Books: Under the Storm
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> Under the Storm
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Perhaps, however, Stead might borrow and get these made for him. As
to the wheel, that must, like the churn, wait till the siege was
over.
"But will not those dreadful men burn the town down and not leave one
stone on another, if Jeph and the rest of them don't keep them out?"
asked Patience.
"No," said Stead. "That is not the way in these days--at least not
always. So poor father said last time we went into Bristol, when he
had been talking to the butter-merchant's man. He said the townsfolk
would know the reason why, if the soldiers were for holding out long
enough to get them into trouble."
"Then perhaps there will not be much fighting and they will not hurt
Jeph," said Patience, to whom Jeph was the whole war.
"There's no firing to-day. Maybe they are making it up," said
Steadfast.
"I never heeded," said Patience, "we have been so busy! But Stead,
how shall we get the things? We have no money. Shall we sell a
sheep or a pig?"
Stead looked very knowing, and she exclaimed "Have you any, Stead?
***I thought Jeph took it all away."
Then Stead told her how his father had entrusted him with the bulk of
the savings, in case of need, and had made it over to the use of the
younger ones.
"It was well you did not know, Patty," he added. "You told no lie,
and Jeph might have taken it all."
"O! he would not have been so cruel," cried Patience. "He would not
want Rusha and Ben to have nothing."
Stead did not feel sure, and when Patience asked him where the hoard
was, he shook his head, looked wise, and would not tell her. And
then he warned her, with all his might and main against giving a hint
to anyone that they had any such fund in reserve. She was a little
vexed and hurt at first, but presently she promised.
"Indeed Stead, I won't say one word about it, and you don't think I
would ever touch it without telling you."
"No, Patty, you wouldn't, but don't you see, if you know nothing, you
can't tell if people ask you."
In truth, Stead was less anxious about the money than about the other
treasure, and when presently Patience proposed that the cave where
they used to play should serve for the poultry, so as to save them
from the foxes and polecats, he looked very grave and said "No, no,
Patty, don't you ever tell anyone of that hole, nor let Rusha see
it."
"Oh! I know then !" cried Patience, with a little laugh, "I know
what's there then."
"There's more than that, sister," and therewith Stead told in her ear
of the precious deposit.
She looked very grave, and said "Why then it is just like church! O
no, Stead, I'll never tell till good Mr. Holworth comes back. Could
not we say our prayers there on Sundays?"
Stead liked the thought but shook his head.
"We must not wear a path up to the place," he said, "nor show the
little ones the way."
"I shall say mine as near as I can," said Patience. "And I shall ask
God to help us keep it safe."
Then the children became absorbed in seeking for a place where their
fowls could find safe shelter from the enemies that lurked in the
wood, and ended by an attempt of Stead's to put up some perches
across the beam above the cow-shed.
Things were forward enough for Rusha and Ben to be fetched down to
their new home that night; when Patience went to fetch them, she
heard that the cessation of firing had really been because the troops
within the town were going to surrender to the King's soldiers
outside.
"Then there will be no more fighting," she anxiously asked of Master
Blane.
"No man can tell," he answered.
"And will Jeph come back?"
But that he could tell as little, and indeed someone else spoke to
him, and he paid the child no more attention.
Rusha had had a merry day among the children of her own age in the
village; she fretted at coming away, and was frightened at turning
into so lonely a path through the hazel stems, trotting after
Patience because she was afraid to turn back alone, but making a low,
peevish moan all the time.
***Stead stirring the porridge.
Patience hoped she would be comforted when they came out on their
little glade, and she saw Stead stirring the milk porridge over the
fire he had lighted by the house. For he had found the flint and
steel belonging to the matchlock of his father's old gun, and there
was plenty of dry leaves and half-burnt wood to serve as tinder. The
fire for cooking would be outside, whenever warmth and weather
served, to prevent indoor smoke. And to Patience's eyes it really
looked pleasant and comfortable, with Toby sitting wisely by his
young master's side, and the cat comfortably perched at the door, and
Whitefoot tied to a tree, and the cows in their new abode. But
Jerusha was tired and cross, she said it was an ugly place, and she
was afraid of the foxes and the polecats, she wanted to go home, she
wanted to go back to Goody Grace.
