บทที่ บทที่ 17 · Foo-foo the First.

. Foo-foo the First.

Miles Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,

keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and

expecting to overtake them presently.  He was disappointed in this,

however.  By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the

way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as

to how to proceed.  Still, he continued his efforts as best he

could during the rest of the day.  Nightfall found him leg-weary,

half-famished, and his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so

he supped at the Tabard Inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early

start in the morning, and give the town an exhaustive search.  As he lay

thinking and planning, he presently began to reason thus:  The boy would

escape from the ruffian, his reputed father, if possible; would he go

back to London and seek his former haunts?  No, he would not do that,

he would avoid recapture. What, then, would he do?  Never having had a

friend in the world, or a protector, until he met Miles Hendon, he would

naturally try to find that friend again, provided the effort did not

require him to go toward London and danger.  He would strike for Hendon

Hall, that is what he would do, for he knew Hendon was homeward bound

and there he might expect to find him.  Yes, the case was plain to

Hendon--he must lose no more time in Southwark, but move at once through

Kent, toward Monk’s Holm, searching the wood and inquiring as he went.

Let us return to the vanished little King now.

The ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw ‘about to join’

the youth and the King did not exactly join them, but fell in close

behind them and followed their steps.  He said nothing. His left arm was

in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left eye; he limped

slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support.  The youth led the King

a crooked course through Southwark, and by-and-by struck into the

high road beyond.  The King was irritated, now, and said he would stop

here--it was Hendon’s place to come to him, not his to go to Hendon.  He

would not endure such insolence; he would stop where he was.  The youth

said--

“Thou’lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood yonder?

So be it, then.”

The King’s manner changed at once.  He cried out--

“Wounded?  And who hath dared to do it?  But that is apart; lead on,

lead on!  Faster, sirrah!  Art shod with lead?  Wounded, is he?  Now

though the doer of it be a duke’s son he shall rue it!”

It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily traversed.

The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking in the ground,

with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way into the forest,

watching for similar boughs and finding them at intervals; they were

evidently guides to the point he was aiming at.  By-and-by an open place

was reached, where were the charred remains of a farm-house, and near

them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay.  There was no sign of

life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed.  The youth entered the barn,

the King following eagerly upon his heels.  No one there! The King shot

a surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and asked--

“Where is he?”

A mocking laugh was his answer.  The King was in a rage in a moment; he

seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon the youth

when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear.  It was from the lame

ruffian who had been following at a distance. The King turned and said

angrily--

“Who art thou?  What is thy business here?”

“Leave thy foolery,” said the man, “and quiet thyself.  My disguise is

none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through

it.”

“Thou art not my father.  I know thee not.  I am the King.  If thou hast

hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for what thou

hast done.”

John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice--

“It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee;  but if thou

provoke me, I must.  Thy prating doth no harm here, where there are

no ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to practise thy

tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our quarters change.

I have done a murder, and may not tarry at home--neither shalt thou,

seeing I need thy service.  My name is changed, for wise reasons; it is

Hobbs--John Hobbs; thine is Jack--charge thy memory accordingly.  Now,

then, speak.  Where is thy mother?  Where are thy sisters?  They came

not to the place appointed--knowest thou whither they went?”

The King answered sullenly--

“Trouble me not with these riddles.  My mother is dead; my sisters are

in the palace.”

The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would have

assaulted him, but Canty--or Hobbs, as he now called himself--prevented

him, and said--

“Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret him.

Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a morsel to eat,

anon.”

Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the King

removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable company.

He withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn, where

he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw.  He lay down

here, drew straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon absorbed

in thinking.  He had many griefs, but the minor ones were swept almost

into forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his father.  To

the rest of the world the name of Henry VIII. brought a shiver, and

suggested an ogre whose nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand

dealt scourgings and death; but to this boy the name brought only

sensations of pleasure; the figure it invoked wore a countenance that

was all gentleness and affection.  He called to mind a long succession

of loving passages between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly upon

them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and real was the grief that

possessed his heart. As the afternoon wasted away, the lad, wearied with

his troubles, sank gradually into a tranquil and healing slumber.

