats brought people, or goods, to the stairs of the
garden beside me. I could not see into the garden; that party
wall was too high.

I did not go indoors again till Ephraim came to fetch me, saying
that it was time I washed my hands for dinner. I went to my room;
but instead of washing my hands, I leaned out of the window to
watch a dancing bear which was sidling about in the lane, just
below, while his keeper made a noise on the panpipes. A little
crowd of idlers was gathered round the bear. Some of them were
laughing at the bear, some at his keeper. I saw two boys sneaking
about among the company; they were evil-looking little ruffians,
with that hard look in the eyes which always marks the thoroughly
wicked. As I watched, one of them slipped his hand into a man's
pocket, then withdrew it, passing something swiftly to his
companion, who walked unconcernedly away. I ran out of doors at
once, to the man who had been robbed.

"Sir," I said, when he had drawn away from the little crowd.
"Have you not been robbed of something?"

He turned to look down on me, searching his pockets with both
hands. It gave me a start to see him, for he was the bearded man
who had passed me in the boat that morning. You may be sure that
I took a good note of him. He was a handsome, melancholy-looking
man, with a beard designed to make him look fairer than he really
was.

"Robbed of something?" he repeated in a quiet voice. "Yes, I have
been robbed of something." It seemed to me that he turned pale,
when he found that he had been robbed. "Did you see it?" he
asked. "Don't point. Just describe him to me. No. Don't look
round, boy. Tell me without looking round."

"Sir," I said, "do you see two little boys moving about among the
people there?"

"Yes," he said.

"It's the boy with the bit of broken pipe in his hat who has the,
whatever it was, sir, I'm sure. I saw it all."

"I see," he said. "That's the coveter. Let this be a warning to
you, boy, never to stop in a crowd to watch these
street-performers. Where were you, when you saw it?"

"Up above there, sir. In that house."

"In Mr.Hyde's house. Do you live there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Since when? Not for long, surely?"

"No, sir. Only since yesterday. I'm Mr. Hyde's nephew."

"Ah! Indeed. And that is your room up there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you come from then? You've not been in town before.
What is your father?"

"My father's dead, sir. I come from Oulton. My father was rector
there."

"Ah," he said quietly. "Now give this penny to the bear-ward."

While I was giving the penny to the keeper, the strange man edged
among the lookers-on, apparently watching the bear's antics, till
he was just behind the pickpocket's accomplice. Watching his
time, he seized the boy from behind by both wrists.

"This boy's a pickpocket," he cried aloud. "Stop that other boy.
He's an accomplice." The other boy, who had just taken a purse,
started to run, letting the booty drop. A boatman who was going
towards the river, tripped him up with an oar so that he fell
heavily. He lay still where he had fallen (all the wind was
knocked out of him) so that he was easily secured. The boy who
had been seized by the bearded man made no attempt to get away.
He was too firmly held. Both boys were then marched off to the
nearest constable where (after a strict search), they were locked
into a cellar till the morrow. The crowd deserted the bear-ward
when the cry of pickpockets was raised. They followed my
mysterious friend to the constable's house, hoping, no doubt,
that they would be able to crowd in to hear the constable bully
the boys as he searched them. One or two, who pretended to have
missed things, managed to get in. The bearded man told me to come
in, as he said that I should be needed as a witness. The others
were driven out into the street, where, I suppose, their
monkey-minds soon found other game, a horse fallen down, or a
drunken woman in the gutter, to divert their idleness. Such
sights seem to attract a London crowd at once.

The boys were strictly searched by the constable. The booty from
their pockets was turned out upon the table.

"Now, sir," said the constable to the bearded man, after he had
made a note of my story. "What is it they 'ad of you, sir?"

"A shagreen leather pocket-book," said the man. "There it is."

"This one?" said the constable.

"Yes."

"Oh," said the constable, opening the clasps, so that he could
examine the writing on the leaves. "What's inside?"

"A lot of figures," said the man. "Sums. Problems in arithmetic."

"Right," said the constable, handing over the book.

"Here you are, sir. What name, sir?"

"Edward Jermyn."

"Edward German," the constable repeated.

"Where d' you live, sir?"

"At Mr. Scott's in Fish Lane."

"Right, sir," said the constable, writing down the address, "You
must appear tomorrow at ten before Mr. Garry, the magistrate.
You, too, young master, to give your evidence."

At this the boys burst out crying, begging us not to appear,
using all those deceptive arts which the London thieves practise
from childhood. I, who was new to the world's deceits, was
touched to the marrow by their seeming misery. The constable
roughly silenced them. "I know you, he said. "I had my eye on you
two ever since Christmas. Now you'll go abroad to do a bit of
honest work, instead of nickin' pockets. Stow your blubbering
now, or I'll give you Mogador Jack." He produced "Mogador Jack,"
a supple shark's backbone, from behind the door. The tears
stopped on the instant.

