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CHAPTER V
AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT
Good folk who dwell in a lawful land, if any such
there be, may for want of exploration, judge our
neighbourhood harshly, unless the whole truth is set
before them. In bar of such prejudice, many of us ask
leave to explain how and why it was the robbers came to
that head in the midst of us. We would rather not have
had it so, God knows as well as anybody; but it grew
upon us gently, in the following manner. Only let all
who read observe that here I enter many things which
came to my knowledge in later years.
In or about the year of our Lord 1640, when all the
troubles of England were swelling to an outburst, great
estates in the North country were suddenly confiscated,
through some feud of families and strong influence at
Court, and the owners were turned upon the world, and
might think themselves lucky to save their necks.
These estates were in co-heirship, joint tenancy I
think they called it, although I know not the meaning,
only so that if either tenant died, the other living,
all would come to the live one in spite of any
testament.
One of the joint owners was Sir Ensor Doone, a
gentleman of brisk intellect; and the other owner was
his cousin, the Earl of Lorne and Dykemont.
Lord Lorne was some years the elder of his cousin,
Ensor Doone, and was making suit to gain severance of
the cumbersome joint tenancy by any fair apportionment,
when suddenly this blow fell on them by wiles and
woman's meddling; and instead of dividing the land,
they were divided from it.
The nobleman was still well-to-do, though crippled in
his expenditure; but as for the cousin, he was left a
beggar, with many to beg from him. He thought that the
other had wronged him, and that all the trouble of law
befell through his unjust petition. Many friends
advised him to make interest at Court; for having done
no harm whatever, and being a good Catholic, which Lord
Lorne was not, he would be sure to find hearing there,
and probably some favour. But he, like a very
hot-brained man, although he had long been married to
the daughter of his cousin (whom he liked none the more
for that), would have nothing to say to any attempt at
making a patch of it, but drove away with his wife and
sons, and the relics of his money, swearing hard at
everybody. In this he may have been quite wrong;
probably, perhaps, he was so; but I am not convinced at
all but what most of us would have done the same.
Some say that, in the bitterness of that wrong and
outrage, he slew a gentleman of the Court, whom he
supposed to have borne a hand in the plundering of his
fortunes. Others say that he bearded King Charles the
First himself, in a manner beyond forgiveness. One
thing, at any rate, is sure--Sir Ensor was attainted,
and made a felon outlaw, through some violent deed
ensuing upon his dispossession.
He had searched in many quarters for somebody to help
him, and with good warrant for hoping it, inasmuch as
he, in lucky days, had been open-handed and cousinly to
all who begged advice of him. But now all these
provided him with plenty of good advice indeed, and
great assurance of feeling, but not a movement of leg,
or lip, or purse-string in his favour. All good people
of either persuasion, royalty or commonalty, knowing
his kitchen-range to be cold, no longer would play
turnspit. And this, it may be, seared his heart more
than loss of land and fame.
In great despair at last, he resolved to settle in some
outlandish part, where none could be found to know him;
and so, in an evil day for us, he came to the West of
England. Not that our part of the world is at all
outlandish, according to my view of it (for I never
found a better one), but that it was known to be
rugged, and large, and desolate. And here, when he had
discovered a place which seemed almost to be made for
him, so withdrawn, so self-defended, and uneasy of
access, some of the country-folk around brought him
little offerings--a side of bacon, a keg of cider, hung
mutton, or a brisket of venison; so that for a little
while he was very honest. But when the newness of his
coming began to wear away, and our good folk were apt
to think that even a gentleman ought to work or pay
other men for doing it, and many farmers were grown
weary of manners without discourse to them, and all
cried out to one another how unfair it was that owning
such a fertile valley young men would not spade or
plough by reason of noble lineage--then the young
Doones growing up took things they would not ask for.
And here let me, as a solid man, owner of five hundred
acres (whether fenced or otherwise, and that is my own
business), churchwarden also of this parish (until I go
to the churchyard), and proud to be called the parson's
friend--for a better man I never knew with tobacco and
strong waters, nor one who could read the lessons so
well and he has been at Blundell's too--once for all
let me declare, that I am a thorough-going
Church-and-State man, and Royalist, without any mistake
about it. And this I lay down, because some people
judging a sausage by the skin, may take in evil part my
little glosses of style and glibness, and the mottled
nature of my remarks and cracks now and then on the
frying-pan. I assure them I am good inside, and not a
bit of rue in me; only queer knots, as of marjoram, and
a stupid manner of bursting.
There was not more than a dozen of them, counting a few
retainers who still held by Sir Ensor; but soon they
grew and multiplied in a manner surprising to think of.
Whether it was the venison, which we call a
strengthening victual, or whether it was the Exmoor
mutton, or the keen soft air of the moorlands, anyhow
the Doones increased much faster than their honesty.
At first they had brought some ladies with them, of
good repute with charity; and then, as time went on,
they added to their stock by carrying. They carried
off many good farmers' daughters, who were sadly
displeased at first; but took to them kindly after
awhile, and made a new home in their babies. For
women, as it seems to me, like strong men more than
weak ones, feeling that they need some staunchness,
something to hold fast by.
