CHAPTER XXI. THE COUNTER PLOT.
A week or two had passed since the events recorded in
the last chapter. I now found myself established in a
cavern in one of the most savage and secluded forests of
the Hartz. Rabenmark, Pappenheim, Trump Von Toggenburg,
Lackland, and myself, with a score or two of
others, whom we had persuaded to be our companions,
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had made our escape from Göttingen. We had more or
less violated the laws—we were all reckless and dissipated
young men. All were panting for an unrestrained
and lawless existence. It is exactly under such circumstances,
and by such wild spirits, that a band of
outlaws was not unfrequently formed in these regions.
Our pioneer and principal captain was the versatile
Skamp. It was not the first time that he had exercised
the profession to which we now devoted ourselves. As
for Pappenheim and Trump, they had both been reduced
to despair by the frustration of their plans on the
occasion which I have recorded, and by a rather serious
quarrel which their subsequent dissolute conduct had occasioned
between themselves and their mistresses.
Rabenmark had remained a day or two concealed in
the town, at the imminent risk of his life. Although he
had on one or two occasions miraculously escaped discovery,
yet it was impossible for him to hope for such
success any longer. It was necessary to separate for a
time from Bertha. She was left to take the important
step she had so long meditated. She returned to her
father. Rabenmark hovered for a few days in the suburbs
of the town. He heard nothing from her.
At last he reluctantly submitted to the solicitations of
Pappenheim and myself, and together we all retired to
the Hartz mountains. Very soon after this we made
an incursion into a neighbouring village for the necessaries
of life. We had no money to buy, and so we committed
depredations. It was found such capital sport,
that we commenced hostilities on all the villages for miles
round. I have no intention to dilate upon adventures,
which, although true, are of a hackneyed description.
Suffice, that we went from one indiscretion to another.
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From nightly forays against granaries and farm-houses,
we proceeded to direct attacks upon passengers on the
road. In a word, we became robbers. It is true, that
we were faithful to the creed of all romantic highwaymen.
We only robbed the rich, that we might give
unto the poor. It was our chief delight to surround a
parcel of peasants and poor devils, and take them off
with many threats to our retreat; after which, we would
present them with the total spoils of some rich hunks
whom we had rifled the day before, and send them
away rejoicing. We most certainly never earned a
groschen by our fatiguing and hazardous profession.
We were only footpads for fun. I will not, however,
vouch for Skamp. He was too much of a man of
business to be contented long as an amateur; but it
was, of course, impossible for us to be rid of him, and he
was allowed to follow his own course.
It was customary for some of us to penetrate, in disguise,
into the very heart of the villages which had been
the scene of our rogueries. It was amusing to join in
the conversation of the peasants, and be entertained by
the exaggerated accounts of our own achievements. On
one occasion, Rabenmark and I had advanced far beyond
the usual limit of such masquerading excursions. We
were so successful, that we resolved, in spite of every
thing, to effect a journey to Göttingen. He hoped to
have an interview with Bertha, and thus to relieve the
anguish of his mind. After a little dissuasion, I found
that his purpose was not to be shaken. I agreed to accompany
him. Lackland was to be associated in the
enterprise.
We reached Göttingen in a few days, without much
difficulty. We were all disguised as peasants. We
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entered an obscure pot-house on the outskirts of the town.
A long deal table was in the middle of the dirty-looking
public room. A number of persons were seated at it.
Some were drinking schnapps; some were eating an
offensive kind of cheese, much beloved by the lower
classes; some were smoking a filthy sort of tobacco;
some were drinking beer.
We seated ourselves, and ordered portions of the villanous
cheese, beer, and tobacco. We entered into
conversation with the worthies who were assembled
there. I recognised several of the faces. The towncrier
was present. A barber's boy asked him the contents
of a paper he had with him. The crier opened,
and read it in a pompous voice. It was a proclamation
describing the person of the Baron Otto Von Rabenmark,
and offering a thousand rix dollars for his apprehension.
