"Why, hallo!" exclaimed the Major, glancing up at the sound of a blind being drawn above, in the Custom House window. "What the deuce is delaying Pennefather?"
While he speculated, Scipio emerged from the house, bearing in one hand a decanter of brown sherry, and in the other a visitor's card.
"Eh—what? M. Cesar Dupin?" The Major, holding the card almost at arm's length, conned it with a puzzled frown.
"From Guernsey, Major."
"Good Lord! And I've just invited Pennefather!" The Major rose half-way from his chair with a face of dismay.
Scipio glanced up at the Custom House window. He, too, had caught the sound of the drawn blind.
"Mas' Pennefather, Major, if you'll excuse me, he see a hole t'ro' a ladder, but not t'ro' a brick wall. Shall I show the genelman in?"
"I fear," began Miss Marty, as the Doctor took a seat in the parlour, "I greatly fear that Scipio has carried the brown sherry out to the terrace."
Dr. Hansombody smiled as a lover but sighed as a connoisseur.
"There is the Fra Angelico, however." She stepped to a panelled cupboard on the right of the chimney-piece. "Made from my own recipe," she added archly.
The Doctor lifted a hand in faint protest; but already she had set a glass before him. He knew the Fra Angelico of old. It was a specific against catarrh, and he had more than once prescribed it for Scipio.
"Wine is wine," continued Miss Marty, reaching down the bottle. "And, after all, when one knows what it is made of, as in this case— that seems to me the great point."
"You mustn't think—" began the Doctor.
"I must plead guilty"—Miss Marty poured out a glassful—"if its name suggests a foreign origin. You men, I know, profess a preference for foreign wines; and so, humorously, I hit on the name of Fra Angelico, from the herb angelica, which is its main ingredient. In reality, as I can attest, it is English to the core."
The Doctor lifted his glass and set it down again.
"You will join me?" he asked, pointing to the decanter and temporising.
"Pardon me. I indulge but occasionally: when I have a cold."
"And the Major?"
"He pleads habit. He says he is wedded to the vintages of France and Spain. 'What?' I rally him, 'when those two nations are at war with us? And you call yourself a patriot?' He permits these railleries."
"He is a man in a thousand!"
"There is no man like him!"
"If we exclude a certain resemblance—"
"You refer to the Prince Regent? But I was thinking only ofmoralgrandeur."
"True. All else, if one may say so without disloyalty, is but skin-deep."
"Superficial."
"Thank you, the expression is preferable, and I ask your leave to substitute it."
"Solomon, my kinsman, is the noblest of men."
"And you, Miss Marty, the best of women!" cried the Doctor, taking fire and a sip of the Fra Angelico together, and gulping the latter down heroically. "I drink to you; nay, if I dared, I would go even farther—
"No, no, I beg of you!" Her eyes, downcast before this sudden assault, let fall two happy tears, but a feeble gesture of the hand besought his mercy. "Let us talk ofhim," she went on breathlessly. "His elevation of character—"
"If he were to marry, now?" the Doctor suggested. "Have you thought of that?"
"Sometimes," she admitted, with a flutter of the breath, which sounded almost like a sigh.
"It would serve to perpetuate—"
"But where to find one worthy of him? She must be capable of rising to his level; rather, of continuing there."
"You are sure that is necessary? Now, in my experience," the Doctor inclined his head to one side and rubbed his chin softly between thumb and forefinger—a favourite trick of his when diagnosing a case—"in my observation, rather, some disparity of temper, taste, character, may almost be postulated of a completely happy alliance; as in chemistry you bring together an acid and an alkali, and, always provided they don't explode—"
"Hewould never be satisfied with that. Believe me, the woman he condescends upon must, in return for that happy privilege, surrender her whole fate into his hands. Beneath his deference to our sex he carries an imperious will, and would demand no less."
"Thereisa little bit of that about him, now you mention it," assented the Doctor.
"But let us not cheat—" Miss Marty checked herself suddenly. "Let us not vex ourselves with any such apprehensions. He will never marry, I am convinced. I cannot imagine him in the light of a parent—with offspring, for instance. Rather, when I see him in his regimentals, or, again, in his mayoral robe and chain—you have noticed how they become him?—"
The Doctor admitted, with a faint sigh, that he had.
"Well, then, he puts me in mind of that—what d'you call it, which the poets tell us is reproduced but once in several hundred years?"
"The blossoming aloe?" suggested the Doctor.
Miss Marty shook her head. "It's not a plant—it's a kind of bird. It begins with 'P, h,'—and you think of Dublin."
"Let me see—Phelim? No, I have it! Phoenix."
"That's it—Phoenix. And when it's going to die it lights a fire and sits down upon it and another springs up from the ashes."
"But I don't see how that applies to the Major."
"No-o?" queried Miss Marty, dubiously. "Well, not in every particular; but the point is, there's only one at a time."
"The same might be said," urged the Doctor, delicately, "of other individual members of the Town Council; with qualifications, of course."
"And somehow I feel—I can't help a foreboding—that if ever we lose him it will be in some such way."
"Miss Marty!" The Doctor stood up, with horror-stricken face.
"There, now! You may call me fanciful, but I can't help it. And you've spilled the Fra Angelico! Let me pour you out another glassful."
"We must all die," answered the Doctor inconsequently, not yet master of himself.
"Except a few Bible characters," said Miss Marty, filling his glass. "But what the town would do withouthimI can't think. In a sense heisthe town."
A moment before the Doctor had all but denied it; but now, overcome by the thought of a world without the Major, he hid his face. For a moment, if but in thought, he had been disloyal to his friend, his hero!
