Beau Brocade | Page 3

bob-tailed wig and three-cornered hat looked like a rosy receptacle of
mysterious information, as he laid his fat hand on the Corporal's sleeve.
The straggling groups of yokels were fast disappearing down the
muddy tracks; some were returning to Brassington, others were
tramping Aldwark way; one wizened, solitary figure was slowly toiling
up the road, litlte more than a quagmire, that led northward across the
Heath towards Stretton Hall.
The soldiers stood at attention some fifteen yards away, mute and
disinterested. From the shed beyond the cottage there suddenly came
the sound of the blacksmith's hammer upon his anvil. Mr. Inch felt
secure from observation.
"I have oft suspicionated John Stich, the smith, of befriending the
foot-pads and highwaymen that haunt this God-forsaken Moor," he said,
with an air of excited importance, rolling his beady eyes.
"Nay," laughed the Corporal, good-humouredly, as he shook off Master
Inch's fat hand. "You'd best not whisper this confidence to John Stich

himself. As I live, he would crack your skull for you, Master Beadle,
aye, be it ever so full of dictionary words. John Stich is an honest man,
I tell you," he added with a pleasant oath, "the most honest this side of
the country, and don't you forget it."
But Mr. Inch did not approve of the young soldier's tone of familiarity.
He drew up his five feet of broad stature to their full height.
"Nay, but I designated no harm, "he said, with offended dignity. "John
Stich is a worth fellow, and I spoke of no ordinary foot-pads. My
mind," he added, dwelling upon that mysterious possession with
conscious pride, "my mind, I may say, was dominating on Beau
Brocade."
"Beau Brocade!!!"
And the Corporal laughed with obvious incredulity, which further
nettled Mr. Inch, the beadle.
"Aye, Beau Brocade," he said hotly, "the malicious, pernicious,
damned rascal, who gives us, that representate the majesty of the law, a
mighty deal of trouble."
"Indeed?" sneered the Corporal.
"I dare swear that down at Derby," retorted Mr. Inch, spitefully, "you
have not even heard of that personage."
"Oh! we know well enough that Brassing Moor harbours more
miscreants than any corner of the country," laughed the young soldier,
"but methought Beau Brocade only existed in the imagination of your
half-witted yokels about here."
"There you are in grave error, Master Corporal," remarked the beadle
with dignity. "Beau Brocade, permit me to observe, does exist in the
flesh. 'Twas only last night Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach was
stopped not three miles from Hartington, and his Honour robbed of
fifty guineas, by that pernicious highwayman."

"Then you must lay this Beau Brocade by the heels, Master Inch."
"Aye! that's easily said. Lay him by the heels forsooth, and who's going
to do that, pray?"
"Nay, that's your affair. You don't expect His Grace the Duke of
Comberland to lend you a portion of his army, do you?"
"His Grace might do worse. Beau Brocade is a dangerous rascal to the
quality."
"Only to the quality?"
"Aye, he'll not touch a poor man; 'tis only the rich he is after, and uses
but little of his ill-gotten gain on himself."
"How so?" asked the Corporal, eagerly, for in spite of the excitement of
camp life round about Derby, the fame of the daring highwayman had
ere now tickled the fancy of the young soldiers of the Duke of
Cumberland's army.
"Why, I told you Sir Humphrey Challoner was robbed on the Heath last
night--robbed of fifty guineas, eh?" said Master Inch, whispering in
eager confidence. "Well, this morning, when Squire West arrived at the
court-house, he found fifty guineas in the poor box."
"Well?"
"Well, that's not the first time nor yet the second that such a matter has
occurred. The dolts round about here, the lads from Bassington or
Aldwark, or even from Wirksworth, would never willingly lay a hand
on Beau Brocade. The rascal knows it well enough, and carries on his
shameful trade with impunity."
"Odd's fish! but meseems the trade is not so shameful after all. What is
the fellow like?"
"Nay, no one has ever seen his face, though his figure on the Moor is
familiar to many. He is always dressed in the latest fashion, hence the

villagers have called him Beau Brocade. Some say he is a royal prince
in disguise--he always wears a mask; some say he is the Pretender,
Charles Stuart himself; others declare his face is pitted with smallpox;
others that he has the face of a pig, and the ears of a mule, that he is
covered with hairs like a spaniel, or has a blue skin like an ape. But no
one knows, and with half the villagers on the Heath to aid and abet him,
he is not like to be laid by the heels."