Stead grew angry, and threatened that she should have no supper, and
that made her cry the louder, and shake her frock at him; but
Patience, who knew better how to deal with her, let her finish her
cry, and come creeping back, promising to be good, and glad to eat
the supper, which was wholesome enough, though very smoky: however,
the children were used to smoke, and did not mind it.
They said their prayers together while the sun was touching the tops
of the trees, crept into their hut, curled themselves up upon their
straw and went to sleep, while Toby lay watchful at the door, and the
cat prowled about in quest of a rabbit or some other evening wanderer
for her supper.
The next day Patience spent in trying to get things into somewhat
better order, and Steadfast in trying to gather together his live
stock, which he had been forced to leave to take care of themselves.
Horse, donkey, and cows were all safe round their hut; but he could
find only three of the young pigs and the old sow at the farmyard,
and it plainly was not safe to leave them there, though how to pen
them up in their new quarters he did not know.
The sheep were out on the moor, and only one of them seemed to be
missing. The goat and the geese had likewise taken care of
themselves and seemed glad to see him. He drove them down to their
new home, and fed them there with some of the injured meal. "But
what can we do with the pigs? There's no place they can't get out of
but this," said Stead, looking doubtfully.
"Do you think I would have pigs in here? No, I am not come to that!"
It ended in Stead's going to consult Master Blane, who advised that
the younger pigs should be either sold, or killed and salted, and
nothing left but the sow, who was a cunning old animal, and could
pretty well take care of herself, besides that she was so tough and
lean that one must be very hungry indeed to be greatly tempted by her
bristles,
But how sell the pigs or buy the salt in such days as these? There
was, indeed, no firing.
There was a belief that treaties were going on, but leisure only left
the besiegers more free to go wandering about in search of plunder;
and Stead found all trouble saved him as to disposing of his pigs.
They were quite gone next time he looked for them, and the poor old
sow had been lamed by a shot; but did not seem seriously hurt, and
when with some difficulty she had been persuaded to be driven into
the glen, she seemed likely to be willing to stay there in the corner
of the cattle shed.
The children were glad enough to be in their glen, with all its
bareness and discomfort, when they heard that a troop of horse had
visited Elmwood, and made a requisition there for hay and straw.
They had used no violence, but the farmers were compelled to take it
into the camp in their own waggons, getting nothing in payment but
orders on the treasury, which might as well be waste paper. And,
indeed, they were told by the soldiers that they might be thankful to
get off with their carts and horses.
CHAPTER VIII.
STEAD IN POSSESSION.
"At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed."
GOLDSMITH.
Another day made it certain that the garrison of Bristol had
surrendered to the besiegers. A few shots were heard, but they were
only fired in rejoicing by the Royalists, and while Steadfast was
studying his barley field, already silvered over by its long beards,
and wondering how soon it would be ripe, and how he should get it cut
and stacked, his name was shouted out, and he saw Tom Oates and all
the rest of the boys scampering down the lane.
"Come along, Stead Kenton, come on and see, the Parliament soldiers
come out and go by."
Poor Steadfast had not much heart for watching soldiers, but it
struck him that he might see or hear something of Jephthah, so he
came with the other boys to the bank, where from behind a hedge they
could look down at the ranks of soldiers as they marched along, five
abreast, the road was not wide enough to hold more. They had been
allowed to keep their weapons, so the officers had their swords, and
the men carried their musquets. Most of them looked dull and
dispirited, and the officers had very gloomy, displeased faces. In
fact, they were very angry with their commander, Colonel Fiennes, for
having surrendered so easily, and he was afterwards brought to a
court-martial for having done so.
Stead did not understand this, he thought only of looking under each
steel cap or tall, slouching hat for Jephthah. Several times a
youthful, slender figure raised his hopes, and disappointed him, and
he began to wonder whether Jeph could have after all stayed behind in
the town, or if he could have been hurt and was ill there.
By-and-by came a standard, bearing a Bible lying on a sword, and
behind it rode a grave looking officer, with long hair, and a red
scarf, whom the lads recognised as the same who had preached at
Elmwood. His men were in better order than some of the others, and
as Steadfast eagerly watched them, he was sure that he knew the turn
of Jeph's head, in spite of his being in an entirely new suit of
clothes, and with a musquet over his shoulder.