Miss Marty said afterwards that, although not accustomed to prophesy and humbly aware that it was out of her line, she must have spoken under inspiration. She was wont also, when she recalled her forebodings and the events that followed and so signally fulfilled them, to regret that when the Guernsey merchant took his leave, an hour later, she omitted to take note of his boots; it being an article of faith with her that, in his traffic with mortals, the Prince of Darkness could not help betraying himself by his cloven hoof.
In the garden meanwhile the Major and his guest were making very good weather of it, as we say in Troy; the one with his Madeira, the other with the brown sherry. I leave the reader to discern the gist of their talk from its technicalities.
"Three gross of ankers, you say?" queried the Major.
"At four gallons the anker, and six francs the gallon."
"It is a large venture."
"And, for that reason, dirt cheap. To my knowledge there is not a firm in Guernsey at this moment doing trade at less than seven francs the gallon in parcels under five hundred gallons."
"Yes, yes." The Major lit his pipe and puffed meditatively. "I am not denying that. Only, you see, on our side these large operations rather heighten the expense than diminish it, while they heighten the risk enormously."
"I do not see." M. Dupin crossed his legs and awaited an explanation.
"It is simple. So many more tubs, so many more carriers; so many more carriers, so much the more risk of including an informer. One hundred carriers, say, I can lay hands on, knowing them all for tried men. Beyond that number I rely on recommendations, often carelessly given. The risk is more than trebled. And then, the fact of my being Mayor—"
"I should have thought it lessened the risk."
"In a way, yes. But in case of miscarriage, the consequences must be more severe. I will own that you tempt me. The tubs, you say, would be ready slung."
"Ready slung for carriage, man or horse, whichever you prefer, with ropes, stones and six anchors for sinking in case of emergency. We will allow for these if they are returned."
"To tell the truth, since becoming chief magistrate of this borough, I have rather set my face against these operations. It has seemed to me more consonant.… And an operation on the scale you propose could not be conducted without some degree of—er—audacity."
"It means a forced run," assented M. Dupin.
"If, on reflection—" the Major hesitated.
"Excuse me, but there is no time. For reasons of our own, my firm must clear the stuff before the end of April; that is why we offer it at the price. Three gross, with six ankers of the colouring stuff gratis—and the tubs ready slung. It must be 'yes' or 'no'; if you decline, then I have another customer on the string."
"The end of April, you say?" The Major refilled his glass and mused, holding it up against the last gleam of daylight.
"We could ship it on the 27th or 28th. The moon serves then. Say that you run it on the night of the 30th?"
"Of the 30th?" echoed the Major. "But on that night, of all others, my hands are full. To begin with, we are half-expecting the Millennium."
"The Millennium,hein?" echoed M. Dupin in his turn. "I do not know her."
"It's not a boat," the Major explained. "It's a—well, in fact, we are not altogether sure what it may turn out to be. But, setting this aside, I am engaged to conduct a military operation on the night of the 30th."
"Hein?" M. Dupin eyed his host with interest. "A counter-stroke to the First Consul—is that so?"
"Well, not exactly a downright counter-stroke; although, if I had my way… but in fact (and I mention it in confidence, of course) our Artillery here is planning a surprise upon our neighbours of Looe, the descent to be made upon Talland Cove."
M. Dupin set down his glass. "But I am in luck to-night!" said he. "You—I—we are all in luck!"
"Forgive me, I do not see—"
"Oh, decidedly, I am in very great luck! If only your neighbours of Looe—they, too, have a corps of Artillery, I suppose?" M. Dupin felt in his breast pocket and drew out a paper. "Quick! their officer's name?"
"A Captain Pond commands them: Captain Aeneas Pond."
"Pond? Pond? See now, and I have an introduction to him! And you have arranged to surprise him on the night of April 30th—and at Talland Cove—when there will be no moon! Oh, damgood!"
"But even yet I do not see," the Major protested.
"Not quite. For the moment you do not see, quite; but in a little while." M. Dupin leaned forward and tapped the Major's knee. "Your Artillery? You can count on them?"
"To the death."
"How many?"
"Nine score, without reckoning uniforms or stretcher-bearers."
"Stretcher-bearers?"
"For the wounded. And, of course—during the operation you propose— we expect our corps to be depleted."
"By the crews? But they will bethere! It is of the essence of your surprise that they, too, will return from Guernsey and join you in time. Next, of the Looe Artillery, how many?"
"You may put them down at seventy, all told."
"One hundred and eighty, and seventy—that makes two hundred and fifty; and the cognac at six francs a gallon; and this Captain Pond commended to me for the deepest man in Looe! It is you—it is he—it is I—it is all of us together that are in luck's way!" M. Dupin leapt up, snapped his bony fingers triumphantly; then, thrusting his hands beneath his coat-tails and clasping them, strode to and fro in front of the Major, for all the world like a long-legged chanticleer.
Ah, but wait a moment! Vainglorious bird of Gaul, or of the island contiguous, wait a moment ere you crow before the Mayor of Troy!
For a moment the Major lay back in his chair, to all appearance stupefied, confounded. Then he too rose, his lips working, his hand shaking for one instant only as with his pipe-stem he traced a magnificent curve upon the evening sky.
"Sit down!" he commanded. "Your plan is clever enough; but I have another worth ten of it."
And, laying down his pipe, this extraordinary man lifted the decanter and refilled his glass to the brim without spilling a drop.
What was the Major's plan? Wait again, and you shall see it evolved in operation.
"There is mischief of some sort brewing," said Mr. Smellie, the Riding Officer.
"You think so?" queried Mr. Pennefather, trimming a quill.
"I'd stake my last shilling on it," said Mr. Smellie, slapping his right boot with his riding-whip. "You, a family man, now—"
"Eleven."