And of all the men in our country, although we are of a
thick-set breed, you scarce could find one in
three-score fit to be placed among the Doones, without
looking no more than a tailor. Like enough, we could
meet them man for man (if we chose all around the crown
and the skirts of Exmoor), and show them what a
cross-buttock means, because we are so stuggy; but in
regard of stature, comeliness, and bearing, no woman
would look twice at us. Not but what I myself, John
Ridd, and one or two I know of--but it becomes me best
not to talk of that, although my hair is gray.
Perhaps their den might well have been stormed, and
themselves driven out of the forest, if honest people
had only agreed to begin with them at once when first
they took to plundering. But having respect for their
good birth, and pity for their misfortunes, and perhaps
a little admiration at the justice of God, that robbed
men now were robbers, the squires, and farmers, and
shepherds, at first did nothing more than grumble
gently, or even make a laugh of it, each in the case of
others. After awhile they found the matter gone too
far for laughter, as violence and deadly outrage
stained the hand of robbery, until every woman clutched
her child, and every man turned pale at the very name
of Doone. For the sons and grandsons of Sir Ensor grew
up in foul liberty, and haughtiness, and hatred, to
utter scorn of God and man, and brutality towards dumb
animals. There was only one good thing about them, if
indeed it were good, to wit, their faith to one
another, and truth to their wild eyry. But this only
made them feared the more, so certain was the revenge
they wreaked upon any who dared to strike a Doone. One
night, some ten years ere I was born, when they were
sacking a rich man's house not very far from Minehead,
a shot was fired at them in the dark, of which they
took little notice, and only one of them knew that any
harm was done. But when they were well on the homeward
road, not having slain either man or woman, or even
burned a house down, one of their number fell from his
saddle, and died without so much as a groan. The youth
had been struck, but would not complain, and perhaps
took little heed of the wound, while he was bleeding
inwardly. His brothers and cousins laid him softly on
a bank of whortle-berries, and just rode back to the
lonely hamlet where he had taken his death-wound. No
man nor woman was left in the morning, nor house for
any to dwell in, only a child with its reason gone.*
* (This vile deed was done, beyond all doubt.)
This affair made prudent people find more reason to let
them alone than to meddle with them; and now they had
so entrenched themselves, and waxed so strong in
number, that nothing less than a troop of soldiers
could wisely enter their premises; and even so it might
turn out ill, as perchance we shall see by-and-by.
For not to mention the strength of the place, which I
shall describe in its proper order when I come to visit
it, there was not one among them but was a mighty man,
straight and tall, and wide, and fit to lift four
hundredweight. If son or grandson of old Doone, or one
of the northern retainers, failed at the age of twenty,
while standing on his naked feet to touch with his
forehead the lintel of Sir Ensor's door, and to fill
the door frame with his shoulders from sidepost even to
sidepost, he was led away to the narrow pass which made
their valley so desperate, and thrust from the crown
with ignominy, to get his own living honestly. Now,
the measure of that doorway is, or rather was, I ought
to say, six feet and one inch lengthwise, and two feet
all but two inches taken crossways in the clear. Yet I
not only have heard but know, being so closely mixed
with them, that no descendant of old Sir Ensor, neither
relative of his (except, indeed, the Counsellor, who
was kept by them for his wisdom), and no more than two
of their following ever failed of that test, and
relapsed to the difficult ways of honesty.
Not that I think anything great of a standard the like
of that: for if they had set me in that door-frame at
the age of twenty, it is like enough that I should have
walked away with it on my shoulders, though I was not
come to my full strength then: only I am speaking now
of the average size of our neighbourhood, and the
Doones were far beyond that. Moreover, they were
taught to shoot with a heavy carbine so delicately and
wisely, that even a boy could pass a ball through a
rabbit's head at the distance of fourscore yards. Some
people may think nought of this, being in practice with
longer shots from the tongue than from the shoulder;
nevertheless, to do as above is, to my ignorance, very
good work, if you can be sure to do it. Not one word
do I believe of Robin Hood splitting peeled wands at
seven-score yards, and such like. Whoever wrote such
stories knew not how slippery a peeled wand is, even if
one could hit it, and how it gives to the onset. Now,
let him stick one in the ground, and take his bow and
arrow at it, ten yards away, or even five.
Now, after all this which I have written, and all the
rest which a reader will see, being quicker of mind
than I am (who leave more than half behind me, like a
man sowing wheat, with his dinner laid in the ditch too
near his dog), it is much but what you will understand
the Doones far better than I did, or do even to this
moment; and therefore none will doubt when I tell them
that our good justiciaries feared to make an ado, or
hold any public inquiry about my dear father's death.
They would all have had to ride home that night, and
who could say what might betide them. Least said
soonest mended, because less chance of breaking.
So we buried him quietly--all except my mother, indeed,
for she could not keep silence--in the sloping little
churchyard of Oare, as meek a place as need be, with
the Lynn brook down below it. There is not much of
company there for anybody's tombstone, because the
parish spreads so far in woods and moors without
dwelling-house. If we bury one man in three years, or
even a woman or child, we talk about it for three
months, and say it must be our turn next, and scarcely
grow accustomed to it until another goes.
Annie was not allowed to come, because she cried so
terribly; but she ran to the window, and saw it all,
mooing there like a little calf, so frightened and so
left alone. As for Eliza, she came with me, one on
each side of mother, and not a tear was in her eyes,
but sudden starts of wonder, and a new thing to be
looked at unwillingly, yet curiously. Poor little
thing! she was very clever, the only one of our
family--thank God for the same--but none the more for
that guessed she what it is to lose a father.
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