It was signed “Wallenstein.” The fox turned pale for
a moment, but recovering himself suddenly, he began a
colloquy with his next neighbour. It was the postillion
Schnobb. Little by little, Rabenmark led him on to a
description of the Robbery on Baron Poodleberg's carriage.
Schnobb congratulated himself that he had been
indisposed on that occasion, and that another postillion
had been substituted for him.
“By whom do you think the robbery was committed?”
asked Rabenmark.
“Who knows?” said Schnobb. “Perhaps by the
same devil that dwells now up there in the Hartz.”
“What devil?”
“Sacrament! have you not heard of the fiend of the
Hartz? He has appeared in the mountains after an absence
of fifty years. The cottages of the peasants, and
the castles of the nobles, are all pillaged by him.”
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“Then the story that a gang of robbers had taken up
their abode in those regions is not true?”
“Donnerwetter,—no! I tell you it is by the Hartz
devil. He has a tail more than seven yards long, and
lives on the top of the Brocken.”
“Truly an interesting personage. Has any one seen
him?”
“Yes; there is a friend of mine who has been making
a pedling expedition to Gosslar; he was met by this
devil. He was, however, a religious man, and held a
crucifix towards him. The devil uttered a yell, and
disappeared into the earth.”
“Who is your friend?”
“There he is; he is just coming into the room. It is
Mr. Skamp, the coffin-maker.”
All three of us gave an involuntary start. Luckily it
was not observed by any of the company. We directed
our eyes to the door, and the coffin-maker stood indeed
before us.
He walked into the room with the utmost coolness.
He had a pack on his back, and a staff in his hand.
He saluted the company, with most of whom he seemed
familiarly acquainted; nodded carelessly to us, and
then very quietly opened his pack, and exposed his wares
to the company.
“Here, Schnobb,” said he, “here is a silver mouthpiece
for your bugle. I bought it for you on purpose;
the price is two gulden. Buy it; the elector will never
give you one for your skill in melody.”
“Here, Gottlob,” he continued, to the red-headed son
of the executioner; “here is a pair of braces to tie up
your breeches, when you get a pair; and here is a silver
buckle which I bought as a present for your father.
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Here is a tin trumpet for you, Mr. Crier; and here is a
paper of pins that your wife told you to buy for her at
the fair, Mr. Farmer.”
With these last words, he tossed a package to Rabenmark,
which his quick eye instantly told him was a
letter.
“The price is six groschen,” said he.
The fox adroitly haggled a moment about the price.
He at last paid him five groschen. Soon afterwards he
slipped out of the room, whispering to us that he would
soon return.
In the meantime, after Skamp had disposed of most
of his merchandise, he entered into conversation with the
postillion.
“Well, brother-in-law!” said he, “you have not
thanked me for my company on a certain evening last
month. But for me on that occasion, you would have
been indubitably eaten up by that Hartz devil. It was
he, I have since discovered, who made the attack on
Poodleberg's carriage. God alone knows what has become
of the unfortunate postillions who drove that carriage!”
said Skamp, piously lifting his hands and eyes
to heaven.
Lackland and I left the room; we made a sign to
Skamp, and in about half an hour he joined us. It was
dusk. We all walked together, and conferred. We
took care, however, to keep in the neighbourhood of the
tavern, that we might meet Rabenmark.
“In the name of wonder, old Skamp,” said Lackland,
“how the devil came you here?”
“Why, your excellency, when I found that three of
my most promising disciples had engaged in so hazardous
an expedition, it behoved me to be watchful, and to
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keep them, if possible, out of the danger into which their
youth and inexperience might hurry them. I instantly
assumed this disguise that I might follow you and protect
you. Oh my dear children! (if your excellencies
will permit me the endearing expression) you have no
conception of the agitation of mind into which I was
thrown. Unmindful of all dangers, I determined to
watch over you as a hen over an infant brood.”
“But are you not afraid of discovery?” I asked.