"Quite so. Then you must know how it is with children; when they look at you as though there was no such thing as original sin, it's time to keep your eye lifting. Ten to one they're getting round you with some new devilry. Well, that's the way with your Cornish."
Mr. Smellie came from Glasgow—he and his colleague, Mr. Lomax, the Riding Officer of the Mevagissey district which lay next to ours. The Government, it was understood, had chosen and sent them down to us on the strength of their sense of humour—so different from any to be found in the Duchy.
It certainly was different. To Mr. Smellie, we of Troy had been at first but as children at play by the sea; in earnest over games so infantile as to excite his wondering disdain. He wondered yet; but insensibly—as might happen to a man astray in fairyland—his disdain had taken a tinge of fear. Behind "the children sporting on the shore," his ear had begun to catch the voice of unknown waters rolling. They came, so to speak, along the sands, these children; innocent seeming, hilariously intent on their make-believe; and then, on a sudden, not once but a dozen times, he had found himself tricked, duped, tripped up and cast on his back; to rise unhurt, indeed, but clutching at impalpable air while the empty beach rang with teasing laughter.
It baffled him the more because, of his own sort, he had a strong sense of humour. It was told of Mr. Pennefather, for instance, that during his clerkship at Penzance the Custom House there had been openly defied by John Carter, the famous smuggler of Prussia Cove; that once, when Carter was absent on an expedition, the Excise officers had plucked up heart, ransacked the Cove, carried off a cargo of illicit goods and locked it up in the Custom House; that John Carter on his return, furious at the news of his loss, had marched over to Penzance under cover of darkness, broken in the Custom House and carried off his goods again; and that Mr. Pennefather next morning, examining the rifled stores, had declared the nocturnal visitor to be John Carter beyond a doubt, because Carter was an honest man and wouldn't take anything that didn't belong to him. The Riding Officer thought this a highly amusing story, and would often twit Mr. Pennefather with it. But Mr. Pennefather could never see the joke, and would plead,—
"Well, but hewasan honest man, wasn't he?"
"That's the way with you Cornish," repeated Mr. Smellie; "and after a time one learns to feel it in the air, so to speak."
The little Collector looked up from his ledger, pushing his spectacles high on his brow, and glanced vaguely around the office.
"Now, for my part, I detect nothing unusual," said he.
"Furthermore," the Riding Officer went on, still tapping his boot, "I met a suspicious-looking fellow yesterday on the Falmouth Road; a deucedly suspicious-looking fellow; a fellow that answered me with a strong French accent when I spoke to him, as I made it my business to do. He had Guernsey merchant written all over him."
"Tattooed?" asked Mr. Pennefather, without looking up from the ledger in which he had buried himself anew. "I had no idea they went to such lengths… in Guernsey… and fourteen is twenty-seven, and five is thirty-two, and thirty-two is two-and-eight.… I beg your pardon? You identified him, then?"
Mr. Smellie frowned. "I shall send up a private note to the Barracks; and meanwhile, I advise you to keep an eye lifting."
"And ten is three-and-six.… An eye lifting, certainly," assented Mr. Pennefather, without, however, immediately acting on this advice.
"There's that fellow Hymen, now, next door. He's not altogether the ass he looks, or my name's not Smellie."
"But it is, surely?" Mr. Pennefather looked up in innocent surprise. "And you really think it justifies calling in the Dragoons?"
"On the face of it, no; I've no evidence. And yet, I repeat, there's some mischief afoot. This new game of Hymen's, for instance—Before coming down to these parts"—Mr. Smellie threw a fine condescension into this phrase—"I should have thought it impossible that anyone in the shape of a man, let alone of a Major of Artillery, could solemnly propose to test a neighbouring corps by a night attack, and then as solemnly give warning on what night he meant to deliver it."
Mr. Pennefather took off his spectacles and polished them with his silk handkerchief. "But without that precaution he would find nobody to attack."
"I tell you, it's absurd! And yet," the Riding Officer went on irritably, "if one could count on its being absurd, I wouldn't mind. But there's just a chance that, with all this foolery, Hymen and Pond are covering up a little game. Why have they chosen Talland Cove, now?"
"I suppose because, for a night attack on Looe, there's no better spot."
"Nor for running a cargo. I tell you, I shall keep the Dragoons on the alert."
"You don't suggest that you suspect—"
"Suspect? I suspect everybody. It's the rule of the service; and by following it I've reached the position I hold to-day."
"True." The Collector readjusted his spectacles and returned to his figures. There may have been just a hint of condolence in his accent, for the Riding Officer looked up sharply.
"If you lived in the north, Pennefather, do you know what we should say about you? We should say that you were no very gleg in the uptake."
"I once," answered the Collector, gently, without lifting his head from the ledger, "began to read Burns, but had to give him up on account of the dialect."
Meanwhile, all unaware of these dark suspicions, the Major and his Gallants were perfecting their preparations for the great surprise.
And what preparations! In the heat of them we had almost forgotten the Millennium itself!
For weeks the band had been practising a selection of tunes appropriate (1) to invasions in general and (2) to this particular invasion. There was "Britons, Strike Home!" for instance, and "The Padstow Hobby-horse," and "The Rout it is out for the Blues," slightly amended for the occasion:
"As I was a-walking on Downderry sands,Some dainty fine sport for to view,The maidens were wailing and wringing their hands—Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes,Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes."
"As I was a-walking on Downderry sands,Some dainty fine sport for to view,The maidens were wailing and wringing their hands—Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes,Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes."
"As I was a-walking on Downderry sands,Some dainty fine sport for to view,The maidens were wailing and wringing their hands—Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes,Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes."
