"Traitors in fact!"
"That's the ugly word," said the Parson between set teeth. "And may God have mercy on them as they deserve!… When I read that list," he continued, breathing hard, "for the first time in my life I was sick, sick to call myself an Englishman…. There are men down there I've dined with, gamed with, chaffed with, may heaven forgive me for it! true men as I honestly believed, men I've seen drink the King's health and damnation to the French with three times three, as a Christian and a gentleman should. There are magistrates, squires, a peer or two, one sheriff, a deputy-lieutenant, and small fry— publicans, carriers, smugglers, and the like—by the score."
He spread squares of paper on the floor, piecing them.
"And here's a map in sections of the whole country from Pevensey to Westminster—farms, inns, cottages, all put down, see!—where guides can be got; the wells marked, bakers' shops, mills; roads, metalled and unmetalled; and in the margin here and there a Church or what-not drawn out pretty as you please for a sign-post."
The boy looked. Yes, it was the hand that had written the scent-bottle note.
"There's enough in that bag to hang some of the best names in England," continued the Parson with gloating delight. "And I hope to have that bag in Pitt's hands before many hours are out."
The colour stole back to his cheeks, and he began to rub his hands together.
"Kit, my boy, we'll have such a hanging as was never before seen in
England—God helping us…. That's what we're here for."
The boy's eyes were raised to his.
"No, sir, please. What we're here for is to save Nelson."