“Lord bless you! no. Now that I am here, I affect
no disguise; every body here knows, and, I may add,
respects pious Skamp the coffin-maker.”
“Yes; but I have heard people speak disparagingly
of a certain `Crooked Skamp the smuggler,' and `poaching
Skamp,' and a gentleman who bears a variety of
other nick-names. Is he no relation of yours?” I asked.
“Oh your excellency!” said the rogue, with a grin,
“I cannot deny that I have heard of such a person, and
that I take a deep interest in his welfare. But, jesting
apart, I assure you I am in no sort of danger; they
would as soon suspect Count Wallenstein of a share in
a conspiracy as me.”
“Apropos of Count Wallenstein! what has become
of the fox?” said Lackland.
“Happier than any of us, I suspect,” said the smuggler.
“On arriving here, I was happy enough, by the merest
accident, to convey a letter from the Baron Rabenmark
to the Countess Bertha. He entrusted me with it
some days ago, and I promised to use all exertions to
get it to her as soon as possible. I did not think, then,
that I should take it to this town in person. I found
this afternoon a washerwoman who was going to the
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Commandant's house with a basket. She was an old
gossip of mine. I gave her the letter. It was not a
very sentimental method; but it proved a very efficient
one, as I gave Baron Rabenmark an answer just now.
But enough of this at present. Now give me all your
attention. I have just formed a plan which shall be
both pleasant and profitable. You know, Mr. Lackland,
and I dare say you too, Mr. Morton, that I have been
engaged with the Jew Potiphar in certain mercantile
transactions. These were of a character which the law
unfortunately does not look upon with the same indulgence
that I do. I have always observed that legislators
have very contracted views of life. Suffice, that if these
doings of ours were revealed, and Mein Herr Potiphar
brought to trial, he would suffer a certain imprisonment,
to say nothing of a confiscation of the greater part of his
immense property, which, of course, he would do any
thing to save. I owe old Potiphar a grudge. I am, besides,
particularly incensed against him for his appearance
at Wolfenbüttel so inopportunely. No matter, I
shall yet have my revenge. I shall also have the pleasure
of serving most effectually Count Trump Von Toggenburg,
in whom I take a great interest. There is, in
fact, no one of my protegés in whose welfare I am more
interested than in his. I have no doubt also, that if the
plan, which I am about to mention to you, succeeds, he
will reward me liberally. Count Trump Von Toggenburg
is a generous young nobleman. Now the matter I
have in hand, is this: I have just heard that Potiphar is
to set out the day after to-morrow night, alone, on a journey
to Hamburg. As he wishes to visit a relation in
Gosslar, he must pass directly through the Hartz. His
carriage must pass within a dozen miles of our retreat.
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We will be prepared. We will attack him. We will
drag him up into our retreat. We will threaten him
with disclosures of his doings, and we will be so minute,
that he shall be frightened, although we will take good
care to keep ourselves disguised. We will thus force
him to sign a paper, giving his consent to Count Von
Trump's marriage with his daughter. The Count shall
receive this paper, and hasten to his sweatheart. After
that, perhaps I may induce the old gentleman to confer
a small gratuity upon me.”
The virtuous coffin-maker concluded. Lackland and
I assured him that we gave him all due credit for his ingenuity,
and would do our best to serve Trump's interest
and his own.
To do this effectually, however, it was necessary to
hasten our departure for our retreat. Rabenmark had
not yet returned. What were we to do? After waiting
as long as was prudent, we at last followed the advice of
Skamp. He represented to us that we could do nothing
for Rabenmark; that our waiting only endangered ourselves,
without assisting him, and that the best thing we
had to do, was to beat a retreat as soon as possible. He
promised for his own part, to wait for Rabenmark, and
to meet us all at the cavern in three days.
We were convinced by his reasoning, shook hands
with him, and departed.
Motley, John Lothrop, 1814-1877 [1839], Morton's hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf284v2].