The very urchins whistled and sang it about the streets. On the other hand, the Major's chivalrous proposal to hymnThe George of Looecame to nothing, since Captain Pond could supply him with neither the words nor the air.
"Notwithstanding all my researches," he wrote, "the utmost I can discover is the following stanza which Gunner Israel Spettigew— vulgarly termed Uncle Issy—one of my halest veterans, remembers to have heard sung in his youth:
"'Oh, theGeorge of Looesank Number One;She then sank Number Two;She finished up with Number Three:And hooray for theGeorge of Looe'!"
"'Oh, theGeorge of Looesank Number One;She then sank Number Two;She finished up with Number Three:And hooray for theGeorge of Looe'!"
"'Oh, theGeorge of Looesank Number One;She then sank Number Two;She finished up with Number Three:And hooray for theGeorge of Looe'!"
"Dammy!" said the Major, "and I dare say that passes for invention over at Looe."
We in Troy were no paupers of invention, at any rate. Take, for example, the Major's plan of campaign. First of all you must figure to yourself aterrainshaped like a triangle—almost an equilateral triangle—with its base resting on the sea. At the western extremity of this base stands Troy; at the eastern, Looe, with Talland Cove a little to this side of it. For western side of the triangle we have the Troy River; and for apex the peaceful village of Lerryn, set in apple-orchards, where the tidal waters end by a narrow bridge. For the eastern side we take, not the Looe River (which doesn't count), but an ancient earthwork, known as the Devil's Hedge, which stretches across country from Looe up to Lerryn. Who built this earthwork, or when he did it, or for what purpose, no one can tell; but the Looe folk will quote you the following distich,—
"One day the Devil, having nothing to do,Built a great hedge from Lerryn to Looe."
"One day the Devil, having nothing to do,Built a great hedge from Lerryn to Looe."
"One day the Devil, having nothing to do,Built a great hedge from Lerryn to Looe."
(Invention again!)
Of these things, then (as Herodotus puts it), let so much be said. But thus we get our triangle: the sea coast (base), the Troy River and the Devil's Hedge (sides), meeting at the village of Lerryn (apex) among the orchards.
Now these orchards, you must know, on May mornings when the tide served, were the favourite rendezvous for the lads and maidens of Troy, and even for the middle-aged and married; who would company thither by water, to wash their faces in the dew, and eat cream, and see the sun rise, and afterwards return chorussing, their boats draped with green boughs.
This year the tide, indeed, served for Lerryn: but this year the maidens of Troy, if they would fare thither to pay their vows, must fare alone. Their swains would be bent upon a sterner errand.
So their Commander by secret orders had dictated, and all the town knew of it; also that the landing was to be effected in Talland Cove, and that, if success waited on their arms, supper would be provided at the Sloop Inn, Looe. One hundred and fifty fighting men would go to the assault, in fourteen row-boats, with muffled oars. This number included the band. The residue of thirty men, making up the full strength of the corps, had disappeared from Troy some ten days before, on an errand which will appear hereafter.
But the fair were inconsolable. Almost, for some forty-eight hours— that is to say, after the news leaked out—our Major was the most unpopular man in Troy with them who had ever been his warmest supporters. War was war, no doubt; and women must mourn at home while men imbrued themselves in the gallant strife. But May-day, too, was May-day; and the tides served; and, further, there was this talk about a Millennium, and whatever the Millennium might be (and nobody but the Mayor and the Vicar, unless it were Dr. Hansombody, seemed to know), it was certainly not an occasion on which women ought to be left without their natural protectors. Even the Ambulance Corps was bound for Looe, in eight additional boats. There would be scarce a row-boat left in the harbour, or the ladies might have pulled up to Lerryn on their own account.
The Major suspected these murmurings, yet he kept an unruffled brow: yes, even though harassed with vexations which these ladies could not guess—the possible defection of Hansombody, for instance.
It was not Hansombody's fault: but Sir Felix Felix-Williams, who owned the estate as well as the village of Lerryn, had reason to expect an addition to his family. Dr. Hansombody could not guarantee that he might not be summoned to Pentethy, Sir Felix's mansion, at any moment.
Now, for excellent reasons—which, again, will appear—the Major could not afford to make Sir Felix an enemy at this moment. Besides, these domestic events were the little apothecary's bread and butter.
On the other hand, the absence of a professional man must seriously discredit the role assigned to the Ambulance Corps in any engagement, however bloodless.
"You might," the Major suggested, "nominate half a dozen as deputy or assistant surgeons. You could easily pick out those who have shown most intelligence at your lectures."
"True," agreed the Doctor; "but as yet we have not, in my lectures, advanced so far as flesh-wounds. They would know what to do, I hope, if confronted with frost-bite, snake-bite, sunstroke or incipient croup—from all of which our little expedition will be (under Providence) immune, and I have as yet confined myself to directing them, in all cases which apparently differ from these, to run to the nearest medical man."
"Well, well!" sighed the Major. "Then, if the worst come to the worst and you cannot accompany us, we must rely on the good offices of the enemy. They have no qualified surgeon, I believe: but the second lieutenant, young Couch of Polperro, is almost out of his articles and ready to proceed to Guy's. A clever fellow, too, they tell me."
"You understand that if I fail you, it will be through no want of zeal?"
"My friend"—the Major turned on him with a smile at once magnanimous and tender—"I believe you ask nothing better than to accompany me."
"To the death!" said the Doctor, in a low voice and fervently. Then, after a pause full of emotion, "Your dispositions are all taken?"
"All, I believe. Chinn has drawn up a new will for me, which I have signed, and it lies at this moment in my deed-box. I took the liberty to appoint you an executor."