Stead shook the ash stem he was leaning against, the men looked up,
he saw the well-known face, and called out "Jeph! Jeph!" But some of
the others laughed, Jeph frowned and shook his head, and marched on.
Stead was disappointed, but at any rate he could carry back the
assurance to Patience that Jeph was alive and well, though he seemed
to have lost all care for his brothers and sisters. Yet, perhaps, as
a soldier he could not help it, and it might not be safe to straggle
from the ranks.
There was no more fighting for the present in the neighbourhood. The
princes and their army departed, only leaving a garrison to keep the
city, and it was soon known in the village that the town was in its
usual state, and that it was safe to go in to market as in former
times. Stead accordingly carried in a basket of eggs, which was all
he could yet sell. He was ferried across the river, and made his way
in. It was strange to find the streets looking exactly as usual, and
the citizens' wives coming out with their baskets just as if nothing
had happened.
There was the good-natured face of Mistress Lightfoot, who kept a
baker's shop at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, and was their regular
customer.
"Ha, little Kenton, be'st thou there? I'm right glad to see thee.
They said the mad fellows had burnt the farm and made an end of all
of you, but I find 'em civil enow, and I'm happy to see 'twas all
leasing-making."
"It is true, mistress," said Stead, "that they burnt our house and
shot poor father."
"Eh, you don't say so, my poor lad?" and she hurried her kind
questions, tears coming into her eyes, as she thought of the orphans
deserted by their brother. She was very anxious to have Patience
butter-making again and promised to come with Stead to give her
assistance in choosing both a churn and a spinning wheel if he would
come in the next day, for he had not ventured on bringing any money
with him. She bought all his eggs for her lodger, good Doctor Eales,
who could hardly taste anything and had been obliged to live cooped
up in an inner chamber for fear of the Parliament soldiers, who were
misbehaved to Church ministers though civil enough to women; while
these new comers were just the other way, hat in hand to a clergyman,
but apt to be saucy to the lasses. But she hoped the Doctor would
cheer up again, now that the Cathedral was set in order, so far as
might be, and prayers were said there as in old times. In fact the
bells were ringing for morning prayer, and Stead was so glad to hear
them that he thought he might venture in and join in the brief daily
service. There were many others who had done so, for these anxious
days had quickened the devotion of many hearts, and people had felt
what it was to be robbed of their churches and forbidden the use of
their prayer-books. Moreover, some had sons or brothers or husbands
fighting on the one side or the other, and were glad to pray for
them, so that Stead found himself in the midst of quite a
congregation, though the choir had been too much dispersed and broken
up for the musical service, and indeed the organ had been torn to
pieces by the Puritan soldiers, who fancied it was Popish.
But Stead found himself caring for the Psalms and Prayers in a manner
he had never done before, and which came of the sorrow he had felt
and the troubles that pressed upon him. He fancied all would come
right now, and that soon Mr. Holworth would be back, and he should be
able to give up his charge; and he went home, quite cheered up.
When he came into the gulley he heard voices through the bushes, and
pressing forward anxiously he saw Blane and Oates before the hovel
door, Patience standing there crying, with the baby in her arms, and
Rusha holding her apron, and an elderly man whom Stead knew as old
Lady Elmwood's steward talking to the other men, who seemed to be
persuading him to something.
As soon as Stead appeared, the other children ran up to him, and
Rusha hid herself behind him, while Patience said "O Stead, Stead, he
has come to turn us all out! Don't let him!"
"Nay, nay, little wench, not so fast," said the steward, not
unkindly. "I am but come to look after my Lady's interests, seeing
that we heard your poor father was dead, God have mercy on his soul
(touching his hat reverently), and his son gone off to the wars, and
nothing but a pack of children left."
"But 'tis all poor father's," muttered Stead, almost dumbfounded.
"It is held under the manor of Elmwood," explained the steward, "on
the tenure of the delivery of the prime beast on the land on the
demise of lord or tenant, and three days' service in hay and harvest
time."
What this meant Steadfast and Patience knew as little as did Rusha or
Ben, but Goodman Blane explained.
"The land here is all held under my Lady and Sir George, Stead--mine
just the same--no rent paid, but if there's a death--landlord or
tenant--one has to give the best beast as a fee, besides the work in
harvest."