After this, the bearded man showed me the way back to Fish Lane,
where Ephraim, who was at the door, looking out for me) gave me a
shrewd scolding, for venturing out without a guide.

Mr. Jermyn silenced him by giving him a shilling. The next day,
Mr. Jermyn took me to the magistrate's house, where the two
thieves were formally committed for trial. Mr. Jermyn told me
that they would probably be transported for seven years, on
conviction at the Assizes; but that, as they were young, the
honest work abroad, in the plantations, might be the saving of
them. "So do not be so sad, Mr. Martin," he said. "You do not
know how good a thing you did when you looked out of the window
yesterday. Do you know, by the way, how much my book is worth?"

"No, sir," I said.

"Well. It's worth more than the King's crown," he said.

"But I thought it was only sums, sir."

"Yes," he said, with a strange smile. "But some sums have to do
with a great deal of money. Now I want you to think tonight of
something to the value of twenty pounds or so. I want to give you
something as a reward for your smartness. Don't decide at once.
Think it over. Here we are at our homes, you see. We live just
opposite to each other."

We were standing at this moment in the narrow lane at my uncle's
door. As he spoke, he raised his hand in a farewell salute with
that dignity of gesture which was in all his movements. On the
instant, to my surprise, the door of the house opposite opened
slowly, till it was about half open. No one opened it, as I could
see; it swung back of itself. After my friend had stepped across
the threshold it swung to with a click in the same mysterious
way. It was as though it had a knowledge of Mr. Jermyn's mind, as
though the raised hand had had a magical power over it. When I
went indoors to my uncle's house I was excited. I felt that I was
in the presence of something romantic, something mysterious. I
liked Mr. Jermyn. He had been very kind. But I kept wondering why
he wore a false beard, why his door opened so mysteriously, why
he valued a book of sums above the worth of a King's crown. As
for his offer of a present, I did not like it, though he had not
given me time to say as much. I remembered how indignant the
Oulton wherrymen had been when a gentleman offered them money for
saving his daughter's life. I had seen the man robbed, what else
could I have done? I could have done no less than tell him. I
resolved that I would refuse the gift when next I saw him.

At dinner that day, I was full of Mr. Jermyn, much to my uncle's
annoyance.

"Who is this Mr. Jermyn, Martin?" he asked. "I don't know him. Is
he a gentleman?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Do you know him, Ephraim?"

"No, sir. I know him by sight, sir. Gentleman who lives over the
way, Mr. Hyde."

"That's Mr. Scott's, though."

"No, sir. Mr. Jermyn's been there ever since February."

"But the house is empty."

"The lower floor is furnished, sir."

"Do you know anything of him? Do you know his man?"

"They say he's in the fruit way, sir. In the Spanish trade. His
men are Spaniards. They do say he's not quite to be trusted."

"Who says this?" my uncle asked.

"I don't like to mention names, sir," Ephraim said.

"Quite right. Quite right. But what do they say?"

"Very queer things goes on in that 'ouse," said Ephraim. "I don't
'ardly like to say. But they think 'e raises the devil, sir.
Awful noises goes on there. I seen some things myself there, as I
don't like to talk of. Well. I saw a black bird as big as a man
stand flapping in the window. Then I seen eyes glaring out at the
door. They give the 'ouse a bad name, sir; everyone."

"H'm," said my uncle. "What's he like, Martin, this Mr. Jermyn?"

"A tall man, with a beard," I answered. I thought it wrong to
mention that I knew the beard to be false. "He's always stroking
the bridge of his nose with his hand."

"Ha," my uncle said, as though recognizing the trait. "But with a
beard, you tell me?"

"Yes, sir. With a beard."

"H'm," he answered, musing, "I must have a look at this Mr.
Jermyn. Remember, Martin, you're to have nothing more to do with
him, till I know a little more of what he is. You understand?"

"Yes, uncle."

"One cannot be too careful in this town. I won't allow you in the
streets, Martin. No matter who has his pockets picked. I told you
that before."

"Please, uncle, may I go on the river, then, if I'm not to go
into the street? I'm used to boats."

"Yes. You may do that. But you're not to go on board the ships,
mind."

"Beg pardon, sir," Ephraim put in. "The fall at the Bridge is
very risky, sir."

"It is?" said my uncle, testily. "Then of course you can't go in
a boat, Martin. You must play in the garden, or read."