"You would not ask me to survive you!" (O Friendship! O exemplars of a sterner age! O Rome! O Cato!) "Not to mention," went on the Doctor, "that I must be by five or six years your senior, and in the ordinary course of events—"
Major Hymen dismissed the ordinary course of events with a wave of the hand.
"I ask it as a personal favour."
"It is an honour then, and I accede."
"For the rest, I am keeping that fellow Smellie on thequi vive. For three days past he has been promenading the cliffs with his spy-glass. I would not lightly depreciate any man, but Smellie has one serious fault—he is ambitious."
"Such men are to be found in every walk of life."
"I fear so. Ambition is like to be Smellie's bane. He is jealous of sharing any credit with the Preventive crews, and is keeping them without information. On the other hand he delights in ordering about a military force; which, in a civilian, is preposterous."
"Quite preposterous."
"The Dragoons, of course, hate working under his orders: but I shall be surprised if he resist the temptation to call them in and dress himself in a little brief authority. Further, I have word from Polperro that he is getting together a company of the Sea Fencibles. In short, he is playing into our hands."
"But the boats?"
"They are here."
"Here?" The Doctor's eyes grew round with wonder.
The Major swept a hand towards the horizon.
"For two days we have been enjoying a steady southerly breeze. They are yonder, you may be sure—the three of them: and that is where Smellie makes a mistake in not employing the cutter."
"And the long-boats?"
"The long-boats are lying, as they have lain for three weeks past, in Runnells' yard, awaiting repairs. Runnells is a dilatory fellow and has gone no farther than to fill them with water up to the thwarts, to test their stanchness." Here the Major allowed himself to smile. "But Runnells, though dilatory, will launch them after dusk, while the tide suits."
"The tide makes until five o'clock."
"Until five-twenty, to be correct. Before seven o'clock they will be launched."
"You play a bold game, dear friend. Suppose, now, that Smelliehadkept the cutter cruising off the coast?"
The Major smiled again, this time withfinesse. "The man is ambitious, I tell you. By employing the cutter he might indeed have intercepted the cargo. But he flies at higher game." Here the Major lightly tapped his chest to indicate the quarry. "In generalship, my dear doctor, to achieve anything like the highest success, you must fight with two heads—your own and your adversary's. By putting myself in Smellie's place; by descending (if I may so say) into the depths of his animal intelligence, by interpreting his hopes, his ambitions… well, in short, I believe we have weathered the risk. The Mevagissey fleet puts out to the grounds to-night, to anchor and drop nets as usual. With them our friends from Guernsey—shall we say?—will mingle as soon as night is fallen, hang outtheirriding-lights, lowertheirnets, and generally behave in a fashion indistinguishable from that of other harvesters of the sea, until the hour when, with lightened hulls and, I trust, in full regimentals (for they carry their uniforms on board) they join us for the Grand Assault."
"But—excuse me—how much does the town know of this programme?"
The Major shrugged his shoulders. "As little as I could manage. I have incurred some brief unpopularity, no doubt, among the fairer portion of our community, who deem that I am denying them their annual May-day jaunt. But never fear. I will explain all to-night, before embarkation."
"They may murmur," answered Dr. Hansombody, "but in their hearts they trust you."
The Major's eyes filled with tears.
"The path of duty is strewn with more than roses at times. I thank you for that assurance, my friend."
They grasped hands in silence.
Troy remembered later—it had reason to remember—through what halcyon weather April passed, that year, into May. For three days a gentle breeze had blown from the south; for three more days it continued, dying down at nightfall and waking again at dawn. Stolen days they seemed: cloudless, gradual, golden; a theft of Spring from Harvest-tide. Unnatural weather, many called it: for the air held the warmth of full summer before the first swallow appeared, and while as yet the cuckoo, across the harbour, had been heard by few.
The after-glow of sunset had lingered, but had faded at length, taking the new moon with it, leaving a night so pale, so clear, so visibly domed overhead, that almost the eye might trace its curve and assign to each separate star its degree of magnitude. Beyond the harbour's mouth the riding-lights of the Mevagissey fishing fleet ran like a carcanet of faint jewels, marking the unseen horizon of the Channel. The full spring tide, soundless or scarcely lapping along shore, fell back on its ebb, not rapidly as yet, but imperceptibly gathering speed. Below the Town Quay in the dark shadow lay the boats—themselves a shadowy crowd, ghostly, with a glimmer of white paint here and there on gunwales, thwarts, stern-sheets. Their thole-pins had been wrapped with oakum and their crews sat whispering, ready, with muffled oars. On the Quay, lantern in hand, the Major moved up and down between his silent ranks, watched by a shadowy crowd.
In that crowd, as I am credibly informed, were gathered—but none could distinguish them—gentle and simple, maiden ladies with their servants or housekeepers, side by side with longshoremen, hovellers, giglet maids, and urchins; all alike magnetised and drawn thither by the Man and the Hour. But the Major recognised none of them. His dispositions had been made and perfected a full week before; how thoroughly they had been perfected might be read in the mute alacrity with which man after man, squad after squad, without spoken command yet in unbroken order, dissolved out of the ranks and passed down to the boats. You could not see that Gunner Tippet, being an asthmatical man, wore a comforter and a respirating shield; nor that Sergeant Sullivan, as notoriously susceptible to the night air, carried a case-bottle and a small basket of boiled sausages. Yet these and a hundred other separate and characteristic necessities had been foreseen and provided for.
Van, mainguard, rearguard, band, ambulance, forlorn hope, all were embarked at length. Lieutenant Chinn saluted, reported the entire flotilla ready, saluted again, and descended the steps with the Doctor (Sir Felix had sent no word, after all). Only the Major remained on the Quay's edge. Overhead rode the stars; around him in the penumbra of the lantern's rays the crowd pressed forward timidly. He turned.