After a considerable time--he could not tell how long--his senses

struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes

vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he noted a

murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A snug sense

of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken, the next moment,

by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse laughter.  It startled him

disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head to see whence this interruption

proceeded.  A grim and unsightly picture met his eye.  A bright fire was

burning in the middle of the floor, at the other end of the barn; and

around it, and lit weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the

motliest company of tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he

had ever read or dreamed of.  There were huge stalwart men, brown

with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there were

middle-sized youths, of truculent countenance, and similarly clad; there

were blind mendicants, with patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones,

with wooden legs and crutches; diseased ones, with running sores peeping

from ineffectual wrappings; there was a villain-looking pedlar with

his pack; a knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the

implements of their trades; some of the females were hardly-grown girls,

some were at prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud,

brazen, foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were three

sore-faced babies; there were a couple of starveling curs, with strings

about their necks, whose office was to lead the blind.

The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy was

beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A general

cry broke forth--

“A song! a song from the Bat and Dick and Dot-and-go-One!”

One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the patches

that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard which

recited the cause of his calamity.  Dot-and-go-One disencumbered himself

of his timber leg and took his place, upon sound and healthy limbs,

beside his fellow-rascal; then they roared out a rollicking ditty,

and were reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of each stanza, in

a rousing chorus.  By the time the last stanza was reached, the

half-drunken enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch, that everybody joined

in and sang it clear through from the beginning, producing a volume of

villainous sound that made the rafters quake.  These were the inspiring

words:--

‘Bien Darkman’s then, Bouse Mort and Ken, The bien Coves bings awast, On

Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine For his long lib at last. Bing’d out

bien Morts and toure, and toure, Bing out of the Rome vile bine, And

toure the Cove that cloy’d your duds, Upon the Chates to trine.’

(From’The English Rogue.’ London, 1665.)

Conversation followed; not in the thieves’ dialect of the song, for that

was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be listening.  In the

course of it, it appeared that ‘John Hobbs’ was not altogether a new

recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former time.  His later

history was called for, and when he said he had ‘accidentally’ killed a

man, considerable satisfaction was expressed; when he added that the

man was a priest, he was roundly applauded, and had to take a drink with

everybody.  Old acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were

proud to shake him by the hand.  He was asked why he had ’tarried away

so many months.’  He answered--

“London is better than the country, and safer, these late years, the

laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced.  An’ I had not had that

accident, I had stayed there.  I had resolved to stay, and never more

venture country-wards--but the accident has ended that.”

He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now.  The ‘ruffler,’ or

chief, answered--

“Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and

maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. {7}  Most are

here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow

at dawn.”

“I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me.  Where may he be?”

“Poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate

taste. He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer.”

“I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave.”

“That was he, truly.  Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but absent on

the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly conduct, none

ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven.”

“She was ever strict--I remember it well--a goodly wench and worthy

all commendation.  Her mother was more free and less particular; a

troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit above

the common.”

“We lost her through it.  Her gift of palmistry and other sorts of

fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch’s name and fame. The

law roasted her to death at a slow fire.  It did touch me to a sort of

tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot--cursing and reviling

all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the flames licked

upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about

her old gray head--cursing them! why an’ thou should’st live a thousand

years thoud’st never hear so masterful a cursing.  Alack, her art died

with her.  There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true

blasphemy.”

The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general

depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened

outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to

feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and

under peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to this, for

instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir.  However, a

deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners.

“Have any others of our friends fared hardly?” asked Hobbs.

“Some--yes.  Particularly new comers--such as small husbandmen turned

shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from

them to be changed to sheep ranges.  They begged, and were whipped at

the cart’s tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set

in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and

deprived of an ear; they begged a third time--poor devils, what else

could they do?--and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then

sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. ‘Tis

a brief tale, and quickly told.  Others of us have fared less hardly.

Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge--show your adornments!”