CHAPTER II. I LEAVE HOME AGAIN

I thought Ephraim a pig for putting in that word about the fall.
Though I had only known Ephraim for a few days I disliked him
perhaps as much as he disliked me. He was angry (I could feel it)
at having a boy in the house, after many years of quiet alone
with my uncle. I know that when he had occasion to speak to me,
he always went away muttering about my being a charity brat who
ought to be in the poor-house. Still, like most servants, he
vented most of his malice indirectly, as in this hint of his
about the river. I rose up from the dinner-table full of
rebellion. I would go on the river, I said to myself, fall or no
fall. I would see more of Mr. Jermyn, too. I would find out what
went on in that house. I would find out everything. In all this,
of course, I was very wrong, but having made sure that I was
being treated unjustly I felt that I was only doing right in
rebelling. So after waiting till Ephraim was in the pantry,
washing up the dinner-things with the housemaid, I slipped down
the garden to the boat-house. The door was padlocked, as I had
feared; but with an old hammer-head I managed to pry off the
staple. I felt like a burglar when the lock came off in my hand.
I felt that I was acting deceitfully. Then the thought of Ephraim
came over me, making me rebellious to my finger-tips. I would go
on the river, I said to myself, I would go aboard all the ships
in the Pool. I would show them all that I could handle a boat
anywhere. So in a moment my good angel was beaten. I was in the
boat-house, prying at the staple of the outer door, like the
young rogue that I was. Well, I paid a heavy price for that day
of disobedience. It was the most dearly bought day's row I ever
heard of.

It took me a few moments to open the outer door. Then, with a
thrill of pleasure, such as only those who love the water can
fed, I thrust out into the river, on to the last of the ebb, then
fast ebbing. The fall under the bridge at that state of the tide
was truly terrifying. It roared so loudly that I could hear
nothing else. It boiled about the bridge piers so fiercely that I
was scared to see it. I had seen the sea in storm; but then one
does not put to sea in a storm. This waterfall tumbled daily,
even in a calm. I shuddered to think of small boats, caught in
the current above it, being drawn down, slowly at first, then
with a whirl, till all was whelmed in the tumble below the
arches. I saw how hatefully the back wash seemed to saunter back
to the fall along the banks. I thought that if I was not careful
I might be caught in the back wash, drawn slowly along it by the
undertow, till the cataract sank me. As I watched the fall,
fascinated, yet scared by it, there came a shooting rush, with
shouts of triumph. A four-oared wherry with two passengers shot
through the arch over the worst of the water into the quiet of
the midstream. They waved to me, evidently very pleased with
their exploit. That set me wondering whether the water were
really as bad as it looked. My first feat was to back up
cautiously almost to the fall, till my boat was dancing so
vigorously that I was spattered all over. Standing up in the boat
there, I could see the oily water, like a great arched snake's
back, swirl past the arch towards me, bubbleless, almost without
a ripple, till it showed all its teeth at once in breaking down.
The piers of the arches jutted far out below the fall, like
pointed islands. I was about to try to climb on the top of one
from the boat, a piece of madness which would probably have ended
in my death, but some boys in one of the houses on the bridge
began to pelt me with pebbles, so that I had to sheer off. I
pulled down among the shipping, examining every vessel in the
Pool. Then I pulled down the stream, with the ebb, as far as
Wapping, where I was much shocked by the sight of the pirates'
gallows, with seven dead men hung in chains together there, for
taking the ship Delight, so a waterman told me, on the Guinea
Coast, the year before. I left my boat at Wapping Stairs, while I
went into a pastry-cook's shop to buy cake; for I was now hungry.
The pastry-cook was also a vintner. His tables were pretty well
crowded with men, mostly seafaring men, who were drinking wine
together, talking of politics. I knew nothing whatever about
politics, but hearing the Duke of Monmouth named I pricked up my
ears to listen. My father had told me, in his last illness, when
the news of the death of Charles the Second reached us, that
trouble would come to England through this Duke, because, he
said, "he will never agree with King James." Many people (the
Duke himself being one of them) believed that this James Scott,
Duke of Monmouth, was the son of a very beautiful woman by
Charles the Second, who (so the tale went) had married her in his
wanderings abroad, while Cromwell ruled in England here. I myself
shall ever believe this story. I am quite sure, now, in my own
mind, that Monmouth was our rightful King. I have heard accounts
of this marriage of Charles the Second from people who were with
him in his wanderings. When Charles the Second died (being
poisoned, some said, by his brother James, who wished to seize
the throne while Monmouth was abroad, unable to claim his rights)
James succeeded to the crown. At the time of which I write he had
been King for about two months. I did not know anything about his
merits as a King; but hearing the name of Monmouth I felt sure,
from the first, that I should hear more of what my father had
told me.

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