"Fellow-citizens," he said, and his voice trembled on the words, but in an instant was steady again, "you surmise, no doubt, the purpose of this expedition. An invader menaces these shores, the defence of which has been committed to us. Of the ultimate invincibility of that defence I have no doubt whatever; nevertheless, it may expose here and there a vulnerable point. It is to test the alertness of our neighbours of Looe that we abstract ourselves for a few hours from the comforts of home, the society of the fair, in some instances the embraces of our loved ones, and embark upon an element which, to-night propitious, might in other moods have engulfed, if it did not actually force us to postpone, our temerity—" (Here a voice said, "Well done, Major; give 'em Troy!")
"Methinks," continued the Major, elevating his lantern and turning to that part of the crowd whence the interruption had proceeded, "methinks I hear some fair one sigh, 'But why to-night? Why on the eve of May-day, when we are wont to seek one or other of those rural spots, vales, hamlets, remote among our river's lovelier reaches, where annually the tides have mirrored at sunrise our gala companies and the green woods responded to our innocent mirth? Why on this consecrated eve distract our hitherto faithful swains and lead their steps divergent at an angle of something like thirty degrees?' I have reason to believe that some such tender complaints have made themselves audible, and it is painful to me to suffer the imputation of lack of feeling, even from an Aeolian harp. Yet I have suffered it, awaiting the moment to reassure you.
"Yes, ladies, be reassured! We depart indeed for Looe; but we hope, ere dawn, to meet you at Lerryn and be rewarded with your approving smiles. At nine-thirty precisely the three long-boats,Naiad,Nautilus, andCorona, which have lain for some weeks under repair in Mr. Runnells' yard, will pass this Quay and proceed seaward, each manned by an able, if veteran, crew. After a brief trip outside the harbour—to test their stanchness—they will return to the Quay to embark passengers, and start at 2 a.m. on the excursion up the river to our rendezvous at Lerryn. Nay!" the Major turned at the head of the steps and lifted a hand—"I will accept of you no thanks but this, that during the few arduous hours ahead of us we carry your wishes, ladies, as a prosperous breeze behind our banners!"
"Now isn't he a perfect duck?" demanded Miss Sally Tregentil, turning in the darkness and addressing Miss Pescod, whose strongly marked and aquiline features she had recognised in the last far-flung ray of the Major's lantern.
"My good Sarah!Youhere?" answered Miss Pescod, divided between surprise, disapproval and embarrassment.
"At such a period—a crisis, one might almost say—when the fate of Europe… and after all, if it comes to that, so are you."
"For my part—" began Miss Pescod, and ended with a sigh.
"For my part," declared Miss Sally, hardily, "I shall go to Lerryn."
"Sally!"
"It used to be great fun. In later years mamma disapproved, but there is (may I confess it?) this to be said for war, that beneath its awful frown—under cover of what I may venture to call the shaking of its gory locks—you can do a heap of things you wouldn't dream of under ordinary circumstances. Life, though more precarious, becomes distinctly less artificial. Two years ago, for instance, lulled in a false security by the so-called Peace of Amiens, I should as soon have thought of flying through the air."
"Has it occurred to you," Miss Pescod suggested, "what might happen if the Corsican, taking advantage to-night of our dear Major's temporary absence—"
"Don't!" Miss Sally interrupted with a shiver. "Oh, decidedly I shall go to Lerryn to-night! On second thoughts it would be only proper."
On the dark waters below them, beyond the Quay, a hoarse military voice gave the command to "Give way!" One by one on the fast-dropping tide the boats, keeping good order, headed for the harbour's mouth. The Major led.O navis, referent…
Think, I pray you, of Wolfe dropping down the dark St. Lawrence; of Wolfe and, ahead of him, the Heights of Abraham!
"Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.…"
"Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.…"
"Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.…"
Theavant-gardeof the Looe Diehards occupied, and had been occupying for two dark hours—in a sitting posture—the ridge of rock which, on its eastern side, sheltered Talland Cove. One may say, considering the heavy dew and the nature of the ridge—of slate formation and sharply serrated—they had clung to it obstinately. Above them the clear and constellated dome of night turned almost perceptibly around its pole. At their feet the tide lapped the beach, phosphorescent, at the last draught of ebb.
Somewhere in the darkness at the head of the beach—either by the footbridge where the stream ran down, or in the meadow behind it—lay the main body. A few outposts had been flung wide to the westward, and Captain Pond for the second time had walked off to test their alertness and give and receive the password—"Death to the Invader."
"And a more cold-running act of defiance I don't remember to have heard—no, not in all my years of service," said Gunner Israel Spettigew, a cheerful sexagenarian, commonly known as Uncle Issy, discussing it with his comrades on the ridge. "There's a terrible downrightness about that word 'death.' Speaking for myself, and except in the way of business, I wouldn' fling it at a cat."
"'Tis what we must all come to," said Gunner Oke, a young married man, gloomily shifting his seat.
"True, lad, true. Then why cast it up against any man in particular, be he French or English? Folks in glass houses, simmin' to me, shouldn' throw stones."
"I reckon you fellows might find something more cheerful to talk about." Gunner Oke shifted his seat again, and threw a nervous glance seaward.
