Robert Bloomfield - "The Farmer's Boy"

E. A. Wallis Budge - "Legends Of The Gods"

Wilhelm Hauff - "Maerchen Almanach auf das Jahr 1827"

Conrad Ferdinand Meyer - "Die Hochzeit des Moenchs"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Brown Mask

P >> Percy J. Brebner >> The Brown Mask




"We will soon see," said Crosby; and as he turned to go to this stranger
Golding laid a hand on his arm.

"If there is danger, Master Gilbert, call. I have lost some strength
with the passing of years, but I have never lost my ability to shoot
straight," and he just showed him the butt of a pistol in the pocket of
his coat.

Crosby patted him on the shoulder and went to his persistent and
uninvited guest, wondering whether Monmouth were really taken, whether
this might not be he.

Men still surrounded Lenfield. It was whispered amongst them that,
although Monmouth was a prisoner, there was another important traitor
yet to capture. They had been told so by Lord Rosmore, under whose
command they were. Now they were ordered to draw in closer, and to take
anyone who attempted to escape.

"Capture him if possible, but, if not, shoot him down," was Rosmore's
command. Then, with a dozen men, he rode across the stretch of park land
to the front entrance of the Manor. He made no attempt to surround it in
such a manner that those within might take alarm. His men were in the
woods, escape was impossible.

There was some little delay in answering his summons, and then a servant
came to the door.

"Is your master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, within?"

"I think he is asleep, sir; but will you be pleased to enter?"

The girl looked innocent enough, but Lord Rosmore was too well versed in
artifice not to be cautious.

"My horse is restive, as you see. Will you request your master to come
out and speak with me for a moment?"

The girl curtsied and departed with her message, leaving the door open.

"He suspects nothing," Rosmore whispered to a man beside him.

"I am not so certain," was the answer, "since the door is left so
invitingly open. It would be natural to enter, and an ambush might await
us within. That girl was over simple to be natural, it seemed to me."

"Keep watch upon the windows above, some of you," said Rosmore in a low
tone. "If this is a well-baited trap we are not such fools as to walk
into it."

The girl reappeared and came across the hall.

"I cannot find my master," she said. "He will be in the gardens
somewhere. Will you not come in and wait?"

For a moment Rosmore hesitated, and then dismounted. He called to two or
three men to come with him.

"If you see him coming tell him we are within," he said to the others.
"Now, my girl, we will see if we can find your master," and he caught
her roughly by the arm. "Where is he hiding, eh?"

"Hiding?"

"Yes, pretty innocence; and unless you tell me quickly I shall have to
bare these shoulders of yours and see what the taste of a whip can
accomplish."

At that moment there was a shout from the men without, and Rosmore
rushed back to them. A horseman had suddenly ridden from the stables at
the far end of the house.

"Where's that scoundrel Rosmore?" he cried. "He would take Crosby of
Lenfield, would he? Well, now is his chance; and in taking him he will
capture an even more notorious person, whom, rumour says, he has long
desired to meet."

"Now I know!" Rosmore exclaimed as he flung himself into the saddle.
"After him, and shout, all of you, to put the men in the woods on the
alert."

The horseman turned and galloped across the park in a slanting
direction.

"Don't ride too close, Rosmore," he shouted over his shoulder, "for I
seldom miss the mark I aim at."

He suddenly altered his course. It was deftly done, and served to gain
him a few yards on his pursuers.

"To the right and left to cut him off!" cried Rosmore. "We have him. The
chase is over before it has well begun."

Well might he say so, for the fugitive was galloping straight towards a
stiff fence that few horses would face and few horsemen would hazard
their necks over.

He turned again and laughed, but rode straight on. The next moment, with
inches to spare, the gallant animal had cleared the fence and dropped
into the wood beyond.

A cry of wonder came from the men who were following him, a curse from
Lord Rosmore, for the rider was the highwayman Galloping Hermit, and
wore the brown mask.




CHAPTER IX


"THE JOLLY FARMERS"

For a few moments the very daring of the leap paralysed the hunters. The
man had surely gone to his death, preferring an end of this sort to the
one that most surely awaited him if he were captured. They had looked to
see horse and rider crash downwards to destruction, or perchance fall
backwards to be crushed and maimed past all healing; but when neither of
these things happened a cry of astonishment, not unmingled with
admiration, burst from a dozen throats. The shouting had brought men
running from the other sides of the house; a few of them were in time to
see the leap accomplished and to realise that Galloping Hermit had been
in their midst; others saw only a straggling group of horsemen at fault,
and looked in vain for the reason of the shouting. Lord Rosmore himself
was too surprised to give orders as quickly as he might have done, and
made up for the delay by swearing roundly at everybody about him.

