Patricia at the inn

by J. C. Snaith

Master Hooker, his fears allayed by the frank good humour of the soldier’s demeanour, became the pattern of a host. He called his son and his serving-maid to procure the liquor and boil the pot; and he himself fussed so much about the details of the brew, that in a surprisingly few minutes the soldier and his nine cold men were entertained. The little man, under the benignant influences of the warmth and liquor, became disposed for intercourse. With his back to the fire, he communicated things that the landlord wanted mightily to hear.

A battle had been fought by Worcester City between the arms of Oliver, Protector, and Charles Stuart, King of Scots. The Lord, it seemed, had vouchsafed “a crowning mercy” unto the former ones, to such a degree, forsooth, that those of the latter had been beaten incontinently from the field. And Charles Stuart was even now being hunted mile by mile over the West Country; that almost every hour he was likely to be ta’en; and that whosoever had that good fortune would have a goodly recompense, so considerable a price there was upon his head.

“A considerable price is on his head!” cried the landlord, scalding his mouth in his excitement, “and he is in these parts even now!”

“True i’ faith,” said the soldier, “or I’d be snug in Hounslow Camp. We hold an information that he lies in hiding on this shore, and on some night such as this he will try to make the coast of France. But it will be a darkish evening when he goes, I fancy, there being so many of us prick-ears along this beach, d’ye see.”

“Well, I reckon, friend,” Gamaliel said with deep emotion, “that if Charles Stuart, king or no king, comes to the ‘Sea Rover,’ you can lay to it he will not go off again so freely as he came. A considerable reward, I think ye said, sir?”

“And while your mind’s upon it,” said the soldier, “look to the proscribed. There’ll be lords and cavaliers, as well as kings, awaiting a wind for France. We shall tarry on this shore until we hold the Stuart; so if lace shirts and velvet breeches come your way, just you keep them, Master, and send us word along the coast. I’ll answer for it that you shan’t be a loser by it.”

Gamaliel Hooker might be said to drink these phrases, so agreeable were they to his receptive ears. He had a particular talent for the devious and the underhand. And the prospect of turning an unexpected penny, and at the same time winning the approbation of the law, tickled his mind so tenderly, that he could not repress a beam of pleasure that crept out of his crafty eyes.

“Drain the bowl, good soldier; I will brew again!” he cried.

The soldier drained the bowl. Cheek by jowl, they sat together beside the blaze. Outside the awaiting troopers stamped their feet, beat their arms, and damned the cold with a Scriptural directness. But the host was thoughtful to the last degree. He caused his son to bear hot meal and water to the rime-clad horses, while the servant-maid took mulled sack and spiced October to their riders. And when at last they went forth again to scour the bitter night for a hunted solitary, mine host stood bareheaded by his door waving a candle to them until they passed from sight into the blackness of the rocks. Thereon the good Gamaliel, mirror of hospitality, soul of ancient cheer, closed his portals with a crash, slipped bolt and chain across, and returned to his wassail. For a whole minute he puckered his wits with some tough arithmetic, and then said to his son:

“I reckon, Joseph, I’m nineteen shillings and fivepence out on this visit up to now. But I’m not complaining; for I rather think, my son, since things are as they are, we shall have that money back before the week’s spent, with maybe a few groats emolument over and above.”