"William Oke, William Oke, you'll never make a sojer! Now I mind back in 'seventy-nine when the fleets of France an' Spain assembled and come together agen us—sixty-six sail of the line, my billies, besides frigates an' corvettes an' such-like small trade; an' the folks at Plymouth blowing off their alarm-guns, an' the signals flying from Maker Tower—a bloody flag at the masthead an' two blue uns at the outriggers. Four days they laid to, in sight of the assembled multitude of Looe, an' Squire Buller rode down to form us up to oppose 'em. 'Hallo!' says the Squire, catching sight of me. 'Where's your gun? Don't begin for to tell me that a han'some, well-set-up, intelligent chap like Israel Spettigew is for hangin' back at his country's call!' 'Squire,' says I, 'you've a-pictered me to a hair. But there's one thing you've left out. I've been turnin' it over, an' I don't see that I'm fit to die.' 'Why not?' says he. 'I'm not a saved man like them other chaps,' says I. 'I've had a few convictions of sin, but that's as far as it's gone.' 'Tut,' says he, 'have you ever broken the Commandments?' 'What's that?' I asks. 'Why, the things up at the end of the church, inside the rails.' 'I never married my gran'mother, if that's what you mean,' I says. 'That's the Affini-ety Table,' says he, 'but have 'ee ever made to yourself a graven image?' 'Lord, no,' I says, 'I leaves that nigglin' work to the I-talians.' 'Have 'ee honoured your father an' your mother?' 'They took damgood care about that,' says I. 'Well, then, have 'ee ever coveted your neighbour's wife?' 'No,' I says, 'I never could abide the woman.' 'Come, come,' says he, 'did 'ee ever commit murder upon a man?' 'That's a leadin' question from a magistrate,' I says; 'but I don't mind ownin', as man to man, that I never did.' 'Then,' says he, 'the sooner you pitch-to and larn the better.'"
"The bloodthirsty old termigant!"
"'Twas the way of us all in the year 'seventy-nine," the old man admitted modestly. "A few throats up or down—Lord bless 'ee!—we talked of it as calm as William Oke might talk of killin' a pig! And, after all, what's our trade here to-night but battery and murder?"
"But 'tisn' the French we'm expectin'," urged Oke, whose mind moved slowly.
"'Tis the same argyment with these billies from Troy. Troy an' Looe. What's between the two in an ordinary way? A few miles; which to a thoughtful mind is but mud and stones, with two-three churches and a turnpike to keep us in mind of Adam's fall. Why, my own brother married a maid from there!"
"'Tis the Almighty's doin'," said Sergeant Pengelly; "He's hand-in-glove with King George, and, while that lasts, us poor subject fellows have got to hate Bonyparty with all our heart and with all our mind and with all our soul and with all our strength, for richer for poorer, till death us do part, and not to be afraid with any amazement. To my mind, that's half the fun of being a sojer; the pay's small and the life's hard, and you keep ungodly hours; but 'tis a consolation to sit out here 'pon a rock and know you'm a man of blood and breaking every mother's son of the Ten Commandments wi' the Lord's leave."
"What'sthat!" Gunner Oke gripped the Sergeant's arm of a sudden and leaned forward, straining his ears.
Someone was crossing the track towards them with wary footsteps, picking his way upon the light shingle by the water's edge. Presently a voice, hoarse and low, spoke up to them out of the darkness.
"Hist, there! Silence in the ranks!" The speaker was Captain Pond himself. "A man can hear that old fool Spettigew's cackle half-way across the Cove. They're coming, I tell you!"
"Where, Cap'n? Where?"
"Bare half-a-mile t'other side of Downend Point. Is the first rocket ready?"
"Ay, ay, Cap'n."
"And the flint and steel?"
"Here, between my knees: and Oke beside me, ready with the fuse. Got the fuse, Oke?"
"If—if you p-please, sir—"
"What's wrong?"
"If you p-please, sir, I've chewed up the fuse by mistake!"
"What's he saying?"
"I got it m-mixed up, sir, here in the d-dead darkness with my quid o' baccy—and I th-think I'm goin' to be sick."
"'Tis the very right hand o' Providence, then, that I brought a spare one," spoke up Pengelly. "Here, Un' Issy—youtake hold—"
"Everything must follow in order, mind," Captain Pond commanded. "As soon as the first boat takes ground, you challenge: then count five, and up goes the rocket. Eh?" The Captain swung round at the sound of another footstep on the shingle. "Is that you, Clogg? Man, but you made me jump!"
"Captain Pond! Oh, Captain Pond!" stammered the new-comer, who was indeed no other than Mr. Clogg, senior lieutenant of the Diehards.
"Why have you left your post, sir? Don't stand there clinky-clanking your sword on the pebbles—catch it up under your arm, sir: you're making noise enough to scare the dead! Now, then, what have you to report? Nothing wrong with the main body, I hope?"
"A man might call it ghosts"—Mr. Clogg in the darkness passed a sleeve across his clammy brow—"A man might call it ghosts, Captain Pond, and another might set it down to drink. But you know my habits."
"Be quick, man! You've seen something? What is it?"
"Ah, what indeed? You may well ask it, sir: though not if you was to put the Book into my hands at this moment and ask me to kiss it—"
"Clogg," interrupted the Captain, stepping close and gripping him by the upper arm, "will you swear to me you have not been drinking?"
"Yes and no, Captain. That is, it began with my stepping up the valley to the farm for a dollop of hot water—I'd a thimbleful of schnapps in my flask here—and the night turning chilly, and me remembering that Mrs. Nankivel up to the farm was keeping the kettle on the boil, because she promised as much only last night, knowing my stomach to be susceptible. Well, sir, not meaning to be away more'n a moment—as I was going up the meadow, but keeping along the withy-bed, you understand?—and if I hadn't taken that road, more by instinct than anything else—"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, if you've anything important to say, say it! In another five minutes the boats will be here!"