"Fools! What are you waiting for?" he cried savagely. "There are more
ways into the wood than over that cursed fence."

He turned to one man and gave him quick instructions concerning the
watch to be kept on the Manor House, and then spurred his horse into the
wood after the mounted men who had already started in pursuit.

Either from actual knowledge, or conviction, the highwayman seemed to be
certain that at this spot the woods surrounding Lenfield Manor would not
be so carefully watched, that so stiff a fence would be deemed
sufficient to make escape that way impossible. To the right and left of
it, however, men were sure to be stationed; so, with a soothing word to
his horse, he plunged into the depths of the wood along a narrow track,
as one who knew his way perfectly and was acting on some preconceived
plan. In a small clearing he halted, listening for the sounds of
pursuit, and then pressed forward again until he presently came out upon
the green sward bordering a road. Again he halted to listen, and,
satisfied that the hunters were not too perilously close upon his heels,
he cantered in the direction of the open country which lay to his right.
He was now riding in a direction which made an angle with the way some
of his pursuers had evidently taken; he knew the spot where the two ways
met, and halted again when he reached it. Here a broad glade cut into
the very heart of the wood, and down it came three horsemen at a trot,
looking to right and left as they came, searching for their hidden
quarry. Then they saw him at the end of the glade, and shouted as they
put spurs into their horses. The shouts were answered from other parts
of the wood, and the highwayman smiled underneath his mask as he patted
his horse's neck.

"We'll give them a hopeful chase for a while, my beauty; presently you
shall stretch yourself and leave them behind, but it's a steady canter
for a time. No, no; not even so fast as that. We are well out of pistol
shot."

Six men took up the chase, their faces set with grim determination. They
were well mounted, and hopeful of success. They had every incentive to
do their utmost.

"There is a large reward offered for the capture of the wearer of the
brown mask," said Lord Rosmore. "He is, besides, Gilbert Crosby, a
rebel, and, further, I have a private account to settle with him. I
double the reward."

The men nodded. It would be strange if six of them could not compass the
downfall of one. They rode on in silence, sometimes with increased hope
as the distance between them and the highwayman lessened a little,
sometimes with muttered curses when they realised that their horses were
doing as much as they were able.

"I think he tires a little," said one man presently, and Lord Rosmore
saw that they had materially gained upon their quarry.

"Where will this take us?" he asked.

"We should strike the West Road soon," was the answer. "He'll have a
hiding-hole somewhere near it, maybe."

"He is too clever to lead us to it," said Rosmore. "He'll change his
line presently, and we may have to separate. But his horse is tiring,
that is certain. Press forward, lads; if we gain only inches it must
tell in time."

The day was drawing to a close. Evening shadows were beginning to steal
up from behind distant woods. There would be light for a long while yet,
but the chase must end before the shadows grew too deep, or the
highwayman's chances would be many. The road took a wide circle through
a plantation, and then ran straight across a stretch of common land,
gradually mounting upwards to a distant ridge. As they galloped through
the plantation the highwayman was lost sight of for a few moments round
the bend in the road. The hunters pressed their horses forward at the
top of their speed, conscious that in such a place the fugitive might
quite possibly slip away from them; but when they came on to the
straight road he was still in front of them, farther in front of them
than he had been at any time during the chase. The highwayman turned to
look back, and seemed to check his horse a little, but his advantage did
not appear to decrease.

"What a magnificent beast he rides!" exclaimed Rosmore. "We shall have
to separate, and without his knowing it. The opportunity will come
directly. Look! I thought as much."

The highwayman had evidently only tried his horse's power. He was quite
satisfied that he could distance his pursuers when he liked, and thought
that the time had come. He was leaning forward in his saddle now, riding
almost as a trick rider might do, but the effect was great. Possibly he
contrived to shift his weight, for the horse suddenly bounded forward,
breasting the hill to the ridge in splendid fashion. He might have been
at the beginning of the race instead of nearing the end of it.

"Playing with us all the time!" said one man with a curse.