These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their

backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned

up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another

showed a brand upon his shoulder--the letter V--and a mutilated ear; the

third said--

“I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and

kids--now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife

and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in--in the other

place--but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in _England_!

My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick;

one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for

a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed.  English law!--up,

all, with your cups!--now all together and with a cheer!--drink to the

merciful English law that delivered _her_ from the English hell!  Thank

you, mates, one and all.  I begged, from house to house--I and the

wife--bearing with us the hungry kids--but it was crime to be hungry in

England--so they stripped us and lashed us through three towns.  Drink

ye all again to the merciful English law!--for its lash drank deep of my

Mary’s blood and its blessed deliverance came quick.  She lies there, in

the potter’s field, safe from all harms.  And the kids--well, whilst

the law lashed me from town to town, they starved. Drink, lads--only

a drop--a drop to the poor kids, that never did any creature harm.

I begged again--begged, for a crust, and got the stocks and lost an

ear--see, here bides the stump; I begged again, and here is the stump

of the other to keep me minded of it. And still I begged again, and was

sold for a slave--here on my cheek under this stain, if I washed it off,

ye might see the red S the branding-iron left there!  A _slave_!  Do

you understand that word?  An English _slave_!--that is he that stands

before ye.  I have run from my master, and when I am found--the heavy

curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath commanded it!--I

shall hang!” {1}

A ringing voice came through the murky air--

“Thou shalt _not_!--and this day the end of that law is come!”

All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King approaching

hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a

general explosion of inquiries broke out--

“Who is it?  _What_ is it?  Who art thou, manikin?”

The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and

questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity--

“I am Edward, King of England.”

A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of

delight in the excellence of the joke.  The King was stung.  He said

sharply--

“Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon I

have promised?”

He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in

a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. ‘John Hobbs’ made

several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last

succeeded--saying--

“Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad--mind him not--he

thinketh he _is_ the King.”

“I _am_ the King,” said Edward, turning toward him, “as thou shalt know

to thy cost, in good time.  Thou hast confessed a murder--thou shalt

swing for it.”

“_Thou’lt_ betray me?--_thou_?  An’ I get my hands upon thee--”

“Tut-tut!” said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the

King, and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with his fist,

“hast respect for neither Kings _nor_ Rufflers?  An’ thou insult my

presence so again, I’ll hang thee up myself.”  Then he said to his

Majesty, “Thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou

must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere.  _Be king_, if

it please thy mad humour, but be not harmful in it.  Sink the title thou

hast uttered--‘tis treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but

none among us is so base as to be traitor to his King; we be loving

and loyal hearts, in that regard.  Note if I speak truth.  Now--all

together: ‘Long live Edward, King of England!’”

“LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!”

The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the

crazy building vibrated to the sound.  The little King’s face lighted

with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and

said with grave simplicity--

“I thank you, my good people.”

This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment.

When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said,

firmly, but with an accent of good nature--

“Drop it, boy, ’tis not wise, nor well.  Humour thy fancy, if thou must,

but choose some other title.”

A tinker shrieked out a suggestion--

“Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!”

The title ’took,’ at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout

went up, of--

“Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!” followed by

hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.

“Hale him forth, and crown him!”

“Robe him!”

“Sceptre him!”

“Throne him!”

These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the

poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin,

robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with

the tinker’s soldering-iron.  Then all flung themselves upon their

knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking

supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and

ragged sleeves and aprons--

“Be gracious to us, O sweet King!”

“Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble Majesty!”

“Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!”

“Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of

sovereignty!”

“Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the

dirt and be ennobled!”

“Deign to spit upon us, O Sire, that our children’s children may tell of

thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for ever!”

But the humorous tinker made the ‘hit’ of the evening and carried off

the honours.  Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the King’s foot, and was

indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste

over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying

it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he

should make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to

view at the rate of a hundred shillings a sight.  He made himself so

killingly funny that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy

rabble.

Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch’s eyes; and

the thought in his heart was, “Had I offered them a deep wrong they

could not be more cruel--yet have I proffered nought but to do them a

kindness--and it is thus they use me for it!”