"I don't know what you'd call 'important,'" answered the Lieutenant, in an aggrieved tone. "As I was telling, I got to where the withy-bed ends at the foot of the orchard below the house. The orchard, as you know, runs down on one side of the stream, and 'tother side there's the grass meadow they call Little Parc. Just at that moment, if you'll believe me, I heard a man sneeze, and 'pon top of that a noise like a horse's bit shaken—a sort of jingly sound, not ten paces off, t'other side of the withies. 'Tis a curious habit of mine—and you may or may not have noticed it—but I never can hear another person sneeze without wanting to sneeze too. Hows'ever, there's a way of stopping it by putting your thumb on your top lip and pressing hard, and that's what I did, and managed to make very little noise; so that it surprised me when somebody said, 'Be quiet, you fool there!' But he must have meant it for the other man. Well, ducking down behind the withies and peeking athurt the darkness, by degrees I made out a picter that raised the very hairs on the back of my neck. Yonder, on the turf under the knap of Little Parc, what do I see but a troop of horsemen drawn up, all ghostly to behold! And yet not ghostly neither; for now and then, plain to these fleshly ears, one o' the horses would paw the ground or another jingle his curb-chain on the bit. I tell you, Captain, I crope away from that sight a good fifty yards 'pon my belly before making a break for the Cove; and when I got back close to the mainguard I ducked my head and skirted round to the track here in search of you: for I wouldn' be one to raise false alarms, not I! But, if you ask my private opinion, 'tis either Old Boney hisself or the Devil, and we'm lost to a man."
"Good Lord!" muttered Captain Pond, half to himself. "Horsemen, you say?"
"Horsemen, Captain—great horsemen as tall as statues. But statues, as I told myself, at this time o' night! 'Tis out of the question, an' we may put it aside once for all."
"Horsemen?" repeated Captain Pond. "There's only one explanation, and Hymen must be warned. But Idothink he might have trusted me!"
He turned for a swift glance seaward, and at the same instant one or two voices on the ridge above called alarm. Under the western cliff his eye detected a line of dark shadows stealing towards the shore.
"Until gaining the entrance of the Cove"—so ran the Major's order—"the boats will preserve single file. At Downend Point the leading boat will halt and lie on her oars, dose inshore, while each successor pivots and spreads in echelon to starboard, keeping, as nearly as may be, two fathoms' distance from her consort to port; all gradually, as the shore is approached, rounding up for a simultaneous attack in line. The crews, on leaping ashore, will spread and find touch with one another in two lines, to sweep the beach. A bugle-call will announce the arrival of each boat."
The Major, erect in the bows of the leading boat, glanced over his right shoulder and beheld his line of followers, all in perfect order, extend themselves and close the mouth of the Cove. Ahead of him—ahead but a few yards only—he heard the slack tide run faintly on the shingle. From the dark beach came no sound. Overhead quivered the expectant stars. He lifted his sword-arm, and from point to hilt ran a swift steely glitter.
"Give way, lads! And Saint Fimbar for Troy!"
A stroke of the oars, defiant now, muffled no longer! Two—three strokes, and with a jolt the boat's nose took the beach. The shock flung the Major forward over the bows; and on all fours, with a splash—like Julius Caesar—he saluted the soil he came to conquer. But in an instant he stood erect again, waving his blade.
"Forward! Forward, Troy!"
"I beg your pardon, Hymen," interrupted Captain Pond, quietly but seriously, stepping forth from the darkness. "Yes, yes; that's understood—but see here now—"
"Back, or you are my prisoner!" The Major had scrambled to his feet, and stood waving his sword.
"Hymen!" Captain Pond ran past the Major's guard and caught him by the elbow.
"Hands off, I say! Forward, Troy!" The Major struggled to disengage his sword-arm.
"Hymen, don't be a fool! As a friend now—though youmighthave taken me into your confidence—"
"Unhand me, Pond! Though you are doing your best to spoil the whole business—"
"Listen to me, I say. The Dragoons—"
But Captain Pond shouted in vain. Bugle after bugle drowned his voice, rending the darkness. From the rocks to the eastward voices answered them, challenging wildly.
"Death to the invader!"
With awhoo-sha rocket leapt into the air and burst, flooding the beach with light, showing up every furze bush, every stone wall, every sheep-track, on the surrounding cliffs. As if they had caught fire from it, a score of torches broke into flame on the eastward rocks, and in the sudden blaze, under the detonating fire of musketry, the men of Troy could be seen tumbling out of their boats and splashing ankle-deep to the shore.
It was a splendid, a gallant sight. Each man, as he reachedterra firma, dropped on one knee, fired deliberately, reloaded, and advanced a dozen paces. Still from the boats behind fresh reinforcements splashed ashore and crowded into the firing-line: while from the eastward rock the vanguard of the Diehards kept up its deadly flanking fire, heedless of the torches that exposed them each and all at plain target-shot to the oncoming host.
Still, amid the pealing notes of the bugles, the Major waved his men forward. Captain Pond, breaking loose from him and facing swiftly towards the Cove-head, with a flourish of his blade called upon his mainguard.
Under the volley that thereupon swept the beach, the invaders did indeed waver for a moment—so closely it resembled the real thing. As the smoke lifted, however, by the murky glare of the torches they were seen to be less demoralised than infuriated. And now, upon the volley's echo, a drum banged thrice, and from a boat just beyond the water's edge the Troy bandsmen crashed out with:
"The Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes;Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes!"
"The Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes;Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes!"
"The Rout it is out for the Looes,For the Looes;Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes!"
"Forward! Forward, Troy!"
"Steady, the Two Looes! Steady, the Diehards!"
"Form up—form up, there, to the left! Hurray, boys! give 'em the bagginet!"
"Death to Invader! Reload, men! Oh, for your lives, reload! Make ready, all! Prepare! Fire!"