"And the question is," proceeded the steward, "who and what is there
to look to. The eldest son is but a lad, if he were here, and this
one is a mere child, and the house is burnt down, and here they be,
crouching in a hovel, and how is it to be with the land. I'm bound
to look after the land. I'm bound to look after my Lady's interest
and Sir George's."
"Be they ready to build up the place if you had another tenant?"
asked Blane, signing to Stead to hold his peace.
"Well--hum--ha! It might not come handy just now, seeing that Sir
George is off with the King, and all the money and plate with him and
most of the able-bodied servants, but I'm the more bound to look
after his interests."
That seemed to be Master Brown's one sentence. But Blane took him
up, "Look you here, Master Brown, I, that have been friend and gossip
this many years with poor John Kenton--rest his soul--can tell you
that your lady is like to be better served with this here Steadfast,
boy though he be, than if you had the other stripling with his head
full of drums and marches, guns and preachments, and what not, and
who never had a good day's work in him without his father's eye over
him. This little fellow has done half his share and his own to boot
long ago. Now they are content to dwell down here, out of the way of
the soldiering, and don't ask her ladyship to be at any cost for
repairing the farm up there, but will do the best they can for
themselves. So, I say, Master Brown, it will be a real good work of
charity, without hurt to my Lady and Sir George to let them be, poor
things, to fight it out as they can."
"Well, well, there's somewhat in what you say Goodman Blane, but I'm
bound to look after my Lady's interests and Sir George's."
"I would come and work like a good one at my Lady's hay and harvest,"
said Stead, "and I shall get stronger and bigger every year."
"But the beast," said the steward, "my Lady's interests must come
first, you see."
"O don't let him take Croppie," cried Patience. "O sir, not the
cows, or baby will die, and we can't make the butter."
"You see, Master Brown," explained Blane, "it is butter as is their
chief stand-by. Poor Dame Kenton, as was took last spring, was the
best dairywoman in the parish, and this little maid takes after her.
Their kine are their main prop, but there's the mare, there's not
much good that she can do them."
"Let us look!" said the steward. "A sorry jade enow! But I don't
know but she will serve our turn better than the cow. There was a
requisition, as they have the impudence to call it, from the
Parliament lot that took off all our horses, except old grey Dobbin
and the colt, and this beast may come in handy to draw the wood. So
I'll take her, and you may think yourself well off, and thank my Lady
I'm so easy with you. 'Be not hard on the orphans,' she said.
'Heaven forbid, my Lady,' says I, 'but I must look after your
interests.'"
The children hung round old Whitefoot, making much of her for the
last time, and Patience and Rusha both cried sadly when she was led
away; and it was hard to believe Master Blane, who told them it was
best for Whitefoot as well as for themselves, since they would find
it a hard matter to get food even for the more necessary animals in
the winter, and the poor beast would soon be skin and bone; while for
themselves the donkey could carry all they wanted to market; and it
might be more important than they understood to be thus regularly
accepted as tenants by the manor, so that no one could turn them out.
And Stead, remembering the cavern, knew that he ought to be thankful,
while the two men went away, Brown observing, "One can scarce turn
'em out, poor things, but such a mere lubber as that boy is can do no
good! If the elder one had thought fit to stay and mind his own
business now!"
"A good riddance, I say," returned Blane. "Stead's a good-hearted
lad, though clownish, and I'll do what I can for him."
CHAPTER IX.
WINTRY TIMES.
"Thrice welcome may such seasons be,
But welcome too the common way,
The lowly duties of the day."
There was of course much to do. Steadfast visited his hoard and took
from thence enough to purchase churn, spinning wheel, and the few
tools that he most needed; but it was not soon that Patience could
sit down to spin. That must be for the winter, and their only chance
of light was in making candles.
Rusha could gather the green rushes, though she could not peel them
without breaking them; and Patience had to take them out of her hands
and herself strip the white pith so that only one ribbon of green was
left to support it.