"That pace cannot last," Rosmore returned. "Keep after him. The moment
he is over the ridge, you, Sayers and Watson, come with me. You others
keep after him. He may be headed away from the road, which must lie just
beyond the ridge. Perhaps we shall cut him off, for I have an idea he
means to turn upon his track. Capture, or no capture, there's money for
this day's work."

As the highwayman disappeared over the ridge Lord Rosmore and his two
men turned at right angles from the road and went across the common; the
others continued the pursuit, but going not a whit faster than they were
before. No amount of spurring served to lengthen the stride of their
horses. To follow seemed hopeless, was hopeless unless the unexpected
happened.

"Let our horses walk for a few moments," said Rosmore. "You know this
part of the country, Sayers; what should you say our direction is now?"

"I don't know it over-well, my lord, but I should say we've got
Salisbury almost straight behind us and Winchester some miles in that
direction," and the man pointed a little to the right. "I should say
we've been riding pretty well due north from Lenfield."

"Then if the highwayman wanted to make Winchester he would have to cross
us somewhere if we go straight forward?"

"He would, my lord, but since we've been after him he's given no sign of
making for Winchester," Sayers answered.

"An inquiry in that direction may give us some information," said
Rosmore. "I have an idea that the Brown Mask will be seen along the
Winchester Road presently."

"These horses will be no match for his."

"They must carry us a little farther, but the pace may be easy," said
Rosmore, shaking his jaded animal into a trot, and the two men rode side
by side a few paces behind him. Strange to say, failure seemed to have
improved Rosmore's temper rather than aggravated it. He had at least a
score of witnesses to prove who Galloping Hermit was. A girl might be
romantic enough to pity such a man, but it could hardly be that pity
which is akin to love.

"She has the pride of her race in her," he murmured. "I would not have
it otherwise. There are a dozen ways to a woman's heart, and if need be
I will try them all."

The prospect appeared to please him, for he smiled. So for two hours
they rode in the general direction of Winchester.

"This is foolery," whispered Sayers to his companion. "I warrant the
Brown Mask has gone to earth long ago. His lordship has more knowledge
of this way than he pretends, I shouldn't wonder, and knows of a nest
with a pretty bird in it. There may be other birds about to look after
her, Watson. Such kind of hunting is more to my taste than the sort
we've been sweated with to-day."

They were presently traversing a road with a wood on one side and fields
on the other, when a glimmer of light shone in front of them, and the
barking of a dog, catching the sound of the approaching horsemen
probably, awoke the evening echoes. Back against the trees nestled "The
Jolly Farmers," an inn of good repute in this neighbourhood, both for
the quality of its liquor and the amiable temper of its landlord. A
guest had entered not five minutes ago, and was talking to the landlord
in an inner parlour when the barking of the dog interrupted them.

"Horses!" said the landlord. "They follow you so sharply that it is well
to be cautious. This way, sir."

He touched the wall where there certainly was no sign of a door, yet a
door swung open inwards, disclosing a dark and narrow chamber. The guest
entered it without question, and the landlord hurried out to meet the
new arrivals.

"You ride late, gentlemen."

"And would sample your liquor, landlord," said Rosmore, dismounting and
bidding his men do the same. "Have the horses looked to."

The landlord called in a stentorian voice, and a lad came running from
the rear of the premises.

"Any other guests to-night, landlord?" Rosmore asked as he passed into
the inn.

"No, sir, and not much chance of them. They're having a sort of feast in
the village yonder--dancing and such-like; and what business there is
'The Blue Boar' will get--unless, mind you, a pair o' lovers is tempted
to come up this way for the sake o' the walk."

"How far is the village?"

"Three-quarters of a mile by the road, half a mile by the path through
the wood. But, bless you, sir, if the lovers were to come they'd get
their refreshment out o' kisses and not trouble my ale."

"What do you call this place?"

"'The Jolly Farmers,' sir, and I'm called Tom Saunders, very much at
your service."

"A poor spot for an inn, surely?" said Rosmore.

"There are better, and there are worse," was the answer. "We're in touch
with the main road, and they are good enough to say that the
entertainment is worth going a little out of the way for."

"No doubt. We will judge for ourselves."

"And, although I blush to mention it, folks have a kind of liking for
Tom Saunders himself. It's often the landlord that makes the inn."

If the landlord blushed, it made no appreciable difference to his rosy
countenance, which grinned good-humouredly as he executed Lord Rosmore's
orders.