The sheep, excepting a few old ewes, were always sold or killed
before the winter, and by Blane's advice, Stead kept only three. The
butcher Oates took some of the others, and helped Stead to dispose of
four more in the market. Two were killed at different intervals for
home use, but only a very small part was eaten fresh, as a wonderful
Sunday treat, the rest was either disposed of among the neighbours,
who took it in exchange for food of other kinds; or else was salted
and dried for the winter's fare, laid up in bran in two great crocks
which Stead had been forced to purchase, and which with planks from
the half-burnt house laid over them served by turns as tables or
seats. The fat was melted up in Patience's great kettle, and the
rushes dipped in it over and over again till they had such a coating
of grease as would enable them to be burnt in the old horn lantern
which had fortunately been in the stable and escaped the fire.
Kind neighbours helped Stead to cut and stack his hay, and his little
field of barley. All the grass he could cut on the banks he also
saved for the animals' winter food, and a few turnips, but these were
rare and uncommon articles only used by the most advanced farmers,
and his father had only lately begun to grow them, nor had potatoes
become known except in the gardens of the curious.
The vexation was that all the manor was called to give their three
days' labour to Lady Elmwood's crops just as all their own were cut,
and as, of course, Master Brown had chosen the finest weather, every
one went in fear and trembling for their own, and Oates and others
grumbled so bitterly at having to work without wage, that Blane asked
if they called their own houses and land nothing.
There was fresh grumbling too that the food sent out to the labourers
in the field was not as it used to be, good beef and mutton, but only
bread and very hard cheese, and bowls of hasty pudding, with thin,
sour small beer to wash it down. Oates growled and vowed he would
never come again to be so scurvily used; and perhaps no one guessed
that my lady was far more impoverished than her tenants, and had a
hard matter to supply even such fare as this.
Happily the weather lasted good long enough to save the Kentons'
little crop, though there was a sad remembrance of the old times,
when the church bell gave the signal at sunrise for all the
harvesters to come to church for the brief service, and then to start
fair in their gleaning. The bell did still ring, but there were no
prayers. The vicar had never come back, and it was reported that he
had been sent to the plantations in America. There was no service on
Sunday nearer than Bristol. It was the churchwardens' business to
find a minister, and of these, poor Kenton was dead, and the other,
Master Cliffe, was not likely to do anything that might put the
parish to expense.
Goodman Blane, and some of the other more seriously minded folk used
to walk into Bristol to church when the weather was tolerably fine.
If it were wet, the little stream used to flood the lower valley so
that it was not possible to get across. Steadfast was generally one
of the party. Patience could not go, as it was too far for Rusha to
walk, or for the baby to be carried.
Once, seeing how much she wished to go again to church, Stead
undertook to mind the children, the cattle, and the dinner in her
place; but what work he found it! When he tried to slice the onions
for the broth, little Ben toddled off, and had to be caught lest he
should tumble into the river. Then Rusha got hold of the knife, cut
her hand, and rolled it up in her Sunday frock, and Steadfast,
thinking he had got a small bit of rag, tied it up in Patience's
round cap, but that he did not know till afterwards, only that baby
had got out again, and after some search was found asleep cuddled up
close to the old sow. And so it went on, till poor Steadfast felt as
if he had never spent so long a day. As to reading his Bible and
Prayer-book, it was quite impossible, and he never had so much
respect for Patience before as when he found what she did every day
without seeming to think anything of it.
She did not get home till after dark, but the Blanes had taken her to
rest at the friends with whom they spent the time between services,
and they had given her a good meal.
"Somehow," said Patience, "everybody seems kinder than they used to
be before the fighting began--and the parsons said the prayers as if
they had more heart in them."
Patience was quite right. These times of danger were making everyone
draw nearer together, and look up more heartily to Him in Whom was
there true help.
But winter was coming on and bringing bad times for the poor children
in their narrow valley, so close to the water. It was not a very
cold season, but it was almost worse, for it was very wet. The
little brook swelled, turned muddy yellow, and came rushing and
tumbling along, far outside its banks, so that Patience wondered
whether there could be any danger of its coming up to their hut and
perhaps drowning them.
"I think there is no fear," said Steadfast. "You see this house has
been here from old times and never got washed away."
"It wouldn't wash away very easily," said Patience, "I wish we were
in one of the holes up there."
"If it looks like danger we might get up," said Steadfast, and to
please her he cleared a path to a freshly discovered cave a little
lower down the stream, but so high up on the rocky sides of the
ravine as to be safe from the water.
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