"Truly, it is good liquor," said Rosmore when he had sampled it. "Do you
get good company to come out of their way to taste it?"

"Ay, sir, at times, and a few soldiers lately. You and your two men here
will be from the West, very like. I've heard of Sedgemoor fight. May one
know the latest news?"

"Who told you of Sedgemoor?"

"I think it was the smith down in the village, or it might 'a been
Boyce, the carpenter; anyway, it was somebody down yonder. They'd heard
it from someone on the road."

"Monmouth is taken," and Rosmore watched the landlord closely as he said
it.

"That'll be good news for King James," was the answer. "Would it be
treason to say I'm sorry for them who've been foolish enough to take up
arms?"

"Too near it to be wise. Pity of that kind often leads a man to give
help, and that's the worst kind of treason."

"So I've heard say, but I never could understand the rights and wrongs
of the law, nor, for that matter, the lawyers neither. I'd a lawyer here
not many weeks back, and all his learning hadn't taught him to know good
ale when he put his lips to it. What's the good of learning if it can't
teach you that?"

"Do you number him amongst your good company?" asked Rosmore.

"I don't, but he'd reckon himself that way."

"You'll be having other company before long asking you to find them
hiding-places. The rebels are being hunted in every direction."

"We're too far away," said the landlord. "Bless you, we're a sight o'
miles from Bridgwater, and most o' these fellows ain't got horses to
carry them. They won't trouble 'The Jolly Farmers,' sir."

"And if they did?"

"The bolts on the door are strong enough to keep them out."

"The bolts, if used, are more likely to keep them out than the
distance," said Rosmore; and, although the landlord still smiled, he was
quite conscious of the doubt expressed concerning the use of the bolts.
Rosmore paused for him to speak, but when he remained silent went on.
"We are searching for a rebel now, one Gilbert Crosby. Do you reckon him
amongst your good company?"

"I might if I had ever heard of him," the landlord answered.

"Who is in the house at this moment?" Rosmore asked.

"A wench in the kitchen, and myself. My daughter is in the village at
the merry-making, and the only other person about the place to-night is
the boy who is looking after your horses."

"I am sorry to inconvenience you, landlord, but I must make a search. If
you're honest you will not mind the inconvenience."

"Mind!" the landlord exclaimed. "I like to see a man do his duty,
whatever that duty may be, and whatever the man's station may be."

"Spoken honestly," said Rosmore. "Watson, you will stay here. Savers,
come with me, and you come, too, landlord."

The search was a thorough one, and although Rosmore keenly watched the
landlord he could discover no sign of fear either in his face or
attitude. Watson had nothing to report when they returned to the
tap-room.

"Tell me, landlord, what persons of quality have you in the near
neighbourhood?"

Saunders mentioned several names, amongst them Sir Peter Faulkner.

"Are we near Sir Peter's? That is good hearing. He will give me a
welcome and good cheer."

"You take the road through the village," said Saunders. "It's less than
five miles to Sir Peter's."

"We'll get on our way, then," said Rosmore. Then he turned quickly upon
the landlord. "Do you know Galloping Hermit, the highwayman?"

"Well, by name. A good many have had the misfortune of meeting him on
the West Road yonder. And, to tell the truth, sir, I believe I've seen
him once--and without the brown mask, too."

"When?" Rosmore asked sharply.

"It may be three, perhaps four, months back. A horseman galloped up to
the door, just at dusk, and called for ale. He did not dismount, and I
took the drink to him myself. There was nothing very noticeable about
him, only that his eyes were sharp and restless, and he held his head a
little sideways as if he were listening. It was the horse that took my
attention rather than the man. It was an animal, sir, you'd not meet the
likes of in a week's journey. When the horse had galloped into the
shadows of the night I said to myself, there goes the highwayman for a
certainty."

"And you've never seen him since?"

"No, nor shall now, since he was hanged lately at Tyburn."

"That was a mistake, landlord. Galloping Hermit is still alive. I have
seen him to-night."

"Alive!"

"Ay, and the horse you describe fits with the animal he was riding."

"I hope your honour was not robbed of much."

"Of nothing, my good friend," laughed Rosmore, "except of the
satisfaction of laying him by the heels."

"Still alive, is he?" said the landlord. "I cannot credit it. Maybe 'tis
someone else who wears the brown mask now, and trades on the other's
fame."

"It is not likely, and if it is so he must suffer for the other's sins,"
said Rosmore; but the idea lingered with him as he rode away from the
inn, followed by Watson and Sayers.

As they passed through the village the sound of dancing to the music of
a fiddle came from a large barn by the roadside, and a brisk trade was
being done at an ale-house over the way. Lord Rosmore had small sympathy
with the common folk and their amusements; besides, he was thinking
deeply of the landlord's suggestion. Fate seemed to have thrust certain
cards into his hand to play--cards which seemed to belong to two
separate games, and which, if he could only join them into one, might
bring him victory. How was he to join them? Somewhere there was a card
missing, a link which must be supplied. Did the landlord's suggestion
supply it? As he rode slowly forward the sound of the dancing and
laughter was gradually hushed; only the far-carrying notes of the fiddle
lingered a little longer. Lord Rosmore fancied he heard the notes long
after it was possible for him to do so. Even as Sir Peter welcomed him
presently they seemed to be sounding faintly in his ears.

In the tap-room of "The Jolly Farmers" the landlord sat staring at the
opposite wall for some time. He looked as if he were counting over and
over again the glasses and tankards which hung or stood on shelves
there, and could not get the number to his satisfaction. Once or twice
he turned his head towards the door and listened, but appeared to catch
no sound worthy of investigation. Once he got up and stepped lightly to
the parlour beyond, and looked towards the secret door which he had
opened for his guest, but he did not touch it. Satisfied that no sound
came from that direction, he went back and stared at the glasses and
tankards again. Presently he went to the inn door and looked out at the
night. There was a soft breeze singing along the road, and a multitude
of stars overhead. The breeze carried no other sound besides its own
music.

A good two hours passed after the departure of the horsemen before the
landlord's usual energy returned. Then he went into the inner parlour
and opened the secret door. A few moments elapsed before the guest
stepped out. It seemed as if he were not quite certain of the landlord's
honesty.

"Well, has he come?" he asked.

"No, but they have gone," the landlord answered. "Three horsemen who had
ridden far looking for a rebel."

"I must thank you for hiding me so securely. For your courtesy I should
tell you my name. I am--"

"Better let me stay in ignorance," said Saunders. "I am in no position
to answer questions then."

"As you will; and, truly, I am on an adventure of which I understand
little and was warned to speak of sparingly. I was to make for this inn
and inquire for a fiddler. How this fiddler fellow is to serve me I do
not know."

"Nor I," answered the landlord.

At that moment a little cadence of notes, strangely like a laugh, fell
upon their ears, and there came a fiddler into the tap-room.

"Ale, Master Boniface, ale. I could get well drunk upon the generosity
of your village yonder. See how they rewarded this fiddle of mine for
making them dance." And he held out a handful of small coins. "Ale,
then, and let it be to the brim. Has anyone inquired for a poor fellow
like me?"

"This gentleman," said the landlord.

The fiddler looked steadily into the eyes of the guest for a moment, as
if he were trying to recall his face, then he bowed.

"Martin Fairley, sir, is very much at your service."




CHAPTER X


FATE AND THE FIDDLER

The stars were still bright in the deep vault above, the breeze still
had a note of singing in it, but the sound of music and dancing was
hushed in the village, and all the lights were out, when two horsemen
came through a gateway on to the road some five miles away.

Gilbert Crosby found himself in strange company. No sooner had this
queer fiddler learned that search had been made at "The Jolly Farmers"
than he refused to give any information, or listen to any explanation,
until they had put some distance between themselves and the inn. He
hurried out of the house, and in a few minutes returned with the
information that he had two horses waiting in the wood behind. Crosby's
mount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carrying
him far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserable
that it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle which Fairley had
slung by a string across his back. In spite of its ill-condition Crosby
wondered whether it would not be too much for the musician, who mounted
awkwardly and seemed so intent on keeping his seat that he was not able
to talk. He had grown more accustomed to the animal by the time they
came out on to the high road. They had travelled chiefly at walking
pace, by rough paths, and through woods where the tracks would have been
difficult to find even in the daytime, and impossible at night save to
one who knew them intimately.

"So we strike the road as you declared we should," said Crosby. "You
have great knowledge of the byways in this part of the country, Master
Fairley."

"I have travelled them, usually on foot, for many years," he answered.
"My fiddle and I go and make music in all the villages round about;
almost everybody knows me along the road. Should we be questioned, say
you fell in with me and we continued together for company."

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